The tall grass tickled her feet as she tried to figure out just where she’d gone wrong.  Shifting in her bonds, easing the pressure on her wrists, she tried to not feel the bite of the rope on her skin or the soft caress of sunlight on her naked body.

Under the blindfold, she couldn’t tell exactly where she was, but she could picture what she looked like: legs spread and tied open, hanging from a heavy branch by her wrists, back red with raised welts from His belt, her wet sex still gaping from His use.

The pleasant nothingness of subspace had started to wear off and she felt the drop starting to come on.  He’d never let her drop without aftercare; she started to worry that she’d pushed too far, too hard and really made him angry this time.

It had seemed like good fun at first, but maybe telling Him He wasn’t really a Master was a little too much.  Maybe saying that He was too old… uh… and that remark about being too tired to get it up…. Ok, so maybe she’d said too much.

On the other hand, being drug into the woods, stripped, whipped and fucked had been glorious if a little frightening at the time.  But then he’d left her there, tied up naked and staked open for the next hiker or picnicker to wander past and find her….  Enough was enough.  Wasn’t it?

She wanted to say she was sorry, that she hadn’t meant all that, but the gag was damn effective and he seemed to be gone anyway.  The emotions of the oncoming drop and the fear she’d gone too far threatened to take over the pleasant lassitude of the session when she heard footfalls behind her.

A hand grabbed the tender abused flesh of her ass and squeezed hard.  She cried out in pain and in fear; whoever it was hadn’t said a word, “Master?” She tried to say through the gag but it sounded like a grunt and groan.

The hands squeezed her breast, also covered in welts from His belt, ran down her belly to the dripping mess of mingled fluids coming from her sex.

Whoever it was walked around her, wrapping his hand on her neck and she felt the pressure of a cock on her opening.  “MASTER?!” she called through the thick cloth and could barely make out her own voice.  The shaft pressed in her, it was different than His, it was too short, thicker, and somehow stiffer than His own rigid member and then the cock took her, slipping through the wetness and sliding into her core.

The hands pulled and pinched, slapped and caressed as she was fucked while her wrists screamed raw from the bite of the ropes.

She came as he did; convulsing and screaming into the gag, feeling hot sperm fill her again.

The unknown man went away, leaving her there.

When her heart had started to calm and her breath became regular again, her Master arrived and cut her down, picked her up and carried her gently to the car.  He held her in His lap and stroked her hair and kissed her gently.

“I’m sorry, Master,” she whispered into his chest, her hand floundering on his shoulder.  “I didn’t mean it.”

“Hush, little one,” He rumbled, His deep bass voice vibrating in His chest and into her head. “It’s over now, you’re forgiven.”

“Master?” She didn’t want to ask the obvious question, but couldn’t not ask either.


“Was that you?”

“Was what me?”

She could feel a catch in her throat.  “That second time…. Was that you?”

He paused a while.  “Little,” He growled, “I will never let anything happen to you that would hurt you, and I will never do anything to you without being very careful of you.”

“That’s not an answer, Master.”

“No, little one, it’s not.  Let’s go home.”


Ok, so it wasn’t really a bad spot.  Why her Master had suddenly decided to fly to Mexico in the off-season still mystified her, but the house he’d rented on the beach had its own pool and wet bar and as far as out of the way areas, it was pretty well kept up.

She was hesitant at first, the beach was public, though sparsely populated, still a few locals would walk along going from one tourist spot to another selling wares and trying to look honest.  They stared at her as they walked by, they all did and at first it made her feel vulnerable and self-conscious about herself and the almost-there bikini her Master insisted she wear for swimming.

But stare is all they did; the protected patio was too daunting for all but the most dedicated to bother just to ogle a tall blonde in dental floss.
Some few lingered, and one or two of those called out to her, as though she would leave the expensive villa and run off with a beach bum selling sweaters in 100 ° heat.

She’d worked hard for her body though, as much to please Him as for herself and she was proud of the results, and she did please him.  That much was evident in every look he stole her way and every touch he gave her.

He’d gone off to find something, he was vague on that, but while he was gone, she was determined for some time in the sun.  Standing by the pool, she slathered suntan lotion on everything that was exposed, meaning everything but nipples and labia in that swimwear.  She could see a couple of locals watching her openly from the beach and couldn’t stop herself from putting on a bit of a show.

Stretching her leg up and out to rest on a table, she ran both oiled hands down the length and back again coating the leg from hairless crotch to toe.  Careful not to reveal too much, she kept the outside of the leg to her audience and began oiling the side of her belly, working around and under the thin fabric to oil her breasts and get the bikini wet with sunscreen and clinging to her skin, contouring around her hardening nipple.

She finished with a long stroke up her neck and topped it off with an oversized floppy hat.  She lay back on the chaise no longer caring if her audience was still there.

