Cocked and loaded


So, this week’s Quote Quest teaser is:

“Between my finger and my thumb the squat pen rests; snug as a gun.”

– Seamus Heaney

Well, it wasn’t a pen between my thumb and finger, but those three letters definitely featured.

“The Other Guy” moans as I slowly stroke his cock, occasionally circling my thumb over the tip before encircling the shaft once again and working my slowly down, then back up again.

It’s been far too long since we last saw each other, far too long since I felt his tongue on my clit and his cock inside me.

I’ve already tasted his cum; rich and thick and so welcome after so long.

My cunt aches pleasantly from the ponding it received from his cock. My clit still throbs from where his tongue so expertly lashed it and drove me to a series of shuddering climaxes.

We’ve already done so much in the time we’ve had, and there is still so much more to do. My body is his to use until it is time for me to leave.

His cock twitches in my hand as I kiss him firmly on his lips, his tongue snaking into my mouth. I can taste my cunt on him; intoxicating, fuelling my hunger for him. I tighten my grip around his cock.

Up and down, down and up; I stroke those proud, stiff inches of flesh, refamiliarising myself with its contours. It’s been almost a year since I’ve had any cock but Master C’s, and I am so glad that it’s “The Other Guy” who is able to give me the first extra-curricular penis since the lifting of lockdown restrictions make such happenings possible again.

I move so that I can playfully kiss and tease the tip with my tongue as I stroke the shaft. I am rewarded with a familiar moan; a moan that means so much more because I haven’t heard it in so long. It’s a moan that confirms that I haven’t forgotten what “The Other Guy” likes, how he likes to be touched and teased. It’s a moan that tells me how much he has missed my attentions and how much he is enjoying experiencing them again anew.

The head of his cock swells a deep angry purple. I tease the underside with the tip of my tongue as I drag my nails lightly along his length. I can taste the nearness of his climax. I feel the tension in his body mount as I slide my thumb and finger up to concentrate on the area just below the head; knowing that this is the area that gives him the most pleasure.

“I’m going to come soon, Morag,” he half sighs, half moans.

“Good!” I breathe, “That’s what I want.”

My hand moves a little faster. His breathing deepens; his hips begin those tell-tale involuntary movements.

“Oh… Oh Morag!” he moans. “So close… So, so close…”

I have a decision to make; where do I want his load? In me, or on me?

His cock twitches in my hand.

“I want you to come on my boobs, then rub it in as you eat my cunt,” I tell him.

“Hell, fuck yes!” he gasps.

We pause briefly to change position, in readiness for what comes next. It’s the briefest respite for him but one that is short lived.

I circle his cock once more and stroke, hard, fast, eager for his inevitable eruption.

“Morag!” My name called out, a final groan, and then I feel his sticky warmth on my skin as unloads over my neck and boobs.

A small tremor runs up my spine. I know I’m really going to enjoy what will happen next…

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Theory & practice


Growing up on a farm, I learned at quite an early age that when “daddy cow” climbed on “mummy cow’s” back it would, ultimately, result in the arrival of “baby cow”. I also learned that the same thing went for other species as well; the reason there were baby animals was because at some point the male animal did something to the female animal. Having put two and two together, I remember coming to the conclusion that something similar must have occurred between my parents that resulted in me and I remember asking my mum something along the lines of “Did Daddy have to climb on you to make me?” and being delighted that I was right when my mum confirmed this with a very simple, but affirmative “Yes dear, something like that.”

So I had the theory of mammalian reproduction understood at a very basic level but, of course, I didn’t really know about sex, or the fact that the majority (or in my case and that of many others, the entirety) of sexual activity has nothing to do with reproduction.

Skip forward a few years to my first year in secondary school, age 12. If you are Scottish and of a certain age demographic, you will remember the big red Scottish Secondary Science Book and you will almost certainly remember chapter 6.6 with its outline drawings of the male and female reproductive parts. Again, we were taught about the mechanics of sex and the reproduction; about erections for boys and periods for girls; and that was really about as far as it went. I’m not, I hasten to add, being dismissive of trans-gendered people here, I am simply recounting the classroom language that was used; i.e. that sexual intercourse involved the man putting his penis in the woman’s vagina and moving it in and out until the man ejaculated inside the woman. Again it was the theory.

Of course, around about this time, I’d also started getting interested in boys and, of course, boys meant snogging. Being a fairly early developer, snogging also meant that boys attempted some awkward groping and, even in those days where such things were “top half only”, that hands on top of clothes progressed to hands under clothes. That’s where things started to get interesting.

