Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘fuck’

Update! Fleshbotted by the lovely Always Aroused Girl, who, I daresay, was kept aroused by tales of my squirtage and so forth. Heh. Thanks babe!

Much of my time spent in the company of the Big Bad Feline is intense and wonderful. Well, all of the time spent with him is wonderful, but it’s the intensity upon which I wish to focus today.

He brings me release and relief. Not just when re-energising the Elegant Slut within, but also as a matter of course.

Here’s a great example:

The other day was a reunion, and consequent celebration, since i’d been away with the small people for a couple of weeks, sans feline.  It had been very tough to lock the elegantly slutty part of me away for a whole three weeks and concentrate on being “Mommy”, but I managed to do so, little realising quite how much it affected me. Until, when I came for the first time on that day, I burst into tears. The release, the very felineness of him, the love, affection, lust and passion that he showered upon me, and just being with him caused me to bawl like a baby, while simultaneously shuddering to a magnificent climax.

He has made a great impact upon me, what can I tell you? And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

********************************************

I call him a couple of hours ahead of schedule, on a day when we had planned to meet anyway, and  inform him that I feel the need to push a limit.

“I feel the need for intensity. I need a release of some sort, and I’m pretty damn amazed that I can even recognise and articulate that, never mind that I have a legitimate and flexible outlet in which to do so. Will you help me? Does that fit with your evil, mean and rotten feline plans for the day?”

There is a thoughtful pause on the other end of the phone, and then a question.

“Intensity, hmm? I’m surrrrrrrrrrrrrrrre I can think of something that will help you. Would you be willing to improvise with me according to whatever roleplay i come up with?”

I nod, and then, realizing that a nod is not audible, affirm this verbally.

“So, it’s OK with you?”

No answer, save an evil feline snigger, and a low, ominous purr. (I love when he gets ominous.)

Fast forward to later that day. As always, I have stripped to his command, and then lovingly and carefully removed his clothing, and we are naked and facing each other. After the usual preliminaries, and an extra hug or two, just because he wants them, he grabs me by the hair, and twists my face to look at him.

“You have been abducted by the Big Bad Cat from the Great Ship Feline. You are my captive.”

Our eyes met, and I smile widely.

“I’m your captive? OK. So you’re my captor.”

“That is correct.”

My love of wordplay gets the better of me. Captive? Captor? An abductee of an evil, mean and rotten feline? Surely it would better read a “Cat-piv” taken by a “Cat-por”, or, to stretch the rules of spelling completely, “Catpaw”. I mention as much to the man holding me by my hair, looking deep into his crystal-blue eyes, and am rewarded by the twinkling smile that makes my senses tingle.

“OK, then Catpiv — get on the bed. On all fours.”

Fastening leather cuffs around my wrists and ankles, he secures me to the bed with canvas tapes.

“We alien Felines need to probe you for information,” he purrs, sliding his fingers into me. I gasp — usually he’ll start with two or three and work his way up through four to a whole fist. Today, there are four fingers curling into me and i can feel his thumb exerting exquisite pressure on the nubbin of skin covering my clit, moving it gently up and down but not actually indulging me by stroking the clit itself in any way.

The pleasure factor is immense, and it’s so early on in the game! I asked for intense, and intense is what I’m getting.

Once he has worked my cunt into a bubbling frenzy, loosening and relaxing the muscles enough, he slides his fist into me, and begins to pound my G-spot. I gasp, and cry out, and it only increases his efforts. Leaning over me, he reaches underneath and pinches a nipple until the pain crackles through me from stem to… well, clit, and then I feel him nibble on my ear. I gush, hearing the splatter onto the quilt, amazing myself at the quantity — I sound like I’ve let loose the fucking Hoover dam!

I struggle to maintain my all-fours position, as his weight is entirely on me. He senses this and removes himself, only to untie two of the four restraints and flip me over, so he can access my soft, white, under-side with greater ease.

And then he really goes to town.

I lose myself. Initially, I lose my first two or three layers of reality, and slip into a subspacial haze of happy bliss. He flogs me, not so much harder than before, but more. Just more. Then the subspace engulfs me and I float away, aware of all that is occurring, and yet detached in the best kind of way.

