Category Archives: Writing
I have finally gotten all the Kinky Prom photo edited and all but five of the 250-ish I took have been sent out. Three of those I am just waiting on an email address so I can send them out, and two are of a person neither I nor any of the six or eight people I have had look at the picture knew her.
Today and tomorrow, I am *off,” in that I don’t specifically have plans to do anything in the evening.
Of course, it’s also Derby week, and we have two parties planned for this weekend, so it’s not like I’m really slacking off, of course. I do have some paperwork to do, and some emails I need to answer, but I don’t necessarily have to be anywhere or do anything.
After this weekend, too, it will get a bit quieter. The Center will take a lot of time, but much of it will be time that I am already spending on kink-related stuff, and we will have most of the bugs worked out, too.
I need to get out in my garden and do some weeding, clear out some of the growth that didn’t get cleared out before from winter, see what came back and where I might have an open spot or two.
I need to clean my house, which is not so much terribly dirty as it is wildly disorganized at the moment. I haven’t unpacked the things from Saturday’s party yet, so the chairs in my den have bags in them.
My desk is piled high with magazines and notebooks, computer gizmos and random odd things. An ancient fortune cookie in the wrapper. A pair of beaters from a mixer.
A bag of tiny, mint-flavored, bone-shaped treats for the dogs.
I need to put the couple boxes of Bluegrass Leather Pride stuff on shelves in the garage, and deal with the contents of a garden basket I won at the dog show this spring, and move the 10 pairs of my shoes that have accumulated in the living room back upstairs.
And I will do all of that, honest I will.
But it won’t be tonight. Tonight drew and I went out on the scooter for the first time this year and it was lovely.
And I was, in the 20 minutes I was away between that line and this, I trimmed a small shrub that was beginning to block a walkway, took the beaters to the kitchen, the dog treats in their cannister.
I can see the top of my desk again, one chair is mostly empty, and my blog is done. How cool is that?
“It’s what you are, you know,” she said.
He nodded. “Yes, Ma’am, I am.”
He paused, then licked his suddenly dry lips. “I…” He had to clear his throat slightly. “I am a dirty little slut.”
Another rapid dart of tongue over lips. “What else, Ma’am?”
Her voice was implacable. “What else are you, slut?”
“Um… I am your dirty little slut, Ma’am.”
He heard her laugh. “Well, yes, I think that’s rather obvious, but I think you’re considerably more than a dirty little slut, too, aren’t you?”
He shifted on the stool upon which he sat, and was reminded again of the plug in his ass. His cock throbbed, too, and another drop of pre-cum slipped out, and his downcast eyes watched. “Yes, Ma’am.”
He hesitated and there was a sharp slap of a crop on his ass, making him jump, reminding him again of the plug, and making his cock throb again. “I am a greedy little bitch.” Before the crop came down again, he amended. “I am YOUR greedy little bitch, Ma’am.”
Her fingers closed around the shaft of his cock, squeezing, another drop of liquid oozing out. “Whose cock is this?”
That, at least, was easy. “Your cock, Ma’am.”
“So you’re a dirty little slut and a greedy little bitch, we know that. What part of you in particular is greedy?”
He felt himself blush. “My ass is greedy, Ma’am.”
“And what makes it greedy?”
“It’s greedy because… Because it likes to be filled, stretched open.” He took a breath, then added, “Ma’am.”
“Do you feel it now, all stretched open, filled and plugged?”
He nodded, mutely, and was rewarded with a sharp swat on his – no, not his, her cock. He gasped.
“I didn’t hear you.”
“Yes, Ma’am, I feel it.”
“Tell me how it feels.”
He closed his eyes, grateful that he wasn’t allowed to meet her gaze. “It feels… good, Ma’am. Full and stretched open and reminded that you own my ass, too.”
She leaned over and he smelled her perfume, watched as her pointed red nail traced down the length of the shaft of her cock, then ran her finger over the slit, gathering up a few drops of the liquid. She held it in front of his face, letting him see it.
He started to nod, then said, “Yes, Ma’am, I am.”
“Why are you dripping?”
“Because it’s what dirty little sluts and greedy little whores do, Ma’am. They drip.”
“And how do they clean up this kind of perverted drooling?”
“They,,, They lick it up, Ma’am.”
She moved the finger to his mouth. “Lick it clean, slut.”
Obediently, he licked at the finger until it was clean, tasting himself. Tasting her cock.
“What does that taste like,” she asked.
He lowered his head. “It tastes like a dirty little slut, Ma’am.” He paused. “Or a greedy little bitch, Ma’am.”
She nodded, and cupped his cheek stroking it three times. Then she slapped the cheek, just enough to sting.
“Just as I thought,” she said.
“Close your eyes,” she said.
“I’m afraid,” he said, closing them anyway.
“Good,” she said, and he felt her breath tickle his ear.
“Don’t move,” she said.
“I won’t,” he said.
“Even when I do this?” she asked, and he felt the cold edge of a steel blade lightly touching his skin, raising goose bumps.
“No,” he said.
“Good boy,” she said.
“Wear my collar?” Her breath in his ear was punctuated with a nip.
“Yes. Please.” He felt it circle his neck, heard the jangle of the steel rings.
“Give me your wrists,” she said.
Wordlessly he held his hands out in front of him, and stood still, eyes closed, as he felt the heavy leather being clasped around them.
He felt her pull his wrists together and heard the snick of the clip joining them. The metal was cold against his belly.
He felt the swish of her robe, silky and soft, and caught the scent of perfume as she brushed by him, moved around him.
He jumped when the blow of her hand fell on his ass, more from surprise than pain, and was rewarded by her laugh.
“You moved,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
There was another rustle of silk and he heard movement behind him. He pictured her looking, picking, choosing, finding just the perfect thing, for him.
Unknowingly, he smiled.
Her hand wrapped around the collar and tugged him down, kissed him once, pulling away before he could gather his thoughts to return the kiss.
He felt her fingers run from the collar, down his chest, over his hip and down along the shaft of his cock, cupping and weighing it.
“You’re hard,” she said.
“I am,” he agreed.
“For me?” she asked.
He nodded. “For you.”
She pushed on his shoulder, and he bent over, resting his hands on the footboard of the bed.
He felt the caress of the cane on the back of his leg, right where ass joined thigh.
“Wear my mark?” she asked.
He smiled again. “Yes, please.”
He felt the air displaced as the cane swept through it, and held his breath, waiting.
The blow landed, a bright pain, red exploding behind his eyes, pulling a gasp from him then robbing him of his breath for a few seconds.
Then the pain bloomed, growing into a slow burn, and he remembered to breath then, to submerge himself into it until there was nothing but the sweep of air, the bright pain, the slow burn.
There would be bruises, and welts, a pattern he could feel in the dark, tracks that his fingers could trace. He would feel the marks inside his skin and outside both.
He felt the brush of her hair as she leaned into him.
“For me?” she said.