Monday, October 31, 2011

My Lover's Maid

Yesterday was Emily’s wedding shower, co-hosted by two of her aunts. It was, by all that I heard from it, a lovely affair and we received some very thoughtful gifts, including some wonderful things for the kitchen that I can’t wait to use (I LOVE to cook.)

Emily had two of her college girlfriends in town for the shower—they came Saturday afternoon and spent the night at her place. Since this would be one of last times with them before we get married (they will be back for the bachelorette party in a couple of weeks), I was asked by Emily to spend the night at my house so they could hang out together.

Naturally, I was happy to obey. Yes, obey. Emily may have sounded like she was asking, but her implication was that she was ordering.

So, like a good boy (or girl), shortly after her friends arrived, I made my excuses and apologies and left for the evening, left them to the wine I had picked out, and to the food they were going to cook (I happily had picked out recipes.)

Why’s this blog worthy?

Well, around 11:00, Emily called (we always call and say goodnight if we’re not sleeping in the same place) and sounded a little tipsy, though not drunk. “Having fun,” I asked her.

“Yes, the food turned out great and we’re well into the wine.”

“I can tell,” I laughed at her happy tone. Not slurred, not drunk, just, well, happy.

We chatted just for a minute, I was ready to go to bed, but before hanging up, Emily asked me (again, “asked” in voice that sounded like a request but was really an order) to come over and clean up while they were at the shower. “We’re just having fun sitting around drinking and talking and none of us really feels like cleaning up,” she said.

“Yes, of course, Em,” I easily agreed.

“You’re such a dove,” she said to me, but then said something to her friends. “Of course he said he would, I told you, one of the reasons I love him is all the things he does for me.”

One of her friends mumbled something. Emily laughed. “Oh, no, he’s all mine, find your own…if you can.”

After we hung up, I got a text from Emily, a text of something she did not want to relay in front of her friends, who may think I’m a bit different, but who do not know the full extent of who I really am or Emily and I’s relationship.

—Wear you uniform when you come over to clean up.

I just stared at the text for a minute. How was I supposed to do that? Uniform? She meant my black satin French Maid’s uniform. How was I supposed to wear that? Her friends? I didn’t understand. I finally texted back.

—Emily, but your friends???

But of course she anticipated that question.

—Sara, Sara, Sara. We’re leaving at 10:30, shower is 11:30 to 2:30, so back by 3. Plenty of time. I’ll text when we leave just to be sure.

—Emily are you sure?

—Yes, my sweet sissy, I’m sure.

So, so, so. So I got up early Sunday morning and showered and shaved my legs and put on light makeup and the prettiest black lingerie. And stockings, of course. And my black satin French Maid’s uniform, the one with white lace trim and a white satin apron. And black pump heels.

And at 10:15, I put on a black raincoat and got in my car and drove to Emily’s house. She texted me as promised when they left right on time and at 10:40 I pulled into the garage, got out and went inside. For the next three hours, give or take, I cleaned up and straightened up Emily’s home. The wine bottles and wine glass and dinner dishes. I made the bed (all three slept in the same bed) all the while fantasizing about serving them. I cleaned up the bathrooms.

At 1:30, nervous about the time, but still reluctant, I finished up, got in my car, and drove home.

Emily, good to her word, texted me when they left; I let her know I was gone. At 3:00 she texted me again.

—House looks good, fucking hilarious.

—What’s hilarious.

—Becca and Nikki both said how nice the house looked and how lucky I was and how great you are and then Nikki said, ‘it’s like you had a maid service come over while we were gone.’

Yes, a maid service. A maid service for my lovely fiancee, for the woman I love, for my best friend.

Anna Laryn by Williams + Hirakawa for C Magazine November 2011

Source | Fashion Gone Rogue

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

A Memory Frozen In Time

The moment is frozen in time, about to be seared in her memory; a threshold that once crossed, can never be undone. In a mere moment he will push forward, thrusting the head of his cock into her wet pussy.

