One Hell of an Upgrade

•January 14, 2009 • Leave a Comment

After a series of events that nearly led to Victor canceling our plans to see each other the other night, and that after not having seen him for a full month, what with Christmas and New Years and all that, we finally arrived at our hotel at 11:30 PM. At check in, Victor asked for a non-smoking  room with an outside window, as he does love fucking me with my tits pressed against the frozen panes.  The desk clerk informed us that there was one such room left and handed us our keys.

Opening the door, I found a few papers on the floor and picked them up.  They mentioned that registration for a scientific conference started at 7AM in the main lobby.  Odd, I thought.  It got odder as I walked into the room and saw that the door to the adjoining room was open. Please view the following 2 minute video, taped on my fucking fantastic Flip Mino, and join me on my tour of our room for the night.

No surface in the rooms was left unsullied.  I tried to get video of the boob-shaped smudges my tits made on the conference table glass but that wasn’t happening with my rudimentary equipment.

All night I waited for some Eastern European scientists to show up and demand their room back.  Victor liked the thought of them appearing as he was fucking my ass while I was pressed to the conference room table with my hands tied behind my back.  That ever elusive DP might have finally happened.  Damn.  One day.  One day.

This is what you get when you accept strangers on Facebook

•December 3, 2008 • 1 Comment

I didn’t even realize you could IM people on Facebook but sure enough, seconds after accepting a friend request from this guy, who I only accepted because we had one common friend (okay, I admit the fact that he has a picture showing hot abs swayed me), I was treated to the following.

10:08amKutay

hey sweetie

u have greatv tits

i have many ti fantasia

10:13amKutay

heyy

10:41amKutay

hey

10:44amKutay

are u there

10:49amKutay

heyy

wanna fuck your tits

10:59amKutay

CAN I INVITE YOU OVER TO MY HOUSE…..SIT YOU DOWN ON MY COUCH….HAVE A LITTLE CONVO…..POUR SOME GREY GOOSE….AND TAKE YOU TO MY BEDROOM……LAY YOU DOWN ON MY BED…..AND TURN THE LIGHTS OFF ……LIGHT A FEW CANDLES…..TAKE OFF MY CLOTHES…….WALK TO THE DRESSER AND TURN ON SOME MUSIC…..THEN WALK SLOWLY BACK OVER TO THE BED……GET UNDER THE COVER…..AND ASK YOU TO DO WHAT YOU NEED TO DO TO GET COMFORTABLE….I SLOWLY CLIMB ON TOP OF YOU AND BEGIN TO KISS YOUR

STOMACH….AND WORK MY WAY DOWN…..AND FINALLY I GET ON MY KNEES AND START….. ……………PRAYING THAT YOU WILL BE BLESSED EVERYDAY!!….. GOTCHA ….I WONDER WHAT YOU WERE THINKING ABOUT WHEN YOU WERE READING THIS..

Kutay, what I am thinking of when I read this, is that you are a brainless douchebag and a very mediocre fucktard.

For future reference, the ellipsis is a mere three consecutive dots.  May I suggest you make the acquaintance of the Daily Writing Tips page The Elusive Ellipsis?

That is all the the strength I can muster for such inanity.

Sigh.

Madame X

•September 12, 2008 • 3 Comments

As expected I arrive first at Madame X, a W. Houston Street lounge with bordello ambiance on New York’s Lower East Side. Any lighting seems to be quickly absorbed into the red-painted walls, making the place dark and decadent. The primary seating are shabby, chic sofas upholstered in torn red velvet that bring to mind gaping wounds, only in reverse; white innards push through crimson skin. The pungent odor of age-old sex acts, all musk and brine, mingled with mildew adds to the decadent aura.

I’m here to meet a couple that Victor contacted so that I can have a cock in my cunt at the same time his fills my ass; DP Deluxe, if you will, if I will. The thought, like so many surrounding my relationship with Victor, arouses and disturbs me. When I arrive, the place is nearly deserted and remains so up until the time we leave. It’s early on a Tuesday night and I suspect the place will fill up later on, but for me, this is fine, this is perfect. The shadowy room, its soft music melded with the laughter of three Asian girls, is a welcome respite from my busy day.

Settled as I am in cozy corner of the back room, I keep glancing towards the front bar in case the couple has settled there. Finally, I see an attractive dark haired woman and her spiky haired companion so I pack up my stuff and head to the bar to greet them. They have just ordered drinks and I expect him to offer me one but he says nothing. I shrug it off, earlier I had a tequila martini with a co-worker and really don’t want to be drunk, yet it leaves me with a weird vibe. I am always polite and I expect that, at the very least, from others. So I’m already vaguely disinterested despite their good look as we move to the dim back room.

As we chat, he and I discover we know many of the same people. Even in a city as vast as New York, that small town feeling can suddenly crop up, when you least expect or desire it, especially in the kink community. Despite Victor’s thought that it doesn’t matter, it does matter to me. Perhaps contradictory, I prefer not to have my personal details discussed unless it’s me discussing them. Still, they are pleasant and it turns out she and I are in the same field, so when Victor finally arrives and attempts some male bonding with him, she and I talk shop. She seems very sweet and lovely.

His phones trills and he wanders into the back garden only to return and announce he’s needed by a client. He suggests we all mull it over and they take their leave. Victor and I decide that’s their no-go signal, and I am relieved. After discovering that they both are heavy smokers I really do not want to have this experience with them. I simply hate the bitter, acrid taste of the bodily secretions of smokers, and kissing someone after a cig just repulses me. And that pesky matter of common acquaintances. I can be very hard to please when it comes to who I want in my body, but in my opinion, that is a very good thing.

I snuggle up against Victor’s warm body and we kiss. Mouths open to devour each other, lips press hard and persistent until his teeth clamp my bottom lip in a tight vise which leaves a dark bruise inside my lower lip. I moan my pain and arousal into his mouth as my sex involuntarily tightens, I feel my nether lips engorge to mimic my bruised and swollen mouth.

“Look what you do to me, bitch,” he says, indicating the erection that strains at his slacks.

I rest my hard on his cock, feel it so fucking hard, alive and pulsing. “I love what I do to you, Victor. I love how hard you get…”

“I know, it’s my perfect cock you love. I’m sure you same the same thing to all your men. Oh Joe, your cock is soooo big, it’s perrrrr-fect,” he says trying to match the pitch of my voice, knowing it irks me when he does.

“Shut up, Victor,” I say with a smile, leaning in to kiss him again.

His hands snake inside my dress, before I can think to pull away his fingers home in on my nipples, pinching them hard enough to make me cry out and bury my face in his shoulder to stifle the sound.

“Come on,” he says, rising rapidly and grabbing my hand.

“Where are we going?” I reply as I attempt to gather my bag and laptop.

“Out in the garden.”

He drops my hand and pushes his way out the door with its sign warning that only the smoking of cigarettes is permitted, that the garden is not a lavatory and to keep the noise to a low roar. I follow a minute behind him and find him in the stairwell immediately outside the door, in front of the six steps that lead up to the patio.

“Hi, baby,” I say, smiling up at him.

I never notice that his gaze has darkened until it’s too late. My cheek stings as bright specks of light explode before my eyes momentarily obscuring my vision. There’s no time to even react, except for the deep gasp that explodes from my throat, because his fist is now knotted in my hair, pulling, pulling, pulling, straining my neck so I’m looking up at him. He smiles then – and slaps me again. Then he leans his back against the door we came through.

“Bitch,” he hisses. “Unzip me and take out my cock.”

I hasten to do as he says; worried about someone coming out for a smoke, relieved that the bar is nearly deserted.

“Get on your knees,” he demands.

I squat down but it’s not good enough.

“I said on your knees, Tess. Get on your fucking knees and suck my cock.”

I try not to think about the dirty ground or the gritty, irritating feel of rough pavement as I kneel. I glance up at the lit windows in the buildings that surround the patio aware that at anytime someone could look down and see us there, and the thought makes me hotter. I suck his cock with relish. When I tell him he has a perfect cock, I mean it. It’s so hard, his skin is stretched taut and utterly smooth. I love the pulse of blood flowing through his body, pumped by his heart, in my mouth. It’s as if I hold the very essence of him there on my tongue, surrounding by the warm, wetness of my sucked in cheeks.

“Do you want to go inside with my come dripping down your chin, Tess,” he whispers, lingering on my name in that way that causes my cunt to contract even harder.

Looking up, meeting his dark eyes, eyes that somehow cause me to melt even when they lack warmth, even when they are cold as ice, I shake my head – no.

“Then you had best do a good job and swallow every drop. Don’t you think?”

I keep sucking him, harder now, entranced with the way his cock fills my mouth. Come for me, I think. Come now, baby, before anyone interrupts us, because I need to taste you, to make this vital connection with you, to have part of you living inside me. Come for me.

It isn’t long before he does just that. I taste him, salty and pungent, his own unique flavor and one that I have come to crave. I continue to suck at him. His cock, as usual, still ram-rod hard though he is momentarily spent.

I only notice that his hand his been in my hair the entire time when he lets goes to help me rise. He kisses me and I press against him, feeling his cock still hard and wanting.

“Put me away,” he says. “Zip up my pants.”

I divert my eyes from his to focus on my task, letting my hands stroke his erection as I force it back through the slit in his briefs, zip his pants and buckle his belt. Then I fall back against him and let him caress me, hug me tight against his chest. It alerts my defenses. Don’t feel that, I think, don’t feel that warmth. It is what it is and nothing more, I say to myself, repeating what I have always known and only forget in the most minute of increments, in those few precious moments when I am able to let go completely, to knock down parts of the walls I have erected that protect my heart.

I step in front of him and his heat encompasses me as he reaches around me for the doorknob, when suddenly he brushes the hair from my neck and his teeth sink into my neck. I moan and I relent and in that one instant my walls crumble, and I’m his, just his. Then he releases me and I’m glad to be back to myself, glad to feel my defenses rising once again. I am his – but just for these few stolen moments.



A Perfect Day

•August 26, 2008 • 1 Comment

It’s a glorious day, one of cornflower blue skies, wispy clouds and an autumnal edge to the still warm air. But I can feel fall, scented apple crisp and ablaze with brilliant hues of celestial gold, furious red and rich, loamy brown, begin to make its inevitable approach. My sense of trepidation is at odds with the beauty of this perfect day.

Summer has mellowed Victor. Be it the heat or his job or some combination, his sadism has been subdued during these humid, breezeless nights But with the nearing change of season, I sense a change in Victor. I feel it in that mysterious part of my psyche that instinctively just knows what he is feeling. That knowledge, that instinct, transforms into the physical: the fine, downy hairs on my arm rise up as if attracted to a charge of static electricity, my cunt twitches and moistens, my heart races and my throat constricts. The beast that has dwelt silently in his soul, slumbering indolently in the summer heat, seems to have slowly risen from its nap and to find himself starved and consumed with a dark hunger.

Those first hints of autumn chill in the air have prodded the beast awake. The scratches I unintentionally left on his arm last time were merely laughed off but I know he remembers. He wants rope and duct tape and his razor. He wants me immobile; only my eyes will be able to dart about as panic competes with arousal. Eyes, fringed with tear laden lashes, either silently pleading or squeezed tightly shut when I can’t bear to see what he’s about to do or it hurts so much. The sickly sweet taste of depravity unbound filling my mouth until it overwhelms my senses.

I crave the change as much as I fear it.

I wonder if I will be afraid of him. I wonder if that fear will arouse me as much when I am ensnared as it does now as I toss it around in my mind. I wonder if I will want it, need it, to stop and have no way to communicate that to him. Or will I need it harder, more intense, and unending.

I wonder.

But I will go to him with a huge smile stretching my berry flavored lips and I will offer myself to him to appease his demons and my own while in my mind a winter’s scene appears. A swift change of season, the innocence of a pristine snow-scape, undulating in blindly white waves, and stained with crimson droplets.

Blood_On_Snow___by_Nilja

Blood on Snow by Nilja on Deviant Art



Flake Factor – Short and Sour

•August 10, 2008 • Leave a Comment

Good to know the world is still spinning on it’s axis and I am still getting retarded emails from hook up sites. In the wake of all the insanity swirling around me I can take comfort in the fact that some things never change.

hey sexy..

how ya doin? up for some sick n nasty fun? 😉

How many of you would actually reply to a message like that? In the affirmative?



