Pussy Pride Redux – Sex with Rings

Awhile back I wrote a post for the Pussy Pride Project on Molly’s Daily Kiss. I had a lot of fun with that post, and I have enjoyed reading other contributions to the meme. Recently I got a couple of replies to that post, and since I enjoy talking about my pussy (shocking, I know) I thought I’d do a follow-on post to it to answer those questions. This time, I got to elicit the Guys assistance as well, so (for perhaps the first time?) you’ll get to hear from each of them as well!

H.H. of MySexLifeWithLola said, “Can you or W write about what it’s like to have sex with all those piercings?”

Although I’ve actually written about what sex with my rings is like several times, especially when they were new, it’s usually in the context of the rest of a scene that we are in the middle of, not just about the sensations specific to fucking with rings. And I don’t think I’ve ever asked the Guys to write about it, although we’ve talked about it many times.

Here’s what W had to say:

Fucking Jade with Rings

If fucking a girl with rings isn’t on your bucket list, it should be. I’d like to say it takes a real man with cast iron balls to manage it, but that isn’t really the truth.  Sure, you can’t be a wimp, but the primary effect for me is mental. As soon as I see them or feel them on Jade I get hard as a rock, not so much from the physical sensation, but from the mental effect that they have on me. There’s just something deliciously wrong about a girl with metal rings implanted in her cunt, and to fuck such a feisty, unconventional girl is a huge turn on and conquest.

The feel of the rings depends upon the position and your technique. In some cases you can barely feel them, but with others you can feel a hardness along your cock as you forcefully push her open and you can feel friction around your shaft as you pump back and forth and manipulate her parts.  I imagine them to be guide rails placed there for the convenience of myself and that of other males that have the (power) to use her.

Most of all I like knowing that I’m fucking an industrial girl. A highly skilled, efficient, fucking machine that you can pick out of the crowd. Someone special that guys dream about and most girls can’t match.

I swear I didn’t pay him to write all that stuff. ;-)

Ad’s perspective is a little different, as might be expected.  He says:

Impressions of Sex with Rings

You wanted my impressions of sex with the rings. The first impressions that strike me are visual and tactile. The sight of the rings is eye catching and impressive. After seeing them you then want to touch them and play with them. Seeing how they can be pulled and what sensations they create. They do focus your attention to the sensations in that area. When touching them they are hard and smooth. Once you plunge inside you feel the rings sliding along your length. That can be distracting, in a good way, tho. The only small negative effect is while using a vibrator near the rings. The rings can be a little buzzy and pinchy when vibrated heavily, thus spoiling the mood. Overall the rings are fun for both partners!

So there you have impressions from both my partners about fucking me with the rings.

As for me…well, although the Guys sometimes can’t tell much of a physical difference, I always can. Getting fucked now that I am so heavily pierced is always “getting fucked with rings” for me, and they are an essential and integral part of the experience. I can’t be fucked and not be acutely aware of them, the entire time, even if I have adjusted and moved them around to minimize discomfort.

In some ways, this is good, and hot. As W says, it is definitely a mental trigger for us both. I know how much they turn him on, and, especially when he is fucking me brutally, shoving his way through them and hurting me, it’s extremely arousing. It is also very arousing to always be aware of these piercings in terms of my connection to – and ownership by – W. This, to me, is the essence of my submission to him, in a very tangible, almost irreversible way. It’s not some pretty little hood decoration that can be overlooked or ignored. There they are, hard, cold, infringing and in-my-face (so-to-speak) all the time. Always there, always a reminder of W, of being owned, of who owns me, of his possession of me. This awareness extends beyond fucking, too. I am aware of them this way every day, nearly all the time. Walking, running, sitting, doing yoga, riding a bike, turning over in bed, going pee, taking a bath, getting a massage, curling up on the couch or out and about, there isn’t more than a few minutes, maybe a half hour here and there, that I am not aware of them or having a random thought about them – and thus, by extension, W. This is true even more so, of course, when I am being fucked. And when it is someone else fucking me? The knowledge that I am marked that way – marked in such a visceral, physical way as W’s property – is a huge turn-on.

