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My Trousers Rolled

It's from T.S. Eliot.

I'm from England.

PICTURES, WORDS, AND PERHAPS A LITTLE MUSIC. OFTEN D/S RELATED, SOMETIMES NOT.

MyTrousersRolled [at] Gmail [dot] com

OVER 18S ONLY.

Posts tagged heels:

Does the submissive take the initiative?
Does she read his face, and know that, right then, it’s time to pull him into an alleyway?
Does the submissive wonder whether this is what he wants of her, whether she should take control, or whether she should leave it up to him?
Does the Dominant always Dominate?
When the crowd gets too much, and the noise starts to make him grow irritable and frustrated, does she know that it’s time to go? Or does she just squeeze his hand? How does she know?
Does he wonder, she wonders, whether the things he does are things he should do?
Should he wonder such things?
Did he like her, or just want to control her? Was there anything beyond their kink? Did he feign interest?
When should she say the things she should say? How should she respond when he calls her his, or when filthy, beautiful words fall from his mouth? Should she respond in kind, or just moan desperate assent?
Should she always obey? When should she not?
Can she tell him ‘Now.’? Can she plead? Can she stay strong and independent and still be his fuck thing? 
Is she a bad feminist?
Is she a bad person?
Why does she like the things she likes? Why does he? Which of them is more fucked up?
Does she really like being hurt, or just like being able to feel something? Was that as clichéd as it sounded? Does that make it wrong?
Does she like being hurt? Does he like hurting?
Why does it feel so good when she gags on him? Why can’t she stop doing it?
Is she a slut?
What is he?
What is she?
Does the submissive know the answer to these questions?
Does the Dominant?

Does the submissive take the initiative?

Does she read his face, and know that, right then, it’s time to pull him into an alleyway?

Does the submissive wonder whether this is what he wants of her, whether she should take control, or whether she should leave it up to him?

Does the Dominant always Dominate?

When the crowd gets too much, and the noise starts to make him grow irritable and frustrated, does she know that it’s time to go? Or does she just squeeze his hand? How does she know?

Does he wonder, she wonders, whether the things he does are things he should do?

Should he wonder such things?

Did he like her, or just want to control her? Was there anything beyond their kink? Did he feign interest?

When should she say the things she should say? How should she respond when he calls her his, or when filthy, beautiful words fall from his mouth? Should she respond in kind, or just moan desperate assent?

Should she always obey? When should she not?

Can she tell him ‘Now.’? Can she plead? Can she stay strong and independent and still be his fuck thing? 

Is she a bad feminist?

Is she a bad person?

Why does she like the things she likes? Why does he? Which of them is more fucked up?

Does she really like being hurt, or just like being able to feel something? Was that as clichéd as it sounded? Does that make it wrong?

Does she like being hurt? Does he like hurting?

Why does it feel so good when she gags on him? Why can’t she stop doing it?

Is she a slut?

What is he?

What is she?

Does the submissive know the answer to these questions?

Does the Dominant?

(Source: justherguy, via makeithurtplease-deactivated201)

Heels are about masochism, right?
I mean, that’s why women wear them. It’s to endure the pain to achieve something beautiful. They slip their foot into the shoe, settle down onto the pinpoint of support that digs up into their heel, and it accentuates pretty much everything above it. The muscles of the calf are brought into sharp relief, the thighs look amazing because thighs always look amazing, and then your arse just… well, it curves. It curves really well. 
But it hurts. I’ve seen women walk through the door and kick off their heels like a spurned lover that said just the wrong thing at the wrong time. It’s a sort of catharsis that slips over their face, there, the relief that washes over them. They can relax, they don’t have to be tied to that bondage any longer. They can just be, and not have to be beautiful and tight. 
Because that’s what heels do. They make you tight. And desirable. And they make you hurt. It’s a hurt that you enjoy, of course, otherwise you wouldn’t be doing it in the first place. Maybe not the sensation itself, but the result, certainly. Sacrificing one feeling in favour of another. 
Sounds like masochism to me. You bunch of pain sluts.

Heels are about masochism, right?

I mean, that’s why women wear them. It’s to endure the pain to achieve something beautiful. They slip their foot into the shoe, settle down onto the pinpoint of support that digs up into their heel, and it accentuates pretty much everything above it. The muscles of the calf are brought into sharp relief, the thighs look amazing because thighs always look amazing, and then your arse just… well, it curves. It curves really well. 

