Don’t hold back.

I won’t shatter like china if you strike me across the face, nor will I be traumatized by your hand around my neck. Inexperience hasn’t made me fearful; in fact, I feel like I’m starving for the experience. I want to take every erotic word I’ve written and read and make it tangible enough to taste. I want every word to be used against me until I almost regret having shared all my deepest fantasies, even though it’s always been the truth.

You’ve got to trust me as much as I trust you. Just as I trust that you won’t  truly harm me, you’ve got to trust that I’ll tell you when it’s too much. I’ll say the magic word.

Until then, I will lie here and take all of it. I may scream and cry and beg, I may look at you in surprise when you hit me, but I want all of that, too. I want the overwhelming emotion, the earth-shattering, mind-blowing, never-ending orgasms. That’s not going to happen until you let go of a little inhibition, until you accept that every bruise, bite, welt and scratch will be savored and remembered and loved.

Give me aches and soreness and stings. Give me tears and screams and deafening moans. Give me gasping breaths and crippling pleasure, chafing ropes and pinching clamps. I promise I won’t burst. I won’t wither and crumble like a frail little flower.

After all, it takes strength to submit.

Any piece of furniture will do.

That is the kind of attitude that excites me the most. It is the idea that I am no more than that object itself, so what does it matter if it’s a table or a chair? You will use me in the same indifferent manner you use those same objects: when you need to, want to, or have nothing better to do.

So when you grip me by the throat, spin me around, and push me towards some still and silent piece of furniture, I will know exactly what is expected of me. Naturally, I’d have to be still and silent, too. I’d have to grip the edges with my fingers and hold on tightly as you lift my skirt up and fill me. I’d have to bite my lip and keep from moaning or whimpering as you fuck me. Besides, you’ll only ignore the sounds I make. You’ll ignore my little mewls just like you’ll ignore the chair as it squeaks and rattles against the floor.

You won’t even say a thing. You’ll just fuck and grunt and grip, leaving bruises on my skin like dents in leather. There will be no need to say a word to me.

Because only crazy people talk to inanimate objects.

Let me feel your power.

I want my entire being and my entire body to know that I am yours. I worry that the forceful thrusts of your barbarous fucking will not be enough, that the pleasure of your hard cock will overtake the silent “Mine” that comes with every push of your hips. No, we’re going to have to get much simpler than that. We’re going to have to get a little more risky.

You need to pin me down. You need to make me immobile, make it impossible for me to squirm and thrash. Your arms need to cage me, imprison me, and your fingers must wrap themselves around my slender neck. I need to feel my pulse pouding against your thumb, feel my blood rushing through my head, hear my heartbeat in my ears as you fuck me. I need to be overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by your authority and my smallness, overwhelmed by your physical strength and my weakness, overwhelmed by the pleasure of your cock and the discomfort of my struggling breath.

I want to look into your eyes as you make it harder to breathe and be absolutely overpowered by your control, your power, your strength, the sheer dominance that exudes from every movement of your body.

That exertion of power is what will make me cum from the depths of my submissive soul.

(Source: theclassyshit)

I know exactly what I’m doing.

It’s in my nature to be playful and coy, but the fun part is being coy during the most outrageous of moments. The fun part is playing the part of an angel when I’m feeling like a complete and utter vixen. I may cross my legs when I sit, but you know I’ll spread them with a snap of your fingers. I may take dainty little bites, but I’ll push that banana as far as it’ll go and look you straight in the eyes as I do it. My sentences are full of innuendoes and my smiles are often paired with dirty thoughts. I’ll “forget” to wear a bra and “accidentally” pull my skirt up a little too high.

In a lot of ways, it all comes from a desire to relive the excitement of corruption. It is the desire to have the lady slapped right out of me, to be spanked for my teasing, to turn my giggles into moans and have my girlish voice muffled by a gag. I want the suggestive little banana in my mouth to be replaced by your magnificent cock, want my satisfied smirk to disappear as you make me gag on you. The truth is, I’m hoping you’ll see through the pretend naiveté and bend me over the coffee table.

 I’m hoping you’ll show me what happens to girls who tease. 

Because it doesn’t matter how ladylike I behave.

I’ll always be your whore.

(Source: dirtyoldmangettinghisrocksoff)

I call them “the brutal ones”.

They are old and brown, but the metal that coils them together is thick and strong. It makes them horribly tight, tight enough to be painful when I put them on the tip of my finger. Of course, that meant that the only place they belong is on my needy little nipples.

