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Posts Tagged ‘fucktoy’

Drive me crazy

“Next week is a problem. What with the Easter holiday, and family constraints and everything… we probably won’t be able to get together.”

So quoth Purrrrvert last time we were naked, as he lay holding me close, and stroking my skin. Somehow the setting took the sting out of the disappointment for me. i understand how time is constrained for him, as he well knows, because it is even more so for me.

I’ve written before of the joy of pampering ourselves with some extra, previously unplanned for time, and it happened again yesterday. His day freed up, for a couple of hours, so we made plans to meet “even for just a coffee”. As I’ve said to him on numerous occasions, while i love being with him and doing the naked D/s thing, and serving him as a good submissive girl should serve her Big Bad Feline Dom, I’m happy to just be in his company.

Beginning with a civilized and elegant lunch, in a quiet and romantic corner of a nearby restaurant. We sit, smiling happily into each other’s eyes. There’s a feeling of having foiled the plans of the outside world when we manage to meet in the middle of a working day. It’s not that we’re cheating anyone or sneaking away especially, but it *feels* illicit — and that gives the meeting an extra edge, a further thrill.

The list (you remember the list, the one on which needles were a no-no, never-never) comes up as a topic of conversation. We start going through the ratings that have changed of late.

“You know how you asked me whether i could come without being touched?”

“Yes… and?”

“Well, I can’t, although if arousal counts for anything, I’ve soaked a couple of chairs through in my time.”

A snicker from the Big Bad Feline. I continue.

“What really interests me is arousing you, from afar… without my touching you. I’d like to try that — if you’re amenable..?”

He nods his assent, and then effects a quick subject-change.

“Can we go for a drive? Or do you have to rush back?” he asks me, as we vainly try to attract the attention of the waiter, who seems to have a problem with his peripheral vision, hearing and short-term memory.

“No, I’m OK for time… where would you like to go?”

Blue sparkling eyes twinkle at me over the pile of plates and culinary debris that once was lunch. “Just…. you know. For a drive. You never know what you might find on the way.”

My spine tingles, and i nod my ascent. We abandon all hope of getting our bill brought to us, and head for the cash register, where we are fortunate enough to be able to pay without too much hassle. This time it was my treat — and my pleasure.

Daintily stepping into his car, i tease him playfully. “You know, after mine yours is the messiest car I’ve ever driven in. It makes me feel right at home.” In reply, he stretches out his arm across the back of my seat entwines his fingers into my tousled mop of blonde hair — and pulls. Hard.

I squeal. With pure pleasure. He seems pleased, but not surprised.

The roads wind on and around, real country lane territory. Seizing the opportunity to further smoke the sparks of arousal that the hair-pulling caused, and extending the sensation of illicit and verboten behaviour of earlier, Purrrrvert’s hands (paws?) stray further and further into my territory. I lift my arm to grant him better access, as he slides his fingers ever-so-gently under the black lacy confines of my brassiere, and then pinches. Hard.

“We discussed grabbing the whole aureole, right?” he says, as he does exactly that and i yowl with pain-induced pleasure. I feel myself moisten alarmingly fast, and he seems to sense it too.

Them darn cats. Their sense of smell is unparalleled.

He drives faster down the lane, as i try to admire the surrounding scenery, failing dismally since all i can think of is my sopping wet cunt, and the bruised and squished state in which he has left my breasts. His hand has now dived between my thighs,  and is squeezing my inner thigh.

I’m sighing, panting, and occasionally squealing. He makes me squeal a lot, I’ve noticed. I do not complain, I merely remark.

“You’ve done what you wanted to do,” he says.

“What was that?”

“I’m hard. And you’ve not laid a finger on me.”

I smile with pure pleasure.

“Give me one,” he murmurs seductively, as he turns off the main road, and his fingers probe further. He is deliberately not touching my clit, rather only in the area close enough to make me gasp and breathe rapidly.

“I– I’ll t–try,” I say, focusing on his hand on me, and then his lips on mine — and I get there, grinding my clit onto whatever is in the vicinity, and panting, squealing and eventually screaming my achievement.

When i open my eyes, i see that look on his face that I know so well, and find that is cock is on on display, proudly erect. I lean over and take him in my mouth, and return the favour with relish. He comes, clutching onto me, winding his fingers into my hair, with a joyous half-sigh, half-shout.

Leaning back and catching our breath, i giggle as something occurs to me.

“Hmmmmm?” he asks.

“I just thought of the perfect title for the blog post describing this.”

Heee! 🙂

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“You will write to me, won’t you?” he says, as he turns to me just before we part company.
 
“Er, like.. duh. ” I reply, somewhat inelegantly, belying my self-imposed titular comportment.
 
