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There’s a dark part of me that craves you. Nothing so quaint as mere sexual desire: I want to feel your body subsumed into mine, and your will so thoroughly controlled that it doesn’t feel separate. I yearn for a conjoined moment that belongs utterly to me: an orchestra of tangled limbs and lips and sweaty skin that I conduct. I want to take all of you and breathe in how much you want to be taken. The only part of your independent desire I want to leave you with is the part that remembers you wanted this–but then, it’s what I wanted, so it’s not really independent anyway.
I know this is not the way I’m supposed to want a person (probably not the way I’m “supposed to want” anything). I want you like a drug, because with you, power rushes through my blood like a euphoric. When I’ve heard the effects of heroin described, I’ve thought, “Ah, yes, I think I know that feeling from drowning in the dark pools of his eyes and believing he would do anything I told him to.” In truth, I find it hard to believe that any mere drug could compare with that rush of pure power.
But no matter how much I love to feel myself drowning in your glazed eyes, when I look into my own eyes in the mirror, I see the ghosts of guilt and fear and self-doubt. No healthy person could ever want what I want with you. No healthy person could ever do the things I do to you. No healthy person could ever consent to just be owned by another person like this, let alone enjoy it, so even though you’ve ostensibly agreed, you must be broken as well. If you’re broken, your consent means nothing. Well, I grimly reassure myself, running my hands through my hair as I look at my reflection, at least we’re broken together. And isn’t there a kind of beauty in that?
I’m haunted by the inevitable certainty that I’ll damage you, and break this exquisite offering of your Self that you’ve made to me. And then I just won’t be able to look at myself in the mirror at all.
But even while so many of these fears haunt me, I still come back to you for more because the mere sensation of you sucking on my fingers is so seductive I couldn’t possibly stay away. It’s not just the physical sensation of your soft lips on my too tender skin: when you open your mouth to my fingers, it feels like you’ve opened your entire body to my will. It is a carnal mystery that captures my desire even as I ostensibly capture your will.
When you distract me with the warmth of our desire, the feeling that my hands have melted into your pinned wrists, or the way your mouth seems to ache for me to spit in it as if we share a tongue and throat, I can’t possibly remember or care that this might be wrong. Intoxicated from your eyes, I forget that I could hurt you irrevocably, and I can almost come just from your kisses.
But this drunken spell of connection won’t hold forever, and even cuddled up with you in a delicious and languid afterglow, my doubting ghosts still haunt me. Until finally, one of them prompts me to ask, “Do you trust me?”
Naked in bed, our arms around each other, my collar around your neck and my fresh fingernail marks gouged into your flesh, you look at me almost sardonically as you reply, “Shouldn’t I?”
Somehow I can’t even look into your eyes as I tell you what is surely an obvious fact by now. “Well, I’m not a very nice person, you know.”
Tracing your fingertip from my neck to my nipple, I can hear the smile in your voice as you say, “You look very nice right now.”
I trace my bite marks around the base of your cock, half smiling to myself as your cock stirs slightly at my touch, even as tears sting the corners of my eyes. “Does this look nice to you?”
“Nice and hot are not the same thing.”
“Maybe that’s just as true about me as well.” In a rush, I tell you what you already know, better than anyone else, but for some reason it feels like a confession. “I like dancing on the knife’s edge of consent. I like pushing you a little bit past what you’re actually okay with. I like just looking you in the eye and informing you what you want. I do things to you that make even me cringe at the idea, and I just get turned on more because I think they’re awful. I don’t get off on taking care of you, or saying nice things to you–I get off on the sight of spit on your face and the fact that you’ll let me do it.”
“Well, those things turn me on, too. If they didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”
I’m actually crying now, but I don’t want to be. All I want is… to just want you and feel okay about it.
Petting my hair, with too much understanding in your voice, you say, “You don’t love the parts of you that want those things. You don’t trust yourself. And no matter how many times I tell you that I trust you, it’s never going to make up for that hole in yourself.”
“You’re right, of course you’re right.” I bring my head up to kiss you. “I’m just going to go to the bathroom for a minute and clean myself up.”
No matter what it looks like, I’m not trying to run away from this difficult conversation, or hide my tears from you. I just know that you really are right, and no matter how much I enjoy staring into the liquid depths of your eyes, my reflection in them isn’t what I need to see right now: it’s my own reflection in the mirror.
Staring at myself, I take a deep breath before forcing myself to whisper out loud, “I’m not going to turn into a rapist or a child molester because of the way that I want people. I play with grown ups who want what I want. I’m going to embrace what I want and not hate myself for it.” It’s complicated, of course (it often is with kink). I’m into feeling a little bit dirty and ashamed of what I want to do to people. But I’m not into the gut wrenching fear that I’m going to hurt you and lose your trust. Biting my lip, with tears still in my eyes, I say the words that I barely believe: “I trust myself. And if I hurt someone, I won’t let it become more about my pain than theirs.”
It’s not that simple, of course. It’s never just as simple as saying some words: it’s a daily practice of understanding, compassion, and belief. There’s a part of me that only cares about being better at trusting myself for your sake, but I know that’s not good enough. I have to want to be better at this for my own sake or it will never really stick.
I force myself to say these strangely difficult words again: “I trust myself.” Then I splash water on my face and come back to bed with you. Kissing you again, I ask, “How do you see me?”
It’s not a great question, but you seem to understand me. You think for a moment and then say, “I see someone who looks like she wants to devour me. You always look at me like you’re imagining me naked even when I’m barely wearing anything at all. I see someone who will put me wherever she wants me and make me like it. What do you see when you look at me?”
“Food,” I say, grinning. “Prey. A dildo that will beg to come.” I can feel the electric charge in the air as we’re both getting turned on by what was originally a serious question. But I make myself ask the next hard question anyway. “Aren’t you afraid that I’ll hurt you?”
“Yes, but I’m into being afraid.”
I laugh, and then ask the question again that you hadn’t actually answered before. “Do you trust me?”
“I do trust you. I trust you a lot.” You grin wickedly. “Why does my dick get hard when I say that?”
I reach my hand down to verify the truth of your words. “Because you’re subby as fuck, slut.”
“Noooooo,” you say jokingly, your laughing words cut off as I put my hand on your throat, over your collar. I’m not choking you at all, but its presence there is such a palpable reminder of belonging that I don’t think you even know how to make a mock protest. Your whole demeanor shifts with that single gesture. Your breathing slows, your body seems to slowly melt into a puddle even though you were already lying down, and your pupils seem to fill up your entire irises. It takes so wonderfully little effort to transform you from “partner” to “sub.”
Hooking my finger in the ring on your collar, I tug on it insistently. “Come on, slut. I need to pee.”
This doesn’t take any convincing. Pulling you behind me by your collar, I lead you into the shower, where you obediently lie down on your back, still totally hard, but now with an eager and hopeful look on your face too.
“You’re such a pretty toilet,” I laugh. “You know I fantasize about just leaving you here for a day and pissing on you every time I have to go and not letting you get cleaned up in between.” It would never actually work for several reasons, not least being that I get so turned on doing this that it gets hard to pee. But it’s a good fantasy.
