Atonement


I am naked and on my knees before Master C. It is time for me to give an account of my time with “The Other Guy” and to accept the consequences of my actions.

“I have been a bad girl, Master. I have indulged myself and engaged in sluttish behaviour. How may I atone for my actions?”

Master C assumes an expression of stern gravity. “I will need to consider this,” He says, “but first, you may suck my cock.”

“Yes Master!” I concur softly. Then, with eyes downcast, I shuffle forward to commence my penance.

Sucking Master C’s cock is something I always relish and all ways give my all to, regardless of the circumstances but, as this is an atonement blow-job, I know I need to be extra attentive.

I begin by kissing all over its surface, stroking gently as I caress His length with my lips. My tongue swirls around the head and I softly caress His balls with my hands. Already I can feel Master C respond. His cock stiffens further, He sighs and settles Himself to accept my attentions. A low moan escapes as I wrap my lips around His shaft and draw Him deep into my mouth until the tip lodges in the back of my throat.

From there on in, my worship of those proud, hard inches of Him in my mouth becomes almost automatic. My lips glide up and down His length, sliding over the familiar pattern of veins just under the surface. My tongue licks and flicks and swirls around and over the tip. My throat closes around the head. My fingers encircle and stroke in tandem with my lips.

Master C’s cock twitches in response to my attentions. I an feel the head swell as the pressure for release begins to build. I sense the tension in His thighs. I take please in His contented moans and sighs. As much as I am doing this for Him, to please Him, to serve Him, to apologise to Him for being the slut that I am, I am also doing this for me. I love paying homage to Master C’s cock with my mouth. I love taking Him to the brink and making Him lose control. I love knowing that I am responsible for His pleasure and, ultimately, His climax. I can feel my cunt grow warm and wet as I take pleasure from the pleasure I am giving Him.

I wonder if He will come in my mouth? To swallow down His thick, rich cum would be a wonderful reward for my attentions. Then I remember, I am seeking atonement, not reward. I will accept His load wherever He deems appropriate and I will accept it without complaint.

Almost as the thought enters my head, Master C’s breathing and groans announce that He is almost at the edge. Gently He pushes me away; His cock slips from my mouth; I await His load.

He strokes His cock; I watch transfixed. His jaw is clenched. I can sense His pre-climactic tension.

A groan. The briefest pause. His cock erupts. His cum splatters over my face: over my forehead, across bridge of my nose, down my cheeks.

His eruption subsides. “Clean me, slut!” He demands. I take the still engorged head of His cock between my lips and suck the remnants of His load from Him as His cum trickles down my face and begins to dry on my skin.

When I am finished, He instructs me to retrieve the cane from His study. I don’t even try to suppress the shudder of anticipation His command elicits. Master C intends to punish me thoroughly.

I return, hand Him the cane and once again I kneel before Him. “Now tell me, slut,” He commands, “Tell me everything. Do not miss out a single detail.”

I do as I am commanded.

“I start by telling Master C how I sucked “The Other Guy’s” cock before we’d even made it out of His hall. The description earned me four strokes of the cane over my arse.

With tears in my eyes, I described in the minutest details how “The Other Guy” had eaten me out, driving me repeatedly to the brink and holding me there, over and over, again and again until I was finally permitted to come. Another four strokes, harder this time. The heat in my buttocks began to spread. My cunt began to clench.

I told Master C how “The Other Guy” fucked me; the positions employed; the pace and force of his thrusts. I admitted to Master C about how “The Other Guy” had fucked each of my holes repeatedly, earning my four more strokes for each hole.

My throat was raw from the sobs of pain as I confessed to the cuffs, the nipple clamps, the butt-plug, the dildo. One more stroke for each item.

When I completed my account, I was given four more strokes, just for being a cock hungry, pain loving slut. My buttocks were on fire, pain burned through every nerve, the cheeks of my face burned as crimson as the cheeks of my arse, my tears ran down my cheeks, mixing with His dried in cum.

“On your back, slut! Legs open!” Master C commanded.

