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  1. SINS: Come for the World

    September 13, 2014 by Heather Cole

    Sins FINAL Cover JPG

     

    The idea for this book came from a conversation with my sir. He said, “what if you wrote about a secret Catholic sect that worshipped through sex?” It was a concept I could relate to, not only because I was Catholic, but because I worshipped that man’s cock on a regular basis. I was intrigued after our brief conversation, and I began writing. Much of it went slowly as I searched for the right voice. Even though sir insisted that all it needed was “fucking and sucking” I made certain that it had plot and a heroine that I believed in. Who also loved fucking and sucking. The true fun of writing this was creating a character who was dominant, and boy howdy, does she dish out some punishment. Punishment with love, of course. *evil grin*

    SINS is available now at Amazon and will soon be all over the place.

    If you’re not hooked already, here’s an excerpt:

    Serah gently caressed the angle of his cheek. “I understand that this isn’t what you expected,
    but I can aid you in completing your journey. I’ll hear your confession and will help you find
    what you seek. Do you consent to this?”
    “Yes, Mother Priestess.” Rafael offered her a small smile as relief washed over his face.
    “Good. I’ll need a moment to prepare. Take this time to look inward. I’m reminded of a
    psalm: ‘Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy loving kindness: according unto the
    multitude of thy tender mercies blot out my transgressions.’ And trust me, Rafael. I will render
    my tender mercies upon your fine flesh with respect and enthusiasm.” A slow grin curved her
    lips when she felt him shiver beneath her hands.
    “Yes, Mother Priestess.”

     

    So get on out of here and buy it. You won’t be disappointed.

    OH! Fair warning: if you believe religion shouldn’t go anywhere near the sexual realm, then this isn’t the book for you.

    MWAH!

    ~Heather


  2. What Heteroflexible Means for Me

    September 11, 2014 by Nikki Blue

    There has been a lot of talk about labeling sexuality lately, mine and Mr. K’s in particular. We’re always changing, it seems; evolving. One of the questions we’ve pondered is, “are we considered swingers since our playtime with other couples is really more of a tangled heap of body parts than merely swapping partners?” We’ve also mulled over, “are we true BDSM switches? Or are we simply primal?”

    Who the fuck knows anymore? But more importantly, why does it matter? To be frank, it doesn’t.

    I find the concept of labels baffling. In general, I feel like they’re unfair, tend to dislike them immensely, and work hard to keep them from sticking. In my past, I’ve been hurt by labels, and I rebelled against the stigma as I tried to make them fit the way I wanted, on my terms. Yet in the context of BDSM, I find I need a label to define who I am; the things I like.

    See? Confusing.

    It’s no secret that I’ve had sex with women. I quite enjoy it, and people who know this about me are quick to assume I’m bisexual. Maybe I am, by all intents and purposes, but for my comfort, the label is too cut and dry. It just doesn’t fit well. I don’t have the desire to date women, nor am I sexually attracted to them. However, given the opportunity, I will fuck a lovely lady in a hot minute, but only if Mr. K’s supervisory penis is within grasping distance. When I explain this, I’m usually met with lots of wide-eyed blinking, and when I label myself as heteroflexible, because ‘sexually fluid’ isn’t one, I see more of the whole deer in the headlights thing. It’s really not that complicated, though. Well, in my mind it’s not.

    Wikipedia defines heteroflexibilty as a sexual orientation or situational sexual behavior characterized by minimal homosexuality activity despite being primarily heterosexual. This differs from bisexuality.

    For the majority of people, I think defining their sexuality is relatively easy. They either distinctly identify with a certain sexual orientation or they don’t. It can be pretty basic stuff, but for those of us who flow over the lines, labeling identity can be a complex choice and widely misunderstood.

    When I began writing this blog post nearly two weeks ago… Oh stop. Have you not read The Method to My Madness? It ain’t pretty, y’all. Anyway, I had the idea that explaining my sexual fluidity would be easy peasy. And it was when I started, but then it took all kinds of turns into how the defined lines of different orientations tend to blur for some kinksters, in my opinion. Before I knew it, I found myself constructing a picket sign with “Can’t we all just get along sexually?” written in sparkly glitter.

    Clearly, I’d drifted way off course.