He beats my lily-white (though fast reddening) ass with a bendy cane, real cane, not bamboo, and then applies lavender oil and caressing strokes to ease the effects. He holds me tight, and kisses me, and generally plays an appasionata furioso, using me as though my body were a Stradivarius violin, and he were Yehudi Menuhin.

Lovingly he leads me over to the bed, and gently rubs the tender spots. Then, with no time to even think he snaps me out of my subspace, and orders me to bend over.

“Like this?” I ask, feet on the floor, hands down on the bed.

“Almost. Spread those legs further. Yes. Wider… yes.”

I feel the ice-cold glass slide into me before i register what it is. My glass friend, the handmade glass dildo… and he’s frozen it, god bless his evil cattish heart. I never stand much of a chance around my glass friend. Three or four thrusts into me and I’m moaning, a further couple (pound, pound) and I wail as though I’m a banshee, and the girl-juice (“cunt-juice” as he likes to call it) hits the floor with an immensely splashy clatter.

A pause for effect, as the thrusting slows, then stops, and he hugs me from behind.

“I’ve wet the floor,” I murmur.

He smiles, and the blue eyes twinkle at me

“Yes, but at least that means that there will be a dry spot for us to lie on, on the bed.”

“You mean…?”

“Yes. Time to indulge in the Cat-por’s favourite ritual. The post-coital cuddle.”

Intensity doesn’t get any better than this.

Read Full Post »

“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.

Read Full Post »

Rag Doll Slut

My body amazes me at times. How it goes from stiff and unyielding when vertical and in the real world, to soft, malleable and bendy when horizontal. There are areas of it that I haven’t seen in years, but that doesn’t bother me, especially when the Big Bad Cat reminds me of their existence by taunting the nerve endings that decorate each and every one of them.

He folds me into the strangest and most wonderful shapes when he fucks me. And each time I am impressed anew at how flexible I can be, when horizontal — it’s the vertical aspect of standing up that is so preventative, I think. Or the high heels I constantly wear. Or my perennial back problem.

Either way, all these melt into nothingness as he takes one of my legs and bends it — and me — over so that he can fuck me hard, one leg crossed over the other, the Ben-Wa balls still nestled deep within me. And they — those cheerful, bouncy little spheres, causing me to feel more full and making the whole event even more exciting — yet another thing I wanted for ages, eventually got, and praised to the skies, wondering how I’d managed to survive this long without them.

From his angle, he towered over me, holding one leg aloft, his other hand twisting my left nipple.

“God, I just LOVE fucking you!”

I smiled weakly and fucked him back as hard as I could — which, given the fact that I’d had at least one fountain-like gusher of an orgasm, with a couple of regular climaxes thrown in for good measure, was not terribly hard.

He always says that to me. Every time, without fail. He then continues to qualify that he loves everything about being with me, to watching me as I undress him, or bring him a drink, to feeling me come against his body, and even something so benign as lying still next to him.

And I always love to hear it afresh — each time it sends a frisson of delicious excitement and deepening of love right through me, from head to toe, via nipples, heart and cunt.

Blonde not stupid

It stung. I mean, it really fucking stung.

While some people are mark-freaks — they love to see the results of various spanking, beating, whipping or flogging activities, I’m more of a kind of “in the moment” kind of gal. Plus I do not relish the thought of explaining strange lines or bruises to my children.

Usually the Big Bad Feline respects that. In fact, he always respects that, it was just that this time he actually became angry with me for the first time. This was my first punishment.

We were in a roleplay situation, which had evolved from the fact that I was lying, as instructed, face down over the back of a chair, while Purrrrvert flogged me into deep and happy subspace.

For whatever reason, once we got into the swing of things, Purrrrvert became the stern schoolmaster of so many fantasies and roleplays before, and began quizzing me about something or other — I forget what. So happily floating in the sub-ether was I, that I paid scant attention to what I was saying — yes, very foolish of me, I know. (Isn’t hindsight just the perfect 20:20 bitch queen from hell?)

Suffice it to say that I said something nonsensical, and the Schoolmaster picked up on it, and queried me.

“How can it possibly be X if Y=Z?” he asked me.

“It can’t. Not at all. I’m very stupid.” I answered.