I did as ordered, unleashing fresh tears as my arse made contact with the hard wooden floorboards. Master C entered me and took me. As His cock pounded my cunt, His hands closed around my neck. This may have been a punishment fuck, but to me it was the sweetest form of punishment. His cock drove into me, His hands choked me; tears flowed from my eyes, a combination of the asphyxiation and the pain of my arse being pressed into the hard floor.

Master C was relentless; pounding me, punishing me, fucking me. Despite the pain, despite the comfort, despite having to fight for every breath, I was loving every second, every squeeze of His fingers around my neck, every thrust of His cock in my cunt.

I came, hard. “Oh Master, forgive me, please!” I managed to gasp.

His body stiffened. He drove into me for a final time. “Oh Morag!” He groaned as I felt Him release deep inside me.

We lay together for a while, ignoring the discomfort of the hard floor beneath us. “Am I forgiven?” I asked in a small voice.

Master C stroked my hair from my face, kissed me then smiled. “Of course you are, little one,” He said softly. I smiled and He continued, “Now let’s get you cleaned up, and I’ll get the salve for your arse, a large glass of wine and a nice soft cushion and, I think, you may have earned that cunt of yours, a very thorough tongue lashing.” I smiled. Much as I enjoy receiving Master C’s discipline, I enjoy His particular forms of after care-even more; and His plans certainly sounded very appealing.

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Watching


The prompt for Kink of the Week has the following quote:

“Voyeurism is a beautiful and delightful thing. There is nothing more intimate than really looking at someone.”

~ Laurel Nakadate

Now, I agree with the above statement, but I also have reservations about it. To me, voyeurism has elements of both pleasure and pain and it largely depends on who I am watching and the circumstances behind it.

For the record, I am very much an exhibitionist; I love the thought that I could be observed and I knowing that people are actually watching me and getting aroused watching me is a massive turn on. That, however, is another post for another time. Let us get back to watching.

For me, there are essentially three different forms of voyeurism and the have different feelings and emotions associated with them.

The first is an what I would describe as participative voyeurism. This happens in a group sex/sex party situation. I’m either watching others fuck while I myself am being fucked, or while I am “between fucks”. In this scenario, I am part of the scene; mine is one of the writhing, pleasure filled bodies. The air is filled with the sounds and scents of people fucking and I am one of those participants making my own contribution to sensual whole. The participants combine and recombine in different pairings, triples, quadruples, or whatever combination of bodies works for the given mood.

From a point of pure hedonism, there is nothing that really comes close to this. Watching the other participants is part of the act itself. As the observer, I am both influencing and being influenced by what I see, what I hear, what I smell, what I taste. I am watching and, simultaneously, being watched; the exhibitionist and voyeur turn-on buttons are both being pressed.

The second is a slightly more passive form of the above. I’m possibly in a swingers’ club or similar. I am watching others fuck, but I am not part of that scene, merely watching others enjoying each other. The sights, sounds and scents are still there, but I am not involved. It’s like a live action porn scene, but without the exaggerated, asthmatic banshee wailing. Unlike the previous situation, I can focus my attention fully on what I am watching. Depending on how close I can be, I can observe the minute little details; the expressions on faces, the changes in breathing, the sounds of two bodies moving together. All of these things are stimulating the pleasure neurons in my brain, triggering a response in me.

I know that, at some point, I will reach a place where I can no longer watch, the need for release will become to great. At that point I will retire to another room and deal with the situation. At that point, I go from being the observer to potentially being the subject of someone else’s voyeurism as the watch me either bring myself off, get fucked by Master C, or, with His permission I fuck someone else.

The final scenario is the one that brings a juxtaposition of emotions. I am tied up, bound, helpless, and I am required to watch as another woman attends to Master C. This is such a hard one because I know what they are enjoying and I know what I’m being deprived of. The dutiful submissive in me is happy for Master C and the pleasure He is receiving, but I am torn because it should be me that is providing it. It should be me that is sucking on that wonderful cock. It should be my cunt that He is feasting on and fucking. It is me that should be receiving that lovely rich, thick load of cum. I should be the one responsible for His pleasure. In an indirect way, I also know that I am. If I’m in this scenario, I’m almost certainly being punished for something and He wouldn’t be being attended to like this if I hadn’t been guilty of some transgression. That, however, is something of a moot point.

