Mine

When I put your collar on, you’ll be my filthy, depraved little slut. You’ll do anything, everything, that I fucking want you to. You’ll take my cock however I say, whenever I say, because I say it. Because you’re mine, and you know it; you’re mine alone.

You’ll be able to do all of this because at the core or it, you know me and trust me. You’ll be mine, and can be mine again and again, because you know I would never betray that trust. It’s unique and shared between the two of us.

When I wrap my arms around you to take off your clothes, these thoughts will run through your head. I’ll strip off your clothes and leave you exposed, naked to the world. Cool air making little bumps across your skin. You’ll breathe faster, knowing my eyes are on you, as I circle around you, predatory. You’ll keep your eyes downcast, as they should be, as is right. Because you’re mine and you love it.

When I ask you a question, you’ll respond promptly, to the point, with the touch of meekness you know I like to hear. You’ll make your surprised sounds as my fingers explore, as they violate your body. You’ll beg.

You’ll wish to the innermost core of yourself that I’ll fuck you. That I’ll shove my cock inside your wet, slutty, submissive little pussy and mold you around it like putty. Maybe if you’re good, and if you’re lucky, I will.

You’ll get off thinking about what a filthy whore you are for me. What a perfect little piece of ass you are. What a good, obedient slut you can be for me. Thinking about it, you’ll be more aroused. More needy. You’ll be lost in those circular thoughts as you feel my hands roaming over your body. Owning you. This is what you’re good for: being used, doing what you’re told, and pleasing me.

Watching you, lost in your own world as I whisper disgusting, delicious things into your ear, is fucking hot. I’ll test and prod, using different words and different methods, watching as you drive yourself mad with your own mind. I’ll trace my fingers over your chest… your ass… your hips and neck…

I’ll tap you lightly at first, a hand landing softly on one cheek of your ass. You’ll be surprised at it, but that only lasts a moment. Then I’ll feel you press your ass closer to me, swaying it slowly from side to side the way you know I like, silently hoping for another testing swat. You’ll want it so bad, to feel my hand again on your ass. To hear the soft hiss as it passes through the air and then the sharp slap of it against your taut skin. You’ll hear and feel it soon, as though driving home everything I’ve been telling you. Again… and again...

The sounds you make when I spank you… the gasping moaning mess you become… is delicious. I feel you shiver under my hands, repeating phrases and telling me what’s going on in your head. Your mind, I have to say, is a delightful place. When your words come broken by panting and whining, I know you’re getting ready.

As my good, fuckable, obedient little slut, it’s only proper that I regularly reduce you to a loose pile of fucked, sweaty, tangled limbs. Proper, and lots of fun.

====================

When we’re done, I’ll take off your collar. I’ll hold you and whisper reassurances as you come back to earth. You’ll cling to me as though I were the only thing in the world.

I know you better than I know anyone else. Yours are the bright eyes that I see behind my closed eyelids. Yours is the smooth skin that I feel in blind memory. I depend on you, and I trust you, more than anyone else.

You still surprise me, even with our thousand whispered closenesses. You still make me smile, even with all the palpable silences we’ve suffered. Alone and together. We’ve spent almost every day together, and I can’t think of a single person on this planet I would rather say that of.

When I say that I love you, I don’t mean that I love an idea of you, or a fictitious ideal. I mean that I love you. On your good days and bad days. I love you when you’re a rotten bitch and I love you when you’re a brilliant, beautiful genius. I love you when I’m a fucking asshole, when I’m wrong and you’re right and I just don’t get it. I love you when your hair is lank on your face, sweat on your forehead, sniffles wracking your body because they haven’t stopped for days. You’re beautiful even on those days, and I love you.

Playing with you, the way we do, I get to love you another way. I get to love the secret you, that you only share with me. I get to love the vulnerable, sweetly passionate you that only unfolds when we’re together and alone. I get to peel away the shared parts of you and leave you resplendent and exposed, reflecting a secret, hidden light. It’s beautiful, and it’s mine alone.

-J 

Farther than the Door

Your panties are still bunched in the corner, by the door. Delicate, lacy lines, designed to compliment your curves, fold over one another in a loose, tangled pile on the floor.

