Wednesday, 1 February 2017

To have his cock and lock it? (1)

This is a germ of an idea. A teaser for an entirely new (and possibly quite long) story, let's say. Let me know what you think, either in comments below or directly via the contact form

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Ian got up from his seat, feeling a sudden tightening in his chest and throat. Marie was already standing up and strode in in two quick steps without looking at him. He followed her, the memory of the recent events that brought them here running like a film in his head.

**

"I want you to lock me up. Not just tie with leather straps when we play sometimes. Like, properly. With a device. I think it would really make things better for you. I'd love to do it for you. Please, Ma'am,"  Ian looked at her from the sofa, eyes darting up to then quickly return to the pages of the book as if to make it seem less important a request, less pressing a need. Though using her honorific, something that slipped out without his consciously deciding to do so, indicating that he was talking in a submissive to a dominant mode, might not have been the best idea.

"No."

Marie didn't even moved her eyes from the screen of her laptop but her ''no'' was a firm and a decisive one, and he didn't really expect anything else. They'd discussed it before, or he tried to hint, and hint and hint again. But the hints or suggestions hadn't worked and he felt he needed to make it clear to her how much he wanted it. To think of it, he didn't understand her objections.

"Why not?"

"I don't want to."

"But why not?'' He was worried about appearing demanding, or whiny, but if he was to have any chance of persuading her, he needed to know her reasons.

Marie turned towards him now, smiling but maybe just a little annoyed.

"I don't want to," she repeated, "This should be enough of the reason for you. We have an agreement, I recall? I say. You do. Boy."

He shivered a little, reacting to the change in her voice, to the slower, firmer tone, to the lowered timbre in which the raspy hoarseness made itself more apparent. And to that "boy" thrown in at the end, a reminder of the nature of their relationship.

"But... Yes. Yes, we do have an agreement. But... it would give you so much more control over my cock, Ma'am. I wouldn't be able to... I mean..."

Marie got up from her chair and made the steps towards him, standing just by the sofa, her knees almost touching him. She leaned down and cupped his chin in her right hand. He could smell her perfume, smoky and balsamic, and the leather of her wrist bands. Her fingers closed harder, she pulled him up, making him wince.

"Maybe you are forgetting yourself a bit here, boy. Maybe you need a reminder," her hand released him and swung, a short, fast slap of the ends of  her fingers that shocked him more than stung. Though it stung too.

"And sit fucking straight when you're addressing me as a submissive addressing a dominant."

Ian took a deep breath to stop himself from making noise, straightened up, put his feet on the ground and his hands on his knees.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am', he mumbled, the memory of her fingers hot on his skin, the humiliation of the slap magnified momentously by his cock starting to stir and fill up in his pants. He tried to adjust his position so she couldn't see his growing erection, but of course she did, a smirk emerging on her face, colour rising on her cheeks.

"I'm glad that's clear. As to control...,'' she glanced at his crotch, ''As to control over your cock, sweetie darling, it seems to me that I have quite a lot as it is, don't I? A mere slap and a few firm words and you are standing to attention. In every way possible, '' she laughed.

"Ian."

He jumped up to his feet. When she said his name, this way, as a separate utterance, he was to stand up, back straight, head down, eyes up, whatever he was doing and wherever he was. The reaction was reflexive, nearly automatic now and so was the way his cock hardened to a nearly-full erection, pushing painfully against the tautening fabric of his jeans.

She dropped onto the sofa, stretching back, her right leg bent, its foot on her left knee, her hands crossed behind her head, and looked at him in an appraising way.

''Ian. When we started this, this... arrangement. This relationship. I made it clear that the sexual part of it would be determined by what I want. I said I would respect your limits and that I would listen to your suggestions and ideas, but that the only two things I promised was to respect your limits and to dominate you. Not to fulfil your fantasy of submission. Is that correct, boy?''

He nodded.

"I can't hear you. Is that correct?''

''Yes, Ma'am. It's correct.''

''There was no dealbreaker must-haves on your side, was there?''

''No.''

"No what?''

''No, Ma'am. Sorry.''

''So, you are standing here in front of me. Nodding and yes-ma'aming me. Your dick hard because I showed you who's the boss, isn't it? It makes your dick hard to be shown your place, doesn't it?''

"Yes, Ma'am.''

''It makes your cock hard when I slap you, doesn't it?''

"Yes, Ma'am.''

"I like it too, of course. I almost like it too much to use it the way I just did. We match pretty well on this whole kink thing, don't we? And yet you feel this need to bring up something I have no interest in? And push it when I say I am not interested? The rest is not enough for you?''

Ian felt that the situation was getting out of control, and not in the way he liked. He regretted asking her (again), he regretted the way he stated his request this time, he regretted trying to push it or trying to understand why she wasn't interested. It didn't matter why. He was here to do what she wanted. He wanted to do what she wanted.

''But what really pisses me off here is that you have the fucking cheek to say that you would be doing it somehow for me."

She got up and was now standing in front of him.

