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beyond that door

beyond that door
you are the brick-boy
the silver-tongued hero
you’re the whole shebang, motherfucker!

the hero, the big dick, the maaaan
the big man on campus
the man in the moon
the man to see
the man with a plan

you’re the taker
you’re the shaker
you’re the breaker
you’re the goddamn
candlestick maker

beyond that door
the world is your oyster
beyond that door
your kingdom come
beyond that door
women swoon and flirt and flatter

beyond that door
you are the candy man
the master of your own domain
you kick ass and take names
you are a player, a six-pack punk
every woman knows your name

but that door is closed
closed down, boarded shut, bang-bang
no way out, no where to hide
no where to go
but down down down

you’re on this side now
my side, mendicant man
my turf, toy wonder
you’re in the bosom of the bitch

you’re on this side:
you’re overpriced
and undervalued
and nobody gives two cents
suck it up

mendicant man
you’ve cashed your frequent flyers
mediocre man
you’ve burnt your neon bridges
nowhere man
you’ve spent your sorry wad

you’ll cease that fast-talking spinnity jive
right now (nobody cares)
and shuck that grandiose i-wish-it-were-my-dick tie
(nobody cares)
and lose those boot-cut Calvin Kleins
(not impressed)

get on the floor,
the stone cold floor
on this side of the door
where you belong

Don’t Think. Just Obey.

Why he is here, he couldn’t tell you. Even later, the memory will be fuzzy at best: a business trip, an unfamiliar town, a rented car, trouble sleeping.

The bar is nice, the music not too loud, the regulars behaving themselves. He sits nursing his scotch, listening to the three women next to him, catching occasional glimpses of their animated faces in the mirror behind well-stocked shelves. He thinks the one next to him, the brunette, has met his reflected gaze once or twice. Her shoulder has brushed his no less than three times, which isn’t a surprise, given their close proximity. The last time, she’d even turned to smile at him, which he took as a quiet “excuse me.”

He orders his second drink just as the brunette’s two friends move out to the small dance floor. Watching the way their bodies move together, seeing the way they look only at each other, he wonders if they might be lesbians. A slight smile creases his face as his mind conjures an ongoing array of possibilities.

“No, they’re not.”

Lost in the fantasy of two blondes getting it on, he hasn’t noticed her moving closer, but here she is. He smiles, nods, lifts his glass and takes a drink before answering.

“So besides being beautiful, you can read minds too?”

He is surprised, caught a little off guard, when she doesn’t smile back. Instead, she sits back down on the bar stool and lights a cigarette. She stares at him, inhaling deeply. “I can read your mind,” she says through a plume of exhaled smoke. “And it’s a very messy place. Quite undisciplined, in fact.” She reaches into her Dooney & Bourke purse. “But I can fix you right up in no time, make everything all better.”

Her eyes holding his, her hand moves from her purse to place something between them on the bar. He looks down to see a leather collar, its stainless steel studs reflecting the sparkling lights hanging from the overhead above them.

He doesn’t say anything, just shapes his mouth into what he hopes passes for a wry grin, tips his glass, downing the rest of his drink.

“If you need to get drunk to get kinky, you’re not doing it right.”

This time when he looks at her she is smiling. And so he smiles back. “Who said I wanted to get kinky,” he answers, waving to the bartender, this time pointing to both their drinks. “I’m just here for a couple of drinks, a chance to unwind. That’s all, Miss.” She cocks here head, the smile having reached her twinkling eyes. Dark blue eyes, the color of cobalt, he notices.

“Mistress.”

“Pardon me?”

“What I mean is don’t call me Miss, call me Mistress. Mistress Paige.”

The bartender is serving their drinks, taking away the empty glasses. If he notices the collar, he doesn’t let on. “Don’t worry about the bartender,” she says, “he’s not in this. You and me are in this. Only you and me.” She reaches out, touching his arm, right above the bend of his elbow. She slowly squeezes, until her hand is a fist, bundling his shirt sleeve and flesh into a hard knot. “I’m going to do this to your balls,” she whispers in his ear. Then she flicks the edge of his ear with her tongue. “Mmmm … you taste good.”

He looks into the mirror again, seeing that the blondes are now back, both eyeing him in its metallic reflection. The one on the far right, the one in the cashmere sweater dress, moves her lips, mouthing, “Do it.”

