Longing Sunday, Feb 5 2012 

I hold as still as I can.
He has me pinned, one arm underneath his body, the other wrist gripped firm in his hand. But that leaves him with one hand free, and he has been making good use of that, pinching and scratching and teasing lightly until I asked, breathless, for him to touch me.
Since then my cunt has become the centre of my world. Gentle fingers twisting inside me, or sliding over my clit, driving me mad with his patient slowness. I am so sensitive then every touch of his hand makes my breath catch, and I am trying so hard to hold still and breath quiet because he will not let me come. He knows me too well, knows how I look when I am close, and he never takes me further. His fingers slow down, or stop dead inside me, so that I buck uselessly against them, trying to get those few seconds more that are all I need, all I have needed for hours, days, oh, forever.
He strokes my clit in slow circles, far too slow, and I whimper softly and twist towards him, bury my face against his chest. “Please. Please. I want to come.”
He tightens his grip on my wrist, lifts his hand away. “Not yet.”
He slides a finger back into me, fucking me with it, agonisingly gentle. I rock my hips helplessly, too aroused to keep up my pretence. He has never made me come by accident, there is no use in trying to fool him, but I always try. He leans down to suck my nipple and it is almost too much to bear. “Please. Please.”
“Not yet.”

(Tagged as “fantasy” because this isn’t a transcript, but I’ve done denial scenes very like this.)


Train Friday, Jan 27 2012 

There is only so much we can do on a crowded Tube train. It’s hardly the place for public play. It’s the late end of the rush hour – everyone on this train is tired, everyone is irritable, and nobody will be happy about a pair of horny young things misbehaving when they’re trying to get home.
But still, there are some things we can do. We got on this train just too late to catch a seat, which means we got our pick of the standing room. At the end of the carriage is a padded ledge, and I put you firmly against it, holding you there with my body and a hand on the bar by the door. That was three stops ago, and now we are pressed into the corner by the crowd, and I have both my hands free.
Your arms are around me, your hands gripping my belt, somewhere between keeping me balanced and pulling me closer. I watch your eyes widen, and tap you gently on the chest.
You gasp quietly, whispering “thank you sir,” too soft to be heard over the train, but I saw your lips move, and I know those words.
You bite your lip gently, and I count, and watch your eyes.
Another station, another press of people, another chance to catch your breath.
Back into the tunnels, timing your breathing by heartbeats.
You kiss me hungrily, whisper something about “more, please,” and I interrupt you
stopping you mid-word, and you fight yourself trying to breathe
and I nibble your ear lightly, listening to you gasp
digging my claws into your side just to see that begging look

Blindfold Monday, Jan 23 2012 

I stare desperately into the darkness. It is pitch black behind the blindfold, so dark that my mind paints pictures onto it. My hands twitch behind me. If they were being kind, they’d have tied me up, but instead they just crossed my wrists behind me and told me to keep them there.
Somewhere behind me something clatters to the ground and I swivel instinctively.
“Eyes front!”
I jerk back, stare uselessly ahead, shivering with nerves. I don’t know what they’re planning, except that it will hurt. That’s all they would tell me. It will hurt, and I am expected to hold still for it, or they will tie me down and it will hurt more.
There is another noise behind me, a snap that sounds very much like an impact, and I catch myself before I look, straining against the order to hold still. The door opens and closes, and I shiver, eyes wide behind the blindfold. My hands are free, and I am scared, and it would be so, so easy to take it off…

Five Friday, Jan 20 2012 

I am trembling in the ropes now, my back a single sheet of pain, and I couldn’t tell you if we’ve been here ten minutes or an hour. The heavy weight of the flogger smacks into me again, and I gasp out a breath, hold it again, bracing for the next impact. This is the rhythm of my world. Wait. Impact. Breathe. Wait.
He strokes my back gently, fingers almost unbearably light against my tender skin. I whimper softly.
“You’re doing very well. Five more, and then we’re done.”
I shudder in relief. “Yes sir. Thank you, sir.”
Breathe. Wait.
The five blows are as hard as any have been, so hard the flogger feels like a block of wood. I whimper as they hit, losing control now the end is in sight, and count silently.
“Good,” he murmurs, stroking my back softly, and I relax into the ropes, breathing in great ragged gasps, and scream as the next blow hits.
“No sir, please, you said five more, please!”
I cannot see him from here, but the smile in his voice makes my blood run cold.
“I lied.”

Fire Monday, Dec 26 2011 

I hate fire. I hate fire I hate fire I hate fire…
The drop of hot wax lands on my back, clings, burns, and I whimper and twist in fear. I am kneeling, bent over myself in a ball, arms pulled out in front and held firmly by one of my tops. He strokes my hair gently and I lean into his hand, try to beg with my eyes.
“Shhh. You’re doing very well.”
“Thank you sir,” I whisper, shivering and fearful. That was only the third drop of wax. The heat terrifies me in a way no other pain does. That is why they are both here, why I am held in hands and not by ropes, to keep me calm.
The one behind me caresses my back. “Next one.”
I hide my face, hold my breath, fight against panic. The drop might be fire for all I can tell, and I tense and gasp and stay still by force of will.
“Good boy. Next one.”
I whimper. Not yet not yet not yet. Fire on my back. I pull helplessly against strong hands.