I discovered that I liked getting my boobs touched I also discovered that when I was enjoying getting my boobs touched, I also got quite moist between my legs. I soon discovered that I didn’t need someone else touching my boobs for this to happen, I could do it to myself and, when I ultimately reached down to examine more closely what the effects of my boob play were having down there, I discovered that I definitely liked touching myself down there. Not too long after that, “The Girl” would help me discover that I really liked it when someone else touched me down there and that was where the theory began to turn into practice.

Why the sex education I got in school covered the basics of reproduction and the mechanics of penis in vagina intercourse and the fact that, if I weren’t careful, it might result in pregnancy, it didn’t go near masturbation, or oral or even hint that anal might even be a thing for anyone other than gay men. The sex education didn’t teach me about the pleasure or enjoyment associate with sex. It absolutely did not teach me anything about kink.

I was, however, fortunate that I could talk to my mother about certain aspects of sex and sexuality, but even then there were limits. I wasn’t going to tell her that I’d just sucked my boyfriend’s cock for the first time. She didn’t need to know exactly when a guy fucked me for the first time and she absolutely did not need to know about the first time I took it in the arse. What she absolutely didn’t need to know was that I’d reached this point on my sexual journey before I’d even turned 16. I could discuss masturbation, but she didn’t need to know how often I did it. I could admit that I was sexually active (although I was somewhat reticent about how long I had been), but she really didn’t need to know how may people I’d had sex with. I could admit to the fact that I felt an attraction to other women, but she absolutely did not need to know that “The Girl” (whom she had known forever) and I were more than just best mates and were “at it” whenever circumstances allowed.

The one thing that I am grateful for is the fact that the most important thing my mum taught me about sex is that it is absolutely 100% natural and that it is in no way shameful. I’m sure she probably wouldn’t have approved if she knew the full details of my sex life, but it would be from a position of concern about my safety and well-being rather than from a place of judgement.

Pretty much everything else, I’ve learned “on the job” as it were. My teenage years were kind of my “discovery years“; the years where I discovered what I liked and what worked for me, where I discovered that what worked for one partner might not elicit the same response in another. I learned how much I really loved sucking cock and I learned how numerous guys loved to have their cocks sucked. I learned how much I enjoyed having my cunt eaten out and how to eat cunt in ways that the recipient really enjoyed. I learned the positions that I liked most; I learned that sometimes my enjoyment of a position or a particular activity depended on my mood. At 18, during my university Freshers’ Week, I discovered that I enjoyed having sex with more than one person at once. During my 20s, I discovered that even though I didn’t have a “full time” partner, that I could still enjoy sex through casual arrangements.

I’d always enjoyed a rougher element to sex. From fairly early on I’d enjoyed a certain amount of restraint play, blindfolds, spanking etc. Meeting Master C and submitting to Him was what would take my exploration of kink to the levels it is at today. While I’ve never been especially good on the monogamy front, it would be Master C that would help me channel many of my promiscuous urges and redirect them into our poly circle, but also create the system of action and consequence, of responsibility and punishment that become such a central part of our particular dynamic.

And yet, for all that, I am still learning. The restrictions imposed by the Covid pandemic have meant I’ve had to come up with new ways to receive the discipline from Master C that I both crave and need so much.

If we assume that 12 year old me getting my boobs felt was the start of the practical part of my sexual education, then I’ve been learning for almost 35 years. I wonder how much CPD time I’ve managed to put in during those years?

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Suffering in silence


When it comes to expressing my pleasure/enjoyment of something, I am quite a vocal person. I don’t mean in the asthmatic banshee wailing of women in porn kind of way, just that I like to be able to “release” vocally (albeit often incoherently) as well as physically, emotionally. With that in mind, here is my take on this week’s Quote Quest prompt:

“To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves.”

–   Federico García Lorca

As I said, I tend to vocalise things; not just sexual enjoyment/orgasm, but any strong emotion. I tend to live on the very edge of my skin, and I have a need to let things out. I will howl with laughter at a particularly funny jock/sketch, I will scream with shock at scary bits in films, I will almost certainly let my partner know how much I am enjoying the sensations they are causing me to experience.

Sometimes I will manage to articulate these into actual words, telling them how good their cock feels inside me, or their tongue feels on my clit. More often, the deeper my arousal and closer I am to orgasm, the less articulate I become and my vocalisations are reduced to murmurs, moans, sighs, whimpers and the occasional hoarse profanity.

Of course, all of this is fine when engaging in sex in the privacy of your own home, a hotel room, or in the confines of a swinger’s club, but sometimes there is a need to be more circumspect.

