New Little pet...

So a few posts ago I wrote an entry called "Interesting Times" in which I mentioned how I was contacted by a dominant who wanted me to train his long distance submissive. I had mentioned that our first encounter had not taken place as a result of illness, but that I was very interested in meeting this young lady. 

A couple weeks later, and I had considered that the arrangement had fallen through and I didn't expect to hear from either of them again. However, just this passed Sunday, I did get a message from this lovely young lady. She had parted ways from her dominant at the time, the one who had contacted me for the arrangement previously mentioned, and that she still really wanted to have the chance to meet.

Well, I have to say I was a bit surprised, but I was extremely interested in meeting her and seeing what there might as far as opportunities between us. I wrote her back and within a day we were chatting up a storm. It was delightful talking about all the things she wanted to experience, what she had done up to this point, and even a little bit about where she wanted to end up. As a college student, the amount of time she could safely consider dedicating to any arrangement would be tied to her degree program. But that gives us the potential for up to two years of opportunities! How can I pass that up?

Up to that point, she had not been introduced to Fetlife. So I had her create a profile, willinglittlepet on Fetlife. We agreed to meet, much as we had discussed before, at a local diner. A public, safe setting for us both to get comfortable and enjoy a nice meal and get to know each other. Should everything go okay, which it definitely did, we would then head back to my place so she could meet my slave, our kids, and then share our first foray into fun. Just as planned, we met mid week, shared a lovely meal, and, as we were both comfortable with each other thus far, we did go back to my place. 

Love, Terror

So, as we've shared, Master took some vacation time and we had a stay-cation. There was lots of awesome. Time for play, time to watch some of our favorite TV shows together, and time to spam FetLife with buckets of pictures and videos (at least on Master’s profile). It was awesome.

One night Master threatened me with the stun gun. He uploaded a video of me rolling around on the floor, trying desperately to get away from the thing. Something we all run into in the kink community (and on FetLife) are folks who don’t see why we might be enticed by something, and edge play, especially of the terror & fear variety are widely looked at with…disdain…at best. In fact, a FetLifer commented on said video: “That just looks wrong. There is nothing but terror in her eyes.”

Maybe we need to state it in our profiles, or slap it on every picture, but Master and i are edge players – we do think of RACK (Risk Aware Consensual Kink) when we play – but we play on the edge, really hard, and our favorite is psychological: terror, fear, phobias. Because we have known each other so, so, long, and have built our trust to run deep and strong, i feel safe playing with my fears and terror with him. i trust my Master with my life, in a way that i will (probably) never trust anyone else. So we play with those deep, dark corners of power exchange.

i get off on being terrified. i want to be afraid. i blatantly tell Master all of the things that make me scared (okay, most of the things), in the hope that he will find a way to use them against me. When he bought the stun-gun, i told him the noise was scary; and i was rewarded by seeing the sadist’s eyes glimmer with delight at the thought of my fear. We have had that thing for two years, and he’s never once touched me with it when it was lit up. He just turns it on so i hear the snap and crackle, and makes me think he’s going to pop me with it. Someday, he will pop me with it, and then maybe i won’t be afraid of it anymore. That actually makes me sad. So right now, whenever he pulls it out, i soak up the terror it instills, i drip with terror, wondering if this is going to be the time he actually makes contact. i let my body experience the desire to enter fight or flight, while my brain realizes there is no where i could go (or would want to go) to escape, and there’s no chance of winning a fight. The best part is that Master gets off on it, too. He likes making me afraid, likes seeing me squirm and plead. He likes that when we have sex when terror play is involved, i am dripping the evidence of my arousal. He even likes putting me back together after he’s taken me apart like that. It’s what we do, and i think we do it well.

That night was hard; he really did take me apart, between the stun-gun, the electro-sex box, and the things he said to me while he fucked me. i was a sobbing mess, it was hot, and i can’t wait for the next time he can make me so terrified that people i don’t know would be able to recognize it in my face.

After, he told me i was a good girl. He touched me and held me. i examined all the nooks and corners of my brain and found myself at peace, contented, relieved, in the wash of a cathartic release from the terror. Some people get that from the floggers and the whips, but for me, the best cathartic releases come after terror.

So plainly put... i <3 terror, and so does Master.

The Milking

I suppose it has been a long time coming. Little hints along the way, pointing to the obvious culmination of all our little lactation jokes cresting on the horizon. I've kept her producing, even though our little one no longer breastfeeds. The tits are all mine again! And I keep them hard, firm, and full of milk. 

