Posts tagged Dominance

Posted 1 year ago
rolledtrousers:
Thousand Yard Stare
I rarely feel as powerless as when you undress. Each piece of clothing tumbles from your body with all the urgency of an avalanche, and I just watch. It’s less an impotence and more a stasis, me put on hold while you do your thing, get ready for me. I watch, and my mind formulates, but it’s a window of time that doesn’t involve me, except to be the recipient, the passive. To observe, watch, stare. Not to do. 
As oxymoronic as it sounds, Dominance isn’t entirely about power. That would be boring, a petty dictator sitting on his throne and demanding this and that, obedience without respect, just orders followed out of a sense of duty, because that’s how things go and your head will be forfeit if you decide to transgress. No, Dominance is about controlling the flow of power, directing it, allowing it to breathe like a fine wine, flooding it out and then calling it back in. You’re a thaumatologist, standing in a storm and controlling the lightning in an impossible miracle.
Because this is a power exchange, and that’s a transaction that never stops taking place. You slip down your stockings and I can’t help but smile, can’t help but allow you that power over me. I’ll take it back, every last iota, within seconds, but for the moment I’m happy to allow it to rest in your hands, let you understand the weight of things before you surrender yourself to them. Because, after all, you can’t understand your sacrifice unless you know what you’re sacrificing.

rolledtrousers:

Thousand Yard Stare

I rarely feel as powerless as when you undress. Each piece of clothing tumbles from your body with all the urgency of an avalanche, and I just watch. It’s less an impotence and more a stasis, me put on hold while you do your thing, get ready for me. I watch, and my mind formulates, but it’s a window of time that doesn’t involve me, except to be the recipient, the passive. To observe, watch, stare. Not to do. 

As oxymoronic as it sounds, Dominance isn’t entirely about power. That would be boring, a petty dictator sitting on his throne and demanding this and that, obedience without respect, just orders followed out of a sense of duty, because that’s how things go and your head will be forfeit if you decide to transgress. No, Dominance is about controlling the flow of power, directing it, allowing it to breathe like a fine wine, flooding it out and then calling it back in. You’re a thaumatologist, standing in a storm and controlling the lightning in an impossible miracle.

Because this is a power exchange, and that’s a transaction that never stops taking place. You slip down your stockings and I can’t help but smile, can’t help but allow you that power over me. I’ll take it back, every last iota, within seconds, but for the moment I’m happy to allow it to rest in your hands, let you understand the weight of things before you surrender yourself to them. Because, after all, you can’t understand your sacrifice unless you know what you’re sacrificing.

(Source: dickronohue)

Posted 1 year ago
rolledtrousers:
On the Mind
“I’ve been thinking about getting them pierced.” She lay it out there with a little more of a sharpened point than ‘What do you think of piercings?’, but there was barely any commitment there. She was safe. 
His fingers circled the lip of the coffee mug like a shark, and his eyes flicked up to her. The silence drew out, stretched like skin, and then his lips parted and a nervous smile stumbled across her face.
“Are you sure? It might hurt.” He was mocking her, and she knew it. Eyes narrowed, and she buried the instant blush behind her cup, taking a long sip before she set it back down again, crossing her legs and smoothing out her skirt. He always made her fidget.
“I didn’t say I was going to do it, just that I had been thinking about it. There’s a certain appeal.” He nodded, smirking all the while.
“I don’t deny it. There is a certain appeal, and it’s very..” The smirk broadened. “Appealing.” She hated it when he was coy, when his words became clipped and he held things back from her. Things like his opinion, like what he really thought. She just wanted him to give her an order, tell her to go one way or another, and then it would be done. 
She had been thinking about it, but indecision had gripped her lip a hangman’s noose, and it was starting to suffocate. The piercing would fundamentally alter the way he looked at her, she knew that much, and she wanted to make sure that if it was something she was going to do, he wanted it.
“Well, what do you think?” She hated to be so blunt, but he was backing her into a corner. Again he shrugged, and she glared at him.
“I think that it’s your decision to make.” And there he was, doing it again. She started to lean forward, give him some choice words, but he held up a single finger, silencing her.
“I think you need to keep thinking about it. I think you should lie on your back at night and stare at the ceiling, while your hand wanders over your chest and tries pinching and twisting your naked nipple. I think you should do this, and think about what it would be like if there was something else there, something to get better purchase on, to twist and pinch even harder than you can at the moment. I think you should wander about how it might feel in a bra, against a shirt, about how you’d occasionally get reminders about it when you bent over, or arched your back, or how you’d eventually grow to accept it as a part of your own self image.”
The whole time he’d been talking, he’d been leaning progressively further forward, until his face was only a few scant millimeters from her face. Her lips were parted, almost asking for a kiss, pleading for one, but as he finished he just leaned back, settling into his chair as he took a sip of his coffee. A minute passed, her shellshock retreating in inches.
“Do you think you can do that?” He sounded amused.
She could only smile, only nod. Only say. “I think I could manage it.”

