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Posts Tagged ‘Dominance and submission’

  1. The Incidental Sadist

    October 31, 2016 by Heather Cole

     

    He requested tea with my beating. That was new.

    From my vantage point, with my arms bound behind me with rope and my ankle cuffs clipped to the spreader bar, I could see steam wafting from the cup. He sipped the tea and perused the implements spread across the table. It reminded me of someone shopping for the perfect fruit, not a British sadist in contemplation.

    Strike One – Heather

    Things were subtly different from the first time we played. Some of it was a consequence of my actions, deliberate and incidental. I had forgotten repeatedly to update my shared calendar which made scheduling time at the dungeon a challenge for the Sadist. Eve, the Domme supervising our play time and the coordinator of this event, “helpfully” shared my sassy texts regarding the calendar. I hadn’t curbed my tongue. Strike one – Heather.

    Strike Two – Heather

    On the day of our scene, I hit unusual traffic on my way to the dungeon. I arrived half an hour late, and although the Sadist accommodated the change, I was going to pay for it. Strike two.

    None of these occurrences compiled themselves in my mind to give me something to worry about. No, I arrived flustered and rushed to find that Eve had set up on her own. This meant that all sorts of items were out, things that I probably wouldn’t have chosen. Ouchy things. I had given my limits months ago when the Sadist and I first played, and I hadn’t thought about updating that list before arriving. But the Sadist wasn’t the only one changing things up. I was too.

    When the Sadist and I first came together I had a master, and I had everything approved by him before I played with the Sadist. Now I was free of my contract, and I was the sole person responsible for negotiating the scene. But I had mostly forgotten about that until I was dressed in the outfit the Sadist had brought and bound to the large wooden frame at the center of the room. My thoughts resembled a sheaf of paper being thrown into the air on a blustery day. He approached me with safety scissors in hand, and it finally occurred to me that I had no idea what was going to happen. I hadn’t been proactive about what I wanted during our interaction, and now it was going to bite me in the ass. Probably literally.

    Well, damn, Heather

    The Sadist pinched and caressed me through the black dress as I watched him warily. He used the scissors to cut away the fabric over my breasts and pussy. Before I could ask anything, his hand came down swiftly in a chopping motion against my right nipple. The pain was swift and immediate, and I felt tears form at the corners of my eyes. He didn’t pause and whipped his hand down the front of the other nipple. I couldn’t tell if I wanted to cry from the pain or whether the nipple slapping reminded me so much of my ex. It was my ex who had trained me to endure nipple torture. He would hit me like that in the shower or anywhere I might be exposed. He was the only man who had hurt me in that way, and now the Sadist was doing it too. My feelings got tangled with the pain. Then the Sadist gripped my jaw and brought my gaze to his.

    “You’ve been very naughty, Heather.” He tapped my cheek with his thick fingers. “You didn’t update your calendar and then you were late.”

    I started to protest, and he smacked my cheek. Another slap. And another. I began to cry in earnest.

    Again he began slapping my nipples, but I couldn’t bear it. I said “yellow,” and breathed a sigh of relief when he stepped back. Of course that respite was short. He cut more holes in the dress and abused more flesh. He tickled me, because he knew I hated it, then slapped me again when I laughed helplessly. When the cloth hung off me in strips, he shoved aside the remnants of the black thong I wore and rubbed my clit in rough circles. He knew I wouldn’t orgasm like that, but he handled me in such a way because he knew he could. It was degrading, and the humiliation made my cheeks burn in addition to the slaps.

    That was probably the biggest difference of all. The Sadist had arrived this day with the confidence of knowing the submissive he was dealing with. This was our fourth time playing, and he seemed confident that he could challenge me. I felt that self-assurance in every slap, every strike of the cane, in the way he tied me and pushed in ways that he hadn’t before. He punched the meaty part of my chest and paddled the bottoms of my feet. He explored the most sensitive parts of my body with brutal calculation, favoring the tender flesh on my sides and inner thighs. The hardest part, for me, was the predicament bondage that he had dreamed up for the occasion.

    The man tore off the remnants of my clothes and unhooked the spreader bar. He made me stand parallel to the wooden frame with my arms stretched straight in front of me. Around each wrist he looped rope that was then tied to the frame. If I dropped my arms, the loops around each wrist would tighten. He clipped pulleys to the chains at the top of the frame, and fed rope through each. He tied frozen bottles of water to the ends. But it was the other end of the rope that made me anxious. Each rope was tied to a zipper of clothespins. (A zipper is a term to describe clothespins tied in a consecutive line to rope or string. Once the clothespins are pinched on the skin of the submissive, the top can pull one end of the string and pull each clip off in rapid succession. When the clothespins are lining each side of the labia, for example, they come off like the teeth of a zipper.)

    One zipper had ten clothespins that pinched my labia, and the other longer zipper had clothespins circling each breast like a deranged porcupine. The issue was never the clothespins going on in these situations. The painful repercussions always happened when they were ripped off and blood rushed back to the wounded areas.

    My predicament was this: if I dropped the water bottles, the weight would rip off the zippers. If I dropped the water under two minutes, we would start all over again. If I held the freezing water bottles for longer, he would tie on more bottles and things would become heavier. The decision was agony. There was no way I could “win.” Any which way and those zippers would come off. I debated and squirmed as the icy bottles melted in my hands. Two more bottles went on as I danced in place. My arms were tiring quickly. I decided finally to drop the bottles on my left that were tied to the zipper around my pussy. Squeezing my eyes shut in tense anticipation, I dropped the bottles. They fell to the floor with a thud, but the zipper stayed.

    “What happened?” I shrieked, going on to my tiptoes in response to the tightened clothespins.

    The Sadist looked at me calmly. “I suppose we need more weight.” He grabbed the rope and yanked with all his might.

    The clothespins flew off my pussy, and I would have doubled over if I hadn’t been tied to the other one. I made a garbled exclamation, the pain between my legs distracting me from articulation.

    “Going to let go of the other?” he asked with mild amusement.

    It didn’t matter what I decided. No sooner had the bottle dropped from my hand then he was jerking the other rope. This time I shrieked and clutched my abused breasts. I hadn’t felt anything like that in ages, and the sharp pain of the blood circulating made me whimper. The Sadist pushed the frozen bottles against my nipples, and I begged him to stop being helpful.  

    He wasn’t finished with me yet. The Sadist had me lie down on the massage table, and then used almost every implement laid out beside his tea cup. He turned my body from pale pink to bright red. And he saved the cane for last. The thing that I loathed and loved, the only tool that was guaranteed to undo the last pieces of my self-control. Again it was because of my ex.

    The cane had been his favorite, and I through the years of us being master and slave, I had learned to read the strength and angle of its fall against my flesh like reading the sky for clues to the weather. I couldn’t be caned and not think of my ex. The Sadist didn’t know that part of it, so it didn’t slow him. The caning felt like it lasted forever, and the bruises it gave me matched the ones on my heart. I cried, my sobs muffled by the pillow beneath me.

    Finally he decided to finish it, and he pulled me to my feet and had me pick out a dildo. I pushed it into place on the fucking machine and sat down so that I straddled the stiff rubber cock. The Sadist then rocked me back and forth on the machine, controlling how fast the dildo penetrated my pussy. I had orgasm after orgasm, my tears replaced with sweat and cum. Finally he stopped the machine, and I tried to get my synapses firing again.

    I have no idea what I said or what he said at that point. We spoke of something pleasant before he left, I’m sure. I don’t remember much of anything except that I gave him many hugs in gratitude. My brain had stopped working but my heart was full. I hope he knew how thankful I was for the pain and the pleasure. And the bittersweet memories too.


  2. Nurse Heather

    September 5, 2015 by Heather Cole

    Depositphotos_Nurse Heather_2

     

    When you hear the words ‘medical scene,’ what images come to mind? For me, I see a scene in grainy, black and white, with Germans in uniforms and lab coats looming over some hapless patient strapped to a metal examination table. The words send a shiver over me that is equal parts fear and excitement. I’ve never experienced a medical scene myself, but I’ve always been fascinated/afraid of them. Luckily for me, I got the chance to participate in one without being the victim… er, patient. I was invited to assist Dr. Dominant as her nurse, and I eagerly accepted–excited to finally experience some medical play.