If they could speak, they could tell of how I greeted you at the door when you came home. They could record the rising rate of you pulse, and how you got wet when I kissed you before the door was even fully closed. They would remember how smooth your legs were under my hands when I gripped your panties firmly and slipped them off. They were lost in the dark, and I was more concerned with the eager sounds coming from you, low in your throat.

If they could see, they would have watched the two of us, pressed together, braced against the wall. They could see the way my fingernails drew pink lines across your skin, and the look that crossed your face at the feel of them. They could describe the way your back arched against me as I pressed into you, your delicious curves flexing back on me, the two of us still feet from the door. Lying in the languid shadow we shared, your panties had quite the view, at least until we moved to the bedroom.

Your panties couldn’t hear the sounds that we made there together though. They missed your sighs and needy moans, escalating to excited whining and desperate, panting gasps. They missed my low groaning curses and growls. They missed the sounds we both made against the walls and the creaking of the bed.

They remained where I left them, and never made it much farther than the door.

-J 

Unbound

 

"I like it when you tie me up. And I like it when you free me."

Playing with Chains

The first item on my BDSM to-buy list was chain.

I feel maybe this was a slightly unconventional way to start. Maybe it came about partially because I appreciate the fantasy element and symbolism of a damsel in chains. James and I went to the hardware store and I asked him to have the lengths cut and to make the purchase while I wandered elsewhere - there was no way I could handle being asked about it. It's good I left, too, because people were curious. We got rope at the same time, but we didn't touch that until recently. No, it was the chains we used.

We have two each of two, three and five foot lengths, plus a bunch of double-sided snap hooks. The whole setup cost us less than 40 dollars. We keep them in a plastic shoebox, which is pleasantly heavy for its size - not surprising, considering its contents. Opening the lid reveals shining metal links and smooth black leather - an appealing combination.

They are remarkably easy to use, especially for a beginner - just clip them wherever you want them. You can clip them to cuffs or a collar, wrap them around limbs and body, or loop and clip them around furniture. They are quick and easy to snap into place, and can be adjusted with ease just by moving the clip over a link or two. The learning curve is gentle - you don't have to look up knots and manage large amounts of rope. If something goes wrong, the chains can  be off in seconds without needing safety scissors.
 
Chains are lovely in a more artistic sense as well. You can connect them in odd places, creating erratic...erotic...lines over skin. You can change the pattern as much as you want, however radically you want, with just a few simple clips. They form a beautiful, terrible, tangled mess of links that, for all its complication, is easy to change and remove when you are ready for the next part of your play. While they aren't nearly as tight and secure as rope, escape is not usually on my mind.

Their sound is hypnotic. Hearing the clink of them when my eyes are covered. Imagining James holding them, moving them, finding the clips and planning what to do with the chains and with my body. Hearing the rattle and soft thump as they fall to a heap on the bed, wondering how they will be used, and when I will feel them brush against my skin.
The links of the chain are smooth as they pull across my skin. They are heavy and hard and my flesh yields as they pull against me, my skin molding against the metal. They are always cold. I flinch and my skin quivers as they touch me, whether they are wrapped around me or slowly coiled in a shiny, cold pile on my belly. It's cool and lovely in the summer, but in the winter I sometimes lay under a blanket while the chill of the chains permeates my body. Waiting for my body to heat them and itself. Sometimes we place them in front of a heater beforehand, or wrap them in a blanket and put them in the bed with us. Then they are warm, and I can be exposed entirely to the chill air...and my Sir's eyes.

They weigh heavy on my limbs and body. The physical weight enforces the psychological lethargy that comes with being submissive. "I'll only move if you want me to." Sometimes he attaches the chains to the rings on my collar, and the weight of them on my neck and shoulders reminds me that I am his. Or perhaps they are attached to my wrist cuffs, weighing my normally busy, frisky hands down. Or across my neck, chest, and back as I press my face into the sheets and feel His big, warm hands brushing along my backside, such a welcome contrast to the cold, smooth links He uses to keep me bound.

-S

Hobble Tie

"You're not going anywhere."