Flash Fiction - The Force

Her back screamed in response to being forced up against the brickwork.  With each thrust new gouges opened themselves on her shoulders.  Her legs wrapped around him, she clawed at his chest.  Tiny speckles of blood accented the long red lines she drew with her nails.  He let out a loud growl and came inside her.  She shuddered her response. 

How deliciously ironic that he cold bite of steel should link them for an act of such debauchery. 

He winked at her, “We could have used these earlier…”

She giggled as the police officer pushed them towards the waiting van.

Second Flash Fiction...still haven't figured out how to install the button...100 words though, yay me!

Thank you Panserbjørne at Insatiabear!!

Play Day - Monday Part 2

Realization descends on me like a bird of prey from the clouds. For the past few days Sir has been talking about his "filthy mood". She, she can take an absolute beating...me? Not me! And now it is me, here, him in his already filthy mood made more filthy by virtue of the fact that she (the one who can take the beating) is not here...several things race through my mind at this point. We talk, chat laugh. He strokes my leg, pinches it a little. Then he says "lets go play" 

*shiver*

He slaps my arse as we walk towards what is now feeling like impending doom.


Our genial rapport is left scattered like our clothing which seems to find its way into quiet corners to watch.  Seamlessly, wordlessly, it is replaced with bawdy personification of our lascivious-selves.  


His hand slaps at my face, my arse stinging from his hands, his cane and I think the whip.  My back burning and I am splayed across the bed.  The cane is drawn again and it bites down at the top of my thigh. That really ouchy part where your buttock meets your leg, neatly he whacks.  I think the worst bit about the cane is that you hear it coming, feel the placement, know where it will land, hear the wind and the sound as it comes for you.  The struggle in not tensing is of course, magnified.  Then, most everything in TTWD is magnified.


There are tears and clamped nipples, begging, crying.  At one point I reached out to free my poor nipples.  There is always one the hurts more than the other.  I find it strange.  He looked at me, I knew the look.  It was a don't-you-dare-touch-those look.  I didn't and was soon relieved of the clamps.  For some reason every single time I think they will come off and I will feel better.  I always forget that it hurts like a motherfucker - always.  He never does.  I know he enjoys very much those few seconds of excruciating pain and the mixture of anticipated relief and shock on my face as the pain intensifies.  I love his fingers and hands on my nipples.  I hate clamps.  


I am lying on the bed and something makes me grin.  I don't know what it is.  Perhaps it was nothing.  Sir, I think, takes this as me not being serious enough.  That I am being disrespectful or not submitting.  Sometimes though, I just need to laugh.  It doesn't mean that it doesn't hurt or anything else he maybe making up stories about in his head.  It sent me into an uncontrollable fit of giggles.  The cane came out and whacked across the soles of my feet which sent me into further peals of laughter.  I am not a pain-slut.  Well sort of I am.  Actually I don't know.  I want it, I like it but it hurts.  Laughing was not making sense - even to me.  Then I was saying ouch and ending it with a laugh....then his whip came out.  I stopped laughing.  I don't even remember if he hit me with it but (I know I have mentioned this before) it hurts so much.  Giggles gone - pretty much.


I am standing in the doorway, fingertips crooked over the top of the frame, legs spread, on my toes, looking out of his room.  He is behind me somewhere, hitting me occasionally with something, a cane I think.  His voice moves around.  In front of me is a small unfurnished space.  Its far wall is a giant window.  A thin white curtain allowing me to see the outline of the squares of glass glows a pale yellow in the sunlight.  I am cumming, cumming, cumming.  He is calling, commanding, demanding my fingers stretch out over the door, that I am on my toes, that my body is taught and stressed and uncomfortable.  I feel the warmth of the cumming building in intensity.  "Cum now, hard" he says and I feel it trickle slowly down my leg, down the inside of my left thigh, snaking its way toward my knee.  Instantly he draws from me another and another until I can feel rivulets of cum sluicing their way down the inside of both thighs, down the inside of my feet, finally pooling where the balls of my feet touch uncomfortably to the floor.  There is a break for a few seconds.  I peak around at him lying back comfortably on his bed, just watching.  My head hangs forward, I am gripping the doorframe with my fingertips to relieve the rest of me.  He readies me.  I am begging for no more.  I have no more.  My head lolls back.  Last one.  Big one.  He pulls it from me slowly with his words and I feel it building in my belly.  I spray a neat little cum on the floor.  I have to admit to being quite impressed.  It was quite dainty.  I think about whether he can see the cum raining down, what it would look like in the intense yellow sunlight coming through the window and doorway.  I contemplate crawling to him, to the bed.  I don't remember getting there.  I know him well enough to presume that he helped me walk.


