Vintageplays
Virgin
- Joined
- Oct 28, 2012
- Posts
- 21
Musings....Feedback?...please?
What can I say about myself that isn’t cliché?
I am vain; I like to catch glimpses of my eyes in the rearview mirror when I am driving.
I favor t-shirts and blue jeans over skirts and panty hose but when necessity arises I don the trappings of my sex, paint my face with the most favorable war paint of that particular season, and I don’t come home empty-handed.
I listen to classical music when I am alone.
I think I am going to die like my mother, eaten away by my revolting, cancerous cells.
All the rest is average. My little house decorated on a college budget, my cats, my fanaticism for shoes, my tendency toward paranoia when I contemplate my domesticated future, and my desire to succeed in everything I do – that is all commonplace. I share these goals with millions of other women, and although they are part of my unique psychological make-up they don’t really do much to distinguish me from others of my sex.
I guess basically what I am trying to establish is my normalcy. This is no story of star-crossed lovers, there is no fabled fair Verona but that isn’t necessarily a bad thing because I am no Juliet.
I never really knew I liked pain, or rather, how much I liked it. I’ve had fantasies ever since I was a child and stumbled across a musty box of my Dad’s Betty Page collectibles. There she was, this incredibly sensual black haired beauty bound and gagged, her legs twisted behind her and her eyes smoldering above a white gag. I was mesmerized but at the time I was so young and couldn’t really understand the entire sphere of sexuality that she embodied. Later I would read voraciously cheap romance paperbacks involving Victorian classrooms and harsh punishments. I love the way my cheeks would burn and I would furtively keep glancing at my bedroom door lest I was disturbed by intrusion and my physiology would give away my illicit pleasures. Scattered under my mattress were pictures I had torn out of my brother’s porn collection of girls in various stages of bondage. I wanted to be one of those girls. I wanted to feel the complete helplessness, the absolute loss of control, I imagined that this complete submission to another would lead to a type of euphoria that the stumbling hands of my teen-age crushes had never been able to achieve.
As I aged I realized that finding someone to fulfill these fantasies for me was not an easy task. My tortured whispers surging from chapped lips to “please, please, bite me harder, spank me, fuck me harder,” always resulted in a look of panic in the eyes of my nocturnal partner. So I learned to bite my tongue, metaphorically and physically, while abandoning myself to their straight-laced administrations. It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy these “white-collared” trysts, but inevitably when I masturbated it was thoughts of being completely dominated that filled my head.
And then, it happened. Just like that. I met someone “always dominant, never submissive,” someone who could not only make some of my wildest fantasies a reality but someone who got as much pleasure from giving as I did from receiving.
Now it’s little things that excite me. Feeling his fingertips under my chin, tilting my head upwards so that my eyes are forced to meet his and knowing that if I look at his dark opaque eyes glittering with a stern concentration I will lose my breath. I exhale, trying to do it slowly so I am not panting with desperate shuddering rushes and the fierce flames that lick at my skin from the inside will not manifest themselves as the pre-punished shades of deep cherry blushes. I close my eyes tightly but I can feel the little rush of tremors that ripple through my body as I defiantly pull away from his touch.
What makes me disobey? I don’t know. The willful, independent part of my person, I suppose. The part of me that craves punishment to the extreme. The part that wants him to make me behave. Make me, I think. Just make me.
He grips me tighter and I swallow hard and try to pull out of his grip on my arms, but that only wins me a laugh.
One part of me, truly does want to be good for him. I desperately wish I could obey and do exactly what he requests. But the other part of me is stronger and it takes him slapping my cheek or ass to make me obey.
Now when I masturbate I often think about him, I re-play moments with him in my mind as my fingers dance across my hardened nipples and throbbing wet pussy. I love to remember the time he took me to a deserted school grounds at night. Pulling me out of his car he ordered me to take my panties off, I did but only because I knew the long cotton of my skirt would hide me. He stuffed my panties in my mouth and commanded me to put my hands on top of my head. I tasted the wetness of my panties, the sticky lace shoved unceremoniously into my mouth, and I reddened not just at the fact that I had been gagged with my own panties but that they were wet just from being with him and anticipating his dominance. He got back into his car and started the engine, for a moment I panicked that he might just leave me here in this spot but I realized he was merely moving the car so that it was directly in front of me. Please, please don’t turn on the light. But, as if he had read my mind, the lights flashed on and I was flooded by the headlight beam. For an instant everything seemed too much for me. I wanted to flee, to just start running away, yet I couldn’t decide if I really want to escape the situation or if the thought of him chasing me, pinning me down, and bending me over his lap to spank me hard with his bare hand is what really motivated my thoughts.
He gets out of the car and walks around behind me. “Put your hands on the rack of my car. Stretch so that you are up on your tip toes.” When I do I hear the sound of duct tape ripping and feel my wrists and forearms being securely fastened to his car. I can’t help but peer over my shoulder to look at him. I watch him slowly take his belt out of his slacks. I suck my breath as I watch him pull on the buckle so that the length of leather snakes free from the loops. That belt, slipping from around his waist makes me wetter still and I long for the protection of my panties as I feel my pussy lips ache with moisture and longing. How is it that a belt turns me on? A belt escaping the confines of the loops, that is. A belt on its way to some use other then holding up a pair of slacks.
