Two nice photos of my tits in action.
As always, I hope you enjoy them — and please, do not post or share these or any of the photos; they are just for Master Members.
(If you are not a Member Master & do not have the password to see all protected or Bound Posts, here’s how you get it.)
Tags: big breasts, Pinkie and Blackie history, serving, tit fuck
Blackie was quite pleased with himself for what he called his “Stay In School, Kids!” Public Service Announcement, but now that the threat was passed, I was furious.
Not just any furious; bitch wife furious.
“What the hell, Blackie,” I snapped at him, stuffing my tits back into my bra. “I could have been raped, we could have been hurt, robbed or killed–”
I was met with Blackie’s uproarious laughter, but continued my tirade anyway. “Hey, two nicely dressed business folks from out of town gettin’ down in an alley? What easy marks–”
“Get over it, Pinkie, they were kids.”
“And so then you decide to give them a lewd show? A misogynistic sex show?!”
“Oh come on now,” he laughed. Then after a brief pause during which I fumed, he said, “You loved it, you slut.”
My fear had already turned to anger, but his accusation made me get really angry. “You’re an ass,” was all I spat at him, riding in silence the rest of the way to our hotel.
At the hotel, I sailed past him in an Ice Princess freeze-out, heading to our room. Sure, he was just a few strides behind me, but I was smug in the knowledge that he was forced to walk in my icy wake.
Once I got into the hotel room, I kicked my shoes off and headed for the bathroom — but before I could get there, Blackie grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked me onto the bed. Before I could even gasp, he had me on my back and was on top of me, forcefully ramming his knee between my legs, hiking my skirt up, ripping my blouse open. Even though my clothes were technically on, all my sweet spots were exposed.
Tags: BDSM relationships, hair pulling, handcuffs, humiliation, nipples, orgasm denial, pain not pleasure, pinching, Pinkie and Blackie history, serving, shower
I’m back, but Blackie isn’t. I had meetings on Monday & Blackie stayed for a conference — possibly some meeting on the coast too. I don’t expect him back until Thursday at the earliest. He has left me, however, with specific instructions & tasks for while he is away…
One of which is to tell you of our Saturday night.
After dinner with some colleagues of his, Blackie drove the rental car downtown. I thought he was looking for some bars, but he pulled into an alley and told me to position myself up against one of the old brick walls — back arched, ass up and out, while he stuck his hand beneath my skirt and rubbed along my pussy lips. Assuring I was nice and wet (not to mention a bit buzzed from the wine at dinner), he ordered me to get on my knees & suck his cock.
I knelt before him in the dirty alley while he took his cock out of his suit pants. I had just begun sucking his cock when we heard voices. I stopped and looked in the direction the voices came from — Blackie told me to keep sucking while he turned his head toward the intruders and taunted, “Like what you see boys?”
Out of the shadows at the end of the alley were a group of three men — kids, just about. They stopped dead in their tracks & just looked at the man in a dark suit getting his dick serviced by some chick on her knees.
I was nervous, but kept on sucking Blackie’s cock.
One of the men walked forward for a closer look — the other two moved quickly to catch up and remain a pack.
I don’t think they knew if I was in trouble or not. And if I was, maybe they weren’t the type to help anyway. Such thoughts distracted me — at least enough that Blackie knew I wasn’t focused entirely on his cock. “Suck it, slut,” he said impatiently before returning his attention to the men.
“Bet you punks wished you had a slut like this, don’t you?” he gloated.
One of the boys nodded. The one in the front, the leader, I guess, just folded his arms and firmly stood his ground.
“Pop your tits out, Pinkie,” Blackie instructed, “Let ‘em have a nice look.”
I stopped sucking and looked up at him — what was he thinking?! When he didn’t even look at me, something about his set jawline told me I should just do as I was told. So I silently unbuttoned my blouse, lifted each breast out from its black lace bra cup and then, cautiously but dutifully, went back to sucking Blackie’s cock.
The boys watched, one of them let out a whistle, tents forming in their jeans.
“Yeah, she’s a real cock slut,” Blacke bragged. “Here, let me show you…” he turned to look down at me before continuing, “Back up against the wall, bitch.”
I scrambled to my feet and returned to the wall again. Back arched, ass up & out. Putting my back to the group of men was frightening, but at least they couldn’t see my face this way.
I felt Blackie’s hand on my ass, sliding its way down to the hem of my short skirt, then hiking it up exposing two thin black garters running down my bare backside above black stockings. Then with the aplomb & flourish of a sideshow barker he called the boys in for a closer look. “Come see, boys.” Then he slid his fingers along my wet folds for a few seconds before plunging them into my pussy before holding up his hand, showing off his shiny fingers, slick with my juices. “Mmm,” he said as he sucked his fingers clean in his mouth.
If the boys made a noise I didn’t hear it over the sound of my blood pounding in my temples.
I didn’t turn my head, but I heard (or felt) the men move closer. Inside I was praying to Blackie, “Let’s just leave, please!” But Blackie was in no rush. I turned my head to plead at him with my eyes but Blackie just grinned at me and then, still grinning, turned to the group and said, “I’d love to let you try it yourselves, boys, but I don’t want to be criminally responsible for underage boys getting serviced in an alley.”
Just past Blackie’s shoulder I could see at least two of the boys fumbling for wallets — presumably to show ID. Blackie laughed and dismissed them with a wave, “Punks like you have had those fake IDs for years.”
Then he half-turned to me, slapped my bare bottom and said, “Get in the car, Pinkie, we’ll have to find someplace a bit more private – or at least without minors drooling about.”
The boys moaned and aw-manned while I quickly & wordlessly walked to the car and got in. “Show’s over, boys,” Blackie said as he joined me in the car and turned the key in the ignition. Just as we passed the boys, he pressed the button lowering the window on the rental car’s driver’s side and said, “If you want your own hot slutty bitch to service you anywhere, stay in school boys.” And then he drove off.
Making me come has always been easy for Blackie — at least I feel he’s always played me like a fiddle, plucking my strings, until I sing over & over & over again. Once we both discovered what a pain slut I am, it only became easier.
Sure, at first it was a tentative exploration of what was pain that brought an immediate pleasure response, what was pain that hurt at the time yet left me with a sensitivity that made me both remember the pain & the sex and so made me crave more, and what was just plain old pain. But pretty quickly it became clear that what didn’t fall into the first category fell into the second — and that anything that might fall into the third was probably something dangerous to the point of stupidity anyway. So it was pretty much all good from where I sat (on my pink bottom!).
Most people (who can at least wrap their minds around the pain as pleasure sexual response) think that pain is a natural part of dominance and submission. It sure seems logical. But whatever assumptions Blackie and I made about the easy marriage between pain sluts and dominance were quickly challenged.
Because I wanted to be spanked, whipped, paddled, pinched, bound, clamped & mouse-trapped — and doing so only made me a horny slut nearly humping (wet, not dry!) on his pant leg — we found ourselves in the situation with me begging and whining, and, yes, even demanding, more punishments, fucking and sexual attentions rather than having Blackie dictating & directing… And what could the consequences of such inappropriate behaviors be if safe & sane punishment was what I sought?
We were left with the very simple question: What is to be my punishment if I am such a pain slut?
The answer was denial.
Part of our experiments in collaring taught me to accept that whining, begging and asking would only further delay what I wanted… I had to learn to accept — and therefore really discover — the joys of the delicious ambiguity of submitting to Blackie’s whims & desires. Learning that denial could be not only be a punishment (not having “my abuse,” as I call it), but keep me hovering in the tipsy state of aroused anticipation is opening a whole new world for us.