    To put it simply: I like to fuck women, but I need Mr. K’s penis close by or inside me to do so…I am the dominant one… I feel submissive…

    Wait, what?

    And the course shifted again. I didn’t even see it coming, but there it was in bright blue neon flashing lights with a purple outline. It was so bright, so sharp it blew up because the revelation was that powerful. Like Dirk Diggler in Boogie Nights.

    Oh, stop judging me. Like I would ever pass on an opening like that one.

    But what the fuck? When I feel submissive, it’s only to Mr. K, not to the women we play with. I am the dominant one, dammit!

    <stamps foot>

    Seriously, though. I’m not sure why I’m naturally dominant when it comes to women, but I am. And honestly, I don’t know how I would respond to a woman who wasn’t sexually submissive.

    Would I fight for dominance over her? I tend to think I would, and Mr. K agrees.

    “Unless I told you otherwise,” he said.

    I saw what he did there, which led me to believe he’s known this about me for some time.

    Well played, Mr. K. Well played indeed.

    The thing is, I’ve always been the dominant one with the sexy ladies we’ve played with. Hell, their husbands too, for that matter. I’ve seen the recognition in the way they look at me, felt it grow thick in the air between us, and I’ve fed heartily from the power of it. Mr. K has even said witnessing the control I have in those moments is what gets him off when we play with other couples.

    God, I love that man.

    When I have my wicked way with a woman, though, I don’t dare to climb inside of her head, taking great pleasure in seducing her thoughts with my words in the way I do Mr. K’s. That need doesn’t surface. What I give her is purely physical, but what I take runs very deep.

    The intense desire to please him blooms inside me under his watchful eye. I feel the heat of his gaze memorizing every flick of my tongue between soft, slick folds, every plunge of my fingers into the depths of her wanton mound as I bring her to orgasm. He is proud of me; proud that I am his. I sense his love for me, his pride. It swells– takes my breath and washes over me. It’s an amazing high.

    With all of that having been said, I’m not any one thing, sexually speaking. I flow freely in the moment, doing what feels right, whatever it may be. I am THAT girlfriend– the best one ever, according to Mr. K. He allows my sexual fluidity, encourages it and that, my friends, I wouldn’t have any other way.


  3. Sex Blogger Post of the Year

    September 3, 2014 by Nikki Blue

    Imagine waking up to find NakedJill hearts two of your blog posts super hard for The Best of Sex and Dating Posts August 2014 . Well, it totally happened, and let’s just say there was A LOT of squeeing.

    See, the thing is, Rori, who runs the annual Top Sex Bloggers list over on Between My Sheets is also looking for the Sex Blogger Post of the Year!

    Yep. It’s happening.

    Here’s what Jill had to say:

    “Two from Vagina Antics this month. First, Nikki Blue talks about sex and obligation and how to find a balance. It’s important stuff and she handles it beautifully.”

    and

    “Heather Cole somehow manages to describe her last night with her sir in a way that’s both scintillating and vulnerable.”

    IKNOWRIGHT?

    Here’s the deal– submissions open on September 15th, which means you have plenty of time to read Rori’s guidelines, your favorite sex blogs, and nominate your faves, so get on it. Heh.


  4. The Last Night

    August 27, 2014 by Heather Cole

    Thursday was our last night together. I had rearranged my work schedule so that I stopped at 3:00 every day that week, and we spent the late afternoon and evenings eating all the foods we wanted, spending time with friends, snuggling, and fucking. The time leading up to this point had seemed to crawl by and fly like lightening simultaneously. Before I knew it, we were there… the eve of his departure.

    I had finished ironing the last of his shirts and joined him on the couch. I was fresh from the shower, my hair still damp, and I wore my most softest, green dress with the plunging neckline. I felt raw and vulnerable, my emotions simmering a hairsbreadth below the surface.

    “What would you like to do tonight?” he asked.

    “What would you like to do?” I countered.

    “I’m open to a variety of things. What do you think?”

    “First I need to cry,” I said and felt a tear streak down my cheek. “After that’s out of the way, I’m open to whatever you want to do.”

    “Let’s go upstairs, baby, and we’ll cry together.”

    For the next half hour he held me as I sobbed on to his shoulder. He murmured our litany of assurances into my hair that I knew by heart. It had almost become a prayer between us–all the reasons why his relocation would be a great thing for us both. Eventually my tears dried, and I felt like I could function as a somewhat coherent human being again.

