White Christmas

This was very much influenced by the beautiful work of Missy at focusedandfilthy.com. Her Black Rope series can be found here. I am very grateful to Missy – and to her model – for their permission to have so much fun with their work.


It’s midafternoon in an attic in Haarlem. Sea-light from Sandvoort streams in, incandescent, catching in the long pale drapes and turning them to white flame. The room is white. Floor and ceiling of clean tight planks. White iron bed. Huge duvet and pillows heaped and fluffy. Naked, we are the only colour in it; spirits of air inside the clouds. Outside are the heedless chatter of traffic and people, the high mournful calling of the bitter gulls.
There’s a long mirror between the bright windows and in it, you watch me, as I tighten your straps. The harness contains you from mid-thigh to throat. Soft white latigo that eases and creaks, cutting your body into abstractions and frames. My tugs and pulls on the straps make you twitch and shake. And bite at your lips. Our eyes meet in the glass and you roll back on your heels and cup me in the warm hollow of the small of your back. The sensation is wonderful and I feel the slippery head of my cock slide out and nestle in the groove of your spine, and you groan and wriggle until I tug on your reins.
The harness divides and imprisons you. Long straps fall from the collar and divide and crush your breasts. They follow the curve of your ribcage and the sweep of your waist and run down your hips to thighs they encircle. The encircling straps climb in hand span inches, a leather cage from which your skin bulges, gold and pink and pale all at once. Sacred geometry, soft straps that stretch around secret places, buckles that ring as I lock you in.
You are mine and I’m trembling in the face of your stillness in the blaze of your eyes, in the flush at your throat. Inside I am melting and, inside our cloud a lightning curls and crackles, and in that inside-outside place, the infinity behind and beyond my cock, and my balls, a great thunderhead brews, and a swirling blue fire.

The bedclothes are heaped ready, just so. An altar. Finishing your cage I lead you to it. I enjoy the tiny squeaks and eases of the harness, the grunts and mewls you make as it bites. The snarl in your lips as the sensations take you. I can smell you as you swell and split.
You kneel.
I lay you over the altar. Wrists chained to hips and your face in the sheets. All of my tools today are white.
Your long discarded knickers, still damp. Though barely there on your body, they fill your mouth well.
The Doxy too, apart from the gleaming alloy of its neck it is pure white, the head of it smooth ceramic, as cold and white as new snow. I hear a little gasp as you hear the plug going in.

You flinch when the cold of the Doxy head touches you. Mutter around your gag as I tease your lips apart around it. I love the feel of your hair. The rich wet pelt of the centre that whips across my business-like knuckles. The sharp short bristles at the edge. They catch under my fingernails, catch at my skin. I spend a little longer than necessary with this part of our tableaux, and you ripple and twitch.
The white leather arcs over your perfect arse and dives deep along the hinges of hip, bites into your uplands and slides along your valleys, framing your mons and your hair and your meat.
I manipulate the Doxy, ease it under your edges. It is beautiful, the white dome encased by dark lips. The pinker hint of smile above. The dark glossy strip of pelt below. I drag my fingernails through your bristles and groan. I am full, so full. And tight and hot…

 

 

The switch turns over with a satisfying thud. You flinch away from its snarl, startled, but I grab the straps that encircle you and pull you back, pressing you onto it as you tremble and blunder and thrash.
I tie you down til you are held tight to the bed. Silken rope around the bedstead lashed to the harness, skin pink and lined by the leather’s bite.
You are resonating now to the Doxy’s hum. A modulating whine and growl. Your haunches are nothing but vibration and wet noises.

I lie beside you and stroke your hair. Comfort you under the machine’s implacable assault. Your scent fills the room as your eyes meet mine. The frantic need in them, the slow growth of your acceptance.
I pull back on myself, feeling the wonderful slipperiness under my fingers. The sweet sting of fingers on exposed meat, the warm velvet over glass of my hardness.
How thick I have become, how curved. My fingers barely close around it now. Yours certainly couldn’t.

You’re watching me. Panting to the grumbling Doxy’s rhythms, you open your mouth. You show me your wide mouth and the soaking lace within. A string of drool pours down your chin.
With a finger, I pull it free. Wet and knotted, slippery.

‘Cock’ you say.

And I oblige.

I can feel the doxy’s drumming through your mouth and throat. The ceaseless buzz that flutters on the roof of your mouth and the restless nibbles of your teeth. I push deeper as your tongue swirls and sucks. The Doxy drums on and.

As I feel you take me, so do I see,

Deep in your eyes.

The doxy taking you.

Your eyes roll back unfocused and you squeeze me, suck and scream around me as you come and come again.

I am now nothing but a creature of need, music roaring from the deeps of me, fire blazing from knees to navel, a focused wet heat in the jut of my cock. I cast the Doxy aside. And entering you, I am sleeved in light.
Connected. Wrapped in your sliding, squeezing, slippery heat. Locked together, I cannot tell where I end, and you begin.
You are hunched and panting beneath me. The leather cuts into my hands as I drive, and your glorious arse is marked and striped and nibbled by my fingernail marks, but this, all this, physicality seems somehow intangible. I am lost within the cloud, riding the turbulent air.

Eyes locked together we gallop across the white sky, swirling and dancing, elemental. Inside our locked bodies is the swirling blue and the towering thunderhead and the ball lightning flickers and spins, conjures a world far beneath us, and the storm builds and the lightning breaks and we hunch and shout and the heat rushes and I am nothing, nothing, nothing but the pulse of the storm inside the clenching embrace of your cunt.

 


 

Masturbation Monday

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