Next thing I know — I hear an almighty SWISH!, feel an unbelievable  THWACK!, and involuntarily exclaim-cum-scream “OW! Ow, ow ow! Owwww! Holy FUUUUUUUUUUUCK!”

Knowing he’d really hurt me, and pushed me beyond the threshhold of “pain-I-enjoy” straight to “pain-I-could-quite-well-do-without-thank-you-very-much”, he called an immediate halt to the proceedings, and took me in his arms, holding me close until I stopped shaking. He then reached behind him for something and began to stroke where he’d hit my poor ass cheek with something cool and fragrant.

“It’s lavender. It will help it heal.”

I nodded, and sniffled into his chest.

He leaned over me, and kissed the top of my head, and then brought his mouth very close to the ear he’d nibbled on not infrequently, and whispered softly.

“You know what that was for, don’t you?”

I nodded. Purrrrvert loves all of me, including — especially, maybe — my brain and my intelligence. He also has zero tolerance of unnecessary, untrue or undeserved self-deprecation.

“Don’t you ever call yourself stupid again. Not even in character. Promise me?”

I nodded again, this time more fervently. The crisp red-white welt right underneath the curve of my butt cheek throbbed, and I winced slightly.

Punishment is very definitely something I wish to avoid in the future, believe you me.

Read Full Post »

Update: Fleshbotted once again by the lovely and super-sexy Always Aroused Girl. Thank you so much!

******************************

It had been touch and go whether we’d meet. A combination of industrial work issues raising their ugly heads, and allergies affecting the delicate sinuses of a particular evil, mean and rotten cat, had conspired to stop us from meeting.

However, meet we did. Conspire away, corrupt industry and evil dust. You’ll never take me alive!

******************************

It occurred to me, at one point, that I was losing my grip on reality. Which is fine in the context of a session. Slipping into subspace is, while not exactly de rigeur, certainly a desired effect. Purrrrvert loves watching me lose my usually demure and mature attitude as I dissolve into a small cuddly heap of ecstatically sighing happy kitty.

And i love having him watch as I do.

I remember lying on my front, facing away from him, as he relentlessly thrust his hand into me. Managing to hit both my G-spot and my clit simultaneously, I alternately sighed, moaned, yowled and screamed as he coaxed orgasm after orgasm out of me. It almost felt as though it was too much, but then as that thought began to flit across my mind, another peak hit. I shuddered to the most earth shattering climax yet, and wondered incredulously at myself. 

How could it ever be too much?

“Turn yourself around, Tabby le Pink. Come and lie next to me.”

“Are you going to move your fist from inside me?”

“No.”

Which meant that turning around suddenly required a great deal of twisting and unsually balletic movements. I pride myself on my ability to execute the occasional vertical less-than-graceless dance movement, regardless of how I may appear as I perform it. But horizontally, all bets are off.

But I did it. He has that kind of effect on me.

He continued to tease and probe me incessantly to my sheer delight, except now he was looking into my eyes. Then he leaned forward and kissed me — tenderly at first, soft and sweet, then blossoming into levels of passion and excitement that excited me yet further.

How had I even considered thinking that it was too much? What was wrong with me?

Breaking from the kiss, he stroked my hair off my face as he gazed down at me lovingly.

“You look so lovely.”

I blushed. He continued.

“I love being with you. I love fisting you, I love fucking you. I love you, my Pink Tabby.”

I sighed happily, and reached up to kiss him again. He accepted the gesture lovingly. Appreciatively. I love kissing him. I love fucking him. I love everything about being with him, whether physically, spiritually or mentally.

I sighed.

“I love you too. So very much.” And he held me tightly.

A couple of nights later, I had an epiphany. I realised that I was being a fool to myself to focus on the negative things in life, when i had this wonderful, positive thing going on for me.

Too much indeed. Who was I kidding?

Read Full Post »

Update: My song of love for both the Big Bad Cat and anal sex was Fleshbotted by the lovely Madeline. You’re such a love, Mads. Thank you!

It was the first time it’s ever happened to me, did you know that?

Anal sex I have had by the bucketload. (Although the imagery doesn’t work, the quantities do, trust me.) Until I met you, it was always accompanied by a certain amount of butt-clenching pain, and agony, prior to the experience dissolving into the fabulous sensation of having my ass ploughed.

