Telling Tales

I have long been drawn to words over images.  I like to play with words, to find the word exactly suited to the situation.  I can (and frequently do) masturbate to porn, but my preferred medium tends to be kindle smut.  I had quite an awakening in my adolescence to Tiger Eyes by Judy Blume, yet sex on TV left me slightly cold.

It was no surprise that when I started to dabble in BDSM I would take my inspiration from sex stories.  The bigger surprise is that there was a place for stories on a BDSM hook-up site I used.  It was early days for me and I had no idea where my limits lay because I’d barely begun to explore.  I read story after story, left comments on those I’d enjoyed, skimmed over the poorly written, picking up ideas all the while.  Eventually all my commenting drew the attention of B.

B was a very experienced Dom.  He opened the conversation in a non-threatening way, talking about some of the comments I’d left, before moving to more personal information.  Based over 200 miles away from me he offered himself as a safe space, a place for advice to be sought and ideas to be explored with no pressure or expectation that things would lead anywhere I wasn’t comfortable.  He suggested we write stories in a collaborative way; one chapter each.  When I sent my chapter through he would call me and we’d talk about what appealed in the particular scenario I’d written, where the impracticalities lay and what could be done to keep the essence of the sensation without putting myself at unnecessary risk.  As an example in one of my scenes I was tied to the bed with silk scarves.  He explained to me how knots in silk have a tendency to tighten to the point they need to be cut off, and so I amended the story to include that detail: the cold steel against my wrist as a blade was inserted between scarf and skin, then relief as the silk fell away and my wrist was left unhurt.

I bought toys based on his advice, a set of restraints, a swing, a face hood, a remote-control vibrating egg, a vibrator that would give a sharp jolt of pleasure every time a text came to my phone.  We discussed with each of them what I wanted to achieve, what scared me, when fear turned to thrill.  All the time I was pouring out my fantasies to him, giving him complete access to every lurid thought that ever occurred to me.  Within a couple of months he knew every little kink that crossed my mind, a million ways to make my breath catch and my nipples harden.

He started being more commanding.  He’d send me into work wearing the text vibe and then text me obscene messages at irregular intervals, knowing each one would send a literal jolt to my clit.  I relished his control, the safety of the distance between us.

After a hellish few months in work my contract at last drew to a close, and since I needed to relax and recharge I decided to take a few weeks off before lining up another role.  B was very interested in my free time, and eventually I found myself agreeing to take a road trip to a hotel in central Glasgow.

I spend a lot of time in hotels (the photo at the top of this chapter was taken in December 2019, in a bland chain hotel in Sacramento), and I find them curiously liberating.  Even in the shabbiest hotel there is a sense of release from everyday obligation, of freedom from convention, of the ability to project any façade I choose, to be whoever I choose.

B and I discussed my forthcoming trip in great detail.  He gave me an opening scenario that I agreed to follow to the letter.  By then there was no dark recess of my imagination that was closed off to him, and whether foolish or not, my trust in him was absolute.

I arrived at the hotel and set about my preparations, placing the underbed restraints under the mattress, putting a silk throw over the hotel bedding.  I’d been waxed the day before so my skin was already silky-soft, but nevertheless I used the shower gel he’d specified, moisturised with the lotion he told me to, spent time carefully dressing in the underwear he’d picked out for me.  I was a cliché in satin: sheer black seamed stockings attached to a black satin suspender belt, black satin demi-cup bra, black satin tie-side knickers, the ties long enough to brush my thighs as I moved, the cuffs from the restraints fastened around wrists and ankles, snap clips jangling as I walked around the room.

I texted B that I was ready, and he gave me some stories to read while I waited for him to arrive, with stern instructions not to touch myself while I was reading.  The stories were by Kyoko Church and Elliot Mabeuse, two of my favourites, guaranteed to get my mind spinning.