rolledtrousers:

On the Mind

“I’ve been thinking about getting them pierced.” She lay it out there with a little more of a sharpened point than ‘What do you think of piercings?’, but there was barely any commitment there. She was safe. 

His fingers circled the lip of the coffee mug like a shark, and his eyes flicked up to her. The silence drew out, stretched like skin, and then his lips parted and a nervous smile stumbled across her face.

“Are you sure? It might hurt.” He was mocking her, and she knew it. Eyes narrowed, and she buried the instant blush behind her cup, taking a long sip before she set it back down again, crossing her legs and smoothing out her skirt. He always made her fidget.

“I didn’t say I was going to do it, just that I had been thinking about it. There’s a certain appeal.” He nodded, smirking all the while.

“I don’t deny it. There is a certain appeal, and it’s very..” The smirk broadened. “Appealing.” She hated it when he was coy, when his words became clipped and he held things back from her. Things like his opinion, like what he really thought. She just wanted him to give her an order, tell her to go one way or another, and then it would be done. 

She had been thinking about it, but indecision had gripped her lip a hangman’s noose, and it was starting to suffocate. The piercing would fundamentally alter the way he looked at her, she knew that much, and she wanted to make sure that if it was something she was going to do, he wanted it.

“Well, what do you think?” She hated to be so blunt, but he was backing her into a corner. Again he shrugged, and she glared at him.

“I think that it’s your decision to make.” And there he was, doing it again. She started to lean forward, give him some choice words, but he held up a single finger, silencing her.

“I think you need to keep thinking about it. I think you should lie on your back at night and stare at the ceiling, while your hand wanders over your chest and tries pinching and twisting your naked nipple. I think you should do this, and think about what it would be like if there was something else there, something to get better purchase on, to twist and pinch even harder than you can at the moment. I think you should wander about how it might feel in a bra, against a shirt, about how you’d occasionally get reminders about it when you bent over, or arched your back, or how you’d eventually grow to accept it as a part of your own self image.”

The whole time he’d been talking, he’d been leaning progressively further forward, until his face was only a few scant millimeters from her face. Her lips were parted, almost asking for a kiss, pleading for one, but as he finished he just leaned back, settling into his chair as he took a sip of his coffee. A minute passed, her shellshock retreating in inches.

“Do you think you can do that?” He sounded amused.

She could only smile, only nod. Only say. “I think I could manage it.”

