Thursday, October 19, 2017

Have come up to a halt in writing, struggling to resume.
Hope to get it finished soon.

Thursday, March 9, 2017

37600 words to date and I am finally ready to get into the meat of the project, with Rose going off to slave school.
Stand by, (but don't hold you breath)

Monday, January 9, 2017

Thursday, December 22, 2016

Don't you hate it when your characters go off script?

Rose went off script and instead of submitting meekly to her tit cropping she did this:

I lie beside him on the bed, face up as his fingers stroke my neck, sweeping my red hair away from my face, exposing my ear that he touches lightly with soft, manicured fingers. I feel his breath on my ear, my breath catches in my throat as his fingers slide down my neck.
In a smooth motion he straddles my pelvis, his balls, easily felt through the supple silk of his pajama bottom, rest against my neatly trimmed red thatch. His two hands are now around my neck, not squeezing, just there, holding, menacing in a way. My breath comes in shorter gasps. He still smiles, his black eyes twinkle with mischief or arousal. I cannot see his pupils. His fingers move along my throat and I begin to feel fear.
John my Master never choked me. We never played breath games but I sense it may be different with master Alphonse. I wonder what it would feel like to be strangled, choked by a man such as this. Fear begins to overwhelm my senses. Here, in this forsaken place in Patagonia, surrounded by his minions, master Alphonse could do anything, even kill me, us, and would easily get away with it. Is he going to strangle me? My hands rise to his arms but I control myself and, instead of holding to them I caress his chest. I sense arousal in my fear. I see in his eyes that he understands, that he realizes that I was about to fight his hands but that I restrained myself. He smiles again. I smile too and extend my neck, offering it to him.
His voice is husky, "You are very beautiful Rose."
I feel my cheeks blush, "thank you master."
His hands release my neck and slide to my B size breasts. He plays with my small areolas teasing the nipples to their full length. It doesn't take much to get them to rise. I feel moisture gathering inside my sex and the heat in my loins. My hands slide over the silk fabric of his pajama top. I undo the buttons opening it. His chest is bare of hair though I cannot tell if it's natural or he has it waxed. His fingers pinch my nipples hard and harder. I gasp and then squeal in pain. His fingers dig into the meat of my breasts, I gasp again in pain. He releases them. He slaps a breast playfully, I take a breath. He hits it harder, I gasp. He watches me, intently. I am reminded of a vampire in a movie, Dracula watching Mina. He observes; I place my hands under my breasts and offer them. He slides off me and stands by the side of the bed.
"Undress me."
I get up and slide the pajama top off him laying it on a chair. I kneel in front of him, undo the buttons on his fly and loosen the knot on the sash that holds the bottoms up. They slide to the ground like water down the side of a hill. His erect penis surges and, grasping it at the root I take him in my mouth keeping my eyes on his face, he is uncut. I peel off the foreskin with my lips and lick the head; I savor the salty tang taste before sliding my mouth over the tip and taking him inside me.
I take him as deep as I dare; in this position I cannot deep throat him, of course, and he is too long for me to swallow his entire length. Still, I feel him quaver on his feet as my tongue adds secret twists to the work my lips and cheeks exert on his shaft. I pull him almost all the way back, his shaft slick with the moisture of my mouth. His hands hold my head and guide me off.
He lays on the bed, his erection rampant, "continue," he says.
I climb on the bed and continue sucking him deeper this time. Still not as far as his curly, thick black pubes, but deeper nonetheless. I wonder if he'll fuck my throat. I hate that. Does any woman like to be face fucked like that? I doubt it. The retching and puking over his cock, while choking and gasping for air. My Master never does that, although he does enjoy my deep throating him and when he does take my throat, he does it with care, he likes my barfing on his cock as much as I do which is not at all. I do like to deep throat him, I like the sense of achievement. But these thoughts distract me and master Alphonse senses it. He slaps my face, not ungently, to remind me of my duty.
I return to the present and slobber more spit over his cock. I suck harder and bob deeper. He reaches towards the nightstand, slides open a drawer and takes out a small crop, more like a switch. A twitch of fear resonates deep inside my sex, accompanied by another surge of juice.
"Sit on it," he orders.
I place a knee on either side of his pelvis and slide his full length into the depths of my gushing sex.
"I am going to whip your tits," he says, "Will you like that?"
"That is not important," I reply.
"But will you?"
Will I? I can ask myself the same question. If the answer is no, why does the mere thought of it make my pussy drip with goo? If it is yes, why do I quake with fear and tremble at the very thought of the crop striking my white, delicate skin, cutting into my pink, sensitive nipples.
I shake my head, "I don't know."
The crop cuts into my breast and I scream. His cock shakes inside my tunnel.
"Well, do you?" he asks again.
I shake my head once more, "I don't know master," I plead.
He strikes the other breast, backhanded. A stripe of fire burns across my lovely and I cannot help but reach up to cover it with my hand. Yet, even now, I do not stop riding his cock nor squeezing him with my pelvis. I bring my hand down again.
He continues to strike, forehand on one side, backhand on the other. The pain is atrocious, and I scream for each and every stroke. The fires of hell burn in my boobs and I continue to ride him as if my life depended on it and then, all of a sudden, the fire and heat of my breasts shifts; the whole world turns upside down and it is now my pelvis that is on fire. He strikes my breasts again but it is in the deepest corner of my pelvis where I feel the fire surge; the cut on my breasts barely registers, unimportant in my conscience. And now each stroke renews, provokes, elicits a new eruption of fire in the volcano growing in my belly. Each stroke causes a new spasm to squeeze his penis. I teeter on the edge of madness.
"Harder!" I gasp.
"Harder!" I scream.
"Harder, harder, harder!" I beg, breathless, at each strike of the crop.
I fall. I clench, my insides clench around his cock. He gasps. As I ride him, my tunnel, clamped around his cock pulls his pelvis off the bed.
I sob, scream, yell, "Harder damnit!"
"Fuck it, harder!"
I fall on his chest, my face wet with my tears, and the sweat on his chest. I struggle to breathe, exhausted. I hear his ragged breathing as he, too, recovers.
"I'll take that as a yes," he says.

Now I don't know if to keep this here, or change the chapter.
I hate it when they do that๐Ÿ˜Ž๐Ÿ˜€

Thursday, December 15, 2016

30,000 words on The Crucible.
Coming right along. Hopefully a couple of months and it will be ready.

Thursday, December 1, 2016

Restarted work on "The Crucible" at last. 29000 words up to today!