Squatting over you, I notice yet again how perversely my brain registers peeing on you as one of the most intimate things I can do to a person. I have a moment of questioning myself again–what kind of person thinks piss is more intimate than sex?? But I comfort myself with the thought that I’m like a cat, and peeing on you is marking my territory: and that’s not a designation I’m willing to grant most people.
It’s hard to stare into someone’s eyes while you pee on them, but it takes the fun out of it not to. My pussy is hovering over your cock, almost touching it, and I want to fuck you at least as much as I want to fuck you up. Your cock actually twitches up towards my pussy, as though it longs for the feel of my warm piss.
“It’s so fucked up that you like this,” I mock. When I finally manage to get my pee out, you moan like I’ve just come on you. We are, of course, two people who are so delightfully fucked up together. “You’re disgusting,” I laugh, standing up and kicking your piss soaked balls with my foot. You grunt in pain as I do, but I know what you really want.
“You really want to jerk off while I do this, don’t you?”
“Yes, mistress,” you say meekly.
“Too bad,” I laugh, sloppily jerking your piss covered dick off with my foot.
The only thing I hate about these games is how filthy I get in the process, but it’s worth it to feel this improbable sense of erotic belonging. “Sit up,” I tell you, shooing you to the back of the tub with my foot. “You can sit in that filth for a minute where you belong while I get cleaned up.”
You look so bedraggled and nasty, wet and stinking of my piss, cock hard, and your whole body practically shuddering with some combination of degradation and desire. It’s gross, but it’s also one of the hottest sights I can imagine. I feel a little gross myself for thinking so, but I’m into feeling that kind of gross.
I stare down at the disgusting (and obviously aroused) huddle that is you while I shower. Once I’ve thoroughly washed myself off, I let you stand up and get yourself cleaned up. Then I bend you over outside the spray of the water so that your hands are pressed against the wall, your ass exposed. Pressed up tightly behind you, I run my fingers down your lower back and close to your ass. You instinctively lean into my touch, murmuring “fuccccckkkk.” I giggle.
Reaching far around your body, I stick two fingers in your mouth to suck. “You think that’s enough lube?” I ask teasingly, pulling them out.
“Probably not, mistress,” you croak, your voice hoarse with desire and fear.
“I’ll put real lube on them if you’ll lick them when I’m done.”
“Fuccccckkkk” is all you say in response.
“I’ll pretend like that means ‘yes,'” I laugh again. I add some lube, then push both fingers inside you. From the sounds of your moans, I could almost believe I’d pushed my entire fist in, but in truth I’m being gentle. From the inside, I can actually feel your cock rising more on the outside, and your whole body contracting in wanting.
“Please touch my cock, mistress,” you beg raggedly. Reaching around with my other hand, I do. Your cock is sticky with so much precum that I could almost believe you’d come without permission except that I can press against the walls of your ass harder and feel more come out when I do. It doesn’t take long before you beg, “Please can I come, mistress?”
“No,” I say lightly, stopping touching your cock. You groan, especially as I press harder into your ass, your fingers trying to dig into the unyielding tiles under them as if seeking comfort there. After a minute, I take my fingers out, and you moan again with disappointment until I stick them in your mouth.
“You got my fingers dirty, slut. Clean them up.” Your muffled noises are not ones of pleasure. “You don’t have to swallow.” You make muffled noises of relief.
I pretty quickly decide that I’ve had enough of tormenting you like this, and pull my fingers out so I can wash them in the shower while you just straight up spit into the tub. There’s something revoltingly satisfying about doing things to you that you hate–or perhaps it’s really just satisfying and arousing that you let me do these things. Once my hand is clean and I’ve made you brush your teeth, I towel both of us dry before dragging you back to bed.
Playing roughly with your dick, I tease, “You’re not hard any more, slut. I guess it’s time to go to sleep.”
“No no no, mistress,” you say pleadingly. “Please fuck me some more.”
Instead of playing with your dick, I press my hand down hard onto your throat, and I feel my clit get hard from the sound-that-is-not-a-sound of you not breathing. I barely have to stroke your dick with my other hand to make it hard once I’ve deprived you of air like this. I keep my hand on your throat as I climb on top of you, wriggling my pussy against your cock until I’ve teased it completely hard with my pussy lips. Watching your face tense from insufficient air, I finally have a kind of mercy on you and slide down your dick until it’s all the way inside me. I only let go of your throat once my pussy has taken full possession of your cock. You gasp for air when I let go of you, and your cock contracts inside me as you suck in air. Riding it very slowly, I stuff my hand into your mouth, pressing my fingers against the back of your throat until I feel it spasming against me, causing your cock to shudder inside me again. When I pull my hand out of you, I wipe your own spit all over your face.
Your cock still inside me, I lay down onto you so that my elbows are digging into your chest, with my face hovering just above yours. Your face jerks while you moan in pain from the weight of my body pressing into you so painfully, your whole chest trying to escape the pressure of me using your own body as leverage.
“I can smell your own spit on your face, slut,” I laugh. “I should add some of my own so you smell more like me.” Riding your cock intentionally too hard, I just open my mouth and let my own drool slide down onto your face.
You wriggle slightly beneath me from the complex combination of these many sensations before asking in an almost panicked tone, “Please may I cum, mistress?”
“Shhh,” I whisper. “You don’t need to cum, you just need to worship my pussy with your cock.” I slow the rhythm of my fucking down until I’m barely moving at all and instead start digging my fingernails from both hands into your chest. You scream, your body arching in pain and incidentally causing you to push deeper inside me.
“That was surprisingly pleasurable for me,” I laugh, staring down into your eyes, which are so wide at this point they seem to have taken over your face. I lean my mouth down closer to yours as if to kiss it, then when my lips are barely an inch from yours, I spit in it.
“Thank you, mistress,” you whimper, and I feel your cock twitching inside me in thanks too.
“You’re welcome, slut,” I say, wiping the combined mess of our saliva all over your face. I grab hold of the ring on your collar and use it to yank you and your body on top of mine, still inside me. Still holding onto your collar, staring into your eyes, I stick a finger from my other hand into your mouth and order, “Make me come, slut.”
It really doesn’t take long for you to get me so close, and I can feel how much me wanting to come makes you want to as well. “Please can I come, mistress?” you beg. I can’t not give in, for all that part of me still wants to torment you.
“Yes,” I moan. Dominant or not, there is a moment of mutual surrender from this kind of shared orgasm. Power is a poem that we write with our sweat and flesh and cum, a poem I can feel in my breath and blood and bones and cunt. My fingernails digging into your back as both our bodies shudder, I moan, “Mine” into your ear as we come. And yet, as soon as we’ve come, I can’t help feeling like sex is almost incidental in this game of power and owning that only sort of feels like a game.
You collapse beside me, your dick reluctantly falling out of me, and I reach between my legs to touch our combined cum and then paint some of it on your obedient tongue. “You’re so good,” I laugh, knowing how much you hate the taste of your own cum. I paint the whole mess on your lips like lipstick and then lick it off, enjoying pretending for a moment like your lips are pussy lips.
“Piss and spit and cum. Do you feel thoroughly claimed, slut?”