Similarly, I am happy for the other woman because I know exactly what she is enjoying; I know the expertise with which Master C’s tongue will drive her repeatedly to orgasm, I know the mastery with which He will fuck her, I can almost feel the pleasure she is feeling, but I should actually be feeling it because all those things should be being done to and with me.

I know that afterwards, Master C will be deeply attentive and will give me what I crave, and I have that to look forward to, but in that moment, there is a delicious mixture of watching Master C fuck majestically and desolation that it isn’t me that is receiving Him.

I think, it’s fair to say, that voyeurism, for me at least, can be something of a complicated issue that ticks so many of my boxes on different levels. It is something that, on the whole, I find deeply arousing. If I had to choose, however, much as I enjoy watching others fuck, on balance, I’d much rather that I was the centre of attention and that it was me that was being watched.

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The first submission


It was a ceremony of sorts; a symbol of trust and acceptance. A sign of my submission to Him.

As He sat, I stood before him, eyes downcast. Slowly I undressed, the removal of each item an acceptance of His claim over me.

Finally I stood, naked, offering myself to Him. Presenting myself to His scrutiny. He told me to turn around. I complied, letting Him study me, showing him the prize that was His.

“Kneel!” Master C demanded, ” You know what to do.”

I did as I was bid. I unbuckled His belt, unbuttoned and unzipped His jeans, reached inside His boxers and released His cock from its confinement.

I took His cock in my mouth, paying homage to it with my lips and tongue. I was determined to show Master C how diligent I could be in the performance of my duties. My mouth’s purpose was to please Him and I yearned to do my best.

As my service to Him brought Him to the point of no return, He pushed me from him. “Have I displeased you?” I asked.

“No, not at all, little one,” Master C replied, “I intend to mark you.”

He stroked his cock, His hand almost a blur. “I am claiming you, Morag,” he groaned, “I am marking you as mine. From this moment on, you are MY slut.”

His cock errupted. His cum sprayed over my face, it trickled down my neck, dribbling on to my boobs.

“Give me Your belt,” I asked in a small voice, His cum drying on my skin. He gave me an enquiring look. “Pass me Your belt Sir, it’s important,” I urged.

Master C slipped His belt from its stays and passed it to me. I accepted it and adopted a position of supplication, on my knees, my head bowed, my hands raised with His belt draped over them.

“I submit to You,” I said, “I submit to You and accept Your domination. I offer You this belt to use for my instruction and correction. I will accept Your discipline as You see fit to dispense it.”

Master C took the belt from my hands. I turned around as He folded it and cracked it sharply together.

I waited. The anticipation built. I heard the belt swish through the air. With a resounding smack, His leather kissed my arse. In that moment, I truly became His submissive and He became my Master. With that first stinging caress of hard leather on my soft skin, He made me His…

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Living life fully


The teaser on Quote Quest this week is:

“You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough”

– Mae West

It is, as I’m sure anyone who reads this blog on even the most casual basis, a view that I am fully on board with. I try to apply it as much as possible in all aspects of my life.

Pre-pandemic me loved to travel (and hopefully one day that will be possible again). I love discovering new places, immersing myself in different cultures, seeing new places, trying new foods and, when inspiration files, adding new locations to the “I’ve been fucked/gave Master C a blow-job there” list. Actually, that last was pretty much a given, but there is something about being somewhere new, whether it be on the other side of the world, or just somewhere a few miles down the road that you’ve never visited before, that adds to the richness of life.

I also enjoy trying out new things, from rock climbing to scuba diving, downhill skiing to white water rafting, pedalling sedately round the village, to long tours on my trusty Kawasaki. I do, however have one rule: never jump out of a perfectly serviceable aircraft; parachute jumping is not for me.

Not surprisingly, when it comes to sex, my approach is pretty much the same.

When I split up with my cheating ex, I embarked on what could have been a very destructive path, but, in terms of my sexual personality, turned out to be very much a voyage of discovery. Even before him, I’d already discovered I enjoyed my casual encounters. I’d already participated in and enjoyed group sex activities, but in the aftermath of that break-up, I learned to fully embrace my inner slut and let her out.