"So. For the last time. I like you, Ian. I like you a lot. I like the dynamic we have. I like the way you respond to me. I like what I can do to your cock. I like what I can do to your mind even more,'' she reached down and run her fingers along the length of his faltering erection, making it rigid again. Ian moaned. "I like to be in control,'' her head leaned towards him, ''I like touching you any way I want,'' she licked his neck, ''I like the sounds you make,'' she bit his earlobe, not a soft nibble but a sharp, hard bite that made him gasp, ''I like teasing you, sometimes,'' she squeezed his cock hard through the fabric, ''I like hurting you,'' her left hand was now playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, her nails scratching gently, then sliding lower and digging harder, ''I like that you like me hurting you,'' her other hand moved to his cheek, still smarting a little from the slap, ''I like your cock too,'' she said, suddenly matter of fact, almost cold, stepping back from him, ''I like to play with it. I like it hard and throbbing and I like the way you fall to pieces when you get to the edge and beg me to come and I like how your face looks when you do come for me. And I don't have any desire to see it or feel it in some ridiculous chastity cage. It's my cock and I will decide what happens to it in this relationship.''

"Now go to your room, strip and wait for me there like a good slut.''

And that seemed to be it then. They had sex later that day, playfully rough, but not less rough for all the playfulness, leaving Ian's back, chest and ass with a lattice of marks and splotches of bruises and she let him come, eventually, after bringing him to the edge of begging desperation several times, and he made a firm decision to never mention the whole sorry subject again lest he spoiled all the good things they shared.

So when, maybe a week later, Marie brought it up, he was more than defensive, doing his best to reassure her that it didn't really matter for him.  When she explained what she had in mind and how it was possible, he initially recoiled. Wearing a physical object that prevented him from becoming fully erect or ejaculating was one thing and whatever he'd claimed here, he found it a red-hot turn on, even the idea of it making him hard and pulling up all the submissive urges from the recesses of his psyche. But letting someone fuck with his mind - with his brain - using some experimental techniques derived from a combination of psychology, neuroscience and medicine was an entirely different matter.

She was pretty persuasive with her ''but this is what you really wanted'' argument though, and none of the research she'd done seemed to contradict the claims made by the OC-Lab, however preposterous or worrying they appeared at first. Numerous emails, several phone and Skype calls and one meeting with ecstatically enthusiastic customers (or was it subjects?) of the discreetly named and located and extortionately priced facility later, Ian found himself sitting in the blond-wood-and pale-leather-armchairs waiting room, white tulips stark in their glass vases, Mapplethorpe prints, possibly genuine, on the walls.

The door to the left of him opened, a tall man in his late twenties dressed in jeans and a loose shirt somewhat incongruent with the milieu appeared with a smile.

''Sorry to keep you waiting. Dr Marsden will see you now,'' he said, his accent a low southern American drawl, his smile a preppy perfection. Ian hesitated, then got up.

**

-- to be continued, perhaps














A little spiral

"You don't find face slapping a turn on, do you?"

"No, M. Not really. It's not something I'd seek myself.''

''And yet you asked me to slap you. The other day. Why, if being slapped doesn't do much for you?''

"Being slapped doesn't turn me on. But slapping me turns you on and I love that."

And that he asked for it even though it wasn't his thing turned me on even more, of course. 


Saturday, 10 December 2016

Humiliate me by making me more like you, oh powerful female

I have written before about the whole host of mental complications I have with humiliation/degradation play in general, as well as made a judgey analysis of my attitudes to a standard cuckold fantasy script.

But I haven't addressed one form of humiliation play that is specific and common in male-sub/fem-dom dynamic, and that is feminization-as-humiliation. From "making" the sub wear female underwear to using neutral female terms of address for him to yelling heavily gendered verbal insults and terms of abuse, F/m humiliation play is rife with humiliation-by-feminization.

And I have so fucking struggled with that for years - more so because my kink epiphany was intimately connected to a relationship with a cross dressing humiliation slut and it took a lot of effort to reframe that particular dynamic in a way that didn't make me feel uncomfortable.

It's complicated because (1) I do kink on humiliation and (2) I do get the fun and occasionally erotic potential of embarrassment and shame associated with breaking the little conventional taboos and most of all because (3) I actually do like myself some gender bending and yes, "feminization". I even wrote smut about it a few times, ranging from stockings-and-heels dressup to full-on passing-as-woman fantasy.

There is a ''but'' - a limit - there and it's a big "but".

Kinks don't exist in social vacuum. Taboos don't just get created behind closed door of nurseries and family homes. Sure, I know that most if not all bdsm play is about consensually playing with things that otherwise would be unethical: abusive, illegal or both. Kink can be intellectually useful by forcing us to examine its underlying assumptions and prejudices. Racial humiliation and humiliation-by-feminization are good subjects for such examination because they would not exist if racism and sexist misogyny didn't exist.

I have extremely little experience of race play and nothing remotely useful to say about it, but I have come across humiliation-by-feminization a lot. It makes my skin crawl, and not in the sexy way.

A caveat is due here: sometimes sissy-humiliation is less about the inferiority of the female and much more about the pathetic inadequacy of a male who longs to become one. The humiliation there can at least partially pivot on you'll never be a good enough woman rather than on  feminine-is-inferior. Not my thing, partially because it makes me sad and mostly because the sissy-aspired hot-pink-polyester femininity is not really my thing. But that's a simple YKINMK *shrugs* case.

On the other hand the humiliate me by pretend-making me assume normative trappings of femininity and yelling gendered slurs in my direction trope is not merely a YKINMKBYKIOK. It makes me resentful, angry, judgemental, and intolerant and very doubtful of the BYKIOK part of that lovely acronym.