    The patient had a medical fetish and would become aroused by both auditory and physical sensations related to medical procedures. Meaning that he found the physical sensation of a medical exam (being poked and prodded) erotic, as well as the noises of the exam (the clink of metal instruments) and the medical terms we spoke. He particularly enjoyed proper, anatomically correct words, and to be observed and objectified.

    Dr. D was dressed professionally in a black pencil skirt and black, platform heels, with a white doctor’s coat and a pair of glasses perched on her nose. Her demeanor never strayed from that of a stern, slightly aloof professional, and she was specific with her instructions and expectations of the patient. I tried not to giggle with eagerness, because it would have blown my cover as an experienced nurse.

    The patient lay on the examination table after having stripped off all his clothes. He was a man in his sixties, with a thick shock of graying hair and piercing eyes. His large cock stood at attention in anticipation of the exam. I looked him over with a friendly smile and an appreciative eye, admiring his nude body.

    Dr. D ignored my titters and immediately began discussing the patient with me as if he were only a body on the table. We reviewed his chart and discussed how to conduct his exam.

    My job as nurse was to assist the doctor, but also to be a supportive presence and to offer comfort when needed. (When I played with Dr. D, I liked to think of myself as the “good” cop to her “bad” cop.) Even though the patient eagerly submitted to the exam and had, in fact, requested specific aspects of it, I was there to stroke his arm in support and reassure him.

    We began with the basics: tested his reflexes, listened to his heartbeat and pulses, inspected his mouth and ears, then examined his rectum with well-lubed fingers, his prostate, and gave him an enema for cleansing. He moaned with arousal when I said, “Dr. D, the patient has taken the entire enema.” And when she replied, “The patient’s rectum is thirsty,” he squirmed with excitement. But that was also a sign that he needed to expel the enema. *wink wink*

    Dr. D adjusted the height of the medical stand to slow the flow of water from the rubber bag hanging from it. “Nurse Heather,” she said, “we need to test the patient’s eyesight. Please lift your scrubs, and we’ll see if he can see your vagina.”

    I obeyed, and the patient’s eyes grew wide as I slowly lifted the skirt of my uniform. I only permitted him to see the juncture of my thighs, thoroughly enjoying the tease.

    “May I touch?” he whispered.

    “First of all, you must ask my permission before you ask for Heather’s,” Dr. D said in a cold voice. “And no, you may not touch Nurse Heather there. Nurse Heather, however, may touch herself.”

    I grinned and let two of my fingers make gentle circles over my clit.

    “You’re masturbating!” the patient exclaimed.

    “Our medical practice believes in fostering a healthy sexual life,” Dr. D replied.

    I couldn’t help myself. The playful nature of the scene had caused my own arousal to build, and I slipped two fingers between my folds. Hearing the patient express his appreciation of my body, made me wet. I was having so much fun that an orgasm already shimmered just below my skin.

    “I can hear how wet she is,” the patient said with awe. “This is the most erotic experience I’ve ever had.”

    “Nurse Heather,” Dr. D said, a small smile on her lips, “you may orgasm when you wish.”

    It didn’t take much to push me into that golden release, and the orgasm rushed through me in moments. I laughed and gasped at the force of the pleasure.

    “I can’t believe you came that fast,” the patient said.

    I smiled as I cleaned my hands. “The fact that you were so pleased by our scene made me want to come with happiness.” And that was the truth.

    It turned out that this medical scene wasn’t at all like I’d imagined. Of course, that’s because it wasn’t my scene, with me on the examination table. I was only in a supporting role. But it’s reassuring to know that I don’t have to go plunging into the terrifying/exhilarating medical scene that I’ve seen in German porn in order to experience medical play. There are baby steps, fun steps, that I can experience as I familiarize myself with the new (to me) medical frontier of BDSM. Also, my next nurse’s uniform is going to be latex, or like Daryl Hannah’s in Kill Bill. 


  3. She’s just a girl on fire

    August 15, 2015 by Heather Cole

    woman with candle

    Fire brings up all sorts of emotions when you play with it. Even before the flames kiss your skin, there’s the rush of anticipation blowing through you, accompanied by a flicker of fear. It’s elemental. Primal. And when my friend texted me about joining her and her partner for some fire play, I was all for it.

    My introduction to fire play began with a text:

    “Can I light you on fire?”

    It was sent from my friend, Stormy, who is the queen of no-context texts. I replied, of course, with a similar cheeky attitude.

    “Literally on fire? No. I like these shorts too much.”

    S: “Oh, I’d need you naked first.”

    Me: “Then yes! You can absolutely set me on fire!”

    Before you think that I let any ‘ol person light me on fire, I already knew that Stormy’s partner, D, was experienced with fire play. She wanted to learn too, and she needed a demo bottom to experiment with. Add to that the fact that I adore them both and trust them implicitly, so I knew that I was in good hands for my first foray into fire.

    D created torches from fondue forks, cotton batting, and cotton finger bandages. He then dipped them in rubbing alcohol and set them on fire. I know there are a lot of details in the process that I’m missing, but my focus wasn’t on how it all worked. I was more interested in how it would feel. (Hey, if you want to play with fire, for heaven’s sake, do your research and go to a demonstration first.)

    Even with my full consent, I felt a spike of anxiety as I lay on the massage table in their bedroom and waited to feel the first burst of warmth across my body. We started out with me on my stomach on the massage table. D explained to Stormy the different techniques he enjoyed as the torches hovered over my body in various places. The gentle warmth was soothing as I closed my eyes, and some of the tension in my body drained away. Sometimes he drew a path of alcohol first, followed by a lighted torch that would burn the trail of rubbing alcohol. He often brushed behind the flames with his palm to ensure that all the fire was out. The point was to burn the alcohol and feel the fire without doing any damage to the skin. I appreciated that.

    The experimentation began, and Stormy lit lines of fire over my back. D watched from the bed with a blanket beside him in case we needed to smother an out-of-control flame. Even though we were consenting adults, we were playing with fire–literally. And it was better to have safety precautions in place beforehand instead of hoping for the best that there would be no accidents.

    Stormy’s light touch and the racing fire gave me all sorts of ideas. Her excitement about learning a new skill lent itself to my building arousal, and I couldn’t help but squirm beneath her ministrations. The way she manipulated the flames made me wish that she’d do even more with her hands. I felt a keen edge of danger that accompanied the heat, even though I knew logically that I was mostly safe. And all of it fed into a wanton throbbing between my legs.

    I didn’t act upon my desires, mainly because I hadn’t cleared any of that beforehand with my sir, and secondly, I can be a complete wimp when it comes to making the first move on a woman. At the end of the night I gave D and stormy friendly hugs and gratitude, and went straight home to work out my raging libido with my vibrator. I reported everything to sir, and enjoyed myself so much that when sir arrived stateside for his month-long vacation, he asked to learn fire play too.

    My second fire play scene began with me, once again, face-down on the massage table. Even though I couldn’t see the three people circling me, I could identify the individuals from their different fire styles. Stormy had an even rhythm:  fire, sweep of the hand, fire, sweep of the hand. She could have lulled me into a meditative, relaxed state, even when she traced the flame along the soles of my feet. D placed the alcohol and torch with more force. His movements incited a visceral reaction, something I felt in my gut. There was the staccato rush of intense heat, and then it was gone a split-second later that made me writhe. Sir’s effect on me was different.

    His flame was sneaky, and he enjoyed watching it burn along the dips and curves of my flesh. He didn’t have a particular rhythm or pattern, and he didn’t always sweep behind the trailing alcohol with his hand. As a result, the heat grew more intense depending on where he placed its path, and there were several times I squealed in protest, worried that it was burning too long.

    Daddy knows how to play with my mind like no other, and when he told me to turn over so that my front was exposed, I knew he was going to twist my feelings into the fire that played over my tenderest bits. Blue flame danced over my breasts and nipples, and he made me watch, chuckling when I begged to be allowed to close my eyes again. Seeing the fire made the sensations on my skin ratchet up in intensity, which fought against my will to remain as motionless as possible. Stormy came to sit between my legs, her hands stroking my calves and thighs.

