He balls up my knickers, infused with the musk of arousal, and forces them into my mouth, subjugating my voice, my defiance, my will to resist. A singular act with myriad strings which pull and tug until, like a butterfly on a board, my submission is pinned in place.
The lace feels rough against my tongue, jaw aches, mouth dry, but my mind, my mind is blown, all that’s left is me, authenticity exposed.


Resized_20160709_165545 1

Sinful Sunday

Self(ie) love

This week is prompt week here on Sinful Sunday, the theme being Change.

In light of a few personal things and the current climate of uncertainty bringing me down, I wasn’t going to post this at all, but nothing will change(ha!) if I always allow the lows to predominate.
Before I get onto my post, though, I want to point everyone who reads this in the direction of Molly’s post Safety Measures. The image is beautiful, but the post makes me sad, or rather the fact it ever had to be written makes me sad. How far have we fallen that we need to outwardly display our distance from racism and hatred in order to make people feel safe? Where is the empathy for humanity? I love Molly’s image, and love her for making the point in such a poignant and personal way.


So, the theme ~ Change

For me, the change has been a personal one, a change in personal perception, a change in how much kindness I afford myself when I’m so used to bringing myself down, to reflecting my flaws back at myself in such a brutal way, being my own broken mirror with skewed perspective. I do have my reasons for having been unable to claw my way out of that trap, historical hurts and poison-laden words which I took as being truth. I saw myself through those words, words designed to injure, hold me down and isolate me.

I’d become adept at deflecting any compliments that come my way, dodging them, feeling uncomfortable under their weight, because I didn’t believe that anyone could be telling me the truth. I sought to redefine their truth to fit my view of myself.
Hating myself became a favourite past time.

Then along came Sir, and bit by bit he started to affect that change. Not immediately….I always told myself he was only saying nice things in order to get his dick wet. I think I once told him that I was a sure thing, so to dispense with all that bullshit.

I didn’t believe him, and I’m sure I’ve hurt and frustrated him in the process. But if I don’t believe him, then am I not, by default, accusing him of lying?


He kept on saying nice things, complimentary things, and buying me pretty things, humbling me in the process.

IMG_20160628_110447I started to feel more comfortable within myself, telling him I’d taken pictures, teasing him with their existence that I shielded from his eyes.

C360_2016-06-09-10-33-30-246I wondered what it felt like to believe his words, to take them and reflect them back at him.


I found that I could have fun with the images, taking selfie upon selfie and laughing at myself in the process. This selfie shit is seriouz bizniz, yo!

C360_2016-06-26-17-05-47-329I took myriad photos of boobies, because, well, he likes them, alot! I even sent him one or two *grins*

Resized_shareI took images of myself in those pretty things, and felt good about the fact that they, or rather he, had made me feel good. I wanted to show him, through visual media, the change.

PSX_20160627_160507There’s no technical proficiency to these images, they’re quick snaps taken to titillate. Any image I deem ‘good’ is simply an accident of angle and luck. But that’s ok.

I love this image the most. There, I said it. I love this image, this photo of myself. I don’t hate it, or tell him it’s actually horrible when he tells me he loves it too. I don’t rush to delete it, or edit it, or change it so I hide myself away. He’s given me the confidence to be able to take these shots and be ok with my body, with my face, with how I look.

I can never repay that.


Addendum: this post isn’t so much about the images as it is about the man who hasn’t allowed me to give up on myself. He’s patiently nurtured me, quietly worked on inspiring the change whilst steadfastly and resolutely disallowing any negative speak by me towards myself. This post is for him, possible because of him, and is just one of a plethora of reasons why I call him Sir.

To see who else is playing this week, kiss the lips below


Sinful Sunday




This is what I crave.
granted or not,
is sought, not to abdicate responsibility, but so that I may feel the solid cage bars press unforgivingly against me.

The orgasm would have been hollow without it.


I’m in the mood to be destroyed, to be used, by him, for his own selfish pleasure.
I’m in the mood to get off on thoughts of my destruction by the icyness of the cruelty he nurtures so well.
I’m not in the mood to be shown any mercy, no tenderness, or heed paid to my tears.
I need to hurt, if only in my mind alone.


I use memory, not fantasy, to act out my desire, pulling emotion and remembrances towards me to further set my mind alight.
Recollection indicates he was fucking my mouth, and I open it instictively, whimpering softly at it’s absence. I recall how it felt, choking, Him laughing at me, yanking my hair to hold me in place, tears escaping, defiance melting away.
I remember he pushed his cock as far as it would go, holding it there whilst I struggled to breathe, making me wait before releasing me to gasp for air.

“Hands away!” the command I was given.

My path branches and I tiptoe along it, pulling another memory from the ever growing archives.

He cums on my face.

<pause, reflect>

He knows what this does to me, and that that’s one of the reasons He does it.
It makes me feel small, ego-crushingly humiliated, owned.


That’s the whole purpose of this trip down nostalgia lane.
I need to feel owned.
I get off on being owned, literally in the moment as the orgasm leaves me breathless, and figuratively as my enraptured mind is held captive, by Him.

I wonder if He knows that that’s what He does to me,
for me,
by placing around me those cage bars against which I longingly press? </interlude>

I imagine Him pulling out, twisting my hair just so, and cumming on my face.
I remember what it felt like as each spurt fell, landed, dripped…..
I remember He wouldn’t let me look away;He wanted me to see my downfall reflected back at me via His demeanour, His smug grin, He wanted me to know He’d seen me fall, the one situation I would do anything to avoid.

I hate being seen.

In order to be fulfilled, I have to be seen.

I allow myself a flight of fancy and see myself curled, sated, at His feet, His cum drying on my cheeks, streaks in my hair sticking it to my face.


Lying back in a post-orgasm haze, I reflect a little on my motivations.

The orgasm wasn’t the point. If anything it was the direct opposite of what I sought, in conflict with the purpose of that initial text that resulted in permission being granted.

Had he denied me, I’d still have been sated, my mind would have welcomed those bars, however cold their embrace. I’d have felt the weight of His collar around my neck, been acutely aware of Him during every moment of my day. Permission being granted gave me that exact feeling, except those bars felt a little warmer huddled around me.

It was not la petite mort I sought, but His control, however intoxicating it’s flirtation with my senses.

I needed Him to either grant or deny.
I needed that in order to be fulfilled.


Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked


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