I get asked what my fantasies are relatively often. I think people expect to hear something relateable, something familiar, sexy, BDSM-ey, something doable.
But what I fantasise about, what I REALLY like and fantasise about, is to do what I want. To genuinely and honestly not give a shit what he wants. Whatever fucked up shit I want to do, let me do that. When someone talks about ‘using him’, mostly he doesn’t imagine it in the way I do.
And if we’re talking fantasies, I have a whole crew of men in mine whose bodies I can inhabit in … [...Read More]
When the Pilot offered me a glass of the wine I had asked him to buy, I noticed two glasses on the table. “None for you though,” I said. He didn’t bat an eye, poured me a glass, put the bottle away.
I sipped the cold wine while I checked him out. I had him stand in the middle of his living room, I walked around him gently touching, seeing how he felt. He’s six foot tall. I’m taller in heels. I like that quite a bit. I took my time. I eventually had his clothes off, and I relaxed … [...Read More]
He said he’d fight back when he was being hurt: Not ‘ha ha’ kidding around play-fighting, but a kind of involuntary ‘fight or flight’ reaction that would kick in hard.
His body would involuntarily flail and punch and try to get away.
He wasn’t bratting or intentionally being difficult, and he wasn’t wanting to stop, but he knew himself and he knew how he reacted to pain. He had enough experience to know that he had to warn play partners that this was what he was like. He was genuinely worried about accidentally hurting his partner. And rightly so. He … [...Read More]
I was whispering in his ear, so close, touching every part of him.
The image was crystal clear in my head, I spilled it into him.
A white room, clean, featureless, stark.
He is the only thing that spoils its perfect sterility.
He is tied down in the middle over a white block. The block is also white, waist-height, sharp edges.
He is face down, his body laid out, helpless. He is in pain, sharp edges digging into him, his muscles straining. He is silent with it. His wrists almost reach the ground, his arms stretched. If he could make … [...Read More]
They look impossibly soft, your lips. Cushiony silken velvet. They beckon me when your mouth forms words. I know you are speaking to me, I’m listening, truly I am. And my eyes will flick up to yours when I answer, when I move the conversation forward, then they will drop to your lips again as you speak to me some more.
I’m hypnotised by the movement of your mouth, the glimpses of your teeth, the slight curl on one side, the sudden flash as your mouth splits into a smile. I smile back, all the appropriate noises happening between us.… [...Read More]