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Witch's musings

A place for me to share the inner workings of my twisted mind and plans to rule the world.
1 month ago. August 11, 2023 at 1:52 PM

I received a note from an ex partner who I haven't been with for years. Part of his note: 

 

Miss M, I feeI need to confess that after all these years I still don't fully understand why I am still flooded with memories of how you showed me how pathetic my cock is. That thought remains probably the biggest turn on for me. Why do I get so aroused every time I remember how you used to taunt me about how inadequate it was to please you? Why do I even feel gratitude about what I learned about my true identity? 

 

It's funny, because he had a perfectly normal sized cock. Nevertheless, I declared war on it and his attitude about his manliness. There was a male arrogance about him that remained despite our having explored several areas of our FLR. He had learned to do housework and he learned to take a whipping. But I realized more was required for him to be reduced as a male. To accomplish this task, I started ridiculing his penis. I told him it was inadequate. I bought a flexible sheath that I placed over it that added size and thickness when I allowed him coitus. I would tease and arouse him to raging, throbbing erection and tell him that he wasn’t large enough to please me. I berated him, sneered at him, and tried very hard to hurt his feelings. I’m not a size queen. I think dicks are funny looking creatures. I could live my whole life without ever seeing another one. His was adequate but the truth didn’t matter. Boys love their dicks and are often proud of them.  Somewhere in their mind, most think that they can fuck better than other men. It’s the way boys are built but it’s not the way I wanted my boy to think. I wanted him to be deeply grateful to me to allow him to serve me knowing his utter inadequacies. The harder I was on him the more it turned him on. I was learning. You may think bending the truth is not fair or whatever your complaint might be. Oh, you don’t understand a woman like me at all. I wanted to devour him alive. I wanted his complete attention and devotion. Would I lie? Manipulate? Deceive? Oh yes, a thousand times. All is fair in love and war. Dominating him was both.

3 months ago. May 26, 2023 at 8:32 PM

I heard the basement door open, and I dropped to my knees. Automatically, my hands found their positions on my lap, and my gaze came to rest on the floor in front of me. Miss M was descending the stairs, and I felt each footstep as it rang out from her boots, reverberated through me, and sent my heart racing faster and faster. Soon she stood above me, but all I could see without raising my eyes were her boots and the legs of her leather pants.

For long moments she just stood there, and I knew she was drinking in my submission while I knelt at her feet and watched my cock harden. Finally she extended one foot, and I bowed my head to the ground, kissing the toe of her boot. My lips, still savoring the taste of leather, parted to offer my mantra as always: “I worship at Miss M’s feet, where I belong.”

I thought I could hear her smile as I sat back up, but I kept my hands open on my lap and my eyes lowered to the glistening moistness I left on her boot. Miss M acknowledged my greeting with just a momentary pause before speaking. “Did you miss me, little one?” Her voice was slow like honey.

“Yes, Miss M,” I said, even as she was already stepping forward with her other foot, applying pressure to my balls with the toe of her boot, playing with her toy. My cock, already at attention, stiffened further before she trapped it beneath her foot. I watched helplessly as she slowly applied more and more weight, maintaining my composure as best I could. Only my deliberately measured breathing betrayed the impact Miss M was having on me. That and the pulsing throbs of my cock that I knew she could feel through the soles of her boot.

“Good boy,” she cooed. “You may look at me.” My cock was still trapped beneath her foot as I took in a kinky vision in leather. Miss M had a glow about her, a smile in her eyes. I felt the full weight of her superiority over me. Miss M released my cock from beneath her boot, her eyes twinkling as it sprung back up to attention.

I moaned softly, my eyes closed briefly in pleasure, even as Miss M turned away and strode over to the only place to sit comfortably down here, a simple leather chair. It’s the only thing in this basement dungeons of hers I’d never once touched during all the time I've spent here. I followed on my hands and knees, relishing the thrill that coursed through me as she loomed larger and larger above me as I approached, a supplicant to her throne. I settled onto the leather pad that Miss M had gifted me as a mercy and a gift, one of my first rewards for good behavior. Although it had been previously used, it felt just right, like it had been broken in just for me.