“Yes, mistress,” you say with your eyes closed, your face beaming with the blissful and slightly vacant expression of the owned.
I trace my fingers along your collar and feel the weight of your trust in the heavy metal ring on it. You let me do such disgusting things to you for my entertainment and pleasure, and I never quite know how to express my gratitude for that. I’m tired of doubting the sincerity of our dark intimacy, and tired of believing there’s something wrong with us for sharing it and wanting it.
When I was doubting myself earlier, your trust felt like a responsibility I couldn’t live up to. But when I actually believe in myself, your trust feels more like what it should be: a key to lock and unlock You that you’ve given me as a treasured gift.
“You’re a treasure,” I say, caressing my finger along your cheek and tracing it to the lock on the back of your neck. “And claiming you is my thanks for your trust. I’ll try to be worthy of it.” Kissing your neck just above your collar, I grin, adding, “Also, your trust is fucking hot.”
Gently tracing my initials into your flesh, I think, All I want from you is merely everything, adding ironically, no big deal.
“Do you really have to go?” I whispered in his ear.
He smiled sadly. “Yes,” he said simply.
As soon as he got into my house and put down his bags, he knelt in front of me.
“Are you going to do whatever I tell you to, slut?” I asked.
Going through this ritual, stroking the velvet of his collar and then putting it on him for the first time in so long, I actually breathed a sigh of relief. The simple act of locking him up and claiming him felt like a release for something heavy inside me.
Pushing my hands ungently through his hair, pulling it slightly, I purred, “This is where you belong. On your knees, locked up for me.”
I stayed like that for a moment, but eventually I couldn’t resist standing up all the way and stepping over him. My long skirt was just black lace, and I deliberately surrounded him with it. He looked like he’d been completely veiled by me, and under my skirt, he began kissing the inside of my legs, his hands running up and down them. It felt so good that I actually giggled because it was hard to keep my balance. When his soft lips reached the place where my underwear met my thigh, he pulled away long enough to ask, “Please can I lick your pussy, mistress?”
The mere fact of him asking turned me on even more than the feel of his ardent lips and hands. “Yes,” I gasped, my voice catching.
He pulled my underwear aside, and gently started licking my labia. By the time he moved to my clit, I really couldn’t keep standing any more. Reluctantly, I stepped away from him, then pulled up on his hair to force him to stand up.
For the first time since he knelt before me, I looked directly at his face. His eyes were glazed, as though he simply got lost in the folds of my skirt – – or me. I found that look impossibly arousing, and in it a confirmation that he really would do whatever I said. I felt the heat rising in my face as I absorbed that look, and he whimpered slightly as I leaned in to bite his bottom lip, not kissing him. His lip tasted like it belonged to me, and not just because it tasted a little bit like my pussy. The softness of it between my hard teeth was such a delicious contrast that I wanted to hold onto it until it bruised.
But I didn’t, because his mouth was too pretty and useful to wreck.
He sat up in bed, automatically bending his head forward. Without being asked, I took off the earring I was wearing with the key to his lock, and knelt behind him to unlock the lock holding the collar around his neck.
In movies, the click of a lock opening like that symbolizes joy and freedom, usually from arrest or capture. But in bed, that tiny metallic click is an awful sound, like a door closing as someone you love leaves. The magic has ended; the lights have come up at the end of the play. This time, you’re left with dirty sheets to change, a trashcan full of condoms to empty, and a handful of velvet memories.
I held his collar in my hands as he turned his head to me, kissed me gently, then got out of bed.
I hooked my finger into the loop on his collar and dragged him (oh so willingly) up to my bedroom. I left him standing in front of me, while I lounged across my bed, still fully dressed in very little.
“Take off your clothes, slut,” I said archly.
He wasn’t wearing anything a stripper would wear, and he didn’t make a production out of it, but I didn’t want him to. He just pulled his t-shirt over his head, and then started unzipping his jeans, revealing his dick pressing insistently against his underwear. Then he took his underwear off too, leaving him wearing nothing but an impressive erection.
“You look like food,” I told him, crooking my finger to beckon him closer. Still seated, I leaned forward to close my mouth around his dick, which was almost too big to swallow. Almost. Biting down hard at the base of it, I dug my fingernails into his balls, hearing him gasp and watching him struggle to stay upright. Still holding his balls, coming up for air, I asked, “How much do you think you can take, slut?”
“Whatever you tell me to, mistress.”
“That’s a very good answer, pretty,” I said, relinquishing his balls, and gently lapping at the head of his dick with my tongue. And then I pulled a truly awful contraption out from under my bed and held it up for him to see. “Even this?”
He gulped visibly, but nodded.
“I won’t do it unless you ask for it, slut,” I said, dragging one of my fingernails along his dick.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and said, “Please lock up my cock, mistress.”
I grinned. “Well, since you asked so nicely! I mean, I think this is technically a chastity cage, but you’re just not that kind of slut, are you?”
He shook his head nervously, and then I put a metal ring full of awful spikes around the base of his dick and locked it in place with an absurdly incongruous heart-shaped lock.
“You’re the kind of masochist who thinks this is a cock ring, aren’t you?” I mocked. “You’re still totally hard.” He whimpered again. “What do you want, slut?” I teased, licking the head of his dick again.
“Please can I fuck you, mistress?” he begged, sounding a little bit frantic.
“With that on?” I laughed. “Don’t you think that will just make it hurt worse?”
“Yes, mistress,” he said, his voice redolent with obedience and desire.
“Fine, but if you can’t make me come with it on, I won’t let you come until tomorrow.”
He groaned, but stood still while I put a condom on him, and then laid down on top of me.
“You can take off my underwear,” I said generously, wondering even as I said it how the fabric of it pushing against his dick would have made his predicament even worse.
As he stood up, I tried to enjoy the sight of his naked, slightly sweaty, just-fucked body, but all I could think was, I have no idea when I’ll see this again. Until a minute ago, I forced myself to live in the moment for days, enjoying everything about his body touching me right now and never letting myself think for more than a fleeting second about the fact that he would, inevitably, have to go eventually.
That’s a lie. I did think about it for more than a second, but every time I did, I comforted myself with the fiction that he’d be back before I knew it.
“You look nervous,” I mocked, taking hold of his dick with my hand to position it between my legs. He gasped. “Aw, does that hurt?” I teased.
“Everything hurts,” he choked out.
“I’m sure that will just make you want to come harder,” I taunted. “Don’t worry, this will make it better,” I cooed, lifting my hips up to force his dick inside me, then intentionally clenching my pussy around it.
He screamed, and then my pussy clenched without me even trying, just because I was so turned on from the sounds of his pain. I wrapped my legs around his back, hooking my ankles together to force him to stay inside me.
“You begged to fuck me, slut,” I hissed. “So do it.”
“Yes, mistress,” he gasped. I unhooked my ankles, and he lifted himself up more to gain more leverage. Biting his lip in pain, he slowly started moving inside me. Every time I pulsed my pussy around his dick, he gasped, which was incredibly satisfying.
“Please can I come, mistress?” he begged.
