Heartbreak Nymphomania » journal

Fantasies

Wilhelmina Wang — Sun, 24 Jul 2011 17:19:26 +0000

A random list of scenarios I’ve been fantasizing about lately.

Eiffel-towering a guy with another guy. Specifically: me and L co-topping another guy. Most likely I’d be pegging him while he’d be blowing L.
Being fucked by somebody else while on the phone with L, describing what’s going on & letting him listen in. This is all thanks to a Watchmen fanfic I read where Dan fucks Laurie while she’s on the phone with Rorschach.
Fisting someone. Thanks to the Watchmen kinkmeme, yet again.
Footfucking someone. After a conversation with M where I was talking about how much I wanted to feel what it is like to penetrate someone with a penis. I posited that maybe footfucking would be the closest I could get since I have very sensitive feet. Probably not true, but the idea continues to pique my interest.
Shoe/boot worship. C’mon, we all know I already have an excessive love of shoes as it is.
Bathing & dressing someone else.
Helping a guy cross-dress, e.g. putting makeup on him or brushing/combing his hair.
Wearing a spandex head-mask while masturbating. Possibly pushing it up above my nose, and then taking it off altogether towards the end. I can’t really picture myself doing this with another person, both because I’d be too self-conscious, and because another person’s involvement isn’t really necessary. I think this idea sprang into my head due to my recent obsession with Deadpool, but I remember wearing a face-mask once and feeling oddly safe and comforted by having a large part of my face covered. And there’s this piquant sense of mystery about someone engaging in a sexual act while having a part of their face covered, or having their face covered, period.
Getting fucked while dressed up in full dandy guydrag. For quite a while, I’ve been wanting to fuck with my gender presentation a little bit and purchase a tomboy/masculine wardrobe to go alongside my feminine one. Apparently I tend towards dressy masculine clothing just like I tend towards dressy feminine clothing, because I find myself wanting to dress in suits and ties and waistcoasts and pointy-toed loafers. Obviously, soon afterwards I began wondering about what it would be like to get fucked while dressed like this.¹
Doing vanilla things while I’m tied up. Specifically while in a chest harness, with my arms tied behind my back. I generally like having my upper body tied more than my lower body, probably because I can do more with my hands than with my legs, or because I value being able to manipulate things with my hands more than I value being able to move around from place to place with my legs. I had a little adventure with this at the last play party I went to, where M did some suspension work with me, then left me in the chest harness for a bit. I managed to turn on one of the bathroom taps and take a drink of water; pick up my wine cup, which was on the floor; scale a set of stairs to the upper floor² where everyone else was socializing; and find someone to help me pour some wine into my cup and put the cup to my lips so I could have a drink. I like being able to see how much I can do on my own without the use of my hands, but I also really like being helped by others. Which brings me to…
Someone messily feeding me or giving me a drink while I’m tied up. I have this very specific scenario of me in the chest harness, at a play party, and L feeding me a spoonful of a creamy-textured dessert, or giving me a drink of wine/champagne, and “accidentally” smearing some on my cheek or spilling some down my chin. I really dislike messy eating, and I frequently wipe my mouth and hands with my napkin when I eat. But with my hands tied, I’d obviously have to ask L to wipe my face for me. Meanwhile, I would be a little embarrassed at appearing “messy” in front of other people. And then I picture L picking up a napkin, smirking, and then setting the napkin on the table so that I’d have to walk over and awkwardly rub my face against it in order to get clean again.
Getting fucked/fondled while asleep or getting fucked/fondled awake.

Reading this over… it’s funny to see how many of my fantasies stem from either fandoms I’m following, or from my neuroses.

Coupled with the mask thing above, I’m a hop, skip and a jump away from wanting to get fucked while dressed like Rorschach. And I… don’t really want to mentally go there right now, because… what the fuck, self.
This was a terrible idea, and I advise against doing this. I could have seriously hurt myself if I had fallen over.

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Cunt

Wilhelmina Wang — Mon, 09 Aug 2010 23:02:19 +0000

Not exactly up to par with the Vagina Monologues piece, but the word is just so perfect that I can’t not write an ode to it. Labels, in a sense, mean nothing, but they can also mean everything. Or anything.

This also appears to be part of a slightly grandiose and ridiculous trend with me; of putting the female on a pedestal. It’s not something I really believe in… except, of course, when he is under me, calling himself my fucktoy, saying that I can do as I want with him.

