The recovering crossdresser?

To crossdress or not crossdress – that is the question…

Come to think about it — June 17, 2022

Come to think about it

You know the signs. Those signs you get – early ones – that you’re starting with a cold. The symptoms start very gently – then – bang – it is a snot and cough fest.

I wasn’t going to just sit there and take it, so I instantly began dosing myself up, to fight the bloody thing from the outset and send it packing as soon as physically possible. You name it – I was probably taking it – well, not quite, but you know what I mean.

It was time for another retro pic post on my Twitter page, and on this occasion, it just happened to be from a session when I’d been in a new French Maid outfit – a session in which I had locked myself in a clear chastity device, and had pulled out the dildo and the camera phone, stuck the former to the bathroom tiles, laid the camera screen facing up on the bath edge, straddled it, and filmed around half an hour of taking it – all – up and down, in and out, deep and shallow.

The stimuli of the ‘cock in ass’ imagery ignited an inextinguishable spark and when an opportunity presented itself home alone, I contemplated how kink could be explored in the available time.

Dressed in a t-shirt and jogging bottoms, the 6″ dildo was strategically extracted, lubed up and inserted, firstly on the closed toilet seat to ride, then quickly, doggy, on the tiles, as before, echoing the archive pic.

Again, the camera filmed but in stark contrast to the imagery that set the spark – no lingerie, no hosiery, no chastity, driven solely by the need to feel penetration.

After around ten minutes of arguable prostate stimulation, the urge to cum was too powerful and, as the camera filmed from below, I obscured the shot by cupping a hand under my cock as I brought myself off by hand. I came long and hard, jets of thick, creamy, pent up semen powering out in bursts, flooding a cupped palm but with fingers not tightly together, allowing some to drip through to pool on to the edge of the bath as I straddled it with the dildo still firmly embedded deep within me.

Though enjoyable to one extent, post euphoria of orgasm, I then couldn’t seem to get off the dildo quickly enough but with the need to take care, made a steady withdrawal before cleaning up, returning the dildo to safe storage and carrying on with the chores of the day as if nothing had happened.

There was a sense of relief at eventually completing the clear up but also an acknowledgement of the reasons why full time subs are kept locked up. They can’t reach that same exact point of orgasm and can only, if permitted, be ruined which does not have the same effect that hand relief does.

For me, and this has long been the case, I can be without orgasm for a long time, for whatever reason and be quite OK with that. It keeps my submissive levels and interest and eagerness for all things kink at its highest and usually ever heightening for longer.

Orgasm can lead to the complete opposite – disinterest for any given period of time. Interestingly though, this time around, the period of disinterest was much shorter and this is a pattern I’ve noticed of late.

Of equal interest is that when in my own period of solo play, I can feel that abject level of disinterest instantly but when I’ve been, say, at the salon, where orgasm is usually the end product after a long period of submissive sex of some sort, I remain submissive and fully immersed and interested in my kinks. Satisfactorily used it seems.

There is one other thing to add. After my early week self indulgence, and having been feeling under the weather, I took a lateral flow test which gave a positive result.

I’m sure that you agree with me that, when you’re ill, you go into 100% self preservation mode, concentrating on getting better and having been taking plenty of meds, there has been a rapid improvement of conditions day by day and, again, the mindset has turned back to kinks, Twitter and blog updates.

There is, however, just one fact remaining – a way to stop – or at the very least, delay all of my indulgences from taking hold – come to think about it.

Needs must. — June 7, 2022

Needs must.

The way I’ve seen it, the way I’ve thought about it and the way I’ve written about it, the last two years and three months have, by and large, been seen as the bringing about of a full stop to the ability to cross dress. Domestic circumstances have quite simply, not permitted it to any degree whatsoever.

“That was it”, I mused. It was good while it lasted. I’d had a good run going back an estimated sixteen years. I shouldn’t be disappointed and I’m not.

However, being resigned to the fact led to provisional thoughts of something I said that I would never do again – purge – but this time, for good, irrespective of the consequences because there was no perceived way back.

The method and timing of that purge had not been formulated in my head. I didn’t really give it much thought at all though.

Ever the analyst, ever the strategist, I had long been working out ways to indulge in cross dressing and my other kinks but the sheer impact of the pandemic on just about everything in life meant that there was absolutely no opportunity whatsoever to find a way back, or perhaps that should be ‘forward’. You get what I’m saying.

Even hybrid working, having the very occasional days in the work place didn’t seem to offer any opportunity as a basis to any strategy.

The majority of my kinks were silenced – but there have been three constants throughout since that fateful day when we were all told so clearly that we “must stay at home” – Twitter, my blog and the salon.

Twitter has seen in excess of 200 flashback posts of old, previously posted pics but I had then run out of them and felt that I had no excuse to post old pics under another header without looking a bit naff and a bit desperate perhaps.

I naively asked my followers to answer a poll – something I don’t normally do. The silence was deafening. The votes were low in number and indecisive so with the poll deleted having not really given enough time for responses anyway, the new series of old pics started – my own personal favourites from the hundreds of pics stored secretly.

Twitter has been the mainstay – the only real direct link to kinks since the pandemic struck in March 2020. Without it, all of those decisions on a final clear out might have been made far sooner and far more decisively.

My blog hasn’t been that active until late. I had to resort to catch up blog entries at one point because even talking about my kinks was difficult as nothing was really happening but it has, and continues to be a crutch on which to lean with absolutely no one else to confide in.

I haven’t even confided fully on all aspects of my kinks whilst at the salon where the ability to even go there for body waxing was stopped for a time anyway because of how the pandemic affected those doing business.

But, time there did resume and frequency of visits increased again, and then more so because of need. But aspects and development of my kinks have been nurtured there, inner sexuality brought to the fore, boundaries broken, new ones found and broken again, learning new things about who I am, what I would be prepared to do, submissiveness allowing myself to be taken forward and to be led.

I suppose it is this aspect of kink that has kept a very dimly lit flame alive within and then allowed it to be fuelled. Bear me with. This is a deep analogy.

I have recently been sexually reignited – the extent of which has even been to my surprise. Whilst I had once accepted my crossdressing time was up and that it wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing, a more settled society and life, combined with being sexually but consentually developed at the salon has, somehow reignited the flame to burn ever more fiercely, strongly and brightly without really fully understanding why and how. I’ve just been going with it – whatever ‘it’ is.

Somehow, fuelled, undoubtedly, by visual stimuli and my many sexual experiences, there has been the largely uncontrollable urge carrying me towards a partial resumption of cross dressing, anal play and chastity.

I reasoned that I would have to wait for the ‘right time’, to get to and open up my lock box in marginal time home alone. The strategist within returned to paying close attention to dynamics and domestics. Where would everyone be? When? For how long? Could I do what needed to be done and was it worth the risk?

There have already been instances where things haven’t worked out and there will be many more – the circumstances that allow opening that box up can be, much to my inner frustration, fluid and influenced and affected by a myriad of situations beyond my control.

