It's been a quiet couple of months. P had surgery a few months ago and recovery has been slow. That said, I've traveled a few times, especially around the holidays, and that led to some intense fantasies about being captured or coerced away from home. It's absolutely fun to be tied up at home, but it's also fun to think about being snagged from a parking lot with just the most basic ties. Like zipties around my wrists and ankles, a cloth gag secured with tape, my own scarf as a blindfold so I have no idea where I'm being taken. Fighting to get to my cell phone and just as my fumbling fingers manage to pull it out of my bag, the car stops and I'm hauled away to my fate. Maybe my captor sees my phone, forces me to unlock it with my fingertips, and then uses it to document my punishment for trying to escape. Culminating with a photo sent to my husband of my well-used and creampied pussy, with my legs held up to help me conceive. I know the studies are inconclusive but ever since I saw the movie Election, I've been obsessed with the idea of my legs being held back, willingly or otherwise, after a man has cum in me. Or maybe just Matthew Broderick.
A few men have offered to "rescue" me from a life of being knocked up by a Trump supporter. And I have to admit, a lot of the allure was lost for me after the election, and even more after he took office, and even more after unelected gooner Elon Musk started running the government. Maybe I could be a mail order American bride for someone in Australia or Canada. I have no idea how immigration law works in general and especially not for other countries. Maybe someone tricks me and offers to let me stay with them for a few months in a new country, no strings attached. But once I arrive in my new home, I see the guest bedroom has just a mattress with rope laid out on it. I turn to leave and see my benefactor holding my passport and cell phone. He tells me if I want to stay, I better strip down like a good girl, put a ball gag in my mouth, and handcuff myself. Spending the next few months with my legs wrapped around a stranger, hoping other countries allow anchor babies. Trading one form of servitude for another.
What can I say, the body wants what the body wants.
We've gotten a few questions, people asking for more info about me dating the Trump supporter. We're still dating! When Kamala entered the race, I teased him a few times about losing to a woman and he'd always make it a point to tell me later (when I was tied up or bent over or otherwise had him inside me) that November wasn't going to change anything for me, that I'd still be fucking him on Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, Valentine's Day, basically anytime he wanted. We don't get too into the details - he's not super politically engaged and it's actually kind of upsetting to think about the state of the country, and how rights are being taken away all the time, when I'm in a relatively privileged position and choosing to indulge in this kind of play.
A few people asked how we met. We're in the same grad school program and he's always starting arguments about politics and "how come people don't just get a driver's license if they want to vote so bad", that kind of thing. I'd always jump in and push back, and he told me later that he liked getting me riled up. He said he liked seeing me flush and get upset and try to convince him of things when he didn't really care. We chatted a few times before classes and he'd be incredibly forward so he knew I was married, knew I wanted kids, made a few comments if I wore a choker or a fashion collar.
After class one night, my car battery was dead so he came over and gave me a jump. We were the only ones left in the lot so while we were standing outside in the dark, he slid his hands in the back pockets of my jeans and pulled me against him. I instinctively reached back and he trapped my hands and held them behind my back while kissing me, jamming his tongue in my mouth. I blew him in his car and we made plans to go out that weekend.
He's pretty rough and he loves being in charge. My husband will buy all sorts of bondage toys and I'll take them to the cop's apartment and that's where they stay. He keeps bondage straps on his mattress, has a spreader bar that he straps my hands and ankles to, has all of my favorite ball gags and blindfolds and plugs. He's also incredibly respectful, in his own way. He doesn't push limits we've discussed and I've gotten him to say things like "do you want me inside you?" which is as close to consent as he's interested in, but is still a huge deal.
I let him take pictures of me tied up and naked as long as he obscures my face. I know men always show their friends and there's always the chance he revenge porns me if we break up, and he totally understood without arguing. He said he hears about that at work from teens and he knows it's a huge problem.
Last story - he had me tied up recently, wrists and ankles on the spreader bar, gagged, a black hood over my entire head. Then his doorbell rang and he let in one of his buddies. We had discussed before that I was open to other men but I wasn't going to let them fuck me without protection. And here I was, ass up in the air, a stranger carassing me, unbuckling his belt. I started whimpering and wiggling my fingers. I was starting to make our safety signal when I heard him say "dude, condom, come on." I'm not going to say chivalry isn't dead but it made me feel good that he wasn't like "huh huh huh just fuck her in the ass huh huh huh." I gave them both a hell of a ride in gratitude.
And to answer the most common question, no I'm not pregnant yet!
With my husband's encouragement, I recently had a few dates with a Trump supporter. He was also a cop, which was interesting for me. He was very polite and kind and handsome, so as long as we weren't talking politics, I really enjoyed my time with him. I'm incredibly liberal and happily married to a very liberal husband, so the idea of serving a conservative was a new one for me. But cops always kind of scare me, I only really interact with them if I'm being pulled over, so talking to police officers makes me feel like I'm already guilty of something.
On our third date, I was at his place handcuffed (for the sake of not getting anyone in trouble, they were definitely my handcuffs and not his). He was using my mouth and during a break in the action, I told him it'd be a waste to come down my throat. He didn't need any more encouragement to bend me over his bed, kicking my feet apart. I asked him if this what they meant by "assume the position" and he stuffed my panties in my mouth. So I guess he didn't think that was very funny.
While inside me, he called me his little liberal slut and I groaned and pressed back against him. I wouldn't let anyone call me that in the street but in that moment it was so fucking hot. He took the hint and grabbed both my hips, telling me this is what I was good for. I must have gotten off twice to him degrading me before he finished inside me.
Later we watched Brooklyn 99 while I was still handcuffed and gagged and I rode him to completion. An unexpected but enjoyable time!
Update (February 2022): We wanted to make this change to our profile but based on how wonky it's been we're worried about it being down.
So we're still looking for everything listed in our profile and we're going to keep our old profile information because it's fun and tells you a lot about us.
That said, we're ready to embrace our breeding fantasies. I want an older man (younger if you're VERY dominant) to take me for the weekend, tie me up, and knock me up. When I walk into your house for the weekend, you take my clothes away, collar me, take my cell phone away, and use it to document my submission for my husband back home. Sunday night you send me home completely full. We're ready.
Hey the journal function is finally fixed!! Time to write a story about one of my (our) experiences:
I shut the car door and wave goodbye to my husband, P. He blows me a kiss and pulls away. I wait until he's turned the corner and out of sight until I begin to walk up my master's driveway. It's a short walk, the house set back from the street but my path leads me into the open garage. Once past the threshold, I press the button to shut the garage door behind me. As it trundles on its tracks, I grab my sweater and pull it over my head in one quick motion. I won't need it again this weekend.
My shoes, jeans, panties and socks all follow. I savor taking them off and folding them neatly, making the moment last. My backside is still sore from the punishment I received one week earlier. It had been a maid week and I had done an inadequate job with the chores. My master did not let it slide and he wanted to make sure I remember. As I stroked my bruised cheeks, I hoped it would be a kitten week. Something nice and easy, where I could be cherished and all I needed to think about was pleasure.
The crate is open and I place my clothes inside. My cell phone follows along with my keys. With a sigh, I shut the crate and padlock it. Master will come and take my phone in due time, better to document my weekend for P's enjoyment and my potential humiliation. But the clothes are gone. Feeling the chill of the garage on my feet, I enter "the servant's entrance" as we jokingly call it.
Three boxes await me in the foyer. Oh shit. This is different. Usually I have no choice in how I spend the weekend. It's always one box, with either the maid's costume, the cat ears, or ... the other. But with three gift wrapped boxes in front of me, it's up to fate.
I can't open one box and change my mind. Not that disobeying master is ever an option. Whichever one I open is my weekend of service.
Can I weigh them? As I reach for the first box, I see a string attached. Nope, he'll know. I have to pick.
Eenie. Meanie. Miney.
"Ahem."
A cleared throat from the other room. I'm in trouble already.
I make my decision and tear the wrapping paper off. Inside the box is ...
Nothing.
The slut this weekend, then.
I walk into the living room, my hands folded in front of me, my eyes down. Master is sitting in his chair, drinking whiskey and reading. There's a pillow in front of him, directly between his feet. Keeping my eyes down, I kneel.
He makes me wait, finishing this week's New Yorker. Occasionally my eyes flick up as I weigh my options. I could reach up and begin undoing his belt - the stretch of fabric in his lap tells me he's interested and excited for my weekly visit. I went for a wax earlier in the week and made sure to put my perfume on my skin so he could smell me no matter what I wore. And in my role as the slut, that would be in line with expectations. But I'm so conditioned to serve at command that I stay frozen.
He shakes his glass and I spring up to take it from his hand. I walk to the bar and as I reach for the whiskey, he says "The drawer."
I open the top drawer. Inside is my collar, simple and black, a pair of silver handcuffs, and a red ballgag.
"Shall I--?" I start to ask.
"Don't ask questions you should know the answer to," he says with disinterest.
OK then. I put the glass down and pick up the gag. I push it between my teeth and secure the belt behind my head. Next, the handcuffs. Does he want them in front or behind? I wish I could ask. The maid gets handcuffed in the front, so she can work. The slut, behind, so she has no control. So I slip the cuffs on behind my back, hearing the satisfied clink. But in my haste, I forgot the collar! It takes me several tries, standing on my tippy toes, mmphing with effort, to pick the collar up with my cuffed hands behind me. I trot to master happily.
He finally looks at me. "My drink?" He asks.
Damn it. What to do?
I blink at him, fluttering my eyelashes. Push one foot in front of me and circle it back and forth on his loafer. Don't blame, I don't know any better?
He takes the collar from me and cls it around my neck. Seizing my throat suddenly, he pulls me in close.
"A slut does not mean you're stupid," he whispers in my ear.
One of our agreements when I first began serving him is that he'd never call me a bitch. A slut is something a person chooses to be. It's a sigh of power, both mine and his. I feel my body warm at his words and I lean down to rub my gagged mouth against his neck. He indulges me for a moment and then grabs a fistful of my hair.
It's been a little while but I remember how slut weekends go. I'll be confined to the bedroom, chained to the bed most of the time. He'll film my submission and send it back to P. There's an entire box of toys for me to (mostly) enjoy, though the word "no" is gone from my vocabulary until Sunday night. My rest will be dependent on how often master wants me and how he wants me.
It will be a long, fun weekend.