    “So what are we going to do?” I asked.

    “Remember how you asked for an enema scene a couple of weeks ago?”

    I opened my mouth to reply and then thought better of it. A pro-domme had offered to give me a scene featuring an enema, with sir’s permission, but I had turned her down in favor of a relaxing massage for my owner. I was intrigued by the use of enemas in D/s scenes, not because of the enema itself, but because of the control exerted over the submissive. I found the idea of trying to control one’s natural bodily functions to please another titillating, and I had mentioned to sir that if I were going to do it, I would want my first experience to be with him.

    Oh how those casual words had come back to haunt me.

    “Instead of a water enema, I’m going to pee in your butt,” he added.

    My mouth dropped open. “REALLY?”

    “Yup,” he said. “Let’s get you into the bathroom.”

    My mind was reeling as we emptied the bathroom of the scale, a footstool, and the bathmat. I couldn’t decide how I felt about it. Repulsed? I felt like I should have been more grossed out than I actually was. I mean, what was the proper response to a man telling you he wanted to pee in your butt? Part of me was interested, maybe even excited, and then a larger part of me was ashamed that I felt that way. I could feel my cheeks grow hot as he spread out an old beach towel on the bathroom floor.

    “On your knees,” he said.

    I assumed the position that I had hundreds of times before this night. Fucking in our bathroom was commonplace although our actions tonight were a first for us both. I tucked my toes under the ledge of the bathtub as he pushed my dress around my waist. He was already erect, the head of his cock pushing against the crack of my ass. The lube he applied was cool against my heated skin, and to my surprise, he slid into my pussy first. My first orgasm took me by storm, and I was forced to admit, if only to myself, that I was turned on. A second orgasm quickly followed the first, his strokes long and deep. As I tried to catch my breath, sir pulled out and slid into my anus. Suddenly I was gasping for an entirely different reason.

    His rhythm changed when he began to concentrate on urinating. I didn’t feel him peeing exactly, but I noticed a full feeling beginning in my abdomen. His erection would relax slightly as he urinated and then stiffen again when he switched to fucking my asshole. I closed my eyes so that I no longer saw the geometric pattern on the linoleum and could concentrate more on the sensations that assailed me.

    “I’m going to come,” he said, pushing deeper into me. I stilled as his body came to rest against my ass, instinctively tightening around him to keep everything inside.

    “You can go sit on the toilet, but you can’t expel anything.”

    I slowly got to my feet and gingerly walked over to the toilet, silently praying that I could hold it. I felt like I was trying to keep a water balloon inside me, and I was mortified that I might fail. I sat on the toilet, letting my dress drape between my thighs.

    “What are you doing, baby?”

    “May I go to the bathroom, Daddy?” I asked in a small voice.

    I couldn’t help myself. I felt exposed and vulnerable, like a little girl sitting on the potty. I felt myself blush, and I couldn’t meet his eyes. There was no one else in the world that I trusted like sir, and even though I was uncomfortable with the intimacy, I also reveled in the sense of connection. I was willing to go to this unfamiliar territory, to push past my modesty and embarrassment, and bare myself according to his will. I felt little and powerful all at the same time..

    “Look at me, babygirl, and use your words.” I could hear the grin in his voice, and when I finally looked up his expression was equal parts kindness and mischief.

    “May I please…” My voice faded to a whisper. “…poop?”

    His eyes went wide with mock surprise. “What do you want to do, Little Pookie?”

    “Poop!” I exclaimed and buried my face in my hands. “Daddy, you’re embarrassing me!” I shrieked.

    Sir laughed out loud then and gave me the OK. As my bowels released, I slumped in relief and felt sheepish. I couldn’t think of any other time when I felt so raw, so human.

    “So what turned you on the most?” I finally asked, wanting to distract myself from being the center of attention.

    “The thought that I could do this to a girl and that she would let me do it made me hot. What kind of dirty girl lets a guy pee in her? You let me pee in your butt, and you’re my girl. That was the biggest turn-on.”

