Archive for the ‘Age play’ Category

I find that I am never able to entirely lose myself in a moment. To the extent of about 90-95% percent, my mind is floating in the air, moored down only by a firm and reassuring arm. But that rogue 5-10% of my brain is racing, creating a potential future piece of writing in my head.

[One could assume that any erotic experience I had was merely fodder for my writing portfolio. Well, you know what they say about assuming. This is not the case, although a lawyer could likely argue the fuck out of such a presumption.]

My erotic experiences, once a veritable festival of carnal experimentation, are now carefully selected. For me, it’s about the meeting of minds. A chemistry rare, delicate and intricate, that, once established, promises to strew the path ahead with surprises and perspicacity. But there is no predictive map or legend for this path. It’s all pretty much a crapshoot.


I stood, facing the window, head pulled back by my hair, and a comforting, warm arm secured around my upper torso, as if anchoring me to the ground. Tiny, almost imperceptible butterfly kisses were planted all over me, and suddenly, unexpectedly, I felt myself all but take flight.

Understand something very significant. A gentle touch is not what usually turns my knees to butter. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that the feeling of tiny butterfly kisses is something I don’t even usually notice. And yet there I was, headed for the ceiling head first, as if I were filled with helium. (Ethereally speaking, of course.)

In my head, while 95% of the little man in my head was committed to the mental floatage, 5% of him was fiercely writing notes on “I never fully understood the meaning of the word “sensuous” before”. It’s true. Today I learned the real meaning of the word.

The invited touch of another’s hand on your skin is usually a good feeling. I speak of something that far transcends this. The sensuous feeling of his lips on my skin transported me to some far-off plain — and the only way I can explain it is that it was chemistry: the who (him) far more than the what (tiny, gentle butterfly kisses, cloaking me in gossamer as I flew).

His hand on my shoulder made me shiver. His arm around me suffused me with a delight I’d not felt in a while. And through all this — the kissing continued. And higher and further I flew, the feeling continuing to soar within me, the slightest touch sending ripples of ecstasy through my nervous system.

Was this how, or why, he managed to elicit ejaculatory orgasms from me almost non-stop? My still-wobbly knees are testimony to how thoroughly I irrigated the surface beneath me time and time again.

Was this why, as I sat enfolded into a tetrahedral bear hug, his body still entwined around mine, panting for breath and coming back down to earth, that I felt so comfortable and safe?  Was it why I could have stayed there until now?

Was this how he felt too?  Was my touch — be it from my hand or from my lips — sensuous to him in an equable manner? I so delighted in hearing his moans of pleasure; it enhanced my own pleasure tenfold, so I did my best to elicit as many as I could.

Was this why, each time I looked into his eyes, he was always looking into mine? Whenever I looked away, I felt him watching me, waiting patiently until I met his gaze once more– and each time I looked back, he smiled softly and I instantly understood what his smile was saying.

It would certainly seem that way.

There is sensuality, and there is that which is sensuous. I’ve now had the difference between the two proven to me without a doubt.

Everyone should be so lucky.

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When warm embrace
Becomes tight caress
Imprinted, skin on skin
Essential proximity
My face buried in you
As if you were oxygen
The need to clasp
To hold on tight
That abject hunger
Insatiable need
To inhale you
My fill

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“Give me one,” he says to me.

I am lying spread across the bed, arms and legs secured akimbo, a warm muffler as a blindfold across my eyes. 

He is half-sitting and half-lying on and over me, stroking my skin, pinching me and flicking me, mini-slapping me with various pervertible slappy devices (beer mat, bookmark, bouncy rubber cat toy) to the sound of me yelping in pain and then sighing with ecstasy alternately.

Every so often he leans over me, his face so close to mine i can sense the warmth of him. I lift my head, hoping to catch his lips with mine in a warm and passionate kiss — and every so often he indulges me. But not always. This is, after all, his game. He makes the rules.

And how I love how he does so.

He pinches my clit, until i scream in ecstatic agony — and give him my orgasm, right into his palm.


“Give me one,” he demands from me.

I’m free-standing, the requirement is that i stand upright and allow him to toy with me as he pleases.

