Partway through a fuck, I realise something’s not quite right, and I mention it. BAM! I have killed the mood. I’m annoyed with myself and a little disappointed so I tell him. We stop shagging. We hug. We sweat. I say “sorry” a few more times, because “sorry” is the word I instinctively reach for when I have nothing else to say. “Stop saying sorry,” he tells me. “Stop saying you killed the mood.” But I can’t stop saying it, I’m stuck in a loop of it, and I don’t know how to escape. There are two paths open to him here…
This gorgeous femdom strap on erotica is written and read by Ferns, and it originally appeared on her website Domme Chronicles.
On the floor, hands cuffed, you are cowed, and hurt, and scared. And I am standing over you calling you a fucking bitch and a dirty slut and I have a strap-on that I am forcing into your mouth and down your throat, listening to you gag, with my hand on the back of your head to pull you further onto it, and I know it hurts your mouth, your throat and I hiss at you to look up at me while you choke around it and struggle to breathe and I shove it further down your throat and you try to look up into my face, and you are gagging and that pushes the base against my clit so I shove harder against you.
It’s not every day that a guest blog gets me right in the heart as well as the knickers, but today’s amazing post by Emilia Romero did exactly that. It’s about freedom and loss and finding yourself, the end of a marriage and the beginning of a love of BDSM. It’s beautiful and hot and painful in all the best ways, and I’m honoured that she’s chosen to share it here.
Allison tasted the raw leather of the whip held between her dry lips. She felt the perspiration breaking out at her hairline, it was warm in her seat in the corner, with the dappled late afternoon sun shining on her naked back, but more from the stress position she was in. The wraparound chair was comfortable in its own right, but with her back hunched over and wrists cuffed to her ankles, which were in turn bound to the front legs of the chair, she was struggling.
This delightful voyeurism story, by Molly Moore, originally appeared on her website. It is read aloud here as audio by the author herself. One of the people in the story uses the word ‘Daddy’ as an honorific, but all participants are consenting, not related, and over the age of 18.
I hadn’t been out long, twenty minutes or maybe half an hour but it was dark by the time I got home. I plonked the few bits I had gone to the shop for on the side in the kitchen and listened. It seemed rather quiet, too quiet really and when I went round to the front room the sofa was empty. When I had gone out they had been sitting together on the sofa. That is where I had left them and it hadn’t entered my head they wouldn’t still be there when I got home.