I began my worship of Miss M’s boots in earnest, feeling the warmth of service and submission spread through my mind and my body. I explored every inch with my lips and my tongue. I savored my place, my role beneath her. As I cleaned her boots more properly, I remembered the pride I had felt in how quickly I learned Miss M’s preferences, despite being new to boot blacking. It had helped being so much more turned on by Miss M’s feet than I had thought possible, upon meeting them in person.

When she was done with me, Miss M rested one booted foot on my chest and just pushed me back. “Good boy,” she said, studying me with unusual intensity. At that point I noticed the crop in her hands, the way she ran her finger along the edge of it, an act simultaneously sensual and menacing. “Now help Miss M out of her boots.” I crawled closer again and got to work loosening the laces, carefully and evenly, with practiced hands. I tried not to think about what Miss M might be planning for me. I pulled her boots off and enjoyed her contented sigh, evidence that I was serving her well. She began to shimmy out of her leather pants before raising an eyebrow at me. “Watching Miss M get undressed? Naughty boy…”

I slipped into child’s pose so quickly, I almost struck my forehead against the floor. “I’m sorry, Miss M!” My eyes were closed, just in case. I needed to be a good boy. Still, I focused my attention on the gentle sound of her pants being pulled off of her perfect legs.

“Miss M will help you be a good boy,” she murmured, as though she could read my mind. Her whispered voice was close, perhaps inches away. I felt the warmth of her breath on my ear, and then a weight settling around my head. For a moment I thought I was being hooded, but then Miss M’s scent enveloped me, mixed with the sturdy smell of leather. Her pants, still warm from the heat of her body, cradled my head and left me in darkness. Although I could see nothing, I clearly heard her laughter, intimate yet superior. I felt hot inside. I felt my cock stiffen again. Then I felt the words of my mantras stirring deep within me, bubbling up, filling my head, finally emerging from my lips.

“Miss M knows best,” I whispered. I heard her moan softly. “Good boys listen to Miss M.” Her breathing became more shallow, and I knew she was touching herself, watching me on my hands and knees, reciting for her. “Good boys obey Miss M.” I heard the whirring of a vibrator. “Good boys see to Miss M’s needs first.” I breathed deeply, allowing Miss M’s scent to fill me, from both her pants still warm on my head and from her pussy just a few feet away. “I need to be a good boy for Miss M. I will be a good boy for Miss M.” Miss M’s moaning grew louder. “I owe my life to Miss M. I worship at Miss M’s feet, where I belong.”

By the time I finished, I realized my hips were gently thrusting with each line, my body moving along with the current of words pouring from me. “Mmm, yes, hump the air for Miss M.” My eyes remained closed as I lifted myself onto my hands and knees. I began to thrust into the empty space beneath me, the leather pants slipping from my head. “It’s okay, little one, you can look at Miss M now.” She was wearing only her Wolford stockings, her legs drawn up onto the seat of the chair, the tights holding her vibrator in place against her pussy. The hum of the vibrator began to modulate, as Miss M pressed the wand harder against herself in time with my thrusts. My cock grew harder as I watched Miss M get off on my pathetic humping motions. She purred, and I let out an involuntary whimper. Studying me intently, she smiled and whispered, “Do you think you can cum for Miss M, like this?”

I glanced helplessly down at my cock, at the bead of precum hanging down from the tip, swaying with the motion of my body. “I don’t know, Miss M. I don’t think so. But I want to.” And I did want it. My arousal was all I could think about.

“Aww, poor boy,” was all she said at first, before pulling her tights off and putting aside the vibrator to give herself more access to her pussy. She traced her pussy lips so delicately with her fingertips, flaunting her power over me, taunting me. She watched my cock twitch with naked desire. A moment passed, and then she rose from her chair, moving behind me before adding, “Here, Miss M will help you some more.”