But it hurts. I’ve seen women walk through the door and kick off their heels like a spurned lover that said just the wrong thing at the wrong time. It’s a sort of catharsis that slips over their face, there, the relief that washes over them. They can relax, they don’t have to be tied to that bondage any longer. They can just be, and not have to be beautiful and tight

Because that’s what heels do. They make you tight. And desirable. And they make you hurt. It’s a hurt that you enjoy, of course, otherwise you wouldn’t be doing it in the first place. Maybe not the sensation itself, but the result, certainly. Sacrificing one feeling in favour of another. 

Sounds like masochism to me. You bunch of pain sluts.

(via cindersk)

She closed the door behind her and took a breath, the kind of relaxing, prepare-for-a-big-sigh breath that you take when you finally get home after a long day. And she had. Here, in the foyer, next to the coats and the shoes, she was still a diligent employee, a tired worker. Once she stepped past that door, she’d be his. 
She lingered here almost every day, treating it like an airlock, letting it decompress her, prepare her for her life at home after spending the whole day maintaining her façade, the cracked mask of normality that made everyone else think that she was just like them. 
She exhaled. Big fucking sigh of relief. She stepped through the door. Her bag hit the floor, and she started to undress. Wriggling out of the pencil skirt, unbuttoning the blouse, shrugging off the jacket. In less than a minute she went from prim and proper to nude and heeled, the only piece of clothing that she was allowed to keep. That and the glasses. He liked those especially. 
She always shivered, then, as her body got used to the lack of protection. Goosebumps ran up her arms, and she folded her clothes neatly, setting them on the side table that was left there precisely for that purpose. Heading to the living room, she took her book from her bag, and reclined on the sofa. He’d be home soon, and while she was his now, she also had some time of her own. 
And when she heard the crunch of gravel underneath his tyres, her heart would always beat a little faster, skip the odd beat. Hearing his keys in the lock would be fingers running down her spine. Seeing his silhouette in through the door would have her biting her lip.
And seeing him, in the flesh, in that suit, would have her moaning. Every damn time. 

She closed the door behind her and took a breath, the kind of relaxing, prepare-for-a-big-sigh breath that you take when you finally get home after a long day. And she had. Here, in the foyer, next to the coats and the shoes, she was still a diligent employee, a tired worker. Once she stepped past that door, she’d be his. 

She lingered here almost every day, treating it like an airlock, letting it decompress her, prepare her for her life at home after spending the whole day maintaining her façade, the cracked mask of normality that made everyone else think that she was just like them. 

She exhaled. Big fucking sigh of relief. She stepped through the door. Her bag hit the floor, and she started to undress. Wriggling out of the pencil skirt, unbuttoning the blouse, shrugging off the jacket. In less than a minute she went from prim and proper to nude and heeled, the only piece of clothing that she was allowed to keep. That and the glasses. He liked those especially. 

She always shivered, then, as her body got used to the lack of protection. Goosebumps ran up her arms, and she folded her clothes neatly, setting them on the side table that was left there precisely for that purpose. Heading to the living room, she took her book from her bag, and reclined on the sofa. He’d be home soon, and while she was his now, she also had some time of her own. 

And when she heard the crunch of gravel underneath his tyres, her heart would always beat a little faster, skip the odd beat. Hearing his keys in the lock would be fingers running down her spine. Seeing his silhouette in through the door would have her biting her lip.

And seeing him, in the flesh, in that suit, would have her moaning. Every damn time. 

(via blackleatherbelt)

