Q:I know you write erotica and I'm pretty sure I've read your entire page, but do you read erotica too? If so, where from? I'm all out of the good stuff lol.
I don’t read erotica as often as I used to, at least not from the internet. I’ve actually been trying to read more BDSM erotica in book form. I’m currently obsessed with the Original Sinners series by Tiffany Reisz. Oh my god, it’s so good. It presents BDSM in a way that emphasizes consent and safety, but it’s also just really fucking hot. It has everything. M/f, F/m, M/M, F/F. There’s some hardcore sadism and a little bit of edge play involved, but the story is good enough that you can overlook that if it’s not your thing. The characters are very well-developed, it’s super well-written, and best of all, THERE’S PLOT. It’s not just pages upon pages of sex — there’s an actual story, and it’s exciting. The first book is The Siren. Look ‘em up. Highly recommend!
I’ve also read the Sleeping Beauty trilogy by A.N. Roquelaure (a.ka. Anne Rice). It’s been around for a while, so you might have heard of it. These books are not as good as Tiffany Reisz’s series, and a plot is virtually nonexistent, but if you want an endless amount of spankings, beatings, fucking, various kinds of torture, and intense Master/slave dynamics, it’ll work. I wouldn’t call it a story of substance, but it’s definitely helped me out when I needed to jill it real quick. ;)
Happy hunting! I hope you find something you like. :)
Shove your fingers into my mouth.
It’s rude, rough, and arbitrary, but that’s why it appeals to me. That arbitrariness is what makes it an undeniably dominant thing to do. You do it because you can, because you want to, and because you love the startled look on my face when you unexpectedly fill my mouth.
It will be unexpected because you love surprising me into submission. Perhaps I’ll be reading, or cooking. Maybe I’ll be doing chores, or painting my nails, or writing a dirty little fantasy for this blog. Perhaps I will be speaking to you and telling you about my day mere seconds before you’re cutting me off mid-sentence by shoving three fingers past my lips. Rude? Certainly. Annoying? Yes. Hot as hell? Absolutely. You’ll make it even hotter by pushing your fingers to the back of my throat and making me gag. You wouldn’t have to order me to suck; it’ll be instinct, trained into me for whenever any part of your body is inside my mouth. I’ll suck your fingers just as hungrily as I’d suck your cock, tasting the salty tang of your skin and wishing I had something to swallow. I’ll meet your gaze the whole time - another result of vigorous training - and you’ll watch my eyes water with every gag and cough you draw out of me.
When you’re satisfied with my performance, you’ll pull your fingers out, wipe them on my cheek, and smile as though you expect me to remember what I’d been talking about before.
"Go get that hole nice and wet for me."
The echo of those words would be the only thing accompanying me to the bedroom. You’d have given me only seven minutes - enough time to get me to hurry, enough time to get wet, but certainly not enough time to get close. I wouldn’t care about that too much; I’d just be grateful that you’re allowing me to touch your property.
Knowing that the pussy on my body belongs to you would be enough to have me aching with need. I’d rub myself and moan, your words ringing through my head like my favorite line from a song. "Go get that hole nice and wet for me.” For you. I’d be preparing myself for your cock, and only for your cock. I’d be lubricating that hole with thoughts of what I am in that moment - a vessel for your cum, an object for your pleasure, and a slave to your every whim.
My fingers would be slick with the anticipation of waiting for you to walk in. I’d wonder how audible my moans are from the other room. Can you hear me getting ready for use? Can you hear what preparing your hole does to me? Seven minutes would fly by, and I’d get my answer. You’d walk in with a raging hard cock, straining desperately through your trousers, and say, “Is my hole ready?” My hands would drop from your property, my hips would tilt towards you, and I’d whimper a needy little, “Yes, Daddy.” And even after seven minutes of pleasure, I will not have forgotten the true purpose of my masturbation.
I will not have touched myself to feel my own orgasm pulsing through me.
I will have touched myself to feel yours.
Owning my mouth goes beyond fucking it.
You’ll own how I use it, too. You’ll decide how I’ll address you. You’ll decide whether or not I’m allowed to swear. You’ll decide what level of sass is harmless and what level of sass is worthy of a firm slap across the face. That hole will be all yours, just like the others.
