blistered lips

You’re less than average, honey. I married you because I love you, not because of your sexual abilities. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here in this bed beside me.

So why do you think I should waste my time letting you climb on top of me to hump away on me like a rabid monkey?

I would never leave you. I mean, you can’t help it. Like I said, I love you. I just find you–shall we say–a little less than exciting. Perhaps even a bit inadequate. I mean, after all, you don’t even really cum like a real man, do you now? More like a little spritz, an itty-bitty trickle of a little bit of nothing. I don’t even believe you’ve got enough sperm in those little peanuts of yours to get me pregnant. Not that we need worry about that, because, like I said, that little thingy is not getting wet tonight or any night.

Damn it! Stop looking so pathetic. The truth is best. Take it like a man, if you can work yourself up to that. And, besides, I know you visit those porn sites and play with tinkerbell the entire time. I’ve seen you, darling. Don’t deny it. Catherine and I caught you at it just last week. Remember Thursday night? When you heard us laughing in the kitchen and came running downstairs? Fumbling with your zipper?

Why are you blushing? See what I mean? Men don’t blush. Now, dear, put the little guy away. Go ahead. Tuck it back in your boxers. That’s a good boy. It’s so much better when you face facts, isn’t it?

And honey? Before you go to sleep, go downstairs and get me a glass of wine.

i remember your mouth
its full swell of lip
almost a girl’s

and oh those kisses
those whole grain kisses
lacing
my blue, blue ruin.

and oh the rythms
the casual rhythms of your tongue
sharpening, sharpening my body

and later the white whispers
that
unraveled
a brittle, brittle silence

i remember your mouth
pressed soft
pressed cool
pressed mute
against my neck
when the poetry was gone

You know she knows.

She’s been winking at you, licking her lips, eyeing your crotch, leering wickedly. You think she can smell your guilt, smell it on you, smell it oozing from your pores. You look out the window, feigning calmness. She can’t know. This is crazy thinking. It’s impossible. You think this to yourself, yet you don’t believe it.

The door opens. Kelly is back from her break. Watching her walk to her desk in those killer heels, you see her catch Marie’s eye. Are they both smirking? Do they both know? You need to get out of this office, take a walk, get some fresh air to clear your head. With a sigh of what you hope comes across as casual indifference, you push your chair back. You clear your throat.

“I guess I’m going to go out and grab some lunch,” you say, starting to rise.

“Not so fast, buster boy.”

You feel yourself turning red even as you sit back down. Flustered, embarrassed, you hear Kelly giggle at—what? What Marie said? What they know? The way you sat down so fast, like a well-trained puppy?

“Now that we’re all three alone…”

Marie is walking toward you, arms behind her back. She’s wearing black silk stockings again. You try not to look at her legs, try to think of something clever to say, try to tell yourself that nothing is wrong.

“I have something of yours, or I should say Kelly’s.”

Kelly giggles again, that beautiful girlish music, now a torment. You can’t even look at her. Worse, behind your desk you feel yourself becoming hard. Oh God, they found them. Fuck! What do I do now? How do I get out of this? I need to get out of here.

But it’s too late. Marie has brought her arms out in front of her. You don’t want to look at her outstretched hands, what she’s showing you. You try to look past the clutch of white satiny fabric to her face. You watch the cruel snarl of her red lips, moving as if in slow motion.

“You’re a fucking pervert, a dirty little dog, a crotch-sniffing panty thief.”

Kelly is crossing the carpet, one hand tugging at the hem of her skirt, the other dangling a key. Glimpsing a pink garter, you realize the key looks familiar. Your eyes darting back and forth, you start fumbling around your desk. Surely they are here somewhere.

“Looking for these?”

You hear the metallic clattering, even as Marie is pulling them from her ample cleavage. She smiles, leaning in close and jingling them in front of your face.

“What’s that,” Kelly says, sliding onto the corner of the desk, looking pointedly at your crotch, “a stiffy?” Her skirt is all the way up now. Seeing the pink lace of her panties, you feel your cock flex. You can’t help it. A moan escapes your constricted throat. Marie laughs as Kelly presses the key into your sweaty palm.

“Now let’s unlock that bottom drawer and see how many pairs you have in there,” Marie says.

And you know Marie knows and you know that you are fucked.

“Would you like to come out of your cage for a while, pet?”