She crouched down behind me and I moaned as I felt her pull my cock back with her stocking. As I throbbed against the hosiery stretched tight between her hands, she slowly drew the nylon back and forth over the head of my cock, just for a moment. I understood she was showing me that she could, if she wanted, polish me as sensuously as I had polished her boots. Instead, she pulled my cock back farther before letting the stocking slip off and my erection spring back forward. I gasped, and Miss M laughed, delighted.

As much as I ached for more, I blurted out, “Thank you, Miss M! Thank you!” She just gave a thoughtful hum and pulled the stocking down over my cock like a giant nylon condom, oversized and loose around the shaft. Shle left it draped there for a moment while tightly securing the other stocking at the cock base wound snug around me like a cock ring. Miss M threaded the loose end of the stocking between my hands and towards the chair, a leash for her to hold. 

Miss M sat in the chair above me and leaned down to pick up the nylon leash encasing my cock. She pulled, oh so slowly, savoring my reactions as I gasped, the sensual material gliding across the glans. “And now, little one? Do you think you can cum from this?”

My cock twitched in its nylon prison, feeling the pull of Miss M’s control with that sensuous stroke. “Mmm, yes, Miss M, I think so…”

She patted my head affectionately, before letting her hand trace a path from my ear, down my jawline, to my chin. Gently, she tilted my head up to face her full glory. “And do you want to cum, little one?”

I didn’t think about whether the question was a test or a trap or a tool for instruction. I only knew the truth of the pleasure radiating from my cock like the light of a beacon, flooding my senses. “Yes, Miss M. Yes, please, I want to cum.”

She laughed, as though I had told her a funny joke. “And why is that, little one? Do you even remember the last time you came?”

“It feels good, Miss M, when I cum. It made me feel good inside. It must have been—.” I tried to remember, but I could not pierce the fog of memory. It didn’t seem like it should have been that long ago. Weeks, perhaps? But that didn’t seem right. It felt like a lifetime ago.

Miss M registered the confusion on my face, trying to remember the last time I came. She sat back in the chair with a pleased grin on her face, winding the foot of the stocking around one hand. With her other hand, she teased herself, one fingertip circling her clit, as though to focus both of our attention there, on her pleasure.

Then, watching me intently, she pulled again at the nylon leash around my cock, slowly, sensually, even as continued to stimulate herself. I listened to Miss M purr in pleasure, even as I felt the sheer material of the nylon glide back and forth against that exquisite spot beneath the head of my cock, as she repeatedly allowed me some slack and took it away again. “Oh, little one, it’s been so long. Do you think I should let you cum?”

I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling the pleasure roiling within, pulsing within, wanting to be free. “I want—” I gasped as Miss M pulled me towards her once more, the stockings still warm from her heat, caressing me. Somehow, I held back the tide. “I want to be a good boy, Miss M. Good boys don’t cum.”

I looked up at Miss M again, desperate for her approval and found laughter in her eyes. “And why does not cumming make you a good boy, little one?”

I almost said the first thought that came into my mind: that denial and submission felt better than cumming. But as I looked up into Miss M’s face gazing down at me, studying me, a deeper truth spoke through me. “I want whatever Miss M wishes.” Not just any Miss M, my Miss M.

A smile broke across her face. For a delicious moment she closed her eyes and touched herself, moaning. “Mmm, good boy. Yes, it pleases me. I like you like this, your orgasms just a distant memory. Your cum is your sacrifice for Miss M’s pleasure.”

My cock throbbed against its leash at her words. Then her right foot was on my face, so that with each pull on my cock and each thrust of my hips, I rocked her back in the chair before she extended her leg, pushing me back on my knees. We continued to thrust back and forth, a two-person engine of pleasure, Miss M’s pleasure. Her vibrator hummed to life then groaned in pleasure, modulating in pitch as Miss M matched the pressure to the rhythm of our motion.

I watched Miss M get off on my helpless, my desperation, my denied arousal. I whispered what then seemed an obvious truth. “I don’t get to cum.”