Id never felt shame as to my casual fucks before, but I learned that “numbers” didn’t matter. If I wanted to fuck someone, and they wanted to fuck me, then the best thing we could do was just get on with it and fuck. If, on any given night, I found myself in a situation where I couldn’t decide between which of two guys I wanted to fuck more, I’d fuck them both; and if that happened simultaneously, so much the better.

I discovered my penchant for sex that is definitely not vanilla. The masochist in me began to bud (although it would take Master C for it to fully bloom) and I began enjoying sex that was rougher and darker than the sex I had had up until then. I would let partners restrain me more often, I would let them spank me, I would let them pull my hair and occasionally choke me. My latent submissive was being awoken and, when Master C, finally unleashed it, that was the game-changer.

Some of my partners had called me a slut in the past, but under Master C’s tutelage, I began to identify as a slut; I was His slut. Being Master C’s slut allowed me a degree of freedom that I’d never had in a relationship before; I was free to fuck whomever I so pleased so long as I was prepared to pay the price and accept the consequences of my actions.

I wasn’t just Master C’s slut, I was His submissive slut. Through my submission, I found a way to fully explore my relationship with pain and its juxtaposition with desire and pleasure and the exploration of my masochism deepened.

I would find reasons for Master C to thrash me, yearning the kiss of his belt on my buttocks. We would go out in the evening, and I would have clamps on my nipples and a plug up my arse. I would let Him choke me, almost to the point where I would lose consciousness. When His belt wasn’t enough, I would conspire to be flogged or caned instead; the lattice of deliciously painful, angry welts on my arse making me squirm in my seat days later.

And then there was our “Sharing Circle”; that close network of other likeminded D/s participants that added an extra element; whether it be in participating in group activities, or allowing me to explore my humiliation/degradation fetish. There is something about to kneel, naked and bound in the corner of a room watching your Master and several others giving pleasure to another woman while being told you aren’t worthy of their attention, then, to add further insult, have that woman thrash you on their bequest, as they call you a worthless slut, before she “services” them again, before finally, at the invitation of Master C, some of the men shoot their cum all over you, that just does something to me. The pain of being rejected, the jealousy of seeing another woman get to enjoy my Master, seeing her enjoy the attentions of several men while I get nothing but insults, the humiliation of being treated with contempt; they all combine into something that, for me, is so deeply arousing that makes the fucking I will eventually receive from Master B later, when we are on our own, when He rewards me and calls me His “good girl” so much more intensely satisfying than it would other wise have been.

So, yes, for me, a big part of living a full life is that I get to be the masochistic submissive slut who loves to be humiliated and fucked every which way she can. I’ve enjoyed it so far and I hope that I continue to live it fully for a long time to come.

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A great end to an otherwise shit day


So, I was in a right old grump most of yesterday.  It started when I broke my favourite mug, spilling coffee all over my feet and the kitchen floor at breakfast and continued pretty much for the whole day. In fact, my mood only improved (and it did so considerably) when I managed to meet up with “The Other Guy” after work.

He gently rubbed my neck and shoulders as I told him all about how shit my day had been. It didn’t take him long to have me out of my clothes and to have me feeling warm and relaxed as his hands worked away the tension in my back.

He did, of course, comment on the visible effects of my most recent thrashing; asking me what I’d done to deserve such punishment this time.  I told him, in great detail, about the fun “The Girl” and I had got up to on Wednesday evening after our most recent “catch-up”; to which he agreed that my subsequent thrashing had been more than merited. In fact, he even went as far as to suggest that, given how the marks had almost faded, I had, perhaps, been let off somewhat lightly.

Now, I have to say, when I was enduring the kiss of Master C’s belt on Wednesday evening, it didn’t seem like He was being particularly lenient. He really does know how to wield that belt; but I digress…

Of course, my lurid descriptions of my afternoon and evening of  wanton, girl-on-girl debauchery had a very obvious effect on him; it was evident than “The Other Guy’s” cock was straining, desperate to be set free.

Now, one thing that Master C has taught me is that I should always be fully appreciative when someone does something nice for me. As “The Other Guy” had cheered me up no end, and had made me feel so nice as he massaged the strains of the day from my body, it was only right that I should show how thankful I was by releasing his cock from its straining confinement and subjecting it to the much more pleasant, warm and wet confinement of my mouth.