There is also a lot of imagery and physical sensations related to the rings themselves that turn me on, such as pulling my cunt lips open by the rings and spreading them wide. The image and the actuality of that – and how that makes me feel on a very base, emotional level – is very powerful.  Having them slicked with come, again, both visually in my fantasies and in reality. The image of a cock pushing through the barrier they form, and then being surrounded by and encased by metal. Sometimes I am able to hitch my hips up in just such a way as to feel the fourchette sliding along the ridge of W’s cock (I avoid doing this to Ad because he doesn’t get off on the sensation like W does.) That image alone can send me over the edge. Another image, that of one man spilling his seed inside me and my rings dripping with his semen, only to have another man push into me, sliding his cock over my cum-slickened rings, is an especially powerful and erotic one to me. Perhaps this is because I no longer get soaked on the outside of my pussy very often anymore (an unusual and unintended side-effect of having my inner labia constantly exposed, I think.) But whatever reason, having them stroked with lube or spit or semen is very, very erotic, and heightens the ultra-sensitivity that I already experience in my labia.

On the other hand, sometimes the physical sensation while I am having sex – always always always being aware and having to think about and adjust for them – can get tiresome.  And the aforementioned issue with wetness. Sometimes I just want to get fucked, you know? To feel a hard, thick cock slide into me without having to worry about/compensate for/adjust to the rings.  To not have the primary sensation be the rings, rather than the fingers, hand, cock or toy.  And yet…that very sensation…feeling the metal, the pinch, the slide when they get wet…feeling them as an obstruction and as a tool used to cause me distress or pain…feeling them being pulled or twisted or tugging on them or pulling them open myself…is all very erotic and physically pleasurable in a way I hadn’t expected when I first got them installed.

Question number two was asked by a reader that calls himself Chaos.” He asked, “Your pussy piercings are so beautiful. Do you plan to get more? And what do you think about pierced cocks?”

First of all, thank you very much for the compliment. I love my rings too and find them beautiful as well, though sometimes I look at them and am amazed at what I have done to my body. My pussy is no longer anything like what it was before them – it’s been a true body modification, and one I just didn’t expect, to be honest. As W said once, “We’ve created something entirely different from what it was.” I told him yeah, and that means since he created it (or it was created) in large part for him, I guess that means he’s stuck with me. ;-)

To answer your questions, I don’t think I am going to get any more genital piercings. I may get a few more in my ears, but I don’t really have a desire for other places to be pierced either (never my nipples.) The only other genital piercing that I have considered is a triangle, but to be honest, the potential for nerve damage is high enough in that one that I don’t think I ever will take the chance. And I love the way my hood piercing looks, but it is so distracting and annoying, and makes it hard to orgasm in a normal way, that I don’t think I will put it back in.

As for cock piercings…um…I don’t think I’ve ever seen one in person! And certainly never fucked one. W has a fantasy of getting me fucked by a heavily pierced cock, but it’s never come about.

Yet. ;-)

Wanton Wednesday – DP One Way

This is one way to do a DP.

Wanton Wednesday - Two Click-Thru

This is another.  And I know I posted about yet another way (the “conventional” way, lol) but I can’t find the post, so, oh well.

Later this week, in another of my “Draft Posts per W,” I’ll describe yet another.


Whether it’s a little naked or a lot naked, baring your soul or baring your body parts, you are welcome to join us! Yes, you! Words, photos, whatever you want to share that is Wanton will fit right in.

Wanton Wednesday

When Work & Play Meet

Today is the first day of NaNoWri (National Novel Writing Month.) As some of you already know, I have participated in the event, in a sometimes-perfunctory, sometimes-engaged fashion, for the past several years with my daughter. This year I wasn’t going to participate, but she has been insisting we do so since August, so here I am again, attempting 50,000 words in one month.