    Again the desire built inside me. The stimulus was intense, and my instincts warred against one another. I wanted to kiss Stormy and arch against sir’s hand on my breast. I could have brushed against the front of D’s body when he bent over me or stroked the growing wetness at the juncture of my thighs. But I had to remain still as the fire bound me in place more effectively than any rope. Their attentions and the rioting sensations made the entire scene an intense roller coaster ride. To be honest, I can’t even remember if Daddy gave me an orgasm or not—everything began to run together in a long series of intense stimulus. I had no sense of time, but when they finally wound down, I was spent.

    D cleaned up while I clumsily got back into my clothes. After many thank yous to Stormy and D for the amazing experience, I asked Daddy to drive because I was spacey. He surprised me, and instead of going directly home, he took a detour to our favorite burger joint to feed me cheeseburgers at midnight. Later we snuggled in bed as my endorphin high gradually faded, and I reflected on the different sensations of fire play vs the impact play that I typically enjoy. Both are dangerous, and I’m lucky to have relationships where I skirt that danger safely yet still experience a thrill. I got to be that girl on fire.

     


  4. We are still US

    January 11, 2015 by Heather Cole

    The weeks leading up to my trip overseas, where my sir now resided, were a whirlwind of activity. I was in a constant state of motion, cleaning up, cleaning out, and packing. But all the physical activity was a distraction to what I was feeling. I was out-of-my-body excited to see sir. We had been apart for four months, and although we connected via Skype every single day without fail, nothing could compensate for the lack of touch. His kisses, his hands on my body, the reassuring bulk of him next to me at night… I missed those things so much that I couldn’t even admit to myself how I ached to be with him.

    I was also feeling nervous. Not about the trip itself, but how we would reconnect in the flesh. And in my darker moments, I felt jealous. Jealous of a geographical location. Sir’s new city had him, and he was building a life that I could only learn about through my incessant questions during Skype. That city with its exotic customs and foreign life had consumed him almost completely. From my perspective, I was my boring old self in our boring old life that we used to share. My anecdotes from sex blogging and writing work seemed lame in comparison.

    When I stood beyond the gate in front of customs, I could only gaze at sir and smile. I told him he looked amazing, and I meant every syllable. I had to wait until we were alone in his apartment to feel his arms around me and the feeling of being held by him made me cry. Even though we both made a lot of effort to connect despite the geographical distance between us, nothing felt as exquisite as his physical embrace. It felt like I had journeyed all this way into the heart of a foreign land to finally be home. Home with him.

    The tears didn’t last long, though, and after he dried them, he gave me a quick tour which ended in the bedroom. He proceeded to claim me then, in every way possible. He filled my mouth, my pussy, and my asshole. His body dominated mine just as his will did. He smelled different, but his cock tasted and felt the same. I shed more joyful tears, mingled with the sounds of our bodies joining.

    That first day was divided into sleeping, eating, and fucking. During one of our awake times, he dug into his closet and pulled out the toys he had accrued for us. He had made a flogger from a discounted pair of nunchucks and paracord. There was a pingpong paddle, a foot long plastic shoehorn from Ikea that stung like a sonofabitch, a wooden spoon, a belt, and his favorite rattan cane. How he got that through customs, which was notorious for confiscating any items sexually related, was a mystery to me. Maybe they thought it was a camel stick? He’s going to take me to the Souk (the traditional market) and make me pick out my very own camel stick that won’t be used on any camels, only this girl’s backside.

    I fell into the familiar rituals of a spanking with wholehearted enthusiasm even as a part of me hesitated at the edge of giving myself completely. I felt like we had to be reacquainted in some ways, and I waited to see if I would find our D/s connection as strong as it once was. Now we were in his new life, a life that hadn’t made room for my physical presence yet. Everything about this world was foreign, and I worried that he would be too, or that perhaps, we wouldn’t share a love of the things we used to. Eventually I told my monkey mind to shut up, so I could be present. I trusted sir with my body and heart, and I had to trust that my unease would vanish the more time we spent with one another.

    Sir had me suck his cock while he hit me with his belt. The pleasure I took from sucking and running my tongue along his shaft was punctuated by the licks of pain from the leather. I gasped around him, trying to focus only on what I could control:  my mouth, tongue, and lips. Eventually he pulled me up beside him where I cuddled into his side. He stroked my cheek and looked intently at me.

    “Did you like it when I hit you?” he asked.

    “Yes, Daddy,” I replied with a small smile.

    “What kind of girl likes being hurt like that?”

    It was a question that he had asked me in various ways ever since the beginning of our relationship. And staring into his beautiful hazel eyes, the answer practically exploded out of me.

    “This girl loves when you hurt her, Daddy. It’s because of you that I love it so much. The pain goes hand in hand with trust, and it moves us beyond our defenses. Together.”

    Lust swept through me as my words unlocked the last gate around my heart. I wanted him all over again, and I wanted him to consume me. This was our connection in action. This is what kept me at his feet for the long months that we could only talk through our computers. The fire that blazed beneath my skin was lust for this man, love, and a trust so deep that I couldn’t feel whole without it.

    I kissed him hard and pressed my body along the length of his. He pushed me gently back and thrust his fingers between my legs. The orgasm hit me immediately, and I cried out as my fingernails dug into his arm. A second orgasm followed on the heels of the first, and I squirted on to the sheets. Daddy laughed with delight and fingerbanged me to a third orgasm.

    I couldn’t believe that I had squirted. It had been so long since I had done so, and when he asked me about it later, all I could think of was how strongly I felt about us. That was what inspired and reassured me. Despite all the time apart, our bond was still powerful, and we were still us.

     


  5. Playing Big Sister in Age Play

    November 14, 2014 by Heather Cole

     

    A friend asked me to help with a BDSM scene. A long-time associate of hers, Jimmy, enjoyed wearing diapers, liked humiliation, anal penetration, and age play. My friend would take the role of “Mommy,” but she needed someone to be the big sister. Since I had the schoolgirl skirt and Mary Janes, I figured why the hell not? The idea of being someone’s kinky fairy godmother and making their fantasy come true appealed to me, even if I was slightly nervous about what that would entail exactly.

    I wore my short plaid skirt, ruffled white shirt, and pulled my hair into pigtails. I grabbed a long coat that hid my costume so I wouldn’t alarm the neighbors, and I set out for Mommy’s play space. I always get a case of the butterflies before a scene, even when I’m not the focus of the action, and I wondered what Jimmy would be like. I didn’t have much experience with age play outside of my own D/s relationship, and I worried that I wouldn’t know how to play “correctly,” as if there even was such a thing.

    The stereotype of Dominant women was that they wore latex or black leather all the time, and strode around in heels with a whip in hand. I had never seen my friend wearing any of that, and when I arrived, she was dressed in black skinny jeans, a scarlet red top, and heels. She didn’t need head-to-toe leather to appear dominant. It was in the way she moved, her energy, and the instructions she gave me. She assured me that I’d be fine and should follow her lead. I nodded and crossed my fingers that she would be right.

    Jimmy was a man in his fifties with graying hair and casual clothes. He was shorter than me with a compact frame and quiet disposition. He smiled at me like we were meeting for the first time at a coffee shop and not in a room with multi-colored sex toys and large bottles of lube residing along one wall. He shook my hand and didn’t appear nervous at all when Mommy introduced me as Heather, his big sister. She then turned to me to explain that Jimmy was my new adopted baby brother. I smiled at him and welcomed him to our happy family, and then Mommy got down to the business of taking care of baby.

    Mommy told him to take his clothes off, and then we all traipsed to the bathroom so that he could “get clean.” I twirled my hair and lounged against the door frame as Mommy cleaned Jimmy’s penis and balls with wet wipes. She explained to me that dirty boys needed to be cleaned, especially naughty boys who liked to play with themselves. Mommy asked him if he had saved himself for her, and he nodded. Then she snapped her latex glove and told him to bend over, so she could inspect her efforts. Jimmy obligingly parted his ass cheeks, and Mommy stuck a finger into his anus. He gave a soft moan as she slowly moved in and out of the tight hole. I watched his cock harden with her attentions, and she gave Jimmy permission to stroke himself.

    My posture may have been casual, but I found their interactions fascinating. It was the first time that I’d participated in a scene with a male submissive where I could observe and absorb the dynamic. Usually I was the receiver of the dominance and sadism, but in this particular situation, I had a front row seat.

    “You’re not allowed to come,” she warned him. “If you come close to orgasm before I give you permission, you may beg me for mercy.”

    “Yes, Mommy,” he replied in a breathless voice.

    With the inspection finished, Mommy withdrew her finger and tossed her gloves into the trash. “Let’s get you into your diaper, baby.”

    We walked back into the other room, and Mommy laid out all the items she would need for Jimmy’s change. Talcum powder and a large adult-sized diaper with blue sail boats sat beside the massage table. She instructed him to lie down with his bottom on the diaper and his legs spread, and then she turned to me. My task was to sit between his legs and powder him. I nervously grabbed the baby powder and eyed Jimmy’s penis. In retrospect I should have focused more on the sensual feeling of powder on skin, but all I could think about was making the powder go where I wanted. I squeezed too hard, and a giant plume of white powder puffed into the air. I suddenly got a case of the giggles.

    Mommy made clucking noises with her tongue and shooed me off the table. She neatly fastened Jimmy’s diaper. Then she handed me a coloring book and crayons.

    “You two can color, while I get a few things from downstairs. Look after your brother, Heather, and be a good girl.”

    “Yes, Mommy,” I said and put the coloring book on the floor. “We can color here, Jimmy.”

    We shared the crayons and began coloring a Ninja Turtle. Spread out on our stomachs with our legs in the air, I felt exactly like the little girl I was supposed to be playing.

    “You’re pretty,” Jimmy said.

    “Thanks, little brother.” I could feel a slow grin tug at my lips, a plan forming in my mind. “So tell me, Jimmy, are you a good boy or a bad boy?

    Jimmy heaved a loud sigh and furiously colored a turtle’s mask orange. “I try to be good, but I always seem to get into trouble somehow. How about you, Heather? Are you a good girl?”

    “Oh Jimmy, I am most definitely not a good girl.” And to prove my point, I broke my purple crayon in half and threw it across the room.

    Jimmy gasped, so I did it again. This time with a green crayon. “Let’s see if Mommy notices.”

    There was the click of the doorknob turning, and the door swung open. Part of me felt very naughty, and I couldn’t look up to meet Mommy’s eyes. I watched her heels cross the carpet, a flush stealing over my cheeks.

    “Have you two been good?” she asked.

    “Mommy, Heather broke two crayons!” Jimmy yelled.

    I had marked Jimmy as a goody-two-shoes from the beginning, and he had played his part perfectly. It took all my control not to burst into giggles again. Mommy frowned at me.

    “Heather, that is very bad. I’m going to have to punish you.”

    I tried to stifle my grin. “Oh no, Mommy. That would be terrible.”

    She shook her head at my obvious glee and motioned for Jimmy to get back up on the table. “I’m going to spank Heather, and since you’ve been a good boy, you may pleasure yourself while you watch.”

    As Jimmy settled himself, she unfastened his diaper and handed him a Hitachi. She warned him again that he had to announce if he was close to orgasm. The Hitachi buzzed to life, and Mommy pulled me over to a bench against the wall. I went over her lap, my ass sticking prominently into the air. With a few tugs, she had my white cotton panties around my knees, and I felt the first sting of her palm on my buttocks.

    I adored a good spanking, and I hadn’t had one for a long time. Mommy found a rhythm, and I closed my eyes to relish the feeling of stimulation and helplessness. Her fingers landed tantalizingly close to my pussy, and it was no stretch for my imagination to envision something even more personal happening. She switched to a closed fist when her hand tired, and the firm impact of her fist on the meat of my ass pushed me even closer to orgasm.

    “I think she’s enjoying her punishment a lot, Mommy,” Jimmy commented.

    “I think so too, baby, and your sister has such a nice ass to punish.”

    I squirmed on her lap and looked over to see Jimmy fully erect as he smoothed the Hitachi along the length of his shaft.

    “Let’s switch,” Mommy said and helped me stand up. Then it was Jimmy’s turn to receive Mommy’s attention, and she made him lie down on a medical pad she had spread on the floor. His diaper was discarded, and Mommy donned another pair of latex gloves.

    “Stand over his head, Heather, and let him see you.”

    I blushed and did as I was told, gratified when I heard Jimmy’s breathing increase. Mommy lubed up her fingers and pushed two into his anus as she worked the Hitachi up and down his cock. The effect was immediate, and Jimmy moaned his pleasure. I let one of my fingers skim the edge of my short skirt to find the thicket of hair at the junction of my thighs. I didn’t have to see his face below to know that Jimmy was watching.

    “See, little brother? I love being naughty,” I murmured, stroking my labia with a finger.

    Jimmy writhed against the floor, breathing hard. “I’m close, Mommy!”

    “Good baby. Good Jimmy. Come for Mommy.”

    And he did.

     


  6. Heather Orgasms in Public

    October 30, 2014 by Heather Cole

     

     

    Last Thursday found me seated in a plush, purple chair, surrounded by curious university students from freshmen to grads. I was the hypnosis subject for a presentation to the alternative sexualities group on campus, and my assignment was to go under in order to demonstrate the erotic applications of hypnosis. All I had to do was sit back, close my eyes, and mentally walk down the circular, marble stairway, my hand gliding along the cool wrought iron. At the bottom would be a big, leather chair in front of a fireplace, and once I sat down and relaxed, the real adventure would begin. I had done this a hundred times with my master and my kinky friend, Kuma, but these were complete strangers, some of them from traditional backgrounds with little exposure to kink.

    The students were a diverse lot, both in ethnicity and in sexual orientation. Many of them identified as kinky, but not all. And there were several representatives from the debate team. The overall feeling was one of welcome and inclusion, so even though I had a case of the butterflies, I felt safe, which was a crucial component of being hypnotized.

    I had my hair back in two buns and wore my favorite red dress which made me look like June Cleaver complete with ballet flats. On the drive to the university, Kuma said he knew exactly how to introduce me, and that I was the perfect example of ‘don’t judge a book by it’s cover.’ Later, even though I knew the intro was coming, I still blushed when he said, “Heather looks like a soccer mom, but she’s owned property 24/7 and a dirty little slut.” It was a great icebreaker. *snort*

    Kuma began his presentation and gave an overview of hypnosis, eventually addressing the topic at hand: how to use hypnosis in an erotic context. We had discussed my preferred method of induction in the car, and he first walked me through a basic relaxation technique. I closed my eyes and deepened my breathing, my focus centering on the journey within. My nervousness dispelled with the familiar sensations of letting go of consciousness. The world dwindled to the present moment, and nothing existed but the voice in my ear and my breathing. I was lying on my back in the sea, my body buoyed by gentle swells as I stared up at the blanket of stars above me. I relaxed further as I floated, and then I was walking down the grand staircase, and at the bottom I found the chair and fire. I knew these places as well as I knew my bedroom and kitchen at home. It was like saying hello to old friends and sitting down beside them for a chat.

    Kuma first instructed me to remember everything upon awakening, so I could answer questions about my experience later. After the logistics were out of the way, he described a purple collar that I was wearing around my neck. Slowly it began to constrict as my fingers clawed against the leather in a vain attempt to remove it. Kuma told me I couldn’t breathe, and he was right. I gasped for air, and my face felt hot with the effort to draw in a breath. Finally he released the collar, and I collapsed back in the chair, sucking air deep into my lungs.

    During hypnosis part of my brain took a vacation. I don’t know any other way to describe it. Gone was my sense of self and ego. When I looked back at the experience, I was a robot Barbie version of myself. My focus was pure; there was the voice commanding me to do things and the desire I had to fulfill those commands. It was a place of simplicity and obedience, which was why I enjoyed it so much.

    After the ever-tightening collar, Kuma’s wicked fingertips rained liquid fire across my body. Everywhere he touched me, my skin burned as if he placed the hot tip of a match against my flesh. Later he told me that my skin had reddened wherever he made contact, but because my eyes were closed, I didn’t see it. I only knew that it hurt, and I couldn’t get away.

    And then there were the orgasms. Captive in my cocoon of hypnotic suggestion, I had three powerful orgasms in front of complete strangers. My body bowed with overwhelming pleasure, played like an instrument and completely out of my control.

    When Kuma finally brought me out of hypnosis, my hands were “glued” to the wall. It was such a mind fuck to know that there was no rational reason that my hands were stuck. I knew intellectually that I should have been able to pull away and sit down, and yet, I couldn’t. It was a mindfuck in its most direct form, and I had consented to it. Sometimes I have to shake my head at the boundaries I’m willing to push, and I’m grateful down to my tippy-toes that I have trustworthy friends that will take me to those places safely.

    The discussion that ensued was lively and warm. There were others in the audience who had experiences of being hypnotized, and one young woman went under when I did. Kuma attempted a group hypnosis with some success, and I had the chance to ask others about their hypnosis experiences. Overall it was a great evening, and I enjoyed myself thoroughly.

    Late that night when I was home and in bed, I reviewed the evening and wrote a long email to sir about it. I felt a twist of sadness that he couldn’t be with me, that it wasn’t his voice coaxing me down the stairway or his reassuring presence in the chair beside me. Later he replied that we would try an induction long distance, to see if he could hypnotize me through Skype. I’m not holding my breath, but as all things with my sir, it will certainly be an adventure.

     


  7. Masturbation Monday: The Cucumber

    October 13, 2014 by Heather Cole

     

    It’s an old cliche:  the bored housewife decides to use a cucumber as a masturbation device. I had joked about surveying the produce aisle for sex toys, but in all my years as a sexually active woman, I had never placed food in my vagina. In fact, Nikki and I have preached, “NO FOOD IN THE VAG” for as long as we’ve had this blog. Because let’s face it, the vagina is a delicate ladygarden. A cucumber, though, with it’s protective peel and generous girth… I mean, it really gets one’s imagination spinning. Right?!

    Last Wednesday found me seated in a plush chair facing the flatscreen of my computer, my thighs spread wide for sir to see. I was nude and carefully positioned so that I was completely exposed. He stared at me from beneath heavy lidded eyes and gave me instructions in a voice that made goosebumps ripple over my flesh. It didn’t matter to me that half the world separated us physically. He was my Dominant regardless of distance, and despite the prickly feeling of vulnerability, I responded in the same way that I did when he was directly next to me. The man owned me, body and heart. And my responses were partially the product of habit and training, and partly devotion.

    His first command was that I fellate the cucumber. I blinked at him and felt ridiculous, but I did as I was told. I awkwardly placed the wide vegetable in my mouth, the taste of green peel coating my tongue. As sir coached me with encouraging words, I moved the cucumber in and out, pushing it further and further into the back of my throat. It was much wider than my esophagus and could only go so far. With watering eyes, I pulled it out and gasped for air.

    “It’s too big, Daddy,” I said and wiped my eyes.

    “You’re such a good girl to try. I miss your mouth, whore.”

    I blushed and squirmed beneath his gaze, unbidden lust rising inside me. I had been so careful to keep my desires leashed. Shoved inside a steel trunk and wrapped in chains, they had sunk to a shadowy place inside me while I dealt with the sadness of sir’s departure. I had spent weeks mourning the distance that now separated us, and more than one of our calls had consisted of me weeping in front of the computer. My body missed him with a physical ache, but I refused to acknowledge how deeply that sexual need was rooted. Dealing with the day-to-day challenges of missing him filled my time. I wasn’t ready to open the trunk and feel all of that captive sexual energy pour forth.

    A towel stretched beneath me to protect the fabric of the chair from lube and my own juices. A second cucumber and the bottle of lube sat on the table next to the computer, and I had two extra-large condoms nearby as well. Sir’s low voice demanded that I lube up the American cucumber. (The English cucumber was saved for my ass and a later date). I adjusted the angle of my hips so that they were raised slightly and squeezed more lube on to my fingers. My fingers worked the cool liquid around the lips of my pussy and then into the wet heat. I was physically ready, my body responding eagerly to the stimulus and my master’s presence.

    Nervousness made my hand tremble as I placed the cold cucumber at the entrance to my vagina, and in slow increments, I pushed it inside. It felt smooth and alien, stretching me wide. I glanced up at the computer screen to see sir’s eyes widen and a slow grin cross his face.

    “That is so fucking hot,” he said. “Now fuck yourself faster.”

    I complied, my eyes falling to the side as I felt another blush start. Spreading myself open for another person wasn’t exactly new territory for me, but there was something extra dirty about being on camera. Maybe it was the anonymity of it even though I knew the man on the other side intimately. And then there was the foreign object that I used to impale myself. I felt wicked which lent an illicit quality to my masturbation. All these elements combined into a whirlwind that fueled my desire.

    Every thought left my head, though, when I changed the cucumber’s angle to stroke along my G-spot. Suddenly my entire physical awareness snapped to attention, every synapse and nerve focused on the building pressure of an orgasm. My gaze met sir’s in an unspoken question.

    “I want you to get close, but I’m not going to let you come. You’re not permitted to come,” he said sternly.

    I nodded, too engrossed in the pleasure that rolled through my body. I was almost there.

    “Please may I come, Daddy?” I panted.

    “Beg.”

    “Please please please may this girl come, Daddy? Please let this girl come for you.”

    The words slurred in the rush to expel them. My hand slipped along the cucumber that was now slippery with my arousal. I could feel my inner muscles tightening in anticipation of orgasm, and the vibrations, both and internal, almost pushed me over the edge. The fantasy in my head imagined that I could feel

    “Come for me, baby.”

    The orgasm exploded, golden sparks of ecstasy sparking through me. My eyes squeezed shut, and I cried out, the cucumber falling from my hand. Sir murmured his appreciation as I fell back, my legs sprawled like a rag doll.

    “You’re such a dirty girl barebacking a cucumber like that,” he said with a smile.

    I giggled. “I probably should have bought organic.”

    “Thank you, Daddy. This girl is happy to please you.” I made a motion to sit up, but he stopped me.

    “Let yourself relax and enjoy this moment. There’s nothing but me and you. No rush. No responsibilities.”

    Two months ago I would have placed my head on his lap so he could stroke my hair as I basked in the afterglow. That was impossible at the moment, so I smiled and let my eyes drift shut. Sir was right. For this brief space, it was only the two of us again. I loved being there with him, and at the same time, I acknowledged that it was fleeting. We couldn’t remain on Skype forever.

    “Pick up the cucumber, babygirl. I want you to go again.”

    I pushed away the bittersweet thoughts to grab the vegetable. Later I would peel and slice the still-warm cucumber for my salad. Dinner would be eaten alone with the erotic thoughts of my faraway lover and the echoing sensations of our electronic date. First, though, I had to orgasm again.

     

    Want more #masturbationmonday? Check out Kayla Lords’s post and the other steamy, sexy participants!

     

    Masturbation-Monday-badge-medium-300x300


  8. Kayla Lords is here!

    October 11, 2014 by Heather Cole

    Today we’re chatting up Kayla Lords: mother, author, sex blogger, and kinkster, not to mention a hundred other titles, including submissive to a loving Dominant. This is the time when we’re voting for our favorite sex bloggers, and I admit that I’m constantly lured to Kayla’s blog, A Sexual Being, on a regular basis. That woman knows some kinky fuckery. Let’s give Kayla a warm Vagina Antics welcome!

    Heh. Warm vagina. I SAID IT!

    ~A Further Note from Heather~

    Kayla sent me the press kit for her latest book released today, Bound by Love, which included two excerpts. I posted one of them, towards the bottom of this post, but the second one… well, it was so smokin’ hot that I had to leave my computer for some *cough* alone time. That girl can write. *fans self* 

     

    Heather:  On your bio, you hint at your sexual rebirth which happened in the aftermath of a divorce. You’re a mother of two as well. Nikki and I can both relate to that second-half-of-life overhaul. Can you tell us a little more about your sexual transformation?