I may be a slut, but no one can ever fault my manners.

It seems he was every bit as grateful for the blow-job as I had been of the massage. I had hardly had time to get into my stride when I recognised that familiar pattern of breathing, that tension in his groin that announce that he is on the point of orgasm.

His cock erupted, deluging my mouth with a thick torrent of cum. Swallowing it down, I marvelled at how much he produced. “The Other Guy” is generally quite a heavy comer, but anyone would have thought he had gone without coming for weeks; whereas I know for a fact he’d been relieved of several loads just as recently as last Saturday

Once he’d recovered, we swapped places; me on the edge of the sofa and him on his knees, between my legs, as he embarked on a prolonged bout of “getting his beard moisturised”.

I wasn’t going to complain. When it comes to going down on a woman, both the men in my life are extremely talented. Both Master C and “The Other Guy” belong to that rare breed of men that, when they go down on a woman, they give their full concentration to the task that’s in front of them; they both take their time and do the job properly. With them it isn’t just a quick perfunctory licking, to be done as quickly as possible, they both actually seem to luxuriate in it.

Suffice to say, I came several times before “The Other Guy” finished his devotions. By that time his cock was fully restored and, with the aid of gravity, I slid off the sofa, on to the floor and, to my astonishment, found myself underneath him.

We fucked. We fucked slow, we fucked fast, we fucked long and we fucked hard. We fucked until my cunt ached, and then we fucked some more. His cock massaged my insides every bit as skilfully as his hands had massaged my outsides. I came hard on his cock, gripping it tight inside me, feeling stretched and full and fabulously fucked.

He pulled out just before the end and fed me his cock. I loved the taste of myself on its length and the flavour of my juices was quickly combined with the wonderful taste of yet another load of his cum.

We cuddled there, on the floor, for a while after that and I left and drove home.

Master C still wasn’t in when I arrived, so showered and then poured myself a large glass of wine, before plonking myself down on the sofa, and proceeded to “unwind further”.

And that’s pretty much how Master C found me when he got home; somewhat tipsy, naked, nipples clamped, my favourite plug in my arse and with my fingers in my cunt. I didn’t even need any instruction; I simply got off the sofa and meekly adopted the required position as He smiled, winked and proceeded to remove His belt.

The lashes that rained down mercilessly upon my arse were as painfully delicious as they were fully deserved. The pain made my face flush almost as hotly as my other cheeks.

Tears streaked down my face as Master C spun me around and forced his cock into my mouth.

“Filthy Slut!” He said with quiet authority as he fucked my face, driving His cock angrily into my throat as His grip tightened around my neck.

I knew I didn’t deserve it, but I hoped I would be allowed to take Master C’s cum in my mouth. Instead, I got what I deserved. At the last second Master C pulled out and dumped a heavy load on to my face.

The rest of the evening was spent in acts of atonement. Once in bed, Master C fucked me gently and tenderly, letting me know that he had forgiven me.

My last conscious thought before I finally drifted off to sleep was, “well, today ended much, much, much better than it started…

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Thrashed


So, as expected, Master C punished me thoroughly for my escapades with “The Other Guy”. I won’t bore you with the details of how the appropriate level of discipline was negotiated, but the result ended up being as follows:

I am bent over Master C’s “workbench” and He ties me firmly, securely in place. The ropes cut tightly into my wrists, my ankles and across my back.

My boobs are  pressed against the cold, hard, unyielding wooden surface, forcing the clamps around my nipples into their skin. It hurts with a delicious intensity.

Cold lube is dribbled over my arsehole. With one, then two fingers, Master C roughly opens me up, stretching my tight, tender rear entrance. Fingers withdrawn, I feel the cold plastic of a dildo being pushed firmly into place; holding me open for what will come later.

“Are you ready?” Master C asks, his voice oddly tender and concerned.

“Yes Master,” I reply, “I am ready.”

I wait. Seconds pass. Anticipation grows inside me. My cunt grows wet as I await the first kiss of His belt.

