Fierce

This week’s beautiful image by the Barefoot Sub is part of the inspiration for this little bit of writing. Another comes from this week’s Sinful Sunday posts of beautiful fierce women. Not sure entirely where this week’s narrative voice comes from, except we share aesthetic pleasure inspired by some of the same things. And then I managed to sneak some lovely playtime, so I’m feeling inspired by medical staples this week. If this is up your street, try Kink of the Week, on this theme this fortnight.

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We are taught by societal convention there is a perfect woman. Perfect femininity.

Her skin, velvet smooth beneath my fingertips, unmarked, unblemished is part of this image. The only part. Value is given to pale beauty that intimates untouched purity as much as it does temptation.

We are taught that the curve of her waist and hip should be soft. Enough to cushion their partner who is angular and hard. Not too padded though. That a fat woman could ever be considered attractive is fetishized or given cultural overtones of wealth and greed.

Fuck them all.

Her unblemished skin is only of interest to me because I get to mark it.

The way her body takes rope gives me aesthetic pleasure. Not just restrained but segmented. Portioned. Flesh blooming in cushions between the neat, taut lines. Her body talks to me. Rolls of soft flesh around her middle that quiver as she laughs. As she comes.

That laugh. There is nothing pure or innocent in the joy and mischief she can communicate in a giggle.

She giggles now, as I balance astride her. Relief that we have reached this point. Nervous anticipation of what comes next. Jiggling boobs and gasped breaths.

My woman. Spread beneath me. Beautiful.

I will work to the death to deserve the confidence she shows in me when she gives her body over to my keeping. She inspires ferocity.

Comfortable with being bound, too comfortable sometimes, rope is often a decoration. Not tonight. She would have lain across the bed like this if I asked it of her. Stretched her arms above her head and crossed her wrists. Dangled her feet from the knee so she couldn’t push up. But there is a difference between her holding a position and me creating it. Insisting on it. Enforcing it.

Tonight there is power in the taking.

She licks her lips, hoping to entice a kiss. I give her one, taking the pale crest of her breast into my mouth. The lovely softness before resistance. Skin tightening reactively against my tongue. Filling my hands, I smoosh them together, trailing kisses and nibbles and bites, dipping my tongue into the crevasse of my own making.

I feel her tremble between my thighs. Laughing.

Glorious.

I bite down. Tilt my head to glare at her beneath my lashes, giving her the visual of her heavy flesh suspended by stretched nipple from my grin-exposed teeth.

The giggle turns breathless, and within the confines of the rope she tries to arch. Eyes widen. I revel in the experience, ever new, of leading her from easy intimacy to something sharper. Even when she knows its coming, knows our plan, there is surprise when we meet that edge.

Opening my mouth, I let go and feel the bounce. Stay with the slight wince that tightens the corner of her eyes as blood rushes back to bruise. With her solid gaze that tells me she is with me here. Walking the tightrope together.

There is a shared concentration between us as I unroll a length of tape and pass it behind her neck and under her boobs, bringing them together to create a tighter cleavage. A few minutes of creativity later and I can sit back and admire my hand-made demi bra cutting into and taming their fullness. Pause to take photos.

I turn the screen to show her. All those little expressions that run across her face. I run my finger down the place I know has brought the hint of frown, where a messy ridge of swollen creamy breast overspills the sharp edge of tape. Pinch the purple tipped nipple I’d bitten, knowing how much she loves the bruises.

All of her. I want her to love all of herself. To see beauty in the curve and crease.

I want to see my marks, add them to the final images of this evening. Take my time sucking and biting and pinching. Playing with the gift of nature which are her nipples. How they stretch. Tighten. Flush and bruise. Crenelate into puffy peaks like thick icing and sweeties topping the best fairy cakes.

A work of art. The fake whirr and snap of the camera captures my view and my mind races ahead picturing the images edited to highlight the unctuous richness of her body and the cruel touch I brought to it.

Desecration has rarely created a more perfect image, and yet, I feel there is scope to improve.

Cheeks flushed and wet mouth open she is beautiful. Tears weave a damp trail to her hair. I kiss her to savour their salt.