I have not been deterred though and I have simply played the waiting game for the next opportunity to come around, fraught by the risk of failure nevertheless.

One opportunity allowed the ‘try on’ of all but one of my chastity devices for a few minutes at a time, by way of a ‘tester’ but having taken a few pics, things were quickly returned to the lock box which had clearly shown its other, burgeoning contents to me.

Another opportunity arose, home alone. I had planned a black four piece outfit I would recover, as well as the chastity device and with the aim to bring out my three sizes of plugs that I had previously dabbled with a few weeks before, to give myself options.

I was home alone for two hours and dressed, locked and plugged, taking pics and taking around 8 minutes of video before sitting at my office desk and doing something mundane, but I was like a coiled spring throughout.

Every noise from a passing car was checked in case there was a need for emergency procedures to be invoked, the plan already hatched. A check confirmed that the ‘others‘ were in fact, in a cafe in town so would not be home anytime soon. I relaxed to better enjoy the opportunity that had been presented to me, and reflected on how contented I felt – a very intimate and deeply rooted feeling not experienced since March 2020.

I had clearly set the boundaries and reluctantly acknowledged when it was time to unlock, unplug and undress, feeling better about things because that very process was part of preparation to dress, lock and plug again for the office days ahead and with a plan hatched to await the next opportunity to swap things around in the lock box, to change outfit and chastity device for future instances.

My timing was perfect. Within a fairly short space of time after I had done what had to be done with the lingerie and sex toys, and having resumed the same mundane home office tasks, the ‘others’ returned. As they arrived I verbally praised myself for having timed things to perfection.

Today, as I write, (during a break) I am dressed in that very outfit again for work, plugged and locked very tightly in a white holy trainer chastity device acutely aware of my servitude to Mistress who is aware of and evidently approves of my return from the post on Fiona’s social media account.

My spirit to submit and serve is very strong right now and the motivation is high but being owned does not come for free and, although it has not been requested by Mistress, I am now proactively looking at ways to covertly tribute my Domme on the same terms that were necessarily left behind in March 2020 and since.

To conclude, right now, I am at what is probably the highest and most motivated and submissive state that I have ever been in.

At the moment, practically nothing is stopping me from pushing on with resumed crossdressing plans. Additionally, I am anticipating my next salon appointment more for the purposes of offering my naked body for sex and how I might be used rather than having my body waxed even though the latter is important for compliance and presentation as a sub and for my own well-being.

But there is an overarching tinge to all of this. Guilt. I’ve not missed that one bit in the last two years because, to all intents and purposes, everything had stopped. In the life that everyone closest to me sees me in, I play the proverbial poker face, the average bloke, the (genuinely) loving partner, blending in with the societal norms etc.

I have long since suffered with elements of guilt over my kinks, especially from the confines of the closet but whilst I do not let them affect things, it is the psychological effect that concerns me and how I could, unintentionally, let that poker face drop somehow and that would lead to a multitude of awkward questions and bucket loads of denial that anything was “wrong” when, in fact, everything is somehow right in my mind.

I know that you might say “As long as no one is getting hurt” it is OK. It is an age old issue for me though because my crossdressing in lingerie goes back some 16 years now. Nothing has therefore changed in that respect then.

Fiona is, very suddenly, back – needs must.

Thanks for reading. I’d very much like to read your thoughts and comments below.

Lead him not into temptation… — June 6, 2022

Lead him not into temptation…

Another salon appointment had come around. Parts of my body really needed waxing but other parts of my body needed something else – and I both knew it and wanted it. The inner submissive was burning with some intensity – probably hotter than it had burned for some time.

I was ushered into the room and stripped off, strategically leaving my skimpy g-string so that it could be seen by the side of my neatly folded pile of clothes.

As usual, I remained standing despite the treatment table being ready for me. But this time, there was to be no gentle cock and balls patting for him to be drawn upon coming into the room – already waxed, my tiny limp cock merely submissively hung as much as it could.

He entered the room as the theoretical appointment clock began to tick away.

Immediately, he openly and verbally acknowledged that, if I was standing for him, he knew that I was ready for him – and that he liked it.

He moved straight for my limp cock and began working it but was soon lightly caressing his sub’s body – around the bum curves, between the legs and teasing the thighs as the mirror in front reflected everything back to us both.

I cavorted, swinging my hips and pushing my bum out to signal that I was available to him and was responsive to being used.

He made a point of saying that we would never get any waxing done if I was going to behave like this. I demonstrated my submissive side by failing to reply, body language alone signalling that I remained his eager and willing toy.

The visual stimuli of the action being played out for us both in the mirror led me to very quickly bend over the treatment table without really having a reason why or having any real expectations as to what would happen. He moved his fully clothed body in behind me and ground his crotch in to my bum crack, symbolically thrusting and pushing as I watched via the mirror.

This didn’t last long and he said something along the lines of wanting to wield his long-since hard cock around my bum and hole he had recently broken in just a few short weeks before.

That morning, I’d showered, had a shave and had splashed on some after shave knowingly preparing and readying myself for him with full expectation, as was the pattern at the salon these days, for sex to be the priority but with some degree of acknowledgement that waxing really was needed too at some point.

He dropped his trousers and undies and drew back close in once more.

He knew where things were leading. I was somehow indicating through body language alone, that I was there to be fucked again. It seemed, somehow that my inner conscience was knocking on my submissive side which was in full control, reminding it of the need to be waxed but of the risk of being bareback fucked once more. Whilst the sub was listening, it was also dismissive of those muted appeals and remained in a haze of partial fuck-toy shut down as he did what ever he did from behind.

It seemed as if the muted appeals from within had been picked up by him though and he seized control of the situation, breaking away to use the need to wax parts of my body as a tool towards resisting from fucking me again.

I complied – of course – but as I passed him to climb on to the treatment table, I bent down briefly to suck his cock for a few seconds much to his audible pleasure.

This was met with the breathy and fulfilled comment of appreciation that I had sucked the cock that had he said had just been in my tight hole as if I had passed another test and landmark on his path of sexually developing his sub.

As he seemed to be in a moment of indecision as to whether he should remain naked from the waist down, I asked him how he wanted me on the treatment table and took no surprise that he wanted me on all fours from the options that I had offered. He struggled to restrain his cock as he pulled his undies up and fastened his jeans.

There was then a juxtaposition of sex and treatment as he began waxing my already peeviously partly waxed bum which I angled and swung at him from the all-fours, continuing to offer my submissive and available state to be used as he wished. The period of waxing wasn’t rushed but it was, I would say, slightly hurried.

I kept him hard or semi-erect by occasionally using the soles of my feet to graze, rub and push against his fly, teasing him and bringing about occasional breaths of pleasure.

Waxing complete, cooling lotion was later applied and duly rubbed in. The audible tones of three aligned fingers slapping my hole to open and loosen me echoed around the room. His fingers entered my now lubricated behind and started to work my hole, whilst occasionally using the other hand to reach under and caress my cock, balls and perineum.