Hearing his Mistress’s voice at the top of the stairs, Matthew’s cock began to twitch. With each steady, slow click of her heels as she descended the steps, it grew and the restraining ring around his balls tightened, causing the attached butt plug to automatically begin vibrating. Hurriedly, he dropped off the cot and onto his knees, pressing his face to the floor of the cage in supplication, as he’d been trained.

“Heel.”

Keeping his eyelids lowered, he unbent from the waist to an upright position, bringing his arms down to his sides. Eyes focused on her black leather boots and remaining still despite the rippling sensation of the butt plug, Matthew listened to the key rattling in the lock of his cage.

“Well…”

“Yes, Mistress Diana, I would like to come out of my cage.”

“You do know I am going to beat you, Matthew,” she said, swinging the cage door open. If it weren’t for the constraining ring, he would have lost control, orgasming without permission, just hearing those words from her lips.

***

Matthew is again lying in his cot, Mistress Diana sitting beside him. She tenderly runs her fingertips over the welts along his neck and shoulder. Though he tries his best to suppress his tears, they escape, sliding down the sides of his face. “We will have to put some Betadine on these and the ones on your backside later,” she tells him. “I was rather rambunctious with my whip tonight.” Although his body is aching and tender, he answers her respectfully, “Yes, Mistress, if it is your wish.”

Reaching to undo his restraining ring, she continues, “Once you’ve healed, I have a delightful new metal and barbed wire baton we are going to try out.” He shudders–both at the thought of future torture and the sudden grasp of her hand around his cock.

She begins slowly stroking him.

“Would you like to orgasm for Mistress, Matthew?”

“Yes, Mistress. Please, Mistress, permit me to serve you with my orgasm.”

The rhythm of the stroking becomes more urgent, and Matthew feels his orgasm building. Now he is sobbing. The pain, her touch, his need, it is all too much. He feels her breath at his ear, her hair on his chest, can smell the sweetness of her shampoo. She whispers, “Then tell me who you are, Matthew. Tell me who you are, and I will let you orgasm.”

“I am your beautiful bruise.”

Thus we’ve moved to this.

All those moments we dared to test our chaste vows: You knowing my hunger by the quickening of my breath, the beating of my heart against your chest, the fire of my cunt against the thigh you shoved into the folds of my skirt. Desperate to keep your secret, even in those heated moments, you never dared press full against me.

A twofold agony for you: Wanting me just as much. Needing to fuck me the way a real man fucks a real woman. Aching for the tight clench of hot cunt around a fully formed cock. Yet always knowing that this would be experience forever denied you. And thus….me. Always knowing you could never fuck the woman you love, lying wantonly and wickedly beneath you.

Dreading—even as you respond in your very small way to the feminine scent of my arousal that is so upon you, filling your nostrils, inflaming your need—that I might in frenzied abandon forcefully shove against you. Skirt to trousers, pelvis to pelvis, crotch to crotch. Hastening the disaster that looms in our future: My pending discovery of your own sad inadequacy.

And here we are in this encapsulated instant.

You watch my face: Idolizing the hunger, the desire you see there, as your fumble with the zipper of your fly. No backward movement here……no escape. And you know it.

You watch my face. Cherishing my ignorance of that forever-held breath, that angel of disappointment that hovers about us ready to pounce. You see her. Your first love. She who can only be your true love. And you know it.

The dark angel who has taunted you in the lone dark as you cupped your incompleteness. After all, only a few brief strokes needed for such paucity. Did you hear her laughter? . Did you hear her whispered taunts as you squirted your scant bit of goo in a brief spasm of nasty relief?

Did she warn you? Did she tell you what you already knew? That revelation would steal away this countenance of desire before you.

I lick my lips. You see the brush of perspiration above them, knowing the hunger that causes it is about to be replaced with disgust, perhaps pity.

Your clammy fingers, slipping, sliding.

I blink my eyes.

Impatiently I whisper, “Hurry. Show me, darling.”

“Show me!”

Exasperated, I reach out to help.

“Now, darling. Now!”

I hurriedly pull down the zipper and grab inside.

I look up at you.

“Oh….”