But of course. Could it ever be any other way? 😎

There are the basic assumptive roles into which we naturally and easily slide — catalyzed by our opening ceremony, which sets the scene very effectively for who and what we are when we are together. This is a role-play of sorts, but one that goes beyond any role-play of teacher and naughty schoolgirl, or of adult male returning to her home the young, naive and inexperienced babysitter.

His hand contracts, and his  fingers slide further inside me. I struggle to remain upright, eventually grasping onto the bookcase frame nearby as the alternative is to allow my knees to buckle. I look at him, my eyes pleading for clemency, and his acquiescent nod acknowledges the reality of the situation, and permits my frame-graspage.

I lose control, and come, screaming my ecstasy, and gushing what feels like gallons of come down my leg and onto the rug. And collapse into his warm embrace.


I love how he demands that I *give* him my orgasm. I give him my submission, and I give him my love — and I do so with all my heart, love, trust, warmth and being. But give him my orgasm? What? Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around? That he gives me one?

Orgasms are usually perceived as something that we take from our partners. Furthermore, there is no requirement for love or even any feeling that transcends beyond base animal attraction and lust in order to achieve that particular brand of ecstasy. 

And yet, here he is, and he turns it on his head for me. “Give me your orgasm.” He sees it as a gift to him, and I find this fascinating, unusual and absolutely amazing.

To him, the fact that i experience the overwhelming sweep of bliss that streams through me like a light-sabre, then shudder as if undergoing (a very delightful form of)  electro-therapy and then (eventually) collapse against him, limp and sated, breathless and panting, is all evidence that I have given him a gift? So much the better.


Later, he presents me with a healthy and highly inviting erection — a result of some dedicated and willing attention from my mouth and tongue — and demands that I clamber astride it. He didn’t have to demand. I’d have done it anyway. However, he is in control, therefore the instruction must come from him.

It’s how we like doing That Thing It Is That We Do.

Agreeably, I situate myself above him and slide him into me. He grasps my arms, dictating my every move, moving me up and down faster and faster, hitting my G-spot as he himself drifts off before my eyes onto a cloud of ecstatic joy. He looks into my eyes, and whispers to me.

“I love how your cunt feels around me.”

I nod, I smile my special smile at him, my eyes never leaving his.

“I’m going to take mine now.”

“I give it to you with all my heart, my mind, my soul and my cunt.”

“I love you, my kitten.”

“I love you, Don Gato.” 

He comes, his all-but-silent “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…!” echoing around the room, belying its near-silence.

I love being with him, I love fucking him, I love him fucking me, I love how he tells me how he loves my cunt and how it feels to be inside it, I love how he touches me when i sit at his feet, I love the way his skin feels on mine…

I will always give him whatever he wishes. Orgasms and otherwise.

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Update! Top-picked for Sugasm 166… thanks y’all…

“I’m going with the flow, as you suggested.”

“I can see that.”

“How am I doing, so far? I do feel like less of a newbie, I have to say.”

“Well, you’re bending over a desk, with your gorgeous juicy ass exposed, and I’m poised with my cane. I’d say you were doing pretty darn good.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“That’s enough talking. Spread those thighs!”


I inch my feet apart ever more until i can feel the breeze from the swish of his cape on my engorged labia. I feel him draw closer, until his breath is warm on my ear, and i feel his hand rest lightly on my thigh.

“That’s nice, girl. Now, you do remember which part of your body the thighs are?”

“Yes, Sir. ”

“Now you will name each part of your anatomy that my finger touches. Any mistakes will result in punishment.

“Yes, Sir.”

His finger glides up the inner side of my left thigh.

“Inner thigh, upper leg, Sir.”


The finger continues its path, sliding up to my left ass cheek, and pausing. I shiver involuntarily with delight and receive a lazy if stinging slap across the right side of my ass, from his other hand.

“Buttock, posterior, gluteus maximus, ass. Sir.”

“Which side of the buttock, girl?”

“The left, Sir.”


His fingers move up my spine — it’s not a probe, but i do feel as if they are scanning the flesh they touch, for quivers, tantalizing the nerve endings that are almost on fire with anticipation.