I call it my cunt. C-U-N-T, cunt. Vagina sounds like a hollow vessel, a medical term for a cavity that disappears speculums and latex-gloved hands. Pussy brings to mind glitter and colors and lace. Girly. Say it: pussy. Feel your tongue curl. It’s a delicate word; delicate and tasty like silk strands of pink cotton candy; like cunnilingus.

I call it my cunt when I’m fucking you with it, as opposed to getting fucked in it. I say cunt in every sense of the word: the c and t sounds spat from the mouths of hooligans in pubs, brawling, flinging the word at each other as a sharp-spined insult; whispered by lesbians under the sheets, mouths parting gently on the vowel; shrieked from the rooftops by women, shirtless, big-mouthed, and defiant.

It will draw you in, please you and make you disintegrate. It will clutch you, put you at my mercy. It will end you, and begin you.

I call it my cunt.

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Temple

Wilhelmina Wang — Thu, 05 Aug 2010 15:40:32 +0000

I’m bracing my hand on your chest, using you for leverage in all reasonable respects. Now and again my fingers ghost towards your neck; my nails dig into the muscle that slopes down from your neck to your shoulder. I’m pulling you into me; quick and shallow and then lingeringly, so slow that you can feel all of me. As I stare openly at you, it occurs to me that your cock only makes sense when it’s inside me. When you enter me I feel as if my cunt is a temple; a sacred place of transformative power; a place that can change your genitalia from something absurd and nonsensical into something… focused. Directed. Pleasurable. Dangling between your legs, your cock is soft and out of place and silly and only causes you irritation. Does it not? But trapped between my legs, it becomes instrumental to your gasps, to the convulsions that sweep through your body.

—

You tell me that once you pass a certain threshold of your arousal, you cease to think; you fuck me with abandon, thinking nothing of me and only of your own pleasure.

That’s the way it should be.

I want you to pin me down, grab my hips, spread my legs and sink yourself into me. I want you to hold my shoulders and pull me hard and jarringly back against you. I want to say, “this is your ass, your cunt, so take it, take them.”

Fuck me until you’ve had your fill.

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Subspace

Wilhelmina Wang — Tue, 20 Jul 2010 15:13:09 +0000

I have him naked, with his ass up and his face in the pillows, red stripes down his pale back where I’d scratched him, and his wrists and ankles cuffed, each wrist connected to the corresponding ankle. I’m rummaging around in my backpack for lube and a plug. When I find what I was looking for, and turn back around to face the bed, I see that he had twisted himself around so that he could look at me. The sight of him exposed, with his face terribly lustful and hungry, was, cliche as it sounds, breathtaking.

I return to my spot behind him, lubing up my fingers and pressing one into his ass, then two, using my other hand to squeeze and pinch his hip. He is making the most wonderful, breathy noises, jerking forwards slightly every time my fingers move inside him, searching, feeling the plush press of warm flesh. His entire body quakes. I am kneeling between his spread legs. One of his hands inches towards my left knee, he finds and squeezes the flesh just above the joint, squeezes every time I push in, hard enough to make me gasp. Every pump of my fingers equals one jolt of pain for me. He has told me that being penetrated is intense, so intense that he has to hold my body in his hands, take handfuls of me and crush me as hard as he can.

Eventually I lube up the plug and slide it in. I ask him to turn over, and he maneuvers himself so that he’s on his back. His skin is pale and his lips, nipples and cock are a soft pink. I suck on his cock for a moment before rolling on a condom and unfastening the cuffs so that his hands are free. He doesn’t miss a beat. His hands find my hips as I slide him into me, both of us gasping.

I want to fuck him quickly and erratically, like two teenagers in the back of a car whose orgasms are clumsily reached, and over way too suddenly. I want to move on his cock until I come, but he’s making me go slow, tantalizingly, letting himself be very nearly engulfed before distancing himself again. He is subtle in all the ways that I am crude.

Sometimes, while I’m above him and making him feel, he does things that completely derail me and make me want to go limp. Things like: put his hand on my neck, bite me, push his fingernails into my skin. He does this now: he digs his fingers into my waist, and pulls me down hard on his cock before lifting me up again. I feel my face contorting into this strange combination of wincing, being about to cry, and desperation. It hurts. It hurts and I feel controlled and the two sensations transform into pleasure almost instantaneously. A switch goes off in my head. Just a while ago he was restrained and I was in control, but it takes only one gesture to make me need him to control me, instead.

