For sale…

I was talking to a very good friend last night about some of the desires written here… A very smart man who is on the list of ‘if only’s…’ but he is very happily in love and I am very happy for him.

But I said to my friend… sometimes I just want to be sold. In a controlled environment, of course, to the right person and in the right situation. My friend said… of course you do. That’s the very opposite of your life.

It is true. That is the very opposite of my life. I make my own choices and I live with the consequences. But why is the absence of choice as erotic as a plethora of choice? That uncertainty. The unknown. What you don’t know is always exciting. How was the new world found? How was the west won? Because there were those who weren’t content with the familiar and went in search of the unfamiliar.

There is actually a gene for it, or so the scientists believe. DRD4-7R, the gene that makes some of us incredibly restless and gives us wanderlust. Also interestingly might be tied to obesity and… shall I say… substance appreciation! Dopamine genes… getting that little hit of chemical pleasure in our brains makes us feel so damn good.

I’m sure I have that gene, and I’m working on a confirmation, but the quirks of  the 20% of the people who have it are really very me. I move like a restless vagabond, constantly looking for something I never seem to be able to find. I like to taste and savour most of life’s pleasures as I travel on my way.

So how does wanting to be sold match with being an adventurer? Because a loss of control is an adventure. I can only imagine what it must be like to be told what is going to happen to you now, and to not have a choice. (Let me preface that by saying, I am not thinking being a victim of human trafficking is an adventure. I think it’s a horrible crime, and doesn’t fit into this narrative at all!) Perhaps I should say that power you chose to give up is an adventure. I’ve been in my own share of truly powerless situations and it’s made me stronger, but I can’t say as I’ve enjoyed most of them.

But then there is ‘BDSM’ slavery. My issue with so much of ‘sex slavery’ in the BDSM world is that it’s an incredibly broad umbrella which seems to have very similar interpretation. A slave is something you use, humiliate and degrade.  To me, that shows an elementary lack of imagination in the interpretation of the word. Some slaves were of no value in the hierarchy and some were of exquisite value. Not all slavery has to be of the Uncle Tom’s Cabin model.

What about seeing something you want so much, you are willing to pay anything to have it? Would your first impulse be to destroy it? If you were suddenly given a a Maserati Quattroporto, would you hop into it and drive it into a wall? Would you call it a piece of shit because it was  free?

Perhaps this is why I am attracted to Daddy play because a father inherently values his daughter. It’s part of the dynamic. Someone wrote this for me a while back. I’ve always really liked it.

 Too many daddydoms think their job is to trick the little girl into making an error so they can administer punishment.  Few understand that the mystery is the mutual seduction to lead the little girl into deeper and deeper explorations of her own lusts and corruption.  She wants to please her daddy, but needs daddy to tease her into leading her to shameless molestations, unspeakable sexual practices and shocking admisssions of lust.  It is a process of discovery and training to mold the little girl into really want to do all those things that please her daddy.  She is concerned that he has even more surprises for her if he would only share them.  And on it goes.

Gets me every time…

But back to being for sale…

I’ve written about being prepared. The trembling nervousness of what is to come. The lack of choice. Servicing someone you don’t know and have never met. Submitting to their will. Letting them inside your body and knowing they can take you again- whenever and however they want. Surrendering yourself to them. Knowing they have paid to have you. More than to have you, but to own you. This isn’t a service. This isn’t a one off. You are their property. You are their chattel.

I’ve often wondered if mail order brides felt that way? Or the women in arranged marriages? There’s a wonderful scene in The Duchess where Ralph Feinnes takes Kiera Knightly for the first time. She has been mostly undressed by maids, and then this man she has met a few times takes off her clothes, puts her on the bed, and has his way with her. She is his to own, and his to breed. (which happens rather brutally and somewhat deliciously later in the film.)

Perhaps that is what I seek? That every day loss of control. Not for an hour or a day or a weekend or a scene. One of my deeply powerful kinks, erotic lactation, can turn you into a slave to the clock. Aching, full breasts require attention and care. A milkmaid must be milked or suffer.

Breeding. A task that I can only fail at, and yet… The action. The talk. While for me, it is only the whisper of risk, but the talk of it still curls my toes and makes my palms damp. I’ve seen pictures of women on Tumblr strapped to breeding benches. Tied down. Used to take seed until their bellies swell. Filled up with semen until it runs down their thighs like an erotic fountain. But the women have no choice in it. They are a receptacle of of it, like a champagne glass in a fountain.

By the magnificent Madame JoJo

By the magnificent Madame JoJo

Just the thought of it. In my mind I can feel it so vividly. Being used that way. Filled up with spurt after spurt of your precious seed. Restrained so I can’t move, or fight your or get away. Forced to take it whether I want it or not. What matters is that you put it inside me.

Then the feeling as the excess of those pearls rolls out between my swollen nether lips. My chafed, brutalised, pink lady garden giving up that seed which it can no longer hold. The warmth of it; the stickiness of it as it rolls with gravity out of me. Viscous strings that slide down my thighs or drip directly from my lips to the floor.

Perhaps you use that wonderful lubricant to fist me while you wait for round two? Perhaps you use it to moisten a thumb to slide into my oh so tight anus.

But in the end… I am owned. I’m a possession. But I would never want to be a possession that isn’t of worth. I want to be your most precious possession… Your beautiful pearl of great value….

And now I shall take a moment… and think on that scene again….

Pearls, by the amazing Madame JoJo...

Pearls, by the amazing Madame JoJo…

The woman as a wild animal…

Do you ever want to let go of your humanity and disappear into your wild, primal, animal self? A mindless, ravenous, sexual beast? Give yourself into those passions?

I often ask men I am with to let go. Let go of all that civilization and take me like the beast that they are. And yet, men value their control- control of themselves and control of the situations. I don’t think that men can completely let go. I think they are afraid of hurting us, or of losing themselves, or even of going to a place where they cannot fight their way back from. Perhaps men are more primal then women at a basic level, and that dance is too close to the abyss for them.

So then I am drawn to the idea of the woman as the wild creature. Desperate, insensate, driven by the need to orgasm, over and over again. Perhaps it is because we can orgasm and be ready again for whatever delights await. Do we need to be controlled or stop our bodies from cumming to soon lest all play end? Or can we simply give into the tempests storming our body for it stops no one’s pleasure?

But take it a step further? What if you could change a woman into a creature who existed only for your pleasure? A beautiful, voracious being whose sole being was for your sexual desires? Her only need to be played with? Desperate, hungry orifices for whatever you could contemplate?

Samba Queen: Rainha de Bateria - By Dennis Mejillones

Samba Queen: Rainha de Bateria – By Dennis Mejillones

I’ve read about the idea of ‘Bimbo-ization’ or turning a woman into fuckslut. (how I hate that term) Stupid and ready to go; ready to be your whore. Then there are others who want to take dehumanisation further and delve into puppy and pony play or hucows. Intellectually, it seems so false to me. Fine, of course, in prose, but can it really happen?

Sometimes when I dream about being the Ultimate Pet, I wonder if I could be bimbo-ized? Or would it always be a role I would have to sink into? In the past, I have mentioned my response to alcohol, and how it does really make me an oversexed creature. Yet there comes a time when one has to sober up. If only for the effect to still work.

And yet… What if one could become a blank canvas. Or the canvas you both desire? How could I be that creature I wish that I could be? Existing only for sex- both as something to be used and reinvented and a receptacle for your… gratification? My slick lady garden, waiting and hungry; my breasts full and engorged with milk to please you? Dewy pearls streaming from me, just aching for your tongue. Dressed up, corsetted, naked or painted. Whatever you dream of… Whatever you desire. Something you want. Something you are obsessed with. My lips soft and painted; ready to suck on your fingers… ready to kiss your manhood… ready to take you into my mouth, my big eyes staring up from so far below… staring into your own as I pleasure you.

Jessica Rabbit

Jessica Rabbit

Anything you want! Anything you desire! Imagine it! What would that be? Would you pump your hot seed into me… over and over again? Would it give you pleasure to watch it, leaking out from my cleft and down my thighs- proof of your potency? Could you find endless amusement in fingering me… stretching me… fisting me… exploring me? Or even, despite knowing my reservations, taking me in the back passage, for my entire body is your playground. And I am your pet. I exist only for your pleasure. Your deepest, darkest, most creative and erotic fantasies. Those ideas you have in the dark of the night.

It excites me. The thought of the freedom, and equally exquisite captivity? Even if your desires aren’t the same as mine… it doesn’t matter. I belong to you. I exist for you.

I am a wild creature… the ultimate pet. I need you to take me and tame me. Turn me into that one thing which you do not have and yet need so desperately.

A dream for both of us.

Dreams of possibilities….

My terrible little breast fetish has been on my mind again… probably brought on by my post about the Superbowl.

I have always loved my breasts being played with. Palm them… squeeze them… manipulate them… roll my nipples around in your fingers like little pebbles…. It all turns me on so much.

But to have a man suck on them… with purpose… With intent. With the desire to create something. Change them for his desire? Oh dear God! The thought makes me quivery and moist. There are even special ways to manipulate them to make them create nectar and when a man learns how to do that, and does it to you- AMAZING! Especially when it is part of your regular sexual adventure.

God…. I miss it. I didn’t quite get all the way, but I got very close. Tiny drops would come out after a session.

I dream of finding a man who shares this dream… who has this primal desire. To own me so much he wants me to leak for him. I have read that when a woman is lactating, and she is full and aroused, she can spray… I have this fantasy of riding my Daddy- my hard, full breasts showering him while my walls tighten around him. Then he wraps his arms around my back, pulling those rosy, desperate nipples into his hungry mouth.

I want him to tie my arms behind my back and watch them bead up with nectar before he slowly licks them clean. I am so helpless. So full. So at his mercy. Victim of his most insistent and erotic torture. Begging for him to ease that terrible pressure. Lick… lick… lick… until he gives them a squeeze and they burst like a dam for him.

I have heard that sometimes mothers nursing their children (about the most nonsexual thing ever) can experience orgasm- can you imagine how intense it could be to have this happen during a sexual encounter?


Bartholomeus van der Helst – Anna du Pire as Granida

While I don’t usually have fantasies of being a Hucow- I want to be of value and something valued by my Daddy- I am still his girl. I want to dress for him- corseted, perhaps? And gowned. My creamy bosoms on display for him. Perhaps even for that very special friend he shares them with. Two men urgently sucking could even be more intense than just one…?

Before they take me, and fill me with their special nectar… until it is pooling beneath me on the bed… and running in torrents down my thighs when I stand.

I am very equal opportunity about mess being covered in nectar….

Where is the man who will make this happen?

My naughty little story….

In response to my post of earlier today…. a story I wrote….:

I knew that I had duties to perform when Daddy was away with his soldiers, but for some reason, I had been so tired today. It wasn’t like me! Honestly, I tried so hard to be a good girl! Sadly, I had been ensnared by a sunbeam on the bed and fallen into a deep, blissful sleep for most of the afternoon.

Fifty years ago, I would have been alerted by the sound of his high boots on the floor, but the modern army leaned more towards stealth over high gloss intimidation. No. I knew he was there when I felt a hand stroke my cheek. A hard, insistent finger; tracing but firm. My eyes flew open as I felt my chin between his tub and forefinger.

‘I do believe my baby Bird is supposed to be waiting for me at the door?’ His soft voice floated down to me.

I tried to move, but was immobilized by his flinty gaze. I could feel my breath quicken, and my breasts strain against the silk chiffon negligee I was wearing. ‘I am sorry, Daddy! It was just so warm. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.’

His lips thinned as he considered this. ‘I toil all day for my country and you cant even greet me at the door?’ He shook his head with a tsk’ing noise.

I bit my lip and looked up at him with sad eyes. ‘I am so sorry, Daddy!’

He grunted and sat down beside me on the bed. A sigh escaped him and his brow furled. Suddenly, his hands were in my hair, pulling my up while his lips came down to mine. It wasn’t a kiss, so much as a ravishment. My lips were crushed against his teeth and his tongue forced my mouth open. His fingers tightened against my skull and my hands moved to his shoulders as I held on.

‘I wanted a nice, peaceful evening after all my paperwork, but now I shall have to punish you.’ He growled against me.