After a few minutes, he praised his sub by stating that I had taken three fingers with ease, again, somehow ticking a box on a sexual development list in his mind despite knowing that I had frequently, willingly and easily taken three many times before. I held back from suggesting to him that I could take and wanted more.

He drizzled some oil down my bum cheeks and crack and finger fucked me some more for a few minutes before clicking back to business mode, telling me that he had another appointment and checked the time.

Concluding that he could do what needed to be done in the time allowing, he instructed me to sit on the side of the treatment table. I duly complied but spread my legs. The switch flicked again and his trousers and undies were brought sufficiently down to allow his re-hardened cock to spring to attention.

We both took turns to frot. Occasionally, I would pull away and gently tap my cock tip on his. This “power bottom” tactic caused pre-cum to leak from his cock. Either I fed directly yearning for more and eagerly wiping any up or he fed me instead. I uttered an approving and lustful hum.

Then, another first. Having already flicked a favourite switch by tweaking my nipples, he bent down and spent a good few seconds sucking and nibbling one nipple on my recently waxed chest before drawing away. I approvingly acknowledged the ‘first’ but teased that he should not now leave the other nipple to be neglected. He complied.

I occasionally arched my body, contemplating leaning back and envisaging my first ever missionary-style fuck to be able to look into his eyes but realising that the physiology was not conducive. He used the opportunity to reach under, cradling my balls in a hand whilst inserting some fingers into my hole.

Moments later, probably acknowledging the need to continue the waxing treatment, he resumed the frotting at pace. He wanted his sub’s cum and he knew how and where he wanted it. Sending his sub into uncontrollable orgasm, my cock powered out a hot, thick, creamy load of cum across his balls, my semen then dropping somewhere below.

He relished the feeling of warmth from my cum on his balls then asked me to rub the cum in as he used some of my load as lube and brought himself off, body convulsing as his load covered my cock and jetted up to splash on an arm.

My load had rebounded off his balls and had dropped into the well of his thigh-high removed boxers as well as having dribbled down the side of the treatment table. He was left contemplating the impact of the cum stained undies he would have to wear for the rest of the working day, cleaning up what he could but seemingly relishing seeing his next client in his wet, telling undies, remarking on the wetness in his jeans as he dressed again.

He then used some paper towels to clean his cum from his sub. I uttered a grateful but muted note of thanks before assuming the same seated position for the waxing to take place in the time that, in truth, was, retrospectively not available but he merely continued and the appointment concluded.

He left. I briefly viewed the cum stained treatment table cover as if it was my trophy, dressed and made my way out to book the next appointment.

Although I knew that I was not fully smooth bodied, I queried how long it would be until I should be back in his company.

An appointment was booked with his reply that “something always needs doing”. Nothing further was said but we knew the sexual undertones to the comment.

Whilst I was there, he made a proposition to me involving the future attendance of a reportedly well hung and apparently attractive man. It was likely that I couldn’t make one particular other and separate appointment for this as his subject of ongoing sexual development, but, as if he was seeking to tick his sub’s sexual development list somewhat further, he said that it could be rearranged.

Having not quite led him not into temptation that day, he was now leading me – again.

For me, for you, for me. — May 30, 2022

For me, for you, for me.

It has to be said that, of late, I have experienced moments of, in my eyes at least, a female led relationship in the kink side of things and these instances have been blogged about within the last few months.

As far as my significant other is concerned, it is merely intimacy and foreplay but I revel in what it could be and allow a little role play to occur. Moments have included me being naked, away in the holiday home, or for her to be happy, in theory or actuality, for me to be naked around the house. I ventured downstairs the other night, late in just my birthday suit, (‘the others’ behind a closed door and not for moving) and nonchalantly came back up stairs moments later, swanning back into the bedroom.

She took both surprise and delight at my antics without really discussing them but the more naked I am, and inclined to be, the more she eyes me up and uses my currently smooth, post waxed body to play with as and when she sees fit, nipple rubbing through a t-shirt or cock play including checking whether I have undies on – each time, merely teasing – no chance and/or intention of taking it further. I’m NOT complaining though!

When we are finally home alone for good, the ‘others’ having moved out (no idea when that will be but not anytime soon it seems), then there is more potential for more intimacy, and for me to allow what I see as FLR processes to play out.

I was working in my home office the other day when she came in from a shopping trip with a bag stating that she had a present for me. I gratefully received the bag and began the investigation of what lay within with great intrigue.

She had bought ‘me‘ a matching white bra and knickers set after I’d recently stated to her that I’d like to see her in such lingerie rather than a random mish-mash bra with dull, beige or otherwise bland, (what you might call ‘Bridget’), knickers. She said that, if the new set fitted her properly, she’d get some more like it. I reveled in the moment.

In my heart of hearts though, I knew what she had bought them for – they certainly weren’t for me – not in the literal sense, but, allowing a brief, fantasy-fuelled FLR led-sub relationship to rage through my mind, for a few seconds, I played alone with the ruse. “Oh you’ve bought me a new bra, thank you, that’s lovely!” I said, as if it was a genuine gift I was thrilled with. I had a genuine sense of gratitude for my gift in those few fleeting moments.

The fantasy world was that I was in an FLR, she was starting the process of domming and/or feminising her submissive and here was the first such instance of things to come. Reality soon bit as I woke up and smelled the proverbial coffee – 3, 2, 1, and I was ‘back in the room’ thinking of how it otherwise might have been in my darkest, wildest fantasies, fuelled by experienced recently blogged about.

Having previously been very much resigned to never being able to cross dress again, of late, an inner spark, nurtured by dabbling in the hidden items in storage and my own sexual development at the salon, means that I am now plotting a resumption of everything that was brought to an abrupt halt in March 2020, but on a far more part time basis than it was back then when the pandemic struck, when all activity was wiped out in an instance, resulting in my hidden treasures being consigned to storage to wait seemingly forever.

The logistics of resumption on any level are, however, beyond complicated and plans to extract a limited selection of items, chastity, plugs and lingerie, during rare home alone time, to prepare and hide to take to work to dress, lock and plug on the odd days, have already been rendered impossible on two occasions due to domestic circumstances just not turning out as they were seemingly going to which would have allowed the time and opportunity. But it seems that I am not to be deterred and that I will accept the long game to satisfy my recently re-ignited inner desires, needs, urges and cravings.

But whereas, once the act of cross dressing seemed like ‘never again’, it is now more a matter of ‘when’, not ‘if’. The urge to dress in lingerie is, as it used to be back in the day, fuelled by visual stimuli. These days, I’m far more likely to be interested in finding a way how to, albeit briefly, try a bra on just for a dabble and a buzz, rather than to sigh and reflect on what once was before leaving it well alone and simply moving on.