We switch positions so that I’m on my back. He tells me to spread my legs, and I hold them open for him. He enters me again, fucking me slowly and exquisitely. I want to watch his face, but at the moment I need to keep my eyes closed. The feeling of being possessed and fucked is too much. I need to focus fully on the tactile and let it sink in.

“I want you to imagine,” he says, “that there’s a person standing to your right, watching us. Every so often I want you to imagine yourself catching his eye.”

As he thrusts into me, I do: “I’m thinking of them touching themselves…”

“Yes; getting so turned on by watching us…”

The person watching is dark and has serious eyes. I sigh and let my head roll back, and I let myself fall into that comfortable space deep in my mind that rocks and lulls me into a calm containment. The space that he has taken me to. I want to ask him to slap me, but I’m losing my ability to speak. All I can do is feel him fuck me, feel him close his fingers around my throat. All I can do is savor.

“I want you to look at me when I come,” he says.

I open my eyes. He’s fucking me harder, now, more earnestly. As the urgency of his actions builds, then releases, I feel him tense as it rolls over him, his eyes wide almost in shock. His cock twitches in my cunt.

For the next ten minutes after he pulls out of me, I lay there. I want to open my eyes. I can feel him hovering over me, watching my face and the pulse in my jugular that’s fluttering like a bird. I want to see him, speak to him, but all I can do is lay limply, sprawled out and utterly useless. I understand why they call it flying. I am soaring. I am no longer a person, but a rag doll, a thing that does not speak or move or take, but is used purely for the sake of my loved one’s pleasure.

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26 whacks

Wilhelmina Wang — Wed, 28 Apr 2010 22:36:39 +0000

Today’s task:

Carry a small notebook with you. Keep notes of the following:

- times you crave contact
- times you see someone and want them
- times you think of pain
- drinks you take

For each instance of the above, you will paddle yourself once as follows:

– sit in a straight-backed chair with legs bare
- keep your legs apart
- slap your inner thigh with your wooden hair brush. This should be hard enough to just sting, but not bruise
- strike the same spot every time.
- make sure each slap follows in quick succession
- if there were less than 20 items, give yourself 20 more slaps.

Drinks I’ve had today: 3
People I’ve seen and wanted to fuck: 1
Times I craved sexual contact: 10
Times I craved pain: 12
Total number of whacks: 26

Guess how many of the instances I wanted sex coincided with the instances I wanted pain?

This is another instance of me getting a task from Sir and thinking: “omg, how evil!” as well as “omg, how ingenious.” After reading over his instructions for the day, I felt like I was playing “the game”… you know, “you only lose at the game by thinking about the game”, etc. After knowing what was in store for me, I kept thinking about it. And I’d also remind myself that I had to do it, which made me think about how much I wanted it.

Quite clever.

The whacks stung more than I expected, but clearly weren’t that painful since they only left a hint of red, which has now faded.

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Choke

Wilhelmina Wang — Tue, 27 Apr 2010 00:45:41 +0000

Sir has been on a bit of a choking kick lately.

He’s never really mentioned choking before, but since I started subbing to him he’s brought it up quite a bit.

Today, Sir granted me two jack-off sessions. The first was while I was videochatting with him. After telling me to strip off each piece of my clothing until I was naked, he gave me a choice: to come on camera, or off camera. After some initial nervousness, I felt comfortable enough with myself to choose to come on camera. I lay back, adjusted the computer so he could see, closed my eyes, and went at it. I knew Sir was naked, jerking off at the same time, and I wish I wasn’t so self-conscious so I could look into the camera, and watch him.

Maybe next time.

Afterwards, Sir told me how much he enjoyed seeing me. He’s trying to make it so that I’m comfortable enough to perform for him. I’m surprised at how quickly I felt at ease with being naked, and then getting myself off, in front of him.

My second session came with a condition:

Since you did so well with your performance art – you are due for a reward. We will focus on your traditional pleasure points. Toys are permitted. but you are required to do this in a way that pleases me. you will be fully naked, lying on your back. There is one key – you need to loop a belt around your neck, and pull it just slightly tight as you do this. Cut off no oxygen, just make it slightly harder to breathe. I wnat you to be able to come through this sensation… and hopefully love it.

