Friday, 25 November 2016

Good Pussy Bad Pussy's Ode to Cock by A. Aimee

Ode to cock... ode to cock-sucking... ode to penis adoration, hand jobs, blow jobs and other dick-pleasing, dick-handling, dick-loving, dick-sucking, dick-licking, dick-holding pleasures also known as phallic worship or more simply just enjoying and even loving the man you're with, the man of the moment, the man who's in your face, your mouth, your hands, your lips, your cunt, your breasts and coming all over you... all mixed with hot, steaming, gleaming, glowing, sweaty sweat and semen in this immense private moment of primordial worship and pleasure...  of each other and life the universe and well whatever... aaahhh... ooohhh.... lip-smacking, tongue-tasting, juices flowing... ooohhh... aaahhh... tasting, licking the whole shaft, down to the testicles, down and around, some getting off on that alone and others liking the subtle or not so subtle addition of anal stimulation and some, oh some... now going fast, going going gone fast, faster fastest, others lingering, tongue tantalizing on the tip of the penis, the glans, the gentlest of touches before the new lunge again eating the whole cock eating intertwined, eating eating sucking enveloping encompassing taking him, all of him in in in...  his breathing quickens, faster and faster and faster, hotter hotter hot, higher higher high, into that  great orgasmic moment when the universe explodes... and then it's all just... wham bam thank you ma'am...

A. Aimee is the author of  the Good Pussy Bad Pussy Books:
"Good Pussy Bad Pussy – Rachel’s Tale"

"Good Pussy Bad Pussy In Captivity"

For more see her Web site: Or follow her on Twitter: on Facebook: 

Friday, 11 November 2016

A personal view of Subspace

Inspired by the wonderful billierosie, and her equally wonderful blog on SUBSPACE
 I`m going to try to explore what the term "subspace" means to me. I have tried this in the past, but to get the right words and to convey the right feelings, is difficult to say the least. A satisfactory explanation has previously alluded me, but now might be an appropriate time to try again.

Firstly, to put things in perspective. I am a collared and contracted slave to Mistress Angelica I could fill a lot of space talking about this wonderful woman, but I`m not going to; all you need to know is that She is my Mistress and Owner.

Secondly, I don`t particularly like the term "subspace"; "submissive state" is better, albeit more long-winded. Why I prefer that term will hopefully become evident.

Thirdly, not everyone is the same! I don`t compare or contrast myself with anyone, my feelings, my space, no better, no worse!!

And fourthly, Subspace, or whatever we want to call it, is a state of mind. It may, or may not, be induced by physical means, but it is the mind that rules, always! The most powerful "organ" in the body, but equally one that can be conditioned!

I think of "subspace", not as a place to reach, but as a continuum to travel along. Like most things in life, it`s a spectrum, varying from lesser to more, no real beginning, no real end. Hence my preference for "submissive state". In any matter that involves my Mistress, I`m in a submissive state, from reading an email from Her, reading Her blog, tweeting to Her; I carry a memento of Her that I turn to frequently, She is always in my mind. I travel to my Mistress` Studio along a very pleasant route, hills and country lanes, seasonal changes in scenery, and I know where I am "going"! I concentrate on the driving, as one must, but it is more than a journey from A to B. At my physical destination I call Her, and after all these years, still with a slight tremble. I`m not fearful or worried, but I move a little along that spectrum. I hear Her voice, and sometimes I can be momentarily tongue-tied. I`m beckoned in, protocol observed, and I`m in Her Studio, Her space, in Her presence, and I`ve travelled further along that spectrum. In that wonderful surrounding, the outside world disappears, and the only focus is Her; we chat and catch up, and as we chat, I marvel at Her. I think perhaps we both sense when there has been enough chat, and She will instruct me that it is time to Play, and I take a little jump along that spectrum, almost out of relief.

As I stand, naked before Her, I`m teetering on the edge. Invariably Her collar is placed about my neck, a symbol of Her ownership, although in truth I am owned, collar or no collar. My only wish, at that point, which is usually but not always granted, is to fall to Her feet, to make physical contact, to feel Her, to sense Her above me, and in a moment, I've travelled some significant distance along that spectrum. This is associated with a wonderful deep feeling of calm, an audible sigh, that something has left me and has been given to Her. What "play" evolves is entirely down to Her, She has complete control. That "power exchange", that connection between sub and Domme, is a beautiful thing. It`s not forced, it just comes naturally, accepted by both. If I was going to try for an absolute definition of "subspace", I would say it is the realisation of that connection and acceptance of that power exchange. But still, it is a spectrum, and there is further to travel.