Wiping my kisses from her skin feels cruel in a new way. Clinical. The crisp antiseptic biting through the heavy scent of our combined sweat and lust. Stripping her feel from my fingertips. The moment shift from organic to mechanical, from lust to process, but her eyes on my face don’t lose their need. Her body focuses on disinfectant dampened skin, breaths even but shallow.

Satin ribbon lies precisely across her chest. Tonight, she had an image in mind and I will create it. This is not completely new to us, but this is the first time face to face. First time those reactions will be laid bare, untranslated, for me to read. The dichotomy of wanting to have first sight of the metal piercing her skin and of watching that moment in her eyes is unexpected.

I line up the staple gun across the ribbon and realise I can have both. Hold her gaze, before squeezing the trigger handle.

I know that first release that I will always want to be working on her front when we do this. However beautiful the patterns on her thighs or back, I want this. The everything of her reactions from the tension in her limbs to the sound that doesn’t know how to mark the surprise, is topped by the flash in her eyes that takes us from anticipation through sensory invasion to that look. That look that is indescribable and makes me ache for her.

Her skin barely flushes around the entry sites. I smooth the ribbon and place the gun again.

Squeeze. I wish this shared the false sounds of the camera, because I notice the silence where I expect the heavy mechanical clunk of a desk stapler. Would like the metal puncturing her body to come with more fanfare.

Carefully I fold the ribbon to create a laced pattern. The image she wanted was of tight lacing, but straining the catch points will make her hiss with the sting. I only want that sound when I want it, not accidentally.

Place the gun. Catch her gaze. Squeeze. Fold the ribbon.

We are in our own bubble, our whole focus the framed by her captured arms and the shiny tape.

Place the gun. Catch her gaze. Squeeze. Fold the ribbon.

Her breath barely hitches. I jostle the ribbon through the hoops, pulling it more snug and feel my face crease into a smirk at the slightly strangled moan she emits. It is funny to feel more connected to her body than my own.

Place the gun. Catch her gaze. Squeeze. Fold the ribbon.

Tie the bow.  Capture the photo.

Her skin demarcated by rope and bondage tape. Cream velvet stretched over generous, ripe flesh. Marked, bruised and pierced with dull metal staples. This beautiful image.

My perfect woman.

If you’ve enjoyed this fictionalized experience of staples, please check out the two companion pieces, Date Night and A Staple of my Life

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Once more for the crowd- part two

Last week for Wicked Wednesday’s prompt we had a story starter of being home alone… and I had started something I really wanted to finish. It just so happened that Bee’s glorious picture fit the story perfectly. I suggest you read the first part…which is a little more anticipatory… while this is a bit more direct.

Follow the link to see who else has been getting off today.

I shuffle low on the bed, my head below the pillows, knees bent and my feet curled against the bedstead. Fan my hair out, dark on the snowy white of the sheets. This is, after all, predominantly about the visual for him. For our friends.

“Beautiful, petal. You’re sleepy and warm and comfortable. Thinking of me and how I would be touching you if I were there. Use your hands.”

Stretching like a cat, I arch and the blanket falls lower around my waist. My hands, his hands, are slow and deliberate, but not tentative. I wake my body with firm squeezes and pinches. With the delicate fabrics and the harsh bite of my own nails.

“Show me.” His voice pours over my skin, liquid warmth heating me and I am impatient suddenly with the flimsy barriers. Pushing the fabric aside, dragging my arms through the thin straps, hands meet skin.

My eyes close.

When we lie together, without continents between us, I watch him with ravenous eyes. Take in every mark on his skin, the way the hair of his beard grows differently on his neck and his jaw, the flush of blood to his cheeks as I arouse him. I feast on those memories now. Draw up the perfection of images and sensations from every last greedy fuck.

He sees my blue nailed fingers twisting at the tight nubs of my nipples. Sees me pull and roll the flesh roughly. I feel his mouth, his breath panting in hot wet bursts between aching, drawing suckles. Teeth and tongue trapping me, I let go of the cries that spill as we dance backwards and forwards across the line of too much and not enough.