Initially, I was at pains to figure out a way to keep the belt around my neck hands-free and without hurting myself. Finally, I looped the belt around my neck, used a rubber band to mark the point where I’d want to add a new hole, and made a new hole in the belt with a craft knife thing I’d drunken-kleptomaniacally taken from Zeta Mu one night (I should probably return it). The belt itself, interestingly enough, is from my first boyfriend. He left it behind, and I kept it, but it actually doesn’t fit me. I used it to belt Christopher once, and hopefully will use it again.

Anyway, the belt made it more laborious for me to breathe, but didn’t actually deprive me of air or make me feel lightheaded or anything, which I assume was the point. Feeling the leather and metal tight around my neck, and having to alter my breathing, added to my arousal almost immediately.

I used my trusty Lelo Ina and came ridiculously quickly.

I’m looking forward to the day that Sir will be the one wielding the belt.

—

Note: I only had the belt around my neck for a 10-15 minutes, but I wonder if doing this multiple times would damage my neck. I feel like it’s the same as wearing a collar tight around your neck, but maybe I’m wrong. If anyone has any advice about this, please let me know. Also, ideally I would have wanted to do this with somebody else, maybe one of my roommates, knowing what I was doing so they could come check on me, just in case.

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Pet

Wilhelmina Wang — Thu, 22 Apr 2010 21:18:53 +0000

It’s only been about a month since me and J broke up, and already I’m back up to my old tricks.

A few days ago, I was venting to an online friend (who I will refer to from now as the Inventor) about the breakup. He consoled me, and after a while the conversation somehow segued to the topic of BDSM.

He asked if I wanted to submit to him.

I said yes.

For the past few days, he has given me numerous tasks to do. Some highlights: go without underwear for the entire day, expose myself and take a picture (he gave me permission to post it ^ ), & wear a plug for at least an hour.

He requests that I call him Sir, and wear my amethyst & silver bracelet (the one I used last time I was subbing for someone) when serving him. He let me choose my own title. I find most submissive titles somewhat obnoxious. I couldn’t really settle on one I loved, but I went with one that sounded less obnoxious than the others – pet. The more he addresses me with it, the more I grow to like it.

He knows I’m inexperienced, and so is doing his best to build me up without causing me (too much) discomfort. So far, I’ve given up quite a lot of control to him already. I cannot touch myself or orgasm without his permission (excluding sex with other people), and starting from tomorrow he will be picking out clothes for me. (I sent him a list of most of the clothes and shoes I own. God, that was a long list.) Interestingly, I think the clothing rule will be more difficult than the orgasm rule, because clothes are such a big part of my self-expression. But, then, that’s also part of the reason why I like that rule so much. Having someone control my behavior, even though it may be in seemingly inconsequential terms, is such an exciting act to me.

He also wants to make a point to get me to get over my aversion to verbalizing my thoughts and wants. If I’m IMing with someone, or writing, the dirty talk will just come pouring out – I’ve even started narrating sex in my head sometimes – but when it comes to saying it out loud, I freeze up. He knows this about me. He also wants to get me to be more comfortable with “performing” on cam for him. (And he knows me well enough to explicitly forbid any form of “liquid courage” while I’m camming with him. Damn.)

Yesterday, we were camming and he was telling me how hard he was at the thought of fucking me. Seeing his face and being able to put his facial expression to the words was exciting enough – I mostly just IM with him, and have spoken to him on the phone a couple of times, but never cam with him. Then he panned the camera down to show me the unmistakable bulge in his jeans. I bit down on my lip; on the tips of my fingers.

He said I might get to see more if I did something else for him. He wanted me to say, out loud, how much I wanted to fuck him. And to call him Sir. Nicely.

Part of me hates calling people “Sir” out loud. The word just sounds out of place; like I shouldn’t be using it.

But I did it. I fumbled around awkwardly in my seat for a minute, and then I did it.

He rewarded me by letting me watch him take his cock out and stroke himself, slowly. I stared. I wanted so much to take him in my mouth…

After I got over some of the initial nervousness and shyness, I began wondering how I could make things even more interesting. Like a child with a new schoolteacher, I started thinking about loopholes, margins that I could play with. D/s is interesting because it’s basically mutual manipulation, except both parties know exactly what’s going on. I wouldn’t want to do enough to anger or disrespect him, but I’m curious about what a little struggle could do.

I got an answer today. Last night, I got drunk at Zeta Mu and couldn’t find this one person I’d been looking to hook up with (again). I went to bed drunk and sexually frustrated, and ended up putting my hands into my boxers and touching myself for a few minutes before drifting off to sleep.