“Er, ass,  left hip… back, Sir.”

“Hip? Ass? Is your ass in the middle of your lower back, girl?”

“Well, no Sir, but you said to say the areas you touched, so I was speaking progressively, Sir…”

Crack! The cane hits the desk with a whistle, and I feel the vibrations on my skin.

“Write down one point, girl. And make sure you keep the score right.”

“Yes, Sir.”

His fingers touch my spine, stroking the skin above L3 and L4.

“So – what part of your anatomy is this, girl?!”

“My back, Sir.”

“And which part of your back is that, girl?”

“The middle, Sir.”

“I am disappointed, girl. That is your spinal cord. This is L4.”

“Yes, Sir. I’m so sorry, Sir.”

He presses down gently but firmly on L4, and I yelp “Bad pain! Bad Pain! Red!”, so he stops.

He always has my safety as his highest priority, even when deeply entrenched in roleplay. It’s why I love him. One of the reasons, anyway. He kisses my head and checks I’m alright, and we snap back into the scene.

His roaming finger now glides between my ass cheeks, over, between, stroking incessantly, eliciting sighs of ecstasy from my lips, and almost causing me to forget where I am, and what we’re doing.

“I’m waiting. Name the part of the anatomy I’m touching!”

“Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir. I just got carried away, Sir.”

“ETA on the anatomical naming, girl? You’re making me angry — do you want me to punish you?”

I struggle with every fiber in every nerve end to not scream “Yes! Yes! Cane me! Flog me! Beat me until I weep for mercy! Send me flying into subspace! Fuck me until I scream the names of every Jazz musician from here to Cuba!”

Resistance is not easy.

“Ahem, er… I’m sorry, Sir, i don’t know what that’s called other than ass crack. (Is it bad that it feels so good? Am I bad?)”

“Are these questions related to anatomy?”

“No Sir. I’m sorry Sir.”

I hear him suppress a giggle, as his hand dips in between my thighs, and pinches a handful of my flesh. I say nothing. I love when he touches me that way.

“We shall continue.”

“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

“Are you wriggling onto the corner of that desk, girl?”

“Um… well, yes, Sir, a little bit. I cannot lie to you, Sir.”

He is loving the effect that this is having on me. He knows how desperately and deeply aroused I am. It’s a huge part of the appeal, bringing me to the point of no return, controlling me in this way. And I cannot lie — it’s entirely mutual.

“Stand still. Stay, girl!”

“Yes, Sir.”

“I cannot believe my eyes! Are you actually still wriggling and jiggling after I said stay?!!”

“No, Sir. Well, not much, Sir.”

“So, do you have any explanation for the flushed cheeks, or perspiring brow?”

“Yes sir, but it is nothing to do with anatomy.”

He leans over me, his face so close that i can think —  dream — hope of him (finally!) kissing me. His voice murmurs quietly yet insistently, with his lips so soft and close to my cheek that they kiss it as they move, although it isn’t what I think of as kissing.

“Let’s hear it, girl. What is it, exactly, that has you trembling and jiggling, unable to remain still, despite my instructions — a flagrant infraction for which you know you will be punished. Tell me, little miss… tell me what it is.”

“Ahem. Well, Sir, it’s… um… well, it’s you, Sir. You’re making me feel so… hmmmmm… and…”


“And the corner of the desk is the absolutely level with my clitoris, Sir, and it’s pressing on it, and it’s not helping, and…”

“Be clear. Is it me or the corner of this wooden table?”

Despite myself, I blush.

“The table started it but you increased it tenfold, sir… and i was only pushed into the table because that’s how you told me to stand… Sir.”

“And then?”

“I was a bad girl, and i wriggled, Sir.”

“And are you continuing to wriggle, girl?”

“Only if you tell me to, Sir.”

“And do you want to, girl?”

But as he says this he stops his constant stroking of my skin, and swoops his hand between my legs, holding me in place while two fingers pinch my clit.

I am so aroused i can barely speak.

“Y-yes, S-sir. I ca-cannot lie to y-you.”

“Why are you stammering, girl?”

“Er… i-it’s y-you, S-sir… how you’re t-t-touching me.”