Posted 1 year ago
rolledtrousers:
Smells like Content
That’s surprise on my face, sitting there like an ugly accident. It’s not wholly unfamiliar, but it’s certainly not expected. That would kind of defeat the point. It’s not that I’m unfamiliar with hearing the truth, it’s just honesty of that kind isn’t something I’m used to dealing with.
“You always talk about yourself in terms of content.” 
She’s right. And it’s precisely that which I’m having a slight problem with. Films and bands reel off my tongue with a practiced ease, but they’re a smokescreen, a way to not talk about all the things which might leave me open, provide a blindside to be exploited. It’s my own personal defense mechanism, to express myself through the perspective of others. In particular, others I don’t know, artists who’s accomplishments I can stand behind, delegate judgement to.
I say all this, and something about my delivery just makes it sound like so much more bullshit, another way to put a bit of space between me and my words. When you think about what you’re saying all the time, the words you use, it’s almost impossible not to be all the more aware of the information you’re transmitting, the things you’re not saying, even as you continue to speak. I say it’s a way of creating some detachment, and she narrows her eyes. I imagine it’s a reflex when you’re faced with something that sounds like a contradiction, honesty hidden behind a smokescreen of fancy words.
“Is that why you like to Dominate?” It sounds almost off the cuff, a logical progression to a thought that just so happened to spill down a floor from her brain to her mouth, blurted out before due consideration. 
The thing is, it’s almost exactly right. There’s a detachment there, a built in space between me and you, that is definitely a draw. I can use the protocols, the scenes, as a buffer between the two of us, a universal translator that can communicate my feelings in a way that I understand, and, more importantly, feel comfortable with. It’s a way for me to open up by remaining closed. It’s a contradiction that somehow functions.
Except that’s only half the story. It might be why I find D/s comfortable, and why it makes sense to me, but it’s not why I love it. The beauty isn’t in the detachment, it’s in the bridging of that space, the removal of that buffer, the natural progression between two points, when they start so very far apart. I might begin with ropes and cable ties, standing on the other side of the room with little more than a smirk and an imagination, and you might well squirm and writhe and smile and bite your lip.
But by the time I’m done, we’re done. We’re clinging to one another in desperate rapture, and we’re no more Dominant and submissive than we are man and woman. We’re just two transient psyches completely fucking lost in a gorgeous haze of arousal and cognitive dissonance. Thoughts are non-existent, just a beautiful silence. The context frames everything, but you can’t help but become deconstructed by the process. 
Guards dropped, smoke screens dissipated, nothing but stark, breathtaking, beautiful honesty.

rolledtrousers:

Smells like Content

That’s surprise on my face, sitting there like an ugly accident. It’s not wholly unfamiliar, but it’s certainly not expected. That would kind of defeat the point. It’s not that I’m unfamiliar with hearing the truth, it’s just honesty of that kind isn’t something I’m used to dealing with.

“You always talk about yourself in terms of content.” 

She’s right. And it’s precisely that which I’m having a slight problem with. Films and bands reel off my tongue with a practiced ease, but they’re a smokescreen, a way to not talk about all the things which might leave me open, provide a blindside to be exploited. It’s my own personal defense mechanism, to express myself through the perspective of others. In particular, others I don’t know, artists who’s accomplishments I can stand behind, delegate judgement to.

I say all this, and something about my delivery just makes it sound like so much more bullshit, another way to put a bit of space between me and my words. When you think about what you’re saying all the time, the words you use, it’s almost impossible not to be all the more aware of the information you’re transmitting, the things you’re not saying, even as you continue to speak. I say it’s a way of creating some detachment, and she narrows her eyes. I imagine it’s a reflex when you’re faced with something that sounds like a contradiction, honesty hidden behind a smokescreen of fancy words.

“Is that why you like to Dominate?” It sounds almost off the cuff, a logical progression to a thought that just so happened to spill down a floor from her brain to her mouth, blurted out before due consideration. 

The thing is, it’s almost exactly right. There’s a detachment there, a built in space between me and you, that is definitely a draw. I can use the protocols, the scenes, as a buffer between the two of us, a universal translator that can communicate my feelings in a way that I understand, and, more importantly, feel comfortable with. It’s a way for me to open up by remaining closed. It’s a contradiction that somehow functions.

Except that’s only half the story. It might be why I find D/s comfortable, and why it makes sense to me, but it’s not why I love it. The beauty isn’t in the detachment, it’s in the bridging of that space, the removal of that buffer, the natural progression between two points, when they start so very far apart. I might begin with ropes and cable ties, standing on the other side of the room with little more than a smirk and an imagination, and you might well squirm and writhe and smile and bite your lip.

