I can’t remember if I mentioned it or not, but I’m an official regular guest writer over at Submissive Guide, now.  My first official regular post went up today.  Lol.  It’s just an introduction.

And have y’all seen formspring.me? People can ask you questions there about whatever.  They don’t even have to sign in.  I’m on there if anyone’s got questions.  Or whatever.

Now that that’s out of the way…

The other day, Master walked over and grabbed me by the throat.  He put His lips close to my ear and asked, “What are you?”

“Slave” is no longer the correct answer.  “Property” doesn’t do it for Him either.  “Pig whore” is who and what I am in our dynamic.  And when I answered Him, He responded with “What are you good for?”

There are a billion answers to that.  There’s tons I’m good at.  But that’s not what He’s asking.  He’s asking, when it comes right down to it, what kind of treatment I deserve.  And, my eyes trained on the wall in front of me, I responded plainly, “Fucking and hurting.” with that half-embarrassed smile us girlies tend to get when we’re uncomfortable.  When the danger is crackling in the air.  Our hairs standing on end.

He ordered me into lingerie and leather and then to the floor beside His office chair.  And it was minutes before a tongue bath turned into a blow job.  Seconds before the blow job turned into me on the bed with my ass in the air and Him beating me.

I shot myself in the foot when I held still the other night.  He expects it all the time, now.  I almost didn’t get fucked because He managed to land a direct and solid blow to my clit and inner labia, and I shot clear across the bed.  I’m pretty sure, by the strength of the blow, even He wasn’t expecting it to land where it did.  And He granted me reprieve when I held still for the rest of the assault He committed against my thighs, pussy and ass.  Read more…

“Get over here and suck my cock.”

I don’t hesitate.  A slow, soft, embarrassed smile crosses my lips as I strip the clothes from my body and sink to the floor at your feet.  Indian style.  Always Indian style.  With my hands resting on two of the spoke-like protrusions that house the wheels of your chair and my breasts tucked between your knees.  How I still manage to be so modest with the things you’ve put me through – the things I’ve put myself through! – is anyone’s guess.

You said suck your cock, so I ignore your bare legs and wrap my warm, wet lips around your already ramrod member.  And I whimper when I see Rubberella has found her way to your hand.  But I don’t move when I see her fly through the short distance between your hand and my back.  Except to grip the chair harder.

Your rhythm, ever changing in strength and speed, almost always sticks to fives.  And if I have the presence of mind to count, I can count my way through the pain.  This time, though, all my concentration is on sucking your cock.  On letting the pain wash over me in waves while keeping my mouth and tongue in motion.  On conquering the urge to spit you out and back away.

My fists move from spoke-like wheel housing to arm rest, and back again, and every frantic grip turns my knuckles white.  But my mouth never stops moving.

Your voice whispers in my mind, deep and full of lust, a faded memory from a months old scene, “Look at me.  I want to see the suffering in your eyes.”  And I open my eyes and lift them to yours.  Cerulean and mahogany meet and sparks ignite.

An electric shock traces my throat, wells up in my ribcage and shoots down to my cunt leaving gentle, delicious aftershocks along its path as I realize you’re looking back at me.  Our eyes never leave each other as Rubberella falls again and again and my tongue glides sloppily against your balls.  There is no doubt you are enjoying my suffering.

Between groups of lashes, your head falls back and your eyes close.  Your mouth falls open and soft, gravely moans escape your throat.  I watch a myriad of emotion dance across your face as I pull myself closer and bury my nose in your pubic hair, hungry for the musty, sex-filled scent of you.

My throat closes on your cock.  You hold me there.  Read more…

So I was pretty convinced the picture-taking wasn’t going to happen.  It’s hard relinquishing our “hang out and relax” time to performing.  In front of or behind the camera.  But relinquish it we did.  And pictures were taken.  Pictures I don’t ever want anyone to see.  Well… except one or two.

I suck at the whole model-face thing.  And I’d just sit and look normal except my “sit and look normal” face looks like “uber bitch” to everyone else.  So I’m gonna have to start practicing facial expressions in the mirror or something.  Seriously.

Master wasn’t watching my face.  He was watching my pussy.  Through the lens of His camera.  As I thrusted my BOB in and out over and over.

He kept telling me what to do.  “Okay now play with your clit.”  “Fuck yourself some more.”  “Hold it open so I can beat it.”  *screeching halt* What?

I tried.  I swear to god, I tried (Yes, I see the irony in me swearing to something I don’t believe in).  Can I just say that shit fucking hurts?  Especially when He’s hitting as hard as He can there first.  But He really was trying to rip my pussy lips off with the flogger to find a happy medium.  Somewhere between gruesome torture the way He likes to hit and feather like caresses how much my pussy can handle right off the bat.  Apparently I’m more of a warm-up girl than I realized. Read more…

Master fucked all three holes in twenty-four hours.

I hear ya.  I hear ya.

What’s so unusual about that?

Well, ya see…  It is very unusual for Master to fuck all three holes in twenty-four hours.  Matter of fact, if He fucks my mouth and pussy in the same day it’s odd.  He’s the type that decides on a hole and sticks with it for that day.  Or maybe for a week.  There were a couple months where I was lucky if He was in anything but my mouth.  No lie.

I’m not sure that He does it consciously.  Matter of fact, He probably doesn’t even realize He does it.  Well, until He reads this, that is.

But you see…  This is what happened.

We’re watching South Park, okay?  And we’re both a little intoxicated.  Okay, we’re both a lot intoxicated.  And I really don’t remember what prompted it but He said something about “Why don’t you touch your cunt, Cunt?” or something and I thought I was in for a night of serious hurting.  I was totally ready for a night of serious hurting.

I got my night of serious hurting… just not the way I expected to.

Apparently, just gathering the clamps I could find was enough to give Master an unbearable hard-on.  Cause I’d only clamped my nipples once and my clit twice before He said, “I think you should get on your hands and knees in front of me.”  I hadn’t even brought the paddle or cane out.  Just the slut-paddle.  And I brought that out with the intention of beating my pussy. Read more…