My eyes met his. ‘Daddy, no! I promise I will make it up to you!’

‘Don’t look at me!’ He growled again. ‘You haven’t earned the right.’ He moved abruptly, reaching for one of my favorite silk scarves. It was the last thing I saw before he twined it round my head.

‘No! Please don’t! I promise I will be good!’ I whispered again, trying not to be afraid.

Then I was being picked up again by my hair and propelled through the house. ‘Don’t speak. I don’t want to hear your excuses.’ A door opened, and warm air engulfed my body. We were out on a veranda, but which one? ‘I have just the thing for naughty little girls!’

He clamped my hands with one, and I felt cold steel encircling my wrists. I sobbed with true fright as my arms were wrenched up and the chain between the handcuffs was attached to something, holding me helpless. I could feel the trade winds rippling across my body, the full chiffon flapping against my legs. I tried so hard to be quiet. I bit my lip again, listening for him. ‘

Yes. Much better.’ There was a tone in his voice. A little wild. ‘But this is too much.’ A tug on my gown and then the loud tearing of the chiffon. ‘Definitely much better.’

I gasped at the sound and the violence of it. But at the same time, I could feel my breasts, already full for Daddy to come home, start to ache; between my legs, the tingle of moisture. A choking breath came from me. ‘Daddy, please!’ I whispered again.

Then he pushed me down onto a padded incline bench of sorts.  My bottom was supported, but I was still being hung by my arms.  I was shaking. Desire or fear, I wasn’t sure which. Then his knees and hands were spreading my own legs wide and I was restrained to something. I could only imagine how wide open and obscene my bare pussy must have looked.

His laugh was almost a purr. ‘Well now. Not that afraid, are we? Let me look at you!’ I could almost feel the heat of his breath against my nether lips, but a finger pressing inside me. ‘And dripping, my dear. ‘ I could almost feel his hot gaze traveling up my spread and naked form. Then his other hand was pumping a squeezing my breast. ‘And dripping here too!’ His hot mouth enveloped my nipple, sucking and squeezing so my milk poured into his mouth.

‘I just want to please my Daddy!’ I breathed.

His hand slapped my cheek gently. ‘But you weren’t waiting in the hall when I came home. So as punishment, I am not going to drink from you as normal. I am not going to treat you like my glorious daughter. No. I am going to leave you like that and milk you like an animal.’

‘What?’ I shook against my bonds. ‘No! Please, No!’

His lips were against my ear. ‘I don’t think you are in a position to have anything to do about it.’

And then he was gone, and there was a rustling noise. A long few minutes and the sound of a motor. Strong suction on my nipples and an urgent tug tug tugging. I twisted against my chained arms as my breasts let down and I was filled with a humiliated pleasure. The milker was insistent and mechanical. It all felt so dreadfully impersonal and I began to cry, but I couldn’t deny the relief and excitement at having my breasts drained.

‘Isn’t that a jolly sight!’ He exclaimed, sounding pleased. ‘But something is missing!’

Then he was gone; I couldn’t sense his presence at all. Just the wind, and the sound of the milker. I flamed with shame, knowing I was outside, hoping that no one could see me. Parts of the house grounds were private, others were not. Could people see me? Strung up like a criminal with suctions tubes attached to my nipples. I tried fighting again, but I was held fast.

‘Tut, tut, little Bird! I know what will…’ He paused and the silence of it was dreadful. ‘Soothe you.’

I gurgled in shock as my labia were spread, and I was entered by Daddy’s favorite vibrator. One of those rabbit types, with gyrating marbles  in the shaft, and a clit stimulator. It almost hurt as it entered, but I was so wet that it slid in. The discomfort coming from the feeling of being stretched. ‘Oh God!’

‘No God. Only Daddy.’ He rumbled in my ear as he turned it on.

Suddenly I was gyrating in a whole new way as the vibrator came to life inside me. ‘Oh! Ooooh!’ I moaned.

There was a ripping of tape and the vibrator jiggled. ‘Duct tape. You know how handy it is!’ He chuckled and I felt him move away.

‘Oh God!’ I whispered again before a groan was torn from my throat as my heat mounted.