A finger runs between my lower lips. I feel my juices flow.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Master,” I admit.

“You’re a nasty little slut, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Master.” Again I can’t deny the accusation.

“What are you?”

“I’m a nasty little slut, Master.”

“And what happens to nasty little sluts?”

“They get thrashed, Master.”

“Yes they do. Yes they do.”

More time passes. The anticipation continues to build. Master C forces his finger into my warm, wet cunt.

“Are you going to thrash me, Master?”

“Yes I am, my little slut.”

“Will you thrash me hard, Master?”

“Yes I will, my little slut.”

“I deserve to be thrashed hard, Master.”

“Yes you do, my lovely, filthy little slut.”

His finger slides from my cunt and is forced into my mouth. I love the way I taste on His finger.

I hear the crack as Master C flexes His belt. I close my eyes, waiting to feel its first biting kiss.

Swoosh, SLAP! It cuts into my skin. I hold back a cry, pretending to be brave.

Swoosh, SLAP! Again it bites. Tears begin to well in my eyes. My face begins to redden, to match the hot, stinging glow that my arse is beginning to display.

Swoosh, SLAP! Another caress of leather. A small sob escapes from between my lips. My tears begin to flow.

Swoosh, SLAP! I want to cry, but I need to be brave for my Master. I need to show Him I can take my punishment.

Swoosh, SLAP! I can’t hold back. I cry out as the pain intensifies. My tears feel like burning rain against my cheeks.

Swoosh, SLAP! “Oh Master!” I cry, “P… Punish me, M… Master! Punish your filthy s… slut!”

Master C shows no mercy. His belt rains down on me again and again. The pain is so strong I can no longer feel the clamps around my nipples, digging into my boobs.

And then it stops.

The dildo is pulled from my arse, only to be replace by Master C‘s lovely thick cock.

His hand grabs my hair. He pulls my head sharply back as He fucks my arse.

As his cock pounds me, Master C slaps my arse cheeks with his free hand, never letting the pain subside. He tightens His grip on my hair, pulling it harder.

“Filthy slut!” He moans; His words punctuating the long, hard, punishing thrusts of His beautiful cock, “Filthy, little, dirty slut!”

His free hand moves around me to tease my clit as Master C pummels my arse relentlessly with His cock. Despite the pain, despite the agonising intensity of this treatment, I come almost immediately.

“Oh… Oh M.. Master! Oh thank you, Master!” I sob as my orgasm rips through me.

Master C releases my hair. His cock slips from my arsehole. Seconds pass until I feel the warm wetness of His cum splash over the burning cheeks of my bum.

It feels so good. It feels so dirty. It reignites my climax, pushing me beyond the brink of my endurance.

Master C unties me, picks me up and carries me over to the bed. I hear the crack of a bottle lid. The familiar scent of aloe, and the coolness of gel as He begins to spread it into my burning skin.

Suffice to say, I was squirming in my seat as I wrote the above; partially because my arse still hurts, but mostly because writing that has made me hot in places well under the collar.

If you’ll excuse me, I think I need to go and do something about my current worked up state…

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Getting up to mischief


mischief / (ˈmɪstʃɪf) /
noun

  1. wayward but not malicious behaviour, usually of children, that causes trouble, irritation, etc
  2. a playful inclination to behave in this way or to tease or disturb
  3. injury or harm caused by a person or thing
  4. a person, esp. a child, who is mischievous
  5. a source of trouble, difficulty, etc. e.g. floods are a great mischief to the farmer

As a child, I was definitely what was known as “a mischief“. In fact, I was “a right, proper wee mischief“. It wasn’t that I was bad or especially naughty, I just had a penchant for doing things that my elders didn’t always approve of. The “Oh Morag! We’re not angry, just disappointed…” thing, said in a weary, resigned tone whenever my misdeeds were found out, was a near constant refrain growing up. I was never one of those genteel, girly girls; I was very much the tomboy and tearaway; preferring to muck about with the boys than be one of the girls.