It fuels her thoughts and desires to be a simple animal, kept and of use. The slave wrote a bit of fiction, a story of being reduced to nothing more than a cow. Placed on all fours, her voice stolen by a gag, hands wrapped tightly into hooves. He places a pail under her udders, telling her of the coming humiliation. He wraps his hands around her breast and works her engorged flesh. The milk sprays into the pail with an audible hiss. He laughs as her body reddens at the sound, a blush of humiliation from head to toe. A deep, long moan escapes the gag. He continues, forcing the milk out of her, spraying it into the growing puddle at the bottom of the pail. 

His unforgiving grip elicited uncontrolled mewing, her bosom heaving with her growing desire. Milky moisture building at the gateway of her wagging sex as he milked her dry. Her udders grew more and more tender with each crushing caress, bringing tears to her eyes as the final droplets fell with a resounding plink.

I had enjoyed reading her story quite a bit. It struck me every bit as the the culmination of our animal play and constant breast engorgement efforts! It started as we were laying around in the living room together, the children playing games, my hand down my slave's shirt massaging her tender tits, the first droplets of milk soaking between my fingers. I worked the tender nipples, causing little sprays of white cream to lance out. It delighted me, twisting them to spray her in the face, watching her lick up the mess from my hands. That sealed it. 

As soon as the kiddos were tucked securely in bed, I brought my cow to the room and began the transformation. On her knees, I wrapped her hands in Vet wrap to seal her fingers into helpless hooves. The slave had placed her recently purple dyed hair into delightful pig tails and they swayed enticingly as I finished the application of the wrap. Next, a tender kiss to her trembling lips before forcing the large, soft ball of the leather panel gag into her mouth, buckling it closed around her head. I forced a test moan or two from her packed mouth with a squeeze of the dangling nipples. The metal rings around her wrists and ankles were bound together with double ended clips. The final touch, a bell attached to her collar rang out with each struggling  movement as I pulled her into position over the metal dog dish, my substitute pail. 

Her udders dangled beautifully over the glint of the awaiting metal dish. I took them into my hand, working my fingers down the length of the tit. I enjoyed her whimpering at my touch. The first droplets began to fall, dripping into the dish. My fingers worked her swollen glands, deeply massaging the tissues as milk began flowing into the bowl. Oh how she moaned, that deep longing groan. 

      "Such a cow!" I teased her. My slave's hips bucked. I reached back around her ass, slipping an exploring finger into her puffy lips. I was not surprised in the least to find her dripping wet and hot to the touch. "Just a beast," I chided. Again, she mooed her desperate need. But we still had a long way to go. I worked her nipple between my fingers, the flow growing to a heavy spray, ringing into the metal dish. My cow quivered as I brought her attention to the sound. Again and again, the spray shot into the dish, occasionally overshooting the edge and soaking into the carpet. 

Eventually, the flow on the first tit ebbed and my grinding touch brought the last, tentative drops into the bowl. The cow whimpered piteously, thumping into me with her hips. 
     "I'll let you know when I'm done, cow," I told her, rolling her nipple between my finger tips. My slave sobbed as I pressed on.

With the last of the secretions drained from her reddened flesh, I allowed her a moment to rest before we started the next side. The cute bell jingling as she pulled eagerly away from the bowl. I enjoyed the noticeable difference in her udders, the worked tit sagged in comparison to her unmolested breast. I teased her bell, flicking it with my finger, enjoying the blush in her cheeks, bound beneath the gag strap.  



The break came to an end and I instructed my cow to return to her position. Instantly, she obeyed, crawling back over the bowl as her bell cried out at her hobbled movements. My fingers found her eager flesh and I began the milking on the other side. My cow slave mooed and moaned as milk poured from her tit. 

Hot cream filled the bottom of the dish, the level rising as time passed. Eventually, the milk began to run dry in the other side as well and her hip grinding and moaning were having such a delicious effect on me. As was the sight of her being milked like a heifer at my feet. Just my little animal, thoughtless and humping; a creature. 

I flicked her nipple, sending the last droplets spattering into the bowl. My cow whimpered and twisted her hips, trying to escape. With a final slap, I let her collapse to the side of the dish, trying to sooth her well worked udders against the carpet. The defeated groan that escaped her trapped, compressed lips was delicious. I turned my attention to the bottom of the dish, enjoying the sight of her cream sloshing in the bowl. It would make a nice treat for the cow. 

