My flavour


I am, as I suspect many women are, very familiar with the taste of my own sexual fluids. By which I mean, many women are familiar with the taste of their own, not with mine; although there are a fair few who are familiar with mine too. I digress…

Almost from the very beginning, from pretty much the first furtive fingering I ever gave myself, I have been fascinated by the scent and flavour of my cunt. As I experimented, I began to notice the subtle changes in both consistency and flavour depending on my level of arousal and where I was in my cycle. Despite those variations there was an underlying intrinsic “meness” that, as I became acquainted with the taste of other vaginas, I released that I, like every other woman I tasted had my own unique flavour; my own essence.

I can’t really describe my flavour. It has a rich, slightly bitter, musky tanginess. At the point of orgasm, my flavour becomes sharper, richer and more intense. Many partners have commented on the fact that, when they are going down on me, they can tell the moment that I come simply because the way I taste changes; becoming stronger and (apparently) more intoxicating.

Now, I’m not sure about the intoxicating bit, but I will admit that tasting myself while masturbating has always heightened my arousal and intensified the sensations. When I wank, my fingers will travel between my cunt and my mouth many times as I drive myself towards orgasm; it is an intrinsic part of my self-play.

It isn’t just when I’m flying solo that I get to taste myself. I am fortunate that in Master C, “The Other Guy” and “The Girl”, I am blessed by having partners for whom going down on me is something the do with relish and gusto. I love tasting myself on their lips as they kiss me, my essence on their tongue as it snakes inside my mouth. I love it when a partners fingers, glistening with my juices, are pushed into my mouth to be licked clean. I can never get enough of the taste of myself on Master C’s or “The Other Guy’s” cock after it has been inside me.

I particularly love the combination of flavours when my cum is mixed with that of my partner’s, whether that be when Master C commands me to lick His cock clean after He has fucked me, or when I gather up our mixed essences as they trickle from my cunt and lick my fingers clean.

I have made no secret in this blog about how hungry I am when it comes to having my partners’ cum in my mouth but, it seems, when you get right down to it, I’m every bit as hungry for the taste of my own.

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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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Duty of care


The current No True Way prompt is:

“Aftercare is mandatory for subs.”

There is a certain ambiguity in the way that it is phrased. Does it mean that it is mandatory for the Dominant partner to provide after care to their submissive, or is it implying that the submissive must must care for their Dominant?

I suspect, in the general D/s context it is the former; particularly in the aftermath of any form of impact/discipline/torture/S&M session of your choice. It’s true, after a (very literally) bruising session, I definitely need all the care I can get; be that physical relief in the form of soothing balms being applied to my inflamed skin, the the emotional care of being wrapped up in Master C’s strong arms and listening to His soothing words. In that specific context, within our particular dynamic, given the level of pain I will have almost certainly had to endure because of my own masochistic tendencies, then it would be fair to say that, yes, the provision of aftercare is Master C’s responsibility. It is a responsibility that He takes very seriously. His strong hands, firmly but gently applying the soothing, cool aloe balm to my tender skin after a thrashing/flogging/caning is actually every bit as much a part of the “session” as everything that went before it. The bath He runs for me, the glass of wine He pours for me, the gentle reassuring words, the hugs, the caresses are all a very important part of the whole episode.

But what about Him? What about Master C’s feelings and emotions following an intense S&M session? While He knows and understands that not only can I endure the pain that He inflicts, my emotional make up means that I actually need it some times. I have written before about how I periodically need to be broken down and rebuilt in order to fully release the stresses and tensions of living. Knowing that I need it does not make any easier for Him to inflict it upon me. It’s not easy to deliberately inflict pain and cause hurt to a person you love, even when you know it’s what the want and need. It requires a kind of emotional strength that carries its own price. And for that reason, aftercare, for us, is very much a two way thing. I need to reassure Master C that I will willingly accept the physical pain that His belt, or the flogger, or the cane or the paddle inflicts. I need to assure Him that the welts and bruises on my back and buttocks are symbols that I wear with pride; they are the marks that He, and only He has and can put on my skin. I reassure Master C with my words, and also with my actions. It turns out that a long, slow, sensual blow-job is the most effective cure for “Dom-drop”; which is fortunate for both of us I guess.