It wasn’t built to last. It was built for speed, all raw chassis and an engine that could take you to the moon and back if you only pointed it upwards. And they went fast. Their slipstream cut a swathe through their immediate area, leaving those around them with the faintest feeling that they might just be missing out. That they might want to start jumping each other’s bones a little bit more than they were. Eroticism became their footprint, the trail they blazed. 
Inertia kept things from shaking too much at first. She was in love with him, that much was clear. He knew it from the way her eyes stared up at him while he was down her mouth. She choked for him. He made her choke, and they both fell in love with that, just a bit. Her voice would swoon when she said his name, all the strength falling from it as it dwindled into a cracked upper octave, and she’d have to clear her throat. 
The power of her affection was enough to make him reciprocate. She slipped in under his guard and set up her home, but all the while the speed was taking its toll, little bits of dust and grit getting into the engine, making it splutter and tick, all the while going ever faster. He bought her a collar. She moved in with him. They fucked, over and over, ever more intricately. They felt like they were getting to the core of one another. They were, in a way. 
Those around them, the ones who had been swept up in the sheer primal lust of them, saw it first. The stilted conversation, and the occasional look that was far more warning than attraction. He’d said something stupid, or at least she thought so, and that was where it started. She’d fidget, or at least he thought so, and that was where it got worse. 
It wasn’t built to last, and it didn’t. Pieces started to fly off the chassis, the roll-cage doing little to protect the structure of the vehicle, the speed doing far more damage than any crash could. It was tearing itself apart, that inertia forcing it to implode. It flared up, when she refused him one time too many, and then it flared out. 
And she walked away. It was months before the tired old phrase popped into her head, and she hated it then, and she hated it now. 
The candle that burns twice and bright burns twice as fast. 

It wasn’t built to last. It was built for speed, all raw chassis and an engine that could take you to the moon and back if you only pointed it upwards. And they went fast. Their slipstream cut a swathe through their immediate area, leaving those around them with the faintest feeling that they might just be missing out. That they might want to start jumping each other’s bones a little bit more than they were. Eroticism became their footprint, the trail they blazed. 

Inertia kept things from shaking too much at first. She was in love with him, that much was clear. He knew it from the way her eyes stared up at him while he was down her mouth. She choked for him. He made her choke, and they both fell in love with that, just a bit. Her voice would swoon when she said his name, all the strength falling from it as it dwindled into a cracked upper octave, and she’d have to clear her throat. 

The power of her affection was enough to make him reciprocate. She slipped in under his guard and set up her home, but all the while the speed was taking its toll, little bits of dust and grit getting into the engine, making it splutter and tick, all the while going ever faster. He bought her a collar. She moved in with him. They fucked, over and over, ever more intricately. They felt like they were getting to the core of one another. They were, in a way. 

Those around them, the ones who had been swept up in the sheer primal lust of them, saw it first. The stilted conversation, and the occasional look that was far more warning than attraction. He’d said something stupid, or at least she thought so, and that was where it started. She’d fidget, or at least he thought so, and that was where it got worse. 

It wasn’t built to last, and it didn’t. Pieces started to fly off the chassis, the roll-cage doing little to protect the structure of the vehicle, the speed doing far more damage than any crash could. It was tearing itself apart, that inertia forcing it to implode. It flared up, when she refused him one time too many, and then it flared out. 

And she walked away. It was months before the tired old phrase popped into her head, and she hated it then, and she hated it now. 

The candle that burns twice and bright burns twice as fast. 

(Source: cockringlover, via blackleatherbelt)

It threatens to consume, this lifestyle of ours. We leave the ropes and cuffs in the bedroom, but the rest we carry with us, out of that door and into the big bad world. That’s a lot of baggage to haul around, and a lot to weigh on a mind. It’s something unique to all of this, something that the rest don’t really have to deal with.
They have their boyfriends, and their sex, and their cuddles and their relationships, but they slot rather neatly into the rest of their lives. The way I’m phrasing this leads to an Us v Them mentality, but that’s not what I’m getting at in the slightest. I’ll boil it down a little more, reduce it into a thicker mixture. 
You don’t stop being my submissive when you leave the house. You layer on the rest of you, all your personality quirks and professional demeanour, but you stay my submissive. You know that, I know that, and that knowledge comes with it a weight of consciousness, a tick in the back of your mind that is never truly something you can ignore. The loosest leash in the world, and despite your freedom you know that it’s there, dangling from your neck, ready to be pulled to bring you back to me. 
You have to be strong, to cope with that kind of knowledge every moment of every day. You have to be strong, for me to pick you. It all works out in the end.

It threatens to consume, this lifestyle of ours. We leave the ropes and cuffs in the bedroom, but the rest we carry with us, out of that door and into the big bad world. That’s a lot of baggage to haul around, and a lot to weigh on a mind. It’s something unique to all of this, something that the rest don’t really have to deal with.

They have their boyfriends, and their sex, and their cuddles and their relationships, but they slot rather neatly into the rest of their lives. The way I’m phrasing this leads to an Us v Them mentality, but that’s not what I’m getting at in the slightest. I’ll boil it down a little more, reduce it into a thicker mixture. 

