Kinky interactions for the D/s inclined

Sometimes a girl just wants to hear she's fuckable. 

Count the minutes until you see me again.

Count the words in each message I send.

Count the steps in those high, high heels until you reach me.

Count the seconds between each breath you take.

Count the ways you may have disappointed me.

Count the links on the chain binding your wrists and ankles.

Count the beating from the wooden paddle.

Count the ways you belong to me.

Count the fingers inside you.

Count your devotion to me.

Count the seconds you go without air while my hand encircles your throat.

Count the ways you can please me.

Count the strikes of the whip on your back, thighs and ass.

Count the strokes of my cock inside you.

Count the times you cum.

Count the marks I've left on you.

Count for me.

Could you be patient with me?

Can you see that I don't yet understand? Can you see my fear wrapped in a mask of bravado?

Could you be patient with me?

I move slowly. I trust slowly. I feel .... deeply.

Could you be patient with me?

As you would teaching a child to ride a bike? They long for the exhilaration of riding free with the wind in their face. Yet their feet don't reach the pedals. They can't keep their balance. Time and again they fall and cry. Each fall making it harder to try again.

Could you be patient with me?

Be my strength while I falter. Be my cushion when I fall. Be my example. Be my leader. Be my courage to try again and again.

Could you be patient with me?

I have so little to offer. It is of no value to anyone as it gathers dust and erodes. But it is enough for someone.

Could you be patient with me?

Do you see something in me that would be worth your time and effort? Can you see what I cannot?

Could you be patient with me?

Are you willing and able to allay my worries, dispell my insecurities every time they raise their ugly head.; challenging you, doubting you.

Could you be patient with me?

I know I have to in order to live, so I inhale in short little breaths, then exhale deeply.

trying to cleanse myself

But there is no cleansing. How can you empty yourself?
Could I exhale enough air to dispose of myself and be ... someone else?

I can't face another year, another month, another week, another day, another hour, another minute. How can I make it stop?

It hurts.
I'm just not strong enough.

People say, "God doesn't give you more than you can handle." Never was there a greater lie told to the masses.

If I could handle this, I'd be inhaling and exhaling deeply; strengthening my resolve to move forward.

Yet, that is not the case. The breaths I take are short and stunted. Yearning to be the last; and at the same time knowing the next is coming.

Fuck

It hurts to breathe

But is it? Is it all we have to expect from this encounter a sexual connotation?

Why can't I want more connection, a relationship, friendship, dominant?

"Senator, it's late. I was wondering if it was okay if I went home." She didn't want to leave if he was going to stay longer but the day was exhausting and she needed some sleep.

He looked up from his desk, removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "What time is it?"

"10:30, sir."

He felt the involuntary twitch in his pants that always happened when she called him that. She wasn't his sub but he had thought about it on more than one occasion. He wondered how her ass would look raised in the air with her head touching the floor, waiting for his command.

"Go ahead, you can go home. Have you eaten dinner?"

"No, sir. I have some cookies in my desk, but that's about it."

"What did I tell you about taking care of yourself?"

She melted inside. Exhaustion was dropping her defenses and she couldn't stop the blush rising in her cheeks at his admonishment.

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir. Today has been nonstop. I promise I'll grab something on the way home." She sputtered hoping he wouldn't notice her face turning red.

To no avail, he noticed and let a little smile creep into his lips at her obvious discomfort.

"Do you need to be told what to do?" He asked, his voice timbre lowing just a bit. Maybe his defenses were down a little as well.

"Yes, sir. Please." She had felt drawn to him for months now and done everything in her power to keep those feelings at bay. Today, she lost the battle.

It wasn't the answer he expected but it was definitely the answer he wanted.

"Such a good girl, always trying to make me happy." He smiled as his eyes darkened staring at her.

Her cheeks flushed once again and her eyes dropped to the floor but not before she saw his hand move over the rising bulge that was becoming increasingly hard to ignore.

"Yes, sir." She whispered. "You need someone devoted to you."

"Are you devoted to me? To serving me, to pleasing me?" He asked huskily and moved away from his desk without the pretense of covering his, now obvious, erection.

"Sir?" she asked looking up from the floor.

"Will you do what it takes to please me? It's a simple enough question, young lady."

There was a fire in her chest spreading through her entire body making it hard to think and forms words in response.

"I ... well.... I .... well ...."she stuttered over her words.