“No, what I mean is, i want you to write something specific.”
 
I raise a curious eyebrow, and gesture that he should elaborate.
 
“I want to know what made you think “Oooh, yes, more of this, more, more!” and what made you think “No, no, stop, no, don’t do that again.”
 
Again with the single curious eyebrow. “Was it not obvious?”
 
“Mostly, but i want you to be specific. There was a wealth of toys and playthings involved — which were better for you and which less so?”
 
Toys and playthings. I’ll say. I was the biggest of the playthings, even he would be the first to admit this. But it would be less an admission — implying confessional or sinful revelation; more a proud declamation. He is a self-confessed feline, and as such likes to have things to play with.
 
Playthings. Yes. That would be me.
 
*************************
 
It’s the sports bag i notice first. It is, frankly, huge, and is also a surprising colour.
 
“You said it was your big black bag of tricks! That’s not black, that’s khaki!”
 
“That’s one way to know if someone has met me — ask them what the colour of my big black bag is…!”
 
Out of said bag come a number of hiking pouches, each filled with a wide variety of implements of torture and pleasure, depending on your viewpoint from where you sit on the kink-o-meter. To say I was speechless is understating it to a huge effect. My eyes were like saucers, and my jaw hung open. Not so much at the level of evility and kink arrayed before me, but at the quantity. The best i could manage was a feeble “Fu-u-uck.”
 
He then took out a large halloween party carrier, shaped like a cat, naturellement — rawrrrr…. and told me to select what i wanted to play with today, and to put the items in there.
 
The items began to be shown to me, in order of how they’d fallen out of the sports bag. There were beaters, floggers, scrapers, strokers, pinchers, restraints and a remarkably wide variety of pervertibles. I recognised a large fish slice, and a silicon oven-glove in the shape of a dog from a bag containing kitchen-inspired instruments of kink — and then i saw something that looked mighty familiar.
 
“Hey, I have that very spatula! Except, of course, i actually use it when i cook.”
 
He looked me straight in the eye, almost snorting in an effort to restrain the bubbling mirth.
 
“You pervert.”
 
I laughed as hard as he did, and gasped. “I’m *so* blogging that.”
 
**************************
 
It took a lot longer than I’d anticipated* to set things up, but eventually i found myself lying on the bed, arms akimbo and restrained, one to the side and one to my ankle, using two types of leather wrist cuffs (one fur-lined intended for suspension use; very pretty and tactile), and legs — naturally — apart.
 
I must just take a moment to explain something here. Such a position is one that a person would only ever find themselves in consensually. It’s very easy to feel exposed and vulnerable. I was lucky enough to feel neither — only warmth and love. It didn’t matter what he did — if it would please him, it would make me happy. Plus, as his plaything, his big interest was in experiencing my reaction — that was a big part of what turned him on. The consent was almost tangible, the feelings were intense, and we both glowed — I could almost see it.
 
He straddled me, looking down at my smiling face, and restrained naked body, and ran his hand along my skin, before bending to kiss me.
 
“Do you want me to blindfold you?”
 
A mute nod, and 30 seconds later, and the most effective blindfold covered my eyes. “Another hiking pervertible — it’s a head band — warm on the peaks, and the most thorough blindfold I’ve found to date. It knocks the eye-covers that you get on an airplane, into a cocked hat.”
 
Indeed it does.
 
I lay there feeling like the most pampered submissive on the planet. I couldn’t move, and i was very aware that i was to abide by the rules, if i did not wish to be punished — said rules being a. not to come without permission, and b. to inform him if i were close to coming. But i like the feeling of being restrained. I enjoy the taut pull of rope on the ring of my cuff, and the feel of his fist entwined in my hair as we kiss, holding my head where it suits him.
 
I have said to him, several times, “It’s this feeling I get when you pull my hair — that’s how I know I’m a pervert. Whenever i worry that i’m dabbling, or I’m really vanilla and i wonder who the fuck am I kidding, — that’s when i remember the joy of  feeling of utter submissive helplessness, and dependence on the will of another — and how it speaks directly to my soul. And I know — I’m a kinkster at heart.”
 
Our time that day was short to begin with, and it flew by so quickly that i half-felt as though I’d dreamed it. I could write all about the thundering g-spot and gushy orgasms, not to mention the joy of combined lovemaking-fucking that I haven’t experienced in so long… it makes such a difference when you care about your Dom. Even more so when the feeling is mutually deep and intense — as it is, or so he tells me. (Meow.)
 
The dreamy quality of the afternoon was enhanced by my sensory deprivation, but no less than by the warm, dominant feline-like man who took care of me so well. It is to him i purr and dedicate this piece, knowing that it is only the first of many.
 