I’ve had big cocks and small cocks in my ass. Small as in length — every woman knows that size only matters when you speak of girth, not length, but go tell that to a man. They never listen. You might listen, since you are who you are — and I love you immensely for that alone — but you don’t need to hear it, because you have no such insecurity. I’ve had men who knew what they were doing, and men who didn’t — although technically, anything that happened with the latter group cannot be termed anal sex, since as soon as I realised that they were clueless, I threw them off me and we moved on.

I’ve enjoyed anal sex — usually eventually, rather than the whole way through — in reality. In fantasy, it has sent me over the edge into the rainbow abyss of fabulous multiple orgasmic delight many a time.

But this was the first time that I came.

How you managed to hit my g-spot through the membrane that separates it from my anal passage; how you took the time to find the exact correct angle to which you needed to apply pressure; how you made me come over and over before that so that I was poised ready for another; how you carefully and diligently fucked me until i literally burst with joy, flooding the sheets and shaking as though I’d had a TENS unit applied to my clit (we’ll do that next time, darling 8-)); how you knew what and how to do what you did to me… I don’t know how you knew, or how you always know.

You know just how to touch me — whether with a gentle hand or an evil, bendy cane. You know the words to say. You know the songs to sing. You know how to surprise and delight me with  unexpected purple rain. You have a wealth of knowledge that many would envy, and which is the admiration of all who witness it.

I’m so lucky to have you in my life. So very blessed. Thank you, my darling.

Welcome home.

Read Full Post »

Belonging

My dom does not call me bitch, nor slut nor cunt, nor whore.

The collar that I put on when I’m with him — or more accurately, that he puts on me — is part of the beauty of our connection. I am not his bitch — I am his.

When he holds the leash, it is indeed a sense of “belonging”, but it works in both directions.

I belong to him as much as he belongs to me — the leash is that which binds us.

Yes, we each have our own role to play in this equation, and yes, our roles are clearly defined — my role is completely different to his.

But the equality and weight of the two parts to be played are exactly the same — which is what makes the “us” of what we have work so well.

The collar and leash are merely one part of the circle that we form. The circle also consists of our hands, and our hearts — no beginning, no end, simple and complete.

Read Full Post »

He’s gone away, on holiday.

Gone to learn new rope tricks, and then come home and try them all out on me.

Gone to buy me something very personal and special that we chose together before he left. (He plans things, none of the last-minute rush for him.)

Gone to rest and relax from all the crazy of late.

And I? I wish him the most wonderful, relaxing, enjoyable time away. I genuinely hope he and Sub1 have a great time.

He promised he would be in touch as soon as he landed, and he was, in his way. I already knew he was safe, i could feel it. The phone call confirmed it.

Right now, the warm and fuzzy around my heart means I know he’s having fun. This both  calms and delights me concurrently.

******************

I slept earlier, and an image of him straddling me, floated before my eyes.

“Again?” I’d asked him, as he secured my wrists to each side of the bed. “That’s the third time in as many hours that you’ve wanted to fuck me.”

He said nothing, merely sniggering in his cattish way, and smirking at me out of the corner of his eye.

“I’m not complaining,” I reassured him.

“I should hope not. Now, instead of all that talking, how about 25 words for me?”

“Holy shit. Now? Goddamn rotten, evil, mean feline.”

“Why, thank you, my dear.”

While considering the 25 words, I realised that he had upended the bottle of lube and was about to trickle it on me.

“No! It’s cold, it’ll be cold!” I squealed.

My protests counted for nothing, as he dribbled the lube over the girls (as he likes to refer to the expansive chest area with which I have been blessed). He then bent to kiss me, before starting to fuck the girls hard and fast.

His legs straddled me, squeezing me between his thighs. If ever there were an occasion where I felt owned, and restrained, contained and sublimated — this was it.

His cock glided smoothly between my breasts, hitting me on the chin every so often, as he reached forward to tug at my hair, never losing eye contact with me for a second.

It’s part of that natural connection we have — i can look in his eyes and read what he’s about to say, and I’ve not been wrong yet.

Suddenly he tensed. And came. All over my face and hair, on my lips, cheeks and eyelids.

And then bent to kiss me.

*******************

It was this image with which I awoke.

Rawrrrrrrr.

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »