Sunday, 29 May 2011

Drinking Wine

The shivers run down my spine as I read the text. Just the briefest of details: no clothing, just the flimsiest of silky robes: no underwear, just stockings: no heels. Collar and all cuffs to be in place. Mouth and cunt wet, inviting and ready for use.

I love to get His texts, they never fail to arouse and excite me. There is something so erotic in being told exactly how He wants me to present myself. I am always left with some element of choice: some decision to make, but He owns the vision of how I will be.

Carefully I make my choice of stockings and robe. Although He hasn't mentioned them, I clip the silver nipple shields into place; they are a given: a long standing order: I wear them whenever I am with Him. I turn my attention to my hair. It has grown quite long now and if He is going to use my mouth I will need to tie it back. I briefly contemplate pig-tails, a look which He adores, but too cheeky and impish for tonight I think, and so I opt for a simple ponytail.

I examine myself critically in the mirror: and swap the robe for another. It is longer, but pure silk and I like the way it follows the soft contours of my body; exaggerating the peaks of my nipples as they stand proudly presented for my Dom. For a final touch I cut a short length from the purple ribbon that is in my drawer and tie it around the ponytail-band. I am ready.

I hear His car pull into the driveway and am at the door before He has time to press the bell. I love the way His face lights up when He sees me. I love the feel of the heat of His hands through the flimsy silk, stroking my silhouette as He drinks in the sight of me with all His senses.

He steers me through the open doorway, into the room that I have made ready with glasses and wine; and then I am on my knees before Him.

He has trained my mouth well: now like a conductor, he orchestrates my mouth, lips and tongue with gestures, movements and only the minimum of words. Before we met my mouth had been used little and I tired easily. Although I do not yet know it, tonight he will make use of my mouth for a full 90 minutes and still I will have more to give.

He is drinking the wine as He stands before me; occasionally I am allowed a sample: He dips His engorged cock into the glass and I lap and suck the liquid off His member, catching the dribbling liquid with my tongue. Too soon He is too erect to perform this manoeuvre again and instead He tips the cool wine into my mouth before following it with His manhood.

I must use all the tools I have at my disposal to please Him. On rare occasions I may use my hands but it is not such an occasion tonight. Tongue, lips, mouth and throat: He owns them: He owns me; and like any good owner, He knows that when He pushes me, when He stretches and challenges me, I will try harder. At the moment I feel I have to stop, have to breathe, His hand holds my position, and as always, He is right and I give a little more.

He changes position and I find that sweet spot below His balls. I lick and suck and feeling the involuntary thrust of His hips, smile secretly, knowing that I have pleased my Master well. Despite His pleasure He remains, as always, in control: of me and of Himself. There is no ultimate gift in my mouth tonight.

The wine is almost empty. My robe lies discarded where it fell. He crooks a finger through a ring on my collar and pulls me to my feet. Slowly, softly, He leads me up the stairs to bed.

Velvet <3

Wednesday, 25 May 2011

Mid-week Mischief ... Month of May

A colleague informed me that it is Rabbit Awareness Week.

I felt it my duty to remind her that is is also Masturbation Month.

I am not responsible if others make connections between these two...

And as for M: he just loves me being His rope-bunny.

Velvet <3

Saturday, 21 May 2011

His shirt

He didn't mean to, but he left His shirt behind. I found it in the morning when I rose, adorning one of the bed knobs. I held it to my face, inhaling the lingering scent, a smile radiating across my face. I always seek out the faint traces that he leaves in His departing wake: the warm dip in the pillow: the glass that His lips so recently touched: the towel that wrapped His body after the shower. A shirt is treasure indeed, and I hug it to me until at last I too must leave the house.

It's there when I return. In the evening I slide into it, revelling in having Him wrapped around me. Held once more in His embrace I relax and smile. My mind wanders to the memories of the night before and I am happy.

I am never happier than when I am His: never happier than when I freely submit to Him and willingly serve Him. The moments of the evening fade in my mind, what remain are the deep emotions. I inhale deeply and close my eyes. I feel Him still in my mouth: taste Him on my tongue, I crave Him deeply. In my mind I am kneeling before Him once more. He is using my mouth, owning every part of me and every part of me wants to be His and to worship Him.

My heart swells in my chest, my body is no longer able to contain the emotions. Even as I smile I feel the silent tears making rivulets down my cheeks. I hug His shirt around me closer, sinking deeper into His loving embrace; sinking deeper into my bittersweet dreams.

I feel the bonds around my arms, the burning sear of the crop across my cheeks, the unrelenting bite of the clamps on my nipples, the tightening of the leather at my throat; and through it all the aching passion burning between my legs. My body will tell Him no lies: just lying here with my dreams it does not lie. Though I crave release, I do not touch. My body is His property and not my own.

I pull His shirt up over my face, smothering myself in the last of His lingering scent. Less than a day and I already miss Him so deeply. In my dreams I call to Him: "Come back soon. Own me again and make me come alive." And together we sink down into bittersweet dreams.

Velvet <3

Wednesday, 11 May 2011

Common Courtesy

He is testing me.

Usually I grasp the ornate metal bars that decorate the foot of the bedstead; the cold metal reassuringly solid and unyielding as I hug it to me. I know that the frame will help me. It will hold me steady as the strokes fall, checking the momentum of my body as the chosen implement finds its target. This inanimate object has been my companion for a while now; my fingers find the familiar chips in the paint, souvenirs from the clash of buckles, clips and chains. Positions and restraints may change but we remain a resolute pair; stoically facing the next chapter of our story in one another's embrace.

Tonight is different.

He is quite clear in His directions. There will be NO bedstead to support me tonight. He is wise to my wiles. He wishes to test me alone without my companion. He wishes to see whether His girl is able to absorb the impact of His toys alone. Will she be able to remain not only still but balanced as the cane finds its mark? He explains carefully what is required. From my position on my knees I listen attentively, I have already failed Him, I dare not risk doing so again.

I am ordered to my room.

He has sent me ahead. I am to be in position and ready when He enters the room. I am to remove all clothing except the nipple shields, collar and stockings. The stockings are one of my favourite pairs: fishnets with PVC tops and laces, chosen for the detail that is only visible from the rear. Quickly I make last minute adjustments then assume the required position. Feet hip width apart, I bend and place my hands on my knees.

I wait.

I do not know for how long I wait. I know it is enough to have my heart beating in anticipation: enough to build pictures in my mind: enough to feel the moisture grow between my legs. Then He is there. Close. He takes my right hand and fastens a leather cuff firmly around it. The second follows soon afterwards. Further directions are issued: I am to clasp my hands behind my knees. The cuffs will not be locked in place to begin with. He will test my resoluteness and my balance. If I move my hands then the cuffs will be locked together until such time as I am able to control myself.

Punishment commences.

Today I am offered no choice of the implement of delivery; my corrector is long and firm and black. The number assigned is twelve. He considers it a well rounded number suited to a well rounded backside. He weighs the feel of the weight and length of the cane in His hand, flicking the tip lightly over my proffered posterior, sensitizing my rear and spreading a flush across my cheeks. The first stroke flies from His hand and bites hard into my flesh. The first is always the hardest to bear, not yet deeply grounded I fight to maintain my position, biting my lip and willing my hands to stay obediently clasped behind my knees.

The perfectionist.

He is careful in the placing of each stoke, the backhand stokes to the left cheek each finding a perfect partner in forehand strokes to the right. They are carefully ranged over the target area from the upper thighs to the fleshy globes. Each stroke must be clearly defined, if not, it is superseded by a better example. It is the strokes to the thighs that test me the most. My muscles scream as I will myself not to move. I do not wish to explore the consequences of doing so. Instead I grasp my wrists more firmly, hugging myself, taking strength from my own embrace.

I am counting.

My mind keeps count, but in reverse, counting down the strokes, each number more friendly than the last, they diminish not escalate. I am confident that I will past the test. Each burning stroke is one less to be endured: one stroke closer to the end: one stroke closer to having pleased Master: one stroke closer to His embrace. I am so absorbed in the counting, so ridiculously pleased with myself at not having moved, so chuffed that I have met the challenge set by Him ... that I forget...


"Did you forget something?" ... That heart leaping moment when I realise what I have done... or rather what I HAVEN'T done. It wasn't my hands that let me down, nor yet my tender derriere. My mouth has failed me, my manners, my common courtesy. Shame faced I mumble an apology, too late I offer Him my thanks. It is too late; I know it but I try. He turns the question round to me: What should He do? What way should His erring sub be corrected? With dry mouth and sinking heart I give the only answer that I know will be accepted...

... and the strokes begin again...

Velvet  <3

Sunday, 1 May 2011


The brightest sun,
       I bask in the light, in the warmth, in the glory of its radiance.

The brightest sun,
       I bow before its heat, its brilliance, its searing power.

The brightest sun,
       I hide my eyes from its glare, its blaze, its fearfulness.

And where the brightest sun shines, the darkest shadows fall,
        I thought I knew the shadows.
        I have been here before, we share a history.
I stumble, my footsteps falter, my eyes wide open I gaze blindly around,
       Darkness surrounds me, engulfs wraps me in its suffocating numbness...

Light and darkness,
          Love and pain.
                   It will always be that way.

Velvet <3
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