You don’t stop being my submissive when you leave the house. You layer on the rest of you, all your personality quirks and professional demeanour, but you stay my submissive. You know that, I know that, and that knowledge comes with it a weight of consciousness, a tick in the back of your mind that is never truly something you can ignore. The loosest leash in the world, and despite your freedom you know that it’s there, dangling from your neck, ready to be pulled to bring you back to me. 

You have to be strong, to cope with that kind of knowledge every moment of every day. You have to be strong, for me to pick you. It all works out in the end.

(via americanmercury-deactivated2012)

Rules made her wet. Which, she’d found, was a problem when one of the rules that he’d placed on her was a strict ‘no touching’ policy. Each time one of the others would slip into her mind, (and, considering the length of the list, it was fairly regularly), she’d get a twinge between her legs and she’d let out a gasp, squeezing her thighs together and trying to hide the flush that rose to her cheeks like wildfire. 
He wasn’t a cruel man, though. At least, not all of the time, and so he’d decided to grant her a reprieve, once a week, where she was given free reign to do with her fingers as she wished. He couldn’t hide the smile from his face as he told her, knowing that her excitement was going to be a physical, arms included kind of thing. The hug nearly winded him, those lithe arms being surprisingly strong. 
And so the Saturday had rolled around, arriving after an agonising wait, each day one where he would tease her relentlessly, occasionally giving her a moment’s permission to touch, rub, tease, before calling out an amused denial, forcing her to shake and tremble and pout, left unsatisfied another night running. She should’ve known that he wouldn’t just give something as powerful as a day free from a rule lightly, but this was an exquisite new kind of torture. 
She woke up late, and she woke with her hand already between her legs, as if her body knew the rule wasn’t in effect before her mind had properly parsed it. She stopped herself, though, on instinct, knowing he might walk in at any moment. Then, as slow as the sun cresting the horizon and shining in through her window, she realised that she was… free. 
And so the hand returned. And it got to work. And she got to work. Twice in that hour. Once more before breakfast. Three times before lunch. Five during the afternoon, and once during supper, much to his amused chagrin. And, in a crazed frenzy knowing the rule would reinstate the instant the clock hit midnight, she managed another five in just four hours. 
She ached. She was sore. She was exhausted. 
First thing Sunday he made her start all over again, her exhausted fingers, her sore sex, punished for their gluttony. He smiled as he gave the order, and, reluctant as she was, she smiled too.

Rules made her wet. Which, she’d found, was a problem when one of the rules that he’d placed on her was a strict ‘no touching’ policy. Each time one of the others would slip into her mind, (and, considering the length of the list, it was fairly regularly), she’d get a twinge between her legs and she’d let out a gasp, squeezing her thighs together and trying to hide the flush that rose to her cheeks like wildfire. 

He wasn’t a cruel man, though. At least, not all of the time, and so he’d decided to grant her a reprieve, once a week, where she was given free reign to do with her fingers as she wished. He couldn’t hide the smile from his face as he told her, knowing that her excitement was going to be a physical, arms included kind of thing. The hug nearly winded him, those lithe arms being surprisingly strong. 

And so the Saturday had rolled around, arriving after an agonising wait, each day one where he would tease her relentlessly, occasionally giving her a moment’s permission to touch, rub, tease, before calling out an amused denial, forcing her to shake and tremble and pout, left unsatisfied another night running. She should’ve known that he wouldn’t just give something as powerful as a day free from a rule lightly, but this was an exquisite new kind of torture. 

She woke up late, and she woke with her hand already between her legs, as if her body knew the rule wasn’t in effect before her mind had properly parsed it. She stopped herself, though, on instinct, knowing he might walk in at any moment. Then, as slow as the sun cresting the horizon and shining in through her window, she realised that she was… free. 

And so the hand returned. And it got to work. And she got to work. Twice in that hour. Once more before breakfast. Three times before lunch. Five during the afternoon, and once during supper, much to his amused chagrin. And, in a crazed frenzy knowing the rule would reinstate the instant the clock hit midnight, she managed another five in just four hours. 

She ached. She was sore. She was exhausted. 

First thing Sunday he made her start all over again, her exhausted fingers, her sore sex, punished for their gluttony. He smiled as he gave the order, and, reluctant as she was, she smiled too.