But, what this illustrates, once again, is a point I have made on a number of occasions; namely that a D/s relationship is, first and foremost, a relationship. The aftercare element of D/s, is simply an extension of the care and support that we provide each other in all other aspects of our lives. We care for each other and support each other every single day; being in a D/s relationship doesn’t change that; in fact, I would go as far as to say it enhances it because of the need for extra care in those particularly vulnerable moments.

Trusting someone enough to actually let them hurt you is actually quite a big thing for both parties. I know that Master C is aware of my limits. While we may have the equivalent of a safe word, it is something I almost never resort to and on those rare occasions I do, it’s because of me, not something that Master C is doing because He never attempts to force me to use it. When Master C is doing something particularly rough or that causes me a degree of pain, He will often ask things like “Your enjoying this, aren’t you?” or “You want more of this don’t you, you slut?” or “You need a few more lashes/strokes, don’t you?” On the surface, these questions actually do have their literal meaning, Master C is actually asking me those very questions, but He is also checking in with me and reaffirming that I am happy and willing to continue. The language may sound demeaning (which is important because it plays to my humiliation fetish) but it is just another example of the care Master C takes. In it’s own way, Him asking/telling me “You need the brat thrashed out of you, don’t you?” is no different to Him asking me if I need help with a particular “vanilla” task in everyday life; the only thing that is different is the context.

So, once again, I’ve used several rambling, stream of consciousness paragraphs that essentially boil down to, yes, aftercare is mandatory for submissives, both the receipt of said aftercare and to provide it too and that applies both within the D/s context of the relationship and in everyday life as well.

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Don’t try this at home!


Sometimes I really don’t fully think through the consequences of my actions. Take the following situation for example; a cautionary tale from the early days of Master C and I living together, which was almost custom made for this particular prompt.

It was mid-afternoon one Saturday, and I had just returned home from a morning spent with “The Girl”. I was looking forward to having Master C remind me of “what I’d been missing” while “The Girl” and I had been enjoying each other’s company, in that particular way that He always does, after I’ve finished providing Him with the required and fully detailed account of what we’d got up to.

Having been playing rugby that morning, Master C still hadn’t got home by the time I had, so I had some time on my hands that I needed to use. Being home, alone, and still on a high after an orgasm filled time with “The Girl”, I stripped off and headed to the shower, where I spend a considerable time experimenting with the shower head to determine which angles and pressure had the most pleasing effects. This was followed by an extended session using my fingers and wand, and despite several very intense climaxes, I was still still incredibly randy and feeling decidedly naughty.

So, in my pleasure hormone saturated brain, I hatched a plan to prepare a nice surprise for Master C on his return home.

So, after rummaging in the bottom drawer for the necessary accoutrements, and pausing only to ensure a trail of clothing was strewn artfully up the stairs, I set to work.

First off was to secure my ankles to the foot end of the bed and attach the handcuffs to one of my wrists. Next was to fit and secure the ball-gag and tie the blindfold firmly in place. Finally, and this was the tricky bit, was to wind the handcuff chain around one of the headboard bars before locking the empty cuff around my free wrist. This is not the easiest task while blindfolded and after several failed attempts, and several muffled swear words, I was relieved when I finally managed to click it into place.

Now all that was left was to wait for Master C’s return.

After the initial cunt soaking excitement had passed, a dawning realisation that I hadn’t thought this fully through, began asserting itself on me.

It started with little things like:

Did I remember to lock the door? Or:

Has He got his keys?

Then the slightly darker thoughts like:

What if there’s a fire?