They hear me, and I wonder if their mouths are wet for the taste of soft, salty skin.

My legs shift restlessly against the cool sheets, rucking the slip higher, its silky finish complimenting the needy slickness gathering between my thighs. The scent of my arousal is mixing with the cool cotton of the freshly made bed, so different from the heavy muskiness we create when combined. The rounded scent of his sex, savoury and spicy, is missing I feel pangs of hunger for him pierce through me.

“I know you’re wet for me. For us. Show us what you’ve got, petal.”

He calls me many things, but when I am his petal, we are something else. I am his, but he is holding me up, letting me fly. I know what he is asking and why and I love that he is maintaining control for us.

I can’t hear them, can’t see them, but I can feel the anonymous eyes watching as I hook the blanket and slip higher, exposing the coy shadows and clefts of my groin. I imagine the click of keys and mice driving the cameras to move and refocus.

This is my fantasy. As I spread my legs, hook my right foot high on the bed frame, I want to be seen and to be ignored. Want the focus narrowed to my blossoming cunt, the colours and curls highlighted with succulent juices. To be the hole they want to fill.

Spreading myself wider with my fingers I wonder if the slap and slurp will carry to the microphones or whether this is another loss to technology. I soak my fingers, then taste them, glossing the salty sweetness across my lips before licking them clean. Sucking them, as if it were his mouth directly feeding from the source, bringing tongue and teeth into action.

“Fuck. You taste so good,” he groans, his voice filling my head. Maybe, like me, he can taste our mingled flavours carried by the ghost of familiarity.

“Under the pillow. I want to fuck you.”

I search out his cock and close my fist on it, ignoring the cold hard surface in favour of the weight in my hand. Imagine how I will look stretched and stuffed.

My dominant hand moves without thought, directing the show. Pinching.  Plucking. My hips grinding up to meet my hand as though it was your weight they are seeking.

One hand clutching your cold, glass cock, the other ravaging my swollen pussy, I wonder where your eyes are? Whether the details you see are different from those chosen by others? Finger-bruised  nipples, proudly crowning tits jiggling with exertion as I writhe against the bed. Unkissed lips, flushed with desire and seasoned with lust.

It hurts to drive the spear of glass into the hot mouth of my cunt. Aches as I yield to its uncompromising hardness. Your cock, parting me. Fucking me.

You order me deeper but I have no idea if the words were ever said aloud. I spread my legs further, brace my feet through the bars of the footboard and fuck back, loving and hating the bright bruise of sensation on every thrust as I reach my limit. Not stopping, though the glass becomes slippery and warm.

Even as I feel you inside me, I can picture your strong hand as certain and as rough with your body as I am with mine. I set my pace by your harsh breaths and we move together across the internet.

The hitch and the stutter and growl of release signifies your orgasm and drives me to force your glass cock hard and deep into my core until the pain blooms then implodes into contractions of pleasure.

Later, when we can be together as me and you as much as Sir and petal, I will ask Sir about the watchers. I will choose if I want to know who they were, or if I want their identities to remain his secret. For now, your raspy voice creeps through me and round me, holding back my exhausted tears until you tell me they are gone and we are alone. I let you go slowly, the cameras motors whirring while their lights blink out as you turn them off. I hold you and you hold me until we are as ready as we can be, and you sign off from our call and return to the work that keeps us apart.

It’s very quiet here, and I am home alone.

I miss you.

Once more for the crowd…

Check out the link to other Wicked stories…

It’s very quiet over here, like I’m home alone. But I’m not…

The cameras whirr very gently as they move, so quietly it would be easy to miss it. I try to ignore them. Try not to catch sight of them in the corner of my eye.

Nervous energy courses through me, subduing my ability to create the correct headspace. I pace and check the clock again. Sit on the bed, central in the virtually bare room. Stand and smooth the pristine white sheet.

Check the ear pieces in my pocket. Check my phone.

It rings as I stare at it and I jump. It’s turned into alien tech and I press half a dozen buttons before I actually manage to answer the damn thing. I press it to my ear as though I could touch him through it.