(via submissiveconfessions-deactivat)

She’d made a mess of herself again. An errant thought had formed at the peak of her mind, and as it tumbled through her head it had caused an avalanche of lust and distraction. And she was drowning in it. 
She found it kind of ridiculous how it all snowballed so quickly. Of course right now she didn’t think of it that way, because she was hardly thinking. Her brain had set a course and smashed the controls, and there was only one destination she could even consider. 
It hadn’t been like this before him. She’d been a productive member of society, able to function on a basic level, at the very least. But now that he’d awakened… well, whatever it was, it was making daily life more than a little difficult for her. Idle thoughts, or, more dangerously, idle hands, were a source of constant distraction. 
And he knew, the bastard. He knew what he’d done to her, and he revelled in it. She’d just about make it through her day, get home, and the instant she didn’t have work to occupy her mind it would bobsled down the run towards all sorts of depraved, deviant things. By the time he got home half an hour later she was a mess. Perhaps that was the reason, underlying all of this; the proximity of his return. Pavlovian conditioning made a life choice. 
It was just a good thing he was so good at cleaning her up. Well, once he was done with her, at least.

She’d made a mess of herself again. An errant thought had formed at the peak of her mind, and as it tumbled through her head it had caused an avalanche of lust and distraction. And she was drowning in it. 

She found it kind of ridiculous how it all snowballed so quickly. Of course right now she didn’t think of it that way, because she was hardly thinking. Her brain had set a course and smashed the controls, and there was only one destination she could even consider. 

It hadn’t been like this before him. She’d been a productive member of society, able to function on a basic level, at the very least. But now that he’d awakened… well, whatever it was, it was making daily life more than a little difficult for her. Idle thoughts, or, more dangerously, idle hands, were a source of constant distraction. 

And he knew, the bastard. He knew what he’d done to her, and he revelled in it. She’d just about make it through her day, get home, and the instant she didn’t have work to occupy her mind it would bobsled down the run towards all sorts of depraved, deviant things. By the time he got home half an hour later she was a mess. Perhaps that was the reason, underlying all of this; the proximity of his return. Pavlovian conditioning made a life choice. 

It was just a good thing he was so good at cleaning her up. Well, once he was done with her, at least.

(Source: femaleboner, via hisprerogative)

He didn’t say anything. For the longest moment, he just looked at her, regarded her, gazed and stared, his eyes wandering up and down, assessing and analysing. For the longest moment, she had no idea what was going on in his head. 
He had made her get dressed out of his view, so she wandered off with clothes in hand and that pert little bottom bared for him to watch wander off, and came back as he had imagined her. Or at least, that was the idea. But the nerves set in, the neurosis and insecurities, and she worried and fretted, her fingers fondling the thin mesh of the babydoll, pulling and tugging on it. And still he watched.
It seemed like an hour before his lips even parted, an hour before he was about to speak, let alone before a word actually passed his lips. And somehow, that just made it more uncomfortable, more anxiety riddled and difficult to handle. She wanted to scream, to run over there and shake him until he told her what he thought. 
She wanted to curl up into a ball and have the world forget about her. 
And then, a flicker. The corners of his mouth turning just the slightest amount. Just enough for her to wonder whether she’d seem anything at all, as if her anxious mind might be playing tricks on her. Then there it was, again. And again. Alternating between almost smiling and almost deadpan. He was toying with her, she slowly started to realise.
He saw that recognition on her face, and the smile was properly born. His hands spread, and the smile turned into a grin.
"My dear, you look positively edible. Like the most candied of sweets. Come over here so that I can devour you."

He didn’t say anything. For the longest moment, he just looked at her, regarded her, gazed and stared, his eyes wandering up and down, assessing and analysing. For the longest moment, she had no idea what was going on in his head. 

He had made her get dressed out of his view, so she wandered off with clothes in hand and that pert little bottom bared for him to watch wander off, and came back as he had imagined her. Or at least, that was the idea. But the nerves set in, the neurosis and insecurities, and she worried and fretted, her fingers fondling the thin mesh of the babydoll, pulling and tugging on it. And still he watched.

It seemed like an hour before his lips even parted, an hour before he was about to speak, let alone before a word actually passed his lips. And somehow, that just made it more uncomfortable, more anxiety riddled and difficult to handle. She wanted to scream, to run over there and shake him until he told her what he thought. 