You hear the dark angel snicker.

she is your flower child

your woman-girl

an unwritten sonnet, yet every word in place

the melodia always at the back of your throat

a slip of memory

tucked forever into a corner of your soon-weathered heart

there to unfold

again and again and again.

and you will remember this vixen-child:

her flowing hair, her open flesh

the rose promise of her pink-hued nipples

the tangled flourish of her saporous cunt

you will remember:

her generous desire, her unfettered need, her transparent flame

all of this offered to you

all of this gathered for you

from the chagrined pleats

of your mothers’ ferrous skirts

of your fathers’ flannel suits.

before too long the years will shift

clumsy and dumb, they will take you with them

you don’t even know it

you shouldn’t even know it

she won’t let you know it, at least not yet

so be with her now, in this moment of this night

in this moment of this night that will last forever

because it is all that matters

because it will always matter

mount her, take her, fuck her, love her

forget yourself in her soap-scented yearning

remember yourself in her wide-open giving

save yourself in the clasp of her legs, the press of her breasts

she is your flower child

and you will remember

because she is writing herself onto your heart

she scratched her blue crotch
shedding enamel doctors
then rowed towards God

I thought you wanted me. Show me you love me and put these on.

I have my reasons. Now put on the panties like you were told.

Because that was before and this is now.

Here, I am just going to run my nail under and around your balls while I tell you, honey. Does that feel good, baby?

Ewe…you’re dripping onto my wrist. Here, lick it off, you nasty boy.

Christ, Sabrina.

Thursday night was before you flirted with Callie. Now, lick it off or I’ll dig these French nails into your balls. DO IT!

Don’t worry about that right now. Would you like me to play with your cock? Rub it and make it feel good?

Then put on these panties, and I’ll give you a nice treat. You want a treat don’t you?

You heard me. If that cock wants my attention, you better do what you’re told.

Almost. Awe! Your cock looks so pretty, pressed against that satin. How do they feel?

They’re kind of tight.

I guess I will have to buy some in your size. Now sit in this chair and close your eyes.

You want your treat or not?

Shhhhh… Be a good boy. There we go. These handcuffs aren’t too tight, are they?

This is crazy, let me go. Aghhh…

See, baby, I love you sooo much! Doesn’t my hand feel good, stroking that fatty of yours through the panties? Oooh… You are so hard, honey. And you’re leaking!

Damn it! Unlock these handcuffs! My balls are aching! I need to cum!

Here, I am just going to lift up my skirt and straddle your lap. Mmmm… That big dick feels so good rubbing up against my pussy. Maybe I should take off my panties so we can get it inside. Oh, you are the one in panties, not me. Tee Hee.

No, darling, there won’t be any cumming for that hard dick of yours today! Maybe not for a long time. But it’s what’s best. I promise.

You need to learn to behave and not flirt. We know it’s not your fault. Of course it isn’t. You love me, after all. So we need to train that nasty little pecker of yours. Then everything will be fine.

Why, me and Callie, of course! She should be here any minute. She’s offered to help me with the training. She’s such a good friend.

Just get comfortable, honey. You are going to be eating a lot of pussy tonight.

koko eats lipstick
YUM! babydoll heads! and sings
square apple carols

As well as being the title of Elise Sutton’s long-awaited and well-received book, Female Domination is rapidly becoming the sex du jour for an ever-increasing number of mainstream couples. Along with other out-of-the-closet carnal intimacies such as fetishes (feet & toes, nylons, leather, smoking….), homosexuality (Shhh! Don’t tell the republicans!!), masturbation (mutual and solo), strap-on sex (Surely, dear female reader, you knew this?), and the widely embraced metrosexual phenomenon (Google “sissy” or “feminization” or “panty boy.” I dare you!), the male desire to surrender control to an erotically powerful woman is no longer the “dirty little secret” it once was.

Being currently (and ever so blissfully!) immersed in Ms. Sutton’s book, and having a certain proclivity toward Dominant Phone Sex, I find this to be a singularly delicious expansion of the ever-evolving sex games boys and girls like to play. In other words, this is not your father’s phone sex any more! In fact, this is not even your father’s (or even your mother’s, Goddess forbid!) wet dream! The playing field has not only been leveled, but, irrevocably, skewed. And the allure of that sexy umpire-ess ordering you, a lowly bat boy, to crawl to third base and kiss her leather boots, is just too intoxicating to resist.