    Kayla Lords: Ok, first of all…mmmmmm, warm vagina, mmmmmm. Sorry, I had to bask in the idea of that for a moment. Now, down to business.

    It happened slowly and yet, at the same time, it happened all at once. I have lived in my head for my entire life, always thinking, planning, processing, and making up stories. Since puberty hit, a lot of the stories in my head were sexual. While I was married, I figured it was normal to constantly fantasize about men other than my husband. During the divorce, I was basically an asexual hermit. I didn’t think much about sex, and God knows, I didn’t worry about it. Once I received the divorce papers, I went a little wild. I hooked up with a man 20 years my senior who only wanted weekly booty calls (which was fine with me). After that ended, I met up with an old flame from high school. He and I were SO wrong for one another (hindsight being what it is) but he’s the one who pointed out that I never climaxed with him. He could tell I was close, but I always held back. (The first guy didn’t notice or didn’t care.) He told me point blank that my lack of orgasms was a turn off.

    I was crushed. I had real (albeit fleeting) feelings for him, and I enjoyed sex with him. I turned the problem over in my head for a while. I’d been blogging in the vanilla world for a year or so, and I’d learned that I could blog my way through my problems, thoughts, concerns, and even obsessions. I decided I wanted to figure out how to have an orgasm (since as far as I could tell, I’d never had one) and that I would write about it because I knew I couldn’t possibly be the only one with this problem. I knew I couldn’t use my own name in case I was found by people in my professional world. I also decided I would use this opportunity to get the sexual stories in my head out of my head.

    From there the rest is sort of history. The more I “practiced” masturbating and learning how to let go enough to have an orgasm and the more I wrote and read erotic fantasies, the more comfortable I became with my own sexuality. Now, I forget that the me that lives in the vanilla world isn’t really supposed to talk about kinky sex and masturbation in public. (Oops!)

    Heather:  Is your story, The Adventures of Sir and Babygirl, similar to your journey with your current partner and Dominant? When did you know that you were kinky?

    Kayla Lords:  The identifying details are fairly different but yes, the story is the tale of John Brownstone (aka Southern Sir) and myself. I base Sir’s emotions on what I see from my own Sir/Daddy and what I want him to feel and experience, too. But every emotion that Babygirl has is something I’ve felt at some point – even if the situation is completely different. Writing the books is both cathartic and extremely difficult. I feel like I open myself up even more than I do in my own blog within the book. Writing and then publishing the books makes me feel very vulnerable.

    I had an inkling I might be kinky (even though I didn’t know enough to use that term) when I was still blogging under my real name. I was lurking on all kinds of erotic blogs – refusing to comment but soaking it up. Once I started my blog and created my pen-name, I was free to read and comment where I wanted to. When that happened, a whole new world opened up to me. I loved reading blogs and stories that were BDSM in nature, especially Dominance and submission. I found myself on Tumblr staring at the most extreme photos, squirming in my chair, blushing, and looking over my shoulder to make sure no one could see what I was doing (note: it was midnight in my own home and my kids were asleep!). I’d only been blogging a few months when I finally admitted to myself and the world I might be submissive. When I met my first Dominant and had that experience, there was no doubt. I finally gave myself permission to admit that I like rough sex, I like pain, and I need to submit to a Dominant. The rest since then has been like going to Disney World and trying to decide what ride to go on first – I want to try it all (well, almost all).

    Heather:  What inspired you to start Masturbation Mondays, and how can bloggers/authors get involved?

    Kayla Lords:  Masturbation Monday, as a thing, came about because I’m obsessed with two things – people getting off and my website’s statistics. I get a rush when someone tells me my words made them masturbate or have sex (or at least want to do those things). I like writing something so hot I turn myself on, too. These days, I don’t masturbate without permission and I rarely ask because that’s taken care of for me – when He wants to. LOL

    But I also noticed that the days with the highest views on my site are on Mondays – when I use the hashtag #MasturbationMonday. And the posts with the most views throughout the week were usually Monday posts. I knew it wasn’t because I’m that good of a writer. I knew it had to be something about the hashtag itself. I worked with John (aka SouthernSir) to create a site for Masturbation Monday and admittedly copied a lot of how Marie Rebelle formats Wicked Wednesdays each week (with slight differences).

    The idea is to give writers and bloggers a way to showcase their hot posts plus a reason to blog. The biggest lament from writers and bloggers is that they don’t know what to blog about – a foreign concept to me because I have too much content in my head and not enough time to write, lol. To participate, all anyone has to do is write a post about masturbaton or a post so erotic it makes someone want to masturbate, add a Masturbation Monday badge and link to their post, and then go to the Masturbation Monday weekly post and add their link. I encourage authors to join in by sharing a hot excerpt from a current release – but the focus needs to be on the content not just on selling a book.

    In return, I spend time each week promoting the Masturbation Monday site to writers and readers, and then I go through each post every Monday. I read, comment, and share each post with my own followers on Twitter and Facebook using the hashtag that started it all. I want people to discover new writers. I want writers to get new readers. And, above all, I want to get more people hot and bothered and wanting to masturbate. (For the record, the only “downside” to reading 10-15 erotic posts in one sitting is that I’m decidedly squirmy by the end with no permission to take care of business.)

    Nikki:  As a mother of two young ones, how do you balance parenting, writing, and your kinky lifestyle? Especially since you now live with your Sir.

    Kayla Lords:  The hardest balance is between writing and parenting. The kinky lifestyle isn’t hard at all to balance except that there’s never any time for the really kinky stuff. Let’s start with being kinky and parenting.

    I get this question a lot and I figure some of your readers wonder too (even though both of you do an excellent job of balancing it, from my perspective). Here’s the deal, y’all. I don’t crawl around on the floor, wear a collar, or flash my boobs when my children are around. That’s all private stuff – just like vanilla sex is private and shouldn’t be done in front of children. What my kids see is that I’m respectful to my Dominant, that I take care of him, and when he asks me to do something, I do it. If I disagree, it’s always in a respectful manner. They have no clue they’re seeing kink or a different lifestyle – they see two adults being courteous, respectful, loving, and even playful with one another. The rest is kept behind closed doors or for those really rare occasions when he and I are home but the boys aren’t. We’re already talking about the possibility of the boys visiting their grandparents for part of the summer when school lets out. If that happens, no one will hear from us for weeks because I’ll most likely be trussed up, ball-gagged, and strapped to the Hitachi just to make up for all the times we can’t be kinky.

    Ok, parenting and writing? Oh holy hell, that’s a major balancing act. In order to really write and feel good about it, I have to have complete silence so I can get lost in the words and simply create. I get about three hours a day of uninterrupted time to work – and unfortunately, most of that is spent on the vanilla writing that pays the bills. I have created elaborate ways to get my kinky writing done. Video games are my best friend, and I’ve taught my oldest how to get himself a drink and a snack. On Sunday’s, John plays interference for a couple of hours while I sit down and schedule all my blog posts for the week. After dinner, I might sit and write if it’s something I’ve told myself has to be done immediately – guest posts, contributor stuff, etc. In the afternoons, I might get a few hundred words written, but not even that if even one child is feeling rowdy or ornery. Case in point, answering these questions took 45 minutes longer than I thought it would because of homework, juice, Mario, and kids being kids. Next year will be easier because both boys will be in school all day.

    Nikki:  What is your long term vision for Kayla Lords, author and sex blogger extraordinaire?

    Kayla Lords:  Hmmm, long term? Well, I’d like to actually deserve the title “extraordinaire,” lol. I really enjoy writing and sharing my view of D/s, my erotic thoughts, and all the rest. I can’t imagine that ending any time soon.

    As an author, I hope I’m able to write, publish, and sell enough books that it becomes a viable income. I’m not trying to make a million dollars – simply help pay the bills. Right now, I make so little as an author that I simply pump that little bit I get back into the few costs I have as a writer – graphics, covers, etc. I have plans (very long term) to attend conferences and learn from my fellow writers – and maybe one day share what I’ve learned, too.