Then full-on panic:

What if mum comes round? She has her own key.

As time went by, there was the, what if He’s hurt himself. That caused a brief thrill of excitement at the thought of Master C being assisted home by a team-mate (or two) who might then join us, but it was quickly replaced with: “what if He’s really hurt himself and is in casualty”?

As the enormity of my predicament finally penetrated, I had one last, horrific thought:

Where the fuck is the cat?

By this stage, any randiness or anticipatory excitement had completely drained away and, resigned to my situation, I gave up and, somewhat surprisingly, fell asleep.

I didn’t hear the lock turn, I didn’t hear Master C make His way up the stairs; I was eventually awakened to the sound and sight of Him almost pissing himself laughing at my predicament. Which elicited a somewhat grumpy, “Well don’t just stand there laughing. After all the bother I’ve gone to, the least you could do is take advantage of me…” Which, from around my ball gag, probably sounded more like “Mmmph, unof! Umph, fmbl, gurrumph hmmm, ach!” Still, to be fair, after regaining His composure, take advantage of me He did; very thoroughly, and I enjoyed it imensely.

Of course, due to the ball-gag situation, I had to wait until Master C had finished His initial “taking advantage” before being able to recount my earlier activities with “The Girl”. This resulted in me being briefly released while I turned onto my front, having my arse soundly thrashed before being very soundly reminded of “what my holes are for” and ended with a load of Master C’s cum being deposited over my face.

So yeah, clouds and silver linings. I accept that, shining the cold light of hindsight on the situation, it wasn’t one of my cleverest moments. Having said that it wasn’t the last time that I acted before properly thinking things through and I’m almost sure to have further misadventures in future.

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TMI Tuesday – Do your thing


1. Does your sex life need some fantasy? What kind of fantasy?
Not really. I’m not a big one for fantasy really; I much prefer to actually be engaging in activities than imagining them. Having said that, I will often allow myself to become distracted, thinking about what I’d want Master C, “The Girl” or “The Other Guy” to be doing to me. That’s less fantasy though and more a statement of intent. During lockdown, I did have to rely on imagination/fantasy in respect of my encounters with “The Girl” and “The Other Guy”, but now that things are opening up again, so am I, and those encounters are now happening in person again.

2. What is eroticism for you?
It can be anything really. A steamy scene/story that I’ve read, some flirty/sexy/downright suggestive text messages that I get sent, a picture or scene from a film (doesn’t need to be porn) that just makes me “think”, or simply a smile and a kiss from Master C. For me, it really is just anything that sets my mind along a certain path to start thinking about the next time I’m going to get fucked. Doesn’t take much sometimes.

3. You are invited to a kink party, will you go?
Absolutely; unless, of course, we are the ones hosting it.

4. Your lover has tied your naked body down. What do you want to happen next?
a. You get tickled mercilessly
b. You are covered in whip cream and people lick the cream entirely from your naked body
c. Bind, blind, and tease your erogenous zones with an ice cube, feather, candle wax, tongue, etc.
d. A sex toy is used to penetrate you to orgasm
I’m not ticklish (much to the annoyance of Master C; and believe me, He has done extensive research), and food play really isn’t my thing. Either c. or d. or some combination of both, if I’m lucky, work for me. Really though, when I’m in that situation, I simply accept whatever it is Master C decides He wants to do to me.

5. In your sex life, do you go along with whatever your partner wants and needs or when necessary do you handle things to make sure you have thrilling sex?
Being submissive, there is a large element of letting Master C take the lead and I go along with His desires and needs and I do my utmost to serve Him and meet those needs. That said, I have my own desires, wants and needs, and Master C is insistent that I express them so they can be attended to fully. There are also times when we just go with the flow and we both do what comes naturally in that moment; sometimes Master C taking the initiative and lead, and sometimes I will. Sex shouldn’t be about strict, rigid rules; except, of course, when it is…

