The thing about ambiguous emojis are the endless possibilities for interpretation.

I’d been given a choice; a text message without context, forcing a decision from me.

Box A or Box B?”

I doubted how much choice I actually had; who’s to say they didn’t both contain the same thing? Are they even real boxes? Why was I so compelled to choose when I didn’t know the stakes?

I took the gamble; ever enthused to play a game I’d made my choice and now staring at the tiny symbols on my screen my mind begins to race. Excitement swirls inside me, waking up the butterflies in my stomach.

These two symbols represent the contents of the box I’ve chosen. One is almost certainly a hitty thing. The other…is that a flag?

What could that mean? Is it symbolic? What I have just agreed to? More than agreed…what did I just choose?

I am a bundle of nervousness that can’t stop smiling.

But they’re just coming over to practice rope, right…It’s not a date, it’s a not a play date, it’s not pre-planned, there’s no obligation, just rope. So what do the emojis mean?


The cane is too much.
Intense pain that hits solidly, I fire across the room, tail between my legs, whimpering. I don’t need to use a safe word, they read me immediately. This is a limit.

Disappointment flushes my cheeks and argues against their comfort, “It’s OK pup…you’ve done really well, you’ve taken a lot.” I pout, I know they’re right “But…but, I want to take it…

They wrap me into a cuddle puddle, nuzzling my hot cheeks. Chuckling at my stubborn determination they use the carnage around the room as evidence of why I can be proud. “See pup, we tied you up to the pole. That was fun, wasn’t it?” a smugness in Ma’am’s voice at her stroke of genius.

They’d got me there by playing ‘Rope chess’; taking it turns to tie; one rope for her, one for him, secure and pass over, what funny shapes can we make the pup into? “Ohh…yes, good idea, I see where you’re going with this, oooh pup, this one’s mean…” encouraging each other to up the stakes, to push me more.

Swapping, one actively ties, whilst the other engages with me, using their hot words to mock my predicament, laughing as they deliver threats of worse still to come; forcing fingers and fluids into my face.

Did you like it when I spat in your face and rubbed it around, did you?” I frown and shake my head as Ma’am reminds me. No, I did not, yet as much as I objected my traitorous cunt told a different story, my hips bucking against the ropes. She knows which message to listen to.

Harsh tension against my shin bones had made me squeal, ropes between my toes made me a squirming mess. I was held fast, using my stripper pole as an anchor, securing me in the middle of the room. Taunting me about how I was trapped, easy prey for whatever they wanted now. Bound tight and being a good little masochist. Making all the right noises to spur them on.

Claimed-Blog 4

They’d kept me against the pole to fuck me, freeing my arms and legs so I could hold myself up. Using all my willpower to stay, to keep myself in place even whilst overwhelmed with sensation, pinned between them, at the mercy of her brutal strap-on and his control over my airway, filling my throat with his cock.

Their plots are almost unspoken, exchanging ideas via eye contact and gestures, fluidly moving between positions and ideas. They co-top in harmony; happily and with boundless sense of adventure. Balancing hot filth with fun, a keen understanding of what makes the other tick with the thrill of the new.

I’m delighted to be included in their escapade, to make it ours, an appreciated ease in their approach, a mirroring of our values. I acknowledge quiet inklings of importance to come, being careful not to lose focus on the now, keeping alert to which fresh new slice of sadism they have ready to serve me.

I blame the music.

The music and their deliciously evil influence on each other.

They almost start in tandem, using my body to match the beat. Gently tapping along, fingertips against flesh. Then two hands, then four…hard slaps smacking out the rhythm on my reddening skin. Gleeful sadist smiles on happily bobbing heads, getting into the groove, increasing the force with the increasing tempo.

Their musical rhythmic double spanking is exactly the warm up I need. My bottom is primed to take the cane again. I achieve what I couldn’t before. Like a very good pup, I embrace the pain, ride it, and make them proud.

I think we can claim victory here!” his eyes twinkle with a mischievous plan. One that she is co-conspirator in, racing to respond to his suggestion, rummaging through her bag of tricks for a desired item and brandishing it with a flourish!

They claim victory by planting a flag.

High on endorphins my response surprises me. It’s too funny to refuse, too clever to feel humiliated. I’d interpreted correctly but I never saw this coming…

I feign shame at the flagpole being inserted but it’s soon lost to giggles as Ma’am sings. Clear and confident, she belts out verse after verse of the National Anthem. Holding firm to the solidly planted flag she salutes, posing for the camera expertly capturing the moment I am claimed.

This entry was posted in Dirty Diary and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Claimed

  1. M says:

    I have just got what I might call a ‘guilty boner’ just now. So. fucking. hot.

    Love your posts

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