A lot has changed since my sexual development recently gathered pace, and so, as it had been bought “for me” and was still in the bedroom awaiting its first official use by the significant other, try it on, I did, briefly admiring the look in a mirror, before quickly taking it off once more – the try on, lasting mere seconds.

The recovering crossdresser appears to be on the ‘other’ recovery route again these days. For me, for you, for me.

How you remind me —

How you remind me

A quick look at my social media DM in box resulted in quite a bit of scrolling back through a mix of conversations that went back as far as four years.

Some of them were the highly irritating one word introduction of just ‘Hi’ which I’ve never been a fan of nor ever responded.

Let’s be honest. It’s not the best way to open dialogue with someone in any situation- in person or otherwise.

In the case of my DM inbox, which is always open, I would much prefer a little more elaboration about what instigated the approach for starters. Perhaps some people are naturally shy and nervous? I get that.

Anyway, I did delete/leave a number of threads that never went anywhere but I very much value, retained and will retain those exchanges that were lengthy and detailed.

One of the oldest threads brought one of earliest and most tentative cross dressing moments back to me that I had completely forgotten but had told someone about.

This was long before the instance when I was inadvertently caught in a state of cross dress after the significant other had come home suddenly – a short time after going out – and I had gone into a blind panic, more or less tearing the outfit off, then the stockings but that one had been left dangling off a foot.

The short story is that had I instantly strategised the whole situation despite everything crashing down around me, and offered a credible and standing reason why which I won’t go into here and that was that.

I can consider myself very lucky that history was not recalled and that two and two was NOT together with four clearly calculated.

That historical moment recalled so vividly from that four year old, arguably archived DM thread must have occurred many years before that and from a time in which I was clearly but covertly crossdressing but in the very early days when everything involved dipping into the drawer I shouldn’t theoretically have been in and that was it.

So, accepting that it was long before the traumatic events of being caught in a state of partial cross dress, here is what was brought flooding back to me from that old DM exchange.

Long ago, it was just another day in the household, before kids came along probably. The significant other had been sitting on the settee/sofa/couch (delete as applicable) with me and my flame of kink had been burning deep within.

I left the room, went upstairs, stripped off and put on a suspender belt, stockings and g-string, pulled my jeans and t-shirt back on and returned, probably very quickly, back to sit closely by her.

It was probably quite a few minutes later -me waiting and anticipating – when she casually put a loving hand on the leg that was nearest to her and felt the suspender strap under the material.

She might have asked what it was and I might have told her but I really can’t remember.

Anyway, I was anticipating, no, perhaps desperately hoping for a positive, interested and encouraging response to opening up my kinks to her and then, who knows what? What I actually might have expected was an explosive, negative and angry response. What I actually got was a quiet, calm, measured but brief request to “Go and take it off and don’t do that again”. I duly complied and that was the end of that as far as she was concerned.

I suppose that key moment in my life set the tone and direction that my indulgences would then take, i.e., officially taboo, not allowed, but unofficially, internally, personally, so desired that a covert strategy would have to more strategically applied for all of it to happen going forward. The only way was in, down and darker.

Had the response been favourable, who knows where I would have been? By now, a in very deep FLR relationship perhaps?

My attempts to share my inner most desires were probably already known to be futile in my head because “vanilla” is very much the description when it comes to matters of sexuality for her. There are clean and clear boundaries – walls within which there are windows to see things safely from behind them but merely observationally. (I’m accepting of all of that and always have been. Everyone is different but that’s not to say you can’t be changed – I’m a case in point!)

Examples of observation from within a safe zone would, in my opinion, be late night TV documentaries or something she might see on line or read somewhere – very much from inside looking out if you like.

She has innocently watched me change over the years through observing and coming to like my manscaping body waxes.

As I have said before on previous blogs, I didn’t just do it for the benefit of kinks, but also for my own well-being. At my most hirsute, around 8 years ago, I was, as I saw it, akin to a yeti. I was hot, I was sweaty and body waxing solved all of that. But I’m never content at my appearance. I hate the slightest indicators of re-growth and I am at my most confident, happiest and, to be honest, horniest, when I am as hair free as possible. The trouble is, the way my body is and the way my system works coupled with the requirement for a reputable salon to avoid a full body wax in one session due to the risks and legal situation that might arise means I’m very much always a ‘work in progress’.

Anyway, that distant day when I courageously chanced it on the sofa (etc.), coming as close to opening up about my kinks without actually saying anything about it, didn’t pay off.

But the fact that it wasn’t then officially ‘permitted’, green-lit, and that I shouldn’t be doing it in her opinion, probably only meant that I wanted to do it all the more and for what would be many years to come, of more intensity, more sexually, more developmentally, more kinky, and the rest as they say is history.

You can do the maths. 2+2 did not equal 4 back then and still does not. The ability to calculate the sum remains within the number cruncher of life.

DM me sometime! Go further than just “hi’ and see how else you can remind me.

A frustrated sub — May 25, 2022

A frustrated sub

March 2020. We knew something was around. We knew it didn’t sound very nice but the possibility that it could land on our doorstep was unimaginable. But it did land on everyone’s doorstep.

March 2020 had started in much the same way that every other month and day had since late 2019 when I was taken into ownership by Mistress.

I would be home alone, up early, the house empty or soon to be empty but either way, there was enough time and space to spring out of bed as soon as the opportunity arose and would either pull on the outfit that Mistress had pre-selected or another for the time being that could perhaps not be worn for work. I would lock in the chastity device of Mistress’ choice and would prepare the plug that she had also ordered – if not the remote control plug because she didn’t have the time to use me, it was usually the largest of my three standard plugs. I might use my dildo for “training” – a hyperthetical term which seemed relevant even though I saw it as highly unlikely that I would ever feel a real cock inside me. I would end up being wrong about that!

I might be on a web cam, changing outfits on request, outwardly exhibiting, sometimes explicitly or filming or photographing my finished state to evidence later to Mistress and on social media.

Then, eventually, I tore myself away, adhered to Mistress’ requirements for the day, covered up in office attire and set off for work. I would be dressed, locked and plugged for around 12 hours every week day and would occasionally have time home alone at the weekend to extend the servitude further.

The pandemic changed all of that. All of the circumstances that allowed my kinks to flourish were cancelled in an instant.

I naively assumed that it wouldn’t be for long. I was wrong on every level.

Everything in the home dynamic changed. Though I was OK, others in the household were not and faced unemployment.

I resigned myself to, firstly, a wait and then to the end to 95% of my kinks. Nothing got any better for these indulgences to be able to resume and they haven’t. My significant other now has a new job but works from home whereas before, she would be out early to go to a place of work which signalled the green light for Fiona to come out and play.

Although I have regular time at the salon for a body wax, I’m never fully done, I’m always a work in progress such are the apparent regulations that now prevent reputable salons from doing a full body wax in one session. I find that regularly frustrating as I have a irrational obsession for wanting to be hair free and the fight for me is real. It affects my self confidence in a massive way but I am generally far less hirsute than I used to be having been going to the salon for a number of years and on a far more frequent basis.