Just fucking think about it: you are asking a woman to humiliate and degrade you by making you MORE LIKE HER? And that is supposed to somehow express her power over you? And that is supposed not to mean that being a woman is somehow inferior and degrading in itself?

Yeah, I had the conversations. I have heard the but its' not about it arguments. I have seen it's only degrading for a man not in itself  line numerous times. I remain very un-persuaded.

If humiliation-by-feminization didn't hinge on misogyny, the majority [insert a NotAllMenWhoAreIntoThis tag here] of men who fetishize it would not so frequently express - explicitly state and subconsciously ooze - the most sexists ideas about gender, sexuality, social structure and gender roles that should have remained festering in the darkest miasma of pre-public-sanitation Victorian mire. Not in their kinky roleplay, but in actual conversations about actual life. But they very often - more often than other fetishist, subs, bottoms or even dominants - do.

And finally, if humiliation-by-feminization didn't hinge on misogyny but was simply about gender bending, social inappropriacy, convention breaking and resulting shame/embarrassment, there would be a popular M/f equivalent. 

We would have femsubs cutting their head hair and growing body hair, forbidden to wear makeup, and forced to wear unisex/butch clothes. We would have femsubs donning strapons and servicing real women that their maledoms really desire. We would have femsubs called good boy if they did well in their antisissy role and feeling a mixture of shame and pleasure at such recognition. Humiliation-by-masculinization would be a thing in M/f  kink. But it isn't. In all the years of perusing bdsm themes I have come across such a scenario once, and even that had a lesbian element to it. 

Tuesday, 6 December 2016

Ready

I am standing in the door of the bathroom, leaning against the door frame, watching him under the shower in the tub; he knows what to do but I still like to watch him, blurred by the steam and partially obscured by the glass screen but still very much visible.

I'm watching the way he moves under the hot water, waiting for him to reach for the razor. I am watching him bend down and start shaving, the dark hair falling off, quite a lot of it there. I am watching him crouch down in the steam, then sit down, stretch to reach less accessible places; change the razor cartridge, redo the patches he'd already shaved for a closer cut. 

I'm getting more turned on now, not really by what I'm seeing though he's easy on the eye, lean and toned, the tan lines mid-thigh and at the waist marking slightly darker areas of his skin. But it's the act of watching, my eyes all over his body, moving slowly from one place to another, that makes my pulse quicken and my muscles flex, my back straighten and a wave of arousal move through my body with a deep breath I take. I wonder if he senses the greedy hunger and the sense of entitled ownership manifest in my gaze. And I wonder if he knows how looking at him makes me feel.

I'm getting more turned on now, not really by what he's doing, though I dislike body hair and I'm looking forward to running my hands over his newly smooth skin. But practically, some trimming would have done me fine. He's not exactly hirstute anyway and his chest is already smooth as are, mercifully, his back and upper arms. But it's the act of doing this, preparing himself for me, performing this little act to my instruction and for me that matters. 

I make the few steps towards the tub, lean over and turn the shower off. He's standing there, naked, dripping wet and semi-hard. I run my hand along his cock, down to his balls and back up towards his navel, enjoying the smoothness, checking for stray patches of stubble, enjoying the way his cock unfurls towards me under my fingers, a small moan as he exhales. I take the razor from his hand.

"Turn round, boy, and lean towards the wall." He obeys, his palms flat against the tiles, his feet apart, and I shave the patches he missed on the back of his thighs and butt, running my fingers along the line of his hips to check again.

"Kneel now, legs apart, head down," my tone harsher even to my own ears, as if to match the exposed position he assumes. "Spread." I finish quickly, conclude with a light slap, leaving him to rinse off and dry while I go back to my bedroom.

He finds me there quarter of an hour later, in front of the mirror above the mantelpiece, reapplying mascara to my pale eyelashes. It takes me a few seconds to become aware of his presence. I see him in the mirror first, in the corner of my eye, blurry in the imperfect peripheral vision of my contacts, a silhouette resolving when I turn round and see him walk towards me. 

Just as I asked he's wearing the lingerie I'd left for him; the silk knickers tight and smooth on his smooth skin, his cock just about covered; the heels changing his gait, slowing him down but giving an almost disturbingly feminine shape to his legs in black holdups.

And again, it's not nature of the garments that matters here, though he wears them well and the effect is of a tantalising gender bending rather than a caricature. But it's him putting on what I'd picked for him, each silky piece slowly pulled on. Then the shoes, strapped tightly and the realisation of what a controlled slut he was. Obedient and willingly helpless to the point of my desires being preferable to his own. 

When I see him, I can’t quite believe it’s him. But then in some way it's not quite him anymore but somebody - something - else. A toy.  An object to play with. 

And although I know it's not real in the way we think of the "real", with one undoubted meaning underlying events and one genuine identity underlying what I do and what he does, there he is, standing behind me, his erection impossibly hard against the silk, the leaking precum spreading on the fabric, the collar in his hand, it feels true. And when I take it from his hand and he kneels, head down and eyes up, waiting for me to wrap it around his neck, waiting for me to say "What a hot little slut you are, J," it is real and thrilling.

