I do not know how I manage to pass all these classes when all I do during them is zone out and fantasize.
There is something about a man’s hardness that drives me absolutely crazy.
It just can’t be any man. It’s got to be a man I’ve already connected with, a man whose arousal means something to me and actually fuels my own. Mutual attraction works wonders on my libido and on my desire to please, and knowing that I’m the reason behind an aching cock becomes an intensely heady feeling. It’s unbelievably satisfying to know that I can do that to someone I’m interested in, that I can make all the blood and heat flow downwards and into intimate parts. It almost makes me feel powerful. It makes me feel like a desirable creature, but it also makes me throb with need. It’s one thing to be cock-hungry, and an entirely different thing to be cock-hungry for one specific cock. I’d say one is more desperate than the other.
You’d know what making you hard does to me. That’s precisely why you’d have me straddle your lap before putting your hands on my ass and urging me as close to your bulge as possible. Naturally, you’d make me just sit there with my hands behind my back and my panty-covered pussy pressed tight against your boxer-covered cock. It would be hardness against softness, bated lust against bated lust. I wouldn’t be allowed to touch you. I’d only be allowed to feel you, to feel your heat against my heat, radiating through the fabric. It would drive me insane. I’d wonder if you can feel me throbbing, if you can see the fabric beginning to wet. I’d become such a greedy, hungry girl, forced to sit there and pout. Maybe I’d beg a little bit, but you’d shake your head and tell me that only patient girls get what they crave. My begging would become internalized. Inside, please, I need you inside me. It would be so difficult. You’d be so close and yet made so unattainable by a softly spoken command. All I’d want to do is grind against you, lower that waistband and sink down deep. Of course I’d refrain. Good girls know that delayed cock is better than denied cock.
Good girls also know that the best kind of cock is earned cock. That’s the cock I live for. That’s the kind of cock that will have me on my best behavior, the kind of cock that leaves me eager to please. I imagine that having earned you inside me would make that moment of penetration ten times more satisfying. I’d finally be able to feel what I do to you, how hard I make you, and you’d be able to feel how wet and achy you make me. The best part is that, in actuality, it wouldn’t be something that we did to each other.
It would be something we did for each other.
Cock-hungriness is what makes me an animalistic creature.
It’s not something that I think about intellectually. When I’m curled up in bed with my hand against my wetness, I’m not thinking about why I’m craving a cock between my lips. I don’t feel the need to psychoanalyze myself, to figure out why the wettest hole is not the one between my thighs, but the salivating one on my face. Oh, yes, I do salivate when I think about sucking cock. I lick my lips and I bite my lip as drool gathers beneath my tongue, because something in me just wants to suck and suck and suck and never stop.
Feelings like this transcend rational thought. Desires like this run so much deeper than that, because they’re not about who I am as a person - they’re about who I am as a living, breathing, throbbing creature. When I’m gyrating naked against a pillow, nearing orgasm, I’m an animal. When I’m begging for it, pleading for it with tears in my eyes, I’m an even bigger animal. It’s all just basic need, an innate desire that isn’t based in logic. Wanting your cock in my mouth and wanting to swallow every drop of your cum feels equally as carnal. I can’t wrap my mind around the whys - I just want. Desperately. Even as I’m writing this, there’s a pool of saliva in my mouth. I’d swallow it, but what’s the point? There will be more within seconds. All it takes is thinking about cock - hard, dripping, and mere inches away from my face.
So, if I’m such an animal, I might as well suck you off like one - on all fours. It would be different from sucking your cock on my knees. There’s something a little less human about it, yet something a lot more fitting. After all, you’d be feeding me. You’d be satisfying a very specific kind of hunger, a craving that ebbs and flows but never completely goes away. Being on my hands and knees would also make me feel more like the animal that I am, the thing that you’d call your pet. You’d make me crawl towards your erect cock, naked. Animals don’t wear clothes. They wear collars. You’d have me collared and on all fours, crawling towards you at my cock-hungriest. I wouldn’t be allowed to just take you in my mouth. No, you’d tease me first. Of course you would. You’d tap the head of your cock against my closed mouth before ordering me to open it so that you can watch my drool drip down my chin. The moment you’re finally sliding against my wanton little tongue is the moment you’d realize that cock-hungriness has very little to do with me, and everything to do with you.
Above all, cock-hungriness is an insatiable desire to please.
Silence doesn’t have to be the purpose behind a gag.
