JourneyIntoSubmission.com

Switch

So I lied...

I have basically switched over completely to the new website.

Double posting seems to require more wherewithal that I am able to muster at the moment so I'm not doing it. If you want to find me, and keep up with all the latest craziness, hop on over to journeyintosubmission.com.

Blogger has been fun, but I'm on to bigger and better things.

In Between

Just so you know:

I will continue posting here for the time being, but the posts will be delayed until at least a few hours (maybe the next day) after I post them on my new site. For the hottest-off-the-press posts, check out journeyintosubmission.com. This is my way of getting people used to going to the new page.

Eventually I will stop posting here at all. I'm not sure when that will happen - I'll keep an eye on my traffic stats and see how many people are going where. I estimate a month or so, or shorter if I get sick of double posting.

Please change your bookmarks, links, and blogrolls to the new site.

I haven't decided if I will leave this as an archive or delete it once the switch to the new url is complete. I kind of like the idea of having a permanent record of where I started, so we'll see.

Robin

Last Saturday morning I woke up on Mr Stern’s couch and tried to figure out what to do with myself until he and Alexa woke in the next room. We have not yet worked out a way for me to sleep in the room with them, given that none of us wants all three of us in the same bed overnight, so I sleep on his delightfully comfortable couch and enjoy knowing that he is close by. Because I am a habitually early riser and because I knew he had gone back to bed after waking earlier, I figured it was going to be a while until I had company.

It was already after nine and I didn’t want to risk giving myself a headache by going back to sleep so I lay there and thought. I thought about the Scrabble game we’d played the night before, obsessed about a few words I could have played, checked all of my email accounts on my phone, and finally got up to pee. On my way back to the living room, I glanced in the master bedroom and saw Mr Stern curled around Alexa, warm and snug under the down comforter. Something in my heart twinged unexpectedly.

As has happened before, my mind wandered unbidden to fantasies of having someone in my life who would wrap themselves around me and hold me close while I slept. From there my thoughts naturally went to the one thing that I have missed more than anything since I ended my relationship with Owen some time last year: someone to bury their face between my legs, open their mouth, stick out their tongue, and stay there for as long as I want. I lay there, feeling the almost palpably physical need for an intimate, and sloppy wet, connection and felt my breath catch in my throat.

I turned over, sighed deeply, and tried to think of something else. It seemed that, no matter what I did, my brain drifted back to sex and fucking and cunt licking and cocks. I was admittedly horny, but the undercurrent of sacrifice added a bitter edge to my need. One tear leaked out and slid slowly down to my ear. I knew I was in for a slippery rollercoaster ride of emotions before I was done with this train of thought.

As fate would have it, Mr Stern and Alexa started stirring a few minutes later. I heard them murmuring softly and the sound of their lips meeting. I smiled, knowing that Alexa’s recent illness had kept them from exchanging kisses for the better part of two weeks, and thought of how good it must feel for both of them to share that intimacy again. Some part of me dreaded what might come next but I tried to remain optimistic and focused on pleasing Mr Stern through my behavior and thoughts.

Mr Stern has had numerous occasions over the last month to reprimand me for acting, thinking, and being selfish, self-centered, and mopey. I have lost my focus as his service slut on more than one occasion and ending up feeling like I am entitled to much more than I deserve. It all finally came to a head two weeks ago – after I tallied up six incidences in one month – and was resolved by a long, detailed discussion and his hand wrapped firmly around my throat. Since then I have been much more deliberate in processing my thoughts and making sure I am always maintaining my perspective as his slut.

When the kissing turned to moaning and Alexa’s quick inhaled gasps of pleasure, I realized that, despite my best efforts at being focused and good and respectful, I was in no mood to listen to them having sex. I was feeling sad, horny, and unfulfilled. I couldn’t figure out a way to turn my thoughts to the positive so tried to ignore the problem. I stood up to fold up my blankets and sheet, stack them neatly on the couch, and get dressed. I was as quiet as a mouse – there was no way I was going to get in trouble for disturbing them – as I busied myself for a few minutes. The noises from the bedroom started getting more heated and more intense and I started feeling more and more awful.