Other than that, everything that I hold dear from cross dressing and kink was put into locked, dark storage. I vowed never to purge again having acknowledged the sheer value and amount of lovely things thrown away on numerous occasions over the last 16 years or so.

Two years on and I have been resigned to the fact that I’m knocking on in years, and that crossdressing just isn’t possible anymore and is unlikely to be again.

To put a tin lid on it, even Mistress’ life changed and she also brought about a stop to things. That seemed to be it once and for all even though I would be hers forever – Mistress knew that and I knew that. It was a nice gesture.

More recently, thoughts have turned to the final act. Disposal of everything – the final death knell for Fiona. I have not done it yet but it is hugely symbolic that I’ve even thought about it.

I’ve made it through the last few years but being able to connect with Fiona through posting archive photos on her social media account. But now, I have nothing new to post and I can only now desperately try to find and justify reasons for posting old favourite pics up as a way of sustaining account activity. I haven’t started that yet but that’s not to say that I won’t.

But I am a sub, and luckily for me, I have time at the salon for myself – time which, apart from the body waxing, has, over a number of years, developed me sexually.

Being sustained somehow as a sub, nurtured at the salon, let loose at the salon, even if not a crossdressing sub has led me, after all this time, to start to try and find ways to indulge in whatever time there is.

For years, I have been a strategist to remain deeply closeted and the strategist within has started planning. When and how feature prominently but it isn’t cut and dried and it comes with massive risk – risk which is not necessarily a deterrent.

Fiona is fighting to get out once more. I thought she was consigned to the history books but it seems that I have underestimated her inner strength despite knowing how controlling she was before.

Within the last few weeks, I’ve been plugged for a few hours home alone having recovered my remote control plug.

Within the last few weeks, my cock has been inserted into a cock pump and I can now be ruined by it.

Within the last few weeks, I’ve tried on every chastity device bar one that I’ve never worn due to a fault that I have always planned to try and rectify.

Within the last few months, I’ve been content to be naked around the house whenever possible, even when working from home as the inner submissive fights to get out.

Within the last few months, there are FLR signs developing in my home relationship with my significant other. She doesn’t see them in the way that I do but that is enough for me.

But of late, barely (no pun intended) nothing is letting me settle. The suppressed sub and cross dresser is fighting to get out and breathe once more.

I hated yesterday. Yesterday was so utterly frustrating without being able to say why. I wrote two blog posts in 24 hours and this is now a third. I wanted to indulge desperately yet I felt I couldn’t see a clear way as to how and whether it would work.

I was in the office yesterday and felt more frustrated and flatter and flatter as the day went on, hitting rock bottom on the way home in the car, unable to talk to myself to avoid the dash cam recording it. I probably sighed numerous times on the way and took my frustrations out on other motorists and road conditions.

I was, to all intents and purposes, home alone on arrival. I threw my car keys and bag down on the work top, and, leaning against it, proceeded to spin through the secret gallery of crossdressing, anal and chastity pics on my phone, airbrushing a few imperfections from the shots that had already been posted on social media long ago.

I took a picture of my recently waxed chest with the aim to replace the image in my last blog with it. But even that wasn’t perfect and a zoom in identified some hairs that were not removed at the salon.

Against my better judgement, (I really shouldn’t shave my body as it encourages growth) I stepped in the shower, reached for the shaving gel and blades and shaved my chest and above crotch area to satisfy the obsession and feel better somehow.

Only a junk food evening meal with family and a TV binge made things feel better but stepping into bed that night, naked, sexually charged but still tired after several other nights of poor sleep made for another sleepless night of thinking and playing.

I am very much a frustrated sub right now.

Out of time —

Out of time

Another salon appointment had come round again. Certain parts of my body really were in need of being waxed, including my chest, part of my bum that wasn’t ready last time, and my arms which were making me feel like a monster. They were the worst they had been in a long time. The arms were SO bad that I had contemplated wearing a fleece just to cover them up.

Back at the salon, I was ushered into the inner sanctuary that is the treatment room – soft lighting, relaxing music, warmth from the heater making it easy to strip off.

I was early for my appointment, the traffic into the town centre having been kind. I stripped off but the battle resumed between the inner consciences.

On one shoulder, the angel – pressing for the position to be assumed – just any form of bodily contact with the treatment table would suffice please.

On the other shoulder, the devil – Fiona’s evidently resurgent self perhaps, fighting back from over 2 years of being suppressed after the pandemic struck and knocked her into the proverbial long grass.

I was back in the same position as before. Out of line of sight of the main salon floor for when the door was opened, one end of the treatment table, in front of a full length mirror.

Gentle patting of my tiny flaccid cock began again whilst the angel really insisted that I assumed the position as I needed the waxing to be done. I heard the voice within alright but I also seemed to be craving his lustful attention when he came in the room. General commotion could be heard beyond the door from other salon customers on the way in or out. I could hear him exchanging chat and pleasantries whilst waiting – anticipating his arrival.

The rushing of blood to my little cock ebbed and flowed. I stopped then resumed the gentle patting. He soon entered the room and remarked far more directly than before that he knew I was ready for him and ready for some playtime if I was standing upon his arrival.

He was soon working my cock to hardness taking breaks to caress my bum curves, extending the sweep of a hand through to my perineum, balls and cock. Occasionally, he’d move and brush a hand across or tweak my nipples, using his sub as he saw fit.

Without speaking, I offered myself further by seductively swinging my hips or making my bum more prominent and of focus for him.

I upped the ante by lifting a leg and placing the foot on the treatment table, gazing at the full length mirror and watching him work on his willing, eager and naked sub.

I changed legs to offer a more direct view into the mirror that he knew only too well that I had a kink about. I revelled in the image reflected before me, knowing it was me that was being used for his pleasure.

I moved a hand to his fastened jeans and rubbed the hardness through the material. I feigned an attempt at undoing which was the signal he needed to unfasten his jeans.

I was in no mood to wait to bring his cock to hand and started slipping a hand down the front of his boxers but he was soon taking them down too.

I led. He moved in, body to body, cock to cock, and I led the frotting, breaking off loosening the grip then resuming. This went on for a few minutes but my mind had one thing within. I wanted his cock in my mouth. I battled with the urge for a minute or two before finally giving in to the desire.

I dropped to my knees and began to service him, deep throating, licking the tip and slit, down the top of the shaft with the foreskin pulled back. I could hear his moans of pleasure and occasionally looked up into his eyes to connect further and signal my lustful intent to serve and give him pleasure, my own cock submissively going more limp and unimportant in that moment.

I wanted his cock. I wanted to just suck it and keep on sucking it. Nothing else seemed to matter – only it did – my body waxing – but the urge to suck cock for as long and as sluttily as possible was driving me on.

After a while, he ushered me to take a seat, perhaps concluding that his sub was not too comfortable kneeling before him.