Her radiant smile was my reward. “That’s right, little one. You don’t have permission to cum. But it’s up to you to be a good boy for Miss M. This is supposed to be hard.” She pulled on my nylon leash again, triggering another wave of pleasure dangerously close to spilling over. “And it pleases me to see you struggle. Oh, I’m going to keep you like this until you’re begging for just the fucking memory of what cumming feels like. Only good little denied boys are allowed to toyed with in Miss M’s Dungeon.”

I followed Miss M’s eyes to the crop she had placed at her side, meeting the threat in her gaze with helpless vulnerability. “Please, I don’t get to cum…” I repeated. “I worship at Miss M’s feet, where I belong.”

Slowly, sensually, she resumed her torment. “Repeat that three more times for Miss M,” she instructed, with utter finality. “Keep begging. I want to see how good a boy you are. Three…”

I locked eyes with Miss M. I could see how much it pleased her to see the fear on my face, as I processed her commands and repeated my lines for her.

Please, I don’t get to cum. I worship at Miss M’s feet, where I belong.

As the last word of my mantra passed through my lips, Miss M pulled firmly at my nylon leash.  Pleasure surged through me, and suddenly a memory swam to the surface of my mind, as if pulled out of my depths.

I remembered kneeling naked in front of Miss M, back when I first started worshipping her. I remembered the ache of the clothespins covering my body: my arms, my thighs, my chest, my tongue, my scrotum. I remembered her whispered words: “Miss M will take care of you. If you are a good boy.” I remembered that sense of surrendering to her voice, so full of love, so steeped in menace. I remembered staring at her feet, captivated, as she dominated my mind. I remembered learning the words that would become my mantras, and the flash of delicious pain as she removed a clothespin for each time I repeated them. “I worship at Miss M’s feet, where I belong.” I remembered knowing that each time I spoke, I was complicit in exploiting my own weakness for her feet, to sear a new Miss M kink into my brain.

The memory passed, and I focused again on the present, on Miss M’s foot on my shoulder. On holding my cum for Miss M. She continued her countdown. “Two…”

Please, I don’t get to cum. I worship at Miss M’s feet, where I belong.

The intensity in her eyes was like nothing I had seen before, but I relished her incandescent smile as she pulled me to her again on my nylon leash. I struggled to contain myself, even as another memory rushed to the surface.

I remembered waking for the first time in Miss M's dungeon, lying on the bondage table, cuffs having been detached while asleep, coming to consciousness with deliberate effort, following her voice as she roused me. The first thing I see is Miss M’ foot, hovering above me, ready to nudge my face. Or step on it. She is naked, beautiful, a goddess. Then I remember I am naked, too and she is asking me a question: “Do you even know where you are?” I remembered shaking my head slowly, searching my memory for how I got here and finding only inky blackness. I remembered instinctively trying to get up off the table, then Miss M putting her foot on my chest, forcing me back down, beneath her. I remembered her wicked laughter. I remembered thinking I should be afraid, but just staring instead at her foot on my chest, feeling its heat and my cock’s response to that exquisite perfection gracing my body. I remembered wondering how I never knew I had a foot fetish, how she could read my mind in ways I couldn’t even read myself.

Miss M’s foot brought me back to the present, pushing me back on my haunches again, even as her moans grew more urgent. Her last stroke had been more than just a tease. It could so easily have ripped an orgasm out of me. Did she want to see me fail or to endure? I realized only obedience mattered. That’s when she whispered, “One….”

Please, I don’t get to cum. I worship at Miss M’s feet, where I belong.

The words emerged as a desperate prayer. My eyes were wide and pleading but her eyes were closed. The hum of the vibrator filled all the space between us and around us. Miss M pulled my leash one last time. I cried out as my vision fuzzed and pleasure surged through me. With it came one last memory, the one that had eluded me. In that split second before cumming, I remembered.