No greeting. No cheerful questions about how my day has gone so far. He is as excited by this as I thought I would be.

“Check in, petal.”

I nearly reply automatically, but stop myself and really think about it. Today is the same, but different. The motor breaks the silence.

“It’s just me and you, petal.”

The breath I didn’t realise I was holding escapes with a sigh, but the words are still stuck in my throat.

“It only has to be me and you, if that’s what you want.”

“I’m scared.” I say, but don’t follow through. Scared I’ll let him down. Scared of being judged. I want to be… I don’t know… worthy?

“I’ll cancel. No-one will mind.”

“No!”  I surprise myself a little with the rush of disappointment. “I’ll mind. Just need a few seconds.”

His headset mutes automatically and I really wish I could hear him breathing instead of the void down the line. “I’m putting in the ear pieces.” I tell him, as though he can’t see everything, and I make the technical switch to hands-free. Take off my robe and hang it on the back of the door.

I hear his gasped intake of breath as though he was standing right beside me, and feel a flash of reassurance. The midnight blue slip I’m wearing is not something I’d told him about in advance, but I am guessing he approves.

“You look beautiful.”  He pauses, “Check in, petal.”

“Ready, Sir.” Now I’ve removed my robe, the silky fabric moves across my body and drags my skin into awareness that snakes through me as a shiver. I wrap my arms across my chest, a gesture half protective, half reflexive to the shiver.

“Once more for the crowd?”

I’d forgotten. Communication tonight is to be explicitly clear.

“Green, Sir.” I exhale and feel my nerves dissipate.

He whispers in my ear and I can almost feel his breath. “Do you remember the first time we did this? The connection so jumpy. I was typing left handed to give you instructions, because we didn’t have enough bandwidth for two-way video.” He is here but not here, something we have become used to over the length of our relationship. From dodgy Skyping and expensive video calls to our current web accessible camera streams.

I remember, and the memory is hazy and intimate, filtered through the light of nostalgia of 16 years.

I stroke my fingers down my arms and let my hands fall relaxed at my side.

“Our friends are joining us, love.”

Closing my eyes, I imagine their ghostly presence at the periphery of the room. In reality the cameras will be their eyes, peering at me myopically from the walls.

“Settle yourself on the bed. Let me cover you with that soft blanket, not too much. It’s a warm summer’s night, so it rides low and leaves your feet and legs bare.”

My hands become his, and I feel his soothing touch as the fleecy blanket drapes over my middle, just a flirt of my silky slip showing above and below.

“Check in for our friends, petal.”

“Green, Sir.”

…I get the feeling I might continue this one later…

Delicious Sensations

I’m still not sure of the etiquette, when someone posts a photo that makes your mouth water (and other delicious sensations)… but this week’s prompt photo for #MasturbationMonday was one of those.

This beautiful photo is Marie Rebelle’s, provided as prompt for Masturbation Monday and linked back to her original use “Twisted”

Nipple play has always featured strongly in my fantasies, which I found strange, since mine never seemed particularly sensitive in a sexual way. But still… it was a theme I returned to time and time again and something that always sent excitement curling through my body when I read about it, especially when combined with the idea of getting pierced.

So… some fiction… (after some detailed research).

Follow the link to see who else has been feeling inspired this week

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if it would hurt. How it would hurt.

“No.” she stated firmly. One last look at the little purple dots in the mirror. “No questions.”

She felt a little hazy as she laid back on the medical couch, detaching from reality just a little.

The young piercer moved around the room unhurried but purposeful. Vacuum sealed implements laid out on the metal trolley, blue gloves snapped into place. The shiny titanium bars winked at her from the tray.

She had a tendency to fill quietness with conversation, but not today. She wanted to drift with the opportunity to tune in to her body.

This was nothing like the mindfulness course she’d been sent on. Lying on the floor of the community college while the teacher exhorted her to concentrate on relaxing her toes and imagining them scrunched into warm sand. Today she felt tranquility like summer sun on her skin: excitement the distant hum of bees in the flowers.

The cartilage in her ear had scrunched when the needle passed through. An unexpected sound. She didn’t think there would be a sound today.

