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Rope Bondage Enema

manga bondage enema

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It will depend a little bit on the precise spacing, but it’s probably not going to take very long after sliding that candle under her clit before she starts ringing those cowbells like a whole herd of cattle getting fed:

hot pussy lips for bondage woman

That nearly-illegible signature reads “Depuceleur”, an artist who used to draw for the Bon-View house magazine B&D Pleasures.

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Sash Window Stuck

Oh, she got stuck in a sash window, did she? Yes please, I would totally take advantage of that:

sash-window-stuck-01

sash-window-stuck-02

From some screengrabs at Captain Kidnap’s Lair.

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Sun Warmed Bottom In Bondage

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Kinky Online Dating: Doing It Right

Folks, you may find this useful. Weary of online dating as Mollena was, she found a good one that way, and she took the the time to break down the initial message the dude sent, with line-by-line pointers on just exactly how to send a successful first greeting. Obviously it’s all situational, but still:

Let’s break this shit down.

Minus: No photo. Usually these were immediately ditched however the content was enough to tip the balance for the following reasons:

Enthusiasm. The simple interjection at the top was uplifting and raw, and suggests a willingness to reveal emotions.

Demonstrated reading comprehension in mirroring back actual detail from all over my profile.

Created an opportunity for bonding by establishing a shared lifestyle choice outside of a purely sexual context.

Acknowledged a potential expectation gap while immediately offering a conciliatory “plus” to “make up for” the perceived shortfall.

Matter-of-fact statement of confidence and success, while also sharing detail that could potentially be independently verified by external referencing. Furthermore, described titillating detail on the type of artistic endeavours he pursues.

Clear and unequivocal statement of intent. Erotically charged without feeling slimy, pushy or hyper-aggressive. Suggestive, yet still leaving room for flirtation. Truly, a brilliant stroke.

Closed with what is likely his Default World name, which is a nice little gesture of trust.

The whole post is worth your time if you’re fishing the online dating waters.

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Rough Sex Preferences By Age

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Many Orgasms For Bella Rossi

Bella Rossi is a highly-skilled professional. Which is why I’m really wondering just how long they left her on this implacable Hitachi forced-orgasms rack. By the third photo, she’s getting really wrung out and strung out!

Photos are from The Upper Floor.

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Fun With A Cold Branding Iron

Branding fantasies are fun, I’ve thought so since the first one I encountered in literature (probably a Gor novel). Kaya and her master obviously think so too:

He’s been terrorizing me with this branding iron idea for years. He has one, a regular ol’ branding iron shaped like an S. It’s not large, but it’s thick. It’s not a wire coat hangar twisted into an S shape, it’s- I have no idea what it’s made out of. But it looks, from my perspective, as I’m imagining it searing it into my skin, THICK AS FUCK. (I think it was made for branding steaks or something. Man Grilling, where they even have to mark their food. lol.)

He talks about how he’s going to heat it until it glows red. And then he’ll look at me, assessing, looking me up and down. Talking- more to himself than to me- about where he might do it.

Inner thigh? Pubic mound? Breast? Ass cheek? Shoulder blade? Hip bone? He’ll lay it against my skin, as he names each option, pressing painfully hard, wondering aloud how hard or how long he should hold it there, letting it burn deep into the tissue.

Sometimes he’ll get it out of the drawer where he keeps it and lay it out where I can see it. Maybe today, he’ll say, just to watch me blanch, I’m sure.

You would think I’d be numb to it by now, the goading. After so many years, you’d think my anxiety level would stop spiking, that I could just roll my eyes and say, ‘Pfft. Whatever. You ain’t gonna.’

Except– He IS “gonna”. And I know he’s going to. And it might be on some random Tuesday afternoon with Dr. Phil in the background and me in the kitchen chopping carrots for dinner. Caught off guard, no setting the scene, no atmosphere, no headspace. It’ll just be, Come here. Sit (or stand or bend or spread) and him and that S and a blow torch.

Or it’ll be at an event. He’ll casually toss it in the play bag, talk about how he’s cleared it with the hosts, how there’s going to be an audience to witness, how I’ll ‘perform’ so much better in front of people, I won’t argue or balk or cry

(Liar. I’ll cry.)

and it’ll stink, he’ll go on. Your flesh, searing and burning and smoking, stinking the place up. Do you think you’ll scream, cunt? Embarrass yourself in front of a crowd? Let them know you aren’t the big bad masochist they think you are?

I’ve been so rattled over this that at times I’ve desperately just begged him to do it, get it over with, put an end to it, I can’t stand the fear! And then I backpedal as fast as I can when he shrugs, says ok and gets up to go get it.

I know he’s been enjoying this mind fuckery for the whole time that I’ve been hating it. Fucker.

When I was at my parent’s last month, I burned my arm on the edge of the door of the wood stove. Nothing serious, just a thin line maybe an inch long, not even as deeply as he’ll need to do this brand to make it scar.

And it hurt. SO BAD.

Soo fucking bad, y’all. On my ARM, which is far less sensitive than my pubic mound or my inner thigh or or or…

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the branding iron since.