"Use your words. Be clear." He commanded.

"Yes, sir. I want to please you; to serve you."

"Look at me, girl." He commanded. Yet, he did not look at her so much as look through her. He saw the want and desire lurking in the shadows there. He saw her submission. The submission she had worked so hard to keep concealed. He caught her gaze and kept it.

She stared back feeling exposed by his stare.

"Take off your top." It was a statement, not a question, and she obeyed without a word. She let it fall to the floor without breaking from his gaze.

"Now your skirt." That took a little more effort as she shrugged it off of her hips and let it fall to the floor next to its counterpart.

This time she let her eyes remain on the floor. She couldn't look at him now, she thought to herself.

He stood and walked over to her. She didn't have to look up to feel his eyes burning over every inch of her skin. She was acutely aware of each bump and imperfection and now so was he. She remained still .... waiting.

With one hand he touched her arm, letting it glide up and over her shoulder as he walked behind her. His fingers grazed her neck at the hairline and sent shivers through her body. Slowly he moved back in front of her.

"Good girl. Was that hard for you?"

"Yes, Sir." She whimpered feeling exposed and vulnerable.

He walked back to his desk and sat again. "Look at me."

She looked up afraid to meet his eyes, he had seen into her mind and now had exposed her body. She couldn't hide any more.

"Get down on your knees." He ordered and she obeyed.

"Crawl to me." Awkwardly and ungracefully she did as she was told. "That is what pleases me, obedience. Don't try to hide from me. You are mine, now. Is that understood?"

She remained on hands and knees and replied, "Yes, Sir. I'm yours, Sir." It was like a weight being lifted. She was no longer ashamed. She was no longer trying to hide things from him. She was his, now and nothing else mattered.

"Show me." He commanded.

Immediately, she scrambled between his legs and undid his belt, then freed him from his own restraints, releasing his cock to the fresh air. But that was only for a moment before she took as much of him as she could into her mouth. Her soft moan matched his own.

She stroked him, using only her mouth; up and down his length trying harder and harder to take all of him. His hand snaked into her hair and guided her further. She started to choke and he held her there for a second or two.

When he released her head she gasped for air but was only permitted a moment before being thrust back down upon him.

Eagerly she moved her head in motions coinciding his own rising, thrusting hips.

She took his balls into her hand the lightly tugged, then replaced her hands with her lips. His low growl was enough to keep her going as she lathed him with her lips and tongue.

Once more his hand guided her head back down, this time quickening the pace until finally he held her still and let his cum coat the back of her throat.

Greedily she licked and swallowed as his breathing returned to normal.

"Does that count as dinner, Sir?" She said with a smile.

"Let's go get a drink to go with your cookies. Peppermint schapps and Bailey's irish cream sound like the right mix to me." He laughed and helped her to her feet.

Release yourself and your wildest fantasies become reality. You will reach your potential and be fulfilled in ways you couldn’t imagine. You will hear those beautiful words, “good girl.” And achieve orgasm in new and wonderful ways.

But they don’t want you to know the truth. And, yes my friends, there are dirty, little secrets of BDSM about which few will speak. So, as a self-proclaimed whistle-blower, I will share those secrets.