I collapse back onto the bed.  I suck at his cock.  I feel so spent, so gloriously spent.

Sick Leave + Old Man PornStar

I have officially put in for sick leave on my blog.  I know I could sit and write while malingering on the couch but it is not fun getting turned on while you feel awful - so I haven't.


Just caught up on reading this morning so back to writing tonight!


To keep you entertained while I bang away (at the keyboard, you dirty people) have a look at this link about a kinky old man....


Japanese Porn Star

I love it!


xx JaT

Getting Real

I am struggling at the moment, fair readers, with the editing of my blog.  I will let you in on a secret.  I play a little harder than what I write about.  I want to be honest, I really do, but there are somethings I skirt around a bit....and there are other things I skirt around a lot.  What I suppose would normally take half an hour to an hour to write takes me painful hours of deliberation trying to make sure you can understand why I am in the emotional headspace I am in without being too explicit...Don't for one second think I am anything less than honest.  Everything I am feeling and experiencing is real for me, it is just some of the physical stuff I am careful with - especially since I know some of the people who read...

So what do you think, guys?  For those of you who blog yourselves, especially the subbly bunch, what do you hold back?  Do you hold anything back?  Do any of your real-time friends read or know about your life?

I personally find the duality difficult.  I am not used to holding back anything from anyone.  I am about as much a what-you-see-is-what-you-get person as you can get.  Most of my close girlfriends know.  A few of my close male friends know.  My sister-in-law knows.  

The people I have around me love me and think I am crazy.  They have always thought that though, so this just serves to confirm it.  They shake their heads or say they always knew, even when I used to play back in the day, they knew.  None of them have felt it appropriate to even feign shock.  I wonder about that.  What is it about me that screams kink?  Not that it matters.  If I have always known, then why would everyone else have been oblivious?  I will say though that there was a bit of a murmur when I said I had a Sir.  It was expected that I have pup, but a Sir for you?   That has quite possibly been the most interesting part.  The reaction (especially some of my rabbidly feminist friends *waves*) to the idea of me submitting.  I have found that treatment of me is reflective of how people react to life in general.  Some of them read here religiously, some read occasionally, some don't read at all.  Some want details, want more from me, some ask and then don't ask, look and beg curiosity and then get squeemish - they are the ones who enjoy thinking things are terrible.  Some want to talk about the emotional side, want to understand the reasoning, the need, the desire.  Some want to talk about the physical.  As long as I am safe and happy they don't really care about TTWD. 

It makes me wonder how much of hiding and closeting BDSM really has to do with other people and how much it has to do with how we percieve ourselves.  People know there is 'kink' out there.  People, all people, have their fetishes.

I am not planning on handing out business cards with my blog-link to the other mums at my kids' new school, but really...this is part of who I am SO this is my warning to all you who look me in the eye.  I am going to start gradually being more honest on here.  You will be reading more of the physical realities of TTWD.  If you think there is even the slightest possibility that you will be uncomfortable - stop reading.  If you are reading out of morbid curiosity - stop reading.  If you think I am a terrible person - stop reading.  If you are a little turned on, you have my mobile number, give me a call....

I am good at keeping the pieces of my life whole within me and separate out of the necessity of life but that is something we all do.  You wear your daughter hat for your mum but it doesn't sit on your head at the office.  You wear your office hat at work, but not as a lover.  Your hats are all there, tucked away, to be pulled on when needed.  My BDSM-side is the same.  It is just a collar, not a hat!

So the questions were: 

For those of you who blog yourselves, what do you hold back?  Do you hold anything back? 

Do any of your real-time friends read or know about your life?

Why do you think we hide TTWD?

Flash Fiction Friday - The Siren

She leaned in to him and her breath hissed, hot in his ear. “Come walk with me.”  He followed her, this siren. He had watched her all night, everyone had.  He would have followed her anywhere.  He did not even know her name.

The early light wrapped around her in a golden haze.  As she danced along the track, her skirt flicked up, teasing, bouncing against the top of her thighs.  She looked back at him over her shoulder and laughed, pinching at her hem, tugging it out to the side, making sure he could see her arse.  She skipped away and then back she flitted towards him.  “Do you want to taste me?”  Without waiting for a response she knelt over him, allowing his tongue to probe her depths.  She gasped, her back arched, nectar dripping down his face.