I confessed this to him today, while I was at work, actually. He told me to find a private place, expose my ass, and spank myself hard enough to leave a red mark. I very self-consciously went to the restroom and did so. I knew that my hand would not be enough, so I ended up using a letter opener. Talk about creative use of office supplies.

I came back to my desk feeling embarrassed and obedient, with the sting of the letter opener slowly fading away as I sat.

I’ve been brought to such a heightened state of sexual tension that it feels like my entire body is thrumming. I think about fucking him while I’m at work, and while I’m doing my daily errands. I picture him taking me bent over desks, surreptitiously in darkened hallways, and on sumptuous bedsheets. I picture him biting me, fucking me hard and kissing the breath out of me until I’m too spent to move or speak after he’s done.

Naturally, I hadn’t done anything sexual for about a week beforehand. He has only granted me one orgasm so far, so I savored it. I made myself come like I hadn’t in a long time: only with my fingers, slowly circling my clit and exploring my folds, while imagining him throwing me over his lap, spanking me and making me whimper, before brushing his fingers, oh so softly, over my wetness.

He has wonderfully large hands. I know that much.

This is re-opening parts of me that had been temporarily closed off. I’m writing erotica again; feeling my sexual energy again. I didn’t realize what a big part of my sexuality kink was. I don’t need it all the time, but it was definitely difficult being with a purely vanilla partner. I love vanilla sex as much as anyone, but so often my mind would naturally edge towards biting, scratching, slapping, serving and kneeling. Not being able to express my sexuality that way made me kind of boring.

I’m grateful for what he has done for/with me so far. And I’m looking forward for what is to come.

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Claiming (4/4): A Postscript on Power

Wilhelmina Wang — Wed, 21 Apr 2010 17:48:49 +0000

This is a series I started a while ago, around October 2009, but never finished. It’s kind of stale now so I don’t want to continue it. I wrote this post as a planned ending, and I’m posting it now because I think it’s important for me to say it, though I didn’t actually write the rest of the planned posts. Also, it’s less awkward to post this now that I’m not seeing someone else.

Read part 1, part 2 and part 3, if you want.

[a scene from the movie Secretary]

I believe that if you have an interest in D/s, power probably has some sort meaning in your life.

Of course, power effects everyone in some shape or form. It underlies every area of life. But if you’re into D/s, it’s different.

Power means something special to you.

Well, at least, it means something special to me. I’m fascinated by it. I write about it, both in erotica and regular fiction. And sometimes I crave it. Crave to at least pretend that I have it, that I have power over something or someone else. Crave for it to be taken away from me and given to someone else.

Power says something about me – about my personality. About my background. About the experiences that formed the person I am today.

I’m not saying I’m some kind of rape or assault survivor. Nothing as severely damaging as that. Much less harmful. Some things, that I don’t even understand enough to talk about here, aren’t harmful at all.

But still. Doesn’t have to be big to be meaningful.

—

While I was doing those things for Sir, I felt familiar emotions come over me. Familiar, but not the same as I remember. You see, I’ve been in a number of emotionally abusive friendships in my lifetime, in the sense that I was too giving, and they were assholes who took advantage of it. At least three of my closest friends were people who also demanded a lot of me.

Best Friend #1 would criticize me for very small things, intensely and spitefully enough that it made me terribly upset. That’s when I started scratching myself. She got me to do things for her, like help her with her homework, keep her company, wait for her when she had things to do after school, but at a detriment to the things I had to/wanted to do for myself. And she would get really angry if I said I couldn’t do them. I was friends with this person for four years. I think it’s a large reason behind why I struggle so much with having low self-esteem now. We still actually keep in touch, although our friendship dynamic has changed: now she treats her boyfriends like shit, not me.

Best Friend #2 was very needy. He had a lot of issues to work through. For a while it was almost like I was his counselor/personal assistant. I’d wake him up and try and get him out of bed if he asked me to. I stayed up late with him when he wanted me to (I think the latest I stayed up with him was until 8am on a school night). I talked through his schoolwork with him when he was having trouble with it, and skipped social events I wanted to go to for him. This friendship was unlike the first: I really don’t believe that he purposefully set out to hurt me. I think he was just going through a very bad time and really needed someone to be there. And another difference: this time I tried to struggle. Sometimes I’d try to turn my back on him, but he made me feel so bad about it and guilt-tripped me so badly that I ended up giving in anyway.