But by the time I’m done, we’re done. We’re clinging to one another in desperate rapture, and we’re no more Dominant and submissive than we are man and woman. We’re just two transient psyches completely fucking lost in a gorgeous haze of arousal and cognitive dissonance. Thoughts are non-existent, just a beautiful silence. The context frames everything, but you can’t help but become deconstructed by the process. 

Guards dropped, smoke screens dissipated, nothing but stark, breathtaking, beautiful honesty.

(Source: )

Posted 1 year ago

rolledtrousers:

Kaleidoscope

Colours crashing into one another like stars, a firework of hues that coalesced into another geometric conflagration, and then back again. She’d spent hours lost in the kaleidoscopic as a child, lying on her back on the landing, staring up at the ceiling with one eye while the other was glued to cheap plastic and abstract beauty. The subtle swirls of the plaster had barely registered.

The feeling came rushing back whenever she pressed her eye against the slightly fatigued rubber of any telescope, regardless of whatever she was looking at. Usually some bland beach or homogeneously beautiful valley on some holiday she barely remembered. Beauty without form, but more importantly all the things you weren’t seeing; you tunnel your vision and you lose the periphery, and it was that absence that she felt the most keenly. All the things she was no longer seeing, to see the one thing in front of her.

Sex was telescopic. Myopic. She could only ever see one thing at a time. His chin, lightly brushed with stubble. His formarms, muscles teeming underneath the skin. His belly, slightly soft, dusted with hair. His cock, swollen, hard, that one thick vein trailing down the side. Every piece an involuntary synecdoche, her sense of him losing all sense of perspective and scale. She couldn’t hold all of him in her head, and it only made her feel him more keenly, from his will to his hand, his smirk to the head of him, soft and eager. 

She was telescopic, when he was around. Her submission was the only aspect of herself in view, the rest falling away, a surrendered periphery. The part represented the whole, but that didn’t make it any less difficult to attempt to occupy just that part. She squirmed and writhed, a conflicted mess of psyche and desire, and he pinned her down like an errant butterfly, something to be collected and examined. Which only made her vulnerabilities show up in sharper relief, her arousal a point of fact, rather than a subtle hint. 

She’d laid for hours on that landing, watching a cavalcade of colours converge into mathematical uncertainty, oblivious to the rest of the world. She’d need to be rescued, her name calling out of the spectrum, or someone trying to step over her. She’d have to be pulled from that pleasant pool, saved.  

Posted 1 year ago

rolledtrousers:

Other Corners

She says he doesn’t like rope, and not for the first time that night my eyebrows arch in surprise. I ask why, and she shrugs, explaining that he gets frustrated, the process of tying, working, creating exhausts him, each knot just another remind of what he wants to be doing, of what he’s not. Not for the first time, I realise there’s a gulf that I never anticipated.

Flavours proliferate. You start down the path and you can’t help but explore further, find yourself unsatisfied with what overwhelmed you yesterday. But more than that, the more you discover, the more you specialise, the more you customise your menu until you’re perfectly happy with what settles on your palette. It’s ludicrous to think that where my tastes lie is the same as every man, or every woman, but that doesn’t make the discovery any less surprising. It’s the sudden awareness that not only do they not enjoy things in the way I do, but they don’t even share the perspective.

I like rope because of the downtime it manifests. Because it frustrates, protracting out the scene and forcing you to focus on what you’re not getting, what’s not happening. All of those reasons listed as negatives are firmly in the positive column for me, and the shift in mentality was almost a revelation.

She shrugs, says that she’d like to be tied up, but it’s not a big deal. I smile, but my mind is already wandering off in another direction, a road paved with hemp and silk, with long, languishing silences where the only sound is the occasional gasp, the odd creak of a knot tightening. There’s so much space in D/s, it’s nice to remember that you’re only occupying one small corner. That there’s still so much for you to find and discover, and so much that you’ll never even need to.

(Source: spiritualbdsm)

Posted 1 year ago

rolledtrousers:

Keep Them On

It’s such a temptation to just say ‘No’. Leave you bereft. 