“No, but by all means keep asking,” I said, making no serious attempts to come myself just to draw out his torment. “And pull your dick all the way out and come back in.” Looking defeated, he did exactly that, which caused both of us to gasp simultaneously–me with pleasure, and him with agony.
“Please can I come, mistress?” he pleaded again.
“No,” I said, pulling my pussy off of him this time.
“Thank you, mistress,” he panted in relief, sweating from the effort of pleasing me and trying not to come.
“Are you thanking me for not letting you come?”
“Hm, I thought so.” I grabbed hold of his dick again, causing him to gasp, and forced it back inside me. This time I reached down to touch my clit while he fucked me, and the look on his face was positively desperate.
“Do you want me to come, slut?”
“Even though you know it will make my pussy clench around you so much harder and make it almost impossible for you not to come?”
Gasping, my pussy shuddered around his dick as I came, and he actually screamed, which only made me come harder.
“You’re a good slut,” I panted, stuffing my fingers into his mouth to suck my cum off, his dick still inside me, albeit no longer moving.
I should get dressed, I thought. What the fuck am I going to do in this bed once he leaves except morosely caress the cum stains on the sheets and try not to cry from how empty it feels?
How do I look if I beg him to stay? I wondered. Pathetic, sweet, or cute? I care too much about my dignity to tell him how much I don’t want him to go, but even to me, that pride seems pathetic too.
I’m so used to telling him what to do, but I don’t get to tell him what to do this time. Even a dom can’t order you to stay.
“I think you deserve a reward for making me come with that awful thing on,” I said, pulling my fingers out of his mouth.
“Thank you, mistress.”
He pulled out of me, and I unlocked the lock on his dick, freeing it. There were tiny dents at the base of his dick where the spikes had poked him. I licked them, and he moaned.
“Well, I freed your dick, but now I think I’ll just capture the rest of you,” I grinned.
I put cuffs on his wrists and ankles, then attached them to latches on the bed. Spread eagled and still hard, I thought he looked more like food than ever.
“You know, you ought to look like you’re at my mercy like this, but you look like you want it too much, slut,” I teased. It was true. He looked more like a cat that got the cream than a compromised sub.
He grinned lazily. “I think you knew what you were getting when you threw me into your bed.”
I pounced, sitting on top of his chest, and pulled my excuse for a dress off over my head. Then I grabbed his balls with one hand and choked his throat above his collar with the other. “My own fucking slut?” He nodded as best he could while I choked him. “Yes, I was well aware.” He actually looked a little bit disappointed when I stopped choking him, although his eyes were much more glazed with my hand still clutching his balls. I looked down at him. “You’re a whore who’s dying to have me fill your ass, aren’t you?”
I moved back a little bit so that I could sit on the bed and extend my leg enough to put my toes in his mouth. “Do you want me to fuck your ass with my foot, slut?”
He cringed a little bit as he stopped sucking my toes long enough to admit, “Yes, mistress.”
“Don’t worry too much,” I mockingly assured him. “I’ll start with my hand.”
As I stared at him fully dressed in front of me, I couldn’t help but notice the ironic reversal of convention: a naked dom, sitting in bed, with a fully clothed sub standing in front of her. But that moment of irony was quickly overtaken by the conventional fears and doubts of every nervous dom ever: wondering if he’d ever be back, terrified that this time I’d pushed him too far, never quite believing him when he said he loves the terrible things I do to him.
If he doesn’t come back, it’s my fault, the awful voices in my head whispered.
Tell me again that it’s okay, that you’re okay, I want to beg. But you can only ask so many times.
I’ve never felt as vulnerable and exposed as I do when I’m controlling him.
I grabbed two sets of nipple clamps with chains, and attached a clamp to each of his nipples, then to my own, chaining us together. This wasn’t remotely fair, since my nipples were several times the size of his, so the clamps hurt me a lot less. But fair was hardly the point, of course. The point was that I like having my nipples pinched, and that whenever I moved too far away from him, I’d make him scream. I gave them an experimental tug, just to make sure they’d stay on, and his instant moan of pain was a good clue that I had the right idea.
I put a glove on and, feeling kind, lubed up my whole hand. I pushed two fingers in his ass relatively gently, and he looked incredibly happy.
“You’re such an ass slut,” I teased, wriggling my fingers inside him and watching how his dick reflexively twitched in response. I could see the desperate look in his eyes from wanting to touch his cock, but of course, his hands were pinned to the bed. He bit his lip, and I waited for him to ask, still moving my fingers inside him.
“Please will you touch my cock, mistress?”
“Sure,” I said, digging all five fingernails from my other hand into his cock. He screamed, and I intentionally jerked my body back too, pulling on the nipple chains between us, which made him scream even louder and me gasp. “You might want to be more specific if there’s something particular you want,” I warned cheerfully.
His voice sounded a bit choked as he pleaded, “Will you please be nice to my cock, mistress?”
“Probably not.” Instead I added another finger to the two already in his ass, and watched with delight as his hips bucked (clearly wishing he could fuck me too) and his entire face contorted in pained desire.
“Try begging,” I suggested.
“Please will you touch my cock, mistress? Please?”
“You still just don’t sound quite frantic enough.”
He looked like he was going to bite his lip off in desperation.
“How’s this?” I suggested, adding another finger to his ass and enjoying his writhing scream as I did. “I’ll touch your dick if you promise to lick my toes after I put them in your ass if you ask me to stop.”
He groaned, looking trapped and disgusted and aroused all at once. “Yes, mistress,” he said in a small voice.
“You’re such an ass slut that you’ll agree to just about anything to keep me fucking you, won’t you?”
“Yes, mistress,” he said meekly.
I started sucking his cock, my fist still in his ass, but I barely lasted a minute before he looked and sounded frantic. “Please stop, mistress, you’ll make me come!”
I took my mouth away and gently stroked his dick with my other hand, but even with that he instinctively shook both his head and one of his pinned hands. “Please!” he begged. I laughed.
“You spent so much time asking me to touch your dick, and now you’re begging me to stop. You really can’t make up your mind, can you, whore?”
He just whimpered.
“Well, I think now is a great time to switch to my foot,” I said, pulling my hand out slowly, taking my glove and the nipple clamps on me off, and putting my toes briefly in his mouth to suck on again. I fucking loved the way his tongue and lips felt on them, and I could almost come from the sensation. But instead of sinking into the feeling, I pulled my toes out and added some lube to them. Then I put two toes in his ass.
His ass was already very open from having had most of my hand in it, and my absurdly sensitive toes reveled in the warm, wet, tightness of him. I got another toe in easily, and then started stroking his dick with my other foot. I really didn’t expect that to do much, but he started moaning in a way that strongly suggested it was, and his ass clenched around my toes as well. I managed to contort my foot until I had all five toes inside him, and at that point he screamed and begged, “Please can I come, mistress?”
“Yes,” I said easily, which should have been his warning that doing so might not really be in his best interest. But I was far too intrigued by the prospect of making him come with just my feet to say no anyway. His ass twitched around my toes as he came, while splatters of his cum ended up between the toes on the other foot. I pulled my foot gently out of his ass, then rubbed the other foot in the puddle of cum on his stomach before sticking those toes in his mouth.
“Clean up your mess, you dirty slut, and be very grateful I didn’t push you into having to clean up the other foot,” I ordered. I pulled the nipple clamps off his nipples, making him scream, but then he diligently started cleaning his cum off my toes while I laid back and played with my clit. His mouth felt so good on my toes that it didn’t take much for me to come, and I felt my toes twitching in his mouth in an echo of the way his ass had just twitched on my other foot.
I pulled my toes out of his mouth, and then I put another glove on my hand and lubed it up.
“Fuck,” he said, and I just grinned wickedly at him as I pushed two fingers back into his overfucked ass.
His dick was only half hard, and his whole body jerked as I mercilessly found his prostate and stroked it. I was sure that if he wasn’t tied down, he would have tried to curl his body into a protective ball. Instead, he laid helplessly spread open, while he screamed, his head rocking from side to side in a silent “no.”
“You loved this just a minute ago,” I teased.
“It feels completely different after I come,” he managed to say, although it was clear that he was having a lot of trouble talking through the pain.
“I know. Poor slut, tortured by your own pleasures.”
“This… Isn’t… Pleasure…”
“Fair. Tortured by my pleasures then.” I watched him writhe some more, and then generously promised, “I’ll stop whenever you ask.” I loved adding a whole other layer to his torment: an explicit challenge to see what he could take from me.
His face was absolutely contorted in agony, and he didn’t last much longer before he just said, “Please.” I knew he didn’t want to actually ask me to stop.
“Please what?” I asked innocently.
“Please,” he said more insistently.
“Please you want to come?” I teased.
His voice was thick with pain and something close to shame as he begged, “Please stop.”
“Ooookay,” I said, pulling my fingers out of him with an evil wink.
I could deal with him walking out my door so much more easily if he was just taking himself.
You always give a piece of yourself away when you let someone in too deep. But I knew, with an ache that permeated my entire body, that I’d given him too much. From the first moment I ever pulled him up off his knees and into my bed, I foolishly gave him my desires. Anonymous fantasies I’d had for years now had a face, voice, smell, and taste: his.
Getting exactly what you want is a dangerous thing.
Now when he leaves, he won’t just be taking himself. He’ll be taking my fantasies with him.
I gave him a minute to clean himself up alone before pushing him into the shower with me. “Such a dirty whore,” I mocked. I gently soaped his entire body, then rinsed it with the shower head, careful to try to keep his collar dry. When I was done, I told him, “You got them dirty, so wash my feet.” He bent down to do so, and by the time my toes were clean when he stood back up, he was already a little bit hard.
I pushed him against the wall at the back of the shower and kissed him for the first time since he’d arrived. I loved the feel of his soft lips against mine, but even as I enjoyed the physical sensation, I was still distracted by the ever present electric current of power between us. “You belong to me,” I whispered in his ear, taking his now completely hard cock into my hand.
“Yes, mistress.” I kissed him again, but now it felt a little bit violent, my tongue playing with his as if it sought to win a game.
A game that was long since won.
I hastily pulled him out of the shower by his dick, got us both dried off, and dragged him back to my bed. We curled up naked around each other, kissing each other’s mouths and necks, our hands frantically moving all over each other’s bodies at the same time. I tilted my head so he could suck my ear, then felt my body quivering as he trailed kisses down from my ear, over my neck, all the way down to my nipple. My nipple was so sore from the clamps earlier that his tongue on it almost made me come.
His dick kept brushing against my thigh, trailing against the outside of my labia, and all I could think about was how much I wanted it inside me. But even though I felt a little bit drunk with desire, I still wanted to hear him ask for it even more than I wanted the thing itself.
I grabbed hold of the loop on his collar and pulled his face to mine, our lips almost touching. “Ask for it, slut,” I told him.
“Please can I fuck you, mistress? Please can I make you come?”
“Yes,” I said, and fucking meant it. I let myself come almost as soon as his dick was inside me, and I kept coming over and over until finally my pussy was so exhausted that I just told him to come with me one last time.
He collapsed beside me in contented exhaustion, his head resting on my chest. “You are the prettiest fucking toy,” I murmured into his hair, damp from the shower and from sweat.
“Thank you, mistress,” he said, his lips moving against my neck. “I’m yours.”
Lifting his face to me by the ring on his collar, I kissed him emphatically and said, “You are mine. Don’t you fucking forget it.”
“When will I see you again?” I finally forced myself to ask as he left.
“Soon,” he promised, blowing me a kiss.
It’s never soon enough.
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.”
You can also check out a video of me reading this out loud here:
(this isn’t about sex. This is about bodies)
There once was a man who was an amazing dancer. He had always been an amazing dancer, someone who danced as easily as he breathed.
But one day, for the first time in his life, he suffered a minor injury that kept him from dancing: he broke his leg. He couldn’t dance for weeks, and not dancing gave him too much time to have dire thoughts.
Was this really the thing he wanted to be the source of his personal power? Was it okay to depend on this fragile body? His partners’ bodies might break too. He couldn’t depend on anything that came from this fragile, weak body.
Once he physically recovered, he went back to dancing. But even though his body could still do things that almost no one else can do, all his partners agreed he just was not the same. Finally one of them asked him why. He told her, “I can’t have the same passion for dance that I used to, because I might lose it at any moment. I can’t face the agony of that disappointment again. I can’t let myself NEED to dance again.”
His partner said, “Darling, you’ll eventually lose everything, because that’s what it means to be human–you lose it, or we lose you. It just depends on how long you’re here. But are you going to waste your youth not doing something you won’t be able to do much in old age for fear of losing it some day?”
He argued, “I can’t put my faith and strength in something so fragile.”
She said, “What are you going to substitute for it?”
He looked her straight in the eye and says, “I haven’t found it yet. But you told me I’m going to lose it eventually. So I may as well spend the intervening time finding that substitute.”
She said, “you’re a fool and a truly great dancer. Cross that bridge when you come to it. We’re all weaker when we let mortality make us squander the gifts we have rather than appreciate the glory of something temporary.”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m going to learn to find strength and power in myself, not some stupid thing that doesn’t even matter very much.”
She glared at him. “You should be doing that regardless. But what do you think your SELF is? It’s a collection of the things you love and are good at. Leave that behind and you’re trying to find power from a shell of yourself.”
He retorted, “My shell is safer.”
She said, “Should we never light fires because some day they’ll burn out? The only thing in life that lasts that’s worth having is love. Everything else will abandon you eventually. That’s why all the Hindu gods of destruction dance. So fucking dance. Because even as one thing goes down, something else goes up. And some day, when your personal fire goes out, you’ll know that you didn’t deliberately freeze yourself today because you wanted to prepare yourself for being cold later. Welcome to the world.”
He hated everything she said. But after she spoke to him, his dancing changed. A passion of a sort came back. Now he danced with anger instead of joy. He danced with the anger of someone who was furious at the gods for taking away something he loved and then expected him to love it the same way when they gave it back. His partners were afraid now when they danced with him, because his dancing glowed with electric rage.
Then one day, he collapsed at the end of an exhausting dance, sobbing in the arms of the partner who had convinced him to do this again.
“I can’t do it any more,” he said. “I just can’t.”
“For a little while,” she told him, “you found the beauty in white hot anger. The flame reached a peak. Now you think it’s gone out again.”
“I’m sure it has,” he cried. “I can’t do it any more.”
“If you get back up again, you should be able to do it indefinitely,” she said. “Because now you’ll dance with embers, and they glow so much longer than white hot flames.”
He didn’t believe her, but when next he danced with her, initially reluctantly, he found he wasn’t so angry any more. He made his peace with his mortality and relearned the art of loving his body. And he was a much happier person (and an even better dancer) because of it.
And so he danced. And danced and danced. And even though he couldn’t dance forever, he learned that he could love himself no matter what.
Calling all kinksters! I am currently doing a survey of people in the BDSM subculture, and I would love for you–yes YOU–to take it and share it with your kinky pals. Here’s the link:
Yes, I am a real academic researcher. And this research has been approved by the Gallaudet University IRB.
I wake up in the morning to the feeling of you sliding your pussy down onto my hard cock. This isn’t as pleasurable as it sounds. My dick is usually as hard as wood in the morning when I wake up, and about as sensitive. But I am happy to please you, and I love waking up to the sight of the blissful expression on your face. You usually only use me for five minutes, and cum six or seven times. Feeling your spasms of pleasure on me is so much better than any cup of coffee.
When you climb off of me, I go into the bathroom to clean your cum off my cock and balls and even parts of my thighs. I love the way they smell when they’re covered in your scent, but it’s too distracting to go to work like that.
Still naked, and still hard, I go downstairs to make you a cup of coffee while you do your hair. When I give it to you, you greet me with a hug and a kiss and tell me what a good boy I am. Hearing that from you makes me feel like I’ve been lit up a little from the inside. I sit with you at the table while you drink it and we both read the news, while you occasionally distractedly reach out to caress my cock in a possessive fashion.
Eventually, I beg you to stop touching it so it will go down and I can get dressed and concentrate on my work. I give you a kiss as I leave and you put your fingers in my hair, staring at me meaningfully.
“Mine,” you say.
“Yours,” I agree.
I head to work. Partway through the morning, as always, I start to get actually horny. When I get bored, my dick gets hard, and when I get a break for lunch, I go to the bathroom to text you. “Please may I touch myself, Mistress?”
Somewhat to my relief, you text back immediately, “Are you willing to suffer for it later?”
I look down at my insistent erection, sigh, and text back, “Yes.”
“Good. Then you can touch yourself while thinking about getting your large butt plug kicked into you, and then fucking me with it in until I cum ten times.”
I’m not actually allowed to cum unless I’m inside you. Standing in the bathroom at work stroking my cock with no hope of giving it what it really wants is in some ways worse than sitting at my desk and leaving it alone. Thinking about the pain that’s in store for me makes me question the wisdom of what I’m doing, but at the same time, it only makes me more aroused.
I’m careful not to cum. Once I accidentally did cum when jerking off, and you didn’t let me cum at all for three days. I thought my brain and my balls were going to explode.
I give my dick a few minutes to calm down before I go eat my lunch and get back to work. It’s still boring, and I’m still horny and impatient to get my dick back into you. Finally, the day ends and I have a few minutes in traffic to think about how many ways I want to fuck you when I get home.
You’re home before me, and you’re already in the kitchen making dinner. You’re so small that I greet you by easily picking you up and carefully slam you against the wall with a kiss as you wrap your legs around me. My dick is already hard as you slide down against me and it, your feet back down to the ground. I get down on my knees, slide your panties aside, and bury my face up under your skirt and in your pussy lips. I slide two fingers up inside you and feel you cum around them several times while I lick you. As always, it strikes me as truly perverse how easily I can make you cum, even though you say that you’ve never been able to make yourself cum, ever.
The rules say I never have to ask permission to finger you, or lick your pussy, but I always have to ask for things that are for the benefit of my dick. I look up at you from the floor imploringly. “Please can I fuck you, Mistress?”
“Oh yes,” you say, looking down at me. You seductively pull down your skirt and underwear, while I frantically undo my pants.
I leave them down around my feet and pick you up again, this time sliding your pussy down onto my dick. I groan as I feel you instantly cum around it once, twice, three times, your legs trembling around my hips as I hold you up, bracing you against the wall. “Don’t you dare cum,” you hiss into my ear, and I bite my lip to try to distract myself from the pleasure of your pussy.
“Please, Mistress?” I beg.
“Oh, no,” you grin wickedly, sliding off of my dick. “I’m saving that for later.”
I need to cum at least twice a day, and it’s easy for me to cum three times. But more than that, and my dick gets a little less responsive, so you’ve forbidden me from cumming more than twice a day except on special occasions. You don’t usually give me a choice about when those two times happen.
This whole encounter has only lasted a few moments, and, wearing just your shirt and bra, you go back to stirring the food that’s cooking on the stove while I lean against the wall. Panting, my hands touching the back of the wall behind me to help me resist the temptation to touch my hard dick which is soaked with your cum, I desperately wish you’d do anything to make me cum. Instead, you bring out my collar and put it around my neck, and I gasp as you rub your body against me seductively as you do, just to make me want more. I appreciate the comfort of your collar, but I’m too aroused to be able to concentrate on much except my cock.
Eventually, I step out of my pants, and, still slightly hard, start helping you make dinner. When the timer says we have to wait two minutes for the food to cool, you mercilessly get down on your knees, suck my cock (which is still covered in your cum) fully hard again, then lean over the counter and order me to fuck you. “Slowly,” you instruct. “All the way out, and all the way back in, again and again.” I can actually watch your pussy lips become more swollen as I do this, and in that two minutes, I feel you cum four times. I have to pause twice for longer than I know you want me to so that I won’t cum, and I’m worried that you’ll punish me for that.
“Good boy,” you say, when the timer goes off. “You are the best sex toy.” Even though I love hearing that, I still want to cum so much that I actually feel a little like I might cry. And that frustration itself is so arousing that it keeps me a little bit hard all through dinner, as we sit at our little dining room table, both still wearing our shirts and naked from the waist down.
Afterwards, you insist that we cuddle on the couch for a bit and watch a TV show. You casually reach over and touch my cock occasionally throughout, always keeping me at least half-hard. “Please, Mistress,” I finally say, not wanting to do this much longer.
“Please what?” I ask, playfully.
“Please may I cum?” you beg.
I laugh. “Well, I warned you there would be a punishment for touching yourself earlier. This is the first part of the punishment. Are you going to ask for the second part?”
You hang your head in shame. “Please punish me,” you whisper.
“Look me in the eyes when you say that.”
You lift your head, and your pupils are so dilated that it’s hard to see your irises. Your cock gets harder with mortification as you say a little louder, “Please punish me.”
“I’d be delighted to,” I say, feeling myself getting wetter from the look of humiliation in your eyes. I pull you upstairs by your collar and throw you down onto the bed. I lube up your biggest butt plug, which is very big indeed, and without any preamble, I begin gently working it inside you. You gasp, and your eyes and dick both get bigger as it goes completely inside.
“Please touch my dick,” you plead.
“No,” I say, and I grin as I watch you deliberately place your hands under yourself to keep from touching yourself.
“Mine,” I say, nodding at your dick.
“Yours,” you half-gasp, half-scream as the butt plug goes in all the way.
I give you a moment to adjust, then stare into your terrified eyes as I pull my foot back. “Count for me from 5,” I say. You do, and on 0, I kick the plug into your ass. Your whole body flexes in pain from the impact, and you groan. I do this four more times until you’re crying.
“Now fuck me,” I say, laying on my back, with my legs spread. “No cumming until you’ve made me cum ten times.”
You look a little hopeless, and we both know that the odds of you succeeding at this are not high–and what the punishment will be if you fail: me forcing you to drink your cum from my pussy while I sit on your face. You’re very bad at not cumming once something is in your ass.
You almost gingerly insert your cock into me, barely moving it. “Even I can’t cum from this, little slut,” I laugh. “You’ll have to do better if you want to make me cum.”
You close your eyes. “Please count while you cum?” you plead.
“Alright,” I say. You surprise me by pulling all the way out and slamming completely inside me, instantly making me cum. “One.” You wriggle your cock around for a moment, and push again. “Two.” You pull out, and repeat the whole process. “Three, four.” You pull out completely, and I watch you pause so you don’t cum. You push in, pull out completely, then grit your teeth and push in again, moving inside me longer this time. “Five, six, seven.” This time you pull out completely and simply pant while a couple of tears slip down your cheeks and sweat flows down your chest. You pause for too long, and I say again, “Fuck me, toy. Your cock is mine.” Really crying this time, you thrust in (“eight”) pull out, thrust in again (“nine”) and pull out. “Now cum,” I order. Sliding back inside me, I’m awed by how long your entire body spasms. My own body responds from the intensity of your orgasm, and it seems like we cum for ages together, until you collapse on top of me.
“Mine,” I say again.
“Yours,” you agree.
I feel your prodigious cum start running out of me before your cock has even gone soft. “I’m impressed you lasted until ten,” I say, and I feel you beam with my compliment.
“Me too,” you laugh.
I reach around you and gently pull the butt plug out. Then I reach up to kiss you. “I love you, slut.”
“I love you, too, Mistress.”
We lay like that for a while, then go downstairs to take a shower together. We wash the dishes and cuddle on the couch until it’s time for bed. We brush our teeth, lay down together, and turn out the lights.
Without saying a word, I start stroking your cock until it’s hard in my hand, then straddle you to ride you. I cum a few times quickly before you beg me to cum. I make you ask three times, but I know how important it is for you to cum before you go to sleep, so as usual, I tell you yes.
There is no pleasure as great or as simple as being rocked to orgasm by the intensity of yours, then falling gently asleep in your arms with my pussy still dripping.
No actual dildo could ever make as much of a mess of me as you can, but no dildo could ever cuddle fuck me to sleep as well either.
“You are the best toy,” I murmur sleepily into your chest before drifting off.
Preface: For the last couple of months, I’ve been toiling away on a novel that is erotic metafiction (it’s why I haven’t been blogging as much). Expect a much abridged version of the following exercise to make it’s way into the novel, as written by my main character. Part 1 gives you the day of a male dom and a female sub. Part 2 gives a very similar day with a female dom and a male sub.
And yes, before you ask, some of this actually happened.
In the morning, I wake up, go to the bathroom, and brush my teeth. I come back to bed, and arrange myself in a kind of yoga child’s pose, with my ass in the air and my pussy exposed. I keep my face hidden this way. This isn’t about my face. This is about my pussy, which is a substitute for your hand.
I hear your alarm go off moments later, and you immediately roll over and slide your dick all the way inside my waiting cunt. Your dick is always biggest and hardest right when you wake up, and it feels a little like I’m being fucked with wood. I can’t say this is pleasurable; I don’t really like being fucked before I’m really awake. I do this for you. You never say a word to me during all this, and this morning, as usual, you don’t even touch the rest of my body while you almost lazily fuck me. You don’t care if I enjoy this, and I don’t either. Every morning, I bite my lip because I’m forbidden from making any noise and reminding you that I’m a person as you hammer your cock into my pussy, cumming inside me after only a couple of minutes. I feel your cum dripping down my pussy and onto my clit as you pull out in an almost careless fashion.
The rules say I’m not allowed to clean up until after I’ve made you coffee downstairs and stood by you while you drink some. You always joke that you don’t like cream in your coffee, but you love the sight of cream dripping down my leg while you drink your coffee. That’s when the day starts as your girlfriend, and not just your hand. You come into the dining room in your boxers and kiss me when I hand you your coffee, and you tell me I’m a good girl. I smile, and stand near you, reading the news over your shoulder as you look on your phone. Occasionally, you reach out casually to gently caress my wet pussy, and then you clench your hand on it and say, “Mine.”
“Yours,” I agree, loving feeling so tangibly possessed by you.
When finish your coffee and stand up, I go to the bathroom again to get cleaned up, then get dressed for work. It’s only a five minute walk for me and a five minute drive for you to our workplaces. Mornings are always dull, and I always start counting down an hour before lunch when I get to see you again. “I’m leaving now,” I text as I walk out the door.
“Sofa, leave all your clothes on,” is all I get back in response.
“Yes, Sir,” I text back.
I get home and enthusiastically throw myself over the sofa arm in the living room, my crotch digging into it. The rules say I’m allowed to jerk off whenever I get permission, but I’m only allowed to cum with your cock inside me. Being told to bend over the sofa counts as permission, and I writhe against the soft hardness of the sofa arm while I wait for you. As I become more aroused, my underwear gets a little bit wet, and I suspect that some of your cum from the morning has slipped out in my excitement. I only stay like that for about five minutes before I hear you get home. I stop moving, although I’m already so close to cumming that it’s a little painful to stop.
I’m still not allowed to look at you, but I hear you come into the living room. I hear your footsteps as you walk up behind me and drop your pants, and my pussy clenches with anticipation as when I hear your belt clank against the floor. You move closer to me and move my underwear to the side, sliding your cock into me. I try not to gasp at the delicious combination of texture and friction that happens as I get pressure from my underwear pressing against me, your cock thrusting into me, and the sofa arm pushing up against my clit. I keep carefully writhing against the sofa a bit while this happens. The rules say that I’m allowed to cum as long as it doesn’t interfere with or distract from your pleasure. Once I writhed too much, and you didn’t let me cum for three days. Another time I made too much noise, and you stopped fucking me to throw me over your knee and spank me until I cried. It hurt to sit down at work for the rest of the afternoon, which hurt worse because my pussy was so swollen from the way you viciously fucked me afterwards.
But a minute or two later you surprise me when you order, “Cum for me, slut.” I don’t even have time to say anything as I finally can release myself, my hips bucking against you as I feel you cum inside me, with me. You collapse a little behind me, over me, kissing the place where my neck meets my shoulder.
“You’re better than my hand, slut. My hand can’t cum.”
I feel indescribably happy from this praise. You slowly pull out of me, then carefully arrange my panties back across my cunt. “Keep those on until we’re done with lunch, slut.”
I follow your orders, of course, even though they’re soaked in five minutes.
There are always too many meetings late in the afternoon, when they feel the most tedious. When I get bored, my dick gets hard because I always start thinking about sex. But I don’t actually like jerking off that much, and you begged me a long time ago not to cum unless I was inside you. You do so many things for me that I’m more than happy to give you that. I love jerking off inside you. And when I let you cum, you pull my own cum out so effortlessly. Your cunt is much better than my hand.
At 4:55, I get your text. “Leaving work in just a minute, Sir.”
I breathe a sigh of relief that the day is almost over. You relax me even as you arouse me. “Bent over the bed. Naked.” I text back.
“Yes, Sir.” That simple phrase puts a smile on my face, even as it makes my dick start to get harder in anticipation.
I make the short drive home, the whole time imagining the way you’ll look bent over the bed. I open the door, go upstairs to our bedroom, and feel my dick tighten inside my pants at the sight of your gorgeous naked ass up in the air, obediently waiting to please me. Your succulent pink pussy lips are still closed together, but I’ll fix that in a moment.
I quickly unbuckle my belt and drop my pants to the floor. My dick is already so hard and has been for so long that I don’t bother to take them off. I spread your pussy lips with the head of it and shove it inside you, observing the tiny gasp that slips out of you.
I love not having to worry about pleasing you. I love that you love for me to use you. I love the arch of your back when you’re bent over like this, and I love the tiny flutters of movement you can’t help but make whenever I pull too far away from you, as if your pussy just can’t stand to be separated from my cock. But most of all, I love the wet way your pussy grips my cock. It only takes a minute for you to make me cum, and then I love the way my cum drips out of you as I pull out.
I let you clean up while I get dressed again. Then I caress your gorgeous naked body downstairs in the kitchen when you come downstairs, rewarding you by putting your collar around your neck as I kiss the back of it. “Mine,” I murmur into the back of your neck.
“Yours,” you breathe in happy agreement.
It’s a pleasure to make dinner with you and eat with you and simply enjoy your company. But watching you eat naked with a collar on while I remain clothed just makes me want you all over again. “Come here,” I say at the end of dinner.
You obey, sitting on my knee while I grip your breasts. There is a daily ritual here, and it says that when I fuck you after dinner, you’re not my hand.
“You’re my beautiful slut,” I whisper into your ear, already feeling myself get hard inside my pants. I unbuckle my belt, and unzip my jeans, sliding them all the way off. My dick is already completely hard, but I want to feel your mouth on it. “Suck it, slut,” I say, pulling my shirt off and then putting my hand in your hair. You move from my knee to the floor, while you take me into your mouth. I groan with pleasure, but I don’t let you do it for long before pulling you back up by your hair. “Ride me,” I tell you. You straddle me across the chair and carefully slide your pussy down onto my cock. I savor the feeling of you sinking down onto me, and I love the way you close your eyes in pleasure. I let you keep going until I’m close to cumming myself and then I pull back your hair, ordering, “Cum for me, slut.” You immediately reach your hand down to your clit and start rubbing. I grasp your hips with both my hands to help you continue riding me, and not long after your whole body shakes as you cum all over me, your pussy spasming and your eyes glazed.
By force of will, I manage not to cum and hold you tightly, standing up with my cock still inside you as you wrap your legs around me. I carry you the short distance into the living room, and put you down onto the couch. I reluctantly pull out of you, but I spread your legs so that your hips are at the edge of the cushions, while I kneel on the floor in front of you.
“Sit on your hands,” I instruct you. “I want you to last as long as possible, but when you want to cum, beg for my cock.”
“Yes, Sir,” you say, your eyes still glazed.
I start gently licking your swollen clit, moving around your aroused pussy lips. I love the way you taste, and I love the way your hips arch towards my face. I don’t last long at all before you beg, “Please, Sir, please fuck me so I can cum.”
“No.” I deliberately slow down, blowing on your clit while you wriggle and writhe underneath my face. I laugh at your agony, then go back to licking again.
“Please!” you squeal.
“No,” I say, looking into your terrified open eyes. I back off again, only touching you with the barest tip of my tongue. Then I go back to sucking in earnest, my cock aching to be inside you again.
“Please!” you say. There are tears in your eyes now.
“Please what?” I ask, standing to position my cock just outside your pussy.
“Please fuck me so I can cum!” you practically scream. I slide inside you, and I feel your pussy spasm in desperate relief around me, which immediately causes me to cum as well. I readjust you so that I can lay with you on the couch, cuddling you and enjoying the feel of your body against me.
After showering with you, I spend the rest of the evening curled up on the couch with you, watching a movie. It’s as relaxing as cooking with you is, and I love the way you hold me.
“I love you, Sir,” you say, nuzzling your head into my chest.
“I love you too, slut,” I tell you, kissing the top of your head.
But eventually, it’s time for bed.
You go upstairs before me, and I hear you brush your teeth and get in bed. After brushing my own, I come into the dimly lit room and see you on the bed, your ass in the air, obediently waiting to service my cock one last time before we go to sleep.
My beautiful slut is so much better than my hand.
At RambleGRUE 2016, I assembled a crazy and kinky crew to create the world’s second Totally Awesome Very Kinky and Sexy Musical. You can watch the whole thing online! Make sure to check out one of my favorite numbers, Everyone’s a Little Bit Kinky!
Gruesical 2: A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Dungeon
(originally “Comedy Tonight” from A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum)
Filked by Fire_Monkey
Singers: IPCookieMonster, NerdCoreBecca, and RiverFern
“Everyone’s a Little Bit Kinky”
(originally “Everyone’s a Little Bit Racist” from Avenue Q)
Filked by Octopuppy
Singers: IPCookieMonster, MJSqueaks, NerdCoreBecca, and RiverFern
“When You Got It, Flaunt It”
(from The Producers)
Singers: EmberBliss and RiverFern
“You’re My Sub”
(originally “You’ll Be Back” from Hamilton)
Filked by Pyrope_
“I Dreamed a Dream”
(originally “I Dreamed a Dream” from Les Miserables)
Filked by MJSqueaks
(originally “Suddenly Seymour” from Little Shop of Horrors)
Filked by Graydancer and BlueRisk
Singers: Graydancer and BlueRisk
“I Want a Monster to Be My Dom”
(originally “I Want a Monster to Be My Friend” from Sesame Street)
Filked by Fire_Monkey
“Glitter and Be Gay”
“Wig in a Box” (from Hedwig and the Angry Inch)
Other Performers: stranjbird, BoundPunk
AND HUGE THANKS TO THE TECH CREW, AKA TOMCAT83
And also to the awesome person who recorded this for me, whose name I have forgotten because I’m a horrible person, but it included “Bunny”
Tonight, March 6, the Slut will be interviewed on the People of Kink Radio at 7 PM EST! You can call in and ask questions:
Call via Skype for free by using the Skype ID of “thepeopleofkink”.
You can also call 231-580-TPOK. Long distance charges may apply.
Check it out at https://www.spreaker.com/user/crazyheart