It hurt a million times more than I expected. Unbearably so. Unaccustomed to such pain, I had to breathe through it, thinking that there was no way I’d be able to cum like this. It wasn’t a sting, and it wasn’t a hard pressure. It was a tight, torturous, intense pinching sensation that felt as though it was trying to pierce through my skin. My nipples were throbbing and burning, and I whimpered and groaned.

“Stop making silly noises,” he chastised.

I bit my lip instead, sliding my hand between my legs like I was supposed to. I was supposed to bring myself to orgasm like this, supposed to give myself the release I’d been needing for six days. The pain, however, was terribly distracting. I asked him if I could take them off. He said no. I asked if I could replace them with the “less brutal ones”. He said no.

He said that if I didn’t cum with the clothespins on, I wouldn’t cum at all.

I focused on the pleasure instead. The pain, as distracting as it was, would have to be accepted. I allowed it to spur on the pleasure between my legs, allowed it to become the very thing that made me cum. It was no easy feat, but when you haven’t had an orgasm in six days, your priorities change.

Sooner than expected, I was begging to cum. The second he said yes, I was moaning and simultaneously ripping the treacherous clothespins off. My moan of pleasure morphed into a moan of pain, and the combination of sensations was staggering. My tortured nipples throbbed painfully as the blood rushed back to where it belonged, the delicate skin remaining pinched. I wanted to cry, but I also wanted to laugh.

“Never again,” I said, clutching my poor, abused tits.

Who am I kidding?

He’s going to make me do it again.

This is one secret I could never keep.

I hope I’m not expected to act as though nothing is happening. My face is a traitor; it will inevitably react to anything you say or do, anything that speaks to my libido. When you tell me to spread my legs under the table, there in broad daylight, I hope you don’t expect me to sit there impassively. And when your hand is crawling over my knee and your fingers are stroking my inner thigh, secretly, inconspicuously, would you really believe that I am capable of acting like the lady I appear to be?

Of course not. I will melt. You’ll touch me and you’ll start a fire right at my core. It doesn’t matter that we’re surrounded, not at all. I’m a slut no matter where we go. You’ll leave a trail of goose bumps across my skin and I’d bite my lips, eyelashes fluttering. I’ll sink lower in my chair, legs spreading wider, trembling with both fear and anticipation. The closer your hand gets to touching my bare, needy pussy, the harder it will be to suppress a moan, to suppress my desire. You’re saying “Mine” without speaking, touching what’s yours, and making sure I feel like the dirtiest of girls, the most wanton of whores.

I’m going to shudder. I’m going to put on a show for anyone who notices, whether I like it or not, because I am incapable of hiding what I am. I am incapable of hiding that you have me wrapped around your cock, that you have me owned twenty-four hours a day.

You know.

That’s why you’ll torture me so.

(Source: lanearabella)

Tease me.

I don’t know why I reveal the things I love to hate, the things that drive me mad, but it’s true. I love the slow, torturous anticipation of having what I need so unattainably close to me. As desperate for cock as I am, there is no thought more horrifying and more desirable than the thought of being teased by one.

I shudder simply imagining having my hands tied above my head, your thick, hard cock swelling and hardening right in front of my eyes. I will be forced to watch what I can’t have, forced to just lie there and ache with need. The worst part is when you touch me, when your cock is placed right on top of my throbbing pussy and pushed no further. There is no penetration, merely the feeling of your hardness against my aching softness. The torture is when you rub it up and down, slowly, toying with my sensitive, swollen little clit. It’s when you rub it right through the wet lips of my desperate pussy, because there is no torture worse than having what you need so close to where you need it.

I’ll lift my hips for more, I’ll  mewl and beg and squirm to no avail. You’ll tell me that I need to be a good girl and wait, that I need to be patient and wait until you think I deserve it. I’ll be willing to do anything to have you inside me at that point, anything to be filled and stretched and fucked. 

And once you finally do, my slutty moan will also be a sigh of relief.

(Source: intivisits)

I want the impossibility of escape.

It is one of my simplest, most frequent fantasies, to be bound and gagged and utterly helpless. There is no story behind the fantasy, no context for how I ended up in this predicament. I am simply here, spread eagled, squirming against the ropes as they dig into my skin. I whimper and twitch, struggling for an escape I don’t really want. I have drool dripping down my chin and tears of desperation in my eyes, but the greatest flood of all is the one between my legs.

I am wettest there because this is how I’ve always wanted to be fucked. Open and vulnerable, ensnared like a fly in a spider’s web, I’ve wanted to be made to thrash and scream. But more than anything, it’s the feeling of a long, hard cock that I’ve wanted in this position. I’ve wanted to be penetrated in immobility, slowly at first, unable to react in any way other than whimpering and wiggling my toes. I’ve wanted the undeniable knowledge that there is nothing I can do about the relentless fucking once it begins, nothing I can say to make it stop. I am here to scream, here to beg without words, here to be used like like the pretty little fucktoy that I am.