The minute your hands/wrists are bound securely, your nose will itch. Scratch all you want beforehand, it is fruitless. You will wiggle and squirm trying to get anything to reach the unreachable itch but to no avail. The Domly one will take this to mean you are struggling and just need to be tied tighter. If you try to explain your itch, they decide to punish you for squirming by putting a feather under your nose.
Don’t drink within 12 hours of beginning any sort of play. You will have to pee. Same principle as the itch only what happens is that the Domly-one thinks there is some fun in making you wait. You will stand, sit, lie, kneel or be doing jumping jacks while the Domly-one leaves you to ponder your fate. Invariably they are hoping you are getting wet with anticipation of the exciting whips and chains that will be used on you. In reality, you will get bored and want to pee. You might get lucky and make a quick dash to the bathroom, but that isn’t likely. The Domly-one times this behavior to catch you failing to follow instruction. They will not allow you to pee and will instead turn on the faucet to make you suffer.
Dinner and a scene don’t mix. Carbonated beverages come back on you. Assume the universe is divined against you. When the Domly-one is beating your ass, comes and grabs your hair to pull your head back and say, “Who owns you, slut?” your answer will be an odorous, definitive belch. Domly-one will decide you are disrespectful and supply a gag.
Telephones and doorbells are easy enough to ignore. Police battering rams; not so much. Neighbors mean well, they really do. But until they know you are screaming in the “good” way, you will eventually have trouble. On a positive note, it will immediately stop your orgasm that the Domly-one told you, you couldn’t have anyway. In this case, you won’t get in trouble because you will have complied with both the spirit and the letter of his domliness.
Bondage is nice ...... until your skin gets caught between the rope. Yes, the Domly-one thinks he knows everything about tying up your breasts in pretty designs he read about once in a magazine dedicated to rodeo clowns. As he deftly wraps the rope in circles, he will catch your skin in between the two strands and you will scream and smack him. The Domly-one will take this to mean you are into rape play immediately restrain your hands causing your nose to itch.
Once the Domly-one discovers the fun of rope, he rarely stops at your hands/feet and/or breasts. Next the Domly-One tries to rival the likes of Calvin Klein and Vera Wang by creating "art" with his rope work. Unless you are completely bald in your nether regions, the resulting pubic hair pull is a nightmare unto itself. You will redefine what being a masochist means to you. The Domly-One assumes these are screams of delight until your knee involuntarily connects with his crotch. When that happens, you are insubordinate and need to be left alone to think about your transgressions..... cue peeing.
Aftercare isn’t really aftercare. It is more like your Kindergarten clean-up time. You get about 45 seconds to come down off of your last orgasm and be untied before the real work begins. Toys need cleaning, towels/blankets need washing, sheets need to be changed and everything left out needs to be locked away in a place that will only be discovered once you are dead and your house is sold to a religious couple who will find it and have an exorcism performed to rid the place of your demons. The Domly-one is not against helping with these tasks; but his orgasm leaves him comatose for at least the next 6 hours. Not to mention he has no idea that plastic, silicone, glass and metal all require different methods of cleaning.
There you have it. BDSM’s dirty little secrets.

You’re welcome. I assume I’ll be banned from this site after posting so it was nice to know you all.

Me: Hey, honey, can we talk? I read a book. Turns out there is a name for people like me.

Future Domly One: Uncompromising Control Freak?

Me: No, I’m a submissive.

Me: Ummm, when you are done laughing, we can continue this conversation.

Two days later ....

Future Domly One: Oh, you’re serious. Please continue.

Me: Okay, you know how I hate pain, hate to be called filthy names and absolutely must make every decision? Well, scratch that.*

Future Domly One: looks confused

Me: I believe you are a dominant. You show all of the signs with everything you do. Could you now spank my ass, beat me, call me slut, use me for whatever needs strikes you at the moment and take the control of us away from me?

Future Domly One: ears perk up Hell, yes! I’m in!

Implementing this wonderful world of sexual discovery and exploration has been something of a challenge, made even more complex by the fact that we felt the need to procreate before realizing we are insatiable, sex freaks.

Alas, the difficulties we faced were heretofore unforseen.

The first being getting him to actually spank me! Not that he didn’t want to, but the sound carried through our tiled filled home in such a way that the Domly One was very concerned about younger ears hearing our escapades. We overcame this by learning that our closet is practically soundproof 6th paragraph down.

Our next difficulty was my sound. There, I said it, I’m a screamer. I’m a loud, screamer. This was dealt with in previous years by the Domly One placing a pillow over my face. Now, I find that the curse I avoided in my younger days has become my norm; sex in the car. It is one place I can be as loud as I’d like.

The issue we currently face is that nasty bastard: Reality.

In the visions and dreams posted online, there are things called “scenes” which require “planning” with the added benefit of “anticipation” and “aftercare.” Why do I put quotations around these terms? Because they are more elusive in parenthood/marriage than the oft disputed existence of the spotted zebra.

Here is how these things work for us ....

Domly One: Kids went to their science meeting. We have 45 minutes!

Me: run frantically to the room and strip.

Domly One: Yes, my slut, you like it when I beat your ass, don’t you?

Me: Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.
Did you remember to get milk on your way home? The kids will need it for breakfast in the morning.

Domly One: Damn, I forgot. I’ll get it in the morning before I leave for work.
You do NOT have permission to cum. Do you understand?

Me: Yes, Sir. I understand
Your work shirts are ironed so you should be able to get to the store and back.

Domly One: You are so fucking wet! Are you wet for me, little whore?

