aww, poor baby. you were trying so hard to say something, weren't you? and then i curled my fingers just like that and now it's gone and you're justâŠopen mouth, no words, eyes rolled back a little. that's what i do to you. i can interrupt a whole thought mid-sentence just by moving my hand. you don't have a single thing in there i can't just take.
I love scent freaks. steal my used shirt, bury your face in the crook of my neck and breathe deeply when you hug me, wear my clothes when you get off because it feels much better with my scent all over you.
Chest to chest I can feel your heart beat thrumming against mine as I slow my pace to make sure I feel every single milimeter when I slide back down onto you, savoring your moans in my ear that are begging me to keep going
If my pussy was a magic lamp and I got three wishes from rubbing it. I'd rub myself silly each time wishing I got to wake up feeling your juicy cock pressed up against me
your blog is so so so so hot :( and what can i do to have a sadist like you to hurt me :(
Iâm not a sadist. I keep telling people this. I donât want to hurt you. I just want to see you cum. The problem is that youâre so fucked up that the only way i can get you there is by making it painful. So really this is your fault.
Like I would love to be gentle with you. I would love to lay you down and kiss you softly and whisper sweet things and have that be enough. But I know what happens when someoneâs too nice to you. The tenderness doesnât reach you because youâve got so much scar tissue between you and being loved that the soft stuff just bounces off.
But I grab your throat and suddenly youâre living in the moment. I pull your hair by the roots and you start making such pretty noises and youâre present in your body for the first time all day. I call you a dumb whore and your eyes light up and there it is. There you are. Iâve been looking for you and all I had to do was slap you across the face to get you to come out.
So no, Iâm not a sadist. Iâm just someone who wants you to feel something, and youâve made that really, really difficult to do nicely.
i want to feel completely helpless, wrists cuffed together above my head and legs forcefully spread apart as they overstimulate me to tearsâŠ
want to beg and plead for them to stop, only to receive a cruel slap to my thigh for using my words. i am just a toy, a helpless little doll for them to play with as they please and i have no say in anything they want to do to me.
I was waiting on my ride after work today, and I couldnât help but imagine you edging me in my sleep, just slowly edging me over and over until I wake up a pleading, needy mess, trembling in your arms. But then, you convince me into thinking I already came while I was asleep, and how disappointed you are with me for cumming without permission. Make me question reality.
Maybe as punishment for âcummingâ I will just have to edge more while cockwarming you or humping your thigh, whatever punishment you deem me worthy of after my transgressionsâŠ
(30F, đ gonna use this emoji to denote myself since I work in a library, same anon who doesnât like *giving* head)
Half Dreaming. It's like swimming through warm water, slowly surfacing into familiar surroundings. There's warmth at your back, an arm curled under you, and between your legs a dull, spent ache that doesn't make sense.
"Hey." His voice is low, close enough that you feel it more than hear it. His mouth against the hinge of your jaw. "Welcome back."
The room is dark. Middle-of-the-night dark, the furniture soft and shapeless, and you can't find the edges of anything. You shift against him and feel how wet you are, how swollen, and confusion rolls in.
"What time is it?" Your voice comes out rough with sleep.
"Late." His hand rests on your stomach, thumb moving in a lazy arc below your navel. Not reaching for anything. Just touching you like you belong to him, like this is where his hand lives. "You must have been dreaming."
"I was?"
He breathes out a laugh. Not unkind, but it lands with weight. "I mean, given the state you're in, you had to be. You really don't remember?"
You try to think. You remember heat, maybe movement, the blurred memories of something urgent. But it dissolves when you reach for it the way dreams always do, leaving only the physical evidence: the slickness on your thighs, the aftershock still twitching through your muscles, the specific loose-limbed exhaustion that only follows one thing.
He must see the horror on your face, so he saves you the extra effort.
"You came," he says. "Simple as that."
Your stomach drops. "There's no way."
"You did. It woke me up, actually." He presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder. Takes his time with it, lips warm and dry and unhurried. "Your hips were moving. You were making these sounds, these desperate little sounds, and then you just..." He trails off. Lets the silence finish the sentence.
You try to sit up. His arm tightens around your waist. Restraining you. Forcing you to stay still.
"I would know if I came." Even as you say it, doubt seeps in through the cracks. You were asleep. You don't know what your body did while you were gone from it. And you do feel like someone who came: wrung out, too sensitive, the ghost of something still humming under your skin. But you also feel unsatisfied in a way you can't explain, an itch that didn't get scratched despite all evidence to the contrary.
"You did," he says again. Patient. Like he's willing to say it as many times as it takes. "All on your own. I didn't even get to touch you."
That lands differently. Without him. Without asking, without permission, without his hands or his voice or any of the things you're supposed to need. You came like he wasn't even in the bed, and the shame of it blooms hot across your chest before you can stop it.