    As a blogger? I’d like to help teach people about what D/s looks like in a loving relationship. I’d like to be able to show people that it’s not scary or weird or deviant to want what we want. I’d like to be a good representative to the outside world of what kink can mean. I’m constantly seeking out writing opportunities (free and paid) to write about BDSM for different audiences. I am interested in speaking about it within the lifestyle – not to instruct someone on how to be submissive but to let them know that it’s not just fantasy, it’s real, and this is what it is from my perspective. I also want to help build a community of writers and readers who can learn from one another while still turning each other on.

    As a sexual submissive who lives and creates in the online world, I think I have a responsibility to the D/s community to be a good steward for the community. There’s so much really bad, dangerous information out there that those of us who write about the lifestyle have a duty to share the truth as we know it and to be examples for people. I hope, long term, I can continue to do that, but possibly on a larger scale.

    Nikki:  What are your thoughts on BDSM erotica’s staying power?

    Kayla Lords:  I think BDSM erotica is here to stay. As with anything, it’s popularity will ebb and flow. I’m not a huge fan of 50 Shades of Grey but even I can admit that it brought a lot of people to the lifestyle that might never have otherwise realized what BDSM is. I don’t mean the posers, fakes, and abusers (they were out there already, BDSM just gives them temporary cover until they’re outed). I mean the people who thought their kinky desires were somehow wrong or deviant, that there was something wrong for them for being who they are. There are always going to be people who enjoy some degree of kink – even if they don’t identify as kinky. There will always be people who see BDSM as a forbidden fruit – making it that much more tantalizing. Because of that, BDSM erotica will always be around in some form or fashion – just like it was before 50 Shades debuted. In a couple of years when the 50 Shades frenzy dies down, it’ll be something else, but there will always be someone writing about BDSM somewhere. Hell, I might still be writing kinky shit when I’m 90. You never know!

    Warm, squishy boob hugs to both of you for letting me come play in your freaky corner of the world today! And for giving me a reason to both read, write, and think the words “warm vagina.” Hugs, kisses, and boob flashes to you and all your readers!

     

    Congratulations, Kayla, on your latest release! I thoroughly enjoyed the first Sir and Babygirl story, so I’m super excited to read the next in the series. Thanks so much for talking with us today!

    Click below, y’all, and pick up your copy today!

    Bound_By_Love_cover__Finished (2)

     

     

     

    In the second set of adventures, Sir and Babygirl’s relationship, built on a mutual love of kink and a need for the dominance and submission lifestyle, must move forward or stagnate. Can Babygirl set aside her fears of heartbreak? Will Sir convince his sweet submissive that he loves her completely? And just how many erotic adventures can these two get into as they navigate their growing relationship?

    Find out in the sequel to The Adventures of Sir and Babygirl. This time, Sir and Babygirl are Bound by Love.

    Purchase Links:

    Amazon US: http://amzn.to/YifPW5

    Amazon UK: http://amzn.to/1rz6tku

    Barnes & Noble: http://bit.ly/1CG6zds

    Smashwords: http://bit.ly/ZgNxwb

    All Romance:  http://bit.ly/1xj8vWn

     

    Excerpt:  

    The door bell rang. Sir! Katie felt a mixture of relief and stress.

    “I’m so glad you’re here. But I’m so sorry too. The place is a mess. Olivia’s had one tantrum after the other this after – no nap, which is all my fault – and I don’t even have dinner started. I know you expected some-.”

    Sir placed one finger over Katie’s lips, silencing her. “Can I get in the front door, please, Babygirl?”

    Katie nodded. At the sound of Sir’s voice, she felt a sense of peace fill her. One wish had been granted at least. She was his Babygirl from the first word. He smiled as a look of calm washed over her face. Sir replaced his finger with his mouth, kissing her softly.

    Babygirl looked into his eyes, leaning in for more. Chuckling to himself, Sir wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, and devoured her mouth with his. Her lips parted, her tongue meeting his. He lapped at her tongue. Sharp teeth teased her lips. She responded with her entire body, wrapping her arms around his neck, standing on tip-toe, as if she would crawl inside of him if she could.

    Sir pulled away, smiling at Babygirl’s swollen lips. He gazed into her eyes, taking in the distant look that replaced the stressed one that greeted him moments before. Taking her hand, he lead her into the living room.

    Sir whistled between his teeth. “Damn. I didn’t realize one little girl could do so much damage.”

    With a slightly calmer tone than before, Babygirl recounted the afternoon’s adventures. As she spoke, tension filled her voice again. Sir snaked his hands over the back of her head, into her hair, and pulled. Her voice trailed off into a whimper.

    “Shhhhh, sweet girl. Sir is here now. We’ll deal with this together, ok?” She nodded, squirming and fidgeting. “Is something wrong, Babygirl?”

    She blushed a deep red. “You make me squirmy, Sir, when you do that.”

    “Do what, Babygirl?” He didn’t hide the amusement from his voice. “This?” He gripped her hair tighter and pulled her head back until she was looking into his eyes. She nodded, whimpering again.

    “You like that, huh? I’ll have to remember that for later.” Sir released his grip on her hair. “Now, let’s deal with the situation at hand, shall we? Can Olivia come downstairs?”

    Babygirl sighed. “I can’t leave her up there all night, I guess. Although finding some gypsies to sell her to isn’t the worst idea ever, either.” Sir tipped his head back as he laughed, long and loud.

     

    Social/Follow Links:

    Website: http://kaylalords.com

    Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/submissivekaylalords

    Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/KaylaLords

    Tumblr: http://a-sexual-being.tumblr.com

    Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/KaylaLords

     

     

     


  9. Our Last Night Together

    August 27, 2014 by Heather Cole

    feet in bed 2

    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.

     


  10. H is for How

    June 8, 2014 by Heather Cole

    Today’s letter H stands for a question posed to my sir from one of our readers. I confess that I did a little dance of joy at the idea of sir answering. I can never get enough of the inner workings of the man. Or the outer workings, for that matter. Without further ado, here is my beloved:

     

    How long had you been “practicing” before you got together with Heather? When did you know you were dominant?

    These are deceptively simple questions. The more I thought about them, the more complicated and nuanced the answers became. They highlight the relationship between my nature (what kind of person I am) and my nurture (the ways those traits have been developed). In a real sense I was “born this way.” In another sense I “got this way.”

    Let me preface this by saying that I am not a particularly overbearing guy, nor do I consider myself to be a stereotypical alpha-type person. I am quiet in groups even though I am not really shy. I have a talent for fading into the background when I am not looking for attention. Kind of like Kaiser Soze.

    I suppose I have always had a dominant personality, but I never used that term to describe myself until I became active in the kink community. Growing up, I was what you might call rebellious, but not in a physical or anarchistic sense. I had this persistent feeling that rules didn’t necessarily apply to me. I appreciated the importance of laws and rules to govern interpersonal behavior, but I also saw that rules often applied more strictly to some people than to others (two reasons I ultimately went to law school). I studied the rule systems that applied to me so I could figure out where the “wiggle room” was.

    I have worked hard to develop my critical thinking skills and to become an effective advocate. I am fun to argue with (just ask Heather). In high school I was a competitive debater, studying argumentation, formal logic, and fallacies. In college I became more interested in the philosophical aspects of power relations. I focused on things like propaganda (manufacturing consent), class struggle, and grassroots political movements. I grew my hair long and read a lot of Michel Foucault and Saul Alinsky. I also discovered Noam Chomsky, and learned more about how power relationships function on a pragmatic level.

    I was always interested in the ways leverage and persuasion could compel others to do what you want them to do. Although I was never a salesman, that didn’t stop me from reading up on sales techniques and listening to a lot of Tony Robbins. Over time, I got pretty good at manipulating people and situations to get my way. I was never (rarely?) manipulative for malicious purposes; I just felt safer when I was in control of a situation. It was a form of self-preservation.