    My cheeks turned scarlet, but I was grinning too. His pleasure and satisfaction with the situation were almost palpable, and I felt an overwhelming sense of pride. I did that for him. On our last night together, I had given him a memory unique to any other experience we had in our collective sexual pasts. I was his girl, and I didn’t know of a better way to show it.

    The rest of the night passed with good food, our favorite TV show, and more orgasms. As I fell asleep with his arms wrapped tight around me, he whispered, “I peed in your butt tonight.” I giggled, smiling into the darkness. It was the perfect ending to our last night.

     


  5. Under Pressure

    August 16, 2014 by Nikki Blue

    I had fallen asleep while watching JAWS on TV for the bazillionth time, but when he came through the door, I woke immediately, smiling when I saw his face. He flashed the grin I love, the one with his full lips open in surprise and his eyes wide, when he realized I was naked under the covers. I knew he was tired, though. I saw it on his face and in his blue eyes, but still, he moved my hand to his cock after he’d undressed and climbed into bed.

    “I want you to ride me,” he said.

    One of the things I love about Mr. K is his willingness to please me. He takes nearly as much satisfaction from my pleasure as he does from his own. It’s a selflessness I’d never experienced before and it’s a part of him I find incredibly arousing.

    When he’d said to ride him, I knew what he wanted was for me to climb on top of him and use him to orgasm as I’d done so many times before. I intended to, but not in the way he’d anticipated.

    He didn’t expect me to crawl up the length of his body and straddle his face, which was exactly the reason I did it, but his moans of delight sounded more like gasps for air. And he didn’t bathe his face in the flood of my juices as he licked me either. As a matter of fact, when I looked down at him, I realized he’d shifted me where his attention was focused solely on my clit. THAT was very unusual.

    It struck me that something was wrong, and because I’m me, I freaked out. My mind raced wildly, wondering if he’d grown tired of me during our longer than usual visit. Was he bored with the sex we had? My pussy? Was it no longer the scent and taste he loved after having been filled with SO MUCH CUM? WHAT WAS WRONG WITH ME?

    I blew out a quick breath and wiped my sweaty palms on the pillow near his head, thinking maybe the problem was that he only wanted to fuck. He did, after all, say for me to ride him. But Mr. K isn’t one to beat around the bush. Heh. Bush. He would have said if he wasn’t in the mood to eat me, or if my pussy had reached its cum intake capacity.

    He wants to fuck, I thought. OR maybe he wants my ass. We hadn’t done a whole lot of anal stuff, so maybe he wants me to pin his arms to his side and shove my ass on his face. He LOVES when I do that. And I’ll suck his cock and balls at the same time. Maybe even slap it a bit. Oh yeah, that’ll get him into it.

    Stop laughing. It’s the way my mind works. My plan, however, was a total failure.

    When I turned around giving him unfettered access to his gateway to heaven, I expected to hear his moans of pleasure as I spread my ass open for him to enjoy. Those moans didn’t come, though. He didn’t get all up in it either, literally and figuratively speaking. That’s when I knew for certain– something was wrong.

    “Ride me, baby,” he said. “Use my cock to make yourself come.”

    Again, I knew what he wanted.

    He smiled as I slid on to him and worked myself into the orgasm he loved to watch. The one that stimulated my clit like a continuous edge. The one so extraordinary it left me shaking. But when he pulled me to his side and tucked into the crook of his arm, I carefully pried open the lid to the giant can of obvious.

    “I knew something was wrong when you didn’t want my ass.”

    “It’s not that I didn’t want your ass. There is never a time when I don’t want your ass,” he said. “I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t sleep well last night either, and it was a long day. I’m just exhausted.”

    The thing is, with the 140-something miles in between us, we try to make the most out of our visits which are usually no more than two or three nights. We sleep little and fuck a lot. He doesn’t even take his sleep-aid when we’re together because he says he doesn’t need it. I am his Ambien. But as much as I love hearing those words, I know there are nights when he needs it, and I feel for him as he tosses and turns beside me. On the flipside, the only time I actually do sleep well is when I’m with Mr. K.

    This trip was unusual for us– five nights –which is the most time we’ve ever had together in one visit. It was also a working trip for him, and that meant there were nights he didn’t come through door until after ten. Even though he hadn’t been feeling great and was super tired, he felt guilty that I had been alone all day. Still, he was deep in the pattern of making every moment count.