But first, it was time for me to get some use out of her. I pulled her onto the bed and had my way with her until I was satisfied. During that time, the cream had had a chance to cool under 

the constant blowing of the AC. It was time for my cow to enjoy her treat. The gag had been removed while using her, and she licked her lips while looking at her secretions. 

"Are you ready for your treat, cow?" I asked, placing my hand on her neck, the bell ringing at my touch. She smiled, and I pulled her down, bringing her face to the bowl.
"May I," she asked, and I nodded. There was no hesitation in her tongue as it lapped at the cooled cream. Lick after lick, her milk was consumed until she was licking the bowl clean, pushing it around with her effort to get every last drop. Finished, she looked up at me with a wet smile and a smudge of white cream on her nose. 
"My good cow," I said, patting her back side. My slave beamed up at me with her broad, moist smile before wiping her face on the carpet. 
"How are these?" I asked, gripping her dangling udders. She groaned, pulling her arms in tight. "Well used?" I added, and she nodded. 

Spent, she turned and collapsed at my feet with a final jingle of her bell. My sweet cow slave, drained in so many ways, cuddled up to my legs and sighed her contentment at being used. After all, she is just an animal...

my Bear

the lines of Him are soft,

fluffy and furred

as He sleeps like a giant pillow;

grand to cuddle,

and perhaps a little squishy.

but it is a lie.

misconception.

a facade.

subterfuge.

a fable.

what builds the core of Him,

is strength and sinew,

flashing fangs and cutting claws,

might and speed, cleverly hidden

behind the softness.

though He is kind, maybe tender,

He is also hard and sharp,

drinking fear in other eyes;

when they see the truth of Him,

as He protects it for His own.

the strength of Him,

is palpable beneath the soft subterfuge;

though the full measure is best shown

as He devours suffering,

bringing His strength to bear.

oh, believe the fable,

miss the chance to see the depths,

feel the fangs, claws,

or touch the stretching strength of Him,

the truth behind the Loving Monster.

                                  ~ creature (first draft, July 2014)

Milestones

i already don't remember a whole lot from the other night. i do remember feeling odd as i could hear Master-Reaper and our friend speaking about me as if i was a thing while i was mostly out of earshot - catching only fragments of the conversations while settling the house for the night. When the house was quieted, Master let me have a energy drink...i took it to his room and stood as far away from the door as i could...i was feeling terribly nervous. i'm very shy, and while i generally feel pretty good about how i look, i tend to loose my confidence in the presence of other people and in front of the camera. Both came into the room with Master.

Master made it a little easier for me though - and pulled the satin blindfold over my eyes, wrapping me in darkness. i remember feeling as if i was shaking like a leaf. i remember moving and listening to the camera clicking away while Master-Reaper looped ropes around my breasts. It was, at first, odd to realize that we actually had a third person in the room who was taking pictures and videos. It was also humiliating for me. We have known our friend for many years, though mostly kept our interactions to a fairly superficial, vanilla and geeky sort (Dungeons and Dragons for the win!); having him witness how deeply i long to be tormented and used, having him see Master-Reaper turn me into a frightened, writhing, happy beast...was...a shock. (See, it's Master who is the exhibitionist around here.)

Then my memory quickly becomes vague. Did Master rummage through his closet before he bound my breasts or after? Did he begin lubing my asshole before he and our friend voted that i needed stripes? Did i have to count, or was that later? How long did he push at my cervix with a dick-on-a- stick; was it forever or only a few minutes? Did i scream when he first started pushing the bandito (an anal probe with a cock ring that we've had forever, but have barely used) into me? Did i howl with frustration when Master had his cock through the ring and i couldn't get the bandito deep enough to feel more than the tip of Master's cock in my cunt? Did i move with that thing intruding upon me, or did i merely tremble around it? How many orgasms were there? How long had the camera been recording video instead of clicking away with pictures?

When Master added our friend to the scene and sex - was he as surprised as i was (though i've known for a while that Master's inclination to share had been growing)? When his hands seized my hair, did i jump as if with an electric current? Was my surprise evident in the way my body twisted around Master's cock, the bandito in my ass and our friend's cock down my throat? When i was emptied of the invaders, did my desperation show? When Master whipped my cunt and legs, was my lust obvious? When Master bagged me, did i cry and wail? Did i panic and thrash, or did i accept his control?

And then, hearing "Good girl" and having candy balanced on my nose...and being told to shower...and then being allowed an evil treat...a cigarette (the first one in...years?)...on the porch, in the night air, luscious smoke curling over my ravaged throat, mingling with the scent of the men who had their way with me... Four hours of sleep later, i'm still processing...trying to remember more...and trying not to hump the floor.