I remembered my anxiety at finally meeting Miss M in the flesh, being invited into her space. I remembered my gratitude at her kindness, offering me a guided meditation to help me find stillness. I remembered finding peace in surrender, closing my eyes and letting Miss M take control, feeling warm inside from the hot tea she had given me. I remembered Miss M taking so many thoughts and anxieties off my mind, not only giving me permission to let my cock do the thinking for me, but binding my consciousness and memories to the cum I built up for her. 

In this instant of recollection, as my cock spasms within its nylon prison, I understand that I am cumming. I understand that as I spill my cum from my cock, I also spill from my mind all the memories I have formed in Miss M’s Basement and which make up who I have become. As the ejaculation pierces my mind and body and soul, I have one final thought.

Please, I don’t want to go.

***

Now she is crouching over me, her arms resting on one knee. The way she looks at me, I wonder if she is reading my mind right now. “Do you know where you are? Do you know why you are here?”

I take a moment to gather my wits but mostly draw a blank. Then I feel the words bubble up from somewhere deep down. They rise and expand, filling my mind with clarity and purpose. “I worship at Miss M’s feet, where I belong.” 

Miss M smiles warmly. Her hand on my chest is both possessive and life-giving. “Good boy,” she whispers, before settling back into the leather throne.

She lets one foot dangle above me just so. Somehow I know just what to do.

4 months ago. May 3, 2023 at 3:45 PM

 

 

A lifetime ago I was a high school English teacher. While I may have enjoyed a suble tease of my students now and then, I of course never crossed any boundaries. That didn't stop the cute crushes many formed and to this day I receive love notes from former students who are now grown men themselves!

I wonder what dark fantasies the boys used to think about when we were in class together. I always noticed how distracted they were, unable to keep their eyes off of my stockinged legs and heels. Did I get a little kick out of the way how nervous they would get, with their shortness of breath, flushing and general awkwardness during student / teacher conferences? 

 

5 months ago. April 16, 2023 at 3:45 AM

How well do you think you could “hold up”?

I wonder about you and your cool composure sometimes. I wonder about just how long it would take me to break you completely, to make you lose your cool during an intense and important conference call, or what I could do to humiliate you so much in public that you’d have to excuse yourself to go hide in a corner for a little while.

After all, stripping away your strong exterior is one of my favorite pastimes.

It’s been too long since I paid you a vist. I think it's time for you to again endure pain and humiliation in my own degrading playground.

You can expect a few things, though. And know that the ultimate goal in all of this is to make me so wet that by the time I finish with you, all I want to do is lock you into my pussy collar and make you bring me to orgasm as quickly as possible.

That is if I don’t finish the job myself first.

**

It’s easy for me to imagine and plan all of the deliciously degrading things I can do to you – or make you do.

How would you feel having to strip – slowly – out of your suit and into embarrassing, tight, frilly and feminine lingerie while I sit back, watching you, pleasuring myself, moaning with every move of your hips?

Watching you unbutton your shirt, lower your trousers. Just the image in my mind is enough to get my heart racing. Seeing you roll up the white lace stockings and fasten them up, watching you fit the tight, ultra-girlie white bra around your broad chest. All while talking about the bottom line, facts and figures, and the impact of the economy. Priceless!

I’ve decided that next, you will have to give me a lapdance. Just like you are a high-paid stripper. And you will be dressed like one, anyway. Right down to the spiked pumps! I’ll perfume you for good measure – adding a spritz of the latest girlie scent on your cleavage.

Sitting back in my chair, looking at you as you grind and press your tight feminine body against me, like a pro stripper, making all the right faces. How could I not enjoy this? I may wave a few dollar bills in your direction, making you turn around and bend over, rubbing your g-stringed ass cheeks against my crotch suggestively. 

Why is it that I think you will find your natural groove as my stripper dance queen? In lingerie, swiveling your hips, feeling my hands as they explore your body (as a customer, I get special privileges, of course). I will take my time exploring the feel of the sweet, sexy lingerie on your masculine body, enjoying how the panties rest over your hips, sliding my thumbs down the back g-string, pulling it taut up your ass cheeks.