I’m actually more enthusiastic than the previous paragraph implies.  Mostly I am enthusiastic about the fact that the Missy wants me to participate in it with her so much. I love that she loves to write, and connects that wonderful activity, that has given me so much joy my entire life, with me. I hope, when I am gone, that this will be one of those things that will remind her of us, and bring her happy memories.

In any case…here I am.  New novel, new dedication.  We’ll see how it goes. ;-)

At the moment, though, I am in my office, thinking about last night (a first date); W (he’s gone for two weeks, back for a week, I’m gone for a week, then he’s gone for two more); a meeting/play date he wants me to set up for us when he gets back; and the heavy, beaten-metal collar I have around my neck.

First, last night.

I had a first date with a Top that wants a play partner once a month when he comes to St. Louis. He has a long-term partner in his home town, but due to his heavy travel schedule, neither she nor he get as much play as they’d like, so he has been looking for someone for her to play with a few times a month when he isn’t there and for someone for him to enjoy on a long-term, but extremely part-time basis when he travels. It could be an ideal situation for us all: I get a monthly play date with someone new, who enjoys some of the things that W doesn’t (D/s ritual/interaction being the main one of interest to me), without the attendant “relationship” type stuff that I just don’t have the time, energy or interest in.

I got to meet him in my “Bad Sandy/Rizzo” get-up that I donned for our Halloween party here at work, which looked pretty hot:

And no, I DON'T smoke - that's not even an actual cigarette. LOL
Ad made the lettering on the back of my jacket. :-D

But of course I wasn’t actually “bad.” In fact I was very good, following W’s instruction on meeting with him to the letter. Which was an unusual situation in the first place (W giving me such precise restrictions on what I could and couldn’t do on the date.) But which I liked. A lot.

More on that at another time, perhaps.

Prior to going out though, (and speaking to the second subject of my musings this morning – W being out of town), I found myself at W’s, freshening up after work. It’s both sad and comforting to me to be in his house when he goes away.  I wander around and look at his (and my) things, and miss him, even yesterday, when he’d only been gone a day. And like a dog pining for its master, I curled up on his bed, an old shirt that smelled like him under my cheek, and took a quick, restorative nap. Well, after I masturbated until I came (twice) thinking about having sex with him only the day before, right in that same spot.

As we have done the last two times that he’s gone away, we discussed ways to help me (and him) deal with our separation. I think it’s easier in some ways for him to deal with. I know he misses me, but I don’t think he misses the D/s part that is so integral to my experience of our relationship. It’s more than missing him, it’s feeling unmoored in a way, set adrift. And so most of what we do is geared towards incorporating a small bit of that into my life daily, either in a way that just has me thinking about him and our connection, or in games that we play or tasks that he sets for me. This has become sort of a ritual in and of itself for us, the preparation on his part prior to leaving, the discussion of what he may require of me, the anticipation on my part of it, and then, of course the execution of said tasks, etc. and the recording of them here.  Oddly, I have come to enjoy this aspect of his absence, and even, while not looking forward to his absence, looking forward to this part of it. It’s a little bit of ritual in a largely ritual-free relationship.

That symbolism today is this metal collar I have around my neck.

The theme of this month’s trip is “Wearables.” I think there may also be some Tasks assigned, and the week that the Missy and I are on our writing retreat will have it’s own particular games to be played, but for the most part I believe that part of my daily, or almost-daily, routine will be to wear some sort of “reminder” beneath my clothes, such as this collar, as directed by W.

I don’t know if W really gets the mind of someone that gets off on this sort of thing, to be honest. This morning, knowing I had to wear something that would hide the collar, I looked at the weather report.  Hoping for, you know, a snowstorm or something to justify wearing a heavy turtleneck sweater.  No such luck. While it was only 43 degrees this AM, it’s supposed to get up to the low 70’s by mid-afternoon. I couldn’t justify a heavy sweater. I really can’t justify a turtleneck, even a light knit one like the one I’m wearing.

But that’s the fun of it.  Making me have to think about it this morning as I dressed, having to choose to obey his instruction, and go through a bit of discomfort and gyrations to make it happen, because he said so, because I want to please him. Making me a little uncomfortable. Making me aware of doing something that might draw a little bit of attention–not enough to have people really wondering, but just enough to make me self-conscious when my coworkers look at me. Self-conscious and very aware of this band of metal laying so heavily around my neck.  The clasp sticks out just a bit, pushing the fabric of my turtleneck out, and I wonder every time they look at me if they can see that. Getting out of my car this morning to come into the office, I felt a tremor of anxiety and excitement, knowing I was wearing it. Excitement that translated to a throbbing between my legs even as my brain told me how stupid it was to get wet about wearing a collar.

The things is, I know that I could have used any excuse to get out of it.  W truly doesn’t want me to be discommoded in any way , and if I ask him to allow me to get out of something he has told me to do, he generally will.  But…I don’t want him to let me off.  W doesn’t necessarily get the mindset that accompanies this whole scenario–I don’t want him to give in, to be “thoughtful” when I whine that it’s “too hard” or I just didn’t have time, or it’s uncomfortable or I don’t like it or “the weather is too warm for a turtleneck,”–but I think he’s figured out that it’s very much a part of my mental-makeup and has started to play with that concept.  It’s that I have to do this thing, and find a way to do it in spite of my own reservations/resistance, that makes it hot.

To a reasonable degree, of course.  Right now, my head hurts a little because of the weight of the damn thing. This is no delicate, “just-for-looks” collar.  It’s heavy, and industrial, and merciless in its weight. Not something that I could wear every day, and in fact may not be able to tolerate for a full eight hours (and get my work done.) But that, too, is part of it. Every so often I have to hold it up off my neck, discretely, so nobody sees, to alleviate the pressure.  And later I may ask if I can remove it, and if he allows me to, even the removal, in the bathroom stall here at work, will become part of it all.  (That he is reasonable in these matters, in spite of the “not wanting him to give in” rhetoric, is also why I am with him, by the way. He does know how to balance “not giving in” and knowing when I am just whining, with reality and the need to be sensible.) And meanwhile, the weight of it, every minute, has me thinking about him, about how I am his Industrial Girl, his Industrial Fuck, even here at work.

As for the other thing I’ve been thinking about, the task of setting up a play date for his return, well, that tale will have to wait until another time.  This Industrial Girl has to go be Worker Girl for awhile.

What I Needed

Pushed to the floor, carpet beneath my knees; elbows
one hand on my back, pinning me
the other grinding my face into the carpet.
His voice in my ear
abrading me
inflaming me
inciting me.
His cock in my ass
impaling me
fucking me
tearing me open
staking me to the floor.

Rug burn on my knee in the morning.

I needed that.

Today I am in chains. Around my throat, around my ankle. I need that, too.

Need to Know

As you all know by now (if you’ve been reading my blog for any length of time) W and I have been testing the waters of swinging. He wants me to experience it for many reasons, one of which most certainly is that he simply likes to watch me get laid, but also because he feels that the particular set of protocols and morays that make up the swinging lifestyle are ones that I should learn, and eventually, excel at. Because he believes that I will, eventually, be “good” at it.

Sometimes I am not sure about this last, but…(as you most surely know by now)…I will do anything to please him.  If doing this pleases him, if being “good” at this makes him happy, if me becoming an “accomplished” swinger makes him hard, then hey–I’m there.  And thrilled to do it.

Unfortunately the St. Louis scene isn’t exactly the swingers’ mecca that we might have hoped it would be.  And…we’ve had a few bumps in the road as well as we’ve learned to negotiate this new dynamic, both between ourselves and in regards to others.  And, frankly, we’ve had to backtrack and re-assess how it might work for us a couple of times, because it is so foreign to our own dynamic, and because, specifically, swinging itself does nothing for me.  I need some level of kink, of a CNC or coercion dynamic, or it just isn’t hot for me.  So we’ve been trying to figure out how that might be incorporated (without squicking others out or driving them away) and how best to allow our own dynamic to work within the framework of swinging.  Needless to say, it’s been a bit of a slow start.  And it may never work completely the way W wants it to. But, I’m hopeful, and (as always) eternally optimistic.  If I can make it work, you can damn well believe I will make it work.

Meanwhile, there are scenarios that have come up via our contacts in the different swing groups.  Not necessarily “swinging,” but scenarios that appeal to W’s and my particular kink and that we’ve decided to explore. Each one of these is an opportunity for learning (as well as the possibility of some hot sex.)

Lately I’ve been talking to a woman that wants to send another woman to fuck her husband in his hotel room (he’s in town for a few days attending a business function.) Ideally, for my hotness factor, this sort of scenario would happen this way:

W makes contact with the woman. She and he negotiate what will happen. He arranges a time with me that will work, without telling me the details. At the agreed-upon time, he takes me to the man’s hotel room, drops me off at the door, I go in and perform whatever service W and the woman have agreed to, and two hours later W picks me up (hopefully bedraggled and with some outward signs of having been used hard by this man.)  Oh, and with pictures of it in my phone and sent to the wife.  He then takes me home, “inspects” me for compliance with his and the wife’s wishes, uses me or abuses me to reclaim me, and sends me home to my family.

Fuck. I’m getting hot just thinking about it.

The reality, though, in large part because of the particular dynamics of swingers, is a bit different. I saw the wife’s post about wanting someone for her husband. Knowing that this is exactly the kind of thing that would get W off, I replied to her. She and I have been in negotiation now for two days, and today I made contact with her husband, confirming the details of a meeting that will happen Thursday. All the while, I kept W apprised of the situation, and he, knowing I needed to hear/feel it (even though I never directly requested it) gave me permission–and specific instructions to comply.

I need to feel his coercion, his demand that I do this thing, even though I was the one that set it all in motion, and have set it all up.  He knows that, and has neatly (and quite adeptly) turned it into coercion play.  And it works.  And I am hot.

Trying to explain this to the woman doesn’t work out so well, though.

I didn’t set out to have to try to explain it to her originally. It was more of a slip. I am well aware of the female-driven swinger dynamic. Women run the show, their word is first and last. And a woman being forced into performing sexually is anathema.

So of course I didn’t tell her I was doing it for W.

Until I did, sort of.  Accidentally.

And then I had to try to explain that yes, I was doing it because it made him hot, but that makes me hot, so it’s all good.

“You are doing this because you want to, right?” she asks.

I can honestly answer that “Yes, I am.” Because I am.  She doesn’t need to know that I want to because I know W wants me to, and that knowing it will make him hard is why I am doing it.

“He didn’t make you contact me, did he?” “No,” I can reply with all honesty, because he didn’t.  I don’t have to explain that if it hadn’t been for him, for me knowing that me doing this would excite and please him, I would never have contacted her.  But he didn’t make me do it. (Nor that now that I have told him about it, he most certainly will make me do it–there will be no cancelling out of it now.)

And when she asks, “Am I excited?” about meeting and fucking her husband, I can honestly say “Yes.” Because I am.  She doesn’t need to know that at least half my excitement comes from this fucked-up dynamic that W and I share, and that she would never understand.  Yes, I am looking forward to and will like the sex, if he has any skill at all, and I am looking forward to his cock in me, to being fucked by a stranger.  She doesn’t need to know that I will probably enjoy it even if he doesn’t have any skills, and not only because, as W says, every cock that fucks me is his cock and that the whole time that man is fucking me I will be thinking about what W will do to me later, about how hard his cock is, knowing I am there and what I am doing.  Because there’s another part to this too. There’s the other part of this dynamic that she also doesn’t need to know about and probably wouldn’t understand. The other reason I will enjoy myself is because I will be serving her and her husband, pleasuring them.  I will make damn sure he enjoys himself so that she is pleased and happy with the situation.