Inevitably, I will misuse it. I’ll sass you at the wrong time, but I won’t mean to. Sometimes a girl just needs to be reminded that there’s a time and place for acceptable sass, and my place is not always the place. So, you’ll reclaim ownership of your mouth by ordering me to open it. Slut that I am, I’d be hoping for your cock, but I’d get a harsh black ring gag instead. I’d whimper apologetically, sorry already, but forgiveness wouldn’t come so easily. You’d clamp a clothespin onto the tip of my tongue, and the look of protest on my face would be wiped right off. “If you can’t hold your tongue,” you’d say sternly, “I’ll find a way to hold it for you.”
The point wouldn’t be to silence me; it would be quite the opposite. Much to my dismay, you’d put me on a leash and order me to pant, just like a dog. “Mewl, kitten” would be the next command, and I’d obey with swiftly reddening cheeks. You would order me to repeat after you, to say the filthiest, most depraved things you could think of. “My mouth is a cock-hungry cum bank.” “All of my holes are Daddy’s fuck-holes.” “I was born to be nothing but a slutty little fucktoy.” My words would be unintelligible, garbled so brutally that they wouldn’t sound like words at all. They’d be guttural noises, made all the more humiliating by the drool that would drip down my chin and form a puddle at your feet. Later, my tongue would dry up and my jaw would ache. You’d make me say filthy thing after filthy thing, and all I’d want would be to stop talking. But you’d have gotten your point across, and the lesson will have been burned into my brain. I’d have been reminded that you own my mouth in more ways than one, and that good girls are responsible with how they use your property. And when you’d remove the gag, there would only be one thing left to say: “Thank you for the correction, Daddy.”
Gratitude, however, wouldn’t come in the form of words.
It would come in the form of a sorry little mouth, eagerly accepting your length.
Q:You have a wide range of fantasies but what about your limits?
Most forms of edge play are off the table. So no cutting or blood play or playing with knives in general. No needles. No playing with fire or electricity, though candle wax is okay. No piercing or branding. No spitting, urinating, or defecating on me. I’m also averse to facials. I think they would make me feel pretty humiliated, but not the good kind of humiliation.
No threesomes or any other form of group sex that involves anyone other than myself and my partner. No sharing at all, really. Monogamy is very important to me. Being ignored or neglected as a form of punishment is a major limit. I will also not allow the clothing I wear outside of the home to be chosen for me. That’s a pretty big source of anxiety. I don’t like name-calling or any other kind of extreme verbal degradation/humiliation; so no saying things along the lines of “you’re a worthless bitch” or “you’re nothing” or “you’re a piece of shit.” Basically, if it could be considered verbal abuse outside of a BDSM context, don’t say it. Words or phrases that have more of a sexual connotation are fine.
Nipple play - if that play involves clamping things onto my nipples - is a soft limit that I’d like to push. It freaks me out because my nipples are super sensitive, but I’d really like to be able to endure the pain of tight nipple clamps or clothespins. I really want to try this, but it does scare me a little bit.
I’m sure I’m forgetting a few, but those are the main ones. :)
My neck is my weakness.
I’ve kept that a secret until now, because I didn’t think I wanted that information used against me. Oh, but I do. I do want you to use it against me. See, my neck is my most ticklish spot, and also one of my biggest erogenous zones. Another’s touch there nearly cripples me. It makes me shudder violently, makes me writhe, makes me forget that any other part of my body exists.
Imagine, then, what a perfect playground it would be for you. You’d just have to grab a fistful of my hair, yank my head back, and there it will be. My greatest physical vulnerability, exposed to the weapon of your mouth. At your lips’ touch, I’d make sounds that you’d have never heard before; squeal-gasps and moan-laughs and groans of pleasure that sound like cries of agony. I’d melt under your mouth, but then I’d stiffen and roll my hips against you, yearning for you to lick and suck me elsewhere. “It tickles,” I’d say, and you’d say, “good,” but I wouldn’t be laughing. I’d be fighting with my own body, not knowing if I should beg for more or wrestle away from the overwhelming sensations. It’s a dangerous place, my neck. Turning me into a desperately wanton creature would be much too easy for you. Toes will curl, goosebumps will rise, and my cunt will pulsate with the need for release - all with very little effort on your part.