One more thing — in answer to your* question, YES to everything, and more, more, more. 🙂

Tyger, tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
  — William Blake

 *Yeah, I see you shiver. And yeah, I know who you are. Angel. Rawrr.

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The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants.

With especial thanks to the Editor for her choice of Crying this week. I’m humbled and blushing and doing the happy dance all at the same time. (It’s quite a sight.)

Want in Sugasm #155? Submit a link to your best post of the week by emailing me directly at radicalvixenatgmaildotcom Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks
Watching
“My heart raced as I watched him stare at me, wondering if he knew I was awake. ”

Hot and Handy Part 2: Handjobs for the Ladies in Our Lives
“Getting her wet has two big benefits when it comes to getting her off.”

Sales Report
“I’m the only woman in the room.”

Sugasm Editor
Sex Work And Compassion: Death In A Client’s Family

Editor’s Choice
Crying

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

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My name is Sapphire. Sapphire the Fucktoy.

This is what my Dom calls me.

I love it.

I asked him to use my name. It wasn’t to assert my identity, or to spare me being completely submissive or anything like that. I wasn’t exactly sure why, but i knew it was something i wanted. I wrote to him:

I like how you referred to me as your fucktoy, your slut, your good girl…  However, i would love it all the more if you would also use my name — in this context…. I don’t know where you stand on this issue, or your philosophical leanings as far as using a sub/servant/slave’s name while in the throes of passion, but i’d be more than happy to hear them.

His initial response:

A big paragraph of what with no why.

Why?

I had to think about this long and hard before i replied. I wasn’t exactly sure why, and it took some serious consideration before i realised.

The first image to which he had me serve him was of him fucking me from behind, holding on to me by a leash, and saying my name: “Good girl, Sapphire… Good girl.” I had to have this image in mind, and masturbate until i came, hearing his voice saying my name in my head as i did.

The idea was and is incredibly arousing. No medical reason, or anything. It just added that extra level of spice, and it has featured in all my fantasies about him ever since.

It’s odd, because as i said before, it’s not that I’m attached to hearing my name in any deep and significant way. But the rules of everyone else do not apply with him — he is on a wholly different plane for me.

I explained this to him, ending thus:

It would mean a very great deal to me, although i will of course accept whatever decision you make.

(As Eliza Doolittle was wont to say, I’m a good girl, I am.)

The next time we met, his first instruction was “Kiss me.” As we kissed, the passion grew and grew until i felt my knees actually buckle.

He has this effect on me. I’m so lucky.

Suddenly, his hand, entwined in my hair, tightened its grip and jerked my head away from his. With a nudge from his other hand, he spun me around until his lips were close to my neck. He spoke as he kissed me, an arm holding me tightly around my neck, but not enough to move me to tears.

“So you want me to call you by your name?”

(Kiss, kiss, nip, kiss. My skin — on fire. My knees — buckling.)

“Yes, Sir.”

“Why, again? Give me a good reason.”

I reiterated. “It’s because you gave me the gift of hearing you say my name as i came, as part of the first time you gave me an instruction. It’s made hearing you say my name incredibly arousing to me, Sir.”

He smiled, I could feel it as he spoke.

“I like the name Sapphire the Fucktoy. I like that as a handle for you. I think it suits you.”

It does. It’s me.

Sapphire the Fucktoy.

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Update: Listed as Editor’s Choice on Sugasm 154. Thank you, RV!

I woke up feeling as though I’d gone 10 rounds with Mike Tyson.

I hadn’t, of course — a quick check to see if i was still in possession of both my ears proved that. I had, however, woken up after an evening of serving my fabulous Dom, and I literally felt as though my legs had been hung backwards on my hips. I ached — oh how I ached.

I do not complain, I merely remark.

However, this was all secondary. What was bothering me was a bout of extemporaneous weeping that had suddenly come upon me as my Dom was fucking me and using me the previous evening.

I’m not a crier, and certainly not a spontaneous one. This is not to say i don’t ever cry — I do, usually when moved by emotional situations — but in those instances it’s understandable, and more to the point, contextual.

Only on rare occasions have i ever burst into uncontrolled fits of tears, and i remember pretty much all of them from throughout my life. They all seem to be associated with medical situations, in a bizarre twist of circumstance. The first was when my GP, a crusty old buffer with a gruff manner and unpleasant breath, examined my rectum when i had persistently recurrent stomach pains as a young teenager. My mother was present at the time, and it was not abuse or misconduct in any way — but i remember being extremely shaken and upset.

The last time i recall such a tearful outburst happening, was a couple of years ago when i had what I would term as partly cosmetic surgery around the area of my left eye.