On the contrary, I think you’d gag me to hear me. You’d gag me to hear all the partially-muffled sounds I make when you touch me and hurt me and fuck me. You’d gag me to humiliate me, and you’d humiliate me by making me speak once you’ve already muted me. You’d be so pleased with the torture you have planned. You’d stuff the ball gag into my mouth and then tie my hands above my head. You’d cruelly tear my blouse open to expose my breasts, smiling at my noises of protest. Unbeknownst to me, they would be the first of many.
Your torture would come in the form of a riding crop and a series of questions. Normally, when you’ve got me bound and at your mercy, your questions are rhetorical. Not this time. No, this time you’d want answers. This time you’d want words, and garbled ones. You’d want to hear my “Yes, Sirs” and “No, Sirs” nice and distorted, totally unintelligible. You’d want to see the frustrated look on my face when you say, “Sorry? What was that?”, because I’d know you heard me just fine. You’d want me to use a tone of indignation when I repeat myself, just so that you can pinch and twist my nipples as punishment. You’d twist them ruthlessly and make me say that I’m sorry, smirking sadistically at my incomprehensible apologies. My watery eyes would make you hard. You’d have mercy eventually, except not really. You’d move on from asking questions to making me repeat after you, forcing me to tell you what a dirty, dirty girl I am. You’d force me to beg you to use me, molest me, hurt me in any way you desire, all so you can hear me sound like the most desperate little captive. Your desperate little captive.
The best part would be when I’d start begging to cum. All that time you’d been teasing me with your riding crop, slapping it against my aching little clit and bringing me to the edge. Whenever you’d bring me close enough to beg, you’d always act as though you can’t understand my pleas. You’d say, “I’m sorry, could you repeat that one more time?”. I’d practically be screaming behind the gag, and my need would really make my words difficult to understand. You’d remove the gag at long last, and I’d be so relieved. I’d ask to cum again, and you’d say no. I’d have to be gagged one more time before I received that privilege.
And then you’d fill my mouth with your cock.
This is the kind of exhibitionism I’m interested in.
It’s the kind of exhibitionism that’s only made exciting by the prospect of being seen, not the actuality of it. I want to rouse suspicion, not confirm it.
I don’t want to draw attention to myself or make what’s happening obvious, but if someone happens to notice… well, they’re free to watch.
Bite me mercilessly.
I don’t think I would enjoy it, but that’s the point. It’s so strange to desire something that I know I’d hate, but I never said my masochism was nonexistent. The only thing is that you’d have to tie me up. You’d have to immobilize me in order to torture me, as I’d undoubtedly try and recoil from the pain. My brain would want me to flee the agony, to flee your carnivorous teeth, so you’d tie my hands to the headboard before you stripped me bare. “You’re going to be a good girl and take everything I give you, aren’t you?” you’d ask. I’d whimper, but I’d say yes. Of course I’d say yes when I don’t know what’s coming. I’d be oblivious to your sadistic plan to mark me everywhere, to make me feel you every time I move. I’d be oblivious to your desire to make me wince every time you touched a place as unassuming as my hip, or my waist.
Naturally, you’d start at my neck and bite your way downwards, leaving a very deliberate trail of ownership. You’d take my flesh between your teeth and bite hard enough to make me cry out and squirm. You’d nibble and suck until that patch of skin was the perfect shade of red, glistening with your saliva and hot to the touch. Mine, it would say, but you wouldn’t just own my neck. You’d own my throat, and my collarbones, and my breasts. You’d own my stomach, and my hips, and my thighs. Every inch of me would be yours, and you’d sign your name on all of it, using your teeth as the pen while my veins carry the ink.
Oh, it would hurt so bad. I’d be writhing in pain, begging for you to stop. You’d sink your teeth into my poor, sensitive breast, and I’d start crying. After all, I’m not one to be turned on by things that pinch. With every new mark, with every flash of hot, pulsing pain, I’d beg. “Please, Daddy, no more.” But every time I’d plead with you to stop, you’d say no. “Daddy marks what’s his,” you’d say, and I can’t argue with that. So I’d try to focus on your mouth, on the sucking sensation that always makes me wet, but your bite would be too distracting. I’d whimper or groan every time, but eventually I’d quit begging for mercy. I’d just take it, like a good girl. Maybe you’d stop your markings then. Maybe not. Either way, I’d be helpless. I’d have no choice but to give in to the pain, to submit to the fiery pattern you’d brand the front of my body with. Deep down, I’d know what you’re really aiming for.
You’re aiming for that moment when I’d look in the mirror, see my spotted torso, and smile.
Oh, what delicious torture it would be to hold the instrument that would punish me.
