Art and movies

She leads the way into the gallery, their fingers entwined, she takes a look around, black and white photos on the walls, men in pain, women in bondage, lots of men on men, all dark, broody, lots of flesh and leather. She nods towards what will be their starting point and lets him lead the way there. He stops in front of the large photograph and she steps in behind him. She leans into his back, her face averted from the photograph in front of them, her mouth at his neck. She relaxes into him.

“Describe it to me,” she whispers into his ear.

And he does, he starts talking softly in honeyed tones, describing the dirty, base, obscene photograph in his beautiful voice, and she feels his voice enter her like liquid, the vibrations of it humming into her chest and she breathes against his neck, his words making her draw the image in her mind, a sharp exhale against his skin when his description hits her pussy, hearing his voice catch as he registers her response. He keeps the monologue going, he finishes describing the photograph, but he doesn’t stop speaking to her.

He is no longer describing the photo, he starts describing things he knows she loves, hot, sexy things that he knows make her wet. She makes a soft sound and he knows he has it right as she presses against him harder, and he leans back into her. He keeps talking to her and her hands reach around his body, pulling him back, her lips now on his neck, and she holds him firm against her and he feels her hips push against him. And he keeps talking, drawing depraved pictures with his words, and she holds his hips still, and tight against her as she almost imperceptibly starts to fuck against his arse, making a soft sound through her lips against his neck. She tenses and relaxes against him, hardly moving, her breasts rubbing against his back, her hips and crotch trying to get more contact against his arse. And finally he runs out of words, his breathing heavy, and they stand there in silence, and they feel the heat of their bodies hard up against each other, and when she can almost breathe, she whispers ‘fuck’ breathlessly in his ear and he hears her smile and he nods. “I know.”

And they move onto the next photograph.

When they leave the gallery and head to the short film show, the nature of the films is clear from the crowd milling about in leather and latex outside. They don’t wait but head straight in, finding seats towards the back, it is already dark. They hunker down and her hand finds his knee and slides up his jean-clad thigh, coming to rest at his crotch, against his cock. She wants to feel what in the films makes him hard, to understand what goes on in his mind. She feels him shift, and starts to smile as his cock hardens under her touch. She waits, and his cock presses insistently against her fingers. She laughs and turns to him.

“Stop it,” she says.

She knows he is blushing, there in the dark, but he laughs also.

“I can’t help it,” he says.

She can see his teeth flashing at her, there in the dark. And his laugh makes her want him, and she reaches for him, pulling his face to hers and she kisses him, and he is still laughing, and she kisses his laughter, her hand still on his cock.

When she pulls away, she looks at him again through the dark.

“Now seriously, stop it,” she says, and waits to see what he is going to do about it.

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Hurting

I woke this morning thinking of you, restless. In my head I felt like an animal pacing a cage, restless. Couldn’t breathe, coming up from sleep with this violence in my mind.

I want you at my feet and I want to hurt you. I don’t have a focus, just hurt, I want you on the floor, whimpering.

The thought of you being there made me so fucking wet, I was breathing heavily with the image of it. Cruelly pinching your nipples until your eyes tear up, fist in your hair forcing your head to the ground, making you lick things, the ground, my feet, I don’t care, it’s the licking. My foot on your face, too much pressure, you squirming, not wanting to move away, knowing I need you there, and still the licking.

Grabbing your hair in my fist, hard, pulling, awkward, your neck twisted, lifting your face to me. Shoving my fingers into your mouth, feeling soft, wet, holding your head still, making you gag, watching you struggle to breath, eyes tearing.

Slapping your face, watching your eyes even as they register alarm and hurt, and again. Nipples again, I know you love that, but I want it to hurt badly, like they are going to come right off your body, or you wish they would. I want you to moan with pain and struggle not to twist away, and I know you would do that for me.

I don’t want to use things, I want to hurt you with my hands, my mouth. Biting you, hard, leaving marks, blood, licking it. Pinching soft flesh as hard as I can, the inside of your arms, your inner thighs, your balls, your cock.

I want tears and inarticulate helpless noises and whimpering and melting and an edge of panic and hurt in your eyes. I’m incredibly aroused with wanting this, to hurt you.

Come here and beg me to hurt you.