She wanted to curl up into a ball and have the world forget about her. 

And then, a flicker. The corners of his mouth turning just the slightest amount. Just enough for her to wonder whether she’d seem anything at all, as if her anxious mind might be playing tricks on her. Then there it was, again. And again. Alternating between almost smiling and almost deadpan. He was toying with her, she slowly started to realise.

He saw that recognition on her face, and the smile was properly born. His hands spread, and the smile turned into a grin.

"My dear, you look positively edible. Like the most candied of sweets. Come over here so that I can devour you."

(Source: stockingssexy, via submissiveconfessions-deactivat)

Oh how easy it is to decry pink, to label it as childish, immature, unintelligent. To push it into a grey corner with a snide derision, to stick to your reds and purples, or, for those more conservative among you, your pale, tertiary pastels. 
Now, I wouldn’t wear pink myself, because clearly that’s not the kind of man I am. I have neither the inclination, nor the somewhat confusing urge to beat my chest and declare what a man I am because I wear pink. Surely the confident thing to do is to neither actively avoid or actively partake in a colour you don’t particularly have any strong feelings towards wearing? I digress.
On a submissive woman, though, I can’t think of something I like more than the varying shades of pink. If there ever was a colour that was resolutely submissive, then it was pink. Acquiescing to the stronger reds, the pure whites, it’s between, supplicant to both. Soft, utterly feminine, and just… lovely.
I think that’s it. It’s lovely. Completely, resolutely. Perhaps that’s what polarises people so. They need a bit of sophistication to their niceness, or some edge to their pleasant nature. But with pink, it’s just… that. Just lovely. Nothing more, nothing less. 

Oh how easy it is to decry pink, to label it as childish, immature, unintelligent. To push it into a grey corner with a snide derision, to stick to your reds and purples, or, for those more conservative among you, your pale, tertiary pastels. 

Now, I wouldn’t wear pink myself, because clearly that’s not the kind of man I am. I have neither the inclination, nor the somewhat confusing urge to beat my chest and declare what a man I am because I wear pink. Surely the confident thing to do is to neither actively avoid or actively partake in a colour you don’t particularly have any strong feelings towards wearing? I digress.

On a submissive woman, though, I can’t think of something I like more than the varying shades of pink. If there ever was a colour that was resolutely submissive, then it was pink. Acquiescing to the stronger reds, the pure whites, it’s between, supplicant to both. Soft, utterly feminine, and just… lovely.

I think that’s it. It’s lovely. Completely, resolutely. Perhaps that’s what polarises people so. They need a bit of sophistication to their niceness, or some edge to their pleasant nature. But with pink, it’s just… that. Just lovely. Nothing more, nothing less. 

(Source: musandmus, via yourbadgrrl)

They had their rituals, just like any couple. She’d make the tea. He’d look after the BBQ whenever they got out the grill. Laundry was her responsibility, as was making sure the conditioner stayed the same. He managed the accounts. 
But they had their own idiosyncrasies that went a ways to setting them apart. She’d always go to sleep a good hour before him, because he was a little nocturnal like that, and always did his work past midnight. He’d pick out her outfit for the next day, laid out on the floor at the base of their bed. 
She’d make the tea naked. Well, naked apart from the yoke. 
And he’d find her, after reading the paper, drinking that tea, and perhaps having a piece of toast, dressed and gagged, chained to his study wall. From there he could decide what to do with her, where she would go. 
But then, every couple has their own little rituals. They’re all the same, really. 
Practically identical.

They had their rituals, just like any couple. She’d make the tea. He’d look after the BBQ whenever they got out the grill. Laundry was her responsibility, as was making sure the conditioner stayed the same. He managed the accounts. 

But they had their own idiosyncrasies that went a ways to setting them apart. She’d always go to sleep a good hour before him, because he was a little nocturnal like that, and always did his work past midnight. He’d pick out her outfit for the next day, laid out on the floor at the base of their bed. 

She’d make the tea naked. Well, naked apart from the yoke.

And he’d find her, after reading the paper, drinking that tea, and perhaps having a piece of toast, dressed and gagged, chained to his study wall. From there he could decide what to do with her, where she would go.

But then, every couple has their own little rituals. They’re all the same, really.

Practically identical.