I bite on my bottom lip and suck in my breath. Excited, I try to imagine what the pain will feel like when he lets the belt land, the hot fire of it landing on my skin. My heart pounds, my mind is on hold. The leather, though not heavy, makes a solid sound when it connects and although it stings I know that these blows are merely his warm-up stages. I hear the rustling increase in sound and I tense. My whole body becomes tight and at the ready – I am a captured animal, one stunned into silent confusion and momentary obedience. He watches me, waiting for me to relax, and then the first heavy stroke falls.
It is that blow that I think of all the time. It is my number one masturbatory fantasy, as I am sure he knows. Late at night stroking myself to solo climaxes I think of how that blow feels. I think of each time the belt lands on my skin, with its spark of instant pain and the aftershocks of sweeter, softer aches. My body remembers and absorbs the intense power of his strikes for later imagined re-play. Every sensation I experience with him is magnified within me, concentrated at the very core that I struggle so hard to keep private and enclosed.
And then I think of last night with you. One whole day without being able to masturbate because you instructed me not to and I am crazy with a pent up frustration that I know only you can release, either with a single permissive word or your body. I remember you on top of me, your cock hard in your shorts and I could not, at that moment, help but sigh harshly with ragged breaths and untold relief. Take me I wanted to beg. Fuck me, I wanted to scream. Yet I stayed self-contained, waiting, knowing that my silence is my last shred of self-control. You teased me, pulling against my legs as I tried to pull you closer, harder into me. I wanted to cry, to scream out my frustration but I am afraid that your threats to not let me come tonight will be fulfilled. You flip me over, my face buried into the mattress as you take me from behind, your cock sliding into me. As you fucked me, I felt your strong hand playing with the welts left from the night before last’s whipping. Your fingers pressed into the bruises that mark my skin. I visualized what the mark must look like, the still purple hues etched into my ass. Your hands dig into the soreness but I hardly feel that. All I know now is the pleasure of your cock, and the enjoyment of you driving into me with each thrust. Your open hand catches against my round ass and you spank me in the exact rhythm that you fuck me. I bounce on the mattress with each blow, and my pussy contracts hard. I love the way that feels. The blissful thrill of pain reconnecting with my most base form of pleasure.
I can no longer remember the feeling of owning an unpunished ass. Or rather, I don’t want to.
This is what I think of when I masturbate; this is what I think of when I think of you.
What can I say about myself that isn’t cliché?
I am vain; I like to catch glimpses of my eyes in the rearview mirror when I am driving.
I favor t-shirts and blue jeans over skirts and panty hose but when necessity arises I don the trappings of my sex, paint my face with the most favorable war paint of that particular season, and I don’t come home empty-handed.
I listen to classical music when I am alone.
I think I am going to die like my mother, eaten away by my revolting, cancerous cells.
All the rest is average. My little house decorated on a college budget, my cats, my fanaticism for shoes, my tendency toward paranoia when I contemplate my domesticated future, and my desire to succeed in everything I do – that is all commonplace. I share these goals with millions of other women, and although they are part of my unique psychological make-up they don’t really do much to distinguish me from others of my sex.
I guess basically what I am trying to establish is my normalcy. This is no story of star-crossed lovers, there is no fabled fair Verona but that isn’t necessarily a bad thing because I am no Juliet.
I never really knew I liked pain, or rather, how much I liked it. I’ve had fantasies ever since I was a child and stumbled across a musty box of my Dad’s Betty Page collectibles. There she was, this incredibly sensual black haired beauty bound and gagged, her legs twisted behind her and her eyes smoldering above a white gag. I was mesmerized but at the time I was so young and couldn’t really understand the entire sphere of sexuality that she embodied. Later I would read voraciously cheap romance paperbacks involving Victorian classrooms and harsh punishments. I love the way my cheeks would burn and I would furtively keep glancing at my bedroom door lest I was disturbed by intrusion and my physiology would give away my illicit pleasures. Scattered under my mattress were pictures I had torn out of my brother’s porn collection of girls in various stages of bondage. I wanted to be one of those girls. I wanted to feel the complete helplessness, the absolute loss of control, I imagined that this complete submission to another would lead to a type of euphoria that the stumbling hands of my teen-age crushes had never been able to achieve.
As I aged I realized that finding someone to fulfill these fantasies for me was not an easy task. My tortured whispers surging from chapped lips to “please, please, bite me harder, spank me, fuck me harder,” always resulted in a look of panic in the eyes of my nocturnal partner. So I learned to bite my tongue, metaphorically and physically, while abandoning myself to their straight-laced administrations. It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy these “white-collared” trysts, but inevitably when I masturbated it was thoughts of being completely dominated that filled my head.
And then, it happened. Just like that. I met someone “always dominant, never submissive,” someone who could not only make some of my wildest fantasies a reality but someone who got as much pleasure from giving as I did from receiving.