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Kissing him

I sit on the arm of the couch, look down at him, stroke his face. I place my hand on his cheek, and cup his face up to me as I kiss him gently. He kisses me back, tentatively, and I nudge his mouth open, tasting him, and it rises quickly in me, passion, heat. I kiss him a little harder, exploring his mouth, my fingers slip to his throat, applying some pressure, pushing his head back, tilting it until it is along the back of the couch, and I kiss him, tasting him, feeling the skin of his exposed throat under my fingers. I kiss him harder, biting his lips, feeling him wince, feeling like I can’t breathe. And I kiss him harder and he returns my aggression, his mouth hungry, wanting, I slip my finger between his lips without breaking the kiss, feeling his tongue, his teeth, I kiss him harder, I can’t get enough.

He is stroking me, running his hand cautiously along my arm as I lean further over him, his hand along the side of my body, I grip his hair and hold his head back, he strokes my side, across my ribs, my breast, I push him back along the couch, eating up his mouth, shoving his head back, I feel like growling and I can’t get enough of his mouth. I am almost lying over him, pushing at him, his head arched back against the back of the couch, kissing, pushing, wanting.

I pull back finally, slowing, just touching his lips with mine, lapping at his soft bottom lip, pulling it gently into my mouth, my breathing ragged, pulling a few inches away, thinking I am finished with him.

He whispers, “You are such a great kisser.”

“So are you,” I answer and it’s true. “This was so worth it,” I tell him, but I am not finished with him yet.

He looks up at me and he knows I am not done with him, and I feel him reach for me, and I let him guide my mouth gently back down to his, like guiding a missile to its target, like guiding me home, and once I am locked, I am lost again, and I nudge against his mouth, finding his tongue, aggressively taking his mouth, and feeling like I can’t get enough.

I feel a soft pressure as he tries to urge me off the arm of the couch into his lap, against his body, I resist, keeping my mouth on his, pushing. I grip his hair tightly in my fingers and he lets out a little moan and I twist his head back further and pull away to look at his face, his eyes are closed, supplication, surrender, submission. I touch my fingertips to his lips and he opens his mouth, I enter with my finger, fingers, he keeps his eyes closed and he wraps his lips around my fingers, he sucks them and I slide them in and out of his mouth, feeling his tongue lapping at them, watching, wanting, perfect and it makes my hunger rise, my stomach lurching with lust. And I kiss him hard and it’s delicious, and I feel voracious and he is pushing up against me with his mouth, wanting more, and I feel like I want to get inside him through his mouth.

I start to slow a little and pull away, I gently touch his lips with my tongue, he reaches up for me and I pull back further and he arches up to me and he can’t get to my mouth and I make him wait for me before I can’t bear not to have my mouth on his anymore, and I move down to kiss him, hard, again, and I make a sound, like a moan deep in my throat and I feel him react to it even though I never heard it escape my lips. I feel like I am kissing him forever.

I finally slow my attack on him, pause and pull away from him. I whisper, “You’re lovely.” He doesn’t hear me, I repeat it, and he smiles up at me.

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First time

I went to a BDSM night at a goth club with a submissive female friend. It was the first time I had identified as a ‘Domme’ in public, I had never been to a club before, had no idea what to expect, had never really played with a submissive (at this stage, I had a remote submissive online, and had played as a sub to a very experienced Dom (another story)).

The play area was not closed to the public, but the BDSM activity was in a separate room. I wore (aha…here comes the fetish part) a black catsuit, a wide belt that was essentially a waist cincher, killer stiletto boots, my meanest red lipstick and I had my multistrand flogger in my bag.

This was the first time I experienced submissive men coming up to me, sinking to their knees and asking for things. Mostly I said “No”, but it was still a head rush.

While most of the early part of the night has disappeared from memory, I recall two things in particular:

The first was a man coming up and asking if I would ‘take him out the back’ and choke him so that he couldn’t breath (errrmm…no!).

The second was another who asked me to slap his face, which I did, and got an immediate rush, shocking!! He was totally topping me, “Harder harder!” and I obliged, slapping him over and over, while internally going “Wow!”. I don’t think I hit him as hard as he wanted, but still, wow.

Quite late into the night, two arrogant, cocky, smirking vanilla men with their girlfriends sauntered over and said, “We want you to whip us.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“We want you to whip us… you’re the house Domme aren’t you?”