(via cindersk)

The power is in the pull. The draw. The downstroke. 
It’s why some girls come from behind. Because they don’t save the best for last, they want it all at the start so that they can wallow in the thrill of it all the way down. Right on the button, and then between swollen, throbbing lips, before you do it all over again.
There’s something to be said for those who save it for last. The good girls who know that leaving the best taste lingering the longest is the most satisfying, and so they have the self control and will to enjoy it that way. There’s something to be said for them, and someone to say it. That someone isn’t me, I’m afraid.
No, I want those other girls. The ones who go for their clit first, from behind, and then claw their way down to the bottom of their cunt. Who press their face into the pillow and contort their bodies to get a better angle with which to attack themselves. The ones who want it all right the fuck now, thank you very much. They’re the ones I’ll say something for. Hell, I just did. 
Because they’re the ones who have something to learn. The ones who, when you laugh and swat their hand away, will give you that adorable look of reproach, who’ll defy you all the damn way until there’s nothing left in them but acceptance and sex. 
Those are the girls for me. 

The power is in the pull. The draw. The downstroke. 

It’s why some girls come from behind. Because they don’t save the best for last, they want it all at the start so that they can wallow in the thrill of it all the way down. Right on the button, and then between swollen, throbbing lips, before you do it all over again.

There’s something to be said for those who save it for last. The good girls who know that leaving the best taste lingering the longest is the most satisfying, and so they have the self control and will to enjoy it that way. There’s something to be said for them, and someone to say it. That someone isn’t me, I’m afraid.

No, I want those other girls. The ones who go for their clit first, from behind, and then claw their way down to the bottom of their cunt. Who press their face into the pillow and contort their bodies to get a better angle with which to attack themselves. The ones who want it all right the fuck now, thank you very much. They’re the ones I’ll say something for. Hell, I just did. 

Because they’re the ones who have something to learn. The ones who, when you laugh and swat their hand away, will give you that adorable look of reproach, who’ll defy you all the damn way until there’s nothing left in them but acceptance and sex. 

Those are the girls for me. 

(Source: les-belles-donzelles, via shadesinbetween-deactivated2012)

Oh, the simple life.
How lovely it would be to leash you to the sink while I finish cooking the supper, or perhaps to the leg of my chair while I watch some television. To have you constantly bound, never truly free, as bound physically as you are mentally. Always a leash, forever a chain. 
It would make those seldom moments when you do get that freedom all the sweeter, every single second savoured, cherished in the way a convict treasures freedom when they finally get it.
Cherished, and terrifying.
Because you’ve been in chains too long, my dear, and you’ve gone institutional. So come back, pretty thing, come back to me and my chains, and I’ll keep you ever so safe.

Oh, the simple life.

How lovely it would be to leash you to the sink while I finish cooking the supper, or perhaps to the leg of my chair while I watch some television. To have you constantly bound, never truly free, as bound physically as you are mentally. Always a leash, forever a chain. 

It would make those seldom moments when you do get that freedom all the sweeter, every single second savoured, cherished in the way a convict treasures freedom when they finally get it.

Cherished, and terrifying.

Because you’ve been in chains too long, my dear, and you’ve gone institutional. So come back, pretty thing, come back to me and my chains, and I’ll keep you ever so safe.

(Source: s-u-i-c-i-d-a-l-r-e-v-e-n-g-e, via slavesdiary)

The heels always stay on. 
No matter how naked you get, how tied up you become. No matter what I write on you, or how messed up your hair is, the heels stay on. Why? Hang on… I’ll have to give that one a think. 
It’s because they’re heels, right? The purpose is to emphasise the calves, accentuate the rear, and so they’re an objectification tool, first and foremost. 
No, that’s not quite right.
They’re also a platform. A stage, for the woman who wears them. They lend you a few inches, bring you to a closer level to the men that so dominate the workplace, or did (although lets not kid ourselves, the ‘workplace’, whatever it may be, is still pretty male-dominated), when heels were first brought in. So the heels go a way of striking that imbalance back in favour of the woman. 
Still not quite right.
Oh, how obvious.
It’s both. They build you up but at the same time bring you down. Oh, delicious dichotomy, incredible contradiction. Terrific tension. Forgive the alliteration, but I always get a little thrill when I find a tasty little paradox at the core of something. Conflicting forces, working to create something wholly unique.
So that’s why the heels stay on while I fuck you, tie you up, and call you a little whore. Next time don’t ask questions you don’t want long answer to.