Although “Mistress Paige” is turned towards him and cannot see her friends, she tells him, “Take her advice. Put the collar on. It will better than any fucking sex you’ve ever imagined in your wildest, pedestrian fantasies.”

And he doesn’t know why, but he does. He picks up the collar, turns to Mistress Paige and puts it around his neck. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees both of the blonde’s reflected, knowing smiles and wonders if they will be a part of this. A part of what will happen next.

“No, they aren’t coming with us.”

He is starting to think that she really can reads minds, when Mistress Paige takes a leash from her purse and attaches it to the collar. He opens his mouth, maybe to protest, to tell her she is going to far. He really doesn’t even know what words want to come out of his empty, dry mouth. But she stops him with a finger across his lips, shushing him.

“Don’t think. Just obey.”

“Yes.”

She pats him on the head, runs her fingernails down the side of his neck, then curls her fingers under the edge of the collar. He feel her knuckles against his Adam’s apple as she pulls him close. “Now your getting it,” she whispers, looking straight into his eyes. He believes she is right. His world is changing, becoming transparent and shimmering. The blondes, the bartender, even the leather bar stools and flickering bar lights are fading ghosts.

“Don’t think. Just obey,” Mistress Paige repeats herself. He knows what to say, what she expects of him. “Yes, Mistress.”

“Good boy. Now…” she relaxes her grip on the collar, “get down on you knees.” She repeats herself again, “Don’t think. Just obey.”

Don’t think. Just obey. He hears the words inside of his brain, echoing in his bones like a mantra as he lowers himself to the wooden floor. Staring straight ahead through a sea of legs he hears the noise of the bar — the jukebox, the jumbled drunken voices — as if from behind a wall of leaded glass. Don’t think. Just obey.

“Begin crawling towards the door. Do as your told. Now!”

He does what he must. He crawls.

Tagged BDSM · femdom · discipline · domination · fem fatale

Cock Socket Lydia

I am Cock Socket Lydia. A common slut-submissive with openings in my body which are to be filled often. This, of course, would be my asshole, my whore mouth and my cunt. I am nothing more than a cock socket.

Master tells me this and trains me daily to remember it always.

If Master cannot train me personally, he lends me to trusted friends and they fit their cocks into my various sockets as pleases them. The fact that his friends might be too busy or cannot be bothered to train me on any certain day does not impede Master’s plans for me.

Master is very wise in his ways and, of course, always has a Plan A and a Plan B. Just in case.

Sometimes I am hung by my wrists in the Training Cage with my sockets stuffed by a variety of dildoes. Sometimes one or more of the dildoes may be vibrating. Sometimes not. This is always up to Master. He decides what type of cock-training my sockets need.

At other times, Master locks me into the Slave Stockade where he often arranges the sybian behind me so that my anal socket can be repetively abused. Of course my oral and slut sockets are jammed full as well. Again, Master decides with what.

I am cock socket Lydia. Would you like to fit your cock into one of my sockets?

Krista’s Cock-Pig

It is in front of your face. You can smell it. It is cock. It is the cock you are going to suck tonight. Perhaps it is a cock that will fuck you, too. You have no say. You are, after all, only a Cock-Pig.

Once you were a man. You lived a free life, had a fairly successful career. You worked hard, you played hard. Lots of young, hot women. Footloose and fancy free, as they say, living what you thought was the good life.

But then you met Krista. Tall, beautiful and wickedly sexy, she was different somehow. Different than the girls you usually bedded and forgot about. At first, it was just filth whispered into your ears as she fucked you. Then it was porn while she sucked your cock. The porn started getting kinkier, freakier. And you couldn’t get enough, could you? You were obsessed, wanted to be with her all the time.

And that is how she began training you, although you were too stupid to know it at the time. Even now when you think of before and now, you’re not sure exactly how she did it. Soon, though, you began living your weekends in a cage in her basement, your cock in a device that kept it hard, yet wouldn’t permit orgasm. You were an animal.

Krista’s Cock-Pig. That is what she started calling you. She would come to you with a strap-on and make you suck it. Then she would promise orgasm, that she would remove your Cock-Pig chastity device if you bent over and spread your ass and begged for her big, girl-dick. And you did. You would have done anything to cum. The thing is, just like she knew would happen, you started liking it, didn’t you? You started to like taking that big, fat strap-on up your ass.