I quickly followed the order and resumed sucking him, his continual moans of pleasure, breathy moments, my hand cupping and patting his balls, hands reaching round to squeeze his bum cheeks.

He pulled away briefly as pre-cum started to ooze. I briefly took him back into my mouth to savour the consistency and flavour. He pulled out again and swept more pre-cum on to a finger before feeding his sub as if he were training it ready to take his full load down its throat and into the pit of its stomach.

(I relished being fed his pre-cum as, on a previous occasion, (see a previous blog entry), he’d swept a quantity of mine on to a finger, and I was convinced he was going to feed his sub, only to take it to his own mouth. But, in the aftermath, I was honoured and he said I tasted good. We were both feeding from my oozing cock anyway from that point on.)

I digress – again.

My oral work was intent on driving him to orgasm and had he have started to cum in my mouth, I was, I acknowledged, a willing cum dump receptacle for what would have been the first time I had swallowed another man’s load.

Ever the sub, I followed instructions for another position change. He lay on the treatment table himself and I resumed deep throating him, positioning myself diagonally against the table, bum near his head, legs spread, inviting him to use me further and to finger fuck his sub.

He broke off to begin bringing me off and moments later, a large quantity of creamy semen powered out of my milked cock and splattered the floor as my mouth bobbed up and down on his cock.

Moments later, I began giving him hand relief but he took over as I began caressing and patting his balls and perineum, which he relished, the teasing bringing him to a body shuddering climax, his load shooting out, running down and covering my fingers as they cupped and caressed his balls.

The clean up began after the latest sexual encounter was brought to an end, a large quantity of paper towels needed to sweep up my load. Such was his elation and celebration from what had just happened, he asked me whether I’d been in some sort of training or something to be able to do what I did to satisfy him so sufficiently.

I humbly but gratefully and graciously said that I just did what I did, no reading up, no text books, no internet searches but that I had somehow picked things up over the years and it was all just somewhere up top. We mused that men knew how to suck cock, because they knew how they would like to be sucked.

I was nevertheless flattered that I could satisfy him in the way that I evidently had. It was not about me – I was serving him – but I had, of course, very much enjoyed the moment.

You could argue that I had set the agenda and given all the signals that led to the 30 minute period of sex by presenting in a naked, semi erect and clearly ‘ready’, state, rather than being ready for the body wax.

Enjoyable though it was, it turned out, somewhat to my surprise and masked disappointment, that there was virtually no time left for the treatment. I had not envisaged anything less than an hour in my special place. Some partial waxing was completed in time he concluded was still available, but to all intents and purposes, I was out of time, the evidence for some body hair removal still evident.

I was left to dress alone as the last drops of cum continued to drip from my milked cock. I used a towel to wipe the floor again before dressing.

Frustratingly, the next available appointment turned out to be weeks away.

In the days afterwards, taking issue with the outstanding need for treatment, I have since been able to reschedule sooner, but a submissive fire has been lit within once more of late, but with no outlet, no ability to crossdress, lock in chastity or plug to vent the urges that rage within.

Having said that, there was a chance, home alone for time the other day to try on my chastity devices and on another day, to plug with my remote control device and enjoy. But I remain highly sexually charged right now and am beginning to try and fathom strategies to partially resume my kinks that were halted in March 2020.

Those feelings have been suppressed today due to the need to attend to the day job and because I cannot indulge these days.

However, I don’t think that I have ever felt more frustrated as a submissive than I have today, urge swamped by inability and it is only a junk food meal and distraction TV that have eased those feelings.

The next rescheduled and much sooner appointment offers similar opportunities to submit but it needs to be without being out of time for the ‘other’ reason I visit the salon and that is for my own mental well-being. Waxing first, sex second.

I’m a sub though, and I acknowledge that it isn’t about me but I need to be happy on how I present. As many will say, a sub should be ready, smooth bodied, and well presented. No time to be out of time.

Reflective post sex, sex talk then more sex — May 24, 2022

Reflective post sex, sex talk then more sex

It wasn’t long after the salon session in which I was (finally) fucked and broken in that I found myself back for the follow up appointment. My life revolves around each one.

Previously, I had been made aware of a sample case in the US where a motorist had died after a salon appointment having suffered a delayed but adverse reaction to a full body wax whilst behind the wheel and crashing his car.

This had meant that, for legal reasons, any reputable salon would then adhere to industry and insurance guidelines and break a full body wax down into two separate sessions. I remember being quite frustrated by this when told some years ago, because, other than one occasion when I got the shakes, I had been perfectly OK having a full body wax all in one go.

The bad news was softened by being told that the need to break it down led to more frequent sessions at the salon. Every cloud has a silver lining!

I digress.

As I recall, for my next post-fuck appointment, I stripped and assumed a position of some sort on the treatment table to indicate that I was ready for the waxing upon his arrival into the room. No doubt.

Pleasantries have long been the order of the appointments. How are things with him? How are things with me? You know the stuff. Chit-chat but nice with it.

These days though, sex talk soon arises and the memories of him fucking me last time were still very fresh and were therefore discussed at this appointment.

This man had previously declared where he would and wouldn’t go sexually. He definitely would not suck anyone else’s cock but his partner’s. Historically, he had said that he wouldn’t fuck me but then again, more recently, he’d also previously told me that he *would* fuck me given the opportunity.

Reflecting back on him having taken my anal virginity bareback a few weeks previously, he had equalled the score in my mind. As he took me last time, I’d asked him whether he was fucking me even though I knew he was. My question at the time was merely because I was in denial that it was finally happening and I couldn’t believe it under the circumstances, not that his cock was so small in my tight, increasingly less virginal ass, that I couldn’t feel it. I certainly could feel it and I loved, relished and treasured it.

My slightly disjointed and misplaced comment was merely accepting and acknowledging that I was, at last, finally being fucked.

At this next appointment though, he evened the proverbial score in my mindset by stating that he didn’t quite know why he broke with his determination and broke me in.

Part of me was massively disappointed, wondering and therefore doubting whether it would happen again or whether it was, for him, a regrettable one off, whilst the other half of me was totally respectful and understanding about what the statement intrinsically meant. I also relished having done enough to turn him on that meant he couldn’t resist fucking me last time following the most submissive and erotic period of foreplay, the level of intensity and intimacy of which seems to increase every time I’m at the salon.

The conversation moved on but remained on the topic of sex – specifically involving me. He made a point of praising his sub by stating how good it was that I had let him fuck me and how very far I had come in my sexual development and continued to go since my first ever appointment so many years ago.

My likes and fantasies were discussed after he made a point of saying that he needed to ensure that my previously declared fantasies were realised at some point. He reiterated the option for being involved in an after hours group massage session which usually led to consensual sex for some and voyeurism for others and when I could, in theory, be group fucked, spit roasted and pig roasted – the latter being a new term for me which I duly enquired about. Every day is a school day!

He also talked about the option to invite other men in to the treatment room or for me to join their session.