    “You didn’t have to fuck me,” I said.

    “But I felt like I did.”

    And there it was. Regardless of how exhausted or how ill he was, he felt pressured to fuck me to make up for the time we’d been apart; to keep me happy.

    For the first time in our relationship, I felt like an obligation– a sex one.

    I could have easily recoiled from the sting of his words, but his intention wasn’t to hurt me. I knew that in my heart. What bothered me the most was that he’d pushed his own limits too far without feeling safe enough to ask for mercy. In my mind, I’d failed him.

    Mr. K and I have phenomenal sex, but it’s just the icing on an amazing relationship cake. And we love our cake, a lot. The last thing either of us wanted was to damage our relationship, so we talked through his feelings. I assured him that I loved him– all of him –not just his cock, and I wasn’t dependent on sex, that just being with him made me happy. Sure, I had been naked in bed when he’d come home, but not because I waited for a thorough fucking. The bed we share is a place for closeness without expectations, not for pajamas. I also told him it’s alright to take Ambien when we’re together, that his sleep is important, especially when he’s working. Don’t get me wrong, I love when he wakes me in the early morning hours for sex, but it’s not something I require of him.

    “Oh, but I always want to wake you for sex,” he chuckled.

    And as I lay sleeping soundly beside him hours later, he nudged me awake the way he always does. He kissed me softly, wrapped my legs around him, and filled his need and mine.


  6. A New Collar for a New Chapter

    August 8, 2014 by Heather Cole

    Collar 08_08_2014

     

    Sir said that he had been eyeing this collar for awhile, but it was a comment by Dumb Domme that spurred him to finally purchase it. I was surprised and delighted. Material gifts from Daddy were rare and extremely special. He made my toes curl with joy when I shook it free from its velvet bag. The collar was heavy and warmed to the same temperature as my skin after he locked it around my neck. It needed a special key to turn the tiny pin to open and close the circle, and as it fell into place, I felt the stainless steel as if it was his hand around my neck. I felt owned. Possessed. It felt like some kind of magic.

    Sir is leaving in two weeks–fifteen days to be precise. I have the day marked on my calendar in red. Dramatic, I know, but in some ways that red represents my heart’s blood. Ever since he accepted the contract overseas, we have lived in an odd sort of limbo. We’re posed on the precipice of goodbye perpetually, wanting to begin the next chapter and resisting it at the same time. It’s a horrible place to be, and yet there are gifts here too. Not only the shiny metal ones.

    The other night I burst into tears thinking about a possible delay in our tentative plans for an October visit. These cloud bursts of saline are not uncommon. I can hear a song, or read a passage in my favorite book, and the pain of sir’s departure will sweep over me like a rolling wave. I cope by crying until it fades, leaving me empty and somehow relieved. After my tears dried, I had an insight. If I loved sir any less, then I wouldn’t feel the pinprick of pain at the slightest reminder of our chapter ending. Honestly, I don’t ever want to reach a point where I don’t mourn our separation. Yes, I may be resigned, but I don’t ever want to feel neutral. Neutral would be the death of us, the final ending of our dynamic. So I do what all masochists do, I embrace the pain and surrender to it. When I think about sir leaving, I dive into the deep sadness and then come back up for air and continue living. The contrasts can steal my breath, moving in between the darkness and light, but I always manage to regain my equilibrium to move forward to the new chapter.

     


  7. Boobs, Junk Punches, and Science

    August 5, 2014 by Nikki Blue

    Yesterday I stumbled across this article on the interwebz, and to say that it angered me is a gross understatement. The author deserves a junk punch for the title alone.

    5 Signs Her Breasts Are Fake

    See? Junk punch totally deserved.

    And the tagline…

    Here’s how to tell–without being a total creep! 

    <shudder>

    The author’s attempt at not being a creep was a total failure. He did, however, pull off body-shaming women with breast implants with flying colors, so kudos to him.

    Normally this is where I would spew a host of reasons why it doesn’t matter if a woman’s breasts are fake or not, post a photograph of my breast implants, or call him out for being a critical douchebag, but I’m above that sort of behavior, mostly. I will, though, point out that he used ‘silicon’ twice in his horribly offensive article when ‘silicone’ would have been the correct term. I would have written the first off as a typo and tried to look past it, which is super hard because typos freak me out, but the second slip told me didn’t know the difference between between a synthetic compound and a chemical element, and THAT was a fuck-up I found strangely comforting.


