Archive for February, 2013

February 22nd, 2013

Meet me at the bar

I stroll into the pub and glance around. You’re waiting at the table like I told you to be, and I can see you must have listened to at least some of my message as I can see your hair’s tied up and you look suitably made up. I take my time, grabbing a drink and chatting with the girl I know you think is really cute. I can see you fidget and squirm in your seat, the look on your face expressing your discomfort.

I sit across from you, refuse to touch you, refuse to greet you with more than just a nod and a look. You’re wearing just as I asked, the low cut dress, the plunging bra, the heels that you can barely walk in. There’s a glimpse of thigh as your skirt moves and it takes me all my will power not to lustfully pull you towards me. I finish my drink in silence, looking at you approvingly, chuckling gently at your obvious impatience.

I give you the signal and you teeter off to the toilets, wobbling a little, pulling on the hem of your dress. I wait until you’re round the corner, then take my place in the side street outside. When you reappear, I just hold out my hand and into it you drop your sodden knickers. I can smell you on them without having to move my hand and, again, I have to hold myself back. Into my pocket they go and I walk off towards home, knowing you will follow. I keep a brisk pace in my DMs, partially as I am desperate to get into the privacy of the house, partially because I know just how hard you will find it trying to keep up with me.

The second we’re through the door, I pin you to the wall by your throat, my tongue in your mouth, my other hand pulling at your dress. “Teasing little slut” I growl in your ear and I feel your body melt. Roughly, I bundle you into a room and throw you to the floor. Before you have time to react, I’ve ripped your flimsy dress away from you, exposing your body to me. Soon your bra is off and all you have on is too high heels and the butt plug you obediently inserted earlier. You’re shell shocked, afraid to move. I smile to myself, happy to know you’ve been my good little girl but I’m not going to tell you that yet.

Before you can realise what I’m going to do, I grab the rope and use it to immobilise you. I’m quick and rough, not caring if the rope rubs against your skin, pulling it tight in sharp movements, binding you so that you cannot escape. The smell of the hemp mixed with the smell of your cunt makes me ache but I still hold back. I have plans for you.

My fists rain down on you, I’m punching you on the back, your arms, your arse, anywhere available to me. You whimper and moan, I’m not even started yet. My boots meet your flesh, you gasp, I carry on, nudging your legs apart, kicking your cunt with the toe of my boot. I grab you by your hair and snarl at you to clean my boots, shoving your head roughly towards my feet.

Once you’re done, I go back to the kicking and punching, pausing to make you clean up my boots, interspersing the physical abuse with some choice words about your sluttish behaviour. One final grab of your hair and I pull your head back, slapping you across the face.

“Who’s the little whore who was enjoying everyone letching over her in the pub, sitting there with the biggest plug in her arse, soaking her knickers through, knowing I was coming?” I don’t expect an answer but when you start to mumble at me, I grab your knickers out of my pocket and gag you with them. I push you over the sofa, arse in the air and leave you to wait.

My strap on is waiting on the other side of the room. I’ve picked the largest dildo, wanting to fill you. I strap it on and move back over to your waiting arse. A few more slaps and punches have you trying to scream through the gag. I position myself just at the edge of your cunt and I feel you trying to push back. Knowing you want this as much as I do breaks down my will power and my femme cock slams into you. The muffled gasp eggs me on and I pound away, knowing just how much this is pushing you. The friction against my own clit has me screaming out as a wave of orgasm hits me, just as you come all over me.

We collapse in a heap, both panting, sweaty, hot. I tenderly remove your gag, plug and ropes that bind you. I carry you to bed and we curl up. You look so peaceful, so carefree, makeup smeared over your face but you don’t mind. You seem to have forgotten it’s me you’re with and that was nothing.

February 11th, 2013


When punishment involves NOT having a gorgeous new knife used on you, I think you know you’re kinky!

Obviously, my punishment involved more than that, having disappointed R. The tears were pouring down my face before the first impact. I hate being a disappointment, not being a good girl. By the end of the scene, those tears were cathartic, release and relief, and of joy.

Part of my punishment was to choose implements. I mainly chose ones I thought would push me a little, especially at the stingy pain end of things. I wanted to see if I could take a caning again, wanted to feel abused and punished properly. R added the dragon tail, knowing it would scare me. I trust her.

She helped me get over this weird struggle I’ve had with pain processing, and emotional block. It felt fabulous. Plus, I’ve found a new toy I like! She also agreed with me that I deserve my caning kinky merit badge. I told myself I wanted to take a good caning again and feel comfortable about them again and I really do.