Bonus: When is the last time you purchased a sex toy? What did you buy? Was it purchased online or at a store?
As a general rule, responsible for purchasing our kink paraphernalia; the cuffs, clamps, plugs, gags, etc. are almost all bought by Him (although I am allowed to pick out things that I like and He will buy those). In terms of what I last bough myself, it would be the vibrator I bought a few months ago (to replace one that had been worn out). It was bought online due to lockdown. Most of these type of purchases are, not because I’m averse to purchasing them from shops in person, simply that I’d have to travel to Glasgow to buy them and doing it online is much more convenient. That said, out local B&Q is always handy for DIY kink supplies.

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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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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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Restoring balance


Sometimes life can get a little out of kilter. The work/life balance can become a bit uncentred. Even at home, where life should hopefully dominate, the balance between the mundane, everyday parts of living and the more highly charged bits that make living enjoyable can become weighted in the wrong direction.

Often, when such things happen, it’s no one’s fault; real life is seldom tidy. Tasks can take longer than anticipated, things pop up that you weren’t expecting, stress, tiredness and just the routine of day-to-day life can build up and extract a toll that means you have to make more of an effort to do the things you enjoy. This can become a vicious circle as the extra effort needed detracts from the enjoyment, thus requiring more effort which can then reduce the enjoyment even more.

For me, sometimes all that is needed to re-establish some equilibrium is an orgasm or two. These can be self-induced or result from a thorough seeing-to from Master C (or “The Girl”/”The Other Guy”).

Orgasms are great stress relievers; you can actually feel the tension being drained from your body as your climax subsides and its energy dissipates; and with it, your cares/worries can, even if momentarily, be washed away. It doesn’t matter how I get there, whether the orgasm is a result of my own actions or the ministrations of a partner, the effect is pretty much the same; a warm, relaxed feeling of contentment and satisfaction that just makes the world feel right.

Sometimes though, more is needed. Sometimes things get so out of whack that there is only one thing I know of that will set me back on track. It may seem somewhat counter-intuitive, but sometimes what I really need is the pain of a solid thrashing from Master C’s belt.

In the ideal scenario, I’m securely tied to His “work bench” The clamps on my nipples dig into my skin as the hard wooden surface beneath me squashes my boobs. My ankles and wrists are bound tight, the leather cuffs chafing my skin. The ball gag in my mouth adds to my discomfort.

There is the prolonged anticipation that awaits the first stroke; an anticipation that almost turns to relief when the brief swooshing sound of the belt’s travel through the air begins. It’s a relief that turns to a hot, stinging pain as the leather connects with a resounding slap against the skin of my arse.

From there on it is all about endurance; accepting each kiss of the belt as they rain down one after the other. By the time Master C has finished, both sets of cheeks, my face and my arse, are flaming red. Tears stream from my eyes. My cunt is hot and wet with intense arousal. Every nerve is crying out in sympathy with my tortured backside.

I wince as He grips my hips, His fingertips digging in, and then I moan around the gag as His lovely thick cock slides so easily into me and He begins to fuck me.

Master C’s Thrusts are accompanied with occasional slaps to my buttocks. He grabs a fistful of my hair and pulls my head sharply back as He fucks me. Friction from the cuffs around my wrists and ankles, the pain of the clamps on my nipples being pushed into my boobs combine with the intense sensations of His cock filling me, pounding me, taking me, fucking me and I slip into the restorative calm, the eye of the storm that is my particular form of subspace.

All conscious thought is banished, my body is simply responding. Master C knows my body, knows its responses and can trigger this state in me almost effortlessly. I surrender to it; oblivious to everything but the sensations, the wonderfully delicious juxtaposition of pain and intense pleasure that coarse through me.

When at last it is over; Master C’s thick, hot load inside me, my bindings, clamps and gag removed, the soothing balm applied to my buttocks and I am lying wrapped up in His arms as He strokes my head; I am restored. I have found a new sense of balance.

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