Readers of this blog will be aware that I have a propensity towards sexual activity in less private places; whether that be in some secluded out of the way spot in the countryside to having a frantic quickie in a dark, back street/lane. While part of the enjoyment of these activities is the risk of the possibility of being caught, there is a need to try and mitigate this risk as much as possible. One of the ways to do this is to ty not to draw unnecessary attention to ourselves and what we are doing and, tat generally means needing to be quiet.

For me, as a vocaliser, this is often a source of added torment. Given the risky nature of what we are doing, my arousal is already heightened. If someone has their fingers up my cunt, or is fucking me with a sense of frantic urgency, the sensations I am feeling are going to already be intensely powerful. In “normal”, more private settings, being able to give voice to my pleasure helps release some of the pressure that is building inside me as the sensations move me along the journey to climax. The need to be quiet denies me that pressure valve and as the pressure builds, so the sensations intensify and the need for release increases. Essentially, at this point, I am a living, breathing uncontrollable chain reaction of pre-orgasmic energy. Where normally I would moan with carefree abandon, I am reduced to whimpers which do little to relieve the mounting tension until my climax eventually takes me and reduces me to a trembling wreck.

Of course, it’s not always when being fucked in such observable/overhearable locations that silence may be required. Often, Master C will require me to remain silent, as a form of control. This differs from being gagged in that, with a gag, I can still make sounds, they are just prevented from being articulated, where I am required to be silent, I have to remain silent by volition. When the instruction for silence is combined with a form of orgasm denial, it can lead to a build up of pressure inside me that is excruciating in its intensity that is not unlike that which I experience when I am being choked. In the same way that the first lungful of air when Master C removes His hands/belt from around my neck and pulls His cock from my throat provides a relief to my oxygen-starved self that is beyond words, so the final permission to come and to give voice to my release is of a similar magnitude.

It’s fair to say, I was not designed for silence, and being forced to be so is an almost punishment of almost unbearable torment.

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What is a slut?


Having gone to an all girls private school, a slut was someone who was known to be (or at the very least believed to be) sexually active and was known (or believed) to have had sex with more than a “socially acceptable” number of partners. Now, I’ve no idea what that “socially acceptable” number is, but given that I had fucked a fair number of partners, both male and female, before I left school, I dare say that I qualify on those grounds. I’m certainly not going to quibble about the number itself.

A definition in an old dictionary I once found was something like this:

Slut: A sexually promiscuous woman. Differentiated from a whore insomuch as she gives freely of her body, whereas the whore doth give use of hers by way of commerce.

Well, as I am by pretty much any definition a sexually promiscuous woman, it seems a safe bet that I qualify on those grounds too.

Another definition I’ve encountered is that a slut is someone who has had more sexual partners than birthdays.  Guess what? Yes, quite clearly, I qualify here too.  In fact, I qualified somewhere between my 16th and 17th birthdays and, even if I were never to shag another person in my life, I suspect I actually wouldn’t live long enough to ever discharge my insluttedness.

The two things all these definitions have in common is that:

  1. A slut is a woman; and
  2. The woman in question has had multiple sexual partners.

Basically then, what I am saying is, that by any common definition you care to use, I am a slut!

There, I’ve said it, I am a slut and, frankly, I’m actually quite proud of it.  Not so much of the number per se, but from the fact that my wanton promiscuity has taught me a shitload about who I am and has made me the person I am today.  I wouldn’t be the Morag I am if I hadn’t become a slut.

Even today, with the guidance of Master C, I am still a slut. Very specifically, I am Master C’s slut, granted, but a slut nonetheless.

You see, to me, being a slut is an attitude, not the number of people you fucked.  It’s about being comfortably deviant in the bedroom (or kitchen, or driveway, or wherever…), it’s about being able to enjoy certain sexual activities that you could never imagine your parents doing (God forbid that my mum ever did even a fraction of the stuff I’ve done, and if she did, I never want to know), it’s about being confident in your sexuality and your sexual tastes and appetites and using that confidence to get what you want.

It’s not necessarily about being submissive, although you can be, and I most certainly am; but it is about exploring your boundaries and broadening them wherever possible. As I’ve said numerous times before, sexual acts are generally performed on us women because we are designed to be on the receiving end, but that doesn’t mean we have to take this lying down (unless we want to of course, and that’s fine too), we are free to have men, and other women, use our bodies in ways that satisfy us.

I confess that I have a high sexual appetite, (fortunately Master C’s is more than equal to the task of satisfying it) but even though Master C permits and ultimately corrects my promiscuity, it doesn’t mean that I leap into bed, or on to the back seat of a car, or behind some bushes or allow myself to be bent over the kitchen table for just anyone. I can still be choosy and I look after my sexual health but, at the same time I also enjoy the variety (both in terms of situations and partners) and if anyone thinks that what I do is wrong then, well, they are entitled to their opinion but, quite unashamedly, I’m never going to agree with them. Nor for that matter does Master C, who know all about my less than pristine sexual past, and who guides and corrects me in when my slutty nature gets the better of me.

