Tag Archives: cream

Let them eat cream

I just played an RPG, a ‘choose your own spanking story’ set in a mystical mansion outside of time where you start as a slave with the possibility of progressing to Mistress; the ultimate goal is to become Supreme Mistress, but it could be GAME OVER any time. It is a very detailed, long and varied RPG; it took me over 2 hours to get this far and I read very fast (so far I’ve reached Mistress level).

I really want to stay as Mistress in that mansion, until the end of time.

But I could not forsake my Egyptian palace for it, and my responsibilties there.


Now, back to the actual stuff that really happened:

Roland was lying on the floor of the studio for some reason and I was sitting on top of him, naked except for the purity ring, bangles and maybe a necklace. I don’t know how this happened – maybe he was lying next to me and I just clambered on him? I think I said that he couldn’t get up with me sitting on him. Anyway, he had clothes on which continued to irritate me, but I was equally afraid that if I took them off he would be all wobbly rolls of fat, undulating and bobbing slickly under his skin.

We were talking about some stuff and I began to thrust in a rolling sort of motion, first sitting and then with my weight equal on all four limbs; at first I was gentle, then harder and squeezing my thighs as each thrust was completed. I imagined that he was mine, to torture and to dominate at my pleasure.

“If we were in my palace right now, I could torture you,” I said. This amused him, but I can’t remember what he said.

I blindfolded him. Then I jumped off him to get the whipped cream, climbed back on and squirted the cream in his face, giggling, and then in his mouth, forcing him to eat it. “That’s for being a millionaire,” I said, rocking now, “I don’t like rich people.”

A little while later, being puzzled why he wasn’t getting hard, I asked “Why isn’t this working?”

“Because I know that’s your kink,” he replied, still eating the massive wads of cream, “And I’m not going to let you have it. And I don’t have much of a submissive side.”

“Wait – you can control it? All men can?”

“Yes, except in very few situations,” he said.

“I can’t – at all. I wonder why – but I guess women are just more sexual. We’re multiorgasmic.”

“Well, yes,” Roland said in a very educated tone, like there wasn’t a naked hooker dry-humping him on the floor of a studio, “I think that’s it.”

“But in some situations it would work, like how you can control yourself not to come but sometimes you couldn’t control that.”


“So if I wanted to, I could tie you down and do this and rape you and force you to impregnate me.”

He chuckled. I was moving backwards and forwards this whole time and it was having no effect. “Well, no, because of something called the pill.”

“Yeah, but if I wanted to get pregnant. I could force you.”

“Well, yes,” he admitted, still swallowing Kalika-cream, “you could.”

I licked the cream off his face.


Then he drove me to his house. On the way out of his studio and on the drive, I found out that he wasn’t disappointed that I would’ve done it for less, because he  wouldn’t have wanted me that many times if it had been for less (and neither would I; I hadn’t envisioned 8 times at all till he said it at the restaurant.)

I also found out that if I’d said my student debts were 12k he’d just want to see me more, so it would’ve been the same, as we might do more than 8 times anyway – well, actually, it would’ve been less as he’d have wanted 15 times for 12k so it wouldn’t be a k a time. So, I’m really happy about that! It was important for me to know that. I don’t think Roland realised it was important for me to know that.

He can’t grasp how much I love money.

As we neared his house, I knew which one it was, and I was correct. Sometimes I’m just slightly psychic like that. Well, actually, it’s not psychicness, but sensing certain feelings and the air.





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Studio bondage

We didn’t get caught, which was a shame because I bet Roland, millionaire businessman that he is, would’ve still gone as red as a little boy when caught taking shots up some girl’s pussy. Bet he would. And I could be all, ‘Help, he exploited me! He lured me here under false pretences with promises of taking clothed photos and building up a portfolio and making me a proper model!’

On an unrelated note, someone who read this blog has told me that my writing is really good. I don’t think it is, but a few people have said this. However, I can’t help but notice that my writing goes off on tangents -like this one – and isn’t very descriptive of, say, the studio, restaurants, etc. Anyway, I’m very flattered to be told this by someone who isn’t my friend in real life (because their opinions would be biased in my favour, and a couple of them have read my stories and poems which are better than this blog.)

I suggested he squirt the cream on – as Roland said, because I didn’t use the word and he (maybe) thinks I can’t talk dirty – “your pussy” (said with relish, like a naughty spankable company director) and lick it off. Which he did, though it didn’t bring me to orgasm. Was good, though. He made me wriggle and squirm and moan, though sometimes the feeling was too powerful or painful – but mostly really good, better than last time in his office even.


He went on for a long time, long after all the cream was gone (idea for a product: low calorie sex cream, “Be a whore! You won’t get fat no matter how many people you do!”)  and watched me intently the whole time. Then he stopped.

I was lying on my back, worrying about the cleanliness of the floor – which wasn’t very clean – anyway, Roland blindfolded me. He asked first, which was nice. He’s a good boy.

Then he put handcuffs on me. “Now, those are locked and I’ve got the key,” he said.

I could not believe I was actually lying naked on the floor of a possibly unlocked studio while a richguy had the key to the handcuffs – I don’t trust rich people, especially millionaires.

He wrote ‘whore’ on my chest with red crayon. Then he snapped some pics and, after a bit, my eyes adjusted to the blindfold and I could see him clearly. My vision isn’t good, but I have great night vision, so maybe that helped.

I giggled and said “I can see you.” He rearranged my blindfold but my eyes adjusted to it again in a little while. Roland took lots of pics, then he removed the blindfold, though this didn’t make a big difference to what I could see by this time.  I said, “If you put the key in my mouth I could probably unlock them [the handcuffs].” Roland smiled. “Actually, they just pop open,” he said, pressing a button on the side, “you could’ve opened them yourself the whole time.”

That made me giggle. “You lied!”

“Yes, I lied.” He was pretty proud of himself.


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The Promised Smut

Well, guys and dolls (yeah, that was sexist. A bit of sexism or racism is okay; just not too much) I did promise you smut. (A Mexican walks into a black guy’s bar…nah, I’ll save it for later.) Anyway, I did promise you smut. And we all know that it’s the only reason that a significant proportion of my few followers even read this blog. Today was eventful: had a chat with an old classmate, fencing. Learned that GSW nearly got outed. Risked outing myself through being impetuous and thrill-seeking. The thing about me, folks, is that while I only rarely do stupid things, when I do something stupid it is SPECTACULARLY STUPID. Actually, here is a list of the most stupid things I’ve ever done/said starting from age 14:

When a stone made the blade of a lawnmower get stuck, I put my hand in to free the stone. The power was on. I was worried about the blade pushing my hand when I got it free, but didn’t think my hand would be cut.

At age 17, put a hedge trimmer to my face, thinking that there was no battery in it, and nearly turned it on because the handle was a switch.

Nearly put a wallpaper trimmer to my face without the safety edge on (you can see there’s a trend here). -age 18

Bleached my hair blonde at 17 and then at 18; both times I then dyed it to brown.

Accidentally set my hair on fire.

On the first day of the Tahrir Square revolution, said to an Egyptian guy in a conversation “Is your government as bad as ours?” (referring to 9k tuition fees and the cuts) and “[in response to him saying his gov was bad] What did they do?” and “[when you go back] at least it won’t be cold and you won’t have to live under an insane government”. (In my defence, I knew they had elections so thought it was a democracy, and the riots hadn’t hit our news yet. I really feel this was set up to make me look stupid – if it’d been a Libyan or Saudi Arabian person or whatever, I totally would’ve known the political situation, albeit in very general terms. And really – the first day of the riots?? Someone up there totally planned to make me look stupid.)

Making up a fantasy inspired by Lochlan’s friend’s antics (which took place in a particular country when I was 18, and I spoke to him on the phone from Britain and told him I’d spank him for it if I was there and he wanked to the conversation) about police torture and spanking misbehaving tourists in a particular country, then found out it was true (for locals, not tourists) last year so moved the fantasy to Britain, wrote it down with embellishments and an actual plot rather than isolated incidents, then called it “The UK Government Torture Act”. The story was also inspired by the South Park episode where Santa gets his balls electrocuted by the Taliban, as a form of torture, and he yells out “No! Not Santa’s balls!” Favourite episode ever, but spoilt forever when I saw evidence that this really happened and terrorists weren’t the perpertrators. It never seemed funny again.

Pranked a prankster by telling him I would commit suicide. He told the police, the Scottish government and the health department, which meant the police ambushed me after my exam, my university teamed up with the police to lead me into their clutches and police told my parents.

Believing Roland’s fib that he had the key to my handcuffs and I couldn’t get them off when actually they were the pop-open kind.

Sending those texts to Roland. I think he’s annoyed with me. This was not good judgement.

Risking being outed for reasons that are unclear even to me. Again, this was not good judgement.

As you can see, I do only one or two stupid things per year, but they are very, very stupid.

And, without further ado, the smut:


We’re in the car park of Art’s Complex where Roland rents a studio under an alias.  We got here so fast from the restaurant because I know you guys want to get to the dirty parts quickly.

I tell him that when I gave him the message about wanting to sell my virginity – here it is:

[…]And there have been others who have sold their virginity, according to the news and wikipedia, though none ofthem were male, which may prove how sickening our society is that male virginity is devalued (or nonexistent)? Or female virginity prized because of traditional attitudes/the virgin/whore dichotomy. Anyway they got 4-8k for it usually, one Hungarian girl got 200k to pay her family’s debts and go to uni (so at least both parties got screwed). There’s a site called that my griend’s friend advertises on, but Iwant to speak to her about how to make sure I get paid and stuff. Not that I’m looking for as much as the girls above got, necessarily; it is more the thrill of selling it, I guess. And come on, who pays as much as that for a screw?? I’d be waiting forever.

…I deliberately thought about which amounts to type, and backspaced a few times. (The message originally said “they got 4k, 6k, 8k and 100k” but this was backspaced for being too low.) Only one of those amounts – 8k – was genuine; one was exaggerated upwards slightly – I think it was 100k. I did this to entice him to meet me because he wouldn’t know which amount I was referring to when I said I didn’t necessarily want as much as they got, so he might think it could be just 2k or 3k. Then, when I met him I could see how much he’d pay. Asking a higher price would be justified by the ambiguity of which of the amounts I was referring to – theoretically it could be 199k.

I was telling him this and giggling, and he said that’s the beauty of the English language – that it’s ambiguous. He said, “Well I thought ‘she’s after more than 2k’, because I could just tell that you’d want more by the way you wrote it.” He said that when he read it he knew it was deliberately ambiguous! Nothing gets past Roland!

So we get to his studio and takes lots of photos of me in underwear, fashion shots, more pervy shots, shots of me lying down biting my purity ring. As usual, he talks to me the whole time and it is fun. It hurts to do some of the poses though. He tied ropes around me and knotted them all together like the ready-made harnesses on eNay. I told him that, he didn’t know there were ready-made ones. Then he asks, “So how did you get into feminism?” and I try to explain and get as far as a lecture on it which made me realise I was a feminist, and my realisation that feminism didn’t have to be radical feminism or man-hating/sex negative and the merits of liberal feminism and how feminism affects academic, political and social discourse and lived experience, eg feminist criminology. But it felt kind of stupid trying to talk about the feminisation of poverty and the tension between objectification and control of female sexuality while he was getting shots of me bending over.

He said it was hard for me to explain objectification while being objectified by him 🙂  I think so, but also I think it is hard to talk about any serious subject while nearly naked with your arse in the air…it doesn’t work. I think it would’ve been worse if I’d tried to talk about AIDS in Africa or genocide or the holocaust.

Roland showed me an enema bag he’d brought, with a big wide Roland grin, then got me to put on this bodystocking I’d brought. It looked good on me. He took out a (unused) vibrator and photographed me licking cream off it and rubbing it on my clit, which wasn’t great, but okay. It was fun. I suggested he try to spank me while I tried to get away; he managed to pull me over his knee and eventually I fell off, which was funny. (Yeah, these descriptions aren’t great, I know.)

I told him nothing was going to happen with the vibrator because I have to be in a specific position to do it, so he asked me to get in that position. I got down on all fours and started doing my thang while Roland lay down on his side behind me and ogled. Then he got his camera and started taking pictures, really close up shots, like he might ram its massive telescopic lens right inside me by accident.

I demonstrated how I normally move and change position slightly, pressing myself forward onto my forearms as I progress and curling my toes under so I’m sort of on tiptoes. So I was saying “…And then I do this…then I shift…now I usually do this…” while he clicks away. I turned to look at him for a bit and he looked really happy and like he couldn’t believe his luck. He also looked very focused. If he’s that focussed when he’s at work, it’s not surprising he’s successful, and I was thinking how humiliating this was for him, a rich business professional reduced to lying on the floor taking shots up my pussy in schoolboy awe just because my vagina is dangled in front of him. Ah, the power.

I really liked doing this, it was very liberating. The door wasn’t locked and I hoped we’d be caught. (Him taking pics of nude girls is normal in a studio, but it would be harder to explain taking close-up genital shots of a girl masturbating.)

Loads more to come, but I’m tired.


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