Take you out in public, show you off, occasionally slip my hand down the side of your waist, then a little further south, until I don’t trip on what I should have, fingers not stumbling on some seam or other, not catching on the line I should have. I know it, you know it, and the blush on your cheeks is all the evidence I was ever after. I’d smirk, and you’d wriggle, your eyes flaring ever so slightly while your hand runs over your stomach, questing for something that isn’t there.

It’s a temptation, but it’s one I rarely want to give in to. There’s too much fun to be had otherwise, too much for me to do, to enjoy, to just take them out of the equation entirely. Maybe when I’m not there, and I want to engineer a reminder, the soft kiss of the breeze between your legs when you sit, or that tiny spot of moisture on your skirt that makes you turn a lurid pink. 

But when I’m with you, I want to watch you slink out of that underwear. I want to grab it off your foot and bring it to my nose, narrow my eyes and arch my eyebrow before pressing it hard to your face. I want to ball it up and shove it in your mouth, I want to pull it down to your knees and force you to keep them closed while I fuck you. 

I’d tell you not to wear panties, but they’re just too much fun.

(Source: confessingmysins)

Posted 1 year ago
rolledtrousers:
A Momentary Loss
There’s this thing she does with her mouth when she takes the head of him in, where she squeezes her lips and rides hard just over the flare of his tip, and in that moment, he could swear to god, he loses himself a little bit. His hand is still hard in her hair, and he’s still grinning down at her, but in that moment, he’s gone, just as she runs over him. He twitches, maybe even squirms, and he’s her’s. 
And, to tell the truth, it unsettles him. There’s something about that blinding moment of pleasure that doesn’t sit right, that threatens just about everything that he enjoys about the scene. The contradictory, simultaneous thrill of being entirely animal and entirely civilised. Of controlling with your gut as well as your mind, at all times. Of being who he is, at all times. To not let that swelling part of himself dictate anything any more than it needs to, to not succumb to the physical urges and desires and remain aloof, above. To remain Dominant.
It’s idiotic, and he knows that. It’s a moment, and nothing more. It’s not some creeping parasite working underneath his skin, washing over his body until he’s some base animal, grunting and fucking without thought or consideration. It is not some slippery slope, and it is not his Achilles’ heel. It was, in fact, merely a lovely moment for him to enjoy, to actually allow control to filter through his fingers for a few moments, before catching it again.
He knew all this, and still it might spoil things. His mind might run at a sprint, flashing thoughts distracting him every time those lips ran over that ridge, and if she hadn’t been so very, very good, and he hadn’t felt so very, very wonderful, it could well have. But if that was the case the problem wouldn’t even have existed. He’d have held control, not lost it, smirked instead of groaned, a guttural eruption that spilled from his lips with all the spontaneity of a bullet. 

rolledtrousers:

A Momentary Loss

There’s this thing she does with her mouth when she takes the head of him in, where she squeezes her lips and rides hard just over the flare of his tip, and in that moment, he could swear to god, he loses himself a little bit. His hand is still hard in her hair, and he’s still grinning down at her, but in that moment, he’s gone, just as she runs over him. He twitches, maybe even squirms, and he’s her’s. 

And, to tell the truth, it unsettles him. There’s something about that blinding moment of pleasure that doesn’t sit right, that threatens just about everything that he enjoys about the scene. The contradictory, simultaneous thrill of being entirely animal and entirely civilised. Of controlling with your gut as well as your mind, at all times. Of being who he is, at all times. To not let that swelling part of himself dictate anything any more than it needs to, to not succumb to the physical urges and desires and remain aloof, above. To remain Dominant.

It’s idiotic, and he knows that. It’s a moment, and nothing more. It’s not some creeping parasite working underneath his skin, washing over his body until he’s some base animal, grunting and fucking without thought or consideration. It is not some slippery slope, and it is not his Achilles’ heel. It was, in fact, merely a lovely moment for him to enjoy, to actually allow control to filter through his fingers for a few moments, before catching it again.