[Note: I’d really like to do this one.]

Thirty Nine Tuesday, Nov 22 2011 

I am at the fetish fair, with a play partner.

This is nothing very unusual; we come here regularly, to look at the merchandise, expand our toy collections, and play. Playing in public generally looks a good deal like playing in private, except that we keep clear of penetration and the like, to stay within the house rules.

Today is different. Today he has decided to put me on display.

I strip slowly, nervously, down to the waist. He is being kind to me, flogging me on the back, where I prefer the sensation. I can endure impact on the buttocks, of course; I have even been known to request it. But it is impact on the back that fills my dreams and gets me hard.

I step up to the spiderweb and stretch my arms out to the sides, gripping the coarse ropes. He presses up to me, warm against my naked skin, and pulls my head back by the hair. I melt back into his grip.

“Good boy,” he murmurs, stroking my back with a coil of rope. “Hold still.”

I close my eyes and lean into the spiderweb. I love this part, the ropes winding snugly around my arms, making me helpless. Here is where it becomes real, a tangible thing, my submission written in ropes. One arm, then the other, and he steps back, and I pull hard against the bonds and relax into them again, pinned in their snug grip.

He moves invisibly behind me, and I gasp as cool leather slides over my back, the tails of a flogger. His warm hand follows them, and I lean back into it, wanting more already. He shows me the flogger then, and I shiver. It is not the heavy one I prefer, but the light one with plaited tails, the one that stings far more than I enjoy.

He stands away. I swallow. We have talked about this part.

“What are you?”

“A submissive, Sir.” I answer clear and loud, against my instinct to whisper. I am on display, and must speak for the audience.

“And what happens now?”

“You’re going to flog me, Sir.”

“Correct. I am.” I can hear the smile in his voice.

“How many strokes, Sir?”


I whimper, pulling uselessly against the ropes. I hate that flogger.

“It could be worse, boy. I might have said forty.”

I shudder. “Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

“Tell the nice people why forty would be worse.”

Blushing, I stand up straighter, defying embarrassment to speak clearly. “Because thirty-nine is the last finite number, Sir. When the Romans sentenced a criminal, thirty-nine meant thirty-nine, but forty meant they would continue indefinitely.”

From my position tied to the spiderweb, I cannot see who might be listening to us. Someone murmurs in understanding, and my face burns. I am watched. I am observed.

He strokes my back again and steps away, and I brace myself for the first blow.

“Count for me, boy.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Strappado Saturday, Jun 19 2010 

I am in a darkened room, at least I think I am. It is hard to be sure, but what little I can see around the blindfold looks dark. I am standing bent-over at the waist. My legs are spread apart, and held that way, leather cuffs fastened to the floor. I could easily undo the cuffs and free myself, if I could reach them, but I can’t. My wrists have been locked together behind me. Locked together, and then pulled upwards and held there. My shoulders ache with the strain. I can hardly move and when I try, I make the pain in my shoulders worse.
This is just the beginning, I know. Soon he will come in, and then things will get much worse for me. I am completely exposed. My nipples will be clamped and stretched. My breasts and buttocks and thighs will be whipped, spanked, beaten. The unforgiving ropes that pull my arms up will be tightened. I do not know exactly what he will do, but I know it will hurt. I know he will take his pleasure from my helpless body. And I know when he is finished with me, he will leave me here, stretched and hurt and aroused, to wait for the next time.

Bloody Faces Wednesday, Mar 17 2010 

You know what’s hot? Facial injuries. Cuts. Split lips and split eyebrows and grazed foreheads and scratched cheeks. Blood on your face. Scabs on your face. Talking through the pain. Defiance with a split lip. Everyone can see it, everyone can see you’re hurt. I don’t even have to undress you to know it. Every time you look in a mirror. Every time you touch your face. Scabs under your fingers. Markings. Mine.

Chained To A Radiator Wednesday, Mar 17 2010 

You know what’s hot? Hot is a man chained to a radiator. Not just one wrist cuffed to the pipe, but back against the metal, arms pulled outwards, so he has to strain and struggle to pull away from it.
Sitting there, able to kick his feet and look around and shout but not to get loose. Waking up that way, maybe. In the dark, on the cold hard floor. Waiting there. And then the sun comes up and the light comes in and he can at last look around and work out where he is and wonder what’s going on. Gradually getting chilled and frightened and stiff.
And then, oh blessed relief, the heating comes on. He warms up. His back muscles relax. He can start to doze off again against the nice warm metal.
Only it doesn’t stop. The radiator is getting gradually warmer and warmer and still nobody comes. He tries to pull away from the metal. He can only just manage it, pulling against his shoulders to keep from being burned. He sweats and strains and sometimes he leans back against the heat just to give his shoulders a rest.

I’ll be in my bunk.