Bonds of lust

  Chapter 2: The Art of Begging The hand on your back doesn’t move for a long, suspended moment. The only sound is your own breathing, ragged and sharp, and the faint creak of the armchair as your weight shifts. Then he steps away. The absence of his warmth hits you like a physical loss. You hear the soft thud of the flogger being set down, the clink of his whiskey glass being lifted from the side table. A slow sip. The ice settles. “Look at me.” You turn your head, the velvet cool against your cheek. He’s standing by the armchair’s side, glass in hand, watching you with that unreadable expression. Calm. Collected. Like he has all the time in the world. “You want harder,” he says. Not a question. “Yes.” “You want me to take you apart with that flogger. Leave marks that’ll remind you of this night for the next three days.” Your skin tingles at the thought. “Yes.” “Then beg.” The word drops between you like a stone into still water. Ripples spread through your chest, your stomach, th...

  Chapter 2a: The weight of surrender  The hand on your back doesn’t move. Neither does his voice when he finally speaks. “Stand up.” Your body obeys before your brain catches up. The rope harness shifts against your ribs as you straighten, and the velvet of the armchair releases your cheek with a soft sigh. You turn to face him, and the flogger hangs loose at his side, the suede tongues brushing against his thigh. His eyes hold yours. Dark. Unreadable. “That was a stupid thing to say.” The words land flat, no heat behind them, and somehow that’s worse than if he’d shouted. Your chin lifts on instinct. “Was it?” “You’re pushing for a reaction.” He sets the flogger down on the side table, deliberate, the handle clicking against the wood. “And I’m going to give you one. But not the one you think.” You watch him cross to the hallway, his footsteps steady on the hardwood. He disappears into the bedroom for a moment that stretches too long. When he returns, he’s holding something s...

  Chapter 1: The Line She Crossed  The leather collar sits on the nightstand, gleaming under the soft amber light of the bedroom. You’ve been staring at it for the last three minutes, which is three minutes longer than you ever have before. Normally, you reach for it the moment you step through his door. The weight around your throat is a comfort, a signal to your brain that says you can let go now. But tonight, your fingers hover over the black strap without touching it. He’s in the living room. You can hear the soft clink of ice against glass as he sips his whiskey, waiting. He always waits. Lets you prepare in your own time, never rushes, never pushes. Maybe that’s the problem. The thought surfaces before you can catch it, and you feel a flicker of something hot and rebellious curl in your chest. You’ve been good. So good. Every session for the past six months, you’ve knelt when he told you to kneel, presented when he told you to present, taken every stroke of the flogger w...

I try to remain a humble person. I never overcompensate about the size of my junk, never brag about the amount of girls I've had in my bed. I do my best to keep my ego in check, as I am confident in my belief that there is someone out there who is better than me. The only thing I allow myself to feel is confidence in my ability to provide enough orgasms to my partner to leave a good impression.  Tonight, however, I feel like I may have done something worth sharing and, to a degree, worth bragging about.  A few days ago, my wife sent me a video clip from Facebook from the page of a sex therapist. The clip involved the description of something I've never heard of, called a Yoni massage. The clip caught my interests and I decided to do more research on it. A few hours later, I realized I needed to try this.  Originating from the tantric practices,  Yoni  massage is designed to help one feel comfortable in their skin, specifically in building comfort and love in one...

      “Tiff, are you ready?”       I slide on a black overshirt to go over the designer shirt I’m wearing. Those two plus a pair of black jeans are my usual streetwear clothes. My pentacle necklace completes the look as you come down the stairs. You’re wearing a pair of black leggings and a Deadpool shirt, a favorite of yours. Against your throat, a black choker is pressed against your neck. To others it’s a fashion accessory. To us, it’s your day collar. You wear it with pride in place of the play collar that you wore last night.       “How do I look?”       I give you the signal to spin. You do so slowly, allowing me a good view of your curves. You keep your hair neat and straight, allowing the natural blonde to appear while keeping the tips burgundy. As you finish your spin, I pull you close and kiss you.       “Beautiful, as always,” I say. You beam at the compliment.   ...

A short story I wrote based of a club I used to frequent. The story itself is fictional.      We pull up to the unassuming house, a little single story extended ranch style with over a dozen cars parked in the lawn. You had mentioned the first time we were here that if this was a horror movie, you wouldn’t be going in, for fear of being killed by a cannibal family.  That was four months ago.       We’ve been coming here twice a month since that night. And tonight is a special night for you. As I finish parking, you rub your hand along my inner thigh, wanting to start things early. But I give you the look, and you withdraw your hand. Tonight, you’re my equal, but your submissive training makes you react subconsciously.       I reach into the back and pull out the black bag I stashed from you. In the bag is a small box.       “Remove your panties.” I say.       You unbuckle yourself and slo...

 I haven't stepped foot inside a classroom as a student in over 20 years, but I remember vividly the sex education discussion I had to go through in 8th grade health class. It was a two week course that was designed to teach us what happened to our bodies during puberty, it went into detail what anatomically happened when you got pregnant, and we spent several days discussing STDs and STIs. I can't speak for classes that you may have gone through in those days, but for my school (which was in a highly conservative city), they made sex seem so unnecessarily scary that it should have been called Abstinence 101. Each lesson seemed to make sex this highly dangerous practice that could land you pregnant, infected, or dying with each session you attempted. And I get it, they don't want teens to have sex while they're in school, because they don't want teen parents to become a huge issue, and they want everyone to practice safe sex to reduce the chances of spreading stuff....