To Be Continued
Tags: BDSM relationships, pain as pleasure, Pinkie and Blackie history
In the early days, our BDSM adventures began with role play — the typical (awkward) stuff of fantasy play. As our appetites grew (or, perhaps more accurately, as our appetites were finally being fed), we had some difficulties… We each wanted more. More of “us,” of our relationship, in things than role play offered. But how? And when? Where?
The only thing we did know was “why” and even that was a bit mysterious… At least to me, the feminist with a cocky swagger in public life who delighted in submitting as a plaything in private.
Once I discovered the true joys of a pain slut I found myself wanting spankings & rough sex constantly. I tried to work my requests in as playful remarks, such as replying, “OK, I’ve been bad; so spank me!” Looking to dissolve into subspace, I tried to play the submissive kitten, coiled seductively at his feet or on his lap. I tried waiting on him, offering to get him things from the kitchen, giving him back rubs… Usually with some comment about being his slave, “What else do you want?” All hoping it would spark something.
When my subtleties (which were glaringly obvious) didn’t seem to work, addressed it directly.
As you may have imagined (or already gathered from the “about page“), it wasn’t that Blackie didn’t know what I was doing or why. And it wasn’t that he wasn’t interested to have more BDSM in our lives, our love, either. He was eager to have more control, to be “The Dominant” — but being dominant isn’t about doing what the sub wants, when she wants it, how she wants it.
Several conversations later, we were still unsure of just how to proceed.
Meanwhile, frustrated and aching for more, I kept up the anything-but subtle tactics and upped the ante to more than a few bratty outbursts — just begging for him to punish me. I even plaintively whined about how long it had been since he’d tied me up.
But Blackie just refused to play those games.
We still had sex, sometimes even as wild as I wanted it; but the more I pushed for bondage, pain & submission, the more he resisted. It’s a testament to his control… But it was far more frustrating than either of us liked.
Before my stupidity could really damage our relationship, we had a family situation which pulled us away from our lives. The emotional stress of the situation itself and the limited ability to hook-up for private intimate sessions of any sort really cramped our style — and when we returned home to our regular lives, we made a distinct effort to clear-up the mess we I had made of things as far as our D/s relationship went.
Having no manual for this, we tried a few things. It was trial & error testing of things we’d read or heard about from others. As with all these sorts of things, the mileage may vary, and ours did. (If you’re reading this for any sort of “advice,” your mileage will likely vary too.)
Contracts and ceremonies seemed as silly and fake to us as the now less-than satisfying role play. It seemed theatrical and lacking in that something which we both craved… That something which would not only spell out our relationship roles but feed the needs beneath it as well.
One of the more promising things we tried was using “collaring” as a signal for Blackie’s readiness to play.
Whenever he found himself in the mood, Blackie placed a leather collar on my desk chair (where I’d be sure to spot it at my daily morning email check). Just seeing the collar I’d flush. I was dizzy with desire thinking, “Today is the day!” and wondering just what he had in mind… And when & how I’d be faced with it.
The anticipation was a thrill unto itself.
But on days there was no collar I felt sad… I longed to see that collar, to have that invitation. And the way I’m wired, the better the sex I have, the more sex I want — Blackie calls it “a loop.” So after a fantastic day of BDSM play, my hormones were raging, making my disappointment at the discovery of no collar even more frustrating.
However, we did both learn something from this. Or maybe Blackie knew it and I was slow to get it. But one day I just decided to flip a mental switch.
Instead of living for collar day, instead of saving my anticipation for when I’d see the collar placed on my chair, I decided to consciously apply my anticipation to when I’d see the collar — it literally could be any day, any time!
Once I switched my thinking, to that of an optimist, I suppose, things improved.
I changed my mind-set to agree to live in the uncertainty of now knowing, of surrendering to Blackie’s whims & desires and the if & when of when he would exercise his control. In giving up that control, I lived more in the moment — delicious moments of anticipatory arousal.
We were steps closer to what we both wanted.
To Be Continued