Of course, mucking about with the boys took on a slightly different meaning when I moved into my teens, but that just simply added to the opportunities for mischief and, very often, that mischief felt very good. I might allow a boy who done something particularly nice for me to feel my boobs or I might stroke their cock through their jeans, marvelling at how that made it stiffen. Later of course, I would move on to stroking their cocks under their boxers and letting myself get fingered. The mischief stakes were frequently being upped. Eventually I would have my first orgasm at the hands of another person, give my first blow-job, discarded my virginity and get my arse fucked. All of these things were just a natural progression as I experimented with the naughty things I was discovering that I liked doing.

My student years introduced me to threesomes and group sex and I was already dabbling with kink, although, at that stage, I didn’t consider myself to be submissive, I just knew I liked toys, occasional restraining, and getting my backside tanned every now and then.

Over the years, my tendency towards mischief has, if anything, only grown stronger as I’ve got older. This, I suspect, is largely because my relationship with Master C has given me a framework within which I can be my mischievous self so long as I am aware of the consequences of my actions and know there is a price to pay. As such, if I’m on a night out and see someone I fancy, so long as I am willing to accept that any dalliance with that person will result in a thrashing from Master C’s belt, the number of lashes to be determined depending on what form the dalliance takes, then I am free to lick/stroke/suck/fuck whomever I feel inclined to do so.

Of course, there is also the fact that I enjoy receiving Master C’s discipline/physical chastisement and my inner brat is always pushing limits and looking for ways to be on the receiving end of some much needed correction.

As the saying goes, I’m not really a very naughty person, I’m just a person who really enjoys doing some very naughty things, and I really enjoy the consequences that arise from them.

Am I a brat? Yes, without question.

Am I a right, proper wee mischief? Definitely (well, maybe not quite so “wee” any more), and I hope I always am…

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Master C’s belt


There is, I admit, something about leather; the smell, the texture, the feeling of it against my skin. When it comes to leather clothing, the only items I actually possess are my motorbike gear. I don’t actually have any leather fetish items, although Master C does like to fuck His “Biker Slut” sometimes, so my biking leathers have featured in my sex life from time to time. The only other item that I own, that kind of counts is a pair of almost knee length “fuck me” boots which I wear very rarely because I would almost certainly fall over if I wore them for any prolonged period.

No, when it comes to leather, sex and kink, there is only one thing that really “does it” for me and that is, of course, Master C’s belt.

I both fear, and love, Master C’s belt.

I fear it for the pain it will cause me; the delicious agony of my flaming red arse cheeks as Master C punishes me for my various transgressions. I always know when I’ve done something that deserves the belt; I know when to present myself, arse bare, bent over, waiting for its chastising kiss. There is no escaping it. There is no point trying to resist it. When the belt is due, the belt will come, and I will bear it and endure it like the chastened little slut that I am. Forced to count the lashes, desperate to hold back the sobbing tears; Master C will thrash me until my defiance is beaten, my transgression punished, my submission complete.

When Master C thrashes me, there are always those moments of dreadful anticipation before the first blow lands; the calm before the storm, the silence as Master C prepares Himself for what needs to be done. There are the shivers of anticipation that run along my spine, the involuntary clenching of the muscles in my buttocks as I await the first contact, and the inevitable moistening of my cunt as I wait, exposed and vulnerable, awaiting my fate.

The tension mounts as the eternal seconds tick by; my stoic silence is a pretence at defiance, a challenge that requires to be met and for which Master C should show me no mercy.

And then, that brief, short swooshing sound as the belt moves through the air, gathering momentum as it makes that short arc that ends with a stinging crack as it bites into the flesh of my bare arse.

From that moment on it is simply about endurance; accepting each stroke that rains down, feeling the burn intensify with each lash as synapses linking my pain and pleasure centres go into overdrive.

Yet, for all that I fear it for the pain that it will inflict, I also love it.

I love it when Master C uses His belt to bind my wrists together as He fucks me from behind. I love the way it digs into my skin, tightening as I struggle against its binds, its surface chafing my wrists; holding me in place as I endure the pounding of His cock in whichever hole Master C has chosen to take His pleasure from. Once again, I am helpless as His cock pounds my cunt or my arse. My arms and shoulders strain as He pulls back, pulling me on to Him as He fucks me.