And then there was last night.

He’d fastened a soft leather collar around my neck to which was attached a long leather leash. (But of course! What use is a collar without a leash, you might well ask — and I wouldn’t know how to answer you.) At first, I’d been on my knees in front of him, worshipping his cock, balls and that sensitive area at the top of his thighs that he loves me to lick and nip at — I love to give him pleasure that way — and his sighs of bliss were gratifyingly welcome.

Suddenly he jumped to his feet, as is his wont, and ordered me onto the bed, on all fours, facing the wall. He arranged himself behind me, and pulled me down, slowly but surely, onto his cock.

“Gyrate yourself, gently, up and down, back and forth. Squeeze my cock inside you. Can you feel how hard you make me?”

I did as i was bid, enjoying the sensations coursing though my body. As you would expect, I adore my Dom, and consider him a god among men, especially in bed. But I’m serious about this — it’s not just mindless sub-babble. No one fucks like him. No one. And god knows, I’ve had a few. But I digress. Bad Sapphire.

As i moved myself, impaled on his cock, he pulled at the leash, softly at first, and then jerked it hard. I felt the soft leather tighten around my throat for a moment, and then to my amazement, i found myself bursting into tears.

Originally, I’d not wanted to have any kind of breath play involved when we met. The idea of wearing a hard collar terrified me. The feel of even the slightest pressure on my throat sends me into a blind panic — and it’s almost completely irrational, and I don’t know from where it springs.

Then we’d looked at his bag of evil sadistic sex toys, and i’d seen that the collar was soft and pliable leather, with no evil-looking studs, and he’d tried it on me, and I’d been fine. Mentally and physically, fine.

When i cried, i had no idea why I was crying. Of course, he stopped everything and bade me crawl back up to lie next to him, where he held me as I sobbed and heaved, and stroked my hair soothingly.

“What on earth is this? You weren’t short of breath and you didn’t use the safe-word. Are you OK? Why are you crying?”

But he said it with such care, and so soothingly that i cried even harder.

“I d-d-don’t k-k-k-know…” I stuttered through a veil of tears.

“Were you in pain? Did you feel you were choking?”

“N-n-n-no.”

“OK, calm down now, there, there. Come kiss me, Sapphire-the-Fucktoy.”

He held me until i calmed down, and then sent me back to the end of the bed, and the end of his cock.

I am still at a loss to explain what happened. Not through lack of trying — god knows, I’ve been racking my brain ever since. So far, no scenario suggested seems right:

I can’t recall a suppressed memory. (Yes, i can see the irony in the statement.)  i just think that memory fragments would have begun to float back to me by now if there were any, and they haven’t.

Is it an irrational fear of choking?

Maybe i on one level long to be owned, and on another level hate and abhor the idea, causing me to encounter an incredibly complex inner clash of emotions, resulting in a bout of spontaneous weeping?

Either way, it seems to have opened floodgates, no pun intended. I’m not constantly tearful, but every so often i feel overwhelmed and well up. Then I take a deep breath and compose myself, and I’m fine.

Mostly.

Either way, I’m eternally grateful to him for the tender way in which he dealt with me when i cried. He was warm, compassionate and caring — and I realised once again how lucky I am to know this man, much more to have him as my Dom.

Even if he did make me cry.

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He called me beautiful.

My Dom called me — his slut, his fucktoy, the person he uses when he needs to… beautiful.

Beautiful.

I knelt before him, worshipping his cock as best I know how, enjoying the sensation of his skin on my lips, and under my gently teasing teeth. I kissed his cock, nuzzling the head and adoring it.

And he called me beautiful.

He took a hank of my hair in his hand, but he didn’t pull. He grabbed it, and then, with his thumb, he stroked the side of my face.

“Sapphire the Fucktoy is beautiful. Beautiful when objectified. So very beautiful.”

I was unable to respond. It was a moot point anyway, I am not permitted to speak without permission.

I know his definition and perception of beautiful is very different to mine, mine being based on appearance as well as what’s in a person’s soul, and his having its foundation in how a woman submits, and twists and turns in order to please her master — but it was, without a doubt, one of the few times when i felt that the epithet handed me was done so with the utmost sincerity… and it touched my heart.
 
I’m fairly sure that my soul is beautiful, even if intermittently, but from an external perspective, it’s rare that I am so complimented.
 
I’m still more than a little shaken at the events of the evening, as you’ll understand when you read about when i cried, but it was wonderful. 
 
I don’t know where this thing is taking me. My head says I should walk away — actually, it’s less “saying” than screaming out loud. Or, to put it another way, were this a sign, it would be in foot-high neon letters. Flashing, no less.

But how could I ever walk away from him?

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