This time he laughed more openly, and I heard him sitting. ‘I think God is a little busy right now.’ Ice falling and then liquid pouring into a glass. But what a delightful show to watch.’

I felt a sheen of sweat explode across my body as my first orgasm neared. My entire body strained.

‘Yes,’ he said contentedly. ‘I think I shall watch this performance for a while.’

Sing the song of a Milkmaid…

I am going to hide this post on a Sunday am… I am worried it will get me flamed…

A few years ago, I was talking to a dominant sort of guy, and he said… if you were mine, I would force your body into lactation… just for me, just for my pleasure.

I was pretty horrified. Women breastfeeding has always made me feel squidgy. I am more than happy for women to breastfeed, but I think they should cover up with a receiving blanket or something of the sort. It actually made me queasy to watch a woman nursing, and I almost passed out when I saw a woman nurse her three year old son in a place I was working. The infamous Time magazine cover? Turned me chartreuse.

I told him that the thought was revolting to me… and why did he want it. His answer? All of you would be mine, and I think that is the most erotic and perverted body modification. To take something beautiful and natural and make it entirely about sex. You don’t have to be pregnant… I will work you and pump you, even if I have to tie you down, and I will make it happen. You will produce for me.

The more I thought about it, the more it turned me on… a few nights later, after having done some internet research into the hows and whys, I masturbated to one of the better orgasms I have ever had alone. It was like something in me clicked… that for me, maybe it had always made me uncomfortable  because I was wired backwards for this… for me, it WAS about sex.. and not about nurturing.

Ok. I am a pervert. I get it.

He and I never hooked up (one of these ‘Doms’ who is all talk, but when confronted with the living, breathing reality of what they want, runs screaming…) but it became sort of a… obsession not the right word… its a something though. A dream, perhaps?

In the erotic lactation community, there are three different sorts. One are the people who want an ANR or an Adult Nursing Relationship. They want the experience of nursing on Mommy again. NO NO NO! This isn’t what interests me. I don’t want to be any man’s mom. The others are the ones who want to use a woman in all the ways she can be used. That would be where I fit in. There are also hucows who want to be treated like a barn animal and dehumanized. That wouldn’t be me. I still want to be a woman. Like a milkmaid. Perhaps the odd moment with a goat milker, but I would feel damn silly mooing.

It is the entire package… apparently it hurts to induce. One must be sucked, manipulated or pumped for at least two hours a day. (hour in the morning, hour in the evening) but more is better. Manual stimulation is better, but pumping with a mechanical pump can work as well. There are many good websites on this. I wont get into it here.

Some of the stories and porn of this are fascinating. Sadly, a great deal of the porn is Asian and the women squeak like frogs in a blender. The rare occasions of non Asian porn, and the women are really skanky looking. Sadly, a great deal of the non skanky porn are recently gravid women who spray their bounty onto mirrors or windows for the camera. Then there is the Hucow porn, which is wonderful and horrid… (google petra the Hucow if you want a real *blink* moment) I find it fascinating, but I know I truly wouldn’t want to be dehumanized like that. Maybe later today I will post something I wrote for another potential Daddy… who, again… turned out to be a fake… (the continued story of my life…)

It makes a girl incredibly dependent on her Daddy or master… breasts that aren’t tended to regularly can become incredibly full and painful. He can instruct her on what to eat to change the flavour of what is his. He can have her ride him so that as she rides, the milk streams from her and onto him… or he can suckle as she bucks and writhes on his penis. He can use the milk to lubricate her breasts as he wraps them around his penis and fucks them.

A million household uses. Apparently, he can even second hand drink from her… If she is drunk, her milk can be somewhat alcoholic.

No… I don’t see myself as a cow… I hate the expressions from the scene -udders or milkers. I prefer milkmaid. It conjures up the image of 17th century pastoral images of shepherdesses and the Hameau de la Reine of Marie Antoinette. I am more of a doll… dressed up, corseted, with just more than the usual excitements available.

Have I done it yet? No. To do it alone loses most attraction. It is the journey that is as erotic as the destination… but I can dream.

Want more like this?

jean-honore fragonard