Tuesday, June 30, 2015

Naked: A softening perspective

I look at myself in the mirror. Naked. From a distance, there's an hourglass shape. Upon closer inspection, however, there are all the faults I'm learning to process. The older I get, the more of them I see. But also, the easier they are to accept. My perspective softens with age. And I become more forgiving.

I stopped looking at magazines years ago. But it doesn't mean I don't inadvertently compare myself to other women. Constantly. And it shines a huge spotlight on my insecurities. My rather ample behind, my softening midsection, my less than perky breasts.

But, when I'm alone, I can usually look past all of that. And I'm getting better at accepting that Daddy finds all of it attractive. All of it. Which sort of blows my mind. I'm also getting better at dressing for the body that I have rather than the body I wish I had.

Acceptance is half the battle right?

So as I stand naked before the mirror, in the full glow of the bathroom lights, I place a hand beneath each breast to lift them. I let them drop and marvel at how changeable they are. When it's cold, the nipples pucker and darken to a shade of brown. But they melt in the heat, becoming weighted by the humidity. They grow dark hairs that I constantly pluck out, because I hate them, But the areolas, on a warm day, are a lovely shade of blush  on a background of pale white skin.

Monday, June 29, 2015

Caveat Emptor

The man in the suit was speaking to them both, "I want you to lie down in front of the window. People will be filing past, and that will give them the best view."

"What exactly do you want us to do?" asked Callie, the shorter of the two, and younger by a few years. Her short curly hair, matched the short curly hair between her legs, which the man was looking at now. She followed his gaze and looked down. "Do you want me to shave it?"

"No. It's fine. Everyone has their preferences, and I'm sure someone will like to see what you've got there. Besides, there's no time."

Emily, who was already shaved hairless as a babe, looked at Callie, "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Yes. It's easy money. And you'll be here with me. I'll be fine." Callie looked away.

The man in the suit continued with his brief instructions, "The crowd will begin filtering in around 10. They'll wander past, gaze in...but some will linger, so try to change it up a bit - don't always do the same thing. Don't ever forget you have an audience, and making them happy is what I'm paying you for."

"Simple enough," Callie mumbled, and glanced away. She was obviously afraid, and ashamed.

The man left them alone in the room. They had thirty minutes to prepare for the "show." Emily put her arm around Callie's bare shoulders, "Are you really sure? We can find other ways to pay the rent."

"No. I mean, yes...I'm sure. And no...this is easiest. And no one's sticking their cock in me. I'm safe here."

"You're always safe with me, Callie."

"I know. I just wish we didn't have to work so hard to make it."

"It won't always be this way, Cal. It won't."

Callie looked up into Emily's amber eyes. Emily always tried to keep her up, but Callie hovered just above rock-bottom no matter what Emily did.

"Just keep your eyes on me, Cal."


Callie took her place on the bed, her head just below the dark window. Emily lay beside her, resting her hand supportively on Callie's muscled thigh. It was tense, and Callie's face was cemented into a frown.

"You should smile, Callie. Our tips rely on how happy we make our audience."

"I know," she whispered. "What am I supposed to do? Just fuck myself?"

"Just take your time, Cal. These guys just want to see you enjoy yourself."

"That's rich, Emily. You know that ain't gonna happen."

"You could try, Callie. Just close your eyes."

Saturday, June 27, 2015

In Bed with Books (Sinful Sunday)

More than once, books have been responsible for my naughty thoughts and actions. They inspire that little twitch at my core, that expands outward to my erogenous zones...most assuredly - my brain being at the top of that list.

While reading in bed the other night...and after being asked to text a pic to Daddy while he was out of town...I took these several shots:

Friday, June 26, 2015


You could 

chain me 
to your belt loop, 
dragging me around, 
place to place,
just to be sure that 
I would follow.

But you don't 
have to.

Your gaze is chain enough--
thick, heavy, palpable--
your eyes pull me in,
hold me immobile,
even bid me to move
whichever way you desire.

I could say no to you,
but I won't.

So there is no reason
for chains...

unless it is
your wish
that I be

In which case,
you could tie me up
just for fun,
bend me,
shape me,
touch me,
leave me

You could say no to me,
which you will,
just to prove
that you can.

There is little
I can do
to stop you.

There is little
that I want
to do...