And your nipples. I’ll delicately tease and torment them through the white lace of the bra, making sure you continue to dance, writhe and move your body the whole time. I bet if I close my eyes and just focus on your hard nipples, inhaling the sweet scent of the perfume, it will be as if you are really a stripper…

That is until I move my hands down your belly and to the front of the barely-there panties. A thick, dripping bulge will greet me, and I’ll take special amusement in stroking, massaging, using my nails on the length of the shaft bulging out of the lingerie until your body is twitching and you are losing your cool under pressure.

I may give you a quick break to pull yourself together, but it will only be to allow you to see the riding crop I have revealed. Soon after I will be tickling the shaft of your cock with the tip, using my feathery fingers to massage your balls. 

I won't whip your balls until you start cumming. So how well do you think you could "hold up"?

6 months ago. March 16, 2023 at 4:02 PM

The first kiss is always the most primal.

Holding his chin, up, so his face catches a little glimmer of the moonlight.

His eyes are shut tight, there is a strain, a tension in his neck. I can see it. I can see him swallow. His eyes are still shut tight, in anticipation.

My fingers dig into his skin. I turn his head to the side, a little, slowly, so I can look at him. Looking at his face, how the light catches it. Admiring him. Evaluating him. Owning him.

The other hand around his neck to hold him in place. To feel every time he swallows.

I can hear his breathing.

My fingers move up a little, around his jaw. They pry at his mouth a little. Then more forceful. “Open.”

His lips part a little, and with it, a soft exhale. Eyes still shut tight. I see his hands on his lap, two tight fists.

The seatbelt, tight, over his chest.

Our first kiss.

So very romantic.

*

And yes, it is, to me, romantic.

Because he is frozen there, like an animal paralyzed with fear. This is much better than standing on a porchstep awkwardly after a date, wondering who will make the first move.

He has no idea what I am going to do. He probably anticipates this is the first kiss, but he cannot know for sure.

He just knows I am touching him. His face.

Looking at him. Watching his every move.

With his mouth pried open a little, I move my fingers around his teeth. I pry his mouth open more. He tenses. His back arches. The seatbelt strains against his chest. I can see his breathing.

My heart, by now, is throbbing so hard in my chest. Something primal is alive in me at this point.

And now, my finger slides into his mouth and touches his tongue. If he tries to lick or suck my finger, I prevent it by pushing his tongue back down into his mouth (there is plenty of time for sucking of fingers later, I know).

More anxiety. He tenses. Afraid he might gag if I slide my finger in any deeper. Perhaps a soft sound from him, the first sound of distress. Of fear.

“Shhhh” I say. Tightening my grip around his neck to hold him still.

Moving my finger now over his bottom lip. His lips still parted. When he swallows, now, I can see his tongue move. Eyes still shut tight (such a good boy).

And now, it is time to move in closer.

*

I let him feel my breath on his cheek. The faintest dab of my tongue against his cheek to let him know I am there. I feel his breathing now. I smell his scent now. I am close enough to kiss him, but I let it linger.

Holding his mouth open with my index finger as I move my lips down his cheek, under his chin. Not really kisses. No. They are more like – soft little caresses of my lips to taste his skin.

“Open,” I order, which is a strange request in itself because his lips are already parted for me, my finger holding his mouth open by placing slight pressure on his bottom teeth.

But he obeys, opening his mouth even wider, now awkwardly so. Head back all the way against the headrest of the car.

The creaking of leather seats as I maneuver closer to his body. Holding his chin just right where I want it. Turning it toward me. Just looking at that face with the little shadows. The way his mouth is held open for me. Feeling his breath now, right in my face.

I shut my eyes and feel it. Feel the rhythm of it. I feel his pulse now, pounding between my fingers as I still grip his neck gently with my other hand.

I feel one with him.

Ready to make him mine.

*

I go straight for what I am craving.

His mouth.

First, placing a soft, out-of-place kiss on his bottom lip. Lingering there. Brushing back and forth a little. Any moves from him to respond in kind result in my tightening my grip around his neck to ward him off and keep him in place.

