Bukkake is the sexual act of multiple men ejaculating on another person covering them with their semen…

Just reading the description makes me feel uncomfortable, uneasy.
Multiple men. I can’t go there.
It’s an immediate roadblock, one that makes me want to cover up and shrink away from that kind of attention. It makes me feel crowded, and I need to get away.
I don’t want hands on me, mauling, groping, grabbing my body.
Even in fantasies where I imagine being taken by two, it’s the feeling of the cocks fucking me I get off to, not the presence of the faceless men they’re attached to.

And it’s not that I don’t like jizz, I do, but I like it hot, and fresh from source. I love the feel of it hitting my skin, especially my cunt or tits, molten desire that I can spread over my clit and get myself off with.
But cooling, cold, congealed, I hate it. Honestly, it makes me feel a little sick.
If Sir requires me to clean his cock after he’s fucked me, then I do it as soon after as possible, when any left on him will still be warm as my tongue laps it gratefully up.

The thought of being naked infront of multiple men with whom I have no close, romantic relationship terrifies me. It’s only now I’m happy with my nakedness infront of Sir, yet even then I sometimes relapse and try to cover up the parts of myself I dislike the most. Nakedness equals vulnerability, to me anyway. It isn’t the freeing feeling I’ve heard others describe.
*sigh* I often wish it was.

When I think of bukkake, I automatically equate it to jizz on my face.
Jizz on my face equals humiliation.
There’s an odd dichotomy there, a disparate duality within that word. I have a humiliation kink, I can be poked and prodded, have my emotions and feelings twisted until I feel utterly broken, but I can only do this with an audience of one. Infront of that one, I am free to explore the ugliness of humility, to process every emotion that surfaces, however that manifests.
But add many to that equation, and the humiliation is multiplied to the point of being injurious to my state of mind.

I can be used by one, fuck, I love being used by the one, but to be the one infront of the many, to be used by that many, and to ultimately wear their seed upon my body,
my skin,
my face.
I can’t go there.

Ultimately, when I think of bukkake, it’s difficult to put a positive shine on what feels, to me, like a threatening situation.


Tasked with asking for what I need

I saw a passage in a post on Marie Rebelle’s blog here which resonated so deeply that they made me take a step back and examine how those words apply to me. The following post is the result.


I sometimes wish that serving Him was my only need, that I didn’t have other cravings vying for attention, that the sole source of fulfilment came from catering to His needs and wishes alone.
My own needs plague me sometimes, occasionally to the extent that I resent them;as a submissive, should I even have them, are they anathema to actually being submissive? That’s a question that goes through my mind on a never ending loop of self castigation.

I draw a diagram, a visual template of thoughts and emotions, concerns interspersed with the occasional positive.
It’s disappointing,
I’m disappointed in myself
that there aren’t more.
That’s how my template is spelt.


I turn the paper upon which my diagram is drawn, refract the light under which the guilt casts it’s shadow in order that I may better understand it.
Fracture lines emanate from the centre, and I label them so that I may halt their progress;giving them a name stops them splintering unchecked.

Guilt for asking.
Guilt for imposing.
Guilt for wanting -> subtext;guilt for wanting and/or needing something he may not want himself.
Guilt for being disappointed if the answer is no.

My mind hangs it’s coat on that hook.
An imposition.
I sometimes feel that I, my desires and I, are an imposition, that if I ask for something, aquiescence stems from obligation rather than a desire which matches my own, and from there a sadness settles around me.

I never want to be merely an obligation.

That, for me, is the crux of the matter, the stumbling block that prevents me from voicing my needs, from explaining their origin, and occasionally from acknowledging them to myself.

From there tendrils of resentment haunt my steps, curling surreptitiously around my ankles, slowing my progress, dragging me backwards towards the void of silence I used to inhabit.
That brings me full circle, to wishing that I had no needs, that my only purpose was to serve, yet in that space a melancholia exists which seeks to asphyxiate
my personality
my needs
my desires
and whilst service brings me pleasure, it’s simply a singlular, multi-faceted puzzle piece that takes it’s place amongst other, similar pieces which slot together to form the whole.

Here, where I stand, head bowed, staring at my feet as those tendrils pull me back, asking for what I need feels like an impossible task, too much fear and hurt to overcome.


He and I have spoken of this obstacle infront of which I stand. Facing it, tackling it, is the only solution deemed acceptable. He tells me, start small. Ask for a hug, a kiss, something which doesn’t appear as imposing in stature as a need which, right now, is impossible to voice.
Start small.
He doesn’t want me sad, or fearful, or to feel guilt at asking for what I need.
All I have to do is start small.

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

Boobday Friday:Boobs & Rope….


Anyone who follows my twitter feed will know I love rope. I love the feeling of it, tying with it, but mostly being tied with it. There’s something soothing about it’s caress, even when the hug is so tight you feel each strand bite into your skin.

So, as my first foray into posting a Boobday Friday post, I thought I’d share the part of my body I love being tied the most….my boobs!! There are so many ways they can be tied, and ‘m really looking forward to practising, and photographing, my progress as I explore rope further.
I also have a thing for mono and red photographs, so don’t be surprised if any furthe rpictures also follow that theme.

c360_2016-10-02-14-26-11-961img_20161003_081955Knowing Sir as I do, I’m pretty sure he’ll approve of me participating in this meme now, and in the future *grin*

If you yourself participate, and you have a Twitter account, don’t forget to link your posts along with the hashtag #boobday


Task:A Fantasy ~ 36 minutes

It’s not often I get tasks to complete, but when I do there’s always a delicious tension which binds itself to my submissive core until the task is complete. Presented with a basic scenario, I was tasked with writing up a fantasy based around it, tasked with making it doable, believable, something that would be within both our scopes were such a situation arise. Usually, when I write down fantasies, they’re for Sir’s eyes only, it’s not often I share them here. They feel too personal, too insightful somehow, there’s a unique vulnerability to showing others that part of my mind that I don’t really enjoy.
But complete the task I shall, for in doing so I gain fulfillment the submissive me craves.


A conversation, an image, and that look that always crosses his face as his mind begins to put the pieces together.
That’s how it started.
An impromptu ‘scene’, a need sated I didn’t even know I had.

The mistake, ofcourse, was telling him the tie was surprisingly easy. A very simple Gote combined with a futo tie on each leg, each futo attached to the gote.
Bound, and completely immobilised.

“Show me…” he says and unknowingly,
I fall into his trap.

He looks at his watch.

His face betrays nothing of the thoughts gathering pace inside his mind, save for the upturned edges of that beguiling smile.
It’s tits and rope, think I, as I suddenly become aware of my nakedness, ofcourse he’s going to have that smile on his face, further proving the point that he’s by now very adept at knocking me off my precarious balance.

The magic of rope never fails to enchant me, and even as I start to demonstrate a futomomo, that familiar welcoming warmth begins to settle around me, the air sighing, content, as I begin.

He seems equally as enthralled as I, although more focussed on the how and the rope placement, taking it all in, detached from the emotions I’m experiencing.
“Ten minutes”  he announces, almost to himself, as the last knot is secured.

“See, it’s easy” I reply, “…you even have a little rope left over..” I add, moving to begin undoing my work.
He stops me, reaching for another length of rope. He wants to tie the other leg himself, having watched me complete the right one with relative ease.

The rope is starting to pull me in, endorphins creeping into my peripheral vision. It’s a calm I can’t very well explain, maybe that’s why I was blind to his intentions. Each inch of rope coiling around me lulls me deeper, breathing a little quicker, eyes a little glassy.

He’s a perfectionist, he’s not happy with one of his knots.
I see nothing wrong with it, but he unties, then re-ties, taking extra time to place it just so.
“Twelve minutes that time” he says absently, and touches my face, allowing me to rest my cheek in the palm of his hand as I so often do. I stay there a minute, quietly purring, hoping he leaves me in the rope a moment or two longer before my thread cage is removed.

He asks me how it feels, especially interested in my range of movement now both legs are secured. I manage to shuffle forwards a little, and those upturned corners take on a more acute angle.

“You do realise I can’t tie the gote myself, so I’ll have to practice on you” I say, nervousness at my predicament starting to creep in.
But no, he wants to tie it, and instructs me to talk him through each step.

“Not too tight….” I start to say, but am quickly cut off with a little growl in my ear.
“It’ll be as tight as I want it to be” is the reply, and my heart begins to thrum an increasingly frenetic beat.

His proximity to me, his arms winding the rope around me, his teeth skimming my neck as he speaks…
Mesmerised, I begin to shake.