She must have napped because suddenly she felt her arms pulled tightly down and a gag slide between her teeth.  Too startled to react, she could only sit there as the gag was pulled tight and her wrists locked to the feet of the chaise.  She was blinded by the bright sunlight (where was her hat?) and could see nothing.  This was rendered moot when the blindfold closed off her sight completely.

Reacting now, panic and fear that the audience had broken into the house and assaulted her while her Master was away she screamed into the gag and thrashed her legs.  Each one was captured and tied, leaving her spread on the outdoor furniture.

Her bikini top was untied and removed, her nipples popping up as the air caressed them.  Her bottoms were removed next and she lay naked to world.  She heard the squirt of the sunblock bottle and four rough hands coated her skin again, missing nothing.  They played with her nipples and her shaven sex until the fear gave way to a physical sensation that she couldn’t stop or understand.

The heat in her rose and she began to move her hips to the teasing fingers that prodded and poked.

Then they stopped.  Her hat was replaced over her face and her Master’s voice said “Back in a bit.” And then her Master and the stranger left.

MASTER?  She tried to scream into the gag once more and reconsidered it.  She wasn’t sure how well the foot traffic on the beach could see her, but she didn’t want to call too much attention to herself either.

The hot sun beat down on her body and she considered her situation, tried to bring a visual to mind.  Spread, shaved, naked, oiled, she was an adolescent boy’s dream, and openly visible to anyone walking by.  A small but increasingly vocal part of her dared to revel in the exposure and enjoy the exhibitionism of the moment.

She found herself moving her hips in anticipation and only belatedly did she realize that there had been TWO pair of hands, not just her Master.  Who did he have with him?  Who’d been touching her naked body with Him?

I wasn’t too long before she discovered the answer.

They were back.  “Let’s not get too much sun,” her Master growled, “bad for you to burn this…” He smacked her shaved sex.

They worked together, both men.  Her Master untied her right arm and leg, the stranger untied the left.  Before she could reach for the blindfold and gag, they traded her limbs, forcing her to roll over in the chaise and was retied hand and foot.  They proceeded with the suntan oil through her muffled protestations.

When they reached her ass with the lotion, they worked it in very carefully, sensually into and around her ass.  There was a different sound, another tube, but not the oil being squeezed and the familiar warmth of KY flooded her round brown hole.

She whimpered.  Seriously?  Would…COULD He?

“Be my guest” her Master said at her side and two strong hands spread her ass cheeks and an oiled cock pressed against her opening.  She gasped and held her breath.  She refused to believe it was real, but the cock slipped into her ass, the viscous KY guiding it in to the head.

At the flare of the tip, the cock seemed to lose momentum and her ass stretched and strained against the new intruder.  It filled her until she gasped and begged into the gag and still it came, filling her ass and stretching the walls of skin around it.

It pushed in until she felt his balls touch her, the pubic hairs of his sex tickling her parted sex and the burning, fullness of her ass made her curl her fingers into fists and cry from the pain and pleasure and plead with a stranger to fuck her, use her, begging like a little slut in front of her cruel, wonderful Master to be used by this unknown cock.

He pulled out again, slowly, every movement running through her, igniting her like lighting through her brain.  He thrust back in hard, savage, the lubrication saving her as he pulled out again and again and again, tempo increasing, gripping her oiled body as he plowed her into the thick padding of the chaise.

She could feel her orgasm rising, pulling from her core as he used her, long deep thrusts, fast shallow thrusts until it all became of a piece and the feeling of his release in her ass sent her off the edge and she came screaming into her gag.

He pulled out of her ass and wiped his cock on her ass.  She could feel his cum oozing out of her and running down her crack and caressing her labia.

She was still shaking when her Master untied her and led her inside.

She pulled off the blindfold shakily but there was no one there but the two of them.

“Who was that?”

“A friend.  We are going to a party tonight, he’ll be there.” Her Master murmured.  “He’ll be there “

She stopped and looked at her Master.  “How will I know who he is?” She asked.

“You won’t.” Her Master laughed and sent her to shower.

Guest Post

I have a wonderful guest post today, from Lacy Grayson writer of the LUX stories and more.  She’s offered to grace my blog with this gem, Enjoy:

Running from my own wedding was something I thought I’d never do.
Especially not my wedding to Julian. I’d worked to long and to hard to get
to that point with him. But, somehow when Trevor said ‘let’s go.’ I
couldn’t run fast enough.
We slowly walked out of the church, everyone thought we were grabbing a
quick smoke. After all, wedding jitters.
We ran across the lawns the back lawns where my family wouldn’t be looking.
He hailed a taxi after we’d been unnoticed after two blocks. My heart beat
like a caged animal in my chest.
Once inside the cab, Trevor told the cabbie to take us to JFK airport. As
the cab picked up speed I felt Trevor’s teeth in my neck. Desire overtook
me I moaned sliding onto his lap.
“My whore.” He whispered in my ear. I could tell the cabbie heard by the
arch of his eyebrow. I didn’t care I was Trevor’s whore.
I demonstrated this by spreading my legs as his hand rubbed my excited
cunt through my thong. I wiggled my ass eagerly loving his growing hard
My lips found his in a very wet sloppy kiss, we were giggling like
children as my hands moved like a well oiled cock hungry machine
unfastening his fly. Freeing his beautifully thick and diamond hard cock.
Deftly I lifted my long bridal gown’s skirt. Moving on top of it rubbing
against him feeling his fuck stick through my satin thong. To me this is
the most arousing thing in my sexual play book at this time.
Trevor cut my fun short pulling the cloth aside, sinking his cock deep
inside my warm slick pussy. My loud moans filled the cab. By now Trevor
was just displaying me and his control over me to the cabbie. Trevor
lifted my skirt’s back so my round plump ass was exposed
“Shake it baby, shake it for Daddy.” Trevor growled in my ear. I moved my
ass side to side and back and forth over and over. Riding his cock like
the fucking Kentucky Derby.
A screaming orgasm ripped through me sending off Trevor’s cock on the
floor. Trevor’s cum squirted on the hem of my dress. His laughter boomed.
Needless to say the cabbie didn’t make us pay.


<Begin Rant>

I love writing. I must.
The soothing scritch-scratch of the pen nib across smooth paper or the martial beating of the keys on the computer are soothing and if I am not careful, I will lose myself in their siren call.
Words stand in audition, nervously waiting for me to choose the right one here, place one there. I love to see an entire chapter change by the use or exclusion of a single word or changing the emphasis on a sentence.
When I am done, I’ve entered a zone that is very zen-like, something akin to the null space a masochist will feel when the sensations are done right and the trust she feels with her Master can overtake the natural fear she has of being so helpless.
Writing is freeing. Having writ means nothing.
It’s as appealing as a used condom. There is something I wrote in passion and in tenderness or rage or humor, my emotions are expunged and laid waste on pixelated paper. So be it.
Others tell me that my writing is “good” or some similar words, so I post them, collect them, sell them, give them away. I write within what I believe: safe, sane, consensual unless it’s a total barbaric fantasy, even then I tone it down because BDSM should be about the relationship, not the toys.
And the crickets deafen the landscape with their unafraid chatter.
A boi who claims to be a man, a child in Master’s clothing posts an article where he’s abused a girl uinder his control while she was tied and blindfolded by betraying her trust, and the entire community flocks to that site to roundly (and rightly) condemn and assure each other that we’re not like that. During the battle cry of the misunderstood, someone will raise a voice and cry into the night “WHY ISNT THERE ANYONE WRITING HEALTHY STORIES?”
I cant DRAG anyone to my blog. I post a link and people start bitching about spam. I reply to the whining cries with “I AM!” and then it becomes unwanted advertising for my product. I don’t even monetize the blog.
The kink community has joined the conservative Christian community in a single effort: making sure that the movie Fifty Shades of Gray is advertised over and over again to as many people as they can reach. Why? Because it shows the bad side of BDSM, the controlling, misogynistic use and discard of a person.
Why is there no one writing healthy, grammatically correct stories of BDSM? Because no one reads that.
When a “friend” from a social media site looks me in the proverbial eye and asks “why is there no good fiction or advice from a Dom?” I throw my hands up in the air and walk away.
I have five views on my blog. My big article was about FSoG. I had 32 people visit because I talked about someone else’s bad writing.
Why are there no good stories? Every Wednesday, #WickedWednesday comes out with DOZENS of intelligent well-written stories, articles and even pictures from people who DO understand what it means to live in the shadows of loud ignorant people who espouse the same titles as we do. FSoG and this idiot boi who blogs like a 12year old failing English and posts his pict like a twilight angst model for acne medication are the kink community version of Westboro Baptist Church: an insane fringe of media sluts that make us all look like idiots.
Why are there no good stories my dear friend? Because you have no interest in them. Because they don’t make you mad. Because you forget you’re lamenting in the face of one of MANY who TRY to maintain some dignity and respect for the same life style you’re trying to keep out of the mud.
I love writing. I must.
I certainly don’t do it for the money.
I certainly don’t do it for the recognition or the fame.
I could easily write something that goes against all I believe in and write it like a highschool dropout. Imagine not having to go back and edit. What a time saver.
But if five people in the world are going to read what I write, then I am writing for me. I don’t want to read FSoG, or blogs by Billy the Dom. I have little enough time fighting insurance companies, Comcast, and other organized stupidity. I’ll write for me, and you’re welcome to read along.
But if you ask once more why there are no good stories, you’re no one I want to know.
</end rant>

(by the way, I didn’t edit this. This is a rough draft. Maybe that’s what I needed?)

p.s. a little editing here and there. I couldn’t stop myself.