Never mind that the thought of having someone share my space – my home – for even so much as one night is incredibly frustrating and annoying, my body wanted someone to touch it and make it feel alive. While I have a very real need for the kind of fucking in which Mr Stern and I engage, I also have a very real hunger for someone’s eager tongue on my cunt and soft lips on my nipples. My desire for someone to focus completely on my pleasure and pleasing me was spilling over as tears.

Once I was done with my few little tasks, I sat back down on the couch. I had nothing to distract me from my feelings and their lovemaking, so I continued to be just this side of miserable. I was in a PMS-induced hormonal imbalance and knew that at least a portion of my anguish was being blown out of proportion. But some of it was real and even the part that was irrational was making my life difficult at the moment.

In a moment of inspiration, I remembered the laundry downstairs in the laundry room and quietly made my way there. I was far enough away from the bedroom that I couldn’t hear what was going on and felt free to sniffle in peace. I took a few minutes to wipe my nose and my eyes on my shirt sleeve, feel my hurt, and try to compose myself. I am not given to fits of emotion and this one was far from under control. Even as I climbed the stairs and folded the laundry on the couch, the tears kept leaking out.

As I tried to block out the sighs and moans from the bedroom, I heard Mr Stern’s voice in my head reminding me to be grateful for what I have, reminding me how fulfilling serving him and being his really is for me, reminding me to allow myself to feel my emotions and then move on. I took his advice and tried to focus on being his perfect slut while recognizing that I am a human being. Something about the sounds of him pleasuring Alexa just wouldn’t let go though. I could not figure out how to turn the situation to my advantage and maintain my service-minded attitude.

When I heard him roll over, heard the bedsprings start to creak, and heard Mr Stern’s breathing becoming heavier, I bailed. I fled down the hall to the playroom, knowing that I could not hear them from there, and closed the door hastily behind me. I sat on the bench by the window and wept as they fucked. I was alone in the silence with my tears, watching the birds flit by and the branches shivering in the wind, and I let my emotions do what they needed to do. I felt my need for someone to focus on pleasing me in a completely un-D/s setting, I felt the ache in my breasts and my cunt for someone’s soft caresses and wet kisses, and I coveted.

Don’t get me wrong – I absolutely do not want Mr Stern to fulfill those needs. I don’t want to relate to him in that way. I haven’t the least little bit of desire to make love to Mr Stern (that thought ends up somewhere between ridiculous and repellent) unless you call being fucked senseless from behind while being called all kinds of disgusting names making love. I want my Mr Stern just the way he is, where he is, and how he is. My unrequited longing is for the mysterious “someone else” – someone who can relate to me in a completely different way and allow me to feel something entirely separate from what I feel with Mr Stern.

Neither was I angry at Mr Stern or Alexa for the sexual fulfillment they find in each other. I wasn’t upset that he was fucking her instead of me, or that they were fucking each other. I was happy that they were able to reconnect after her illness and enjoy a lazy Saturday in bed when he didn’t have to hurry off to work. I will admit that I was a little peeved by their timing, but since I have joyfully and willingly listened to (and watched) them make love before, I took the burden of my annoyance on myself. Neither one of them had any reason to even think I might be less than thrilled with what they were doing.

No, I was saddened by the fact that I have a persistent emptiness that refuses to be placated and continues to rear its head at undefined intervals. My body remembers what it feels like to have a certain kind of attention and that was what I was mourning and missing. As I worked through my thoughts, a bright fat robin caught my attention. For a few minutes I focused on talking to it, asking why it had not winged its way the more pleasant climes, to stop the whirling, tangling, hurting thoughts in my head.

I sat on the bench, talking to the birds and the squirrels outside, until I heard Mr Stern’s heavy tread down the hall towards the bathroom. I scurried out of the playroom, wiping my tears away with my already damp sleeve, and busied myself with filling a glass of water in the kitchen. I knew there would be no avoiding explaining my red eyes and pouty lips, but I still tried to gather myself together. After a moment, I heard Mr Stern heading back to the bedroom. I realized what had happened when I heard him get back in bed. Alexa had had her turn and now it was his. I knew exactly what Alexa was doing to him – I could see it vividly in my imagination – and I wondered if I was going to have to make my escape again.