Feeling very submissive, very subservient, under Her control and instruction, where we go next will invariably change from meeting to meeting, but I want to describe "pain", and where that takes me along my spectrum. I am a submissive, I am not a masochist, and there is a big difference. When I first started this journey, I hated pain, that nasty stinging sharp stroke of a cane, so cold, so remote, it did nothing for me. But pain can be erotic, pain can be controlled, pain can be deflected, pain can be a gift. When my Mistress decides to leave Her marks on my body, it is Her choice, and more and more I wish for those marks. As She lays those welts on my skin, my focus is totally on Her, and the fact that She can! I feel a little pride in myself, and I love to take those marks away with me, but it is really an affirmation of Her domination and my submission. Only believing that, can I take that pain, only believing that, can I control, deflect and welcome that pain. And yes, in that case I have moved well along my submissive spectrum, and perhaps to that point that many would recognise as "subspace", but how much further is there to go??

To reaffirm the above, I stand, bound or unbound, and I accept that pain, simply by telling myself that She can! That`s a pretty profound state of mind. Obviously that requires trust, respect and belief in your Mistress, but even so, it`s an amazing place to be. My mind has been conditioned, by Her, by me, by both, and the mind is all powerful.

I would add a further caveat. Where there is subspace there is Dommespace! My Mistress is obviously in a position where She can readily observe and read me, for me it is more difficult. But, to an extent, I can read Her, I can sense Her, and when I can it adds to and speeds me along that spectrum.

When such a play ends, I can feel extremely emotional, wishing only to worship and thank my Mistress. Is that me coming down from "subspace", or am I consolidating and travelling even further into it?

Ah, the mind is a wonderful thing, the edge of genius or madman, clarity or confusion, submission or domination, but the latter is certainly one to enjoy!
So, lets have a go at a definition of "subspace", for myself at least.

"A state of mind in which the submissive is totally focused on the dominant, welcoming, accepting and needing her/his attention"

So, given that I am always, at least partly, in that state in any matters pertaining to my Mistress, "submissive state" is my preferred terminology. It does not need pain, it certainly does not need "sex", but can be reached in the most quiet and focused of moments, even at a distance. Can I describe that feeling at its height? This is where words are hard to come by, but it is surely an out of body experience. At its most intense there is joy (often tears of), achievement, pride (in my Mistress), a feeling of never wanting it to end, and an almost incredulous realisation that the "power exchange" is absolute.

Mistress Angelica is @MAngelica1UK on Twitter. Her blog is here Mistress Angelica's collared slave is @MAslavem  on Twitter

Mistress Angelica's Chemin De Fer is at Amazon US and Amazon UK 

Mistress Angelica's novel My Dinner Party is at Amazon UK  and Amazon US

Friday, 4 November 2016


My mind traces, trails the words of her mantra.

“A submissive is to be measured from the inside, for it is his soul that is enslaved, his body simply follows.”

When I know that she is coming, my mind slips, slides away, stealthily embracing the stillness of the hours, the silence; sibilance, shushh. I traverse to a subspace; a phrase used within a Domme sub relationship. Within that concept is a place where the sub knows that he is safe. His Domme knows too; she is pleased and gratified. She knows that her sub trusts her and that is how it should be.

We have talked about subspace, she and I; she hadn’t known that it is a phrase used in mathematics. It’s a space contained within another space; it makes complete sense to me. I am ready to surrender; my whole soul is engaged. If the world were to look, the world would witness a sacred intensity.

My senses are sharpened because of the blindfold. Darkness heightens each sensation. She circles me; I hear the slow tap, tap, tap of her red killer heels on the cold, concrete floor.

She pushes my helpless body; I sway, I quiver. I sense her smile as she sees her work, hanging by the wrists, the cold, heavy chain links hooked to an old wooden beam.

I inhale her fragrance. Chanel; always Chanel. She smells of sex too; I scent my own stinking arousal, mingling beneath the surface. I inhale musky sweat and raging pheromones. My erection jerks; the cold, hard concrete floor teases the very tips of my toes. The chain links chink and rattle as I struggle for purchase. This isn’t the first time that she’s kept me hanging; dangling.

The last time necessitated a trip to the emergency room with a dislocated shoulder.