I would already be a mess of anxious thoughts and emotions from having to kneel at the edge of the bed, naked. How appropriate that would be, to kneel as if I’m praying for forgiveness moments before I’m actually begging for it. You will have told me to think about what I’d done, but you know my impending doom would be at the forefront of my mind instead. How could it not be, what with the thick piece of leather you put in my hands? How could I not be focusing on what is to come when I’m bent over in a position that is perfect for receiving blows?
I would only be able to think about the leather, and how cold it is against my palm. It would sit limply against the flesh of my ass, and the feel of it would raise delicate goosebumps across my skin. That piece of leather would feel so harmless in my own hands, so pliable and smooth. It wouldn’t feel like it could possibly do me any harm, but I would know better. I’d know that in a matter of minutes there would be nothing hotter and nothing harder, there would be nothing more vicious or more painful. Stinging red welts would rise up in place of the pretty little goosebumps, and I’d have difficulty not twisting or writhing out of position. Oh, it would be terrible. That’s what I’d be thinking as I waited for you. The leather would start to get slippery in my palm, and I’d want it out of my hands and into yours as soon as possible.
Yet, despite the anxiety and the small twinges of fear, I’d still be wet. I’d still be throbbing in anticipation, still be biting my lip at the thought of having been a bad girl. After all, holding the belt would undoubtedly make it easier for me to ache in pleasant ways before I’m aching in unpleasant ones. That doesn’t mean I’d want what’s coming - in fact, I’d want to get it over with immediately. I’d want to be back in your arms as your good girl as soon as I can, I’d want the belt far, far away from me. I’d grow impatient - where are you? Come take this belt, use it, hit me, I’m sorry, please, I don’t want it. It wouldn’t be until you walked in and asked for it that I’d recognize the symbolism in handing it back to you.
It would be an offering.
I want to be on top of you while still being under you.
I wouldn’t be so silly as to think that being on top means I’m suddenly in charge. Of course not. Nevertheless, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to take some extra measures ensuring that I remain in the right mindset. Not because it wouldn’t be possible otherwise, but because there’s always room for a little more kink. There’s always room for some bondage, pain, and your terribly merciless hands. There’s always room for a gaze that never wavers and hips that don’t stop moving until you command them to.
Bondage first. You’d bind my arms behind my back and make a joke about me being harmless when I’m armless. I’d laugh, but it would be cut short as you lowered me onto your hard cock. I’d feel you fill me so deep, feel my walls tighten around you. I’d bite my lip and you’d tell me to start riding your cock, start rocking my hips like the wanton little whore that I am. But poor me, I have no balance without the help of my arms. You’d watch me struggle with a sadistic smirk on your face before you’d grab my hips and ass to keep me upright. Then I’d be able to focus on riding you, and riding you hard. Your head would tilt back in pleasure, but you’d pin me with your hooded eyes as your fingers dug bruises into my flesh.
Pain next. You’d lean your head forward and take my nipple between your teeth, biting. I’d hiss in pain - you know how sensitive my nipples are - but you’d slap me. “I didn’t tell you stop moving.” But god, I’m tired. I’d be panting, with sweat forming between my breasts. I’d still obey. Of course I’d keep moving my hips, rocking against you, thighs aching, nipples throbbing, pussy soaking, skin sweating. You’d slap me again, but this time it’s just because you want to. You’d do it again and again until there are tears, and then you’d stop. You’d tell me to stop rocking as well, and I’d be so grateful to be able to catch my breath.
Well, until you choke me. That’s where your merciless hands come in, when you’re making it hard for me to breathe. Choking me is when you’ll start fucking me, it’s when you’ll start lifting your hips and hitting me in all the right places. You’d give me small chances to breathe, and I’d use them to gasp “please”, but I wouldn’t know what I’m begging for. Is it air, or is it an orgasm? It would all be the same to me. No, it would be mercy. I’d be begging for mercy. Up there and on top of you, I’d feel just as desperate as I do when I’m on the floor with my ass in the air. The position doesn’t matter as much as what you do to me and how you make me feel.
Despite looking down at you, I’d still feel like I’m at your feet.
Q:I've never been able to express my dom the way I'd like to in the proper setting, it's always been toned down. I've felt guilty for, but you make me feel better about it. And I'm the anonymous from earlier, btw.
Well, in my experience*, the men who are cautious, uncertain, or initially feel guilty about their dominant desires are the sanest. That, to me, is a good sign. It shows that you’ve given it a lot of thought, and your guilt is indicative of empathy. At least, that’s how I see it. Honestly, I’m not so sure I’d trust anyone who’s never struggled internally with dominant desires. So it sounds like you’ll be okay. Glad I could make you feel better about it! Keep it consensual. :)
*experience = all the dominant men I’ve ever spoken to in the 2 years I’ve had this blog. They’re not all good eggs, believe me. ;)
Q:You have a way of making me feel like I want to be your dom. Nice work.
