Nothing is more exquisite than when the line between pleasure and pain begins to blur.
It happens when I overstimulate myself, when the climax has come and gone, when I’ve cum and gone into that blissful place in my head and yet my hands just won’t stop moving.
They’re on autopilot, drawing the pleasure out to impossible lengths, my mind no longer in charge of my body. I’m panting and sweating and my fingers won’t stop moving because I’m in the throes of pleasure and I’m a greedy slut and I want more more more more more.
I’m so sensitive in that one precious spot that the over-stimulation is intense, so intense that it hurts and I can’t tell if I like it or not.
I end up whimpering and twitching by the end of it, making a mess of myself.
I can only imagine how it would feel when the intensity is at the hands of someone else. When I can’t make it stop, when the pleasure morphs into the most torturous kind of pain.
I predict less whimpering and twitching, more screaming and thrashing.
And I wouldn’t want it any other way.
It’s pretty difficult.
I know the internet is the easiest way to find someone to give me what I need, but I’m extremely cautious. It takes me a while before I can trust someone I’ve met on the internet with any piece of personal information, and that only comes after long periods of correspondence. Trusting them with my submission is on a totally different level.
Then there’s the fact that most of the people you meet on the internet for this sort of thing want to try online play. I tried that once and it didn’t last for more than two weeks before I realized that it just wasn’t for me. I found it very difficult to submit to someone via the internet, especially since there was an emotional and physical connection that I was missing. I know there are plenty of people who do it and are happy with it, but it’s just not for me.
That being said, my biggest issue is that in order for me to want to submit to someone, I have to actually like them. I know that’s kind of obvious but I’ve come across so many that want to start a D/s relationship off in a platonic way and I can’t do that. If I don’t have some kind of feelings for that person, I’m not going to want to submit.
That’s not to say that I haven’t met some great people from Tumblr, people I consider friends, but distance is always an issue, which sucks.
Maybe I’m making it harder than it actually is and maybe I have no idea what I’m talking about, but that’s honestly why I feel I haven’t found anyone to ‘rule’ me yet.
And I don’t even know if I properly answered your question. I’ll clarify anything if I need to.
xo
I want the way you touch me to say two things at once.
One hand would wrap tightly in my hair to order, “Be still” while the one resting on my ass would say, “I’ve got you.”
Fingers digging into my throat would claim, “I own you“ while the soft caress around my breast says, “You’re mine”.
Your fingernails digging into my jaw command, “Shut up” while your molesting hand adds, “Just feel.”
Your arms would be my perfect cocoon of contradictions, holding me in a cage of safety while victimizing me to your predatory whims.
All I want for my birthday is a spanking.
My 20th birthday is this Saturday, and everyone keeps asking me what I want.
I’ve said things like:
“Oh, you don’t have to get me anything.”
“I’m really easy to shop for, I promise. I’ll love anything.”
“I don’t know.”
“Surprise me?”
Honestly, all I really want is a good, sound spanking.
That would make me a very happy girl for a very long time.
I used to try and ignore the little girl that lives in my psych. In the rare moments when I questioned the normality of her existence, I tried to push her away.
But she refused to be ignored. She would reveal herself in my most vulnerable moments, demanding to be noticed. When I let my guards down, she would make herself known.
When I would be terribly sad and snot-sobbing into my pillow, wishing I had a lap to curl up on. When I would be happy and started skipping instead of walking, much to the bewilderment of those around me. When I was angry and chose to sulk or pout until someone forced me to talk about it like a grown up.
Over time, I learned to embrace her as a part of my personality. A part of me.
I learned to let her do her fucking thing without caring what anyone thought.
(Source: henrygaudier)
When your body is begging for that release, nerves pulled taut, breathing shallow, muscles stiff, pressure building, pussy throbbing… how do you hold it?
How do you distract yourself from the desperate need to let go, from your body’s desire to reach that wonderful moment of complete and utter bliss?
Funnily enough, I would not fail this task because my body can’t handle it.