“I told you, the fear makes it fun.  Can you feel the hum?  That is the train coming.  Don’t look so concerned.  I am sure I will have time to untie you...”  He heard the siren, heard her giggle.  He heard the siren and he could not turn away - he was locked between her thighs.

My very first flash fiction Friday peeps!  Thanks to Insatiabear! 150-200 words, phrase "in a golden haze"

Hopefully by next week I will figure out how to install the button...

xxx JaT

Play Day - Monday

I had been trying to get over to see Sir all weekend. For many reasons, one of which is I think his extreme pleasure in my desperation, it did not eventuate. There were plans for Monday....Oh yes, there were plans. I was to meet The Divine One at Sir's.

*sigh* give me a moment while my eyes glaze over

There were conversations over the preceding week. I have wanted to try something for a while and have only fairly recently been open about it with Sir. He had been unwilling to this point as he said I was not ready but somewhere last week he decided I was ready (squeee!).

So I waited - exceptionally impatiently. There were many, many texts. Many, many, many texts. (Did I mention that last month I sent over 1600 text messages? No that is not a typo. 1600.) I cooked, baked chocolate brownies. I went back to my Serbian-Waxing-Goddess. I made salad. I ate pizza with friends. I thought a lot. The weekend dragged by and I felt every minute. I jumped at my phone every time it blipped, hoping.

One of the rules I have is to not say "maybe" or "perhaps" to Sir. It has shown me exactly how many times I use this as the easy way out, a non-committal answer. His line is always "...is a yes or a no."

So I asked him Saturday night if, as he had alluded to, he would have me come over. His response "perhaps, maybe. LOL". So my snarky desperation ramped up. He had promised I could see him over the weekend. Well not entirely promised but this new thing...I wanted it. I was terrified but I wanted it. I was maybe a bit disrespectful, (swore at him) which he was quick to point out would earn me a punishment. I was apologetic, well a little. I also vowed and declared that I would never ever ever say to him again "maybe" or "perhaps".

Finally Monday rolled around. My exuberant previous car ride neatly replaced with the familiar, terrified, what-the-fuck-am-I-doing car ride. I drive and I think about it, this thing that I do. I think about the fact that I am knowingly choosing to drive towards the thing that I am scared of, the thing that I want but don't want. I am choosing this. Every second of every minute I am choosing it. Although I may question my sanity regularly, I rarely question anymore whether I will continue participating in ttwd because that choice doesn't seem available to me any longer. It is there but not one I would want to make or would feel capable of making with any intention of sticking to. In fact I take back the "want but don't want". I want it but it is a twisted want that does not make even vague sense no matter which way I turn it - and on days like these, I twist and turn it every which way but loose. (writing mid-sub-drop - sorry folks)

I pull up at his house, collect my things and wait at the door, unsure of whether to knock. I finally decide to. He strides over smiling, opens the door, ushers me in. I can tell something has unsettled him. We sit and talk and look at photos. The Divine One cannot come. I am disappointed. I wanted her. I wanted to taste her, touch her, watch her...

*sigh*

Realization descends on me like a bird of prey from the clouds. For the past few days Sir has been talking about his "filthy mood". She, she can take an absolute beating...me? Not me! And now it is me, here, him in his already filthy mood made more filthy by virtue of the fact that she (the one who can take the beating) is not here...several things race through my mind at this point. We talk, chat laugh. He strokes my leg, pinches it a little. Then he says "lets go play"

*shiver*

He slaps my arse as we walk towards what is now feeling like impending doom.

Kinky Excursion Part Three - A Lesson on Shoes

Every pore of my body was screaming for more. I was getting pouty and petulant and sulky - playfully so but the undercurrent was very real. He was immovable. I love that as much as I hate it.

We moved downstairs to the smoking area. I could not think of anything but want. I begged him with my eyes, with my words. I lost count of how many times I asked to go back upstairs. His eyes were playful, enjoying my torment I think.

Interestingly talking with Sir afterward I remembered many of the same people as he had: the pretty little thing in the denim skirt with a huge mouth and gorgeous pouty lips. Not my cup of tea, though I did have one or two ideas of where I would like to see her mouth. The girl with long dyed-black hair, who was much more my style (despite her hair) and sat behind us talking loudly about true bisexuality - a conversation which did not go unnoticed by me...I actually would not mind going back to look for her one night. Another girl who was, as we were leaving, being spanked over the couch by two men...yes, much more my thing.