You can be happily "chained" to a person. Or not so happily. Or...like me and Mine...you can need the other so much that when they are away you don't feel "quite right." Your souls are tied...or chained - and there's no set of bolt cutters that's going to break them apart. Seriously, even if you were separated forever, by land, sea, divorce or death...you'd still feel it. That pull. That necessity. 

It's more than love. 

It's life itself.

Indeed...the meaning of life is not 42 (yes...I'm that big of a geek). The meaning of life is connection.

And a set of chains is as good a metaphor for that as any. Because that connection is not always easy, or soft, or happy. It just is and must be. 

Wednesday, June 24, 2015

Sexually disabled? disordered? dysfunctional?


a Latin prefix meaning “apart,” “asunder,” “away,” “utterly,” or having a privative, negative, or reversing force (see de-un-2.); used freely,especially with these latter senses, as an English formative:
disability; disaffirm; disbar; disbelief; discontent; dishearten; dislike;disown.

(source: Dictionary.com)



  1. 1.
    speak disrespectfully to or criticize.
    "I don't like her dissing my friends"
  1. 1.
    disrespectful talk.
    "the airwaves bristle with the sexual dis of shock jocks"

(Source: Google Dictionary)


Referring to the city of Dis, from Dante's levels of hell. The city of Dis is the level of hell to which all non-believers, who have not otherwise sinned greatly, will go. The city is surrounded by a field containing countless numbers of burning coffins, in which the heretics lie, screaming. Limbs from non-believers are scattered around the plains, and the city itself is surrounded by thick iron walls.
(source: Urban Dictionary)
Indeed, having any type of sexual "dys" function or "dis" order or "dis" ability can feel like being "dissed" (is that even how you spell it?) by your own body, and taking a solo vacation in the city of Dis. You fall outside of society's norms. You don't fit. You are given a label. Not an excuse, mind you. No one gets one of those...unless, of course, you are disabled in other, more acceptable ways. You know, the kind you can't do anything about...like maybe mental retardation (yes...I know there are more politically correct ways to say that now...more positive, inclusive ways - like "mentally challenged"), or you no longer have the use of your limbs ("differently-abled"), or you are dumb (not stupid..."mute!"). For those with sexual "issues," we face labels like "impotent," "hormonal," "frigid," "cold," "broken," "abnormal." Sex research has come a long way since Freud and  Kinsey...but because sex comes in so many forms and variations, is born of so many influences and motivations, and leads to so many experiences, emotions...so much confusion and misinterpretation, it still eludes much of the human race, including the doctors. 
We know the biological function of sex. Put peg A in slot B and voila!: baby. 
If no baby...well...peg A or slot B is broken. Impotent? A man is no longer a "man" by much of society's standards when slapped with this label. Barren? What did she do for God to smite her so? Whore. Now she'll be a spinster. Maybe an old maid. Or just a disappointment to herself and the man that is now stuck with this poor, sad woman. Or he'll divorce her and find a nice lady who can bare him many sons. Or they'll adopt beautiful Ethiopian children and she'll smother them with affection to bury her guilt and insecurity.
Yah, we're more progressive than that. Aren't we? Or are we? I'm not so sure. I hear the jokes. The comments said in "jest." 
Even worse than a man or a woman who has a medically proven reason for their label is a man or woman whose sexual "dysfunction" or "disorder" or "disability" is hormonal or, worse yet, mental or emotional. 
Now, not only is the poor sap or unfortunate dame "broken," he or she is also likely sporting an ailment that is "all in his or her head." 
They used to call it hysteria...covered pretty much all the bases when doctors couldn't figure out what was wrong with a woman.
Then, they decided you just needed the sea air, and sent you to the coast for the summer.
And now, since it's a booming business, they send you to specialists, counselors, therapists, and give you medications for all sort of things (because they really don't know the cause). 
We've really made little actual progress in the world of sexual dysfunction. Oh sure...there's Viagra...and there are hundreds of supplements that claim to "boost your libido," thousands of self-help books, and mental health professionals have made careers out of our suffering. Honestly, I'm sure the majority of them mean well. Not the drug companies, mind you...but the professionals and the doctors. 
It's hard, though. For them...and for US...to make heads or tails of it. It's hard not to look at ourselves as broken. It's hard to trust the Ups when you constantly fear the Downs. 
It's hard not to feel "apart," "asunder," "away," or "utterly" lost.
Luckily, I'm on an Up right now. But, I never know what is waiting for me around the next corner. I live daily with the fear that, at any moment, for no reason that anyone I know can provide, I may just stop wanting sex
Depressed. Bi-polar. Crazy. 
Doctors, psychiatrists, psychologists. Wellbutrin. Lithium. Estrogen. Progesterone. Testosterone. Tests. Tests. Labs. Tests. $$$$.
Yoga. Mindfulness. Concentrate. Relax. If you weren't so stressed. So OCD. So ADD. So high-strung. So type-A. Such a control freak.
Counseling. Mindfulness training. Just focus! Relax. De-stress. Go on a vacation. Figure out your "attachment issues." Questions about my childhood. What am I hiding? What am I afraid of? Dig deeper. Find the answer. It's in there somewhere!!!! 
Apparently, if I could just look far enough inside myself, I could cure my own dis-ease.
They make it sound so easy.
Ultimately, the message is that something is wrong with us. Somehow, we aren't "right," which makes us, necessarily, "wrong." We must be "fixed." Because we are "broken." 
It's a frustrating place to be. 
What we are told we should be by society:
What we are often facing...as a society:

What we should be experiencing:

And...since I'll be experiencing none of these for the night (Daddy's still off in a warmer clime...enjoying the wind in his hair and the sun on his helmet's visor...)...I'll head off to bed, peaceful, for the time being, in the knowledge that, for now, I wish he were here so I could fuck him. Or...so he could fuck me. Or...well...whatever way it would happen - we'd be fucking right now. 
(Pouty face.)

Monday, June 22, 2015

What I would do with you...

I wish I could catch you with your eyes closed, in the mussed up, white cotton sheets, doused in early morning sunlight, your hand wrapped around your erect cock, massaging yourself to ecstasy. I know it would take awhile. And I know you would be less excited about the outcome than if you were coming inside of me. But...I like to watch your hand move...slowly at first...then faster, the skin of your shaft pulling up over the head like it was made especially for that purpose.

I'd smile as I tip-toed to the foot of the bed, as quiet as a breeze. And as soon as my hands pressed into the mattress, you'd start, your eyes wide, caught in the act. But then you soften, and smile. You might put your hands behind your head, silently telling what you expected with your eyes. That slight lowering of the lids. The hint of a smile. I would know what you wanted.

If I were there, I would wrap my hand around yours and feel the muscles in your fingers working. And then I might take over. I might move your hand out of the way, placing my own around the base of your dick...maybe hold and caress your balls for a few seconds...maybe kiss them...lick them. And I'd probably take the head of your cock into my mouth, taking all of you in to moisten your skin with my spit so I could work my hand up and down without pulling your skin. I'd try to mimic the speed of your earlier movements, finding a rhythm that would make your eyes roll back...that perfect tempo that draws a moan from deep in your chest, like a deep rumble that you breathe out in a sigh.

When you began to writhe, I'd likely move on top of you, lying my naked body on yours, letting my weight press my breasts against your hot chest. I'd kiss your neck, nibble your ear lobe, and maybe whisper something like, "How do you want me to fuck you today, Daddy?"

You'd likely move your hands to my hips, pushing me up and guiding me slowly down onto your hungry cock. The subtle movements of your fingers would drive me left and right, forward and back, my skin well-trained to listen to the demands of your touch.

I would move more quickly to match the increased speed of your breath, rocking back and forth on your cock, feeling it hit the spot that makes me melt, over and over, until I'd spill my release. You'd feel it dripping across your balls, soaking the sheet beneath you.

And you'd come.

With your hands grabbing my thighs, you'd groan and pulse, your abdominal muscles tightening, forcing your breath to become quick and shallow.

I'd relax my weight onto you, run my hands through the hair on your chest, and smile.

If I were there, that's what I'd do.

Sunday, June 21, 2015

Sinful Sunday

All the lines of all the things that bind us during the day criss-cross from place to place on our bodies, creating a map of constriction. Those faint indentations in our skin. Beside them, in-between, and beneath are the marks of our lives. The stretch marks on our breasts and bellies and thighs that say we have been given birth and nourished our young. The bruises and callouses that say we have worked hard. The scars that say we have risked and challenged ourselves. The tattoos we have placed there to decorate and liberate.