Now it’s little things that excite me. Feeling his fingertips under my chin, tilting my head upwards so that my eyes are forced to meet his and knowing that if I look at his dark opaque eyes glittering with a stern concentration I will lose my breath. I exhale, trying to do it slowly so I am not panting with desperate shuddering rushes and the fierce flames that lick at my skin from the inside will not manifest themselves as the pre-punished shades of deep cherry blushes. I close my eyes tightly but I can feel the little rush of tremors that ripple through my body as I defiantly pull away from his touch.
What makes me disobey? I don’t know. The willful, independent part of my person, I suppose. The part of me that craves punishment to the extreme. The part that wants him to make me behave. Make me, I think. Just make me.
He grips me tighter and I swallow hard and try to pull out of his grip on my arms, but that only wins me a laugh.
One part of me, truly does want to be good for him. I desperately wish I could obey and do exactly what he requests. But the other part of me is stronger and it takes him slapping my cheek or ass to make me obey.
Now when I masturbate I often think about him, I re-play moments with him in my mind as my fingers dance across my hardened nipples and throbbing wet pussy. I love to remember the time he took me to a deserted school grounds at night. Pulling me out of his car he ordered me to take my panties off, I did but only because I knew the long cotton of my skirt would hide me. He stuffed my panties in my mouth and commanded me to put my hands on top of my head. I tasted the wetness of my panties, the sticky lace shoved unceremoniously into my mouth, and I reddened not just at the fact that I had been gagged with my own panties but that they were wet just from being with him and anticipating his dominance. He got back into his car and started the engine, for a moment I panicked that he might just leave me here in this spot but I realized he was merely moving the car so that it was directly in front of me. Please, please don’t turn on the light. But, as if he had read my mind, the lights flashed on and I was flooded by the headlight beam. For an instant everything seemed too much for me. I wanted to flee, to just start running away, yet I couldn’t decide if I really want to escape the situation or if the thought of him chasing me, pinning me down, and bending me over his lap to spank me hard with his bare hand is what really motivated my thoughts.
He gets out of the car and walks around behind me. “Put your hands on the rack of my car. Stretch so that you are up on your tip toes.” When I do I hear the sound of duct tape ripping and feel my wrists and forearms being securely fastened to his car. I can’t help but peer over my shoulder to look at him. I watch him slowly take his belt out of his slacks. I suck my breath as I watch him pull on the buckle so that the length of leather snakes free from the loops. That belt, slipping from around his waist makes me wetter still and I long for the protection of my panties as I feel my pussy lips ache with moisture and longing. How is it that a belt turns me on? A belt escaping the confines of the loops, that is. A belt on its way to some use other then holding up a pair of slacks.
I bite on my bottom lip and suck in my breath. Excited, I try to imagine what the pain will feel like when he lets the belt land, the hot fire of it landing on my skin. My heart pounds, my mind is on hold. The leather, though not heavy, makes a solid sound when it connects and although it stings I know that these blows are merely his warm-up stages. I hear the rustling increase in sound and I tense. My whole body becomes tight and at the ready – I am a captured animal, one stunned into silent confusion and momentary obedience. He watches me, waiting for me to relax, and then the first heavy stroke falls.
It is that blow that I think of all the time. It is my number one masturbatory fantasy, as I am sure he knows. Late at night stroking myself to solo climaxes I think of how that blow feels. I think of each time the belt lands on my skin, with its spark of instant pain and the aftershocks of sweeter, softer aches. My body remembers and absorbs the intense power of his strikes for later imagined re-play. Every sensation I experience with him is magnified within me, concentrated at the very core that I struggle so hard to keep private and enclosed.
And then I think of last night with you. One whole day without being able to masturbate because you instructed me not to and I am crazy with a pent up frustration that I know only you can release, either with a single permissive word or your body. I remember you on top of me, your cock hard in your shorts and I could not, at that moment, help but sigh harshly with ragged breaths and untold relief. Take me I wanted to beg. Fuck me, I wanted to scream. Yet I stayed self-contained, waiting, knowing that my silence is my last shred of self-control. You teased me, pulling against my legs as I tried to pull you closer, harder into me. I wanted to cry, to scream out my frustration but I am afraid that your threats to not let me come tonight will be fulfilled. You flip me over, my face buried into the mattress as you take me from behind, your cock sliding into me. As you fucked me, I felt your strong hand playing with the welts left from the night before last’s whipping. Your fingers pressed into the bruises that mark my skin. I visualized what the mark must look like, the still purple hues etched into my ass. Your hands dig into the soreness but I hardly feel that. All I know now is the pleasure of your cock, and the enjoyment of you driving into me with each thrust. Your open hand catches against my round ass and you spank me in the exact rhythm that you fuck me. I bounce on the mattress with each blow, and my pussy contracts hard. I love the way that feels. The blissful thrill of pain reconnecting with my most base form of pleasure.
I can no longer remember the feeling of owning an unpunished ass. Or rather, I don’t want to.
This is what I think of when I masturbate; this is what I think of when I think of you.
Last edited:
