Sunday, March 28, 2010

Professional Appearances

Hidden behind the professional facade of stained wood and intimidation, perched in my chair of control, my mind drifts. With pen poised on paper, and eyes fixed on words that blur, blood already rushing between my now parted legs. With one hand in my lap, I covertly pull up the hem of my skirt feeling the cool air touch the moisture building between my thighs.

Slowly my fingers reach between the folds of skin towards the soft silky center...the hard round nub of my clit already aroused and pleading for attention. My eyes close and breath hitches as my finger begins slow circles around the sensitive button. The pen in the other hand shaking slightly mirroring the movements of it's mate.

People walking by outside my door can see me at my desk. Lost in concentration. Lost in the moment of thought. The intense look on my face only given away by the flush on my neck and my cheeks. I must not move...I must not wiggle...I have to keep my breathing normal. The heels of my shoes dig into the carpet for traction. Spikes hooking on the shallow pile of the rug. The left stocking pulled slightly higher than the right rubs on the back of my hand as I reach lower to insert a finger into my now dripping cunt. Slowly I lean farther over the desk, over the work that is the facade so that my finger can go deeper. Deeper like yours.

Visions of you behind me, pulling the chair out from under me and lifting my ass for access, run through my head. I can almost feel your fingers digging into the flesh, spreading my cheeks so you can see my holes spread open for your access. I want to put my face on the cool hard surface so I can feel the wood under my cheek as it would feel if your hand was on my back bending me over. And an involuntary gasp escapes my lips. I bite my tongue. I must be silent. I must breath normal. I must not flush. I must not wiggle. People are walking by the door of my office. I must look busy.

Counting...counting to 50...counting each circle of my clit that my thumb now makes. Counting each thrust the now two fingers are making into my wet pussy. Slowly as to avoid giving away the movement or sounds of what I am doing. Counting as if it were your cock filling me. Counting as if it were your hand on my ass. Counting as if it were your tongue on my clit. Counting as if you were about to if I could feel you fill me...counting to 50 so that I that I can...Whisper thank you over the pen I am now biting between my teeth as my cunt clinches down around my fingers. Whisper thanks for the visions of you, for the memories of you, for the thoughts of you as I feel the moisture drip out and stain my chair. Whisper thank you as I must be silent.

The knock at the door signals the entrance of duty. Responsibility chases out the visions of you and I am forced to be professional. I was just working on something very interesting, I say.

Thursday, March 4, 2010


"You know, I wonder... do we take the pain because it's arousing or do we take the pain because we crave the "good girls" and soothing that follows...." anon.

Pain as a gateway to pleasure is one few dare to approach, much less breach. More and more will stand at at the threshold and gasp in wonder at the sites to behold. The whips, the chains, the ropes, the floggers, the bars, the crops, the paddles. Some will even giggle as the breach the gap with a playful smack on the ass on occasion. Most, even if only in the deep dark recess of their mind, have wondered what those wonderful things may do...cause...mean.

Some will acquiesce to the experience because of a partner. After days, weeks, months, years of pleading the partner has worn them down. They will either become the recipient, or grudgingly pretend to wield the paddle.

Some will even look for the experience as a means to an end. The end result of soft hands on raw skin caressing away the sting. Rubbing away the marks. Compassion's substitute.

Some, on the other hand, crave. Longingly gazing at the back of the hairbrush. Sadly running hands over smooth unmarked flesh. Wishing, waiting, wanting that release. The endorphin rush, the dopamine surge, the "sub space" it what you will...the full entry into that place where pain is no longer just pain.

That place...across the threshold where pain has become pleasure. Where each strike brings the release closer. Where each stroke of the paddle is more intense than any man made toy with batteries. Where tears and snot and spit and natural lubrication flow from one's body until one final *whoosh* brings toe curling release and screams that blood filled ears can't hear.

Oh yes. There are many reasons we do what we do...but the "good girl" at the end is but the icing on the cake.