His hands are big.

His hands are big.

The gentle caress as he strokes my hair, teasing his finger through it, untangling the knots of my sweat dampened hair. Twisting his fingers through my hair and closing his hand, slowly pulling my head back until my throat is exposed. Pulling me by my hair, as I scramble behind him on my knees across the room to be pushed into the corner, or pulled up to suck his cock. His hand on the back of my head, fingers entwined in the hairs at the nape of my neck, forcing him deeper down my throat, my hair covered in cum.

His hand cupping my breasts, gently circling them, stroking, making me squirm with delight. Fingers playing with my nipples, rolling them between finger and thumb, gently teasing and pulling, tracing the shapes of my nipple, then squeezing, cruelly twisting and pulling; bringing tears to my eyes and sobs catching in the back of my throat as the pressure increases. Flicking my tender nipples, slapping, twisting and squeezing my breasts, punching, bruising and scratching.



Gentle erotic finger, teasing the lips of my cunt, exploring opening the folds and finding that spot that brings me to the point of explosion, pulling away, knowing just what to do till I am shaking and begging for permission.. Fingers forced inside, one after the other, pounding and digging, scratching, pulling until I want to retreat away from them ,hurting and demanding

The lightest of touch on my face with his fingers, tracing the shape of my lips, running over my eyes lashes, the base of my throat. The suddenness of the slap, stinging and burning, the shock of the noise as his hand moves past my ears and connects with my face. His fingers forced into my mouth, examining me, pulling my mouth wider , pushing down my throat, or wet from my cunt demanding to be cleaned.

 His finger running with the touch of  the softest feather down my spine, teasing the shape of my buttocks, to the base of my spine, his hand stroking my back. The first slap, hot and sudden, followed by more and more, a pattern building ,faster and faster, harder and harder, each cheek wanting more, my inability to prevent the need to lift up and meet his hand, until the slaps become interspersed with a fist striking my cheeks, the tempo changing. The floating away on the pain, the submissiveness it fills me with, the humiliation I feel as he tells me why he has to do this to me.

Fingers travelling down from my jaw, making me purr with pleasure, rubbing my tired neck, easing the troubles of the day away.Gently stroking, relaxing. The  gradual increased pressure on my throat. My eyes drawn to his face as the pressure increases, feeling each individual finger as it closes, tighter and tighter, restricting the air as I begin to drift away, filled with peace and trust.

The gentle big hands cupping my face, moving my damp hair from my face, the fingers wiping away my tears, hands wiping my face with a cool flannel, rubbing in cream and tending to cuts, loving, reassuring hands.


One hand on me as I fall asleep beside him, the other,  holding the end of my rope.

His hands are big

I found it... the deep and meaingful one

The very nature of the female anatomy hides the physical essence of our femininity: like the beauty within an unopened wild orchid. The space in which we grow are children is hidden, deep within our bodies and so it is hardly surprising that being trained to be open is difficult, difficult on the heart, on the mind and on the sense of self. Years of  society's, family and personal conditioning  that needs to be explored, opened, undone.

Physically it is easier for some to be open, to allow themselves to find peace in satisfyingly their master's expectation that they are physically open. For me, this is  not a problem, it has never really been a problem; not after the first few toe curling, cheek reddening, embarrassing moments when I wanted to curl up and die, thinking that he only saw the imperfections I see each time I look in the mirror. Now I no longer think about it as he inspects me.  It is just something that happens. That he watches me shower, that the parts of me that are hidden from the world are his to look at, explore, examine and generally to with and too what he so chooses, is just the way it is.

So why do I find it so hard to open up my thoughts in the same way? Is it a matter of self preservation? What he doesn't know about me he cant use against me, judge me and my failings, or is it some deeper fear that he will get my feeling and lay them on the table; look at them, explore and examine them and do with them and to them whatever he so chooses?
 I have no reason to think any of this. He has never, at any point, done anything to lead me to believe that he will, in fact completely the opposite. He can be demanding, exacting, persistent, , manipulative (sounds like a check list for a good master) etc etc, but he is loving and kind, patient thoughtful and supportive, gentle and operates with my best interest at the base of our dynamic.

I have knelt before him, naked, with his hand on my throat, the pressure from his fingers increasing until the last thing I think of before I am enveloped in peace and blackness is him, my trust in him and his ability and desire to look after me, and yet I know I hold things back, and I know he knows. And each time I do, the punishment is worse( no I don't do it for the punishments...I hate them and all the feelings that are tied in with them!).

I wish I knew.