    Being a pretty clever person, I can get bored easily. I enjoy being challenged intellectually, and I enjoy challenging others. It is my nature, and something that plays a part in my dynamic with Heather.

    I have been kinky since before I knew it was a thing. I had a hosiery fetish at age five. One of my first childhood memories was burying myself in the fresh laundry pile, putting my mother’s stockings on my hands, and rubbing them all over my face. Mmmm. My parents were casual swingers, and although I didn’t realize it at the time, the swinger’s classifieds I found in my parent’s closet provided my first glimpses into non-traditional relationship structures. I lost my virginity at age 16, but before those fateful three minutes I spent most of my sex-starved adolescence contriving increasingly sophisticated methods of masturbation. I “discovered” my own anus years before I got to second base with a girl.

    After college I dated a stripper (who was also, incidentally, a former debater) for a couple of years, which was where I started to get into bondage, impact play, and humiliation. We dabbled in consensual non-consent. She was also a Republican, which helped me get into character (as I am not). Nowadays I would classify her as a babygirl with strong undertones of bratty princess.

    Tying her up while she struggled and then forcing myself into her resisting body really got us both off, but I was confused by the tension between what we were doing and how I had been raised to treat a lady. At the end of our relationship I apologized to her for mistreating her and for being a bad boyfriend. I was surprised at how surprised she was. She said that she had never been treated so well by a man in her life. I took that across the country with me to grad school and chewed on it for several years.

    After grad school I married a girl who is, to this day, the opposite of kinky. She is a wonderful person, a teacher, and a best friend, but sadly she is not a pervert. I still had the image of the stripper girlfriend in my mind, and figured that if anyone could coax a bad girl out of a good girl, I was the man for the job. She won that bet. I got a finger in her ass a few times, but that’s about the extent of it.

    Even though we never really connected on a sexual level, we have always had a strong spiritual connection. She is the one who got me back into meditation, the one who got me into yoga and chanting. We were both interested in mythology, eastern spirituality, and comparative theology, and grew our marriage around that instead of anal sex and ball gags. She was also a spender and, consciously or not, she seemed intent on undermining my plans for our financial future. In all of these ways, she was instrumental to me learning to let go and to lose control. She taught me about presence, and about the beauty of chaos. These tools have served me well in my kinks.

    Some lessons in letting go were harder for me to learn than others. With hindsight, my wife and I can both see that we were two alphas in a constant struggle for dominance. She was a formidable opponent, and ended up topping me more than I topped her. But I have always been a begrudging, grumbling servant, thereby ensuring that my submission is no fun for anyone involved. She now has a submissive (non-kinky) boyfriend and I have Heather, and we have never been more at ease with each other.

    I got back into kink pretty much by accident. My wife and I were struggling in our marriage, and I was literally sex-starved. I never never never got laid, which makes Joe a grouchy boy. I returned to my increasingly sophisticated and creative forms of masturbation, and we eventually agreed that it was OK for me to look for sex outside of our relationship. (Well, I told her I was. She wasn’t pleased at the time. Another story.)

    I browsed Craigslist, but it seemed like risky behavior. Plus, I was looking for ladies. If I had been into guys I think CL might have worked great for me. I found Fetlife next, and went to my first munch shortly thereafter. I was looking for a FWB situation, but instead I met a bunch of really nice and interesting people. Sex never even really came up, but I felt more comfortable and more at home than I had felt since college. I had found my tribe.

    This is where the kink part of my “nurturing” began, where I picked up the practical skills for topping and re-awakened my natural talent at mind fuckery. I read every BDSM article I could get my hands on, every opinion piece that came across Fetlife. I found an experienced mentor who talked me through the vocabulary and bottomed to me a few times.

    I was so awkward with my first bottom that I must have been adorable. I felt like a baby tiger enthusiastically climbing all over a patient adult, tumbling over my big paws. So many options! Among other things, she introduced me to rope bondage, but she was not interested in taking beatings from me as I ramped up that learning curve. I met another girl, an enthusiastic masochist who introduced me to caning and talked me through the finer points of building a memorable scene. She helped me to consider the arc of a scene, from the warm-up to the big finish. I got plenty of practice topping, and was finally getting so much pussy again that I was forced to refrain from masturbation for supply/demand reasons.

    I met Heather about this time. The first time I saw her I thought she was a snob. She was at a play party with her girlfriend and completely ignored me. We stood right next to each other in the kitchen and she totally missed that I was only pretending to ignore her so I would look cool, and she actually ignored me right back! Her girlfriend seemed like a snob too, but the “mean girls” vibe only fueled the sexiness later when Heather went up on the cross and took a beating from her girlfriend. And then the cunnilingus show on the couch that followed. Mmmm.

    Our paths crossed again later with different results (she was nicer), and the stories of our union have been well chronicled elsewhere on this blog. This last year and a half has brought on a whole new phase of evolution for both of us. In the beginning, I was not looking for a total power exchange relationship. I was looking for tail. Granted, nowadays I simply can’t imagine life without anal-on-demand or a morning without coffee in bed and a wake-up blowjob, but back then I was a different man. I once measured blowjobs by the occurrence, not by the hour.

    I knew M/s was a priority for her, so again I went to the internet to educate myself. The more I read, the more it seemed that everything I had done in my life up to that point had come together into a singularity. I began to understand the psychology of submission, and I was reminded of the ubiquity of power exchange relationships in the world. I began to see all of my relationships as varying degrees of D/s. My fascination with control was reawakened. It felt simultaneously familiar and foreign in this new context.

    Looking back, I now see that seducing consent was (and continues to be) my biggest fetish. I want to be in control, but ultimately Heather has to freely give it to me. The negotiations did not end when we signed the contract; they began. It is unfulfilling to just make Heather do something. It is also inefficient. For me to get off, I need her to buy in. I have to make her want to serve me. Even today, our relationship is a dance of constantly soliciting and granting consent. Heather asks me to do many of the things I do to her, even though she may resist actually desiring what she asks for. And even when she does not ask, after it is over I make her admit that it got her off. That she wanted it.

    I have grown as a person and strive to give back as much as I take from her. As in most “healthy” TPE relationships, our relationship is a lot of responsibility for me. It is not all rainbows and good morning blowjobs for Master. I have to do some work too. Her submission makes me responsible for her well-being, figuratively if not also literally. I do not have to pick up after her or do the emotional heavy lifting for her, but it does mean that I have to structure her experience. It also means that I have a moral obligation to serve as her guide, her mentor, and her source of consequences.

    My willingness to structure her experience demonstrates my commitment to the game, to the dynamic. If I do not make her set goals, if I do not follow up on her progress, and if I fail to punish her enthusiastically when necessary, then I am letting her down. Sometimes she wants to push my boundaries, but she does so to confirm that the boundaries are there as much as she does it to get away with something. Unlike me, she is not a rule breaker. She actually likes rules. Our rules and expectations envelope her in a constant tight hug. Personally, I would find it claustrophobic, but it makes her feel secure. Happiness in slavery.

    Creating expectations and consequences for Heather has also impacted the way I approach my own life. She provided me a safe harbor to regroup and recover, and to set a new course in my life. She loves me and surrenders to me without judgment. As a result, I have matured as an adult, and I (increasingly) hold myself accountable to my own rules (you know how I feel about rules…)

    In a real sense, our power exchange has been a rite of passage for me, the symbolic transition into manhood that I never received as an adolescent. Being an owner is not, as it turns out, all about sodomy and foot massages. It is not just about getting my way anymore. Ownership requires active management and personal reflection. I am regularly called to think about my strengths and weaknesses and to reflect on my best and highest use. I am still a rebellious person, but I feel more balanced in my approach to my own life path.

    To sum up, I guess I have always known I am dominant. The signs were certainly there. My relationship with control and domination has evolved over the years, and it continues to evolve due to my involvement in the kink community. Perhaps most importantly, I have learned that scene planning and toy proficiency are important skills for tops, but they are vehicles for a far deeper journey.

    And finally, the answer to your questions: I trained for a couple of years to tie Heather up good and to beat her hard, but I trained my entire life to own her, to control her, and to use her. And I am still training, so that I may keep her.


     

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