I would fail because you told me no, and telling me no would be arousing enough to push me over the edge.
(Source: sheknowswhatsbestforme)
Thank you. I’m quite fond of wooden spoons myself. I have no doubt they leave some lovely marks!
“These look like floggers.”
I tend to forget that the internet is the only place I can openly discuss things of a D/s nature. I think my subconscious mind has a harder time grasping onto that fact, especially since I’m always blurting out things that confuse people who are not kinky.
I was in the city with some friends today, and we took refuge from the rain by browsing through some random store. I was looking at some jewelry and a particular pair of earrings caught my eye.
Each earring had a gold band that held together long strands of brown suede. Anyone else would call it “fringe”.
But me?
“These look like floggers,” I said out loud.
I may have just muttered it to myself, but I wasn’t aware that my friend was standing right behind me.
“They look like what?” she asked. The confused expression on her face made me laugh and I kind of just shook my head.
“Fondles?” she asked, and I laughed some more before changing the topic.
I honestly don’t think she knows what a flogger is.
I think I’d like to keep it that way.
I’m going to beg you to stop and it’s going to be a lie.
Despite the words coming out of my mouth, there will nothing I want more than for you to fuck me into oblivion. Until my body shakes and my skin glistens with sweat, and I lose all sense of what is real and what is not. Until mascara runs down my face in dark stripes and my voice screams itself into hoarse whispers.
I want to feel your movements in my bones, feel your skin scorch my soft flesh, feel your pulse against mine as your thumb digs into my neck.
I want to know nothing but what you do to me, and be nothing but yours.
(Source: gifperv)
I cannot tell you how many times I have been late for class because I decided to masturbate before getting out of bed.
I’d say this is a naughty habit that needs to be spanked out of me.
My submission is a gift.
It’s a gift that is tightly wrapped and bound with a silk bow, neat and completely untouched.
I’m not going to hand it over to just anyone. This gift, this gift of me, is far too valuable to allow in the wrong hands. It’s going to take a lot more than just asking me for it.
You’d have to earn it. You’d have to gain my trust. You’d have to fight for it, because if you really wanted it, you would.
It may be the only thing I fight you on.
If I think you’re worthy, I will watch you unravel me with a smile on my face and dampness between my thighs.
Then, and only then, will I completely surrender myself.
Willingly.
(Source: deviantfemale)
Don’t let the pigtails fool you.
The shyest girl may be the filthiest. The innocence is nothing but an illusion, sugar coating the perverse fantasies that plague her mind.
She giggles often, but she’s not going to complain when you cut her off by shoving your cock down her throat.
She’s not going to try fighting you off when you grab her by the pigtails and drag her towards the bed.
And when you tear her knee high socks off? She might just give you hand.
After all, innocence is meant to be corrupted.
(Source: touchmyevil)
“She likes to be tortured.”
I was at the dentist today, and had to suffer through the disgusting purple paste they put in your mouth. They put it on a plastic thing and then tell you to bite down on it and hold it there until the paste dries.
It tastes like ass. No, it’s worse than ass. Not that I would know what ass tastes like. Basically, it tastes awful and makes me want to throw up. I can handle the drilling and the drool and even the occasional pain. But that paste? Forget about it.
Anyway, they stuck that in my mouth three times. The dentist knew I was hating it, so she was sympathetic. Her assistant, on the other hand, thought it was funny.
“She likes to be tortured,” he laughed.
He couldn’t see me, but my eyes bugged out a little.
You have no idea, I thought. You should see my blog.
I’d hate it.
I know I’d hate it. There’s no doubt in my mind that I would have to be dragged, kicking and screaming and quite possibly with a sore ass.
Yet, I’d want it. I’d want it badly. The dampness in between my legs would speak volumes. It would whisper the truth as it drips down my thighs, a complete contradiction to my behavior.
There’s a reason I stuck myself in a corner when I was thirteen.
There’s a reason I didn’t last fifteen seconds before my fingers were slipping into wetness.
(Source: meistergibmirrosen)