The Box...

The following is an original work of fiction. Given my propensity for creating such works, I have a surplus. It dawns on me that I should probably seek a publisher and make these writings work for me (to feed my kinky addictions). If any of you dear readers have any suggestions for publishing options, please email my slave at junderb at g mail dot com.

Out in the middle of nowhere, along a long stretch of a all-but-forsaken highway, lies a farmer's field. It stretches out under the scorching sun for what must be miles in each direction. The ground is flat and dry and hot under the constant pounding of the sun. It is between the growing seasons and the crops have all been long harvested, the new seeds yet to be planted. Occasional clouds of dust would be kicked up by the wind and dance its cyclonic dance before dissipating as suddenly as it started.

In this field, there stands a lone, solitary, single box. Nearly four feet tall and nearly as wide on both sides, with a peaked roof, it is a wooden box with sheets of metal tacked to it. What paint there might have been has long been dried and sand blasted off by the wind; the wood looks faded and as dry as the dirt around it. The sun glints off the metal plates, shining for miles in all directions. For those driving along the forsaken highway, it must stand as a momentary curiosity. What is the purpose of this box out in the middle of this field? Who would build such a box? Why would they tack metal sheets to its sides?

But the box would just as quickly be forgotten as the horizon stretched on for the weary, hot travelers. Forgotten, but ever vigilant over the fields on either side, a lone centurion. Very few would ever guess the true purpose of the box, and even those that would dream up its cruel purpose would scarcely believe that anyone would actually use it for such a purpose. “Who would really do that sort of thing anyway?” they would likely think to themselves.

Along the only stretch of road the divides the two fields, comes an old pickup truck. The antiquated metal springs that serves as the shocks of this truck squeak and screech as it bumps along the old dirt road. It is the only sound of significance on a day like today beside the occasional call of a hunting falcon. A cloud of dirt and dust fills the air behind the truck like a wake, blown gently by the late morning breeze. The truck heads toward the lone box with some intent.

Using my fiction against me...

So, Master, for the first time in forever, has taken some real vacation time. It’s glorious! We’re not really going anywhere or doing anything (missing Thunder in the Mountains again this year); but we are enjoying being together…in carnal ways and in the silly ways, too! Plus we don't have to lug our massive toy collection anywhere this way.

A while back, i wrote a few pieces of erotica – really short ones, only 3 or 4 pages written by hand – and Master liked them. He liked them enough that some of the thoughts were incorporated into a play session during his first real day off…wrapping my hands in vet-wrap (first time we've actually used the stuff -- and offhand, it’s pretty awesome), and then used the last of the roll to keep the inflatable gag in (being able to hyper-extend my jaw aggravates Master to no end). It’s amazing how quickly i sink into an animal mindset once Master has taken away the use of my hands…the leather hood went on after that, along with the leash and a set of nipple clamps. i sat there, on my knees and “paws,” just breathing in the silence and darkness the leather hood wraps me in.

Then he knocked me over. This was the part of the story i wrote, so i knew how this game worked…His amusement as i struggle back up on to all fours. Over and over. Once the chain between the clamps was trapped beneath one of my knees when i got back up; if he’d noticed, he might have laughed, but since i couldn't hear or see, i don’t know if he did. When he was bored with knocking me over, he had me struggle up on to his bed, where he held my face down while he pried my cunt open with a speculum and shoved a lubed up dildo up my ass. Then he fucked me; cross-eyed, probably. i lost track of orgasms, and for a while, i was too blissed out to even remember how to ask him for permission. Sometimes it feels too good to hang out over the edge without going over, anyway. Somewhere along the way, he’d taken a short buffalo hide scorpion tail whip (it’s all of 12 inches long, i think, maybe 20 with the handle) and applied some stripes to my hind end – it’s sore, but dollars to doughnuts, i won’t be marked by tomorrow. After he’d fucked me into oblivion, he must have finished himself… When i was aware of my body again, he’d already taken all the vet-wrap off and was putting away the things that didn't need to be cleaned. 

It’s these moments where i really feel content; moments where i feel terribly, irrevocably owned. No matter how hard it was for me to endure the panicked breathing, or the sharp pain of the clamps, or my desire to get away from the anal intruder, or whatever it is he's doing to me…there is no escape. He is bigger, stronger, faster, and he will get what he wants…which is exactly what i want and what makes me drip and lust for more of him.