The First Cut – Part II

•July 30, 2008 • 2 Comments

He leaves me then, suspended so that I stand on my toes to ease the tension in my arms, and returns to the bathroom. Only a golden glow filters into the corridor but he’s bathed in brilliant light as he busies himself at the marble counter. His body and the archway prevent me from seeing what he’s doing, though I am sure I know. I still don’t believe it; I don’t believe he’ll actually cut me. He’s said it before, “I’d don’t like blood,” so why would he do it, I wonder. I take solace in that thought.

Last week I had said to him rather flippantly that I’d start to worry when I see a bottle of alcohol, gauze pads and bandages. Now, as he moves into the soft light of the corridor, I begin to tremble.

“Don’t fucking move, bitch,” he says, returned and armed with the straight razor he now trails along my cheek.

I don’t move, instead I try to speak, to voice my desire to cooperate, but the cotton cloth in my mouth ensures it’s a mumble at best. My mouth is so very dry as the wash cloth wicks away any moisture. I want a drink of water, but I can’t ask. Even if speech were possible, with that razor in his hand and the glow of a feral demon in his eyes, I doubt I’d dare utter a sound.

I close my eyes tightly when the razor slides down to my throat. Hating it, fearing it and at the same time feeling my traitorous cunt swell and flow with sweet, sticky moisture that dampens my thighs.

What does he see when he looks at my face now with my eyes squeezed shut in terror so oddly akin to bliss? Whatever it is, it makes his cock rise, hard and commanding. He swells, purple, throbbing and rigid, with a steely determination that seems to have risen from his core, flooded his eyes and set his jaw into that hard line I love and loathe so much.

He moves away, back to the counter and I open my eyes in time to see him ripping open a small foil packet. The smell of alcohol invades my nostrils even before I feel the coolness against the side of my breast.

“Bitch,” he hisses.

When I start to protest, to pull against the restraints, to moan into the gag, his hand flies to my mouth and presses hard against the cloth in my mouth, so hard that I am unable to move my head at all. His hand covers my nose, and I know he’s aware that this makes me even more frightened, that I will behave simply to be allowed precious, priceless air.

The sharp, cold edge is pressed to my breast before I can even flinch. I don’t feel anything but cold. Not even pressure, just cold. And then, he repeats the process along the swell of my right breast. My chest heaves madly, as does my stomach, as the alcohol smell again fills my head. And again the cold. I’m trembling, shaking like a leaf yet still sure he hasn’t cut me. If he had wouldn’t I have felt it, I reason. Surely I’d know if he’d cut me.

Another packet is ripped open and he swabs my hip before tracing several preparatory lines with his finger, making a rough map along the gentle swell of my curves for the intended route of his blade. Once again, I feel a chill against my skin. So many sensations competing at once that none are distinct. I can’t believe this is happening, in fact I don’t believe it is happening. Not even when he takes a fresh antiseptic pad and cleans his handiwork, holding it up to my face so I can see it’s stained bright and crimson with blood. How did he set that up I wonder? How did he manage such an elaborate hoax, such a brilliant mind fuck, I think until I look down and see the angry red lines that decorate my hip and simultaneously, my head feels light and my stomach sick, as I realize this wasn’t trickery, this, this was the real thing.

With me still tied in place, he bandages my wounds as diligently and gently as if I were a small child. I use my tongue to push the gag out of my mouth, my fingertips have gone numb and I want him to release me. He unties one hand, still not ready for me to be completely mobile, still wanting to torment me more.

“I feel sick, Victor,” I say, my stomach rising into my throat.

Shoving implacable fingers into my drenched sex, he asks, “Is this how sick you feel, Tess. Slut. So fucking wet.”

“Please, baby, untie me,” is all I can manage. I wish he hadn’t bandaged my wounds so that I could run my fingers over them while they still weep.

“I’m not done with you, bitch. Open your mouth,” he says, reaching for something on the counter.

“No,” I say.

He responds with a sharp slap and repeats his command, “Open your mouth, you bitch, and stick out your tongue.”

When I do comply, I taste steel as the blade of his knife pricks me and traces patterns on my tongue. I’m still as he does this. Finally, this act seems to appease his sadism or at least it’s tempered by his desire to have his cock in my mouth. He releases my other hand and pushes me to my knees.