It wasn’t long before she’d tricked you into leaving your job and turning over everything you had –your money, your house, your car, your savings– to her. She took away your life as a free man and put you in the cage full time. You became her 24/7 Cock-Pig.

That was when she began cum-training you. You would hear her upstairs fucking some guy –you never knew them, at least at first– and your dick would twitch and strain against the chastity device. Later she would come down to you. She’d taunt you, show you her swollen pussy lips. “Remember how tight this pussy is, Cock-Pig,” she’d ask, pushing on her stomach, causing milky cream to drip out of her slit, down the crack of her ass. “Remember when I used to let you fuck me?” You did remember and it made you crazy hot.  So easy for her to make you eat her out, lap up all that cream pie.  You would have done anything to get your chastity device off at that point.

Then she started bringing you down cups of cum, even a bowl of cum one time. “Come here, Cock-Pig,” Krista would say, putting the bowl on the floor right inside your cage. “Crawl over here and get your cup of cum, Cock-Pig. Come lap it up and I will take off your device for a little bit. Maybe I’ll even give you a good, hard fucking.”

And so it went. You really were some new low form of animal, Krista’s Cock-Pig.  But Krista had a plan.  And you soon learned you could even go lower.

“Oh, Cock-Pig,” you heard her calling as she came down the stairs. Only this time  she wasn’t alone.  There was a second set of footsteps.  Heavy footsteps.

And then she was there in front of you, a man beside her. A very big man with his very big cock in his fist. “Now I’m going to show you what a Cock-Pig is really good for,” Christa cooed, opening your cage. “Crawl out here now.” Her voice was as sexy as ever, but there was a breathiness to it you hadn’t caught before. This was exciting her. This was where she’d been leading you since the beginning.

“Suck it, Cock-Pig. Suck this big fat cock. When the cock cums, you get to cum.”

And so you sucked it. When he was getting close to cumming, Krista removed your chastity device and whispered in your ear, “When that cock cums, you can cum. From now on the only time you will ever cum is when you are sucking a cock and it comes.” And she wrapped your own hand around your dick. “Play with it, Cock-Pig. Jerk it while you suck that cock.”

And she stayed so close that you could hear each of her breaths, smell her perfume. Soon the man was grunting, thrusting his hips, grabbing your head. And then you were taking your first load right from that swelling, jerking, squirting cock and cumming all over your own belly at the same time.

And you were finally real. You were Krista’s Cock-Pig.

Orbital Debris

  1. Cock Leash
  2. Nipple Clamps
  3. Studded Collar
  4. Large Dog Pen
  5. Butt Plugs (assorted sizes, electric, inflatable, etc.)
  6. Chastity Cage
  7. Wrist/Ankle Cuffs
  8. Body Harness
  9. Fetish Latex
  10. Fetish Leathers
  11. Strap-On Dildo
  12. Ball Stretchers
  13. Catheters
  14. Urethral Sounds (of progressive sizes)
  15. Enema Bags (varied selection of tubes and nozzles)
  16. Cock Ring Assortment (aluminum, rubber, leather, vibrating, etc.)
  17. Spreader Bar
  18. Vacuum Penis Pump
  19. Penis Prison
  20. Assortment of Canes, Whips, Paddles & Crops

~In Space No One Can Hear You Scream~

it’s the bitch in her

it’s the bitch in her
that keeps you on her dotted line
signed, sealed, delivered
your signature, her hand
done deal

used up and faded blue
the new you
(after all)

after all:
buckled down and tied up
your twisted tongue and caught breath
searching for sonnets

searching for sonnets
on hobbled limbs
and always bent knees
to sing, to plead, to offer alms
to your silent siren
who never listens, never speaks
who only hears her own measure

it’s the bitch in her
that keeps you here and keeps you hers:
her cheap fetish
her pygmy romeo
her corrupt fuck

it’s the bitch in her
that’s taken you down
rubbed you raw
cut you clean
wiped you out
bled you, bled you, bled you

it’s the bitch in her
that fucks with you
fucks you up
fucks you over
and doesn’t give
a flying fuck about any of it

it’s the bitch in her
that has your attention
your cock, your devotion, your heart

it’s the bitch in her
that makes you her bitch

She Never Knew

She never knew. You wanted her to. At least sometimes you thought you did.