Me: Yes, Sir. Please Sir, I’m close.
hear noise at the door
Could you go let the cat out?

Domly One leaves me tied to the bed and lets the cat out.

Domly One: ** You’re going to suck me, my cock whore.**

Me: Please, Sir, please. I need your cock!
Were you able to explain the math homework to they youngest kid?

Domly One: Yes, it was really simple, pre-algebra. He’ll do fine on the test.
I love that eager mouth of yours. Beg me, slut.

Me: Please, fuck me! Please!

Domly One: smacks my ass hard, grabs my nipples and twists, f***s me so hard we are back to stuffing a pillow in my face.

Domly One: Cum, slut, cum now!

We: mutual orgasm. breathing slows

Teenager: “Hey, I’m home. Football practice went late. Is there any food?”

These are our daily lives. Our “scenes” are stolen moments of frantic need for each other while still balancing the needs of the family. Our “planning” is whatever the Domly One can fit into the allotted time. Our “anticipation” is knowing that we connect this way daily. Our “aftercare” is laughing at how close we came to being caught.

Living 24/7 isn’t all hot wax, sexy lingerie, ropes and whips I had originally imagined. But, at least now, I don’t think I’ll be suffering from empty-nest syndrome. 2123 days .... more or less ...but who’s counting?

For as long as I can remember, I've held the belief that men hold doors open for women. The idea, to me, had nothing to do with feminism or equal rights. It was a matter of courtesy and respect shown to the fairer sex.

I'm raising 3 sons of my own. Since they became strong enough to hold a door, I've taught them to hold it open for women. Don't think I believe it is an entitlement. Each and every time a man holds a door open, I say, "Thank you. I appreciate gentlemen. " Their responses vary; a caveman like grunt; a smile; a nod; even the occasional "You're welcome."

These small, masculine gestures make me feel small, respected and valued for my contribution as a female member of society.

Car doors have been a bigger issue. Sir has instructed me that he will open my car door because I belong to him and he is responsible for taking care of me. It isn't so hard to remember when we are getting into the car but getting out is a struggle. For some reason, I think if I let him open the door for me to get out, I'll forget how to do it myself and end up stuck in the car waiting for someone to help me.

This whole explanation about doors really has nothing to do with doors.

Lately I've read several comments on the issue of men putting the toilet seat down for women. The comments, obviously made by men, are that woman should put the seat down themselves and continue with the ensuing chest thumping typically attributed to those made by the uncivilized gorilla type males.

To this I say, "Oh hell no!"

Let's look at it practically first, shall we?

When a women enters the bathroom, she immediately turns around to secure the door (something that doesn't concern men because they are okay with any/everyone seeing their glorious manhood) and we drop our pants, or flip up our skirt and sit. The primary focus of our attention is on modesty. Whereas men walk into the bathroom head on. They are directly facing the toilet and, dare I say, they are exclusively focused on their target. Men are in the optimum position and frame of mind to determine the status of the seat. Therefore, it is only logical that they ensure the comfort of the next user.

Women don't even turn around to flush! We reach back to flush the handle and don't stop to inspect our accomplishments for the visit.

Now let's look at it from a male/female perspective which easily translates to D/s in this case.

We s-types want to serve. We are the property of our D-types showing them deference and respect even to the point of using a capital D to identify them. We use Sir, Daddy, Master, His, Him and the One to demonstrate that we know our place in the dynamic. We are yours to use and please you with our submission. This creates a situation whereby the D-types assume a greater responsibility for the care of their s-types. D-types are responsible for our health, safety, security and sanity.

In my opinion, they are responsible for showing they cherish, treasure and accept all that we offer. This means putting down the damn seat. You should not want us falling the toilet unless it is some sort of intended water sport play.

So, if you value and respect your s-types for their subservience and deference, then treat them with courtesy and consideration. Open doors, put down the seat and treat her like a lady. No, treat her like YOUR lady

Ingredients 0.5 cup white sugar 0.25 cup water 2 fluid ounces 100-proof bourbon whiskey 1 fluid ounce freshly squeezed lemon juice 4 drops orange bitters, or more to taste – IrishLIZA
She sat on the edge of the couch.

Danger was near. She sensed it. That feeling you get in the pit of your stomach that says, "RUN!!"

But she didn't. Not now, not yet.