  8. The Method to My Madness

    July 28, 2014 by Nikki Blue

    When Heather tagged me to write about my writing process, I was like wait, what? No seriously. That was my exact reaction. See?

    photo (2)

    Then I was all WHAT DID I DO TO PISS HER OFF? I should also point out that this happened two, wait, three months ago, so that says a lot right there. Thank God there’s no math in writing.

    Oh, shut up.

    I know there’s some sort of format I’m supposed to follow here, but that ain’t going to happen sweet cheeks. I will share with y’all that I’m currently writing CONTROL, the second book in my memoir-new adult-fiction-BDSM erotica-contemporary fiction-romance, erm, memoir series.

    Yes, it’s a genre.

    And because I have project A.D.D., I’m also writing a guide to swinging and group sex, an idea born from a snarky blog post I recently wrote about a rather awkward experience with chicken wings, boobs, and attempted double penetration. Laugh, if you will, but it happened and yes, it was totally weird.

    I’d love to say I’m one of those writers who boast to their Facebook friends that they wrote 4,300 words while sitting in their local Starbucks, but I’m not. I hate them, by the way, but only because I tend to write with the swiftness of a handicapped snail. Hell, there are days where I write little more than a paragraph because I can’t move past it until it feels right. I’ve been known to rewrite an opening paragraph a bazillion times before pulling up my big girl panties and sharing with Mr. K or Heather to ask if I’m on the right track. And even if their response is favorable, which it usually is, I blow it up and write it over anyway. Have I mentioned I’m super anal? Heh. Anal.

    Aaaaaand we’re moving on.

    Most of the time I love writing, but there are times where I’m overwhelmed and find myself curled into a fetal position, especially if I’m writing about the fees. And then there are the moments I doubt my ability, thinking every word I’ve ever written sucks sweaty balls. There’s also the issue of balancing my writing career with the life outside of my head, which doesn’t always go as planned. On occasion, my kids would go hungry if they weren’t old enough to feed themselves, and my friends have been known to stage interventions by dragging me out of the house kicking and screaming because the sunlight hurts my eyes and burns my pale skin. And sleep, well, that’s something I learned to live without long a go.

    To sum it up, my writing process isn’t complicated, but it does involve a lot of crying, self-doubt, balls, and snails. Wait.


  9. Coffee and a Spanking

    July 26, 2014 by Heather Cole

    Our mornings usually began with coffee. I was a morning person, and rather than inflict sir with a cheerful good morning, I crept downstairs to start our morning pot of coffee. On this particular day, my mind was running through the events of the night as I threw out old grounds and filled the pot with water. In the past eight hours I had given two blowjobs and had been fucked thoroughly, but despite having enjoyed myself, something nagged at me.

    I straightened the kitchen while I mulled over matters, the aroma of fresh coffee swirling around me. I couldn’t decide if I was being overly-sensitive. My gripe seemed petty, but I no longer trusted my perspective on the situation. Sir and I were having more and more conversations about my behavior lately. I didn’t classify myself as a brat, but in recent weeks I had taken to talking back and even telling sir ‘no’ on occasion. He kept a sense of humor about it, and told me that he loved my sass, but I couldn’t seem to curb my tongue. Part of me didn’t want to, and as a result, I was pushing back and acting out.

    I wasn’t proud of myself. As I chewed my lip in front of the coffee pot, I worried that my irritation was only subterfuge, that I was fooling myself into thinking that I had a defensible position for my irritation. All the while the nagging feeling in my chest warned that if I probed deeper into the motivation behind my brattiness, I’d find a bigger issue that I didn’t want to deal with. And I really didn’t want to look into that writhing can of worms.

    When the percolating stopped, I took a cup up to sir still wrestling with myself. He was awake and propped up against the pillows, his laptop settled across his lap. The light from the screen highlighted his slightly mussed hair and hazel eyes. I loved seeing him this way, half-awake and drowsy with sleep. He murmured a thank you for the coffee, and his gaze followed me as I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth.

    “So what got you riled up in the middle of the night? Were you looking at porn?” I asked.