It's just as thrilling as it was last night, the repetition of the ritual somehow enhancing it, the expectation enhanced by the preparation making my own skin tingle when I see the way he bows his head to give me access to the back of his neck, the way my fingers feel there, brushing his skin, doing up the buckle, the way he shivers when I run my fingers against the short hair on the nape of his neck. 

It feels like we've done it hundreds of times before, it feels like we are doing it for the first time ever. The moment lodges itself in my mind, and I know it will stay mine, always, long after we part, long after we both stop believing that any of this has really happened, I will have this perfection and this clarity: his bowed head, the curve of his back, the specific weight and the particular texture of the collar in my hands, the warmth of skin on his neck, his pulse alive on my fingertips, his lips opening when I touch them briefly, his long breath that turns into a moan of "M". 

I take a chain leash off the mantelpiece that doubles up as a dressing table, clip it onto one of the D-rings, it falls with a cold rustle onto his back, the looped handle around my fingers. The nipple clamps come next, adjustable ones with little knobs that let me ration the pain and pleasure precisely. I tighten them while I get him to hold the connecting chain between his teeth, creating a semi-gag and a little predicament as he knows the pain will come if he opens his mouth for any purpose.

I look at him like that, slutty and kneeling for me, still and now ready; so ready. In that moment I quite possibly want him more than I have ever wanted anybody before. I want him, but also want to play. I want to test that leash and see how far he'd go, how far I can pull him, and how far he can make me pull him too. 

I wonder if he has any idea how much I want it all. Maybe not. Maybe it's better like that.

---

For more prep, check here:



Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Wednesday, 30 November 2016

The now of now (the kiss)

A content note: this fragment has neither specific kinks nor overt female dominance/male submission dynamic in it (or does it? - comments welcome ;) but just happens to be the bit of writing I'm tweaking now. For the basorexic among you. 


I'm walking off the ferry. Strangely untired albeit dirty and sweaty in my entirely inappropriate clothes though it might be just nervous energy. I hope you've got the text. I'm looking around as I approach the terminal building. It's almost dead, though lit up. But everything pretty much closed. It's not normal time for boats to arrive.  I look around. Not quite sure what I'm looking for until I see you, just outside the terminal, a tall figure in a green shirt.
My mouth stretches in a big smile, a mixture of terror, joy and disbelief overriding the tiredness and daze of the whole journey. My heart is pounding, I can't quite believe it's happening. I get closer, and still can't believe it. Fucking hell. You are here, and it seems less believable than anything that has occurred so far. Less believable than a ferry that's travelled from dream-displaced Dover to the west coast of Greece, crewed by apparitions of people from my past.
You get closer, I hear a low whisper of a curse, then a louder greeting, “Holy shit. Hi, M.”

“Hello.” This seems completely inadequate. “J?”
You are breathing fast, staring at me with a nervous smirk, giggling a little, seeming a bit giddy. You make a move as if you wanted to grab me but were stopping yourself from doing so.

I'm still smiling. But it’s a smaller smile. I wonder if you know what I want to do now. My smile is gone, lips a little ajar.  You can probably hear my breathing. I'm close enough to see your eyes even in the unreliable light here. You blink a few times. Then stop blinking, completely and we are in a full eye contact. Your smile vanishes.  

“May I?”

I don't reply at first, but touch your face. That gesture, that thing I have done so many times in so many different stories. Gently. Just fingers on your left cheek. Tracing the cheekbone and the jaw. Fingertips only. Slowly. Then my full palm on your cheek, thumb running along your lips. I answer.

“Yes.”

You have no idea how many times I thought of that. How many times I imagined it. The meeting. The first touch. Or maybe you do, maybe you have been doing the same, maybe you are as shocked by the now of now as I am because you don’t take your eyes off me and they are begging. You sigh, lean forward, trembling, and let your lips gently land on mine.

I anchor your shivering. “Hi.”

I'm shaking too. I might die here. Or burst out laughing. Or just grab you and pull you closer. “That would be allright,” you murmur and I am not sure if you are really saying it, thinking it to me or I’m imagining it. I suspect it doesn’t matter. I pull your head down to the crook of my neck, my fingers in your hair, my breath somewhere in the region of your ear. You moan, an erection growing against my hip.

"You're here, boy." Your fingers slide on my wrists, “Yea. Yes I am, M.” I kiss your neck. Just under your earlobe and down, my right hand in contact with yours, the left one still on the back of your head. “I swear I might just die,” you whisper, your right hand slips around my waist.

I'm almost panting, my hands on your butt, pulling you closer.  I kiss you on the lips, quickly. First in the middle, withdrawing before they part, then in the corner. Left side. You gasp briefly. The touch of my lips is light but I am not moving away. Then a lick, just a tip of my tongue. You stay completely still, almost unnaturally, as if you were struggling against yourself not to kiss me back. “Still, boy.” You moan a little, “Yours, M. Yours. I'm yours.”

I pull your head away, want to see your face, your eyes. Then kiss you fully. Open lips, tongue sliding between yours (horrible breath probably unless we engage magic powers here and why the fuck not). Your eyes shut automatically.  Taking in my kiss. My tongue under your upper lip. Then teeth grazing the lower one.  Voracious yet slow. Your tongue meets mine, swirling slowly, patiently somehow.

Yes

Yes.


My eyes back open, your hand moves up. I let you touch my hair and the back of my neck briefly. Then move your hand back round my shoulder. Eyes closed, I feel you with my mouth. Gentle bites now and then. Holding your lip between my teeth, touching it with my tongue.
Yes

Yes.

Yes

Everything else is gone. I'm holding your head between my hands now and just tasting you, kissing you, licking you slowly. “It's all gone,” I hear, or sense in my mind again, the same strange voice I can’t identify even as I am sure it’s coming from you.

I want to bite your lip harder but I'm stopping myself. I want you so much that it almost doesn't matter what else is going to happen. It's all good. It's herenow. It's happening.

“This is pretty surreal.”

“Yes,” your lip between my teeth.

“Just. You. Me. Here, together,”  my hands on your face.

It’s happening in the now of now.

Tuesday, 29 November 2016

That time of night


Revisiting my older themes. This is an old  FMM story, and it has bit of not-quite-self-aware female dominance flavour, but it was intended as neither a cuckold or a forced-bi fantasy. Instead, it worked my own levers. 


We were both pissed and tired, sitting bleary eyed and fuzzy minded by the bar, in a bar, not to far from the seafront and the pier. It was quite obviously but not dramatically a gay place, but with many mixed groups as well as couples, none of them very scene. I am not sure how we ended up there, it might have been my latent fag-haggery talking, and Andy, I think, simply didn't notice at first or was past the point, and past the pint, of caring. Incidentally, I also wasn't sure - I still am not - how I ended up with that straightest-ever and ever-slightly homophobic boyfriend, but let's just say it wasn't one of my priorities when we met and it kinda rolled on from then.

We had been drinking in this place for a while now, and Andy was sliding from the happy-drunk into the rambling-drunk phase now. The lesbian couple we had been having a Serious Conversation had gone and he turned away from me on his barstool, animatedly talking to some young and obviously dumb guy in a tight polo (yes, I know, I know), almost grabbing him by the collar, trying to persuade him that surely he must, deep down in his soul, fancy women. The guy shrugged and tried to disengage Andy's hands, and I saw the barman eyeing them cautiously and  glancing at the bouncer by the door. He was a nice cheerful guy, young and pretty if a little too cherubic to be my type - lucky, really, as he was obviously also very cheerfully gay - and happy to serve us drinks before, but now I thought we, or at least Andy, might be getting close to being chucked out.

I pulled on his free hand, made him turn away from the guy he was hassling, gave him a cigarette and suggested we leave. He declined, as I knew he would - it was that time of the night - and I shrugged and got myself another vodka and Red Bull, as a concession to the quickly approaching 2 a.m.

Andy managed to obtain another pint and occupied himself with it quietly for a minute. Then he leaned across my lap to the guy standing next to me, nursing what appeared to be a Martini - and yes, I know a Martini at 2a.m., never mind nursing one, is a concept difficult to wrap one's mind around but he really was - who turned up there at some point in the previous five minutes.

“Are you gay too, then?” Andy slurred.

The answer took some time coming and I turned sideways to have a better look. A slim bloke, clean shaven, maybe in his mid thirties, maybe older, maybe younger; shortish, but a little taller than me, in flats anyway; short light brown hair with a slight curl, green eyes, a hint of a smile in the corners of his mouth. Stupid shoes, semi-decent jeans just this side of Jeremy Clarkson, a nondescript shirt, stupidly expensive watch.

“No, I am not,” he answered eventually. American accent, but of the nice type that glides softly and sweetly into your ears instead of grating and panting on every vowel and consonant like most of them do.

Andy seemed surprised and interested, with that kind of irrational interest drunks can develop.

“You fancy women, mate? That's great! I thought it was all fucking poofters in this place,” he announced to the world.

I cringed inwardly, despite my drunkenness, wondering not for the first time what levels of political incorrectness constituted reasonable grounds for splitting up. The guy shrugged, possibly put out by this line of questioning.

“Yea, of course I fancy women,” he said eventually. I didn't think it was that obvious where we were, but didn't say a thing.

“Like my woman, then? Fancy her?” Andy continued his drilling.

The guy looked put out, I thought he was significantly more sober than Andy, or even me, and possibly not yet at the stage when you can entertain such questions from strangers in bars. Or maybe just wary of what consequences giving either a yes or no answer could have.

“Oh c'mon, do you fancy her? Would you give her one? I won't get offended!” declared my boyfriend, placing his hand on my thigh in a proprietary manner and giving it a squeeze.

The guy looked at me as if he was actually seriously considering an honest answer to the question, his eyes fixing on my face, my boobs, my ass and my legs in a quick sequence. I couldn't help laughing. The guy flushed red and for some reason, that cut my laugh short. Instead I looked at him for a second longer than I normally would and smiled. He licked his lips, a quick dart of a tongue, looked at me, then at Andy, then at me again.

“I guess... I guess I would, if she wasn't unavailable,” the American declared.

“I'm a jammy bastard, I know,” Andy said, “And you are a good man, mate, a good man,” he leaned over again, presumably to pat the guys shoulders in his infuriatingly patronizing manner.

“But darling, I think he would also happily suck your cock,”' I said, not too loudly, into Andy's ear, making sure the other guy could hear that too. I am not sure what gave me the idea, and even less sure why I actually expressed it. Andy stopped mid-move on one side of me, the guy on the other seemed frozen as well.