So where does this tie in with the prompt? Well, it doesn’t really but it did get me thinking.

The first time someone called me a slut to my face was at university. I was aware, at school, of being considered to be “one of the sluts” because a) I wasn’t one of the “in crowd” and b) it was assumed (correctly) that I was sexually active; but no one actually ever called me a slut to my face. At university it was different. I had just broken up with a fairly serious boyfriend who turned out to be a cheating arsehole and I was getting over him by getting under as many guys as I felt was needed. It was one of these guys, whilst I was in the process of getting under, who called me a slut.

In fairness, I was, even for me, going through one of my more rampantly promiscuous phases. A night out just wasn’t a night out unless I had at least one cock in one or more of my holes. I had just intimated to the guy in question that I wouldn’t be averse to him fucking me in the arse, and that was what prompted him to call me a “nasty little slut”. It wasn’t the number of partners; he didn’t know how many I’d had, it was the fact that I was prepared to let him do something “taboo”. Had he known how many guys I’d actually fucked between discovering my ex was a cheating bastard and having this guy call me a slut, I suspect he’d have done a runner, but that’s irrelevant. The fact was, he called me a slut and I actually identified with the term. He hadn’t meant it in a denigrating way, at least not fully; it had an element of appreciativeness about it, but it was still a term I’d never had anyone call me before.

The more I thought about it, the more I came to recognise the accuracy of the appellation; I was, after all, undoubtedly promiscuous, I gave my favours to both men and women, I was happy to be fucked in any hole, I loved being taken by more than one partner simultaneously, I was a slut and, as it turned out, quite unashamedly so.

It’s a term that I have continued, and indeed, still do continue to identify with. I am Mòrag, and I am a slut, and I still feel no shame in being one.

So yes, I am happy to call myself a slut; and specifically Master C‘s slut, as I have already affirmed, but still a slut.  I am a slut who enjoys sex and enjoys satisfying my desires and appetites and I am always open to discovering new experiences. I also enjoy submitting to Master C and accepting the guidance and instruction he gives me, while accepting the punishment he applies as a consequence of the freedoms he allows me.

I’m not sure if all of this makes me a ‘dictionary definition’ slut or a ‘my definition’ slut or just someone who gets a lot of enjoyment out of sex in all its myriad of pleasurable forms and, to be perfectly honest, it’s not something I’m going to lose any sleep pondering over (although I do miss out on a fair bit of sleep participating).

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Friends reunited


As I mentioned in my last post, on Saturday, I managed to meet up with “The Girl” for the first time since September. Our reunion was everything I expected. There were smiles, there were tears, there were hugs, there was laughter and, yes, there were orgasms.

It was lovely to simply see her and talk to her in person again. Yes, we have kept in touch, but Zoom calls don’t quite do it. It was, however, pretty obvious from the outset that we were not going to be restricting ourselves to chat. From the very first peck on the cheek, the first hand on the other’s arm or shoulder, we both knew exactly where this encounter was heading.

So, not to beat about the bush, as it were, things moved in the direction we both knew they were moving and ended up exactly where we both wanted them to be.

Feeling “The Girl’s” body next to mine again, feeling her skin beneath my fingers as her hands caressed mine was simply wonderful. From the first kiss, we just melted into each other and let nearly 9 months of pent up hunger for each other fall away.

Fingers tickled and teased. Lips kissed and explored. Teeth nipped and nibbled. Tongues flicked and licked. Orgasms ignited, subsided and flared again.

It felt so good to taste her and to taste me on her. The scent and taste of her cunt was intoxicating as I feasted hungrily upon it. The intensity of the sensations as her fingers twisted inside my cunt, and her tongue tormented my clit was simply divine.

The last 9 months were simply stripped away as we took each to the heights of orgasm again and again; sometimes using our fingers to tease each other’s cunts, sometimes using our lips and tongues to drive each other wild.

Time, such as it had any meaning at all, was measured in heartbeats, in kisses, in sighs and moans, in climaxes and cuddles and it all felt so right, so wonderful.

Afterwards, at home, Master C, as I knew he would, required me to recount every detail; making me relive the events of the afternoon and evening as I told Him everything. Occasionally He would require more specific detail. Sometimes He would stop me and do to me the very thing I had just described that “The Girl” had done earlier.

“Did she do this?” He’s ask, pinching my nipples as His tongue beat on my clit. “Was it like this?” He’d enquire as He slid one, then two fingers up inside me and twisted them around. “Did you taste like this?” He’d ask, lifting His fingers to my lips and slipping them into my mouth.

When I’d told Master C all the was to tell, He spun me around, told me to brace myself, and reminded me of the one thing “The Girl” couldn’t do.

He fucked me hard, driving His cock into my cunt with powerful thrusts. Having been taken so tenderly by “The Girl”, it felt so good to be used by Master C; the differences so apparent as He fucked me; the rougher touch of His hands, the firmness of His body, the coarseness of the stubble on His face and, of course, His cock; His wonderful thick, hard cock that was pounding me mercilessly.

As the end approached, He spun me around again and demanded that I took Him in His mouth. For an intense moment I tasted myself on His cock before He filled my mouth with a deliciously think load of cum.

We would fuck again later; Master C eating me to the edge of another shuddering climax, having held me on the brink for what seemed like eternity before finally using His cock to ignite my release as He fucked me beyond my ability to hold on.

All in all, it was a fantastic day and a wonderful way to see in the new month.

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A dirty little fantasy


A little daydream; inspired, in part, by the evenings getting longer and the easing of Covid restrictions meaning nights out and meeting people become possible again, and I might just get be able to “get my slut on” again…

While out with friends, I meet a stranger in a club or bar.

We sneak out, find some dark, out of the way alleyway, and then, without any preliminaries required, we fuck. After so many months of not meeting anyone, the thrill of being with someone else is electrifying. His cock feels so good fucks me hard, in my mouth, in my cunt and in my arse.

He pulls my hair as he fucks me; calling me a filthy slut. His cock pounds me with increased urgency.

Sounds of voices and footsteps pass nearby. Have they seen us? I don’t care. All that matters is what his cock is doing to me and how it is making me feel.

I hold back a moan as I come hard, not wanting to betray our presence to anyone who may be passing. My restraint intensifies my climax. His laboured breathing tells me that his climax is approaching.

Suddenly, he pulls out, spins me a round, calls me a “dirty whore” before blowing his load over my boobs.

We straighten ourselves out, and return to the club/bar; going back to our respective groups of friends as if nothing has happened (although my top is sticking uncomfortably to my cum covered boobs).

We never tell each other our names.

When I get home, Master C thrashes me soundly for being an insatiable, filthy little slut before giving all three of my holes another rough and very thorough fucking and adding his load to that of the stranger’s on my skin.

I fall asleep; tired, sticky, a little tender and sore, but very VERY happy…

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A taste for things that come


I gave my first blow-job at the tender age of 14. It was kind of a special “present” to my then boyfriend on his 15th birthday. Despite have discussed the subject with one of my girlfriends who had had quite a bit of experience in the art of sucking cocks (note the plural), I really didn’t have much of a clue what I was doing; I sucked and licked and worked my lips up and down his shaft until, with very little in the way of warning, he blew his load in my mouth. Luckily for me, it was also my boyfriend’s first experience of a blow-job, so he had nothing to compare it with, but it was clear that he had enjoyed my attentions and, on the evidence of how wet my cunt was, I’d definitely enjoyed my part in the proceedings too. I’ve mentioned before that in the more than 30 years that have elapsed since that day, I’ve lost count of the number of cocks that I’ve had in my mouth, but that first one was the one that made me realise that sucking a guy off was just as much something for me as it was for the recipient.

One of the most important lessons that I’ve learned is that communication is key. If you want to give a cock a really good blow-job, or give a cunt a good tongue lashing, it’s listen to what the recipient wants and likes. No two cocks or cunts are identical in terms of what elicits the maximum amount of pleasure, so, if in doubt, ask. Also, listen; not just to what someone tells you in words, but also what their body tells you in terms of responses. Learn to identify what the gasps, sighs and moans mean, store away the things that made them flinch and shake. This applies equally to whether its a cock or a cunt that you are pleasuring. The more familiar you are with your partner’s body and how they respond to pleasure, the more you learn their sexual “tells”, the more you can concentrate on giving them the best head they’ve ever had.

Another thing I’ve learned, is that when it comes to licking a cunt, women aren’t intrinsically better at it than men. The idea behind this is that those of us with cunts know how we like to have them pleasured, so we should find it easier to pleasure others. This is, of course, nonsense. As I’ve written before, the only cunt whose responses I know with absolute certainty, is my own; and as I’ve already pointed out, what works for my cunt is not guaranteed to work for anyone else’s.  So, again, communication is key. Another tip I learned, was when having sex with another woman for the first time, try to arrange things so they go down on you first as they way they eat you will probably give you an indication of how they like to be eaten. Of course, if you go first, you’re the one giving tips and pointers to what you want when the time comes for the tables to be turned, so there is no right or wrong. The point is, the person who is feasting on your nether regions isn’t psychic, so unless there is a long familiarity with what you like, don’t be afraid to let them know. Help them to give you the tongue-lashing you want and need.

For me, as a submissive woman, one of the things I love about sucking cock is the sense of “empowerment” it gives me. When I’m sucking a cock, it is me that is doing, not being done to; I am giving them pleasure, my talents and abilities are going to be the reason they come, and their load of cum in my mouth is my reward for doing it to the best of my ability. Sucking cock is the way I give pleasure, rather than have it taken from me; I am providing pleasure, not being used for it. I suspect that this is the biggest reason for why I will try to find any excuse to end up with Master C’s in my mouth; I love being responsible for His orgasm and knowing that I am the reason for His climax.

Of course, sometimes, Master C will take His pleasure from my mouth; a mouth and throat is just as capable of being fucked as a cunt or arse. When Master C tips my head back and fucks me roughly in the throat, there is something about this that is deliciously filthy, that ticks my slut boxes, that reminds me that I am there for Him to be used

Over 30 years of using my mouth has taught me many things; how to use it to give pleasure, how to let it be used for pleasure, and how to fully enjoy both. Those are lessons that, in order to be Master C’s  slut and dutiful submissive, I definitely need to learn.

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Love is blind(ish)


The the quote for us to unpick on Quote Quest this week had got my grey cells arguing with each other:

“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.”

– William Shakespeare

I think, for me, it depends on the type of love you are describing and the relationship between oneself and the loved one. Love, after all, comes in many flavours: we love our families (mostly), we love our friends, we (hopefully) love our partners. Love is emotional but how we express it, depends on who it is we are expressing it towards, and the nature of the love/relationship that exists.

I suspect, that the quote is really meant to focus on “romantic” love, i.e. the love between “lovers”, essentially those that we share our lives with and fuck.

Not everyone we fuck, obviously; I definitely have not loved everyone with whom I have rubbed bits and exchanged fluids with, but the important ones, the significant ones.

I think we also have to detach love from attraction. Attraction is, for most of us, very visual. We see someone we fancy, we think “Yeah, I want a bit of that,” we hook-up, date, fuck and maybe a relationship forms and, if it does, it’s possible that the emotional connection we call love develops.

And I think, it is possibly that at this point that the “blindness” develops. Let’s be honest, we all have habits that others find annoying. There are things I do that drive Master C nuts. There are things Master C  does that make me despair. If we didn’t love each other, those little annoyances would probably, over time, become unbearable; but because we love each other, we learn to ignore them wherever we can, and live with them where we can’t and, in some instances, exploit them if it means wheedling/provoking/providing an extra hard spanking out of  it.

Love allows us to turn a blind eye on things that if someone we didn’t love were to do them, would provoke a reaction from mild irritation all the way through to full on rage. Where we are not completely blinded by love, love filters and mitigates the annoyances that we cause our loved ones and they cause us.

I love Master C, for the way He treats me, the way that makes me feel, the strength, comfort and support He provides; that, however, is the emotional side of love. There is also the physical, which is largely based on the things He does to me, but also based on His physical attractiveness to me.

Now, I accept that I am coming from this from the perspective of a sighted person. An unsighted person would almost certainly find attractiveness in other forms and from other stimuli and, for them, I guess, in the visual sense, love truly would be blind. For me however, it is multifaceted; it draws on so many senses and stimuli that my brain then mixes together in some strange neurochemical imbalance to create this crazy little thing called love.

At His mercy


I’m on my back. My wrists are bound and tied, above my head, to the rail of the headboard. My legs frog-tied with rough rope that digs simultaneously into my thighs, calves and shins, the knots pressing into my skin. My legs spread as wide as the can in that arrangement, my ankles cuffed the tied to the outsides of the bed.

I can’t move. I’m blindfolded. I’m forced to wait.

Master C runs a finger over then around the curve of each of my breasts. His fingers then butterfly caress the insides of my thighs. The cold, hardness of a well-lubed, brushed-steel plug presses against my arsehole and slowly pushes inside.

I wait again.

Kisses on the inside of my thighs.

A gentle tickle of the ends of the flogger over my nipples.

Each action followed by more agonising nothing.

Hot breath on my labia. Fingers running up the insides of my legs. Master C’s mouth is so close, but so far away, and then it is gone.

Clamps applied to my nipples. The sweet exquisite pain makes me cry out, makes my cunt contract. Master C tightens them with a deft twist. My cunt grows wetter.

