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,
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.
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
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.
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 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.
He forces his cock into my mouth, the cum cooling, and I try not to gag.
It’s a statement.
“36 minutes I get to watch back, again, and again, and again….”
Brow furrows, eyes narrow.
I don’t understand.
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…”
“…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.
My mind blurted it out, and in submissive parlance, it fell upon the screen.
“I have a hankering for something….destructive, and cruel.” I tell Him out of the blue.
“Anything in mind?….” came the response, not really the one I was expecting.
For a moment it threw me, and I stumbled over His words, my mind becoming snagged upon them as I fleetingly hung there, seeking to complete my own thought processes.
“I can’t describe it, because I only know how it feels, not what it looks like”
I don’t have a scene imagined in my head, I don’t have an implement already picked out for Him to use as I visualise my destruction.
I just know what it feels like before, in those moments of anticipatory suspense.
I only know what it feels like during, as His sadism surrounds me.
I can only feel what it’s like in the aftermath, when He is finally sated.
sobs wrack my exhausted body
It feels like stomach churning fear, it feels emotionally purging, something which eviscerates the thoughts clogged inside my head. I know my throat feels dry, skin clammy as nerves cause my body to shake, adrenalin amplifying the tension between us.
It feels like being precariously balanced on a precipice edge, knowing I’m about to be thrown forcibly over the edge.
I can’t pinpoint physical stimuli, only the emotional recoil in response.
I can remember, though, the last time I felt what I now find I’m craving.
I remember I wanted to curl, foetal, at his feet.
I remember he wouldn’t let me.
I remember I almost abandoned myself, then, and it took His words to bring me back.
This is what I have in mind, I acknowledge that this, however, doesn’t really answer His question, or help Him to take me there again.
This is always the way when vulnerabilities and usually deeply hidden thoughts have been shared;I need to be caged, I need to be small below him, trapped. The resultant restlessness which claws it’s way resolutely to my marrow needs to be expunged before it threatens to lead me away, back to that place where I guard myself possessively lest someone should breach my defences and catch a glimpse of those facets of self I instinctively keep hidden.
It’s not often I write fiction, but when I do, this is an example of the thoughts which pervade my mind.
I know what it looks like, in my head, this thing I call submission.
When I turn it to the light, it has many conflicting faces, but tonight, it wants my blood.
Tonight, it looks like pain.
The chill in the air,
fuelled by the consumptive fire of anger.
Both were hunter,
both were prey,
passion’s rage the anchor locking them together.
Disengaging from the ritual of resentment, time away needed.
Brooding, quietly, furiously, locking down emotions in order to protect.
Going through the motions, robotic routine.
Bathe, cleanse, letting the water purify.
It’s hard to cry beneath a liquid horizon.
Drying, defeated, resignation settling into the void.
Tiptoeing into a silent room,
towel temporarily protecting modesty.
Finding strength in ritual, even with no one to bear witness, losing oneself to familiarity where comfort keeps a residence.
travelling so far away his presence goes undetected.
a hand, fingers,
twisting hair into a knot,
anger burning fingerprints into his palm.
Frost biting at the skin,
pinpricks of ice shattering with each frantic thud of the heart.
Refusal to meet his gaze met with force,
A hand rests on cheek…
‘Are you cold?’
the mistake will be punished.
A flood, then,
not of harsh crash of palm against cheek,
but of liquid bitterness…
(……wintry water poured….)
Can’t breathe, can’t breathe.
Tremulous hands venture up
(…to wipe away the chill rivulets…)
‘Are you cold?’
Shivers wrack the body.
Time crawls, silence the cacophony which punctuates each fractured tick of clock hand. Eyes lock, emotion exchanged, reading, interpreting, hunter and prey sizing each other up.
‘You don’t get to deny me’
Head cocks, momentarily, in confusion.
Hand tightens in hair, wrenching, immobilising.
Softer voice now…
‘Don’t deny me…’
Releasing himself now,
voice hard once again,
providing a visual to compliment his words.
‘This is what your tears do to me’
Eyebrow raises in defiance..
‘….there are no tears….’
‘There will be.’
Once again, bitterness settles.
‘Hold out your hands’
still the tremors shake.
Another whimper as he demonstrates his dominance, a visual usually designed to arouse.
Unable to turn my eyes away,
Hands remain cupped, outstretched, tears threaten as realisation nips at the mind.
Breathing altered now, fevered staccato beats.
breathing shallow now, waiting my..
Hand tightens still more in hair as conclusion is reached,
I cry out,
his dominance, hot and sticky, falls in my hands.
Momentary pause, his composure regained.
‘Wipe it on your face….’
and shake my head
‘I’m not in the fucking mood to negotiate. Wipe it on your face!’
Tears burn, tears fall.
Dominance is turning cold.
Cheek stings, cheek flushes.
‘Wipe it on your fucking face’
Words, barely audible, drowning in tears
Spotlight illuminates abject humiliation,
hands shake uncontrollably,
as the act of submission is played out to an audience of one.
Hand releases hair.
Denying Him was never an option.
In front of Him, I break down.
Today, this is what submission looks like, to me.