House Domme? Who knew there was such a thing? And I cannot at all recall what I had been doing that made them think I was one…

“No, if I do it, I do it because I want to.”

“Well, we want you to whip us.”

“Like I have the slightest interest in what you want…etc etc…” (insert more uber Domme speak here).

So, I made them get on their knees and beg me to whip them. They were still all cocky and smirking, treating it like a joke, but they did it and I made them keep doing it until I was satisfied.

I don’t remember the first boy, he was almost irrelevant, though I recall sitting with him afterwards… He was shaky, I made someone get him some water.

The second one blew my mind.

They had cuffs hung from the ceiling, I made him take his shirt off and cuffed him up, stretched. He was looking at his girlfriend, smiling, mugging. And I pressed up against him and whispered that this was going to hurt and he smirked at me and I started to hit him with the flogger, on his back, pretty soft at first.

I did a lot of stroking when I paused, his back, chest, along the waistband of his jeans, pressing full length, pushing against him, bringing my mouth right up close to his, no kissing, watching his face.

And I hit him harder and harder, and he started to flinch with every stroke. And he started to pay attention, he stopped smirking, and he stopped looking at his girlfriend and his eyes followed me as I moved around him. And I forgot about anyone else being there. It was about him and me.

And I continued to hit him, starting to put some force behind it, watching his skin change colour.

His girlfriend came up to me when I paused, and asked if she could touch him, I didn’t even look at her, said no, waved her away. For now, for this, he was mine.

Between the hitting, there was a lot of stroking of his bare skin, pressing the length of my body against his, whispering, asking him if it hurt, and him looking at me, nodding and whispering “Yes” to me, I’m breathing into his mouth, bringing my face close. And he was hard. And he started to beg me to kiss him, “Kiss me, please kiss me.”

And I continued to hit him, his whole body was rocking against the force of it, and I watched his face, and he was totally gone, glazed, eyes locked on me with longing, every fibre of him trying to get to me, whispering “Please, please kiss me please kiss me…”.

And I undid his jeans, probing fingers glancing against the outline of his cock, and he blushed, and he stammered that his pants would fall down, “Please don’t let my jeans fall down.” An edge of panic in his voice. And he was hard and he was scared of being humiliated and his eyes followed me as I moved around him and he reached for me with his body, with his mouth, straining against the rope.

And I watched his face and thought it was beautiful, begging, grunting with pain, flushed, inarticulate noises coming out of his mouth. And he was hard.

And I continued to hit him and touch him and whisper to him until I had had enough.

When I stopped, and let him down, he was shaking, he was totally high on endorphins and his face was one of shock, his eyes glassy, he looked at me with wonder, and I sat with him for a while, petting him down, murmuring nothing to him.

When I left the club they both came out and literally followed my girlfriend and me down the street chanting my name (truly bizarre).

And me, I had never NEVER NEVER felt anything like it. It was like a revelation, and it wasn’t about hurting him, it was about moving him through that transition, seeing him react to me – the way he went from an arrogant, cocky, smirking vanilla jerk to a begging, wanting, vulnerable ‘thing’, the power of that, and the beauty in it was incredible. Add to that the concentration of energy, how totally lost in it I was, how there was no-one else there except me and him…

Totally. Blew. My. Mind.

And I thought, “I have got to get me some more of that…”

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Meeting

They had been in touch online and by phone already, he was funny, smart, he fitted. She liked his openness despite it not being his nature, his hints of shyness, his obvious desire to submit to her, his sense of humour, even his inexperience had appeal. In the last week before meeting, he seemed to be having doubts. She sensed his skittishness, like a racehorse baulking at the gate. She was travelling specifically to meet him and made compromises, unlike her, to reassure him and to ensure that the meeting happened. She felt disadvantaged, vulnerable, but she did it anyway, hoping she would not regret it.

She arrived before the meeting and checked into the hotel. When she got to the room, she prepared, just in case. She anchored the perfect lengths of rope to the corners of the bed, and within convenient reach placed heavy leather wrist cuffs, velcro ankle cuffs, clips, a blindfold and a ruler. She placed soap and moisturiser in the bathroom and put some towels on the tiled floor where she planned to have him kneel. The preparations excited her… thinking about how she was going to use him with each piece made her head spin.