You were her friend, her buddy, her “best buddy,” she always said. And you always agreed. Grinned your simple grin and kept your secrets.

You liked it when she called you that. Best buddy, bosom buddy. The buddy left alone when she was out with Karl or Jacob or Michael, or one of so many others. It’s not that you ever loved her; she never broke your heart after all. You knew even then that you can’t break a heart that doesn’t love. It was always that simple and that fucked up.

You never fooled yourself, not even at first. Because it was never love–not even lust or reverence. It was deification. Yes, you fantasized about her, masturbated thinking about her. Thinking about her with them–all of them. You thought about her face, her dewy flesh, her gray-green eyes, her auburn hair–long and always freshly shampooed. But it wasn’t her beauty that caught you’re imagination. It was her cunt. It was the thought of her cunt that got you crazy-hot. You wanted to worship the cunt that all of that beauty implied. To be the rutting pig, the filthy whore-boy, the degenerate cunt-slut. To be a slave to the magnificent snatch that the Karls and Jacobs and Michaels–loved and ate and fingered and fucked.

Even now you don’t remember the first time. The first time you had to have more. The first time you stole her panties, sniffed them, jerked off in them. And finally wore them: Her cum and their cum, all those men’s cum, wet against your cock, spunk-soaked satin and lace. A dirty betrayal. A profane gesture. You knew it, but you did it anyway, time and again–even your guilt a twisted aphrodisiac that you fed upon.

That was long ago, back then, back there. You both moved on. She–to three states, two marriages and, now, two divorces. You–just to a different apartment, one town over. Always single, always remembering.

But she’s found you in the here and now.

Sitting on your sofa, drinking single malt whiskey instead of iced tea, wearing stilettos instead of sandals, smoking a cigarette instead of chewing gum–she is staring at you. Silence. Taking a drag off of her cigarette, exhaling slowly, never losing eye contact. Finally she butts the cigarette on the dish you’ve brought her in lieu of an ashtray.

“It’s going to be different this time.”

“What?”

“You know what. You know exactly what I mean. And this time you’re going to do it my way.”

She slowly uncrosses her long, silky legs and lights another cigarette. You attempt the silly grin, your old standby. But you’re out of practice. Nervous. Your lips tremble. And you don’t quite pull it off; know you look timid, stupid, probably even frightened. Because that is exactly how you feel.

She takes another drag of the cigarette, this time a long, deep one. Stands up. Begins walking toward you, her heels digging into the drab, grey linoleum. Standing in front of you she lets the cigarette hang from the corner of her over-glossed lips and starts slowly pulling up the sides of her dress.

“I was a busy girl before I got here tonight. You remember those days, the old days?  When I was a busy girl? A very busy girl all the time?” Her dress is sliding over the tops of her stockings. You push your back into your chair, gripping its arms.

“Funny thing is…I never had to clean a pair of panties. No matter how many men, how many cocks, how many fucks. No panties to wash. In fact, no panties–period. No panties at all. All of those nasty, dirty panties–gone, poof, nowhere to be found.”

Her dress is at her waist now, and she is reaching out with one hand, pulling you by the neck, pulling your face between her legs. With her other hand she runs her fingers through your hair, enamel nails lightly scratching your scalp.

“We’re going to get it right this time,” she says, pushing your cheeks against the inside of her thighs. The hem of her skirt catches at your brow as she presses your face against her crotch. Inhaling the scent, remembering the scent, you open your mouth and press your tongue into the soaked, pungent, satiny crevices. As she starts to grind her pelvis, you hear her murmuring above you.

“I knew. I always knew.”

The Alley

She is watching you. You feel her eyes, lasers watching every move, every nuance, even the breaths you take. Yes, you paid her for this. To be here, to make you do this. But she is enjoying it. She likes her work. She likes making you do this dirty deed. This realization excites you.

You are on your knees in an alley off Garfield street. Not a very nice neighborhood. You can hear the music, the noise of the crowd from the biker bar on the corner. “Soon they will come,” she says. The gravel crunches as she moves closer, cupping your chin, pulling your face up to look at her. She studies you, stares into your eyes, her mouth a twist of a smile and a sneer.

“What do you say?”

You heart quickens in your chest. You know what she wants to hear. You swallow. You aren’t quick enough. She slaps you. Slaps you hard with her leather gloved fingers.