Again, the warmth o f His breath is so close. If I could just move, I’d push my mound against His lips, The licks and kisses to my thighs torment me. So close, so close, and then they are gone.

More waiting; each second an eternity.

My head is turned to one side. Master C pushes the head of His cock into my mouth. I accept it gratefully, something to distract me from His torment.

As I tease the tip with my tongue, His finger slides between my legs, parts my labia and slips easily inside me. I gasp. Master C’s cock slips from my mouth. His finger is withdrawn from my cunt and he puts it in my mouth. I taste myself as I have done so many times before.

His finger returns to my cunt and he feeds me my juices again. I accept them willingly, grateful to be required to do something more than just passively await His next action. His fingers then His cock each take it in turns in my mouth. I want to suck Him properly. I want to feel Him erupt in my mouth so I can savour His cum before swallowing it, but it’s not to be.

More waiting.

Again, His mouth approaches. He kisses my left thigh, then right; left, then right, each time getting inexorably closer. Seconds pass, minutes, an eternity of agonising anticipation.

And then, contact. Master C’s tongue touches me. “You taste divine, little one,” He says as He begins to slowly lick and tease.

I want to writhe, but all I can to is wriggle my bum against the bed. I want to reach down and press His face to my cunt, forcing Him to eat me more firmly,

I am at His mercy, He licks and nibbles, fingers and flicks in a way that He knows will take me to the edge and then holds me there. Each lap of his tongue on my clit increases the pressure inside me. Each thrust of His fingers inside my cunt makes its walls contract and has me begging for release.

Master C’s tongue is relentless. His stubble is rough against my labia, increasing the sensations. His fingers twist inside me. The onslaught is unending.

Again an eternity of agony, not of anticipation, but for the need for release. I screw my eyes shut beneath the blindfold, lights flash beneath my eyelids. Fire burns along my nerves. My clit throbs, my cunt pulses, but still Master C denies me.

I have no idea how long He holds me in this state; time is meaningless on the edge of the abyss. The cloth over my eyes is soaked with tears of frustration. The sheet beneath my bottom is soaked with my juices and His saliva. The scent of my frustration hangs over the bed, filling the room. My throat raw as I plead and beg for release.

“Soon, little one, soon,” Master C’s  are anything but soothing “Endure it for just a little longer.”

Resigned to my fate, I accept it. His tongue laps with a slightly greater intensity; His fingers fuck me with increased force. Pressure builds, mounting rapidly.

“Now, little one! Come for me now!” Master C gently commands.

A firm lick of His tongue, and I am undone. The dam breaks and I cry out. Waves of pleasure coarse through me. I sense Master C move above me. His cock slides inside me. My orgasm reignites as He fucks me with deep, powerful, forceful strokes.

“Please fuck me harder! Please fuck me harder! Please…” I moan, still carried on the crest of my climax.

Master C’s thrusts become faster, harder. His hands around my upper arms, farcing them into the mattress as He takes me.

His body collides with mine. The slap of skin on skin reverberates around the room. Master C moans my name as His climax approaches, “Morag! Morag! Morag!”

“Come for me Master,” I plead, “Release yourself inside me.”

Thrusts increase with urgency, His breathing deepens. I sense rather than feel the increased tension in His body.

In… Out… In… Out… In… A groan… A pause… He erupts inside me; the warmth of His essence flooding into me.

Some time later, Master C unties me, up around us and lets me snuggle into Him as He holds me close and secure in His arms and I feel the heat of His body against mine. Once again, Master C has restored me and made me His.

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Cadged, benched and the sweet release of subspace


I’ve mentioned the cage before; about how it can be a place of punishment, and how it can be a place of retreat where I communicate my need of support. Last night, for reasons I won’t bore you with, it was most definitely the latter.

The process is simple: I finished work, logged off from my PC, undressed, closed myself into the cage, curled up and waited for Master C to discover me there.

I don’t know how long I was confined; time within the cage has its own special duration, it’s a kind of limbo where time has no meaning until I’m released.

“Is my little one feeling delicate?” Master C enquired softly on finding me confined.

I nodded. “Yes Sir,” I replied meekly, eyes downcast.

He left momentarily before returning; my collar and lead in one hand and a pair of cuffs on the other. “I think I know exactly what might help,” He said as He opened the cage and helped me out.

“Turn around!” a gentle command. I did as Master C bid me. The cuffs fastened around my wrists behind my back. The collar went around my neck and he fastened it tight. Attaching the lead. He turned me around, kissed me tenderly on the lips. “You know where to go,” He said.

I did. I know how this goes, but I still get a thrill of anticipation. “Yes Sir!” I replied.