The bottom line, though, is that a large part of me very much enjoys, and needs to, help the people I care about and do things for them. They were being selfish, but in a way I was being selfish too, because I needed to be needed. I like being needed. Often, I care more about the things I’m doing for other people than the things I’m doing for myself. (Which I know is not healthy – I need to care about myself too, just as much as anyone else I love, and I am getting better and better at doing that.) But I made it too easy for people like #1 and #2 to take advantage of me. I didn’t take care of myself enough. I let that be their responsibility instead of my own – and so they walked all over me.

I felt myself falling a little bit back into that mindset with Sir. Wanting intensely to do exactly what he wanted me to do, feeling anxious when I wouldn’t be able to. But it wasn’t exactly the same as before: it was better. It was so, so much better. Some people still mistakenly believe that BDSM is abuse – it’s really not. With Sir, I didn’t feel panicked or scared or sad. On the contrary, the experience made me feel happy and fulfilled. The few times that I started to panic about not being able to do something, Sir realized this and calmed me down. He took my feelings and my needs into consideration every step of the way. In many cases, it was more like Sir was doing things for me, giving me chances to indulge in the fantasies that I had, instead of the other way around.

Most importantly, I chose to submit to him. I wasn’t forced to. It wasn’t like he threatened to end our friendship if I didn’t do this with him.

Consent and consideration. A person who says s/he’s a “dominant” and ignores those two basic principles is a dick in dominant disguise, or else a really bad dominant.

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Claiming (3/4): “Go pantiless after.”

Wilhelmina Wang — Tue, 19 Jan 2010 19:16:07 +0000

I suppose I should finish what I started… wrote most of this a while ago.

These events occurred circa. October 2009. Read part 1 and part 2.

[via Maria's Photo]

Day #2, continued.

The first thing he wanted to do was make use of me being so turned on. We had moved back to email now, and I sat there, waiting eagerly for him to tell me what he wanted me to do.

I’m pretty sure my jaw dropped when I read his next message: he wanted me to find a restroom to masturbate in, and wanted me to go pantiless after I was done.

Just picture it, will you, for a moment? Me, unassuming in my grey puffball dress, walking through the library – which was silent except for the occasional rustle of pages, filled with students intent on their work. Me, filled with so much nervousness and excitement that I was practically sizzling with emotion…

I went down the stairs, floating in a dizzy haze, and found the restroom. I entered the biggest cubicle, took off my boots, took off my leggings, finally took off my panties. I folded them nicely and set them down, then set about getting myself off.

It didn’t take me very long. I was already soaking wet and had mental fodder enough… but the thing that kept playing over and over in my head was the word used. How Sir wanted to use me, how he wanted me to feel sore and exhausted and worn out and used, used, used…

This library was one of the less “popular” ones, and so the restroom was completely empty, and also silent. Every breath, every slide of my fingers inside me and back out were clearly audible, and I hoped and hoped that nobody would walk in until I finished.

I was lucky. Just as I felt my orgasm begin to swell, somebody loudly pushed the door open.

I gave myself a few moments to calm down before I pulled my leggings and boots back on and tucked my panties into my jacket pocket. My leggings were made of silk, and I could feel the material against my damp pussy – cool and soft.

I walked slowly and self-consciously back to my spot. I sat down and immediately sent Sir a message, telling him I had done what he asked.

His next demand was that I take a picture of my panties with my phone and send it to him. I considered walking back to the restroom and taking the picture there, after a quick look around I realized that so few people were in the library that no one would notice if I took the picture right where I was. I quickly took my panties out of my pocket, crunched them in my hand, and shoved my hand under the desk. I opened my hand, clearly displaying the panties (unfortunately, white with bright pink stars and, for some reason, Superman logos on them) and snapping a picture.

He had a few more instructions for me for the rest of the day. He wanted me to find a collar or choker of some sort that I could wear when I was doing tasks that he set me. I had a cloth choker, which he told me to use. He asked me what the rest of my day looked like. I didn’t have anything to do except go to dinner with a friend. He told me that I had to excuse myself during dinner and bring myself off again.

Shortly before dinner, I went back to my room to look for the choker, that I hadn’t worn at all before this. I couldn’t find it in my dresser or among my clothes. I took down the storage boxes from the top shelf of my closet, and rifled through them, then grumbled loudly in frustration.

The choker wasn’t there.