The rope marks are proof that I have been put to good use.

The surprise is all an act.

I’m staring at you as though I hadn’t seen this coming. As though I hadn’t noticed your cock straining through your trousers all night, as though I hadn’t expected you to shove me on to the bed and cuff me the second I slipped out of my dress. My raised brows, then, aren’t making a bewildered statement. No, they’re asking a silent, sassy question. “Oh, really?”

I’m not challenging you, not really. I’m waiting for you to answer my silent, “Oh really?” with a resounding “Yes.”  I want you to answer the question, etched so clearly into my brows, over and over. All night, answer it with stinging slaps and punishing thrusts. Answer it with bites in sensitive places and bruises on blank skin, hair brutally mussed and makeup horribly smeared. I want your “Yes, slut, really” to be a deafening roar in every ache, a tangible shout in a sore, dripping pussy.

I want these brows, raised in false surprise, to be furrowed in pain and crippling pleasure. I want these eyes, wide and challenging, to be overflowing with tears. I want the silence, once filled with silent sass, to be shattered as I beg for mercy.

The fake surprise, you see, was a question, too.

It was the lady wordlessly begging to be your slut.

I will beg for your cock. 

I’ve begun to crave it. I’ve begun to long for its thickness inside me and its length in my hands. I’ve begun to long for its salty taste against my tongue and its hardness parting my wet lips. I have a perverted desire to choke on it until my eyes water, to gag and sputter until I’m left coughing. I want the mixture of my saliva and your cum to trickle down my chin, mascara running down my cheeks, lipstick smeared. I want it all, and that’s why I beg.

But I’d be foolish to think you’d give in to me so easily, as if asking politely and throwing in a few “please”s and “Sir”s would be enough to grant me that privilege. No, make me grovel. Make me show you that I deserve it. I’m going to be naked and on my knees between your legs, staring up at you with my wide, pleading brown eyes. I’ll beg for it as long as it takes, until my knees are sore, until I’ve exhausted my vocabulary and dried my mouth. I’ll prove that my sluttiness for you knows no bounds, and having your hard cock in my mouth isn’t just lust or oral fixation.

It’s pure need.

“Take it off.”

Spontaneity makes me clench. When we’re sitting across from each other and those three words leave your lips, I will only hesitate for a second. The unexpectedness of the order will make me pause, but not for long. I can’t ignore that it makes me throb.

Then, without thinking twice, my tits will be completely bare and open to your every whim. My nipples will harden within seconds and I will have never felt more like a thing to be stared at, a work of art placed merely to be admired by its owner.

You’ll touch me. You’ll play with my hardened nipples, rolling them between your fingers and twisting them until I whimper. They’ll be red and sore before you’re done, and I’ll just be sitting there submissively, letting you hurt me. Letting you play with what’s yours. I’ll know that this is just a preview of what’s going to happen later. A preview of bites and bruises, soreness and welts, pink skin and swollen lips. You’ll have me bent over the table, shattered dishes on the floor, your cock buried deep inside and a strong grip on my hair. You’ll be fully dressed and I’ll be nude, spread out next to the napkins and empty teacups. They’ll be rattling as you fuck me, getting closer to falling off the edge with every thrust.

Don’t let the screaming fool you; I love not having a choice.

There’d be a puddle on my chair to prove it.

(Source: tamburina)

I like to practice.

Restless nights turn into experimentation. Panties hit the floor and my bare ass meets the cool air, creating goose bumps along my warm skin. My hands begin to fumble with my neediest, achiest parts, but I can’t cum. I’m not allowed to.

So my hands wander further back, to more forbidden places. To places we have only touched with heated words and ragged, lust-filled voices. Places I am almost too scared to go, and only visit in my darkest fantasies. My finger slips through my wetness before it slips between my cheeks, and I’m there. It’s me, but I pretend it’s him. I pretend my finger is triple the size, pretend that I’m bound and helpless and begging him not to go there.

I push, little by little, and the pressure makes me throb. There is no pleasure behind it yet, just discomfort, but I push harder. I push until it hurts, until a part of my finger is gripped by my tightness. I push until it makes me whimper. I want the discomfort. I want the pain. I want the feeling of being completely violated, taken in ways that just seem wrong, so deliciously wrong. I want to be the territory that gets marked, the body that has no holes left to be claimed, no skin left untouched.

I push, and I cringe, and then I stop.

But stopping is not what I want.

(Source: -cream-and-sugar)