Restful sleep? Well, different

It’s been a few times we have fallen asleep this way, but I do it because it leaves me in a comfortable and very servicing position. Here’s how it works. She’s lying on her left side and her right knee is bent, pulling her right leg up a little and exposing her inner left thigh. It is there, her inner left thigh, where my head rests. My feet are up by her head and her hand can reach my cock and balls, all locked up in the Steelheart chastity device. It is from this position that I can rub her back gently, petting her to sleep, all while my mouth can still place more gentle kisses on her ass.

Last night, she also directed me to kiss her toes. This brought me down lower and now my crotch was more open to her hands and she used that opportunity to penetrate my ass while I licked and kissed her toes. She did turn more onto her back while we were doing this so she could access me without awkwardly twisting her arm.

She would roughly finger fuck my ass, demanding I apply more of my spit to her fingers while she did so and I would kiss her feet. This is a new position to allow such attentions, so it was incredibly highly charged with my submission and her dominance. Often times she would be fucking me so hard I had to cry out into her feet and gag myself with her toes. “Cry for me” she would say.

After some time and several instances of my crying out into her feet, she called me back up to pet her, she was ready for bed. I cleaned her fingers with my mouth, kissed her ass again and settled my head back onto her inner thigh. We fell asleep like that, my face just an inch from her bottom and my head resting comfortably on her thigh. We slept for hours and only on her first wakeup, the first light of day starting to fill the room, did she rouse me and direct me to spoon her again, which I did. We slept as spoons for a while.

Having the warmth of summer certainly does lend itself to lying across the bed without worry of sheets and blankets. And lends to my not feeling smothered under those covers.

It’s not an entirely new position but it was certainly more involved. She also enjoyed my kissing and licking her toes. Neither of us are big foot fetishists, but we are both gaining an appreciation for the task and duty of kissing her feet and I think she’s enjoying the perceived humiliation of my cleaning her toes with my mouth. She also very much enjoyed my suffering at her fingers fucking my ass. I haven’t asked her, but I would bet that her hearing my moans, groans and crying out would have been her most favorite part of the evening. It seems like a case of “be careful what you wish for” when you ask for your Mistress to be a little more cruel to you. Now that she’s enjoying hearing my misery, she finds more ways to torture me.


I get a very calm, quiet, deeply satisfying sense of pleasure when my boy is suffering to the point that he is whimpering or moaning, or even stifling a scream, and I catch those sounds in my open and seeking mouth.

I often don’t start out to intentionally cause pain to my boy. Some animals hunt their prey for the pleasure or exercise of the hunt, not intending to cause misery to their victims.

Some stalk in order to sharpen their prowesses.

And it’s true that animals don’t always intend to devour their prey because they didn’t have devouring in mind when they started. But it is as though some switch gets triggered when the writhing of the victim begins. When the sounds of distress start to rise from the restricted throat, and beautiful eyes widen in alarm and fear, the instinct to subdue or silence overtakes and it is with my own open mouth that I catch his lament.

I am one of those animals at times.

But it doesn’t often begin that way.

Not at all.

There are times when my boy and I lay together in bed, entwined in tangled sheets, buried beneath late afternoon covers, surrounded by down pillows in crisp cotton cases. Often we find ourselves there in order to share a tender embrace or because I have allowed him the  semi-sleepy time he so enjoys on a Saturday morning and I climb back into the bed in order to get him out of it.

I like these times. My boy is sweet in the way he likes to pass moments with his face pressed against my breast.  Sometimes we lay cheek to cheek, me enjoying the masculinity of his beard while his hand seeks the curve of my breast. I see us from above, I can envision what we look like….and if we’re lucky, we have timed our siesta so that it matches the afternoon sun coming through our windows, splashing warmth across our bed. I have always loved the smell of him, the taste of him. He is water to me….clean, soft, a taste that holds nothing and everything at the same time.

Kissing him is pure pleasure. It is romantic and sexual delight. It is often our gateway drug if we have the time to indulge in its pleasures.

That is often the trigger for me. That kissing. That deep, exploring kissing where I taste wind and water as I drink him in for more.


It will start this way, and everything about us is focused on this moment.

My hand will wander to his chest, my most favorite spot on his body. My fingertips will trace all his familiar angles and curves. I will encircle a nipple and tug at it lightly. I will find the other and do the same.

The tugging becomes less tugging and more clamping. One small, lovely nipple between two well aimed finger tips.

The clamping becomes pinching, ever so slowly. I steer him away from the discomfort by deepening the kiss. I make him pay attention to my own mouth consuming his.

But soon he struggles to concentrate because that tiny nipple is now trapped between two manicured nails that I sink more deeply into his tender flesh.

I press. I dig. I express no movement at all except to press two small tips into one small place, and yet the pain for him becomes enormous.

This is what I like to swallow. This is the pure waters he offers me…..his suffering.

I take large mouthfuls of his discomfort.

And sometimes if the pain is significant enough….if my fingertips torture cock instead of nipples….the wailing spills out and over the edges of his lips, my swallowing mouth unable to keep up with the cascading fall of sound.

I will ease off the pressure long enough to finish cleaning up the spill of agony and to administer some sexual healing. Talons become feathers, pinching becomes caressing, digging becomes stroking.

Tortured panting becomes soft panting.

Eyes that begged me to stop now implore me to continue.

He is what I love to consume. These entangled moments between us may not last but for a few moments, but they are a delight for me. Many times, the more I drink of his suffering, the more thirsty I become.

So much blissful agony from the smallest of touches.

I can get drunk on such pleasures.