He is just to sit there. And take it. This is the learning process.

Fishing his tongue out of his mouth with mine. Soft at first, then more demanding, his lips still parted. Catching his tongue between my front teeth and holding it there, for a second at first (which he may find kind of interesting and erotic), until it becomes uncomfortable for him, and his natural reaction is to try to pull free.

Like all things. A lesson he must learn.

I don’t let go.

And when he tries to pull away, I bite down harder. Just hard enough to show him what I want, and he freezes in fear. The pain, while subtle, is unfamiliar enough to cause caution.

And if I have to, I might stop, grab him by the chin, and hiss to him that he must sit still and endure.

Then it is time for me to explore his mouth with my tongue. And he must sit there and accept the violation, holding still, letting me do my exploring without engaging me in a mutual kiss.

There is much to explore in his mouth.

I take my time.

*

I suppose I enjoy this so much because it is like the first true violation of him. It is me, entering his body, while he must sit and accept it, and let me take what I want.

From an act that he is used to being mutual, if not controlled by him.

Now I am the one in control.

And if there is a way to rape a man with my tongue, I have learned to do it.

And I thrive on it.

*

What is most intoxicating about the violating kiss is the way his entire body responds to it. Usually, tensing his entire body under me. His breathing, more rapid now, and I can feel it against my face as he remains there, lips parted, mouth open, accepting my penetration.

Here is where I find out if I like his taste. Like the way his mouth feels on the inside. Like the touch of his tongue as I explore it with my own.

And I part from him, just slightly, his mouth still open and accepting. Replacing my tongue with my index finger. My head so close to his that I may rest it against his brow, staring down to watch his mouth accept my flesh.

Pushing my finger into his mouth a little. This time, whispering, “Lick.”

And now, I get to watch what he does with his tongue. To decide whether or not I want that tongue, for now, inside of my mouth.

And, for later, everywhere else.

*

Sometimes I watch only for a few brief seconds. Other times, I watch for quite some time, transfixed with the display.

Usually, though, when I finally withdraw my index finger from his mouth, I place it in my own. I don’t know where this ritual came from, but I find it hard to resist. To feel the warmth, to taste his saliva. To bring us even closer to that point when our tongues will become totally intertwined.

Licking my lips. Watching now as he breathes, lips still parted, swallowing, still, with some discomfort.

“Make me want to kiss you,” I order.

By now, hopefully, he should know what it takes. What to do.

But, if not, we start all over again. This time, with less patience.

*

After watching his display, I ease in closer. Hungry for a real kiss. A kiss that brings us together. Where I allow him to move with me, to touch me.

When I find out what his posture will be. If he has learned his place. If he will maintain the tempo. The mood.

Because, simply, after a half hour of such preparation, it is unlikely he will shove his tongue down my throat like a hungry teenager or lust driven fool. He knows about sensuality. He knows what I like. He knows to approach me cautiously. Carefully.

Respectfully.

The first kiss is smooth now. My lips on his, now prodding his chin up so he can close his mouth a little (finally, and I am sure his jaw is aching). Kissing his lips only at first, leaning into him, so he feels my body (comforting) close to him.

My hand finally leaves its threatening posture around his neck.

The chains, essentially, removed.

Leaving him free to respond.

Always, at first, his tongue is delicate, careful. Taking its first venture into my mouth with extreme caution and care.

And I welcome him, holding his chin, putting the other hand behind his head to pull him toward me, but kissing him with a deep, yet never sloppy, passion.

Occasionally pulling back, briefly, to tilt my head just so, but he knows, now, it is to stop to feel his breath on my lips. As he, hopefully, had figured that out from our little ritual. That I like the way that feels.

He keeps his hands down. On his lap. Two tight fists, still.

And even though he responds eagerly – passionately — he does not control the kiss. He follows my lead.

He responds in kind. He allows me to enjoy his mouth. His tongue – his teeth – his lips.

The kiss is a symbol of what will eventually become what we are.