Somehow Mr Stern having his cock sucked was almost as erotic as it was annoying. I could focus on the fact that he was enjoying himself and almost ignore my lingering sadness. Almost. So instead of retreating to the playroom again, this time I sat down in the breakfast nook, reached for whatever book was sitting on the table, and tried to distract myself. The tears seemed to dry up a bit until I stopped focusing on what I was reading, then they would well up and spill over quietly. From where I was sitting, I could hear only the most exuberant exhalations and cajoling words and felt better for taking care of myself in this way. Removing myself from every movement and moan and doing something I enjoy helped me feel better.

Mr Stern and Alexa were done by the time I reached chapter four in my book (Animal Farm, of all things). I heard them traipsing back and forth between the bedroom and the bathroom several times and knew that I was going to have to face one or both of them within minutes. Deep breathing seemed to calm my nerves and steady my emotions momentarily, but I knew Mr Stern would surely see that something was wrong.

“Where’s the slut?” Mr Stern asked a minute later from the vicinity of the living room. I could tell he was looking for me on the couch. Alexa suggested that maybe I was doing laundry. I turned in my chair to face him as he poked his head around the corner into the kitchen.

“There you are. What are you doing hiding in the nook, slut?” he asked. He was completely naked.

I shrugged my shoulders and smiled at him. He returned my smile with a playful grin and turned back to the bedroom.

“Where is she?” Alexa asked curiously.

“In the breakfast nook, sitting down reading,” Mr Stern said then called out to me. “Slut, can you put some water on for tea?”

I fetched the kettle and did as he asked, then rested my hip against the counter and waited. I had usurped his spot in the breakfast nook and was not about to be hassled for sitting on the furniture without asking permission. He reappeared, dressed in his pajamas, a minute later.

“What were you doing hiding in the nook, slut?” he asked as he wrapped his arms around me for a good morning hug and kiss on the forehead. I shrugged again.

“You didn’t want to listen to us fucking?” he asked. I nodded and sniffled slightly. His sixth sense kicked in and he instantly picked up on my misery. He put his hand on the back of my head and held me tightly to his chest.

“I’m sorry that was hard for you. Was it jealousy?” he asked. I loved him just a little bit more for his sympathy and his kindness.

I shook my head and took a deep breath. He grabbed hold of my hair and tried to tilt my head back so he could look in my eyes. I offered just the slightest bit of resistance, holding my head down, and he allowed me my moment of reluctance.

“I’m sorry, slut,” he whispered. “I’ll let you in on a little secret though. Before this, I’d fucked you more recently than I’d fucked her.”

I nodded again and thanked him for his expression of sympathy.

“What is it?” he asked again. I looked up at him this time.

“It’s that same certain part of me that feels unfulfilled. It just seems to keep coming up,” I said as strongly as I could. He knows full well of my desires and has dealt with my fits of emotion several times before.

“See the glass as half full, instead of half empty, slut. Remember what you have and be grateful for it. You are allowed to have your feelings. Be happy that you have a Master who will allow that and hold you while you have them,” he reiterated softly.

“I know, Mr Stern. I told myself all of those same things this morning. And I am grateful. Thank you,” I said softly. I knew his love for me and his compassion for my feelings was taking precedence over his position as my Master at that moment and my knees went weak with gratitude and love.

“I could tell you to fucking deal with it, or not even care that you were hurt,” he said.

“I know, Mr Stern. Thank you,” I repeated.

He reached around, swatted my bottom a few times, and kissed me on the forehead again. I snuffled up the last of my tears, felt remarkably stronger just for having told him what I was feeling, and sighed a deep sigh. He moved away and I set to getting three mugs ready for tea.