I checked all the drawers and boxes over again. I was so frustrated. Sir wanted me to use that choker, and I wanted to use the choker, but the choker was not there. I wanted to try my hardest to do what he wanted me to do, but I couldn’t, since I guessed that I must have left it back home, halfway across the globe. (An email to my sister asking her about it later confirmed my suspicion.)

I apologetically told him about what happened. He immediately reassured me, and asked if I had anything else. I was relieved. He knew I don’t like being talked down to or humiliated, and I’m glad he remembered and didn’t do either of those things. He ended up choosing a simple bracelet – silver with a plain amethyst clasp – for me to wear when I was submitting to him.

Soon I had to go to dinner, so I put on the bracelet and went over to my friend’s place… It soon proved that excusing myself to get myself off would be difficult. My friend wanted some advice on a problem, so I felt bad about interrupting her. Eventually our conversation wound down, so I went to do what Sir had asked.

My friend didn’t live in a dorm, she lived in an off-campus house. She directed me to the bathroom… it was right next to the kitchen, and the door didn’t lock. Great. I had to hold the door shut with one hand, and I could hear everyone talking and hanging out in the kitchen. Using my fingers against my clit, there was no way I was going to come, I was too distracted.

I had come twice that day already, but Sir wanted me to have come three times. He’d be making me pay for that transgression later…

To be continued…

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Claiming (2/4): “Assume the position.”

Wilhelmina Wang — Sat, 28 Nov 2009 18:14:28 +0000

These events took place circa. October 2009. Read part 1 here.

Day #2

Two days later, on a typically doleful Monday, I was at work when Sir emailed me. He was at work, too, and was having a stressful day. He asked me if I was up to helping him “relieve himself.” I agreed at once – both excited to see what was to come and glad to escape my own humdrum day, if just for a little while.

He asked if I had done anything to warrant a spanking, and I told him a few “bad” things I had done over the past few days. Slept through class. Behind on work. The usual transgressions. He said that I should take my academics more seriously, and then asked that I “assume the position”: all fours, face down. He wanted me to feel vulnerable. I was familiar with how that position felt – it made me feel exposed – but tantalizingly so – imagining the gaze of my lover wandering down my body, taking in everything.

Sir started spanking me, again: harsh swats that stung and reddened up my skin. He built up a rhythm until he was happy with the hue of my behind, then soothed my burning skin with his hands.

At the library front desk, I bit my lip and shifted, suddenly uncomfortable in my seat. My eyes were fixed on the computer screen – utterly intent on it. I hoped that the head librarian wouldn’t suddenly come by to fetch something, as she sometimes did, because I didn’t want to interrupt our session by having to hurriedly minimize my email in order to hide it.

He resumed spanking me, letting his fingers land between my legs, moving on to heavier blows… I let him know how turned on I was, and imagined what I’d do if this was really happening – gasp, squeal, half-attempting to escape from his blows and half-arching towards his touch; wanting and detesting the mix of pleasure and pain at the same time.

By then, my work shift had come to an end and I had to leave to do some errands. I told Sir, and so we switched to text messages. It was so unbelievably hot to do something as mundane as stand in line to pick up some packages, but with my thumbs flying over the keypad of my cell-phone, attempting to settle my facial expression into a non-incriminating configuration that did not betray what I was doing, heat pooling at my clit…

Sir began probing me, pressing his fingers inside me as he continued landing slaps all over my behind. I was both embarrassed and intensely aroused, groaning, overwhelmed with sensations. He rocked his hand as I rocked back into him, then pulled his fingers out and rubbed my clit, using his other hand to pull my hair so my head snapped back uncomfortably.

And then he took his cock out, the cock that I had never seen but knew was thick and substantial, according to what he had told me, and that I knew would stretch and fill me wonderfully… He pulled my body towards him, sinking himself into me. I tried my muffle my moans until he asked me to stop… half-reluctantly I took my knuckles out of my mouth and let my moans and choking cries fill the room. He pounded into me until he was about to go over the edge… then pulled out just as he came, spurting his come all over my back, leaving me limp, shuddering, and sated…

The end of our tryst found me in the library again, this time getting ready to do some homework… but so wet, bothered and distracted that I could barely even focus on the readings in front of me; my mind filled with gorgeous, filthy images as a result of what had just happened between us.

But things did not end there – Sir had more in store for me: he wanted to stake a claim on me. It was early afternoon and the day still stretched on before us, and Sir gave me a list of things that he wanted me to accomplish before going to sleep.

To be continued…

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