She slipped into her g-string and bra, jeans, black belt, black fitted t-shirt and drew on her knee high stiletto ‘fuck me’ boots enjoying the extra inches it added to her considerable height, putting her at 6’2. She wasn’t nervous to be meeting him, but she was anxious about her own reaction, fearing she would want it too much, want him too much, or alternatively fearing she would feel nothing at all.

She waited in the bar, she was a little early. He walked in shortly afterwards, finding her quickly. She smiled and stood, greeting him with an outstretched hand, leaning in for a kiss on the cheek. He sat, far from her, and said he had had to run to make it on time. She smiled and looked at her watch… he was 2 minutes early. She examined his face as he caught his breath, leaning back, his legs outstretched. He looked better than his photo, and he was clean shaven for her as it was her preference. At 6’ and lean, he was just her type. His hair was dark brown, his eyes also dark, edged with a crinkling that hinted at a sense of mischief.

They talked about nothing much, chit chat, feeling each other out. He had a lovely mouth, full lips, great teeth… and she watched it as they talked, assessing how much she wanted it. The only hints at why they were there were vague references to things they had discussed online, and she made him show her how he checked what colour boxers he had on, a ritual she had imposed remotely. She watched as he pulled his shirt up, sucked in his abs, and pulled the waist of his jeans away from his body to look down.

“Show me,” she said, and he leaned over, pulling his charcoal boxers up a little so that she could see. She smiled and nodded, feeling a pull in her stomach.

After about an hour of talking, and quite a bit of laughter, she asked him, “What do you think?”

He nodded, “I think it’s going well, good rapport… what do you think?”

She nodded, agreeing. They were getting on well and she felt the hunger, soft and low, humming.

The conversation slowed as she started to consider if she wanted to play with him. By this time, the bar had started to fill, and he had had to move closer to her, he was within her reach now.

She leaned forward and beckoned him to come to her. He brought his face closer to hers and her hand snaked around his neck, caressing him, her fingers finding purchase in his hair, her fist closing. She saw him wince as she pulled his hair into her grip and tightened her hold. She moved his head from left to right, he looked down and closed his eyes, a soft “ow” leaving his mouth, the sound resonating in her. She smiled and pulled his face to hers, stroking his cheek with her cheek, breathing into his ear.

She released him and put her hand on his leg, her fingers sliding into the creases of his jeans behind his knee. He looked down at her hand on him.

“You have nice hands,” he commented, oddly.

She smiled, he was nervous.

She leaned forward in her seat, looking intently at him, silent, her mind working overtime, weighing up the pros and cons of playing with him, staring at his mouth, imagining taking it with her mouth, considering him without speaking. The heavy silence and the staring made him increasingly uncomfortable, and he squirmed under her gaze, not knowing where to look as the moments stretched. She seemed unconcerned about his obvious discomfort, in fact she enjoyed it, it fed her hunger. She played the scene out in her head and tried to assess how it made her feel, still looking intently at his face, her heartbeat quickening as she made a decision.

Finally, she beckoned him and he brought his face to hers. She held him there with a hand behind his neck. She rubbed her cheek against his, she hesitated.

Then put her mouth to his ear and whispered, “Do you want to come upstairs and take some clothes off for me?”

She felt him tense, but his response was immediate.

She heard “Yes Ma’am,” uttered quietly, deliberately, clearly into her ear.

She felt her pussy twitch… it was the first time he had called her “Ma’am” to her face.

“Are you sure?” she whispered.

“Yes Ma’am,” he repeated and her heart melted just a little.

She nodded, stood up and gestured for him to follow. She stalked ahead, and held her hand out behind her. She felt him slip his hand into hers, warm and compliant, and her stomach lurched with lust as she closed her fingers around his, leading him towards the foyer. She didn’t look back but pictured him obediently following as she headed for the lifts.

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…there you are… hello…

You have been in my thoughts a lot these last couple of weeks, sometimes in excruciating detail, thinking about the taste and feel of your mouth under mine, sometimes just a vague unease, of something missing, ticking in the back of my mind.

I hope you are well, happy, or ok at least, content with your decision. I wish you all sorts of good things, I hope you know that.

You have my email, my IM, my phone number… if you want to talk at some stage, maybe soon, maybe after some time has passed, I would welcome you.

I miss having a snowflake. And yes, you definitely should have worn a tool-belt… what on earth were you thinking?!

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