“Wouldn't you?” I turned to him, asking innocently.

A scarlet blush covering his face, visible even in the low light of the bar, was enough of an answer. I glanced down, and there was a slight hint of a bulge in his jeans. Whatever it was in me that provoked my previous statement must have been onto something.

“I...I'm not... I never...” he stammered into his pint.

This was also, in its way, an answer; neither joking it away, straightforwardly denying or being offended. I felt a twinge between my legs, a wave of tension knotting somewhere in the lower belly and spreading down to my pussy and upper thighs, a hot spasm inside my cunt. An image of the two of them together, my man and a bar-met stranger, Andy's big dick sliding inside the other guy's mouth, his pretty whore's lips in a tight circle over the shaft.

My mind reeled, and it took a bit of effort to rein it back. Andy looked a little shell-shocked, and wasn't saying anything. I put my right hand on his, still on my knee, but leaned towards the other guy, steadying myself on his shoulder and whispering my repeated question, by now a largely rhetorical one, into his ear, quietly, so only he could hear.

“But you would, wouldn't you?”

He didn't say anything. I straightened myself and slid off the barstool.

“C'mon. I'm fucking bored here. Let's go.”

Andy followed without making much fuss, which surprised me no end. Maybe he had ideas brewing in his addled brain too, just as I did. I looked pointedly at the American guy.

“And you?”

I didn't REALLY think he would come with us. But he did. We walked out into the cold outside. I wasn't sure where to go now, I didn't fancy a club full of eighteen and twenty year olds e-d up to the
gills, and I didn't really want to continue drinking anyway.

My head was spinning enough as it was, and I wanted sex. I wanted a cock in my cunt, getting progressively wetter and hotter, I wanted hands on my breasts; my nipples were hard and tingly now. I was, basically, horny as fuck and I felt quite serious, in a drunken way, about trying to wangle a threesome, even if without any boy-on-boy action, out of this situation.

It had been years since the last time anything like that happened with me and Andy, though that was with another girl. It had been even longer since the last time I had fun with two men playing together as well as with me. I wasn't even sure if Andy knew I had ever done anything like that. I had told him, but he had always had that amazing talent for forgetting anything that wasn't quite to his liking.

“You staying where?”

The guy pointed vaguely to the large monolith of the Sheraton on the other side of the main square.

“Wanna come... over?” he asked, hesitantly.

Bingo. I didn't even had to make any suggestions. I smiled at him encouragingly and we all walked across the square and into the warm, well lit lobby. Andy looked a bit unsure.

“I'm sure there is a mini-bar in his room,” I said encouragingly.

The American confirmed, and as we waited for the elevator, I gave Andy a kiss, sucking in his tongue, sliding mine deep into his mouth, ravenous and horny. He ground his hips into me, his erection appearing noticeable, his hands eager on my hips, cupping my ass, pulling me in.

We didn't do anything on the way up, it was only a short ride anyway, and by the time we got to his room I started to have a sort of wave of second thoughts about all this. Had I been sober, I would have probably bailed out now, but as it was, it was more of a in for a penny, in for a pound scenario.

In the room, Andy leaned against the desk, while the American guy busied himself extracting booze from the mini bar. I didn't want a drink, though, I wanted cock and thus dropped to the floor by Andy's feet and reached to his belt. He didn't protest when I undid it and unzipped his pants and pulled out his dick.

It wasn't fully erect yet, but even not quite hard, it was a lovely thing to behold, well above average in girth, at least as far as my sample of cocks had gone, and I really love a thick cock, length isn't really
that important, but I do like something to stretch my cunt. It was quite possible I had stayed with him because of his cock, actually.

It was now in my hand, close to my lips, warm and alive, with the gorgeous shiny head covered with that lovely, tightly stretched skin that feels so fantastic on your lips and under your tongue. Or under mine, anyway.

I licked all around and used my tongue to play with it, each lick and stroke sending jolts of excitement into my pussy. I am so fucking oral that I think there is a direct line of communication between my mouth and my cunt that more or less bypasses my brain.

I moaned as I took him into my mouth, sucking some before getting it out again to run it around my lips. I love that, like a grotesque lipstick. Or maybe I love lipstick because it reminds me of cock.

I heard a gasp, a groan and looked up and behind from my preoccupation. The other guy was standing there, the door to the mini bar open, a can of beer and a miniature of Jack Daniels in his hands, a transfixed look on his face, his teeth closing on his lower lip, the bulge in his jeans now totally obvious.

It turned me on, big way. I wasn't sure what he wanted, or wanted more; to swap places with me or with Andy. I suspected both, but it didn't matter. I was sure what I wanted and by now I was pretty sure I was going to get it.

“Come here,” I called.

He didn't react immediately, but when he did, he was very quick putting the drinks down and making the few steps over. I was wanking Andy's cock with my hand, stroking slowly, occasionally giving him a lick around the crown. His precum was flowing now and he closed his eyes, rocking his hips slightly against my touch. I held his cock out to the guy who approached us.

“Down here.”

Andy's dick was now between us, in my hand, hot and hard.

“On you go bitch. You know you want it,” I didn't know why I was saying those things, apart from the simple fact that it ramped my arousal somehow but it seemed to work for the American guy too because he moaned again, louder, then reached out with his hand, locked his fingers with mine. I let go and he started to stroke, his fingers enveloping Andy's shaft, caressing, squeezing, grabbing harder.