While I would never lay claim to being an expert in human sexuality, I am in the business of creating fantasy. More than occasionally I not only find myself with a front row seat from which to purview the conventional and not-so-conventional desires of the submissive male but am the privileged Phone Mistress who will mind-fuck him into subspace. Submissive men come in all shapes and sizes and flavors and perversions. What I find so delightfully disarming about these exquisite creatures is that they are –nine times out of ten– men of serious substance and quiet dignity. I can always count on them to be polite, congenial, accommodating, quick-witted, and downright, intoxicatingly clever. These men, over-all, are a sweet breath of fresh air. They have no hidden agendas. They dwell confidently and authoritatively in their every day and relatively well-balanced lives. And it is, indeed, a good life: Fulfilling, successful, accomplished…perhaps, even self-actualized. In fact, if we daughters had been raised by fathers like these, there would be no need for Jungian therapists, motivational gurus, self-help books, or Twelve Step recovery programs.

And, therein, beloved kinksters, lies the rub! When one is perceived as “in charge” in his everyday life, where does he go to find that sexual rapture that only can be realized when we give up control? While, courtesy of the Internet, we are all experiencing an expanding sexual consciousness (Even if to simply know, “You are not alone”), the submissive male has somewhat of a quandary on his hands. Most likely he has presented himself to his inamorata as, at the very least, a vanilla lover, and even more likely, an aggressive one. After all, that is what is expected of the “normal” man, right? While he and the rest of us are realizing that our nasty secret desires are neither as nasty nor secret as we once thought, he finds himself unable to bring this au courant flavor to the sexual table he, himself, has set. How does he tell his dinner partner (Perhaps, his cherished wife of 10 or 20 years?) that his palate now craves spicier fare?

I often tell my submissive callers that they are really just romantics on steroids. Even after a lifetime of pursuing, courting, loving, fucking, and perhaps marrying women, a man continues to be both perplexed and enamored with the ever-illusive Feminine Mystique. Not to torture a cliche’, but as has been the case since Eve bewitched Adam (Honestly, how much sweet-talk do you really think it took?) into eating her forbidden fruit, women have been dragging men around by their dicks. This really isn’t anything new; its just been “super-sized,” so to speak. Even in a situation where the guy is supposedly the dominant, let’s not fool ourselves, ladies and gentlemen. If his lady friend does not concede to dressing in evocative slut-wear, painting her lips cock-sucking red, donning the proverbial ball gag, and submitting to a bit of elaborate rope binding (not to mention some delicious bottom spanking), “Master” is not going to have an orgasm anytime in the foreseeable future!

There are as many variations to the D/s (Domination/submission) relationship as there are enthusiasts. This is the party of the season, and it seems everybody from the bootblack (male) to the CEO (female) has shown up. So here we are, all at the same party, just wearing different party hats. From the sensually sublime to the viscerally extreme, name your poison: Body worship, face sitting, bondage, forced feminization, cock and ball torture (cbt), orgasm denial & control, cuckolding, erotic hypnosis & mind control, humiliation (verbal &/or public), toilet training, objectification, and more, so very much more…it’s here for the taking.

Wallflower type? Looking for a little objectification? Grab your dick, take a seat, and don’t you dare move a muscle! So you think you’re the life of the party and wanna be Mistress’s party favor? Dangle that pretty pink lampshade over your head and jump up on the coffee table for some contemptuous browbeating while you squeal like a pig. What? You’re looking for the buffet? Right over here, darling! Now, put your head back and Mistress will just take a seat right here on your face. Mmmm…. Yes, it is a nice spread! And you? You say you’re not a guest, that you’re the pinata? Oh! They’re waiting for you in the dungeon. Just crawl down those stairs and around the corner. That’s right. Follow the smell of leather. No, it won’t hurt much.

Not much into parties? More of the homebody type?

Well….

If you have been a reasonably well-behaved partner in the course of a long-term relationship and think your ladylove is ready to meet the new & improved submissive you, you might want to start with some user-friendly (pun intended!) reading material. Elise Sutton’s book, Female Domination, is an excellent starting point. Because the author practices the FemDom lifestyle (she is married to her submissive) and regularly counsels female-dominant couples (her educational background is in psychology), the material she presents is backed by both personal and professional experience. Giving readers an intimate, firsthand peek into the everyday lives of “normal” couples who just so happen to be ardent practitioners of female domination, she presents an eloquent argument for the logic of the female-dominant relationship. Combining passionate commentary with a quiet spiritualism, Elise shares her personal history and evolution, examines the continuing social trend toward female empowerment, and explores the psychological “rightness” of male submission. This is a book from an intelligent heart that will speak to you and your lady’s emotions, intellect, and (keep your fingers crossed!) libido.

Need I say more? Now, go buy that book before I have to bitch-slap you!