He texted again as he approached, with further instructions.  I followed them to the letter.  I propped the room door slightly ajar – not enough to be immediately visible but enough that someone could walk straight in.  Lying on the bed I fastened my ankles tightly to the restraints and pulled them as taut as I could.  I put in my favourite rabbit on low, not enough to be in danger of orgasm but enough to keep me wet and whimpering, and made sure my knickers were pulled high enough to keep it in place.  I fastened a ballgag in place and put a blindfold on my forehead, before fastening one wrist tightly and one loosely.  With the blindfold pulled over my eyes it was a struggle to tighten the loose wrist restraint but I did my best, so I was lying tied spread-eagled and helpless in an unlocked hotel room, unable to see who entered.

I don’t know how long B stood outside the door, but it felt a very long time I was exposed and vulnerable.  Eventually I heard someone enter the room, and the door quietly close.  Each strap of the restraints was tightened in turn until I was barely able to wriggle.  Small suckers were attached to my nipples, making them swollen and almost painfully sensitive as they drew the blood to the surface of my skin while I heard the shower run.

I was lost in sensation when I felt B’s weight on the bed.  He removed the nipple suckers, straddled my ribs and pushed his cock between my breasts, his breathing harsh and short in his excitement.  Leaning back he fumbled to get his hand inside my knickers but he turned the rabbit up to full power before pulling my knickers tight over it again.  Squeezing my breasts around his cock he started to hump in earnest, and just as I started writhing in the frenzy of my orgasm I felt his warm cum splatter over my face, over my lips, across the ballgag, the scent of it heavy as I bucked and jerked.

He took the ballgag out and in doing so dislodged the blindfold.  Realising I could see him he smiled down at me before pushing his softening cock into my mouth.  I enjoy giving oral, and love to feel the change as a cock hardens or softens.  As a woman I have nothing that even vaguely compares to that type of change, so it fascinates me.  I had a second orgasm as I ran my tongue around his head, and as my mouth fell open he began to gently hump my face.  I’m not sure which of us was more surprised when his cock started to harden again so quickly after his first climax.

Moving down the bed he untied my knickers and removed them, took the vibrator out and gently fingered me to another climax, before rolling a condom down his shaft and trying to push into me.  Having my ankles tied with my legs flat to the bed made the position incredibly awkward, so he unclipped me and clipped the ankle cuffs to my wrists, leaving my legs bent and wide open – helplessly open to him.  His considerable weight pressing me into the bed left me with nowhere to move, no option but to passively accept the pleasure he gave.

We spent two days together.  B introduced me to anal sex, to many forms of bondage, to rope-play and to impact play with floggers and paddles (he wasn’t a fan of whips).  He set up the swing in the doorway leading into to the bathroom and tied me into it face down, before taking me so roughly I was left with fingerprints bruised into my hips and my breasts for a week afterwards.

In the evening B took me out for a meal, inserting the remote-control egg before we left and turning it on at random moments.  He sent me to the bar and turned the egg to maximum power just as the barman came over to serve me, laughing as I tried to keep my composure.  A fantasy we’d discussed in stories, he sent me to the toilets to masturbate before returning to him with my hand still wet so he could suck my fingers in full view of everyone.

Another fantasy we’d discussed, B called another Dom on speaker while he was taking me, and had the Dom talk filth to me while B made me orgasm over and over, the Dom on the phone threatening to put me on speaker his end so everyone in the pub could hear what a filthy bitch I was.

At lunchtime he called room service for a cheese platter to share, leaving me tied to the bed with the hood on and a throw over me when the food was delivered.  I wasn’t sure whether I could be seen and with the hood covering my face I felt liberated enough to find the idea incredibly arousing despite my perception of self as being the furthest thing from an exhibitionist it was possible to be.  B left the hood covering the top of my face but unzipped enough to fold it up so my mouth was uncovered for him to feed me morsels of cheese, crackers and fruit, pushing celery sticks into my wet pussy before feeding them to me.

My time with B was brief.  After that one delicious hotel stay we never met again, though we continued to chat sporadically.  We also stopped writing stories; I guess having met up the reason behind them had gone.  I wrote some more of my own over the next few years but gradually I stopped too.  Sometimes fact really is more enjoyable than fiction.