“Well, lead the way then,” He said, giving my arse a playful swat.

I walked slowly thought to our playroom. In the middle of the room stood the bench. I glanced a coy look back of my shoulder. He nodded.

I walked up to the bench then bent over, my legs spread. Master C fastened the leather restraints around my ankles and then the side restraints went over my arms and fastened between my shoulder blades, holding me tightly in place. and then, I waited.

I waited while he pondered what implement to use. I flinched each time I heard a swoosh of air, only for flogger, or His belt, or the cane to land on the desk. I didn’t care which He used on me; any of them would hurt, any of them would begin my journey. I waited.

I waited, and the anticipation grew. I waited as he walked around me, scrutinising me, flexing the cane, or snapping the folds of his belt together in front of my face. I waited.

Again, that state of limbo, the passage of time meaningless. I waited.

SMACK! his belt struck across my arse. I cried out, as the stinging heat spread across my buttocks. SMACK! harder this time, or so it seemed. SMACK! harder still. His belt crisscrossed my buttocks; the intensity of each kiss adding to the fire of those that preceded it.

Hot tears fell from my eyes. Cries of pain were torn from my throat. His belt was merciless, His belt was harsh, His belt was unrelenting, His belt was just what I needed.

I didn’t count the lashes. This wasn’t a punishment where I needed to keep track, this was a centring, a rebalancing. My tears, my cries and my reddening skin were all that Master C needed to determine when I had reached the next stage.

Mt restraints were briefly undone. Master C repositioned me on my back, my head tilted back over the edge of the bench. The restraints were refastened, tighter; the one around my chest squashing my boobs and constricting my breathing. Slowly, Master C buckled his belt around my neck between my chin and my collar.

Tears still stung in my eyes, but I could see his lovely thick cock was hard. He slapped my face. “Open your mouth, slut! I’m going to fuck your throat.”

The words were what I needed to hear, and His cock was what I wanted to have. This wasn’t a blow-job, this wasn’t me worshiping His cock, lavishing attention on it; this was Master C fucking my throat, treating my mouth like just another hole.

He fucked me hard, rough, without mercy. I chocked and spluttered as He drove His cock down my neck; gasping for breath as He tightened His belt around neck. In… Out… In… Out… Again and again, over and over. The pressure around my neck making it almost impossible to breath around his cock.

Occasionally he would pull out fully, allowing me a few gasping breaths down my tortured throat before beginning again.

I was losing myself. I was become nothing more than something for Him to use.

Time stopped. The pain in my buttocks seemed to melt away, my jaw no longer ached. Tears still streamed from my eyes, but I barely noticed. This was it. This was that transcendent moment where nothing mattered, I just let myself go and get carried along on the current.

He came. Not down my throat, but across my boobs. I barely felt it, the fire burning in my veins was all consuming.

And then… And then… and then His tongue on my clit, His hands rubbing His cim into my boobs as He feasted on me.

My back tried to arch as I came for the first time. The restraints holding me firmly in place seemed to intensify the power of my climax. I cried a long, silent scream of release, my raw throat unable to produce sound. His fingers inside my cunt, His tongue on my clit, the pain, the power of my release. I was lost, powerless to respond. My consciousness seemed to float outside my body; I was a disembodied observer, watching on with fascination as Master C’s tongue and fingers relentlessly pushed my body beyond any last remaining iota of endurance.

Again, that timeless limbo, accompanied this time by a detachment from reality. How long had He kept me there? I’ve no idea.

The restraints were gone, soothing balm applied to my buttocks numbed the sensation of the soft sheets beneath me, the soft pillow beneath my head as Master C stroked my hair from my face, kissed me tenderly on the lips and slid into me.

He took me, slowly, languidly, but thoroughly. Never losing control, never allowing Himself to surrender to His inner primal animal self. This fuck was for me, to restore me, to bring me back to myself. I found my body responding to His, increasingly moving in harmony. I found the strength to raise my arms, to lift my hands to his buttocks, to slowly squeeze my fingers into his taut, firm flesh to let Him know that He didn’t need to be quite so considerate. I managed a very hoarse whisper. “Fuck me Sir! Your little slut needs to be fucked.”

He smiled down at me and thrust harder. I smiled back then closed my eyes, savouring His firmness inside me, His body on mine. Firm, yet gentle, strong, yet sensual, considerate, but always Dominant, He took me, He fucked me, He rebuilt me and made me whole again.

I came, feeling sore but secure beneath Him. And then, at last Master C came inside me and my worries and cares were banished again.

We had another slow, leisurely fuck this morning and, sore arse and slightly raw throat not withstanding, I’m feeling much more positive today.

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