Somewhere in the near distance a lone saxophone moaned a sensual melody.

Her heals tapped the wooden floor in a measured step, mis-step and step.

The concussion of her heart, syncopating with the blood throbbing in her ears, heated her face and the warmth of the blush prickled her skin under the blindfold and chilled her naked flesh.

She held to the steps, the left, the right, the slide, the spin under his firm lead. She dove into the music, into her Master, putting from her mind the blindfold she wore, the clothing she didn’t.

Heals click, slide. Hands on his suit, move under his touch. Sway in the caress of the music, hold on to him. Breathe his scent, touch him, feel his lead.

The world faded in the slow cry of the sax, the blindfold taking away prying eyes. Only the next step, the one that matches, compliments his, the next breath, nothing more. Turn, face away from him, his arm under her breasts pressing close as each sway and movement rises above the real and into his sphere.

Lean in to his strength, free of self, free in his control, in his lead. His arms become her gown, his lead her will. Slipping away from empty crowds, bringing to the dance her sex, soul and essence, displayed for him, for her, for none. Slowly she adds to the dance, bringing in risks and challenges as she feels him smile, the approval in his arms and in the warm chuckle as she lets herself flaunt and shine in the sudden turn, the raised leg, the smile that shines from under the mask.

Naked becomes nude, vulnerable becomes ascetic, and the music protects her and binds her to him and him to her. No fears, no shame. He holds her, loves her and for the dance, in his arms, she sees what he does, she sees her beauty, her passion and the sensuality of her limbs as she writhes, supple and assured.

He thinks she’s beautiful.

She believes him.

In the blindfold.

In his arms.

Wicked Wednesday


Now that Alice is done, I have started on another tale. This one is post-apocalypse inspired buy the 70s classic novel A Boy and His Dog. There is a character who shows up for half a page, the leader of a Mad Max style of renegade survivors and then disapears from the story completely.
In the vein of leadership (See Wicked Wednesday below), I took that minor character and fleshed him out just a little to get an idea of what his life and leadership were like.
Here is a character study from my next tale.

The torches stank. Wood was scarce, everything was scarce. Old oil was all there was left to burn. Even that was beginning to fail. Soon their stockpile of food would begin to dwindle and they would have to move on, but there was nowhere to go. Sancha brooded on that again. His dark thoughts seemed to move in endless circles.

There were hundreds of men and their women who looked to him for leadership. Hungry, dirty, desperate men that found an anchor: something – someone – on which to pin their fears and hates and desperations. Him.

He needed to worry about food, about protecting his people from the outside and from themselves. He needed to plan, to organize, to survive, but the girl wouldn’t leave him alone. She stayed in his head and refused to leave him in peace.

Standing in the infernal obelisk, naked, afraid, trembling, she’d looked at him like a trapped animal. But in the fear, in the uncertainty, something wanted to trust him. Something in that matted and bedraggled, beautiful girl needed him.

Raul knew. Of all his chieftains, Raul knew him best, Raul stood by him. Raul was a friend, a confidant. Raul would have to be killed someday. Sancha knew it, Raul knew it. No one stands that close to the throne.

“You know she has to be shared.” Raul said without preamble. No need to ask who “she” was, Sancha had been silently brooding on that image in the obelisk for days. “It’s the law.”

“It’s the law.” Sancha echoed hollowly. “But she’s down there now. There is food there, food and gas and oil and light and all we ever need. She will show us how to get there and how to take what we need from them.”

“Why are you so sure she’ll be back?” Raul hissed.

Sancha looked at his younger brother. Was today the day he died for his familiarity?

“Because I don’t want to imagine her not coming back” Sancha growled.

Raul nodded, turned and said no more.

Today he would live.


Last #wickedwednesday I was late, so this week I’m early to make up for it. The prompt this week was “leadership” and there were a few ideas that came to me, but this one is based on something I wrote a long long time ago.
For this week’s assignment, I wanted to describe a leader by defining the follower.
I’ve been playing with the idea of a succubus, something dark and dangerous.
I chose my succubus because, quite frankly, the girl won’t leave me alone. :-)

The greatest Masters have the strongest slaves.

Soft footfalls curse the earth
Smoke rising from each step
Leathern wings frame naked flesh
Raven hair shrouds frozen eyes
Promise whispered in hot flesh,
Betrayal in blood-tinged smile.
Wrapped in sister night
Long legs smite the soil
Seduction smites the soul
Naked to the night, invulnerable in her power
Strength flows through her unbowed back
And pride drives her steps.
She strides in her right before me
Gathered storms in her wake
Lightning curls and thunder growls
As she kneels
And calls me

Wicked Wednesday