I find that it’s hard to open my mouth, my jaw feels wrong, and it hurts when I try. But I do keep trying, until tired of my failing efforts he pulls me up by my hair and drags me to the bed.

“No, Victor,” I plead.

“What do you mean no?” he sneers pushing me on to the bed, arranging me so that my head falls over the edge and pushing himself into my mouth.

I find it easier this way, at least possible, though it still hurts and I worry wondering if my jaw could be dislocated just from having a gag in my mouth. I shudder to think if I tell him this, that next time he’ll forego a gag for duct tape while cruelly whispering that we’ve now taken care of that little jaw problem.

The adrenaline that rushed through my body, preventing me from even feeling the pain of being cut, slowly bleeds off. My heart beat slows as I suck his perfect cock, his maleness evident in his scent as much as in the organ that fills my throat, which makes me gag and drool and ache for him to fill my cunt as well.

When he finally plunges his cock inside my wetness, all I can think of is how, in these stolen moments, he is both my tormentor and my salvation. And now, with him steely-hard, his hand wrapped so tightly in my hair that my scalp throbs in tandem with my cunt, I know there is no place else I’d rather be. And I wonder what that says about me.



The First Cut – Part I

•July 28, 2008 • 5 Comments

Razor by Model Lindsay on DeviantArt

It’s four or five in the morning when he rises from bed and pads heavily over the plush carpeted floor to the bathroom. I’m awake; I’ve been awake most of the night having found myself unable to sleep for some reason. One reason, no doubt, is the knowledge of what’s coming but not knowing when.

He’s tired and needs to sleep and I want him to rest but more than that I want him to ravish me.

“I haven’t come all this way for married sex, have I?” I whispered into his ear in the middle of the night.

“I am going to fuck you, bitch. You know I will. Just let me sleep a little, will you,” he’d answered hours ago.

He returns to our rumpled, shared bed after removing the Lowe’s bag and takes out the coiled length of rope, rips open the cellophane protecting it and begins unlooping it. I watch with morbid fascination, my sex beginning to throb wildly, as the white rope slides through his hands. He retrieves his knife, carefully measuring the lengths he needs, and slices the rope cleanly into four lengths.

“Get up,” he says tersely.

I comply. It’s what I’ve been waiting for, after all, isn’t it? My heart beat pounds an audible cadence beneath my breast; it matches the rhythm of the blood that pounds in my temples and the fluttering in my groin. The beat only intensifies as I watch him carefully wrap the rope around my wrists. I could watch this forever. I remember in the good-old bad-old days when I was foolish enough to snort cocaine, it wasn’t the high I loved, in fact I hated the way cocaine made me feel, it was the set up: the rolled up hundred dollar bills, the dumping of the vial onto a mirror and the careful formation of parallel lines. With rope, as well, it’s everything. It’s the preparation, it’s the feel of rope, taut and twisted, around my limbs, and even more so, it’s the anticipation of what will happen once I am bound in the way he desires. Anticipation I savor in just the opposite way I feel about the anxiety that floods my system with adrenaline when I haven’t heard from my child when expected; the same physical symptoms that my body interprets in vastly different ways.

He yanks on the ropes around my wrists, not talking, not giving me the comfort of his words, and pulls me to the closet, pushing my back into the hard wooden door and securing one arm to the rail. The other arm is attached somehow, to something out of my sight. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I am going nowhere until he wants me to. He takes advantage of my helplessness by slapping my face hard. And again. And then again. I feel the crimson rise in my cheeks; despite my lack of clothing I am now hot from my groin to where the color blooms in my face. Between gasps, I open my mouth to test my jaw.

The closet is in the corridor, right next to the bathroom, and he leaves me for a moment, restrained and panting, returning with a washcloth.

“Open your mouth, bitch,” he says, “I can’t have you disturbing the neighbors again. And you will be screaming before I’m done with you.”

I feel myself go tense as he pushes the washcloth into my mouth. I’m so afraid; afraid that I’ll choke on this thing, so nubby, rough and dry in my mouth, afraid of what he’s going to do next, afraid of the blood I know he wants to see flowing down the gentle curve of my breast.