I will have been enslaved with just a lick from your hungry mouth.
Q:Could you narrate one of your posts? I want to hear your voice :P
Well, I certainly could… but I’m not exactly a fan of how high-pitched and girlish my voice sounds when it’s recorded. I’m not 100% opposed to this idea - in fact, there’s a decent chance that I’ll get over the insecurity - but you’ll probably have to use your imagination for now.
I’m going to thank you for the pain.
You’ll make me. I’d already be very good about thanking you for pleasure and for permissions granted, but what about when you hurt me? What about when you deny me and beat me and expect me to thank you for it? That’s the kind of gratitude that will mess with my mind.
You’ll slap me across the face, and I’ll say, “Thank you, Daddy.” You’ll slap me again, and I’ll say it again. After every stinging slap, my cheek will get redder, my eyes will get wetter, and my voice will get smaller. I’d want to ask you to stop, but I’ll thank you instead. I’ll thank you because you’ll tell me to, and I like doing what I’m told. I like that most of all. That is what will arouse me. That is what will leave my pussy throbbing equally as hard as my smacked cheek.
It’ll get harder. After all, I enjoy being smacked around. But then you’ll bring out the clothespins, and I’d beg you not to use them. They hurt too much. You’d use them anyway, of course, and you’d expect me to thank you for them. How do I thank you for something that I hate? I just do. I’d do it through tears and trembling lips, but I’d do it nonetheless. Paddles. Canes. Belts. Nipple clamps. When the mood strikes you, you’d make me thank you for every pinch and every lash, and that is going to be the biggest mind-fuck. It’s going to be the biggest mind-fuck until I remember that it’s not actually the pain I’d be thanking you for.
I’d be thanking you for giving me the powerlessness of my darkest fantasies.
You know I’ve come up with a super hot fantasy when I stop mid-masturbation to jot down some notes. Stay tuned. ;)
Anything, anywhere, anytime.
That’s the type of power you’d possess. Even when something in me wants to resist, and even when the anxious voice in my head questions the perversity of what we’re doing, I’d obey. Think about that. Think about the true depths of your control, about the unadulterated authority that you’d have. Tits out at your command, your cock in my mouth whenever you want, “Daddy” or “Sir” or “please” on my lips like a mantra. Clothing gone at the snap of your fingers, rules changed at your whim, holes filled whenever you ache. That is how it will be.
And despite the concerns of my rational mind, despite any anxieties, I’d be an obedient little sub and always do as I’m told - not because I don’t have a choice, but because I do.
Kneeling. Serving. Obeying. Enduring.
It’s all a choice disguised as the opposite.
I want to be seen on my knees.
Being fucked against a window is perfectly lascivious, but there is something special about sucking cock in front of one instead. It’s not as brazen, of course, but its appeal is greater because it teases the world with the truth of us. If we’re watched closely enough, evidence of our dynamic would be apparent almost immediately. My nude body contrasting with your clothed one. My arms folded obediently behind my back as I suck you off with only my mouth. Perhaps the most obvious indicator of sexual deviance would be the collar around my neck, whether it’s harsh black leather or sunlight-catching steel. Voyeurs would have to squint to notice my dark hair, coiled around your wrist like a makeshift leash. They’d have to watch for a while before seeing me gag and seeing the resulting slap. I’d suck your cock more enthusiastically after that slap, and they’d know. They’d know I love it when you hurt me.
But whether or not we’re really being watched would remain a mystery to me. Good girls don’t suck cock distractedly, so you wouldn’t allow me to look out the window. Instead, you’d tease me. You’d say the filthiest things, making sure that I’m acutely aware of my wantonness being on full display. “Look at you, sucking my cock like a good little whore. Show them. Show them what a cock-hungry slut you are for me. Show them how you please me with that pouty little mouth of yours.” I’d be more than happy to do exactly that, to show anyone watching how content I am to worship your cock on my knees. I wonder if they’d actually be able to see my devotion, if they’d be able to see how hard I work to please you with my lips and tongue. Would they notice my thirst for your cum? Would they notice how I try to take you deep into my hungry little throat, and how I smile slightly when I can finally taste your hot load? I’d hope so. It’s not just the oral sex I’d want to show off. It’s not the act itself that I’d be flaunting with pride.