The jury remains out on those options, largely over my own fears of confidentiality breach by them but most definitely not by me. But it is not a ‘no’ or ‘never’, just ‘not now’. How I would be if the opportunity presented itself, I do not know but I might well embrace it.

Anyway, back to where I was – busily talking through my darkest fantasies including being carefully, gently and considerately group fucked, bareback, filled both ends and covered with multiple loads of semen like a fuck toy and cum dump but not in an abusive or degrading way.

I also talked about how I would want my consensual sex partners to be hair free, and retrospectively, I suppose this is to remove some vestiges of evident masculinity from the situation.

He responded by quickly discounting one proposed individual due to their hirsutedness but instead, settling on another for his submissive to entertain in his own mindset.

With my waxing complete on that occasion, largely unbeknown to me, my uninhibited, open and detailed sex talk had caused his cock to both harden and strain in his undies under his jeans, but he had also begun to leak pre-cum.

He undid his trousers and got his cock out, unable to take the restriction any longer.

My interest was piqued but I’d assumed, from my flat out, relaxed position, often with eyes closed or looking at the celling, that he had reached around for some oil to cause his cock to so blatantly and evidently glisten, but his confession that he was very wet indeed and leaking with pre-cum as a result of my explicit sex talk had ignited the carnal instinct within me in an instant.

I was soon up to his cock to wantonly suck him and taste his juices. I probably wasn’t being as careful with what I was doing but I acknowledged that more care was needed as I worked.

I turned on to my side on the treatment table to take his cock more fully and easily into my willing mouth. He moved a pillow under my head like a considerate lover to make his submissive as comfortable as possible.

His hands were roaming around and caressing my naked body, tweaking nipples, grabbing my head and hair, reaching between my legs to slip fingers in to my no longer virginal hole to vigorously finger fuck me whilst I plunged eagerly back and forth on his cock.

I signalled that I was receptive for more by spreading my legs as I submitted further, one levered into the air. After some minutes, as I lustfully bent over him and sucked his shaft, he brought me off over the side of the treatment table and moments later then came all over me.

A brief clean up ensued between us whilst the events that had just unfolded were celebrated and relished and with that, he left, I dressed and left the room and premises – but not before arranging the next appointment and another opportunity to relish.

At long last – fucked — April 27, 2022

At long last – fucked

Once again, I was ushered back into that same warm, enclosed, brightly lit, cossetting environment, soft, incidental music playing to set a mood and was soon naked, but remained standing – ignoring the treatment table which awaited my body’s length to be stretched out on it for the scheduled reason I was there.

I, on the other hand, seemed controlled by ulterior forces. The manipulative element was in control. I knew what I should be doing – that being to stretch out on the treatment table – an indicator for the treatment to begin, but, instead, and as with the previous encounter, I assumed the position adopted the last time I was there, standing at one end, around four feet from a mirror, checking my continually imperfect but slender naked body – stripped free from any form of clothing or jewellery – because I could.

Again, gentle hand patting against my increasingly less flaccid cock caused blood to surge into it, yet the fight within my mind saw the other half of the personality, the conscience, fight back, remonstrating that this was not perhaps the best thing to do for reasons not concluded, and my cock began to lose its hardness once more.

The manipulative within acknowledged this and reasserted control. The gentle but fairly rapid hand-patting resumed to a state where I was semi-erect, not massively so, but enough so that he, very familiar with every inch of my body, would very much know I was ‘ready’ when he entered the room.

Suddenly, the door opened. Within seconds, it was evident that he needed no further invitation and was soon inspecting his submissive with his eyes and hands. As before, hands wandered, caressing the rounds of my evidently popular and, well shaped bum cheeks, reaching between my legs to teasingly stroke my cock, balls and perineum, firmly tweaking nipples and brushing the palms of his hands across my chest, as I lustfully accepted being used as he saw fit.

Clearly aroused himself, he didn’t need me to undo his belt and jeans. His boxers were also soon down to allow his hard cock to spring to attention and he guided his body close in front of me. Momentarily, I celebrated being so sufficiently erect, but briefly reflected and compared back to the many occasions over many years that the heterosexual within took issue with any such need and applied pressure to stop it from happening.

My self-declared bi-curious status had, over the years, been developed though, not always of my own making, and I was concluding that I was instead, at least with this man, (other opportunities having yet to present themselves to judge the reaction) accepting myself as ever more bisexual.

In the heat of the moment, something within briefly sparked that this behaviour was somehow not ideal, not right, not what typified the first 40 odd years of my life, my sexuality and my relationship. It was more than a little ‘closing the stable door long after the horse had bolted’ in my timeline of sexual development though anyway.

The situation before me – a naked and vulnerable sub – meant that any such thoughts were quickly dismissed as not part of the moment, as this man continued doing what he had actually been doing for a number of years – gleaning the nature of action and conversation and determining steps to take as time passed – gradually developing me, slowly, surely, consentingly, to be his willing toy, his project.

Allow me to digress.

Those conversations over the years had caused me to open up, awaken sexually, declaring the extents of my interests or curiosities. Years of activity, (including my unbeknown to him crossdressing and chastity), plus declaration and willingness for taking anal when in his company, had made him aware and helping him to plot his course with his sub.

An increasing willingness, eagerness and desire to suck [his] cock had developed over time, the potential for him to involve me with others of my own choosing, to let him use my increasing liking for anal, to be regularly finger fucked and, on one occasion, fucked with my own dildo which had, at one appointment, been sneaked in to a bag on the off-chance, but a chance that presented it self after declaring during the session that a) I liked it, b) I did it and c) that the toy was in the room. I remember how much he relished the moment, the euphoria of learning something else about his project, and for the opportunity to arise.

Some time ago, years ago I’d say, and probably after some intense playtime, he said that he would fuck me given the opportunity. (At one point in history there was a reference to a condom in a discussion of some sort and a question as to whether I had one – but I didn’t. Had I have had one, who knows what would have happened)


It seemed almost throwaway, a theory, an ideology but at the time, an impossibility. I remember theorising that I’d want to use protection which he quite obviously agreed with. There had been intense moments of intimacy as my relationship with him grew ever closer that I made some borderline insulting, vague, wishy washy wish to be “safe” without really explaining myself very well back then. It matters little. I am now where I am in the greater scheme of things.

Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, close proximity, body to body, cock to cock. As before, I led with the frotting, cocks gripped as one. There were brushing embraces throughout, as close to a kiss as possible without there being one, warm loving embraces as the cocks were worked.

The vivid imagination within relished at the actuality being played out, me taking a ‘power bottom’ role, holding two hard cocks together. Suddenly, I drew away from the embrace as pre-cum started to ooze.

In the silence, punctuated only by the soft music, we both began feeding off the cum as it seeped out, taking it in turns to draw it to mouth, appreciating the consistency and flavour and wanting more. I would not disappoint as the pent up semen slowly flowed from my highly stimulated cock. He spoke briefly, whisper-like, to tell me how good my cum tasted. I agreed breathlessly and seductively as we continued to take turns to sweep the cum away with a finger and draw it to mouth for some minutes. At one point, I thought he was going to feed me, but instead, he continued to taste, or lubricated his cock with my semen instead.