    “No,” he said, a small smile on his face. “I woke up with a boner and decided to put your face on it.”

    His wording made me laugh, and I almost spit toothpaste on the mirror. “You know, you woke me up from a deep sleep. I thought maybe I’d get a thank you for the service or at least a high-five. Maybe a ‘way to go, slave.’”

    I kept my tone teasing and light, but my earlier feelings of angst bobbed beneath it. I had blown him before we went to sleep only to be woken up a few hours later for a second blowjob. Oral sex was one of my duties as a sex slave, and it was one of my favorites. In the middle of the night, though, when I was yanked out of dreamland to suck cock… well, I tried to be gracious about it. And regardless of my feelings, I did it.

    This isn’t the problem, I thought. But I squashed it down and silently scolded my feelings to shut the fuck up.

    “I said thank you by filling your mouth with come. It’s your reward.”

    “Right,” I said, unconvinced. I knew he was teasing me, but I couldn’t muster a smile in return.

    “After I gifted you with my come, I wrapped you in my arms to snuggle you. But my phantom girlfriend was gone, disappearing into the bathroom. Without permission, I might add.” The look on sir’s face was pleasant, as was his voice, but I felt a twinge when he mentioned my disobedience.

    I had left our bed on purpose. I put my toothbrush away and came to stand beside him. He reached for my hand, but I avoided his eyes.

    “I didn’t want to snuggle you while feeling bitchy about your silence so I got up to clear my head. I came back right after I peed,” I said.

    “Perhaps there’s a better way that we can communicate so that you don’t feel like you’re unappreciated. Maybe you can say, ‘I felt ____ when ____ happened.’”

    I tried not to roll my eyes even though I knew he was right. I hadn’t handled it well, and I should have told him about my irritation rather than abandoning the situation.

    “Fine,” I said.

    Sir’s eyebrows arched with surprise. “I think someone needs to remember her manners.”

    “FINE. SIR.”

    As sir’s eyes widened with incredulity, I gave him a look that would have made any five-year-old proud. I couldn’t help pushing him, needling him one step further.

    “Come to the other side of the bed, please,” he said and patted the space beside him.

    “I have to go to work.”

    “This won’t take long. I’ll count to five. 1… 2…”

    I didn’t stall any further, knowing things would be so much worse if I delayed even further. He instructed me to get on my knees towards the edge of the bed with my ass pointing out towards the window. I stared at the jumbled sheets around me and wondered what kind of hot water I had landed in.The jingle of a belt buckle answered my unspoken question.

    “I want you to count, and I want you to thank me for each one, because you need a lesson in manners.”

    “Yes, sir,” I said meekly, my fingers digging into a blanket.

    He hit me hard, the sting of leather stealing my breath. I counted and thanked him, tears pooling beneath my lashes. I only had to count to five, but sir made every one of them count.

    After the last one, I stayed in place, trying to catch my breath. I heard the belt drop to the floor, and then sir’s arm gently pushed me down. I toppled on to my side, my emotions a zigzagging blur inside me. I felt outraged that I was punished even though on the heels of that came a giant wave of relief for it. All it took was those five strikes and my defenses were breached. I was laid bare, open and vulnerable.

    Sir’s arms came around me, and he pulled the blanket over us both. He spoke in my ear, his words soothing and sensual at the same time. The tickle of his breath on my neck, and the rumble of his voice against my back… I told myself to remember every last little detail. I wanted to soak in the experience through my skin and into my bones so that I could recall it in the lonely weeks to come. It was then that I realized that the quagmire of emotion inspiring my behavior was grief, an ocean of sadness that he will be leaving. It wasn’t a can of worms that I was avoiding. It was one giant, Dune-sized, earth-shaking worm of loss that I wanted to un-see. I decided to continue ignoring it even as it threatened to surface.

    We have today, I told myself. We have this moment.

    It had to be enough.

     


  10. Where’s Nikki?

    July 21, 2014 by Nikki Blue

    No, I’m not in jail for something ridiculous and totally not my fault. Nope. I am, however, over on Rachel in the OC where I’ve written a guest post about my experience with physical abuse and how writing BROKEN changed my life. Check it out! 

    Photo for RT guest post

     

    Image courtesy of Serge Bertasius Photography / FreeDigitalPhotos.net