It’s the submission.
Whenever I see someone wearing a choker or a necklace with an unusually short chain, I always wonder if it’s actually a day collar.
Let me feel the weight of you.
Crush me just enough that it’s a little harder to breathe. It would be like breath play without the use of hands, and that may be an odd thing to fantasize about, but I stopped worrying about oddities a long time ago. It is a legitimate fantasy of mine, this fantasy of simply being pinned under a masculine body. I don’t want to be able to budge. I want to be hopelessly immobile, with no escape in any direction. My only place would be there, flat on my back with my legs spread and pussy impaled. I want to be pressed so close together that I won’t know where my body begins and yours ends, or whether the sweat on my breasts came from your skin or mine. I want that forced intimacy, that coerced closeness that borders on discomfort.
All I want to know in that moment is heat, weight, sweat, breath, and words - dirty, depraved, and whispered into my ear with every movement of your hips. All I want to know is cock, driving into me and challenging my immobility so that I am reminded with every thrust of just how helpless I am. It’s the enforced passivity of the position, pushed upon me by a man who is stronger and heavier. There would be that feeling of smallness again, never, ever failing to trick my body into enjoying something I never would have thought I’d come to crave.
See, the films have it all wrong. They always portray the missionary position as being unsatisfying for the woman, frequently showing her yawning or rolling her eyes while a man lies heavily on top of her, grunting into her neck as he fucks her. The women in these films are “just taking it,” and that’s simply another thing that makes them impossible to relate to. Because unlike the women in these films, I’d love to “just take it.” Except there’s no “just” if you’re going to be an owned girl like me. Owned girls don’t “just” take it.
We take it.
I’m going to enjoy the view.
It’s inevitable when you’re obsessed with marks of ownership. I can imagine myself staring in the mirror whenever I’ve got bruises scattered across my breasts or your collar around my neck. I can imagine just staring and absolutely reveling in what it feels like to be property, simply basking in the knowledge that I’m owned. Wearing a butt plug would be no different.
You’d plug me in the morning, immediately after my shower. It would be just another part of my morning routine, right alongside blowdrying my hair or moisturizing my skin. You’d bend me over the counter, naked and still dripping water, and fill me with a thick black plug. You’d push it in slowly, watching my reflection. I’d hold your gaze as my eyelids flutter and my lips part, releasing a tiny gasp that momentarily fogs the glass in front of us. I’d bite my lip as I feel my ass contract around the plug, accommodating it the way it would accommodate your cock. “Such a good girl,” you’d say with a smirk. “Always ready to be filled.” Then you’d smack me hard on the ass, tell me to get dressed, and leave.
I’d stay. I’d stay for a while. I’d turn my ass towards the mirror and stare at that big black plug, tucked in tightly between my cheeks. Your handprint would be a nice touch to the whole image, something to emphasize the purpose of the plug. It wouldn’t be one of our prettier ones, like the ones you’d have me wear when I dress up. No, the purpose of this particular plug would be unmistakable. Its purpose would be preparation. Its purpose would be to prepare an anal whore for the cock that owns her ass, and I would know that. That’s why I’d stare. I’d stare because I like knowing what I am. I like the tangible proof, the discernible evidence that every single orifice on my body serves a purpose apart from what nature or society tells us.
I already know what I’d be thinking. "God, look at me. I’m such a little whore. I’m wearing a plug so that I can be fucked in the ass later. How perverted is that? Look at it. It’s so… practical. It’s only there as a placeholder, because that’s all my ass is. It’s just another place for his cum. Just another hole for him to empty his load into. My ass is owned. So completely owned." I’d have those same thoughts in various forms all day, no matter what I’m doing, where I am, or who I’m with. I would always be aware of what hides under my dress. Always.
By the end of the day, there wouldn’t be just one hole aching and ready to be fucked.
There would be two.