It doesn’t sound like your domly feels are elicited very often, anonymous. In any case, thanks. :)
Tonight, while composing a text to a very vanilla friend, my phone autocorrected “I’m only” to “I’m kinky”. I kid you not.
iPHONE IS TRYING TO REVEAL ALL MY SECRETS.
Order me to the floor.
I’d love it there. I can’t think of anything that would humble me more, or anything that could put me in a more submissive mindset. You’d say, “Down, girl,” and I’d fall to my knees with the point of your finger. I’d press my cheek into the cold hardwood and let its solidity sooth me, fold my arms behind my back and be at peace. How could I not remember my place in a position like that? How could I not remember what I am and who I belong to?
I’d love the view the most. You’d appear so much bigger from down there, so much more powerful. I’d glance up at you and feel the tiniest I’ve ever felt, especially with your shoes so close to me. I’d literally be at your feet, where I belong, and that’s one of those things that gets me hot just as much as it makes me swoon. You’d walk around me and I’d feel the floor vibrating with every step. I’d feel it shake through my body, hear it loud in my ears, and that would only emphasize my place. It would remind me that I’m there to serve you in any way you desire, that I’m there to please and obey. Of course, I’m also there because you like having me at your feet. You like looking down and seeing me smile up at you, you like petting me like the pretty little pet that I am, you like that I’m close enough to quickly take your cock in my mouth, and you love that I love it. It ends up being a pretty decent arrangement, don’t you think?
But let’s not ignore how uncomfortable the floor would be after an extended amount of time. Let’s not ignore that my muscles would begin to ache and I’d be left with red dents in my skin, whether they be from wood or carpet. Here’s a not-so-secret: I’d probably like that, too. Maybe not immediately, but certainly afterwards. Afterwards, when I’m admiring the red marks on my knees and stretching out my stiff muscles. Afterwards, when you’re allowing me to rest on your lap instead. That’s when I’d actually start to miss the discomfort of the wood, miss the feeling I’d get from being fucked right there on the floor. I’d miss feeling so high.
I’d miss the high of being placed so wonderfully low.
Okay, but what if I have a bus-induced orgasm?
I have been on public transportation for the past 45 minutes, and I’ve been daydreaming about really kinky things nonstop. Naturally, this has made me relatively horny.
However, I am currently on bus #2, sitting towards the back, and MY SEAT IS VIBRATING LIKE MAD. It’s not just vibrating, guys, it’s vibrating HARD. The bus’s engine is stimulating me even more! This is not okay! It feels really good if I sit up straight and push my hips down. This is not okay, either.
I need cums right meow.
Would you choose the red plug just so you can make me match?
Of course you would. There will come a time when I won’t need to wear plugs on a daily basis, when you will have fucked my ass so often that the training isn’t necessary. Nevertheless, you’d plug me just because you love how it looks. You love how it makes me look like your anal whore, so you’d grab the reddest plug of them all with a sadistic plan in mind. I would find myself taken by the neck and led to the bed, ordered on all fours only seconds before I’m filled with the plug. You’d tell me how pretty I look in red, how beautifully it stands out against my skin tone. You’d pause for a moment and then shake your head. “You need to wear more of it,” you’d say. “I’m going to help you with that, kitten.”
So you’d start spanking me, and you’d spank me hard. You’d tell me that you’re going to spank me until my ass is as bright as that plug, until it’s glowing and hot to the touch. After all, you know how meticulous I am about matching. I’d cry out with every strike, and your cock would grow harder and harder. I’d be praying in my head, Am I red enough yet?, but the pain would seem endless. The moment I start sniffling, you’d offer your cock as a reprieve. You’d start fucking my wet little pussy, but you wouldn’t stop spanking me, not until I was the perfect shade of red. My head would swim in pleasure and pain, and I’d be drowning in it until you tell me to beg. You’d tell me to beg you to fuck me in the ass, that you wouldn’t stop spanking me until I had convinced you of my wantonness. I would be red enough then. I may even be redder than the plug itself, but the game will have shifted at your whim.
So the room would be filled with loud slaps, sobs, and the repetition of “Please, Daddy”, over and over and over. The longer and louder I begged, the harder you’d fuck me, until I seemed desperate enough for your cock in my ass. The moment your hard cock replaced the plug would be a moment of absolute pleasure and gratitude, and the sound of desperate sobs would be replaced by the sound of moans. I’d thank you for fucking my ass as though you hadn’t ordered me to beg for it first. After all, you always make me crave the most devious of things.
No wonder red is supposed to be such a whorish color.