He intensifies his efforts, bent over me, pinning my chest to the desk, although somehow his other hand has managed to locate my mushed nipple and is pinching it. I see the cane lying next to my face, and I understand how his dexterity has been afforded.

With a final tweak of my nipple that sends electric shockwaves to my pinched clit, a mini-orgasm bursts out of me, before I can stop myself. He drops my clit as though it were red-hot, and draws himself up to his fullest height beside me.

“Do my ears and eyes deceive me? Did you just commit the ultimate sin of coming without my permission?”

Once again, I’m close to tears. I’m still incredibly aroused, but fearful of what he may use to punish me.

“I’m sorry, Sir. I couldn’t help it.” I mumble into the desk.

With relief I hear a catch in his tone, that indicates that he will forgive this one-time transgression.

“Such bawdy, randy, slutty behavior requires a fitting punishment.”

He lifts my skirt and begins to spank me with one hand, and cane me with the other, simultaneously, and on alternating butt cheeks. I can feel my ass redden, and I spiral toward another orgasm.

“What are you?”

“I’m a bawdy, randy, filthy slut, Sir. And I’m very close to coming.”

He suddenly stops the alternating caning/spanking, and crouches down beside me.

“You’re a very good girl. You’re a slut, but you’re my slut. Give me your cunt.”

I turn toward him, and lift the front of my skirt. Once again, his hand swoops between my legs, but only to bring my pelvic region close to his face. With a sudden smack-grab of my ass, he brings my cunt to his face, and sniffs appreciatively, before flicking his tongue between my labia, then biting and sucking my clit. My knees are wobbly, and i grab the corner of the desk for support, not realizing how slick it has become in the time i was grinding onto it in frantic arousal. I maintain my upright pose — just.

He stands, bends me over the desk again, and spreads my thighs. I feel his cock nudge at my labia from behind, and then slide smoothly into me. I gasp.

“You’re close to coming?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Not without permission though!”

“No, Sir. Never without permission, Sir.”

Pump. Thrust. A tug of my hair, followed by another. Spanking me — a more intense administering than ever before, and I love it. Into my ear he whispers all the names he has for me, what a dirty girl I am, what a good naughty little schoolgirl, how he loves me, how he loves fucking me, how my cunt feels so good surrounding him, how horny I make him, how I should be punished even more for that (thwack! smack! thwack!).

“Oh god, Sir… please…!”

“Please what, girl?”

“P-please Sir, may I come, Sir?”

“You may.”

I let forth a scream of release as my insides clench and unclench to that unmistakable juddering rhythm. I feel a steady trickle of wet down the inside of my thigh, and a faint splash as it hits the floor. Without missing a beat, he continues to fuck me, hard, fast and expertly.

“Did you piss yourself, girl?”

“No, Sir.” (Pant, pant) “I came, Sir. You made me gush, Sir.”

“Good girl. Naughty little slut. Well done.”

His fucking becomes more urgent, and the streams of words come in a lower, thicker tone until he hums his final “ohhhhh” in my ear, and holds onto me hard. For a moment, there is no roleplay, no professor or schoolgirl, just Purrrrvert and I, breathless and spent, clutching onto each other for dear life because there is simply nothing else for us to do. Naturally, he is the first of us to recover.

“I believe you need to do some cleanup here, girl!”

“Yes, Sir. Should i get on my knees, sir?”

“That would be very proper, girl.”

As I sink to my knees, and take his still hard cock in my mouth, I catch his eye. It is once again Purrrrvert who looks back at me, with his disarmingly beautiful blue sparkle, and I know that I have pleased him in real life as well as the scene. It’s mutual — my need to submit and please my Dom is inherent in my own enjoyment, and arousal.


“So, how was it for you?”

“What, it’s cliche time? You’re shitting me.”

“Seriously, how was it? Did you enjoy being my naughty schoolgirl.”

“I loved it. But then, I tend to love everything we do together.”

“Excellent! Onwards we progress down the list of “I said I wouldn’t but I’ll try them with you”. Next time — ice and fire play!”

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Failing wins his stern disapproval. Pleasing him wins his favour. His favour is what I crave, and punishment my reward.

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