I love it when Master C fastens He belt around my neck, pulling it tighter as He fucks my mouth, forcing His cock deep into my throat. I love how His belt constricts around me, choking me, denying me air, making my lungs burn as Master C force feeds me His lovely cock.

Sometimes, when Master C fucks me, He will hold His belt across my neck as He drives His cock into my cunt; holding me down, depriving me of air. As He fucks me, He alternates His grip on either side of the belt, easing then increasing the constriction. When Master C fucks me from behind, He will pull more firmly on the belt, tightening it around my neck as He take me hard. In either way, with Master C above me or behind me, fucking my cunt or my arse, the anoxia intensifying the sensations as He takes me along the path to the brink of my climax; the need for release competing with the increasing need to breathe until, so often, it is that first shuddering inhalation that provides the spark to ignite my orgasm.

For all of the things I love about Master C’s belt and the way He wields and uses it to hurt me and pleasure me, what I love most of all, however, is the way it marks my pale white skin, branding me with the mark of Master C’s ownership, his domination and his mastery of me.

For all these reasons, and more, I love my Master’s belt; but behind that love, the fear remains.

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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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Times are a changin’


If I’m being completely honest, my sex life is pretty much as perfect as anyone could hope for. In Master C, not only do I have a caring and attentive partner, who knows my body and my needs and attends to them regularly and fully, I also have a strict, but fair Master who allows me to be who I am and to do what I want with whom I want so long as I am willing to accept my actions have consequences. I get quality, quantity and variety. It’s a win-win that makes me a very happy slutty but satisfied submissive.

Of course, the one fly in the ointment has been that, for much of the past 12 months, I haven’t been able to enjoy the freedoms that Master C allows me to have.

Now, this isn’t exactly a hardship. I do miss spending time with “The Other Guy” and I also miss the thrill of my occasional random dalliances, but at the end of the day, other than novelty, they don’t give me anything that Master C doesn’t already lavish on me. If I want a cock in any of my holes, Master C’s cock will always be my first cock of choice and is absolutely my preferred cock. “The Other Guy” is also very acquainted with my body, and also elicits the most fabulous responses from me, but such encounters are occasional; at most 2-3 times a year. As for the randoms, well, that’s just fucking. They don’t know me, they don’t know what buttons to push to really turn me on, they are simply a form of “cock on demand” for when an urge that can’t wait until I get home (and the need to be soundly punished when I do) takes me.

No, all things aside, I don’t actually miss any of that.

There is, however, one person I do really miss, and that is “The Girl”. I’ve mentioned before that “The Girl” and I have had an intimate friendship stretching back over 30 years (we been friends for over 40 but the “intimate” is the key bit in that sentence), and she was the first person (other than myself) to bring me to orgasm. I always love the time we spend together, whether it be having sex or simply chatting over a glass or several of wine (although, more often than not, that often leads to sex too). I love exploring the soft curves of her body with my hands, lips and tongue. I love the taste of her cunt, I love the silly little noises and facial expressions she makes when she is aroused and when she comes and I love the things that does to me and how those make me feel.

I long to hold her and be held by her, to kiss her and be kissed by her, to feel her body pressed against mine. I yearn for the sensations of her fingers sliding and twisting inside my cunt, teasing me, tormenting me. I hunger for the taste of her cunt and the feeling of her tongue on mine; so different from Master C’s, but still able to take me to the edge of the precipice and hold me there before finally igniting my climax.

Mentioning Master C, I also miss the “punishment fucks” that sex with “The Girl” will earn me. The fucks where he shows me “what I was missing” and what “she can’t give me”. Those fucks are always wonderfully intense, especially since the retelling of what “The Girl” and I got up to allows me to relive those things before Master C fucks me.

So, where does this all tie in with the prompt? Well, it’s quite simple. Thanks to the changes in Covid related restrictions, in a few hours time, “The Girl” and I will be meeting up, in person, for the first time since September. This is “the change” I have been wishing for the most; not just for the sex, but for the chance to be with and catch-up with my oldest and dearest friend for the first time in what seems like forever. I’m imagining so many things; far more than can fit into a single afternoon encounter, and I’m hoping this means we will be able to spend many more afternoons together again. After all, we have a lot of catching up to do…

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