"That's not fair," you say quietly. "I was asleep."
"I know you were." His thumb hasn't stopped moving on your stomach. Back and forth, back and forth, a metronome keeping time with something only he can hear. "But we talked about this. What's the rule?"
You close your eyes. The rule. The words come automatically, worn smooth with repetition. "Good girls don't cum without permission."
"Even in your sleep?"
"Even in my sleep." You've never tested this particular clause before. It always felt theoretical, a line drawn in sand neither of you expected the tide to reach. But here you are, wet and guilty and half-awake, and he sounds so certain.
He exhales against your neck. Disappointed, which is worse than when he gets mad. Anger you could push back against. Disappointment just sits there and makes you want to fix it.
"So what happens now?" you ask.
He doesn't answer right away. He shifts, sitting up against the headboard, and repositions you with the kind of ease that reminds you how much bigger he is, how little effort it takes for him to put you exactly where he wants you. You end up in his lap, your back against his chest, your thighs spread over his. He's hard beneath you. His boxers and your panties are doing almost nothing, and you can feel the heat of him, the shape, pressing right against your center.
"You're going to sit here," he says. His hands settle on your hips, anchoring you down, and the pressure starts to mount. "And you're going to be still."
You already know this is impossible. You're soaked and oversensitive and he's right there, and yet he wants you to be still. "For how long?"
"Until I think you understand."
"Understand what?"
"That your body is mine." He says it the way he'd say the sky is blue. "Awake, asleep, dreaming. You don't get to cum without me."
You hold still. You hold so still it becomes its own kind of effort, every muscle locked against the urge to shift, to rock, to chase the pressure of him against you. It would take nothing. The smallest roll of your hips and you could have friction, relief, something to cut through the unbearable awareness of how close he is to being inside you and how far away that possibility actually is.
A minute passes. Two. You're aware of his breathing, steady and slow behind you, and your own, which is the exact opposite.
"Good so far."
Then his fingertips ghost along the inside of your thigh, tracing up toward the crease of your hip, so light it almost tickles before it becomes something else entirely. He doesn't go where you need him. He traces the edge of your panties, follows the elastic along the crease of your thigh, and your hips jerk forward before you can catch yourself.
His hand flattens against your thigh. A correction. The sting is brief and bright, barely more than a tap, but it resets something in your brain.
"That wasn't still," he says.
"I know." You're breathing hard now, shallow and fast, and you can hear how wrecked you sound and you don't care.
"Try again."
He keeps touching you. Not where you need it, never where you need it, just close enough to make you strain from the effort of not moving. The inside of your wrist. The dip of your waist. The soft skin behind your ear, which makes you shiver so hard your teeth click together.
"What are you thinking about?" he asks, conversational, like you're not falling apart in his lap.
"I'm thinking that I hate you."
"Liar." You can hear his smile. "Tell me what you're actually thinking."
You let your head fall back against his shoulder. The ceiling is a dark abyss above you and everything below it is sensation: the heat of his skin, the solid reality of him beneath you, the impossible ache that's rebuilt itself from the ground up until it's all you can feel.
"I'm thinking about how if you don't fuck me I might actually lose my mind."
"Maybe you're right." His hand slides up your stomach, between your breasts, and rests at the base of your throat. His fingers curl gently around the column of your neck, holding you there. Like a leash. Like a promise. "I wouldn't want that. I can't have a braindead doll just yet."
His other hand moves down. Finally, finally, but slowly. So slowly you could scream, his fingers trailing down your stomach, past the waistband of your underwear, through the slick mess of you, and when he finally touches your clit you choke on your own breath.
"Oh," he says softly. "You're desperate, aren't you."
His fingers are moving side to side against the sensitive button, and after everything, after the edging and the waiting and the torturous stillness, the sensation is so sharp it borders on pain. Your hands find his thighs and grip hard enough to leave marks.
"Here's what I think needs to happened," he says, and his voice is calm, completely at odds with what his hand is doing. "I think your body needs to learn that bad things happen if it doesn't wait for me."
You whimper.
"I need to cum." The words tumble out graceless and frantic. "I need it, I'm begging, I'll do whatever you want, just let me."
"Whatever I want?" He considers this. His finger presses down on your clit and holds. Your vision blanks out. "That's a dangerous offer."
"I don't care."
"I know you don't. That's what I love about you." His hand withdraws and you nearly sob at the loss, but then both his hands are on your hips, lifting you as if you weighed nothing. You hear the rustle of fabric, feel him shift beneath you, and then the blunt, hot press of his cock against your entrance. No barrier. Nothing between you anymore.
He holds you there. Right at the tip of it. His grip bruising on your hips, keeping you suspended above the one thing you'd sell your soul for.
"Next time, don't start without me."
And then he pulls you down onto him in one long, merciless stroke.
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