She feels the warmth, the throbbing against her and instinctively knows it is too late to have any doubts. Even if she could somehow manage to voice the word ‘stop’ she would never be able to say it in time to prevent the initial thrust. Too late for doubts now, he’s on the verge of pushing forward, and once he starts, she knows he won’t stop, she knows she won’t want him to stop.

In that instant, in that moment before his hard cock pushes into her, she thinks of you. In that instant, she thinks of you, her fiancee, her soft, pretty, emasculated, sissy, the love of her life. In that brief second before he begins to fuck her, she thinks of you and your love, the love she returns unconditionally.

She thinks of you because she knows you are thinking of her. That you know what she’s going. That you know what will happen tonight. That one of your gifts to her is this night, a gift lovingly bestowed upon her, a night of physical pleasure with a man she cares about, but a man she could never love, not like you.

He moves. The man she likes, cares for, pines for, but never loved. He moves, into her, encouraged by the moan that escapes her lips.

The moment will forever remain frozen in her memory, the moment of pure joy, of pure ecstasy, moment of unadulterated physical pleasure she has as his cock presses forward, opens her, fills her. In that moment, her pleasure transcends the physical, for her pleasure is not merely brought on my the cock pushing into her. Her pleasure is multiplied, magnified, and enhanced to heights she never imagined by her thought of you, by her thought of your willingness, eagerness, for her to experience this moment before the two of you wed.

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

Haute Cuisine For The Palette Of The Emotionally Masochistic Man-A Review

What is Mira Stern’s Blue - Cuckold Hypnosis?

It’s “haute cuisine for the palette of the emotionally masochistic man.” That's what she so eloquently calls it.

What makes it different from other hypnotic MP3s?

Ms. Stern describes it as such:
This recording instills the proper attitude in males toward female sexual liberation sans apology – rather than dwelling overmuch on cuckold activities like tongue cleanings and fluffing, this recording focuses on mindset. 
Well, isn’t that what cuckolding is, at it’s core, a mindset?

I’ve never seen my fiancee, Emily, with a man. Thus, cuckolding, for me, for her, for us, isn’t about the physical activity so much as it is about the mental, the emotional, yes, the mindset. Sure, I’ve seen her flirt with men, touch men, giggle with men, but I’ve never seen her fuck a man. I’ve never fluffed for her. I’ve never guided a man’s cock into her. That’s almost a foreign concept for our type of cuckolding.

No, no, for Emily and I, it’s mental, not physical. Sure, there may be a physical component, but the physical is almost illusory, at least to me—I’m not the one who got fucked by a man—maybe even to her. Whatever physical sensations she receives are only secondary to the mental sensations we both enjoy.

Truth be told, she’s maybe, just maybe, fucked a man, at most, three times since we’ve been together. And even that might be two more than actually happened. But she’s teased me about it countless times, dozens and dozens.

So it isn’t so much that she’s actually let a man fuck her, it’s that if she does, her physical pleasure is secondary to the actual pleasure she and I both receive, the mental pleasure, the mindset.

So, what make Mira Stern’s Blue different? She knows cuckolding is about the mental and strives to takes a cuckold, or budding cuckold, on the mental journey.

Now, I have a small confession to make. I listened to this recording when Emily was out of town on a business trip. Why’s that matter? Because my Emily, if she’s nothing else, is a flirt. I may not be a “man” but I was born a “male” and I know how men read flirting—she wants to fuck me.

So when I listened to Ms. Stern’s Blue, I was sissified, alone, and thinking of Emily, in a hotel, in a hotel bar, flirting with whatever handsome businessman caught her eye. And I knew what he was thinking—she wants to fuck me. Emily knew, too. That I was home alone listening to a cuckold MP3. She encouraged me. In fact, she encouraged me to start listening to it at precisely 7:00 pm. Why at that time, I asked her?

Her answer? “Because at seven, I’m going to ask the hottest guy in the bar if he wants to buy me a drink and I want to know that at the very moment, my fiancee, the love of my life, is home dressed like a girl thinking about cuckolding.”


So, at 6:59, Emily texted me. “I picked a guy, sweetie. Handsome, athletic, well dressed, alone.”

So, at 7:00 sharp, I started Ms. Stern’s Blue.

Let’s get the details out of the way. Blue is a 26 minute, 46 second hypnotic MP3 with overdubbing music and effects available from Clippette for $24.99. Best listened to with headphones. The MP3 is part of a tricolor set (red, white, and blue.)

Ms. Stern warns you right from the start, if you’re not a cuckold, if you’re not interested in cuckolding, you’d best stop listening, but, as you might suspect, she knows, since you bought the recording, what deviant desires are found deep in your heart.

The beginning of the recording, as a hypnotic MP3 should, is meant to relax the listener, to put the you into a relaxed hypnotic state. One interesting aspect of the relaxation part of the recording is that you're instructed to picture yourself lying down, your head in your wife's lap, as Ms. Stern counts down. To me, just that image, of that posture, is interesting as a reversal of the stereotypical gender roles. I picture, most often, a woman resting her head on a man's lap. This is a submissive position, a vulnerable position. Reversed, it is the man, the submissive man, who is vulnerable, who surrenders, who let's his woman control.

The first seven minutes or so are designed to relax you, to make you susceptible to hypnotic suggestions, and Ms. Stern does a nice job transitioning from relaxation to suggestion. Without realizing the transition is coming, or has even happened, Ms. Stern takes you from relaxation to purpose of the recording—accepting your status as a cuckold for your wife, your girlfriend, your mistress.

As Ms. Stern continues, she mentioned something that just happened to be going through my mind at the time—Emily with another man. Yes, I know Em was out, flirting at that very moment, and I know, as her soon to be “husband” the thought of her with man horrified me, but as Ms. Stern reminds you, you may deny it, but you certainly can’t help but think about it and fantasize about it.

What’s the duality of the cuckold experience? No and yes. What rational person wants this? What rational guy/male/man wants his wife/girlfriend/mistress to fuck someone else? None, no one, not a single one.

But why am I sitting here KNOWING my fiancee, the absolute love of my life, is in a hotel bar in another city, flirting with a guy? Why am I not calling her or texting her and chewing her ass out? Because, as Ms. Stern knows so well, no matter what my brain says, my sex, my little sex, wants it, needs it, badly.

“My feelings and my desires, are the only things of any importance.” That’s a terrible manifesto for a “normal” marriage or relationship, but somehow, for some reason, that’s the absolute necessity of a femdom relationship, a cuckold relationship, of my fucking relationship.

Halfway into the recording, there are several seconds, repeated, of deep breathing, a woman’s deep breathing. The sound is particularly powerful—I hear it as Emily’s deep breathing, breathing she does in bed the first moments my fingers touch her, that breathing that accompanies the flick of my tongue on her wetness. And what do I imagine when I hear the breathing on Ms. Stern’s recording? A dark hotel bar, a corner table, a man touching her, a man’s hand under her skirt, no one around them any wiser. She says stop, she nervously laughs, she’s embarrassed by what she’s allowed to happen—it was just supposed to be flirting.

Ms. Stern’s deep breaths. Emily’s deep breaths. No. Yes. No. Yes. But when his fingers brush against her, when they find her panties, she’s breathing and shaking and moaning and hot and soaking wet. And he knows, no matter what she’s saying, the last thing this woman in a hotel bar wearing an engagement ring wants is for him to stop. What she wants is more!

Ms. Stern knows. Ms. Stern knows what you want, cuckold. She knows. “My husband, don’t worry about him.”

Yes, cuckold, yes, yes. However she wants to have sex. Whomever she wants to have sex with. A cuckold serves his mistress, his wife, his girlfriend, his fiancee, his lover.