February 11th, 2013

Weirdo, Mosher, Freak – Should we have to think twice about what we wear?

Originally posted to Sinzine

When we get dressed in the morning or for a night out, most of us probably don’t
think about the consequences of these outfits much. To go out for a fetish club, you
might think about wearing a longer coat to cover your modesty or you might dress a
little differently to visit your elderly relatives but, if you typically dress in some kind
of alternative style, that’s probably what you’re wearing right now, without a care
in the world. I’m sure Sophie Lancaster had that same care-free attitude when she
put on an outfit on 11 August 2007 but that would be the last time she would get
herself dressed. If you’re unaware of the story, Sophie and her boyfriend, Robert
Maltby, were horrifically attacked because of what they were wearing. Both of them
identified as Goths and were just minding their own business when they brutally
beaten by a group of other teenagers, just because of what they chose to wear
that day. When they started on her boyfriend, Sophie tried to protect him and, in
doing so, lost her life. They aren’t even the only ones who have suffered because
of this; very recently, a couple where attacked on the Metrolink in Bury, again
because of their dress sense. They were luckier and are still with us today but it was
a hauntingly familiar story to those who have heard much about poor Sophie.

Some of you might be thinking that people get attacked all the time, for many
different reasons and you’d be right but if you get attacked because of the colour
of your skin or your sexuality, it’s classed as discrimination but is something like this
any different? Sophie’s mum, Sylvia doesn’t think so and she has set up the Sophie
Lancaster Foundation and started the Stamp Out Prejudice, Hated and Intolerance
Everywhere (S.O.P.H.I.E.) campaign. The charity aims to educate about prejudice
against those from alternative subcultures and campaign to have the law changed to
include such attacks as Hate Crimes. Those who were close to Sophie don’t want to
see her death be in vein and that’s why you can see hundreds of people supporting
the excellent work done by the charity by wearing the S.O.P.H.I.E. wristbands and
getting involved in other ways such as Bloodstock Open Air festival renaming their
second stage to honour Sophie and makeup company Illamasqua donating money
from some of their sales to help the charity.

It’s not just Goths who get into difficulties because of what they wear. Earlier this
year, Michael Sanguinetti, a Toronto Police officer, suggested that woman should
take more care with what they wear to look after their own safety. He said that
women should stop dressing like sluts to avoid being raped. There was worldwide
outrage at these comments, leading to a series of Slutwalks in cities across the
globe. The idea that women are asking for it if they dress provocatively is ridiculous,
especially when it’s not only women who are raped. Comments like this don’t help
anyone. There is the idea that women are to blame if they are attacked. In contrast,
others have suggested it’s just an idea of risk management, saying that the rapist is

no less guilty but a woman can reduce her chances of being attacked if she dressed
more conservatively.

The question is, should we think more carefully about how we dress? If we dressed
in a way to blend in, that doesn’t provoke people, would these attacks cease?
Probably not. People will still be attacked for one reason or another. Plus it takes
away our freedom of expression, part of who we are. No one should have to change
who they are to avoid persecution, whether that be the way they dress, their
sexuality or the colour of their skin. There needs to be more education and solidarity
across the alternative culture. The Sophie Lancaster Foundation is doing a lot of
work to help this and the SlutWalks promoted another important point. We should
be able to live in a society where we can be who we want to be and so I walk proudly
down the street in my knee high Docs, short skirt and lots of black, wearing my
S.O.P.H.I.E. wristband, hoping that, one day, ganging up on someone for dressing like
a ‘freak’ and calling them mosher in a derogatory way will be seen as badly as using
the N word or attacking a same sex couple for holding hands.

February 2nd, 2013

If You Go Down To The Woods Today

I barely have time to give you a hug and set down my bag when you announce that we’re going for a walk. I’m surprised, knowing that you’d been talking about having a film marathon but I don’t question you as we head out of the door. You stay slightly ahead of me, silently leading me towards the wooded area near your house. It’s a sunny day and we are pass plenty of people enjoying the unusually good weather.

It darkens as we head under the canopy of the trees. Suddenly, I feel your grip on my arm, whipping me around and backing me into a tree. In a flash, your hand is around my throat. I hear the rope as you smoothly unravel it in your other hand. The sound makes me shiver involuntarily, the smell filling my head full of memories, making me melt. Your deft hands bind me to the tree, my legs apart, my hands free. The snugness of the rope and the unexpected change in mood cause me to zone out, eyes shutting with content.