And that gets me (and W) off, too.

They already are pleased with me.  Amazed at what they’ve found in me, even if they don’t quite understand what that is.  They don’t realize what I am, or how hard I will work to make everyone happy, horny and satisfied.  And that, in the end, their pleasure drives my own.

But they don’t need to know that. It’s enough that W and I know.

Weekend Snapshot – Waiting

A real snapshot from this past weekend.

Waiting for a stranger to arrive.

This is how I spent Friday afternoon.

Well, until he actually did arrive.

And after? After W shoved me back in my car and sent me home to Ad and the kids and a birthday party for Ad’s niece with his whole family, with a fat lip (from being bit) and a scraped cheekbone (from being ground into the floor) and a throbbing, bruised cunt (from you can guess what.)

Oh, and a plastic bag of urine-soaked clothes, from W pissing on me and leaving to lay there in it, after the stranger used me and left there.

And that was just the start of the weekend.

W’s Brand of “Aftercare”

Not matter who else I play with, no matter how much fun it was or how many times I climaxed or where the play took me, it always, always, always comes back to W.

I made a joking comment today in my Fetlife status updates about W’s version of aftercare today: he drug me into the basement by my hair, lashed me to a post on my knees, and fucked me in the ass.

Oddly enough, I did feel better.  Like, instantly, night-and-day better. One moment I was curled up on the couch, sniffling on W’s shoulder, a grey fog clouding my every thought, feeling needy and lost…the next moment (well, about an hour later, after the basement and then the cool shower he gave me) I was completely revived, my head clear, happy and normal.

I can’t explain why it worked, although I have an idea.

At first I thought it was kind of like that “hair of the dog” thing. You know, here I am suffering subdrop, which is, essentially, my body suffering withdrawals from the emotional and endorphin rush that it experienced while scening. Just like after a night of drinking, when waking up to a Bloody Mary could alleviate a hangover, maybe a little “hair of the sadist” (ewww that sounds wrong) could alleviate subdrop, right?

Sure, that could have something to do with it.  And maybe…probably…does.

But actually I think it has to do with something far more fundamental, at least in this case. I needed to feel him: his hands on me, his rope binding me, his cock inside me.

I needed to feel him claim me once again.

I do know, no matter what those other men are doing to me, that I am his. I never doubt it for a moment. I am there because of him, for him. As they grab me, twist me, push me around, as they shove their fingers and their cocks and their tools into me, as they use my mouth and cunt and ass, as they hurt me and pleasure me, it’s always him I see and feel, it’s always his eyes I seek, and find, watching whatever they are doing to me.

But after it’s all over? I want him to show me that I am his again.

On the floor or in his bed, with my knees grinding into the cement of his basement or my face pushed against the wall, tasting his semen or tasting his piss, feeling his come fill my ass or his piss spraying hot and pungent over my back.

I want to be on my knees for him, I want it to be his cock in my mouth, I want to open my cunt and my mouth and my ass to him.

I want him to take me and make me his again, just as he did this afternoon.  His hands were hard on me, tight in my hair, then on my wrists as he bound them and on my back as he shoved me down onto my knees, his voice harsh as he told me to suck his cock, to keep him hard as he tied me to the post.

It wasn’t difficult.

His cock was thick and hard as he grabbed me by the hips and pushed against my asshole, but it was also wet with my saliva, and he was able to slide in far easier than he does when he fucks my ass dry.  As it always does, though, my body and my mind resisted anyway and I whimpered, groveled and ground myself against the cement, trying to get away from the pain, from the opening of that tight hole that he was forcing on me, even though I wanted it more than I wanted anything else.  Or perhaps what I wanted more than anything else was that he was forcing it on me, that he wouldn’t stop, that he would continue to take, by force if necessary, what was his, what he owned.  Me. My body, every inch of it–and my self.