She is gentle, for the moment. Her fingers circle my cock, a cool hand plays with my testicles; bouncing them lightly. Her long fingers pinch the delicate skin of my scrotum. Her tongue strokes the tip of my cock; licking up the pre-cum, wiggling her hard, pointy tongue into my urethral opening. It amuses her to push the tip of her pinkie finger inside. I don’t know why she does this, she never answers when I ask her; but then it is not my place to ask.

My erection throbs; I moan my arousal; groan my pain. She is involved in a process of pushing me further than I think I can go. I hear the whoosh of her riding whip; my body jerks anticipating the pain of the slashing crack across my erection. But it doesn’t happen; she’s teasing me; teasing my erection. It’s a diabolical teasing because I know that sooner or later I will bellow with a nauseating rage as the pain bites.

What I dread most is when she leaves me hanging in the dungeon.

Sometimes she is away for hours; it seems like hours. There are vast spells of invisible, unremembered time. Sometimes, I think I glimpse eternity.

I drift.

Is it unreasonable to attempt to call up the sensation of pleasure? To fill in the horrible discord in the black behind my eyelids; to soften and soothe the harsh hard disdain of the clashes and chimes in the soiled darkness.
I breathe…consciousness slips and slides…giddily.

Her name is always on my lips…Jasmine; is that her real name?

I don’t know.

Adrenaline, endorphins and always, always my moaning arousal. A bowel contracting, clenching, heated fear of what’s coming. We have to traverse it. Acceptance is part of the process, a blessing; an article of faith. If she orders me to eat my own shit later I will do it. A debauched, depraved, distorted Eucharist.
My torso, front and back, is a gore of blood, flesh and bone from the lashings; old wounds broken, new wounds opened. The slow trickle of blood dripping tickles down my spine, trickling into my anal crack.

When pleasing pain turns to pleasing pleasure.

I cling to these moments, and replay them; savouring every soft, subtle change…I embrace the gnawing pain, my spirit soaring into a soft cantata, ribbons of colours that you would never believe strewn about my mind…images spliced and sutured, a slideshow in the darkness that flickers behind my eyes…from where they come I do not know…a stately pleasure dome, gleaming in white marble…a woman seated in the front passenger seat of a car, her head bowed, her dark, gleaming hair hiding her face.
A lamp light in a quiet Chelsea street illuminates the interior of the car. Her dark, sleek hair moves as she breathes.

The woman sits very still…thinking about what…I wonder. The question, the question that should have never been asked, goes unanswered.
There’s a stuttered attempt at conversation…she says his name…Eli…she turns to face him; she smiles. It’s the same smile she’d hit him with across a crowded room; a quiver tingles.

I’d pushed and pleaded until she divulged her secrets; and on that night, the night that I had begged to be her submissive, she had told me of what would be expected of me; the heights that a Coterie slave must aspire to. She did everything she could to dissuade me; to make me go away. She spelt it out explicitly; I would be an owned creature, beaten, whipped, forced to endure every, and any perversion that she threw at me. There would be humiliation too, when I would be an object of ridicule; there would be intimate examinations in public. There would be pain; searing pain that I could never have imagined possible.

I would be property and nothing more.

On that same dark summer’s night, when she had confounded me with images of males in bondage; males begging, mouths open in silent screams, imploring for release. A male being raped, the rapist; a woman mounting him in the manner that dogs do when they mate. The woman wears a giant cock. The latex is in the process of almost sliding out of the anus; or maybe the cock was preparing to thrust back in. It didn’t matter, I could see that the cock was slick with slime from male’s rectum.

A large breasted, tightly corseted, dark haired woman stands at the male’s head holding leather straps linked to a metal thing in his mouth.
The male wears a horse’s bridle. A further symbol of property; as if I needed reminding.

And the next photograph in the series; the rapist’s cock, buried inside the male’s rectum. The male’s head thrown back, whether in ecstasy, or despair, I couldn’t tell.

“The photographs only tell half the story,” she said. “Despite the debauchery and humiliation, his swaying erection tells a different tale…the inflicted depravity arouses him.” She paused, “On that night, Joseph was screaming for someone to touch his cock; to let him cum.”

“You were there?”


She told me that she wanted me naked and my fingers trembled as I fiddled with silly buttons, a zip that always stuck, and my belt. “Take your time,” she said gently. She continued turning the pages of the album, a half smile playing around her lips as she glanced up and noticed my erection. She took my measurements; the length of my cock, its circumference at the head and the base. I felt like an animal, a horse, or a bull, being prepared for an auction. I inhaled sharply as she slid back my foreskin; I wished, ah, I wished that she would lower her head and take me in her mouth, but I knew that there wasn’t a chance in hell.

She drew my attention to another photograph; another naked male, this one was caged. His hands gripped the iron bars; his eyes were furious; his long hair streaked with sweat. The photographer had focused the lens of his camera on the tip of the male’s hard cock; a bubble of precum exuded from the prisoner’s urethral slit.

“I deny them release,” she’d told him. “They are denied orgasm; these males that you see, here, in the photographs, are almost through their training programme. They orgasm only at my command. Yes, they are aroused, but they are unable to reach the point of ejaculation, until I give them the sign.”

She’s shown me the tools of her trade; her toys. A huge black inflatable dildo was probably the most useful item in her collection.

“The anus and rectum have to be stretched, a little more each day. At the conclusion of the process some men are begging for more, even though the dildo is inflated to its capacity.”
“But more than anything it’s an aid to breaking down resistance,” she said softly; stroking the dildo. “Many men associate anal penetration and pleasure with homosexuality; they soon learn that the prostate is there for a reason.

“The prostate rewards direct stimulation. Males are physically rewarded for receiving anal sex and anal play…if they can get around the taboo and relax.”

She noticed my attention was drawn to a vicious, spiked stainless steel cock cage.

She noticed my erection.

“It has to be fitted while the cock is flaccid,” she said.

My erection was dealt with swiftly and crudely with a jug of iced water. To demonstrate how the instrument would work, she handled my soft cock gently, pushing it through into the cage; a cock ring, already attached and in place, was secured and tightened behind my ball sac. I watched her, watching me, testing my reaction to her fine, delicate hands fingering my cock. When she snapped a padlock shut, I knew that my fate was sealed; the padlock would serve its purpose of keeping everything in position. It was also a reminder to the submissive that it is the Mistress who owns the cock; the submissive was completely under the Dominant’s control.

“Know that this is the last time that you will be given explanations,” her words were clipped. “If this life is not for you, then I give you permission to leave now; no recriminations, continue with your life as if you’d never met me.”

I did not move.

I did not want to move.

I had to prove myself worthy.

She ordered me to wear the device for the remainder of the evening; it was pure torture. My cock persistently struggling for an erection that could not be; the spikes clawing into my cock. Pain was not a big enough word to describe the ache roiling through my groin, into my tight, trapped balls.

I sense her return. It is her fragrance that I scent first. I hear her breathe. She does not speak; I am bursting to ejaculate, but I am physically unable to; it’s the result of her training. Orgasm is impossible, until she gives her permission. I hadn’t believed her when she had told me about absolute control over a man’s orgasms. I now know it to be true. I now know the meaning of real love.

I hear her cranking the wheel that controls the device; my feet hit the floor, my knees sag, my body slumps. She removes the blindfold and unlocks my chains; her arms wrap around me. She’s strong, but not strong enough to support the weight of a man in his prime and we both sink to the floor. She’s holding me close; skin on skin, my cock trapped between our two heated bodies. It’s that golden, blessed moment when she takes me in her arms, strokes my hair and tells me that all is well, all is very well indeed and that she is pleased with me.

She whispers as she soothes, and in these moments it’s as if her words have magical properties invoking spells of enchantment.
“Why should my endeavour be so loved?” I whisper.

“You think too precisely…” she replies. “Just be…just be…”

Her whispered words have taste, texture, scent, colour… they make no sense; sometimes they make absolute sense, as if she has pondered, selected, tried and tested each syllable.

I feel her nakedness; our breathing is rapid, sticky sweat covers our bodies, sliding us together. Always assertive, she circles my cock, wrapping her fingers around its girth at the base, guiding me inside her; her strong cunt muscles grip tight…I thrust, we move together, slow, then faster; keeping time, time, time. The exquisite tingle begins, centred within my anus, at the base of my balls surging into my cock, up my spine, even to the very roots of my hair. There are seconds of lurching inevitability she whispers “cum,” and I ejaculate, the warm, golden rush claiming me.

It’s powerful, my orgasms are always powerful since her, and for a few brief seconds; perhaps only three, I am floating above my body.

I gaze down at the two of us joined together.

“I love you slut slave,” she whispers; she nibbles at my lower lip. “Do you love me?”

Such a question; a question she’s never asked before.

I breathe my answer. “Yes Mistress.”

The quote at the beginning is from Tied Moments

Thanks to Jeff Busey and Ed Tomalta for their help with matters concerning male arousal.

Please visit me at my Amazon Author page