He knew all this, and still it might spoil things. His mind might run at a sprint, flashing thoughts distracting him every time those lips ran over that ridge, and if she hadn’t been so very, very good, and he hadn’t felt so very, very wonderful, it could well have. But if that was the case the problem wouldn’t even have existed. He’d have held control, not lost it, smirked instead of groaned, a guttural eruption that spilled from his lips with all the spontaneity of a bullet. 

(Source: -cream-and-sugar)

Posted 1 year ago

rolledtrousers:

Scales

Contrary to popular belief, I don’t start the game with a rigged deck. When we first start talking, when I smile, you smile, and the idle flirting flits between us with an easy buoyancy, things are on a level playing field. You’ve got yours, and I’ve got mine. I don’t have power over you any more than I have power over someone I haven’t met. I haven’t got to that yet. The balance, then, is resting happily on an equilibrium.

But then D/s has always only ever been about the imbalance of power, the scales tipping in one direction or the other, and that’s where I start to shuffle in the cards, start laying down hands and flourishes that you just can’t see coming. Worse yet, you’re handing your own best suits to me, ensuring you can’t win. Power slips across the table, and my stack of chips starts to multiply. 

I’m not going to lie to you and tell you that you can’t help it, that this was inevitable from the start. Those are fun fantasies, but you had a choice. Autonomy was yours a scant time ago, and it was with it that you cast it away, free will sacrificing itself for a determinist’s fate. My fate. My will. You smile, and my hand slips around your neck as with as tight a grip as the one I have around your mind. You blink.

So no, I don’t start the game with a rigged deck. The problem is you can’t hold a poker face. 

Posted 1 year ago
rolledtrousers:
Jazz of the Libido
It matters, you know. It creates a whole different feel when you change the details. Every facet of every scene matters, and it’s there that you find the tone of things, the behaviour and the perception. Swap silk for hemp, and you’ll frame things in a completely different light. Swap hemp for cable ties and… well, you get the picture.
I think about these things when I’m setting up, laying tools out on the bed to figure out exactly which I want to use that night. Whartenberg Wheel? Flogger? Clothespins? Plug? Which ones today, which combination will create the catalyst for your pleasure, your pain? What kind of mood do I want to put you in? Questions run through my mind like a highway, and each one has to find an answer. 
It’s why punishment is important, and why discipline is made so very key. The more I know you the more I can get in your head, tailor the scene to create a very specific state of mind in you, and watching you succumb to every little bit creates the kind of elusive thrill that makes me feel like an empathetic genius. It feels like victory, like I’ve harnessed the chaos of free will and produced something beautifully determinist. 
The other half of things is making it all seem natural, of course. Improvised, like I’ve got a trumpet in my hands and my fingers are dancing on those valves, producing music and emotions with equal sway. The jazz of the libido  beamed straight between your legs, making you rock and moan. Each component another note, every tool another trill. And you, my dear, can’t help but dance.

rolledtrousers:

Jazz of the Libido

It matters, you know. It creates a whole different feel when you change the details. Every facet of every scene matters, and it’s there that you find the tone of things, the behaviour and the perception. Swap silk for hemp, and you’ll frame things in a completely different light. Swap hemp for cable ties and… well, you get the picture.

I think about these things when I’m setting up, laying tools out on the bed to figure out exactly which I want to use that night. Whartenberg Wheel? Flogger? Clothespins? Plug? Which ones today, which combination will create the catalyst for your pleasure, your pain? What kind of mood do I want to put you in? Questions run through my mind like a highway, and each one has to find an answer. 

It’s why punishment is important, and why discipline is made so very key. The more I know you the more I can get in your head, tailor the scene to create a very specific state of mind in you, and watching you succumb to every little bit creates the kind of elusive thrill that makes me feel like an empathetic genius. It feels like victory, like I’ve harnessed the chaos of free will and produced something beautifully determinist. 

