Pink Deux

Nostalgic

So all the images for this week's Sinful Sunday are "old"...not only in their treatment, but also in time. I think I took these a few years ago, all in the same night, the same little nightie. But, I've added some vintage touches with the photo editing. 

 

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other Sinful Sunday images.

My tits...

My tits + my camera + Picasa's editing features =

Bound

Another fabulous contribution from Daddy.

xoxo

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The Chair

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A little help from Daddy behind the camera this time...thanks, Honey. It's not easy to be the cameraman for a very self-conscious subject.

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:

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.

Satin & Lace

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.

Problem.

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.

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being wicked

Unsatisfied

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.

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In her sleep

She slept hard, held captive in a cocoon of her own bone-deep exhaustion.  So deep, she didn't hear the front door open or close like she usually would.  So deep, she didn't feel him kiss her cheek or hear the shower run.  So deep, she didn't feel him slip in beside her, pulling the sheets down enough to expose her naked breasts.  She didn't realize he held each one for a moment, like a fragile Christmas bulb, in the palm of his hand.  Nor did she feel his hand reach between her legs, fingers slipping between the crease that protected her most secret place.  She didn't know that she responded, that her body awoke to his touch, that she opened her legs to him.  And she certainly had no idea that as his lips and tongue explored her, she began to writhe and moan, her back arching, her knees bending.  It was as if her body knew how to run the show without her.  Her hands reached around the backs of her knees, pulling her legs up and out, offering herself physically and subconsciously to his hungry mouth, which sucked at her clit until she actually rose up toward him, letting go of her legs and moving her hands to the back of his head, pressing herself into his face, grinding her pubic bone against his jaw.  His hands reached under her backside,  grabbing hold and squeezing her as she came against his chin, her fingers wrapped around and through his hair.

Every muscle contracted momentarily before her entire body caved in, her breath shallow, her skin salty with sweat. her pussy pulsing.  And as she relaxed more deeply than she could ever do when awake, she sunk into a sleep as complete as death.

And she dreamed of his hands on her flesh.

This has been a Wicked Wednesday post.  Head over to see who else is being wicked. And yes, I realize I missed the submission deadline.  It's been one of those weeks - work is at its craziest - and the inmates are taking over the asylum.  Thankfully, we're about to shut it down.

Here's a little "me" interlude - since it's also HNT (and I'm on time for this one!):

The Lustful Literate

"A Window, Open to the World" - original poetry (HNT)

I offer myself up
to your lense
let you
pose me as you like

Dress me
undress me
create the image
just right

Sunlight shines
across the sweaty
hotel sheets

And I lay there
in front of you
with my legs crossed
or spread
at your command

Each photo leads you closer to
the place of greatest
intrigue

You set the camera aside
to taste the canvas

We make love
in the bright light
with heat on our skin
and a window
open to the world

The Lustful Literate

The Lustful Literate

The Lustful Literate

The Lustful Literate

The Lustful Literate