And he did.  He pushed, forcing my ass to open to him.  He pushed, with longer and deeper strokes, grinding shoving forcing owning–claiming me–until, finally, something broke, some barrier between who I am alone and who I am with him.

And I surrendered.  I opened myself to him completely, welcoming him, begging him to come inside me, to mark me as his, even there.

And as I surrendered, as he grasped my hips and slammed himself into me one final time, filling my ass with his semen, I found that moment when I was completely, and only, his.

I had been reclaimed.

Working Girl

Today I am supposed to be a working girl, since last week I kind of took a pass on all things work related.  Instead I am sitting here in my office, wearing a low-cut blouse, black pencil skirt and 5-inch heels, working a bit but also daydreaming, feeling like the epitome of the office bimbo–the too-sexy secretary of (probably) many a man’s fantasy.  You know, the one that bends over her Boss’s desk suggestively when she needs his signature, that will go down on him during a conference call, that lets him take her to the local no-tell motel for a quickie at lunch.

I love it.

I love this game that we play. I love being W’s office slut, his sexy secretary, his Working Girl, even when I am here and he is there.  I love it even more that he really does appreciate me for the work I do, for my professionalism and dedication, intelligence and diligence, even as he makes me his office slut, as he uses me and objectifies me and turns me into his “sexretary.”

I got ready this morning while W watched.  Ostensibly I was dressing for work, but actually I was dressing for him, wondering, as I watched his gaze take in my hair, my face, my outfit, and most of all, these ridiculously inappropriately high heels (knowing exactly why I was dressing this way, and nodding approvingly), if he’d be thinking about me all day.  About me strutting around my office in them, my coworkers checking me out; about the boy that craned his neck to watch me as I crossed the street to the Bread Co. to get my coffee; about the mothers that gave me the hairy eyeball when I dropped my son off at summer camp; about the sandwich delivery guy that I caught staring at my ass as I bent over the table in front of him to sign the credit card slip for my lunch.

I wonder and hope that he will be, but instead it is me thinking about him as I take my circumscribed steps, knowing that it is this image that turns him on–the powerful, confident woman hobbled by him, not by rope this time but by the heels he makes her wear.  I think about him as I feel the skirt and heels accentuating the flex of my calves and curve of my ass, the blouse clinging to my hips and the indent of my waist.  I think again about his eyes on me in the mirror as I made up my face and brushed out my hair, and his hand in my hair earlier that morning, in bed.  Now, my face is perfectly made up and my hair stylish in its new sleek bob, but it’s still a bit messy, as though it is remembering his hand in it as well, or as though I’d just straightened it after I’d been down on my knees in front of the Boss’s chair, his hand on my head as he held my mouth to his cock while he chatted on the phone. Merely another perk of being the Boss–having a willing, open hole to fuck whenever he desires.

The truth is not far from that–this morning in bed he rolled unceremoniously on top of me as I dozed after the alarm went off and pushed inside of me before my body had a chance to prepare: my cunt closed, tight, dry, but still, ever-willing. “You’re just a fuckhole today,” he said. “I’ll use your hole dry or wet. It makes no different to me.”  I gasped, yielded, tried to accommodate, and, as it always does, it didn’t take long for my body to respond, wetting, opening and grasping him. But it really made no difference to him–he fucked my hole until he was finished and rolled off, dismissing me. “Get ready for work,” he said.  “You’re late.”

Sitting in my office now, trying to think about work (because I know he really does want me to be a Working Girl today) my cunt gets wet again thinking instead about his casual use of my body this morning.  I know that later, alone, I will touch myself and think again of him pushing into me, shoving past the rings seemingly laced shut against him, my body dry and unprepared, and of the way my body always, in the end, opens up for him. I’ll lay in bed and slide my fingers inside myself, between my rings, and feel just how wet the thought of being his Working Girl, always ready, always willing, makes me.


Pssst–there might be a click-thru somewhere…