Soon.
Um, moelui, what did you say about me being invited to visit?
squirm
In my travels on okcupid today, I encountered a boy unicorn. (They exist!) Though Sir and I are not totally sure it’s something we’re into as a couple, he’s very nice and it’s fun to know they exist in the wild.
This reminds me of someone who can probably come up with a significantly better caption for this than I.
The vitals monitor on your wrist indicates that you are frightened, and I can think of a number of reasons why that might be. You are here increasingly against your will but cannot effect any articulate protest: that might be one. You don’t even know where “here” is, for that matter. You have been stripped and strapped down, only able to move your hips and thighs when I adjust these stirrups. Oh, and you’ve just felt the speculum slide inside you to open you up for my inspection.
Cold, isn’t it? Poor thing. Let’s apply a little clit stim to distract you.
There. Now, as I was saying: those things really shouldn’t be at the top of your list of concerns. (Sensitive there, aren’t you? Interesting.) What should concern you is the blindfold—not the fact that you can’t see, but the fact that those two patches each fit perfectly over one of your eyes. The fact that this collar is sized just so to the length of your neck. The ball gag, and the way it fits into your mouth with no gap.
These straps were made just for you, girl. You’ve been watched. Stalked. Measured. Certainly, they can tighten—but that’s for control, not fit. This bondage is bespoke. And now, with you wide open and helpless on my table, I’m going to take one final measurement for my records.
Don’t worry. I promise, it won’t hurt a bit.
Oh. My god.
I like this ropework a lot.
I love simple stuff that keeps me basically immobile, things I can just squirm in.
Squirmies are always relevant to this blog.
SG and I just had a conversation about how a hitachi is actually a good investment financially.
But honestly a pretty poor investment in my future, since the likelihood of me getting anything done with it is pretty slim.
umm
No matter how you dress yourself up or what airs you put on; no matter how you control your body or hide your past; no matter how icy and aloof and self-possessed you may seem, I know the truth. Where you started. What you were. What you are.
Pillowfucker.
Needy, greedy, desperate little grinder, ever since you were young, maybe since before you can remember. Squirming around trying to figure out what your body wanted: curl up and clench, sweaty forehead and sore knees in the darkness of your room. Never let your hand creep down there, or couldn’t figure out what to do with it if you did. And then you tried shoving the big soft lump down between your legs, and squeezing. And oh.
Did you ever get caught? Not more than once, I bet. Some things you learn to hide quickly. But you’ve always had a hungry body, and you never could quite rein it in. Sneaking off whenever you could manage it, calculating how long it would be until you’d get to try again. Your mind wandered in school and church and family outings. Couldn’t help that. Your pussy kept leading it astray.
This is what I mean when I call you “little girl,” little girl. You haven’t really changed at all. You’re the same wet flushed sullen frantic humping pillowfucker you’ve been your whole life, and all the roles and rules and pretty words you use are just attempts to conceal it.
They don’t work. You’ve been caught a second time, and there’s no playing it off or hasty excuses, not with me. I can see what’s inside of you, little bouncer, little secret keeper, little burning ember. No point in hiding anymore.
Now show me what you can do.
The Adventures of Sir, Sweetheart and Mr. Purple, Part Eleven
The next evening was my last night at Sir’s and so he gave me the massage he had promised to give me as a present. The set-up was wonderful. He had me lie down on on his futon and relax, he played nice music and he gave me a really wonderful massage with some soothing oil.
Of course, Sir took a few liberties I’ve never seen taken during a massage before. He rubbed my butt and my breasts. And, at the very end, he spent an extraordinarily long time rubbing my pussy.
He would trace his thumbs over my labia, moving infinitely closer to my clit before rolling his thumbs back out and teasing his fingers over my inner thighs. “You’re getting so wet,” he teased and leaned in, licking carefully just over the curves of my labia before continuing to use his fingers.
He slipped his thumb over my clit and rubbed in slow circles as he started to fuck me with two fingers. I thrusted back eagerly, gasping as he slipped another in. Suddenly, I heard him gasp and he asked me, “do you know how many fingers I have in you?”
“Three?” I asked.
He smirked, “five.”
My eyes widened and I sat up on my elbows, “are you fisting me?”
“No, it’s just to the knuckles,” he replied. “But look how hungry this pussy is.” Naturally, he rolled me over and fucked me silly right after.
The Adventures of Sir, Sweetheart and Mr. Purple, Part Four
The following evening, after Sir and I went out to the movies, we wound up back at his place and he said that he wanted to train my ass. I’m the queen of squirming out of anal play, but I had offered to him that during this trip I would let him at least get the anal beads that he bought me up there. We’d only used them once before and I was super shy about it and insisted I pull them out myself.
But, while I was lying across his lap and he was applying lubricant to the beads and my asshole, Sir told me he also intended on trying to get Mr. Purple in there, too.
“He’s not gonna fit!” I pouted.
Sir placed his hand at the curve of my back to calm me, “it’s made for assholes. It will fit just fine if you relax.”
While Sir started to slip the beads in, I focused on my breathing. The strand is silicone, I believe, with about ten beads that increase in size. I tried to count as each one went in, but Sir would pull them back out ever so often to get me accustomed to taking them.
Usually, at the earliest sign of feeling uncomfortable or out of control, I would have made him stop. But, I tried to trust that he wouldn’t hurt me. He checked in regularly to make sure I was feeling all right, and only stopped when I literally felt so full I couldn’t take another.
“You took eight out of ten. I’m very proud,” he replied. He had me get up and walk around, making me explain to him exactly how it felt. I got back over his lap and he pulled them out while I buried my face in his couch.
“Okay, darling,” he continued, applying more lubricant to my asshole, “time for Mr. Purple.”
I’m staying at Sir’s an extra day.
Here’s something to tide you all over before my return.
Meet Mr. Purple.