Each time he thinks I’m falling further under the rope’s spell, he yanks it hard, waking me up, causing adrenalin to begin fighting with the endorphins for attention.

It’s a curious feeling to have those chemicals crashing headlong into each other, diluting the blood with their warfare. Even moreso the feeling of being almost totally bound, movement significantly restricted, a dichotomy of awarenesses;rope drunk on the one hand, yet acutely aware of every touch on the other.

I’m drifting, backwards and forwards with each pass of rope, the binding is tighter than I imagined it would be, struggling isn’t an option, and now, laid back against the pillows, I understand the full scale of my predicament.

Gote tied, both legs bound, an extra length having been used to secure futo to gote on each side, cunt exposed and glistening, it’s Pavlovian response to him clearly visible.
“14 minutes…” he whispers to me…”14 minutes to have rendered you completely helpless”


“It’d be funny if I got the Hitachi out now, wouldn’t it?”….

“no, no it wouldn’t…….”
Small voice, defeated voice
“…you wouldn’t…”
But I know he would.

He grasps my hair, first softly, then with more pull, twisting until I cry out.

“What exactly could you do about it if I did?” he taunts, releasing my hair.
I cannot answer.

He dangles 1 more piece of rope for me to see, the Hitachi being prepared.
Breathing ragged, small whimpers catching in my throat.

“You going to beg me not to?” he mocks.
“Go on, beg me, beg me not to tie this Hitachi in place.
You know what your suffering does to me”, his hand rubbing his erection straining beneath the fabric of his jeans.

I shake my head.
I can’t….
Can’t beg, can’t not beg, can’t do anything but feel.
My voice has been swallowed by each sensation stacked upon another.
And I feel everything, every fevered nuance of my plight.

“It took a total of 36 minutes to tie you”…..rope coils round the Hitachi head…”and now you’re to suffer 36 minutes of this”….Hitachi touches cunt, a momentary scream escapes, he leers at me from above.

“I haven’t even switched it on yet, my pet” he says, playfully slapping my cheek.

He disappears from my line of sight, the noises I hear make no sense in the sensory plane my mind now wanders.
Reappearing, briefly, his cock now in hand, stroking it slowly as he tells me what I’m to endure.

Camera, film, cry, gagged, scream….words I hear in staccato succession, spaced by explanations too many for consciousness to grasp.

A growl.
From me.
A growl of pain as he cruelly attaches a clamp to each nipple.
The pain is sudden, accentuated by the lack of warning.

“Aww, poor pet. Does that hurt hmmm?”
He mocks me.
He mocks me.

I start to drown.

Chain pulls, a primal scream echos around the room, pain is my lifejacket, forcing me to resurface.

He’s talking to me, now, in that tone he uses when describing all the ways he wants to degrade me.
Part growl, part sneer, words lined with frost, cold detachment, the sadist now fully at the helm.
Pumping cock in fist, his other hand making a fist in my hair, holding my face to him, ordering me to look at him as he makes a mess of my face.

Cum splashes, and the first tear falls.
Humiliating. That’s how it feels to be thus marked.
He knows this, uses it against me.

Sated, temporarily, he steps away, admiring his handiwork.


Camera flashes, eyes blink…


Camera flashes, tears fall.

“Silly slut…” he says, cock bouncing inches from my face as he leans over me once more, a drop of cum hangs.
“Clean it”
He forces his cock into my mouth, the cum cooling, and I try not to gag.

Task complete.

“36 minutes”
It’s a statement.
“36 minutes I get to watch back, again, and again, and again….”

Brow furrows, eyes narrow.
I don’t understand.

“Silly slut…”


Camera rolling.
A camera pointed at my face,
The face decorated with semen, some slowly trailing down my cheek, some cooling more rapidly than the rest.

“Make sure you scream for me, my pet, you know what it does to me when you do…”
Sardonic grin.
“…but not too loudly”
Panties are shoved unceremoniously into my mouth.

Overwhelmed, I screw my eyes shut.
“Your 36 minutes starts now”
And the Hitachi begins it’s assault on my cunt.

The most I can do is throw my head back as the first orgasm is drawn from me. Screams muted, breathing rapid, fingers flex, arms with futility straining against the binds which restrict, holding me, pulling me in, so much to feel from which I cannot escape.

He moves away, and sits, fingers interlocked, thumbs resting under his chin.
Intently he watches.
For  36 torturous minutes.

I’m lost.

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