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It’s personal. And delicious.

October 27th, 2010 Leave a comment Go to comments

Isn't she amazing? That's Sabrina Fox in a Training of O shoot on Kink.com. Those eyes! ~swoon~

I was going to write a Thirty Days of Kink post.  I even went looking for an “erotic photo” so I could further shirk my duties as a sex kink life blogger by not even writing a post specifically about anything more than an act I find hot.

I’m still fighting the urge to write a Thirty Days of Kink post.  Prompts are easy.  Prompts enable me to avoid the thoughts swirling around inside my head.  Not that the thoughts swirling around are bad, per se.  They’re just confusing, and uncomfortable.

And I’m slipping into another one of those phases where I want to keep what’s going on in our relationship and house close to the breast.  I don’t know why I do that.

There’s something very personal about being molded into sexual property.  Of course there is.  There’s something personal to even the most casual sex, so how could there not be? Maybe that’s all it is.  Maybe sometimes I confuse “personal” with “private”.  But they’re not really interchangeable, as I see it.  Things that are private can be personal, and things that are personal can be private, but they are distinctly different in that “personal” doesn’t necessarily mean “private” so much as affecting you individually on some level.  And lord knows, I’m not allowed privacy. 

I read about other slaves like me, from time to time, when I’m able to ignore the gnawing voices in my ear telling me that I suck at slavery, and I think about the places I’ve been, and the places M intends to take me.  And I wonder why I’m so scared when I  look down that road.  I mean, there’s really not a whole lot left for me to experience for the first time down the path to the end of the world.  And the few things that are left are really pretty much just variations of everything that has come before.  So why am I so scared?

M’s been rather intent on keeping me in the property head space.  Even if we have both slacked a bit on making sure I’m collared and cuffed.  But what’s been particularly amazing is the sex.

I don’t care what you say.  If you’re not getting your needs met, you’re not gonna be happy.  Maybe your need is not getting your needs met.  Maybe your need is a spoon full of peanut butter every night before bed.  Maybe your need is just being allowed to breathe.  But if you’re not getting them met, your relationship will eventually find itself in danger.  Of what depends on you and your SO, what’s wrong, when you catch it, and what you do to fix it, but in danger, nonetheless.

I sounded all scary for a minute there, huh?

What’s funny is I didn’t think it would matter.  I mean, I’m a slave, right? I chose to be a slave, right? I chose to be a slave knowing full well that sometimes it wouldn’t be fair, and I wouldn’t always like every decision Master made, right? So I’d just always be happy, and things would be perfect, and I’d be okay with not getting my needs met, right?

I feel the need to point out, here, if only to save myself from having to hear M say for the five hundredth time “You need what I say you need, bitch.”, that the “needs” of which I speak are not of the “air, food, water, shelter” variety.  The needs I’m talking about are really, technically, glorified wants.  But everyone knows that even slaves perform better when they’re happy.  So for the purposes of this article, I’m going to call them needs.

I’ve finally (sort of) found my voice.  A relationship works much better if both parties are open and honest in the best and worst of times.  Needing something more than you’re getting from your partner doesn’t make you weak, or selfish, or bad.

I need to feel loved sometimes.  I need to know that even while I am His human property, He still likes who I am as a person, and enjoys being with me.  I need to know that He’s there for me.  That He’ll stand by me and stick up for me when it’s necessary, but that He’ll also knock me on the head when I’m wrong.

I need consistency.  Even when I’m being stubborn.  Maybe especially then.  While roller coasters and yo-yos are fun to play with, they’re not conducive to me being a productive individual in any walk of life.

I need someone to talk logic to me.  To look at what’s freaking me out, and help me figure out how to straighten it out.  I’m really not good at teaching myself.

I’ve probably already said all this.  And I’ve probably said what I’m about to say before, at some point, too.

I needed nights like the other night, too.  When M ordered me to the bedroom, on my knees with my legs spread, and my ass in the air, and my feet off the edge of the bed so He could use me while He paddled my ass, and my thighs, and the backs of my shoulders.  I needed Him grabbing my collar, choking me with it as He used it to force my entire body to move the way He wanted it to.  To feel His fist, still wrapped around the handle of our awesome MauiKink.com paddle, come down on my back as He drove His hard, throbbing member into my pussy harder and faster with each thrust.

I need to be degraded sometimes.  I need His fingers and cock in my pussy, ass and mouth, while He hits, and kicks, and spits on me.  His mouth, I don’t cry about when He doesn’t use it on my cunt, because I’m ridiculously self-conscious about that area.  Don’t look at it.  Don’t put your face in it.  Just touch it, or fuck it, or spank it.  But god, does it feel good when He tells me to spread my legs and lips, and plants Himself between my knees, and grabs ahold of my pussy lips with His teeth, and sucks on my clit (He’s been doing that much more.).  Or makes me bend over with my legs spread, so He can look at my open pussy (I’ve been doing that of my own volition, acting coy, like it was an accident, more and more lately.).

Last night He made me put on the red gown we bought ages ago.  I forgot how sexy it makes me feel.  The second the material slid down my body, I was wet.  Hungry.  Ready to fuck.  And when He said, “See? You don’t want to put your nipples in my mouth.” I crossed the room –slowly, so as not to appear too eager– and pulled the top down.

It was like a scene in one of my favorite porn flicks.  I pushed my tits in His face, and He ravished them, biting my nipples and shoulders, while His hands wandered all over my body.  He pulled the front of the gown up to find my dripping cunt thrusting toward His fingers, and He rubbed my clit for a moment before plunging His fingers inside.  Then He pulled the back up, and groped and spanked my ass.  I lifted my knee, and began to grind it against His crotch, and within seconds, His cock sprang to life.

He kept stopping, and I’d move as if to go back to what I was doing, but then He’d reach for me again.  And finally, He said, “I guess you better go bend your ass over so I can use you.” as He looked down at the tent in His pants.  I was on the bed long before He’d even stood up.

He didn’t let go of me the whole time He fucked me.  His hands groped and grabbed and squeezed.  He fisted mounds of flesh in His fingers and used them to move me as He saw fit.  He flattened me to the bed, pushing with both hands, and spread my legs as wide as they would spread with His ever thrusting hips.  And I lay there beneath Him, my thoughts yo-yoing between how amazing His cock felt, and how much I love being a masturbation tool.

There’s definitely something very personal about being molded into sexual property.  Personal and delicious.

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  1. October 27th, 2010 at 20:08 | #1

    Sounds like an AMAZING experience. Mmmm.

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