The world shrank. She let go of the sounds from the shop outside, the press of the bench against her back, relaxed her jaw.

Gave up the embarrassment of being turned on.

Heavy soled boots with beautiful silver buckles walked into view. A white lab coat grazing a knee.

“Just the clamp going on. Feels a little weird this part.”

The whole experience was more than a little weird. But the clamp, that felt familiar. The squeeze. The pull. Tightness that pulled at the base of her throat.

“You can close you eyes if you want.”

No way. She’d been imagining watching the needle slide through flesh for weeks, if not months.

A fat, silver needle, millimetres from trapped flesh.

“Breathe in. Blow out.”

She watched, but didn’t see, her mind filled with too many other messages.

A scratch. A flame. The drag of metal. An explosion of sensation that starts late and burns hot before tapering away. Scarlet blood dribbled.

“And the jewellery. It’s going to pinch just a little bit.”

Jostling the raw nerves. Such good hurt.

The efficient hands withdrew. Murmured words broke through the quiet. Praise for keeping still, registering in all sorts of ways it probably wasn’t intended.

It took time before she could focus on more than fragments. On the shiny balls nestling next to tender flesh. On the second bar sitting on the trolley.

The clamp appeared again in her eye-line.

“Ready to go again?”

Tantrum

“One hundred and forty four, One hundred and thirty two, One hundred and twenty, One hundred and eight…”

I love the way he still sounds stroppy. Defiance in every single syllable.

His arms are crossed. He knows that is not how I want him to stand, so it’s another little fuck you. His nose might be to the corner of the room, but he’s still in the middle of his tantrum.

“Sixty, forty-eight, thirty six, twenty four…”

His weight is on one leg too. Hip cocked to the side, sticking his butt out in a tight ball of temptation. It’s almost as though he wants me to slap his arse. I will. Just not yet.

He is just so fucking mouthwatering.

“One hundred and thirty two, One hundred and twenty one, One hundred and ten, ninety nine…”

I have to walk away or I’ll be distracted by way his tapping foot is flexing his thigh under the dark knit denim of his jeans. I’m pretty sure he thinks this is time to give him time to calm down. But, actually, I need the time to work out what set off the explosion I walked into this evening. This morning I left for work and everything was calm and by the time I got home he’d decided…well, I don’t know what?

The laptop is open on the kitchen counter. And his favourite shop is open in the browser. I’m beginning to get and inkling of the problem. I collect the evidence and make my way back to the dining room where he waits.

“Eighty eight, Eighty, Seventy two, Sixty four…”

“Have you been shopping?”

“Forty eight, Forty, Thirty two, Twenty four…”

Every syllable was slapped out, so even if I discounted his failure to answer, I had in fact got to the bottom of the problem.

“The past orders section?”

“Eighty four, Seventy seven, seventy…”

He’s screaming at me in numbers. So angry. Even though, if he were rational, he would realise this wasn’t, couldn’t be what he thought. If I had been buying these things for someone other than him, I wouldn’t be waiting for him to count backwards through his tables.

I hope he thinks this through. He should be catching on by now.

“Twenty one, Fourteen, Seven, zero…”

There is a hesitation that gives him away. He’s waiting for me to speak, but I just think he needs to start to put this together himself. What date is it?

“Seventy two, Sixty six, sixty, fifty four…”

I won’t get there for him. Surely he noticed the sizes I ordered?

“Forty two, thirty six, thirty, twenty four…”

I can hear the second the penny drops. He deflates before my eyes, arms dropping to his sides, hips squaring and arse tucked under as though running away from the slaps coming his way.

Soon.

He falls silent.

“Sixty, Fifty five, fifty.” I count for him, but he doesn’t join in and I let the room fall silent.

I get in there first. After all, one small sentence could have saved all that emotional energy for something far more fun. More purposeful.

“Stephen wanted to make sure Ashe didn’t get a heads up on their birthday present again this year.”

“Blue is their colour.”

I wrap my arms around him, and he sinks into my embrace. Mind you, he won’t be so keen on me later when he gets his reminder of the behaviour I expect, if not the behaviour I deserve.

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