You know what resonated with me listening to the recording? A phrase Ms. Stern spoke, “You don’t think if I saw strong fingers that I want on my shoulders, there would be a moment of hesitation?” Would there be? Would there be a moment of hesitation on Emily’s part? Maybe a year ago. Maybe even six months ago. But now?

Why would there be? Haven’t I begged for it again and again. Doesn’t she know by now? What her sissy fiancee wants?

Emily know.

Mira Stern knows.

You want to be cuckolded.

Your mouth says yes.

Your sex says yes.


“Your mouth says, I love you.”

And I do. And that’s why the recording touched me. I do love her, I love Emily with all my heart. I love her so much that I let her, even want her, to fuck who she wants. As long as I know, as long as she’s happy, it makes me happy.

A “normal” man could never understand this

But a cuckold can.

Emily knows this.

Ms. Stern knows this.

Blue takes you through a mental journey. A cuckolding mental journey, one most men will never contemplate, but one a cuckold wants to take, must take, has to take.

I don’t care what “normal” men want. I only know what I want, what I need, what Emily needs. And that, dears, is ultimately what our love is. I'm submissive, my pleasure comes from her pleasure. Do you know how many time's we've made love and I have not cum? Dozens and dozens. Why? Because I really get pleasure from pleasing her, from serving her.

Here is a stupid, real world, non-sexual example. I hate, I mean hate, cleaning the bathroom. But I clean her bathroom every fucking week. Why? Because it makes me happy, because I get pleasure, from serving her. And she knows it. Cleaning her bathroom is an act of love.

Much like something else. Letting her flirt with, tease, toy with, and yes, even fuck a man. Letting her fuck a man is an act of love. I know it's fucking crazy, trust me, I know. But it doesn't matter. I submit to Emily, I serve Emily because I love her.

And what’s the lasting thought Ms. Stern leaves you with? Every time you touch yourself, you’ll think of him, touching her. That's what I thought listening to the recording tonight. Emily being touched by a man, Emily cumming from a man's fingers. And as it happens, as his fingers dance over her clit, she's thinking not of him, not of the guy touching her, she's thinking of me.

Blue from Mira Stern takes me, takes you on that mental journey, on that deep, philosophical, journey where you and I accept our position as our wife or girlfriend’s cuckold. Overall, a great, intellectual hypnotic experience.

Buy it here.

Thursday, October 20, 2011

Monday, October 10, 2011

Six Weeks

Six weeks. Six long, week.

What’s that, you ask?

I think you know.

Six weeks since Emily let me make love to her, six weeks since I’ve been allowed inside her, six weeks since we’ve screwed. Six weeks since I’ve felt the warmth of her wrapped around me, six weeks since I’ve been allowed the joy, the pleasure, of release while inside the woman I love.

Six weeks.

I reminded her that on Sunday night when we were on the couch. Her foot was in my lap, resting easily on the bulge in my panties and neglige, caused not by my swollen member, but instead by the CB6000S chastity cage I’d had on since she went out of town earlier in the week. Her foot was resting on my lap as I was carefully polishing her toe nails, a task that had long been assigned to me.

I looked at her, she knew immediately what that look meant.

“No,” she said softly.

“Six weeks,” I said softly, “it’s been six weeks.”

“Halfway there,” she touched me with her other foot, the one I’d already painted, touched me, teased me, rubbed me. “My toes and you’re chastity.”

“Em, you’re really going to make me wait till then? I’ll go crazy! It’s not fair.”

“Not fair that only one of us has to be chaste? You had the chance to say no, sweetie, don’t tell me you have regrets now.” Regrets about her night with Evan? Regrets about being a sissy? Regrets about anything?

“No,” I looked down at her foot. No, no regrets, none, none.

“I don’t either, sweetie, I don’t either. Now finish my toes so I can check the cage. I don't want anything pinching you down there."

Wedding Day Dreams

After knocking softly, but getting no answer, I wondered what to do. She was in there, I could hear muffled sounds. Finally, I worked up the nerve to open the door to my bride’s dressing room and just stood there watching for a moment, taken in by what I saw. She was leaning over a table, her wedding dress lifted and thrown over her back, exposing her stockings. He was standing behind her, slightly squatting, grunting as he thrust in and out of her, fucked her, hard, fast, like an animal.

Finally, I cleared my throat to get their attention.

“What,” he growled, continuing to fuck her, but turning towards me with the look an alpha male gives to an interrupting beta male, a look that singled danger to the beta, that should inspire the beta’s flight instinct.

I watched for a moment, his eyes locked on mine. The only sounds were that of his cock slamming into her, pulling out of her, slamming into her again. That and the moaning escaping from my fiancee’s mouth. “Ohhh, ohhh, ohhh,” over and over again, each one slightly louder, slightly longer than the last, the sounds she made as she approached and was overcome by an orgasm.

Sounds I’d NEVER heard when I was inside her, sounds I heard though just the same, only when I pleasured her with my mouth or my fingers or a vibrator.

“Are…are you almost done, the…the guests are taking their seats,” I asked, nervously.

“Hargh,” he growled, picking up the pace, fucking her harder, all man, all masculine, all sex, all animal.

She turned towards me and looked at me and I saw it instantly—the pleasure in her eyes, the joy, the thrill of getting fucked and cumming on her wedding day, made better by my seeing it. Not just knowing about it, not just hearing of it, not just agreeing to it (even begging for it), but the joy of my SEEING it, seeing a man fucking her, hard and raw, seeing, for my own eyes, why, as much as she loves me, as much as I’m her soulmate, she still craves a man.

“Out,” he hissed.

I jumped, pulled the door closed behind me. Before I hustled back to the chapel, I heard his grunting, knew it was close, that in moments he would be done, that he would cum inside her, inside my bride, that as she promised, he alone would have her this day.

“She’ll be here in a few minutes,” I said to my bride’s mother when I returned.

And she was, five minutes later, standing at the back of the chapel, smiling.

“She looks so happy,” her mother said softly, “such a glow, such a glow.”

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Text-Safe Arrival

I just got a text from Emily:

Got here safely. Evan's making dinner. Going to shower and have a drink. Text you later. Em. 

What makes one get excited watching one's fiancee pack to go spend the night at a guy's house? What makes a guy or a sissy get excited thinking and imagining his fiancee showering and freshening up and putting on pretty lingerie for that other guy? What makes a sissy swell in a chastity cage thinking about her fiancee fucking a guy "one last time" before the wedding ceremony?

I don't have the answer to ANY of those questions!


There was something different about her, something in her eyes, something barely noticeable, maybe I wasn't supposed to see it, but maybe I was the only one who could. Though to be honest, I'm not sure how I managed to look at her in the eyes, not when I found her waiting in the kitchen, leaning on the counter, wearing just a soft pink bra with logo mesh and matching panties.

"Did you get it," she asked when I walked in the door at 4:00 this afternoon, about half an hour before she left.

"Yes," I said softly, tearing my eyes away from her, down to the package under my arm.

"Good," she beamed, smiling at me only the way she could smile, giving me the smile she saved only for me. "Bring it," she motioned walking to the bedroom.

Her overnight bag was on the bed, just a small suitcase for a short trip. "Well open it, I want to see it."

I carefully opened the box and took out the small bag inside, opened it, and pulled out the pale purple satin slip with black lace applique. "Darling, it's beautiful, isn't it," she asked, excitedly taking it from me and holding it up to her mostly naked body. "Don't you just love it," she asked, again, the look in her eyes, again.

"It…it's beautiful," I said, butterflies in my stomach, a swelling in my groin, in the cage.

"Oh, honey, I'm sorry, I," her face changed, guilt. "I should have had you order one for yourself," she said as she lowered it and folded it and set it in her bag.

Okay, maybe part of my mind thought that, thought how pretty it was, how much I would like to wear it. But that wasn't my main  thought, no, my main thought was how fucking pretty it would look on her and how she was fucking packing it to wear for Evan!

"Are…are you sure you need that," I asked softly.

She turned back to me. "Well I can't very well parade around Evan's house naked, can I?"

"That's not what I meant," I said defensively.

"I know," she said softly, "I know." And then she put her arms around me and pulled me towards her and kissed me deeply. "I know exactly what you mean, lover."

"Emily…I…I don't know if…"

"You bought it for me," she said softly, kissing me again. "You think you don't know but you still bought it for me."

"Yes, but…" It felt different, less tease, somehow more real, like this time she meant it, like this time she wanted me to know, to really understand her intentions.

"You know I'm going to wear it for him, but you still bought it for me, Sara. Don't tell me you don't know, you do."

I looked down, felt guilty. I knew, I didn't want to admit it, but I knew.

"You know, lover, all those times I teased you about it, all those times you fantasized about it, once, just once, you want to know.


She kissed me, first my mouth, then my neck, then my ear, whispered. "He's so hot, Sara, so strong (unlike you I heard) and masculine (unlike you I heard again)."

"Emily," I said, shaking, strained to the edge of the cage, "you really want him to…"

"Yes," she answered quickly before I could finish, "one more time before I get married."

"Ohhhh," my pulse was racing, one more time, one more time? She had, she had before.

"And so do you, Sara, so do you."

"Yes," I whispered, surrendering, "yes, yes."

"You know what I'm going to do tonight, Sara," she chuckled, "well, what he's going to do?"

"Yes, yes," I was shaking, I was so hot, so scared, so excited.

"You know, Sara, you know."


She kissed me deeply one last time.

"I'll text you when I get there," she said, letting go, reaching for her bag.


"And before I go to sleep…I…I won't call, I'll just text."

"Yes, Emily, yes."

"I love you, Sara."

"I love you too, Emily."


So yesterday afternoon I got an email from Emily:
Hey love. I just wanted to say hi and tell you thank you soooo much for not making a big deal about me staying with Evan tomorrow night. I just talked to him and he's really looking forward to seeing me. He's so excited that I we're engaged...and I think he's kind of excited that he gets to see me one more time before I get married...though for the life of me I can't figure out why :) don't think he thinks that he's going'm engaged...what kind of woman does he think I am??? One that wants one last hard fuck before she gets married???
I know, I know, that's not nice to say to my fiancee, is it? We're engaged, I should talk about men I find attractive, should I? And I certainly shouldn't tell you about the fantasies I have about, no, that's not nice. A woman shouldn't tell her fiancee about those kinds of things...even if her fiancee is a pretty little sissy girl!
Oh, will you do something for me? I'm running behind today and wanted to stop at the store and pick something up for my trip but just won't have time. Will you click HERE and order this for me? If you get next day shipping, I'll have it tomorrow.
Thanks love, Emily.
Yea. Click the link. See what it is she wanted me to order. My fiancee is the damn biggest tease in the entire fucking world!

Oh, there was another click, this one this morning. What click was that? The click the lock made when she locked me in my chastity cage. "I know you've got naughty things on your mind, love," she told me. "I think I want you thinking about them all night tonight while I'm gone."

While she's gone, as in, while she's visiting Evan tonight. Wearing the lingerie she had me buy for her. She wants me locked up, thinking about her, about him, wondering what they're doing, wondering whether she's fucking him. One last time before she gets married. Because she KNOW how incredibly exciting that is to me.

Lara Stone by Mario Sorrenti for Vogue Japan November 2011

Source | Fashion Gone Rogue

Julia Stegner by David Roemer for Vogue Latin America October 2011


Source | Fashion Gone Rogue