The other half of things is making it all seem natural, of course. Improvised, like I’ve got a trumpet in my hands and my fingers are dancing on those valves, producing music and emotions with equal sway. The jazz of the libido  beamed straight between your legs, making you rock and moan. Each component another note, every tool another trill. And you, my dear, can’t help but dance.

Posted 1 year ago
I can take the suspense no longer. Eyes still locked on one another, I slowly reach for your hips and clasp you with both hands. Waiting. Anticipating. The throbbing so intense as I pause, your lips moist and parted with the very tip of my manhood.
You look at me with a baleful, almost pleading intensity in your eyes. But still I pause. Hands clamped on your hips. Preventing movement of any kind. Suspended. Timeless. Motionless. Savoring the moment.
Suddenly and without warning I pull your hips to me, thrusting my pelvis and driving deep inside of you. I gasp at the intensity of your heat and the fire inside me.
"OH GOD!" you shout, our locked gaze finally broken in the heat of the moment. Your head flies back and arms collapse beneath you and you drop your head to the floor as you envelop the full measure of me.
Instinctively you begin to thrust toward me, desperately wanting release, but I hold you firm and motionless in my clamped grasp. Slowly I press deeper and can feel your cervix pulsing against me in its pre-orgasmic dance. I squeeze, engorging my cock and swelling within you.
"OH SIR!" you cry out, the swelling and stretching pushing you toward the precipice of orgasmic release. "PLEASE, may I cum?"
"You may my pet, as many times as you like," I reply through gritted teeth.
Ever so slowly I withdraw from you, every tiny movement of flesh against flesh intensifying  your already near explosive conclusion. As my head stretches past your outer muscular ring I pause again. You are shuddering, shaking before me. Hips still clenched in my firm grasp I drive myself full inside you with one mighty pulling thrust and the effect is nothing short of magical.
"OH MY GOD!" you scream, "OH SHIT…OH FUCK…FUCK ME SIR!!!"
Needing no further encouragement, I thrust in and our of you, the sensation of fire rising in the pit of my stomach. Over and over again. Pulling. Thrusting. Long deep penetrations. Pressing with each one to go deeper and deeper. Wanting to consume you and be consumed.
Caption © For the Love of A Submissive, 2012

I can take the suspense no longer. Eyes still locked on one another, I slowly reach for your hips and clasp you with both hands. Waiting. Anticipating. The throbbing so intense as I pause, your lips moist and parted with the very tip of my manhood.

You look at me with a baleful, almost pleading intensity in your eyes. But still I pause. Hands clamped on your hips. Preventing movement of any kind. Suspended. Timeless. Motionless. Savoring the moment.

Suddenly and without warning I pull your hips to me, thrusting my pelvis and driving deep inside of you. I gasp at the intensity of your heat and the fire inside me.

"OH GOD!" you shout, our locked gaze finally broken in the heat of the moment. Your head flies back and arms collapse beneath you and you drop your head to the floor as you envelop the full measure of me.

Instinctively you begin to thrust toward me, desperately wanting release, but I hold you firm and motionless in my clamped grasp. Slowly I press deeper and can feel your cervix pulsing against me in its pre-orgasmic dance. I squeeze, engorging my cock and swelling within you.

"OH SIR!" you cry out, the swelling and stretching pushing you toward the precipice of orgasmic release. "PLEASE, may I cum?"

"You may my pet, as many times as you like," I reply through gritted teeth.

Ever so slowly I withdraw from you, every tiny movement of flesh against flesh intensifying  your already near explosive conclusion. As my head stretches past your outer muscular ring I pause again. You are shuddering, shaking before me. Hips still clenched in my firm grasp I drive myself full inside you with one mighty pulling thrust and the effect is nothing short of magical.

"OH MY GOD!" you scream, "OH SHIT…OH FUCK…FUCK ME SIR!!!"

Needing no further encouragement, I thrust in and our of you, the sensation of fire rising in the pit of my stomach. Over and over again. Pulling. Thrusting. Long deep penetrations. Pressing with each one to go deeper and deeper. Wanting to consume you and be consumed.

Caption © For the Love of A Submissive, 2012