People moved around us, talking, laughing. There were couples pairing off, kissing and fondling, perhaps a lover, perhaps a partner, perhaps someone whose name they don't know. There were one or two people around I would normally give a second glance but really, I just wanted to cum endlessly, to feel some real pain. I was not interested in scoping. Sir would not have permitted it anyway so it just would have added to my torment.

Women swathed in too-short fake leather, cut-off shirts, plunging necklines and denim skirts that are only for this purpose - the purpose of picking-up. The different styles and choices of clothing suggesting different things. The clothes are there mainly for everyone else, what they think others want. The truth of a woman is in the way she carries herself. It is about whether they lean in, or back, touch your arm, look over, smile, touch their face, catch your eye. You can tell what sort of lover a woman will be by looking into her eyes. Stare one time into a woman's eyes who is lusty as fuck, who is smoldering, brimming with need and you will never forget it and always look for it. The problem with most men is that they get so caught in looking at breasts they never find that out.

The men in their jeans and t-shirts with a little too much aftershave all looked the same - except for their shoes. You can tell a lot about a man by his shoes. Experience has taught me what sort of lovers they will be and though not all conform, it is quite accurate. There are three main categories, all were on display that evening.

There are the trainer-boys. My guess for the record - all single. These boys, wearing their "going-out" trainers, stood uncomfortably around outside talking to each other. They were leaning against the wall, pretending they didn't care they hadn't picked up and that they weren't still hopeful (they were). No confidence, just quiet and wearing their eau-de-desperation like a foggy haze - enough to gas any passing, equally desperate girl.

Trainer-Boys = immaturity but malleability. As lovers they can be hit and miss. They are much easier to mold into what you want but ladies be warned, you will have to be very specific and patient. They need a map, a compass, GPS and will still get lost, however they make up for it in enthusiasm. Don't necessarily pass them by every time, but pick carefully. They are definitely a regular partner - takes a while to train one. One night is not worth it.

There are the Work-Shoes Guys. These ones are usually a little older, their shoes scuffed and worn, they are a little more forth-coming in terms of talking with women but with about the same success rate as Trainer-Boys. Downtrodden and reeking of selfish need, a few had come to the club with their wives, a few singles. I would hazard a guess that they are there most weeks with varying success. Their shoes beguile their lack of personal care, a need for someone to take care of them and somehow a lack of confidence. These guys won't talk to the other guys, except perhaps to retell an exceptionally bad joke for the third time and are exceptionally socially awkward (as opposed to trainer-guys who just lack confidence).

Work-Shoe-Guys = selfish and needy. Needing to be looked after (read as mummies boys) and wanting to have someone care for them makes them prime stalker candidates (of which I have had a few). One night stand means little to them because they are desperate for a carer. Their selfishness means that they can't find your clit and don't care if they do, and they don't believe in a g-spot. Two minute wonders, at best. They just want to get their end in and then for you to come over to their house and do their laundry. Steer clear at all costs.

Suave-Shoes-Man. Last but not least. This is the guy you need to look for. Actually, you don't. He will look for you. He will have good quality leather shoes, not the ones he wears to work. They can be exceptionally modern but don't have to be, they will be clean and not scuffed. He is the one that will stand back and watch for a while, he will talk to everyone. Once you have noted his shoes you can take in the rest of him, he can be younger or older but he has got-his-shit-together. He knows what he wants, he knows who he is. Not to be confused with the arrogant twin who is just a Trainer-Boy-in-Funky-Shoes. This guy is smooth and alluring.

Suave-Shoes-Man = fuck. This guy knows his way around the female form. He is a Man-Whore. Man-Whores are hopeless romantics who love lust and fucking and women (not to be confused with the Trainer-Boy-in-Funky-Shoes who is just a player, out to get his end in and does not know what to do with a woman). Suave-Shoes-Man is calm, confident and knows what he wants. He knows how to make a woman swoon. He will please you - because that is his mission. Don't walk, run to your nearest hotel suite.

I thought about how I must look in there, in amongst the meat-market. I dress a little like a sassy-school-teacher, an art I have been perfecting. Walk past me on the street and you would think sweet house-wife, proper but with an edge.

We sat and Kate was talking about my cumming-on-command and asking about what the orgasms felt like and commenting on the faces I pull. Sir asked her if she would like to see another face. He pulled my shirt down, pulled my bra down and grabbed my nipples - hard and commanded I cum. Gasping, breathy, desperate for more I was taking anything he had to give. I wanted it all and I loved it right there, infront of whoever was watching. I didn't care I just wanted what I wanted.