It looked fucking hot, especially with the look on the American's face, a mixture of  rapture and dejection, dizzy desire and some sort of inner pain; altogether I found it strangely but hugely exciting. I think it was more the look in his eyes than the action, though let's be honest here, the action was pretty juicy too. My pussy was throbbing, soaking wet, and as I watched him masturbate my boyfriend's cock I stroked my breasts and pulled my nipples with one hand and I pulled my skirt up, sticking my hand between my legs. My clit was hard and hot, and my cunt was throbbing.

“Suck him, cockslut,” I moaned and he eagerly opened his mouth, leaned towards Andy's crotch, took his cock in.

I moaned more, the image of his mouth filled with the hard cock unbelievably arousing, my cunt dripping. His fingers were dancing at the base of Andy's shaft, stroking his balls, his full lips stretched by the rigid meat, his eyes closed, his head bobbing up and down as he sucked and slurped.

Andy's hips were moving now, he pulled the guy's head in, grabbed his hair and ears to direct him. I heard gagging gasps, and then saw he adjusted his angle, opened wider, used his own hands to hold on to my boyfriend's ass. He was making much better job of deep-throating him than I ever had done and frankly I started to seriously, very seriously indeed, doubt what he said about never having sucked dick before. Or maybe he was just a natural cock-whore at heart. I could empathise, to a certain level, but with nowhere near as deep a commitment as he was showing.

Andy looked surprisingly close to orgasm now, he normally took ages to come when so drunk but obviously that little Yank whore was doing something quite right there. I loved it all right, but I didn't want him to shoot his load down that ravenous mouth, so I pushed the American away, grabbing his shoulders. He let go with a bit of a yelp but no major protest, and I pulled Andy on top of me, onto the Sheraton hotel bed, my legs spread wide open, my cunt drenched and wanting.

His cock felt great, thick and hot and filling; his movement inside me just right, hitting all the spots, stretching all the areas that needed to be stretched. I knew I was probably to drunk to come, but it didn't stop the exquisite waves of pleasure, like miniature orgasms exploding inside me, contractions in my belly and high inside my cunt, spreading down to my legs, my clit, my erect nipples, the backs of my knees, the soles of my feet, my hands, my lips, my spinning head.

I wanted him to come inside me, feel it drip down my slit, my thighs, to the crack of my ass. I grabbed his butt with more strength, pulled him in again, spread his ass cheeks apart, wrapped my legs around his hips, put one of my feet in the small of his back. I wanted him to come in me.

“Lick him for me you dirty bitch!” I yelled, remembering suddenly whose room were were fucking in, and soon I could feel  more weight on me, a head, soft hair and a breath, near my hands, then more pressure as the little cockwhore we'd picked up started licking Andy's balls, then I could feel that his tongue rimmed his ass, slid in.

Andy's thrusts got faster and deeper now and when he came, it was with a deep, growly moan, his cock at his full length in my pussy, his warm jizz spilling inside me. He stopped for a while, flopped onto me, hugged me tightly if somewhat unexpectedly, then got up, shaking the other guy off; dug out a packet of cigarettes from his trousers and walked out onto the balcony nearly closing the door behind him. 

The American was on the floor by the bed, sitting on his heels, looking utterly dazed, still completely dressed, the bulge of his obviously stupendous hard-on clearly visible.

I sat up, my skirt crumpled up around my waist and hips, my stockings still on, as were my boots, my shirt opened up to expose my breasts, the cups of my bra pulled down. My hair was all messed up, I could feel the make-up smeared and smarting in my eyes, but what I was mostly focused on was the pulsating need in my cunt. I was so wired up, so hot and horny and wanting to cum by then that I was acting completely on autopilot, driven more by my raging lust than any rational thought. I knew I was too drunk to come but I thought, as much as I was capable of thinking, that I might as well pass out trying.

I shuffled to the edge of the bed and reached out to the guy on the floor, looked into his eyes. he looked away at first but then let me catch his gaze, and even in my drunken, sexed up daze I saw something there that made me shiver, not just lust but something that went beyond it, a desperate want, a gaping hollow in which a need to be wanted and to be used tumbled; twisted around each other and seemingly inseparable.

Or maybe I was just making up things, pulling them up like slurred words from the recesses of my own blurry mind, looking for complexity where there was nothing more but simple desire.

I grabbed his shoulder, pulled him closer, between my knees, pushed his head down, his face landed on my sodden crotch. I could feel his breath and the touch of his lips and tongue when he started licking me, each touch and stroke adding to the irresistible pressure that had been building up inside me.

He ate me out like nobody ever had done before, as if he knew exactly where and how to lick, suck and nibble; how quickly and how slowly, how gentle and how rough to be. He licked out my pussy, dripping with Andy's cum; cleaned me out until I was moaning and shaking somewhere on the edge; his tongue sliding briefly into my cunt, then slowly and stiffly into my ass, his lips on my labia, then on my clit; licking up, then sucking it as if it was a miniature cock.

I held him between my thighs, my knees squeezed together, my cunt rubbing on his face, his cheeks, nose and chin; I was virtually face-fucking him just like Andy had face-fucked him before; my juice covering his face with a slick, sticky layer.