“Say it, you dirty, fucking, piece of shit scumbag.”

“I am a cunt-fag, Sir. Use me.”

“That’s more like it. And I expect you to say it every time. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

She starts to raise her hand and this time you know better. “Yes, Mistress.”

You think of the hotel room on the other side of town. The business conference you spoke at this afternoon. The wife. The three children. The birthday dinner at your in-laws last week. Your woodshop. I’m a normal guy, you think to yourself. With a normal life, a good life, a happy life. Yet, here you are on your knees when two guys stumble out from the bar and turn into the alley.

You watch them wallking towards you, leather vests, tight jeans. One of them, the one with the beard, is already unzipping his pants.

Echo, Mistress Echo, grabs your shoulder.

“Here comes dinner,” she says tightening her grip. “Now lets get busy.”

Ironing Day

Hello?

It took you five rings to answer the telephone. Is that acceptable?

No, Mistress. I was getting the mail and forgot to take the extension phone with me. I’m sorry.

I am very busy running a real estate office here, Thomas. I don’t have time for your fuck-ups. Two Rings! The rules are clear.

Yes, Mistress.

Have you had your nut juice popsicle?

Yes, Mistress. Exactly at Noon, just like you said. Thank you.

And did you wear your pink sissy bloomers to the mail box?

Yes, Mistress. I think the paperboy saw me. It was very embarrassing.

And the ironing? Have you finished it yet?

I have two more of your blouses to do and that will be it, Mistress.

So the iron is still plugged in, correct?

Oh, Mistress, please, no.

Get the iron, Thomas. Now.

Yes, Mistress.

Are you ready, Thomas?

Yes, Mistress.

Pull your right testicle out of the right leg of your sissy bloomers.

Ohhhh…

Right now. Do it.

Yes, Mistress.

Now place the bottom of the iron on that testicle, Thomas. Hold it there while I count to three. Don’t dare take it off. And don’t you dare scream.

Yes, Mistress.

One. Two. Three. Are you crying, Thomas?

Yes, Mistress.

Good. Do you think you will answer the phone within two rings the next time I call?

Yes, Mistress. I have learned my lesson. You were right to punish me. I was very stupid and I am so sorry.

Go finish the ironing. And prepare dinner for two this evening. I will be bringing home a guest.

Yes, Mistress.

Ok, I will see you later then.

Mistress?

Yes, what is it?

I love you.

Tying up Amy

“I’m not so sure about this.”

You smile, looking into her eyes as you continue to gently wind the nylon cord around her slender wrists. She looks so vulnerable, so frail, so perfect. Her hesitation quickens your hunger; you feel it, a rapid flair deep in your belly.

“Sweetheart, just relax.”

Your voice is quiet, almost a whisper. You watch the lift and fall of her naked breasts as she breathes, petite sighs of trust and tremor mixed together. You raise her wrists to the headboard.

“Oh.”

It’s barely a word, more of a shuddered gasp or nervouse moan, that escapes her lips as you tie her wrists, there above the carmel tresses of her upswept hair. You tighten the knot you’ve made and she whimpers. It rushes through you again. A roiling quake of lust and desire. You swallow. You want to take her now.  No, not yet.  You swallow again.

“Does that hurt?”

“No. It’s okay.”

“Spread your legs, Amy. Put your feet out to the edges of the bed,” you say, moving down to the footboard and unfurling a new piece of rope. You watch her legs slowly widen. The flesh at the top of her inner thighs quivers. The lips of her cunt part slightly, and you can see its inner moistness.

“You look so beautiful.”

She doesn’t smile, doesn’t say anything, just looks at you from under her thick lashes. Tenderly cupping the heel of her right foot, you begin coiling the white cord around her ankle. The flesh there is pink and taut, hot and dry against your knuckles. As you secure the cord, her calf raises slightly from the bedspread. She is your captive. Knowing this, seeing this, takes your breath away, but you quickly reach for the other foot.

Finally she is stretched before you. White cord binding her porcelain-smooth ankles and wrists, she is a sacrificial goddess, your goddess, your beloved.

“Fuck me.”

“What?”

“I said fuck me. Now that you have me tied up like this, fuck me.”

You hesitate.

“I mean it. Do it.”

This comes out in a rush of words, a sob, as she arches her back and pushes against the cords.

And so you mount your bound goddess.

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