Lying in bed beside you, I feel somehow furtive and playful at the same time. I can’t shake the sense that I’m still fantasizing about you, except now there’s a real face in front of me, with actual eyes staring back into mine. If I close mine, I half believe you’ll just disappear. I need some way to assure myself that you’re real, that the thing I remember between us is real, and that it’s not just an erotic fiction conjured by my eager imagination in the months since I’ve seen you.
A sensible person might start with a kiss, but instead I’m stuck staring at you, laying here and gauging you. I don’t have some long acquaintance to draw from, some well established set of touches and habits to cover for my awkward simultaneous sense of familiarity and unfamiliarity. I can almost trick myself into believing our limited past together is all I need to build this present, but right now that past seems too distant and illusory. Besides, I want to focus on who you are in this moment, to taste and discover what you’ve become in our absence.
Of all the things I want to know, nothing is as pressing as my desire to find out if you still belong to me. I doubt it’s a question I can pose out loud and have meaningfully answered; I’m pretty sure it’s a question that only breath and flesh can answer. But I’m so afraid of finding that you don’t belong to me anymore that I’m paralyzed, not wanting to make a move that might prove that you do–because the same move might prove the opposite. So instead I’m left gazing foolishly at you as I try to figure out what I should do first.
I opt for the cheapest and easiest move of all: I hedge. “What do you want?” I ask. It’s a fatuous question, and you’re not going to answer it well. I already know you want to fucking feel, and the longer I keep you talking like this, the harder it will get to make that happen. You want me to fill holes, both literally and figuratively, but no one is good at saying that. That’s not what words are good for.
And besides, you want me to fucking read your mind. Goddamned subs.
I wish you looked aroused by my question, but you mostly look uncomfortable. No surprise, since I haven’t asked the question I most want answered, and we both know it. Just say you want me, I think. Say you want me to own you, to take control of you, to use you. But I know you well enough to know you’ll always phrase those things as being about what I want, not you, still leaving me wondering what the fuck it is that you want. I could write poetry about all the things I want from you, but all I’ll ever really get from you is this heavy silence, thick with expectation.
“Use me however you want,” you say. It’s an incredibly arousing sentence, but it’s a cheat, and not what I need to hear.
Fuck it. Without giving myself any more time to think about it, I force myself to make an actual move. Both of us still fully dressed, I roll on top of you and straddle your hips, keenly aware of your dick between all those layers of clothes and my pussy. Looking down at you, I feel such a complicated mixture of power, desire, and doubt that I’m almost dizzy. I lean closer to you as I stare straight into your eyes. “You didn’t say you wanted it, slut.”
Between our change in position and our words, there’s no question that something shifted. Your eyes have glazed over now, and it feels like there’s an invisible leash tightening between us. Flesh and breath have answered the question I didn’t ask, and that should be enough to calm the fear that paralyzed me before. Words should seem pointless next to this pulsing current of power and desire, your easy surrender beneath me a heartbeat of yes and please. You don’t need the wind to tell you its name to feel the breeze on your flesh, and the power flow between us feels just as basic and elemental as it has every other time I’ve seen you. But I need to hear the words to believe that this isn’t just all in my head and to separate the fantasy of you from the reality of you. “I told you long ago what I most want to own is your desire,” I say, and my voice is heavy with control and the depth of my feelings. (If I believe there aren’t tears in the corners of my eyes, maybe they’ll just go away). “If you say you want it, then I own that too.”
I put my hand on your throat, not to choke you, but in a gesture of control. You gasp as if I’ve truly pressed down hard, then say softly, “I want you to own me.” I can’t pretend there aren’t actual tears running down my face when you say that, and I’m afraid to let you see how much your words (and desire) matter to me. So to cover for myself, I lift up enough to turn you over onto your stomach, sitting now on your delightful ass, my face hidden from your view. I pull your shirt up and over your head, then scrape my fingernails down your back. Hearing you gasp and seeing the visible marks of possession I’ve left in your flesh soothes my overwrought nerves; I finally start to relax as I settle into the rhythm of methodically claiming you. I lick the fresh marks on your back, imagining that you taking pain for me has left a taste on your skin. Even the traces of my tears on those marks feels like a kind of claiming, as though my eyes were looking for a way to own you too.
But my eyes dry quickly as I thoroughly distract myself, reaching around you to unbutton your pants, then sliding them down just enough to get to your naked ass. I take my time massaging it too hard, making you gasp some more and creating interesting red marks as I grip your skin too tightly. Then I put on a glove and some lube and gently slide one teasing finger into your ass. You moan and instinctively wriggle up against my hand, grinding your cock into the bed on the other side as your whole body begs for more. When I don’t give it to you, you whimper, “Please fuck me, mistress.”
I decide to go with a theme for the rest of this encounter, and keep forcing you to tell me what you want. At some point, talking like that is pure suffering for you, but fortunately, your suffering turns me on. “Why do you want me to fuck you, slut?”
You sound almost pitiful as you say, “Because it feels good.”
I laugh. “Even if I was really mean about it and shoved a dildo inside you using only your spit as lube?”
I actually feel your ass clench around my finger in enthusiastic response when I say that.
“I… That doesn’t…” you stammer.
“That doesn’t feel good, does it, slut? But you like it anyway.”
“I like to hurt for you, mistress.”
“You’re a liar,” I say, pulling my finger out, and pulling the glove off too with a snap. “You like hurting and pretending you’re doing it for me.”
You groan as I turn you over again onto your back. “I like hurting for you too,” you say meekly.
Now on your back again, you look adorably compromised (and you clearly know it), without your shirt, with your pants and underwear shoved down around your thighs, and your dick hard. You wriggle your body in a way that only a subby slut like you can, a practiced move that’s half plea and half invitation.
I lay down on top of you, still wearing all my clothes, and you gasp when I touch your dick just long enough to strategically position it against my pussy through my underwear, my skirt hiked up around my thighs. I put my hand back at your throat, still just a gesture of ownership, not choking. Then I lean in to your ear and whisper, grinding my clothed pussy against your dick, “What do you want most right now, slut?”
You groan. “Anything,” you whimper.
I laugh. “That’s such a broad desire.” Swiftly changing tactics, I abruptly sit up and rake my fingernails down your chest, pausing to dig them in deeply a few times and enjoy your screams. “Was that part of ‘anything’?” You nod, your eyes wide and completely glazed.
I put my fingers down my underwear, running them along the lips of my pussy, then shove them into your mouth. You suck them obediently, and your mouth and tongue feel so good on them that I forget what I was doing for a moment. When I pull them out, I dry my fingers off by smearing your own spit across your face.
“What do you most want me to put in your mouth right now?”
You groan again, looking tormented. “You,” you finally say, clearly wishing I’d stop making you talk, stop asking you to make decisions you want me to make.
“Does this count?” I ask, opening your mouth with my fingers, then leaning over you to slowly drool into it.
You nod enthusiastically. “Thank you, mistress. Can I please touch my cock?”
I grin. “No, but feel free to keep asking.”
I move up so my knees are on both sides of your face, then pull my underwear aside, my pussy barely an inch from your face. You lift up your head to try to lick it, but I pull it back down to the pillow by your hair.
“Something you want, slut?” I ask, loving how you look like I’ve captured you.
“Please can I lick your pussy, mistress?”
“You keep changing what you want. You’re so easily distracted. You just want whatever is in front of your face right now, don’t you, slut?”
I lower myself down to your mouth just long enough to mark it with my scent and for you to barely taste me, then I move my underwear back in place and slide my body back down yours. With my crotch on your thigh, and my knee perilously close to your balls, I genuinely can’t predict your answer when I ask, “What do you want most now, slut?”
You whimper again, and I giggle. “You want me to stop asking you that, don’t you?” You nod. “Too bad. Tell me what you want most, or nothing happens at all.”
You look so cutely distraught in an agony of indecision and not wanting to have to form words. You finally force yourself to say, “Please fuck me, mistress.”
“That’s very broad. Be more explicit.”
I love how much you hate this torture with words, and making you voice your desires is doing wonders for helping me forget my anxieties earlier. “Please let me fuck you with my cock.”