There was to be no opportunity for me to suck his cock on this occasion. This wasn’t part of the plan.

He ushered me to the other side of the treatment table – closer to the cream and oils and directly in front of the mirror – and broke off briefly to get some cream before returning to our close embrace for more frotting from me, allowing him to reach round, cream me up and begin soundly finger fucking me, both of us intently and lustfully watching in the mirror.

At the last appointment, I remembered bending over allowing him and inviting him more access to more soundly and deeply finger fuck me. This time, I was in front of the mirror in close proximity, and found myself turning away from it and bending over the treatment table. The signal I gave him by bending over was not interpreted in the same way as it had been before.

Though there was not much room, he moved sideways in between my available, hot, ready and lubricated behind and the mirror. I felt his cock sitting between and being rubbed around my bum cheeks. Something was telling me what was coming and I seemed powerless and unwilling to stop it. His cock tip probed the outer rim of my hole and briefly pressed – almost by way of a test or dare. He momentarily withdrew as if something was holding him back, but the withdrawal was only short.

His hands took a grip on my hips for leverage and he pushed inside me. Bareback. No condom, no protection.

For the first time, other than my own use of a dildo, with which I had total control, my anal virginity was broken in an instant. The moment I never thought would and could ever happen – was happening.

I was – finally – after all the years of experimenting, alluding to being trained but with the actual act having previously been thought never to happen and instead it being more like roleplay – being fucked by a real cock. In a moment of apparent disbelief, I asked him, even though I knew intently, whether he was fucking me. He confirmed with a brief, breathy, lustful, carnal “Yes”.

Now, he could have taken great offence at the inference that his cock was not big enough for me to feel it, but there was no offence taken. The opportunity presented to him to do something he’d yearned for over a number of years was right there before him. His conquest. The confirmation of the act from him was a carte blanc for the rhythm, pace and thrusts to increase. I was happy to be taken. There was nothing in the world beyond the door from the room – nothing. This was the world in those intensely erotic moments.

I gave myself further by uttering the words “Finally” or “At last” (I don’t remember which now!) as if telling him it was about time he fucked me and perhaps questioning why it had taken him so long. I was in fact, telling myself that this really was happening and began pushing back to relish being properly fucked and willingly taking his cock – AND bareback! As if it needed confirming, I also confidently extolled that he was breaking me in and taking my virginity, confirming that I was his trophy and perhaps, now, his fuck toy, not just his toy.

I was in ecstasy but in another way, some form of both partial denial and partial acceptance.

Given the chance, I would have just allowed him to carry on fucking me for as long as he wanted and how he wanted. The real reason I was there paled into insignificance. I just wanted him to fuck my tight but eager, open hole and dismiss my virginity thoroughly beyond doubt. I merely became a fuck toy and lost track of the environment around me, dismissing my life outside completely.

He had already told me as he fucked me how tight I was. Had I have still been covertly cross-dressing and doing anal at home, as had been the case until March 2020, I might have been more receptive and an easier, looser fuck.

I could have clenched tightly around him, but it was not about me. It was about him fucking me.

After some minutes, he told me that I was so tight, I was making him want to cum inside me. I suggested that neither of us wanted that and he agreed, yet in the darkest recesses of my mind, I did want to be filled and to hell with any consequences. But, anyway, I had been a tight fuck that pushed all of his buttons. I relished the moment. He pulled out and erupted all over the floor, hot cum splattering in all directions.

The euphoria of having given myself to him and of being virginally fucked and broken in meant that I too brought myself off, the same small area of flooring littered with two warm, creamy, impassioned loads of semen.

With that, after a sufficient clean up, I assumed the position, face down n the treatment table, cum continuing to leak from my cock, my ass, freshly fucked. Within minutes, it was as if nothing had just happened, chit chat and pleasantries etc. prevailing. and afterwards, I nonchalantly left to contemplate over the coming hours and days what had just happened and that my next appointment was to be soon.

And I’m still contemplating. Can I now not be a fuck toy? Was that I one off? It seems impossible to think that way. How can that possibly be? Where does it go from here? What impact will it have on my life? What precautions should I now need to take to remain comfortable and, to my satisfaction psychologically, safe? What inferences am I making that he is not safe? It seems rude and judgemental, yet equally rational to even think about it, less talk about it.

I aim to go with the flow though and there has been plenty of that. I am satisfactorily and somewhat smugly, no longer an ass virgin (Mistress IS happy but wants me filled with cum now) and after contemplating the error of my ways and worrying probably unnecessarily over possible consequences for a few days , am now anticipating being fucked again. Soon.



Used at will —

Used at will

It was just another ordinary day and I was busying myself in the kitchen, having, earlier, pulled on some jogging bottoms but no undies because – well, just because.

I was in the kitchen having probably been intent on making myself some lunch or a drink – just a mundane moment.

Only it wasn’t. Sunlight streamed into the room as I stood at a stretch of worktop near the front window but with my back to it.

Suddenly, the significant other broke off from work on her laptop further down the room and approached me, distracting me from the intended tasks, feeling my naked bum through my jogging bottoms or rubbing my, by now, hardening, unrestrained cock.

Suddenly, with the blind still allowing sunlight to stream in and for any passers by to see, my jogging bottoms were pulled to the floor and she began working my cock to full hardness from behind taking full advantage of my moans of pleasure that arose from this unexpected moment.

Her thought processes turned to concluding a need for privacy and she broke off for a moment to pull the kitchen blind down, enveloping the room in partial darkness.

A hand returned to my cock and she continued to work. Struggling to stand, the palm of my hands went down on the worktop to steady myself. She knew exactly what she was doing. She had full control. She wanted to simply make me cum at her demand and continued to pump steadily and rhythmically with the aim to bring me off quickly.

After a few minutes, she sensed that my audible moans and body language meant that the cum was rising. Amid my mist and haze of pleasure, I could tell that she was contemplating whether to allow my streams of pent-up creamy semen to hit the work surfaces, cupboard doors and laminate floor before deciding against it.

Strategically, she continued to work with one hand whilst tightly cupping the other hand underneath my cock tip, and emptied me into it. I can still picture the scene now.

With that, she smiled seductively, dominantly and satisfactorily, cleaned up with some kitchen towel, a dislike for the taste of cum and an intent not to lower herself to take her sub’s cum, and merely resumed her laptop work, leaving me to clean myself up, pull my jogging bottoms back up again, pull myself together to a state of as much composure as was possible to carry on with what was originally planned, as the last remnants of cum oozed out of my unrestrained cock, dampening my joggers and dripping occasionally on to my legs.

Whilst she nonchalantly sighed with satisfaction, I was left contemplating another sudden FLR moment in my life – of the type that is becoming more frequent, yet, to her, merely something she felt like doing having used me at will.