He stood before her. "What would you like?"
It wasn't a question of food or beverage. He was looking deeply into her eyes.

"I..... i....i... I don't know," she stammered.

She would like...... oh so many things.

He had been taunting her all evening. Hands brushing across her breasts to undo her seatbelt. Fingers slipping across her thighs to take her hand and lead her out onto the patio. Hands on her hips just a little too low. No wonder she was flustered!

"Sir, I think maybe I should go," she said with feigned determination.

"Should you?"

He motioned to his driver.

"Yes, I mean no. I mean, no. Please. I don't want to leave." She was embarrassed and looked at the ground. His finger crooked under her chin. "Child, stay if you wish or leave for your own safety."

Safety? What had she gotten herself into? It didn't matter. The only thing was that she wanted more; needed more.

"Como quieras, quiero," she said softly.

He took her hand and led her to the backyard. The lake shimmered in the moonlight and the trees were lit by a thousand rays.

"Closer, please." This was no command, it was an invitation. She followed, keeping her head down. She was excited and ashamed and exhilarated all at the same time.

He pressed something cold into the palm of her hand. She rolled it in her fingers and knew what it was. She couldn't! She wouldn't! ..... she would.

He added the lube to her hands and she knew. He was not doing what he wanted, he was forcing her to do what SHE wanted.

Had she had panties they would have been laid aside by now. But she didn't..... and she wanted .... and she did.

The item was a plug and she coated it with the lube in the faithless hope that it would help ease the intensity. She moved sideways so as to not show him her discomfort and simultaneous arousal.

"Ohhhhh," she moaned against the pressure of the invasion. Her body tensed and relaxed accepting the intrusion. That feeling of penetration and fullness flooded her body. All thought left her.

"Baby girl, don't leave me." He whispered in her ear pressing the length of his body against hers. She squirmed against him. The pressure in her ass heightening as his hardness pressed against her.

The force of his body pressed her against the trees and he slowly unzipped her dress. She was hugging the oak that stood before her. Letting the shoulder straps slip from her frame. She hugged all the harder feeling the bark on her soft skin.

The skirts fell around her feet and she quickly kicked them away.

"There is more for you, my sweet," he spoke to her in a slightly more sinister manner. He pulled her arms apart and began attaching rope to her wrists, secured by carabiners in the trunk of the tree.

Her breasts scraped against the abrasions of the tree bark. Her ass clenched in shame. With one swift stroke of the knife, her panties were gone.

"Oh damn!" what had she gotten herself into?!?!

His hand stroked her back and she felt reassured; until he reached down and smackedher tender ass.

"Noooo!" she cried. The pain and pressure of the plug intensified exponentially. Did she know she was an anal virgin?

"No, my sweet?" he asked menacingly "No, what?"

The entire front of her body was being pressed and scraped against the tree.
The full moon lit the lake in front of them like a candle in a mirror.

The lake!! It drew her eyes and made her forget, just for moment, that she was in discomfort and aroused. Yes, she was aroused. She felt herself melting into her pussy with juices flowing.

SMACK

Harder this time. Right against her ass, pressing the plug deeper inside her. Again and again he tortured her. Or so she thought.....

whirrrrrr

It was unmistakable. That sound....

She tensed against the tree, breasts aching with the abrasions. She squeezed the tree tighter fearing what was to come next. She knew. She didn't want it. She wanted it. She needed it. But NO!!!!

But Oh My God, YES!!!!!!

He came up behind her and pressed his leg between hers. He pushed them apart and breathed into her ear. "Now, my sweet, you will wish you had left." With that he spread her legs further apart. The vibrator move against her thighs threateningly. Slowly, methodically, he moved it closer to her pussy.

"DON'T cum!" he commanded as the vibrations hit her clit. Over and over the waves of frustration plagued her.

"PLEASE!" She begged.

"No," he responded, whispering in her ear, pressing harder against her clit and moving it back against her pussy. Over and over again he tormented her.

"PLEASE!" she begged once again.

With that he withdrew his tormentor against the tormented. He unhooked her restraints and guided her to the fire pit.

There she collapsed on the ground between his legs.

The moon shone so brightly she could see and feel the erection pressing against his slacks.

He wrapped a blanket around her and let her rest her head on his leg. He stroked her hair and smiled down at her.

How did he know she wondered? How did he know that the denial of her orgasm was as heady as the orgasm itself?

Sweet and sour.