The sting of your hand across my cheek brings me back to the real world. My eyes open in time to see the blade in your hand, starting to cut away at my top. I try to protest, you silence me, the blade held against my throat. You say nothing. A breeze skims over me and I’m suddenly very aware; we’re still in sight of the path, anyone could walk past, anyone could see. My nerves are building up and goosebumps raise on my arms.

My clothes are soon no more than tattered rags, dropping to the floor, my underwear remaining. You stand back, admiring your handiwork, looking at my body hungrily. Shyly, I try to cover up but you shake your head disapprovingly. I lower my head in shame, worried that people will see me, ashamed of my near nakedness. As though you can read my mind, you finally speak.

“Anyone could walk along the path right now. I don’t know why you’re so bothered though. It’s not like you’re naked…yet.” you say with a devilish smirk, holding my chin up with the point of the knife.

You move to tighten the ropes that bind me, carefully tracing your hands over the places on my body that you know will make me weak at the knees. You command me to close my eyes, a mental blindfold, and the world darkens. You tease and torment, using your hands, your nails, your teeth, to pinch and punch, bite and scratch, slap and caress. Then the cold metal at each shoulder, the fall of my now ineffective bra straps. The sharp point running from my neck, down my sternum, the tearing of material, my breasts hanging freely, my nipples aching and hardening in the sudden cold. The knife travels down. My knickers are next, falling away at your blade. You press the flat of it against my cunt.

“Oh, dear. My knife is filthy now, little slut. Clean it!”

Pushing against my other lips, I realise my body has betrayed me. I am terrified but obviously hornier than I’ve been in a long time. I take my time, cleaning your blade carefully, pondering what my fate is.

Tension mounts and I am afraid. Minutes feel like hours. My cunt aches. I hear rustling, footsteps, the snapping of twigs. I crave your touch, your kiss, your breath on my skin but you don’t even feel nearby. I shiver and automatically cross my arms over my chest, covering my breasts, trying to protect them.

“I don’t think so” and suddenly you’re there, wrenching my wrists down to my sides. “We’d better keep those hands busy. Touch your cunt, wank for me.”

I am mortified. I don’t want to. What if someone sees? I feel my cheeks turning red, my body tensing.

“What are you waiting for? I know how wet you are, you must be dying for release, for hands on your clit, something filling your cunt.”

My cheeks glow brighter. I know you are right but I can’t do it. I struggle a bit, wondering how to get out of this, my aching cunt battling with my shame. I feel rope, suddenly biting at my neck, pulling tighter as I gasp for air, hands clawing at the rope.

“Do it or I will tie up your hands and leave you here. Then you will have to wait until someone finds you and unties you. What if it’s someone you work with?”

You know how to push my buttons. With tears of humiliation pouring down my face, I reluctantly start to finger my clit, embarrassed at just how wet I am. “Do it properly” you hiss. I try to let myself go but the rustling of leaves, the crunching of twigs, the distant barking, I have no idea if there’s anyone else here.

“Come on. I’m not letting you go until I am satisfied with you.”

My fingers move faster, my other hand pulls at my nipple. A moan betrays me, you chuckle. I want your hands on me but I know must make do with my own, starting to lose myself in sensation. I slip my fingers inside me and tremble as my cunt takes over. I am close to the edge but I ease off, afraid to come, scared people will hear.

“Keep going, little whore, but don’t come. Not until I say. And you’re not allowed to stop either, not until I am happy with you.”

Of course, now, my knees are weak and my body is finding it hard to not let go. I finger my throbbing clit. “Please?” Silence. I whimper and moan, wriggling against the tree, panting, struggling. “Please?” Again, I am met with silence. I am light headed, barely able to breathe, struggling with myself, with the denial. I can’t even beg.

“Come for us” whispered sweetly, gently.

I burst, letting go, moans turning to screams, quaking, only staying upright because of the rope holding me firmly to the tree. I carry on, a finger on my clit, two slipping in and out of my cunt, my whimpering building in waves again, the thought of someone else being there simultaneously horrifying and encouraging me. Orgasm after orgasm crashes through me, I know someone must have heard, must have seen. I can barely breath. You tell me to stop. Your whispering in my ear, stoking my hair, telling me I’ve been a good girl. The rope loosens, your strong arms are around me. I’m scared to open my eyes. I want to remember this moment, before I face reality.

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