Debut

www.journeyintosubmission.com

Waiting

ABSENCE
by Frances Anne Kemble (1809 - 1893)

What shall I do with all the days and hours
That must be counted ere I see thy face?
How shall I charm the interval that lowers
Between this time and that sweet time of grace?

Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense,
Weary with longing?—shall I flee away
Into past days, and with some fond pretence
Cheat myself to forget the present day?

Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin
Of casting from me God's great gift of time;
Shall I these mists of memory locked within,
Leave, and forget life's purposes sublime?

Oh, how, or by what means, may I contrive
To bring the hour that brings thee back more near?
How may I teach my drooping hope to live
Until that blessed time, and thou art here?


I'll tell thee: for thy sake, I will lay hold
Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee,
In worthy deeds, each moment that is told
While thou, belovèd one! art far from me.

For thee, I will arouse my thoughts to try
All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains;
For thy dear sake I will walk patiently
Through these long hours, nor call their minutes pains.

I will this dreary blank of absence make
A noble task-time, and will therein strive
To follow excellence, and to o'ertake
More good than I have won, since yet I live.

So may this doomèd time build up in me
A thousand graces which shall thus be thine;
So may my love and longing hallowed be,
And thy dear thought an influence divine.

Counter

I have a surprise.

As soon as that cute little blue stat counter that I installed a little over a year ago clicks over the two hundred thousand mark, I'll share my little secret. As a reward to every one of you who clicked and clicked and clicked, I'll show you one of the projects that has been eating away at my time this past week...

I'm so excited I almost can't stand it!

Fleshbot, Part Twelve

Fleshbot has done it again... This makes an even dozen the past year and I am as grateful as ever for the nod from those nice perverted folks.

AAG seemed to think that my Queen post was worth a special mention a few weeks ago. What can I say except thank you?

Since the beginning, I have always appreciated Fleshbot for the readers it brings me and this time is no different. If you happened upon my strange little world by that route, welcome and stick around. It only gets better...

Projects

Fear not, faithful readers.

I am still here.

I've just been busy with a couple other (top secret) projects that I will reveal in all good time. As with most things in my life, when I start something new I obsess about it until I exhaust myself and clear my system of the bug. Unfortunately both of these projects are rather time- and thought-intensive and seem to be keeping me from completing my current series.

It will be finished as soon as I tear myself away from my headache-inducing endeavors.

Hair (Sleeve, Pt. 6)

When I finally string enough pleas together, Mr Stern relents. He draws his hand out of my cunt and I collapse. My hips fall back against the bench, my legs quiver helplessly, and my mouth hangs open. I start to take my feet out of the stirrups but he reprimands me forcefully. He stands up, stretches his shoulders, and starts moving around the room. For several long minutes I remain in suspended animation.

Finally I am allowed to close my legs and wriggle back to the safety of having my feet on the bench.

“Stay there, slut,” he says when I am fully supported and limp.

He starts to slip the gloves off as he leaves the room. I have no inclination to breathe, let alone move, so he needn’t worried. He is gone for a few minutes – I hear water running in the kitchen and his footsteps moving through the house.

When he returns, I am exactly where he left me. I am nothing but jelly inside. Thoughts are nothing more than brief flits of words and images interrupting my calm retreat into nothingness. He puts a straw to my mouth and I greedily suck in the water.

“Sit up, slut. Slowly.”

He holds me by my hair, watching my progress into a semi-vertical state. When I achieve it without visibly wobbling, he starts untying the rope that encircles my chest and shoulders. I don’t move, my head hangs forward, and I am barely conscious of what he is doing. Only when he is done and has his hand in my hair again does he let me move forward until my feet are on the floor. I am clinging to his arm, the one that hovers over my head and keeps me balanced by my hair. My eyes are almost open but not enough that I can process what I am doing.

“Whose slut are you?” he asks. There is absolutely nothing threatening in his words or his tone of voice, but I know this is leading somewhere.

“Yours, Mr Stern,” I reply. My words sound slurred, even to me. I can’t imagine how I must sound to him. Being beaten and fucked past the point of reason tends to leave me somewhat befuddled and slow to respond.

“That’s right, slut. And you will do anything I want, won’t you?” I am getting more and more worried the longer this conversation goes on.

“Yes, Mr Stern,” I croak. My voice is betraying my fear.

“That’s what I thought,” he says.

I am suddenly thrust forward by my hair. He steers me around the chair he was sitting in, through the doorway, and down the hall. There are exactly two places we could be headed – his bedroom or the bathroom. When he marches me past the bedroom door I start to feel like I’m going to hyperventilate.

I almost struggle as he pushes me toward the bathroom. I have had more than I can take already – more pain, more orgasms, more humiliation, and more rope. I want to curl up in a little ball and float softly away while he watches over me. I am so fucking owned it’s a wonder I don’t have his name branded into my ass at this point.

G Spot (Sleeve, Pt. 5)

I wiggle as best I can until my ass is at the end of the table. Once there, I lift my hips up so Mr Stern can slide a towel under me. There is only one thing this can mean. Mr Stern grabs one of my feet and places it in a stirrup. The other one follows. My cunt is completely exposed and wide open.

Mr Stern snaps on a pair of black latex gloves, drags a chair over between my outstretched legs, and sits down to enjoy himself.

As soon as his fingers touch me, I am moaning with passion and desire. His thumb brushes lightly over my clit while his fingers work their way into my cunt. I am completely helpless, weak from pain and adrenaline, and all I can do is feel myself respond. My hips move of their own accord and I feel myself opening even farther for him.

Within minutes, his gloved fingers find my G Spot. I cannot tell how many fingers he has inside of me – sometimes it is definitely only one, sometimes it feels like three – but I don’t really care. I cannot keep track of what he is doing or saying, all logical thought has flown out the window with my inhibitions and sense of self. He owns me from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.

I don’t know how long it takes him to get the first orgasm out of me, but certainly not more than a few minutes. I feel the squishy wet warmth, the intense squeezing pressure, and the grunting, groaning contractions. I am completely helpless to do anything to resist coming. No matter how hard I fight it, or how I beg my body not to come, the tide is relentless. A second orgasm follows the first. A third is close behind.

My silent begging turns into frantic gasps and whimpers. I am close to begging him to stop but I cannot form the words in my mouth. My mind is overwhelmed by the strength of the climaxes.

He moves the vibrator back to my clit and I practically shriek with sensory overload.

“Does that make it better or worse, slut?” he asks cheerfully, his hand never stopping.

“B-b-better,” I stutter eventually. I cannot imagine the force of a clitoral orgasm overlapping a G Spot orgasm and I surely don’t want to find out.

He seems oblivious to my plight and continues to stroke and press that perfect spot.

“You are such a fucking slut. You’ve been squirting all over the place for the last ten minutes,” he says in amazement. I nod in agreement – I’ve felt every single gush leaving my body and spilling down over my ass. I picture torrents of warm liquid and burn with the embarrassment of such obvious erotic arousal.

“Please, Mr Stern,” I start, after the fifth orgasm leaves my head spinning and my stomach weak with the effort of contracting.

“What is that, slut?” he asks, feigning innocence.

“Mr Stern, please, it hurts,” I manage to blurt out.

“Where? Inside or outside? Right there?” he asks, rubbing his fingers around the opening of my vagina. I nod frantically and try to wriggle away from him. Despite the copious amounts of whatever it is that I am squirting, it does not lubricate the thrusting of his fingers into my cunt. He is rubbing me raw in one small area.

“I guess I’ll stick to one finger then,” he muses.

One finger is enough for another horrific climax in short order.

“Please… No, Mr Stern. Please…” I know I’m not making any sense but my body and mind are flying to pieces on me. I want him to stop, I need him to stop making me come, my mind is completely consumed by the force of coming so many times.

“What is that, slut? You want me to stop?” he chides, never slowing down in the least.

“Please, no, stop, Mr Stern,” I beg incoherently. He laughs at me. And makes me come again.

I feel as close to the edge of insanity as I’ve ever been. I am a helplessly fucked pile of mush begging for salvation.