Is there a word for the fetish of big hands just overwhelming faces? Because I’ve got it pretty bad.
hand
Sir was here for the weekend for the holiday. Some pretty crazy stuff happened that I promise I’ll (eventually) tell you about.
Strong hint: both he and Pup were in town this weekend.
Sir just left, but we made sure to get in some overdue pet play in before he headed out. I feel so fortunate to have spent so much of this summer with him, but I already miss him like crazy.
Sir and I took a bunch of sexy photos the other day and part of me wants to blush and keep them to myself and part of me wants to share them all at once.
I have clumsy hands.
Us, essentially.
Filed under: The kind of stuff Sir and I talk about a lot.
The Adventures of Sir, Sweetheart and Mr. Purple, Part Eight
While Sir and the Southern Gentleman essentially sat and discussed what they wanted to do to me, I got a little antsy. I pouted and shook my head, attempting to loosen the buckle on the bit gag. Sir took hold of my chin and asked me what was wrong.
“I want to talk to him,” I spat around the gag in a garbled mess.
Sir smirked and looked over to SG, “do you want to hear what she has to say?”
“No,” he replied, “not really. I just want to look at her.”
Despite how much I enjoyed this condescension, I managed to work the gag loose. It fell into my lap, slick and wet. Sir went to put it back in, but I shook my head and looked at SG. The two were discussing what they’d like to do, and I figured I’d add my side as well.
“I want you to use my cunt,” I said, barely able to get the words out, “I want you to fuck me while he holds me and makes me be good for you. I want to serve both of you.”
(I had, of course, assumed I’d just be gagged right up if I started with saying I wanted both of them to go down on me at once. So, I figured I’d start on a high note.)
Sir pulled me up to my feet and had me turn around and show SG my ass. “Why don’t you show him what he’s getting.”
“He knows what he’s getting,” I retorted, feeling a little saucy. Sir slipped two fingers into my cunt and I gasped, nearly losing my balance.
“Is she tight?” SG asked and I rolled my eyes. He and Sir were playing into that whole mutual slave auction fantasy they have (which, okay, I have, too) and I was feeling super exposed and blushy about the whole ordeal.
Sir noticed me squirming and moaning – caught somewhere between discomfort and pain – and laughed. “She’s so tight she’s a little sore from having just been fucked.” I blushed.
“Does she take pain well?” SG asked.
“You want to see?” Sir offered with a smirk and tipped me forward so I was bent over the couch, my head and chest resting against the seat.
I huffed. “He already knows!” I protested, but I was left to wait as Sir walked into the other room, forced to imagine what he’d decide to return with.
Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, my darling.
It’s hard for me not to fuss sometimes about myself and the way I look. But sometimes he takes pictures of me and leaves them on my phone. And I have to stop and look at my body and all its bumps and curves and marks and think the whole thing is kind of a little more than the petty stuff.
I miss my tail.
He held so firmly onto my hair while he was fucking me that, when he finished, the imprint of his grip was actually in my hair.