…and then, the fire bell rang (Resolutions, Day 181)

So! If your name doesn’t start with an M and end with “istress Charlotte”, you may be wondering where the last few blogs are. Well, I still wrote them! They’re just password-protected, for Mistress eyes only. They were a bit… personal, I guess. Plus, this blog started because I wanted somewhere to put writing I did for her, and I’m returning to my roots, damn it. I like writing for you all, my adoring public, don’t get me wrong. But there’s something really special about writing for just one person in particular. I can get a bit more emotional with my thoughts and feelings. Which is especially important given some recent kink development.

Anyway, we’re not here to talk about that. We’re here to talk about my day at work! See, last night, I was messaging Mistress while she was at work, and while I was doing some slutty baking for a morning tea. Now, let’s entertain some hypotheticals for a moment. Let’s say that we were talking about what a slut I was, and she was detailing the way in which she would tie my hands behind my back, push me to my knees, and shove her cock into my throat. And that, after rather enjoying the thought of being more important to me than breathing, or even the ability to think – she had to go and be a responsible adult. If, at that very moment, I had offered up a mental image of me on my knees, panting from the effort of having my throat roughly pounded, and my face coated in hot spunk – do you think that would help her in becoming more normal and less distracted? And – last one, I promise – if it DID turn out to distract, and heaven forfend it does, how do you think she would punish the slut that distracted her?

Anyway, on a totally unrelated topic, Mistress sent me some of the horniest messages in the world this morning while I was at work.

It started out comparatively tame – a little being called a slut here, a little reassurance of my status as property there. But the floodgates really opened with the mention that I loved her messing me up, both mentally and physically. And that I loved it so much that it didn’t even matter if I were sporting a raging hard-on beneath my work desk, while she carefully explained to me exactly how much I needed my holes filled, how much I needed to get fucked. And not just fucked – bred. Knocked up. Fucked so hard and so good that biology just gives up on trying and lets it happen, lets her flood me with her seed and plant her hellspawn in my belly. “Even biology gives way to my power and control”, she said to be, and… What the fuck am I meant to do in the face of that? What could I do, other than sit very close to my desk and pretend to be really interested in something on the screen, while my lower half practically gyrates back and forth with sheer need? And then, she kept going. Because of course she did.

She detailed a scenario where my hands were bound behind my back, unable to touch, unable to resist as she brought me closer and closer to the brink of pleasure, close enough that I could taste it, my whole body quivering with expectant need and sheer fucking want – and then, she’d stop. Just leave me there on the edge. But she’s not a cruel Mistress, not really. I could still get off! But I’d have to work for it. Naturally I’d be getting the pleasure from my sluthole, that’s simply how it works for wanton whores. But she wasn’t going to fuck me. No, she’s had a long day, and she’s rather tired. She would, however, graciously loan me the use of the massive fucking cock she has in her lap. All I have to do is bounce on it for her. Fuck myself on her dick, panting and moaning as I lower myself down onto it, feeling it stretch me out a little more with every inch (and god, there are so many more inches still to go). And then, once I properly settle into her lap, a pillar of cock holding me upright, I’d have to slowly, excruciatingly slowly, pull myself right back up, until just the tip was left in me. Then down again, and then up. Easy, right?

Eventually I’d settle into somewhat of a rhythm, motions getting faster, movements getting smoother, occasionally pausing for a full-bodied shudder as her dick really grinds that little boy-button inside me. No doubt she’d be whispering some absolute filth into my ear at this point, probably something about how I’m SUCH a whore for her dick, I need so badly to be filled by it, I an barely think for the pleasure it brings me. Or maybe that’s me saying that, it’s hard to tell, I’m full of cock. Eventually, though, I’d start slowing down. Not just because my thighs are on fire, or because I’m getting exhausted – but because I’ve come to a realisation. I’ll simply never be able to fuck myself as good as she can fuck me.

Checking the message logs for this next bit, it looks like I rather shamelessly agreed that her baby boy is absolutely helpless without her, and that I would do whatever she says in order to get what I need (i.e. her control, her power, her fat cock). At this point, I think it’s prudent to remind everyone that I was in fact at work at this moment. Was I working? Uh, kind of, in the sense that I was clicking back and forth between a few windows, one eye looking very intensely at the screen while the other is glued to the “Mistress is typing a message” indicator. It’s a good job nobody tried to talk to me, because Jesus Christ, I would’ve been incoherent. Nothing but moans and drool. And then, Mistress gave me a task. Go to the bathroom on my next break, get myself right up to the edge – silently, so as to not get caught – and then, stop and come right back.

She started to explain precisely how she would fuck me, once I’d finished trying my pitiful best to do it myself. “I’d do more than you could handle,” she says, “and then make you handle it anyway.” And I fucking believed it, too. It’s her cock, after all, it makes sense that she knows how to handle it. Her slut, too, come to think of it – which, again, same idea. What’s more, she’s either never heard of a refractory period, or she scorns the idea as something only for lesser dicks – I firmly believe that, if given the option, she would start pounding and just. never. stop. Maybe I’d become a little insensate. Maybe I’d simply pass out, lose consciousness altogether from the sheer blissful pleasure of being used, serving my purpose. I promise you this – she would not stop until I was a shattered wreck of a slut, slumped on the ground face-first, ass still held proudly in the air. She didn’t say most of this – really she was still in the prep phase of the fucking – but she didn’t have to. It simply lives in my brain, always.

Eventually I couldn’t take much more, and I headed for the bathroom. “But Morgan,” I hear you cry, “surely that won’t help! You’re just getting to the edge and stopping, leaving yourself frustrated!”. And, yes, that’s true, but look. I… was really horny. I knew touching wouldn’t help, and I didn’t care, I just wanted to. I had to. And I did! Obviously it didn’t take long, I was pretty fucking hot and bothered by this point. In fact, Mistress got called away for something and came back to find that I’d both left and come back to my desk while she was gone! I will say – I was so worked up at this point that I heard the latch of someone unlocking one of the other cubicles, and my slut-brain was briefly VERY convinced that Mistress was somehow here, to take advantage of me in the toilets. Unluckily for me, though, she wasn’t.

Lucky for me though, when I got back to my desk, she still wanted me to lie back and take all of her. “Spread your legs then, slut,” she said, and even though I was still at my desk I could see it, nearly feel it – lying on a bed, on my back, legs in the air like a desperate breeding bitch. This was it – she was going to do it, finally going to fuck me properly, so much better than I could do it to myself. She’d fill up every corner of me, first with her dick, and then, by the time she’s finally done with me, with her hot, sticky seed. She’s going to put a baby into me, stuff me full, make me all soft and round and gravid with her spawn. I can be full of her, even when she’s not around! I need it, fuck I can’t take it any more, please just fuck a baby into me- wait, what’s that sound?

…and then, the fire bell rang.

Have you ever tried to maintain horniness while quickly moving to the nearest fire escape, surrounded by people? It really just doesn’t work. Hiding behind my desk is all well and good, but I can’t go full slut in a crowd of friends and colleagues. So, we moved to the fire escape, I told Mistress what was going on, and after a lingering look at a spare desk and imagining spreading my legs on my back, I ultimately moved out. We waited outside for a little, went back in (fire drill! Weeeeee) and that was pretty much that. We do end off with one last hypothetical – if a slut teased his Mistress particularly badly afterwards, how many minutes would she put him in the humbler for when he got home?

(It’s forty. The answer is forty minutes. Worth it, though 😘. Thanks for reading!)

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