The heels always stay on. 

No matter how naked you get, how tied up you become. No matter what I write on you, or how messed up your hair is, the heels stay on. Why? Hang on… I’ll have to give that one a think. 

It’s because they’re heels, right? The purpose is to emphasise the calves, accentuate the rear, and so they’re an objectification tool, first and foremost. 

No, that’s not quite right.

They’re also a platform. A stage, for the woman who wears them. They lend you a few inches, bring you to a closer level to the men that so dominate the workplace, or did (although lets not kid ourselves, the ‘workplace’, whatever it may be, is still pretty male-dominated), when heels were first brought in. So the heels go a way of striking that imbalance back in favour of the woman. 

Still not quite right.

Oh, how obvious.

It’s both. They build you up but at the same time bring you down. Oh, delicious dichotomy, incredible contradiction. Terrific tension. Forgive the alliteration, but I always get a little thrill when I find a tasty little paradox at the core of something. Conflicting forces, working to create something wholly unique.

So that’s why the heels stay on while I fuck you, tie you up, and call you a little whore. Next time don’t ask questions you don’t want long answer to.

(via philia-deactivated20120124)

"Play with yourself."
A simple enough command. But there’s a whole heap wrapped up in it. Embarrassment, exhibitionism, the desperate need to impress and do me proud. It’s taking something intimate and taking it out of that private place, even if the audience is singular. That thing that you’ve done for so long, on your own, is suddenly done not on your own. It does funny things to a mind, a shift like that.
And while I’ll admit that the embarrassment and discomfort, as wonderfully arousing as they are, are a draw, there’s an ulterior purpose at play, another goal in mind that’s far more beneficial to the both of us. You see, while I play the teacher and mentor so often, there’s plenty that I need to learn. Plenty I’ve learned before, with other girls and other commands, but every girl is different. They’re lessons that you need a refresher course in every time you start a new relationship.
And you’re the best one to teach me. Show me how you like things, when you’re alone and you’ve got no one to direct you, or tell you what to do. When it’s just you and your hand, and you’re trying to make yourself come as fast and hard as you can. I want to know how you do that, so I can map out those moves, and know exactly when and where to apply them when the time comes. It’s my crib sheet, written by your hand.

"Play with yourself."

A simple enough command. But there’s a whole heap wrapped up in it. Embarrassment, exhibitionism, the desperate need to impress and do me proud. It’s taking something intimate and taking it out of that private place, even if the audience is singular. That thing that you’ve done for so long, on your own, is suddenly done not on your own. It does funny things to a mind, a shift like that.

And while I’ll admit that the embarrassment and discomfort, as wonderfully arousing as they are, are a draw, there’s an ulterior purpose at play, another goal in mind that’s far more beneficial to the both of us. You see, while I play the teacher and mentor so often, there’s plenty that I need to learn. Plenty I’ve learned before, with other girls and other commands, but every girl is different. They’re lessons that you need a refresher course in every time you start a new relationship.

And you’re the best one to teach me. Show me how you like things, when you’re alone and you’ve got no one to direct you, or tell you what to do. When it’s just you and your hand, and you’re trying to make yourself come as fast and hard as you can. I want to know how you do that, so I can map out those moves, and know exactly when and where to apply them when the time comes. It’s my crib sheet, written by your hand.

(via passius)

He was a polygraph, and her face was the needle. 
He knew, it seemed, every time there was genuine worry in her eyes, and when it was mere anxiety. And he knew when she considered herself in danger, and he knew when to pull back. 
He knew how to read her in minute detail, to watch every action, reaction, every little piece of her that she put on display, that he put on display, and be able to tell, in an instant, when to push and when to hold back. He was a safe cracker, except he really didn’t want to crack the safe. He wanted to open it up.
The title is a misnomer.

He was a polygraph, and her face was the needle. 

He knew, it seemed, every time there was genuine worry in her eyes, and when it was mere anxiety. And he knew when she considered herself in danger, and he knew when to pull back. 

He knew how to read her in minute detail, to watch every action, reaction, every little piece of her that she put on display, that he put on display, and be able to tell, in an instant, when to push and when to hold back. He was a safe cracker, except he really didn’t want to crack the safe. He wanted to open it up.

The title is a misnomer.

(Source: omgrestraints, via makeithurtplease-deactivated201)

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