“Well, since you asked so nicely…” I put a condom on you, and move my underwear aside again to lower myself onto your dick. I ride it for just a moment, and it feels really fucking good, but I try not to think about it too much as I quickly pull off, yanking the condom off too.
You genuinely look like you might cry when I do that, and your tormented face is hotter than almost any orgasm. “Why do you look so sad?” I mock. “I gave you what you asked for.”
I lay back down on top of you, my clothed pussy still strategically positioned against your dick. “What if I told you I thought now was a good time to go to sleep?” I tease.
“I don’t think I would sleep very well,” you admit.
“Do you think you’d keep waking up, hoping I’d change my mind in the middle of the night and fuck you?”
I’ve lowered my face to yours until our lips are almost pressed together, but I put my index finger between our mouths. “If I made you choose between kissing me and being allowed to come, which would you choose?” I know the answer, of course.
Closing your eyes, you unwillingly admit, “Being allowed to come.”
“You’re such a fucking slut!” I grin, sitting up without kissing you, and reaching between you to smack your balls. You moan as I do it several more times, and I’m amused watching your dick start to wilt. Then I grab hold of the base of your cock with my fingernails, pressing them in til you scream. Your dick is barely hard at that point, and I taunt you, “Well, I guess it’s time to go to sleep now, slut, you’re not even hard anymore.”
You actually dig your fingers into the bed in frustration, and I can tell it’s because you’re desperately struggling not to touch your dick. “I’m sorry, mistress,” you say, and you sound genuinely apologetic and distressed. “I’ll do better, please don’t make me go to sleep.”
“What would make you hard again fastest?” Again, I don’t know what you’re going to say.
“If you sucked my cock gently.”
I laugh, rolling my eyes. “You’re lying again, and that sounds boring anyway.” Instead, I slap your dick and go back to teasing your lips with my half-revealed pussy. When I look back, your dick is already half hard, and by the time I push two of your fingers into my pussy, it’s completely hard. Then I pull them right back out and stick them in your mouth to lick.
Again, you look like you might cry. “Your problem, slut,” I inform you, “is that you’re so much more turned on when you don’t get what you want.”
You don’t bother to argue the obviously true point, but take my fingers out of your mouth and start begging. “Please can I fuck you, mistress?” There’s a ragged note in your voice that turns me on even more than your fingers in my pussy did.
“You’re not much of a gentleman, begging to fuck me when you haven’t even kissed me yet.”
You look understandably confused by this reprimand, since we’ve already technically had sex a number of different ways. But instead of disputing the point, you ask, “Please can I kiss you, mistress?”
“Sure,” I say. “But then you don’t get to come.” You groan again, and I love watching you try to make up your mind. “Say please again!” I taunt.
I lean down to kiss you, and your lips are soft and smell faintly of my pussy. There’s another slight shift between us in that moment, and you put your arms around me. Briefly, I notice sex more than power, with your cock straining against my underwear like it wants to break it, our tongues playing, and our arms wrapped around each other. I roll you on top of me, my legs wrapped around you too, keeping your cock tight against my pussy.
“Ask for what you want, slut,” I whisper in your ear.
“Please can I fuck you, mistress?” you ask again, your voice both desperate and a little bit husky.
“Well, you can fuck me until I come,” I say, pushing my soaked underwear aside, and giving you another condom.
After holding back for so long, I positively luxuriate in the feeling of taking you inside me. I clench my pussy around your cock, making you gasp, and then reach down to touch my clit, coming almost at once.
Pulling myself off your cock, which has been inside me for a minute at most, I laugh because it’s the first time you’ve ever looked disappointed from making me come.
Laying beside me, I grin at you. “Such a terrible reward for making me come. But then, you never did ask for what you most wanted, slut. Because what you really want is to not get what you want.” You grin sheepishly back, then bury your head in the pillow in an endearing gesture of defeat and admission.
I put my hand along your cheek. “Well, just as long as you were telling the truth about wanting me to own you.” I feel my breath catch in the back of my throat when I say it, though I play the line off with a wink. You nod emphatically into my hand. “Good,” I say, kissing you very chastely on the lips so I don’t tempt myself out of my tease. “Good night, my pretty slut. Maybe you’ll get lucky and I’ll wake you up in the middle of the night.”