Our bodies are beautiful canvases that are only clean in the womb. They begin taking on the imprints of our choices and experiences the moment we slip from our mothers. Every cut, hand print, gash, freckle, burn...everything we do to it - it retains the story of that moment.

Monday, June 15, 2015

The sweetest perfume

Today, I wore a skirt to do housework. Sans panties. And every time I squatted down, knees spread, and felt the cool air kiss my cunt, I couldn't help but smile. A few times, I reached down and touched myself, slipped a finger inside. I wondered if Daddy would notice. I didn't want to tell him, I just kept my mind racing by waiting to see.

It wasn't until mid afternoon, when he needed to take a shower and get ready for work, that he asked me to bend over the edge of the bed so he could fuck me. When he flipped up my skirt and was greeted by a bare ass, he had to have known I'd been uncovered the whole day.

What he didn't know, is that after he fucked me, his wetness still between my thighs, I lay down on the bedroom floor and fucked myself to the sound of the water running in the shower.

My fingers smelled like "us" when I was done. Knowing I'd wash them, I rubbed both wrists across my wet pussy.

Every once in a while, I smell them and smile.

Wednesday, June 10, 2015

He doesn't have to make me

Last night, he asked me to wash my face, take my clothes off, get in the bed, and present. But when I came out of the bathroom, he was lying in the bed, listening to a message on his phone (I thought he was talking to someone). So I lay beside him, sort of slipped into the covers, figuring I'd present when he was ready.


I should have done what I was told to do. Regardless.

When He finished listening to his message, He asked me why I hadn't complied. I stammered an inadequate excuse but let it die on my tongue. I knew I was in the wrong.

Because, if we are going to make this work...He shouldn't have to make me. I should just do it.

He told me to "avert my gaze" as He opened the "toy drawer," telling me He was getting out my "favorite" spoon - the one I hate so much (the threat of a spanking, of course). I braced myself, expecting it. But it didn't come. He told me he wasn't going to punish me...because we haven't really worked that part of our contract out yet. He asked me if I felt like I was being treated like a child (a sticking point for me), but the funny thing is, I didn't.

It might sound trite, but this time feels different. We've been down this road several times, and it's never completely worked. Something's always been off. Not quite right. And while we still have quite a bit of work to do, I find myself feeling excited to begin. There is a noticeable absence of resistance. A feeling of calm. I find myself (my selfish, childish self) thinking more about Him than me...more about what He wants and what would make Him happy. This isn't just about me, after all. It's about us and what we both need from each other. And He doesn't have to make me His...I already am. It's just been a rocky road admitting it, completely.

Click to enlarge

Click here to see
who else is 
being wicked

Sunday, June 7, 2015


She stood next to his chair and imagined him untying her robe to expose her body. He'd touch her belly, caress her breasts, and likely pinch her left nipple, the one that drove her crazy. He would be rewarded with that delightful squeal that encouraged him to continue torturing her...gently of course. But tonight, the chair was empty.

Swinging her left leg up and over the arm of the chair, she lowered herself to feel the pressure of it against her pubic bone. Moving slowly, she gently rocked herself back and forth and slipped her hands inside her robe to fondle her breasts. She was sure to squeeze each nipple until they were hard, sending their pulse along a wire directly connected to her swelling clitoris.

Quietly, she felt the moan escape her barely parted lips, and she closed her eyes.

She wouldn't come this way. But as she held herself up, one foot planted in the seat cushion and one firmly on the floor, her thighs taut, she imagined his scent and the feel of his warms hands touching her skin.

She opened her eyes and licked her lips, slipping two fingers into her mouth, sucking them, and retracting them -- glistening with saliva.

Since she wasn't wearing panties, it was easy to simply lift herself a bit off of the chair, inserting both fingers deep inside of herself. Letting her weight back down, she rode her fingers, feeling them wiggle within her like ribbons dancing in a windstorm.

She imagined his hand there, between her thighs, clasping her entire sex in the palm of his hand. She tried to feel his fingers, thicker than her own, stronger, owning her, hooking into her,

Right hand still squeezing her right breast, fingers pinching the nipple harder and harder, she sighed with exasperation.

It wouldn't do.

Standing slowly, pulling her fingers out, unsatisfied , she lowered herself beside his chair.

On her knees, she closed her eyes, bit her bottom lip, and sighed.

She would just have to wait until he got home.

It's been a long time since I gave you all a picture. Figured it was high time I flashed you one.

Click here to visit the site.