We kiss for a long time. Sometimes, hours.

I never tire of it.

7 months ago. February 15, 2023 at 6:36 PM

2 years ago. September 19, 2021 at 3:54 AM

2 years ago. August 17, 2021 at 6:58 PM

What is so magical about teasing anyway? Why is it such a turn to for boys to be made to wait for that sweet moment of release?  And why do I love doing the cock teasing, prolonging a boy's seduction to make the object of my desire crazy with lust for me?  What is it that makes cock teasing and denial so irresistible, as if I weave a magic spell around a helpless, happy, straining victim?

Teasing puts the pizzazz and mystery into sex.  Otherwise, we’d just be rutting animals.  Even animals tease!  Look at the stop-start, pounce-retreat mating dances of birds, cats, apes, even snakes. So it's in nature. It's science!

A good tease is erotic but indirect, slowly building up to total seduction and surrender. As that consummate strip tease artist Gypsy Rose Lee once said, “Anything worth doing is worth doing slowly.”  A great tease has all the time in the world. I love so much to take my time. And with a great tease, you never know if you’re going to get the gold you’re going for.  You might, but then again you might not.  You have to be flexible with a tease.  You have to remember the Golden Rule of Tease:  You never know.  The best laid plans may not get you laid the way you planned.  You have to be willing to go with the tease, please…

Teasing wears a variety of masks and hats.  There is the innocent tease who doesn’t even know she’s a tease, and is all the more devastating for it. Sometimes I pretend to be the innocent tease. There’s the experienced tease who spins her webs of seduction with great skill and sensitivity.  I say “her” because, though men can tease too, teasing is a feminine wile.  It is manipulative and circuitous, womanly attributes.  Some teasing is spontaneous, light as a feather.  Some teasing is calculated, steeped in the art of salacious sorcery.  Some teasing is loving and sweet, almost nurturing, like tickling a baby.  Some teasing is playful and charming, dazzling and devastatingly witty.  Some teasing is mean and nasty, even vicious and cruel.  Teasing can also be humiliating and torturous.  And some teasing really hurts.  Teasing can be dangerous.  It can be quite harmless too, of course.  That is why we say “I’m just teasing!” to insist we’re harmless.  But it is the dangerous aspects of teasing that make it erotic.  That, and the sensuous nature of revealing something slowly, gradually, then maybe not at all, then maybe a little more.  It is too dangerous to show more.  Too hot to handle.  That is the Art of the Tease.

One of the greatest teases of history, believe it or not, is Queen Esther of the Bible. The shrewd and seductive Esther of Shushan, in what is now Iran, teased the great and powerful Persian King Ahasuerus into such an erotic frenzy that he freed her people from genocide.  Queen Cleopatra of Egypt was also a great tease; it was her extraordinary teasing ability that kept the Romans guessing and ultimately kept Egypt governed by its own people (that is, herself quite fittingly) until her death.

In modern times, teasing is the stuff of stars, Marilyn Monroe being the most legendary tease.  Bettie Page, sometimes called the Dark Marilyn, was also a most delicious tease. Now Dita Von Teese continues the legacy of the tease.  

And, yes, teasing is about control.  Maybe that's what I like it about it so much. Once you lose control, you’re not teasing anymore. It’s tough to tease when you’re in mid-orgasm.  Once the orgasm is on, the tease  is over….unless you’re a really good tease.

Does all this talk about teasing make you ache to be teased? I'm certainly yearning to invite a boy over for a long slow weekend of bondage and teasing.

2 years ago. August 10, 2021 at 10:07 PM

The words fall off the paper
the letters cascade to the ground into a beautiful mess
like abstract art:
too difficult to understand and yet magic to the eyes.
my words are no match for the teacher before me
proud and seductive -
she steals the words from my page
with nothing more than the cast of her eyes
: and a simple wry smile.
I am left with nothing...
an empty page full of desire,
and an F written in her cursive

Curious Adventurer

2 years ago. February 15, 2021 at 8:58 PM

My idea of a great first date!