Despite all the anaesthetic effects of the booze, I realised that I was going to come, that this greedy little slut was going to give me an orgasm of earth-shattering proportions. When it started, it was somewhere high inside my belly, a series of contractions vibrating and reverberating down to my cunt, a gush of  liquid flooding out, my clit suddenly feeling huge and so hard it felt about to explode, then splintering into tiny fragments of pleasure.

It spread out, my legs opening and closing involuntarily, my whole skin hot, burning, then covered in sweat, and then I was not just moaning and panting but crying out, screaming.

Andy must have noticed what was going on, but he remained on the balcony,  and I was vaguely grateful to him.  I didn't need him there and then, I was riding this crest, thinking of nothing but the
sensations crashing through my body, the aliveness of my skin, the pulsing of the blood.

The man that gave me that pleasure was a mere instrument of it, a conduit of my desire, like a toy I might have used; I almost forgot he was there, and yet he couldn't be MORE there, welded to me, held tight between my legs, eating out my cunt, firing up those eruptions of delight.

I must have blacked out momentarily, when I came to, I was on the bed, panting, my breath only just starting to slow, my clothes soaked in sweat,  my body suddenly heavy, aftershocks of pleasure coursing through me, my whole skin smiling.

And the American was still on the floor, on his knees, his head on the edge of the bed, supported by his left arm, his right hand between his legs, his jeans still on, unzipped.


I sat up, unsteadily, slid off the bed onto the carpet, reached down to his belt. I undid it and he helped me, our fingers met and his were trembling. His cock sprang up, unbelievably hard; he moaned when I touched it; got even harder, precum dripping along the shaft, the hot flesh throbbing against my hand. I stroked it some, played with my fingers around the head, reached down to his balls, run my thumbs along the top

“Oh god... ooh... please... yesss... oooh...” he moaned, his own hands joining mine, the stroking and tweaking now fast, almost furious.

I knew, really - somehow I was sure I knew what he wanted, it followed quite obviously from the whole scene we just took part in - but I wanted him to say it. No, not just say it - I wanted him to ask - to plead, even.

It was all rather strange, I shouldn't have felt like that - I had just came, my body was still glowing with that orgasm; I was happy, grateful even, for that gift of pleasure; but somehow, sitting on the floor inches away from the stranger who just ate me out to a screaming orgasm, who'd done it better than anybody else had ever done before, who'd licked out my  boyfriend's cum from my pussy; I still wanted him to beg and grovel.

And I felt - though it's easy to project own desires onto others - but I felt, very strongly, that he wanted it, too. And I was pretty sure, as much as one can be sure of one's own mind, that it was that wanting, reflected and mirrored in my own body, that was starting to turn me on, again, in a different way to that raging hunger of minutes before; recognizably sexual but going beyond that, or perhaps through that, to some bare, basic, raw reality of need; the realisation in my mind transforming into a heady spasm of arousal and desire raising in my body again.

His cock was throbbing, and it felt like he was on the very edge of orgasm, it felt like he should have came already; I didn't understand why he had not. And yet I, or something somewhere deep in my mind, knew.

“Oh, god, oooh... please... please...”

He was panting, moaning with every stroke and touch. I looked down at him, there on the floor, his trousers and pants around his knees, his cock raging hard, his face and lips still shiny with the
slickness of my pleasure, a pleading puppy look in his eyes.

“On your knees, ass up. Hands off your cock,” I hissed and he obeyed, placed himself in position.

I realised I could do anything with him just then – with him or to him - that for that brief moment he was utterly mine, his mind a playground to explore and enjoy, his body a toy to play with and use. It was exhilarating.

I slapped his ass with my bare hand, the sound reverberating in the room. It turned me on even more, and I spanked him again, red splotches appearing on his skin. I was marking him, even if very briefly, and with every slap my own excitement was growing.

“You like that? You do like that...what a fucking slut I got here.”

I spanked him again, kept my hand on his body. He ground back with his hips, moaned.

“Oh, yes, show me how you like being hit. Harder, slut?”

“Please... yes, harder... hit me harder...”

I did just that, with my left hand this time, the sound of slaps landing on his skin loud in the room, the heat of the reddened skin electric on my palm. I reached down around his waist with my right hand. His cock was rock hard and completely covered in a dripping layer of precum, in fact there was some cum there too already. He shivered, almost convulsed when I touched him.

“Please let me come… please, I need it so bad, please, please, god, ohhh god, please….” his moans became inarticulate whimpers. My cunt was throbbing. I tightened my hold on his cock and stroked. Once. Then again, up and down. 

“Come now, bitch. Come for me,” I whispered and before I even finished the second 'Come' he shot his load over my hand, his hips bucking, his eyes closed.

I pulled him back, somewhat roughly, to semi-sitting position. His lower lip was bitten and bleeding a little, his eyes still closed, and remained so as I raised my cum filled hand and cum covered fingers to his face, smeared it on his bloodied lips, held them out for his needy, ravenous tongue to lick it up.


And he did. 


Thursday, 17 November 2016

Two keys


He's come out of the bathroom, towel wrapped round his hips, a few slight pink marks left by the suede flogger still visible on his chest and undoubtedly more on his ass.

Something has changed in the way I look at him now. Some of the urgency and some of the mystery have been done away with and I see him more clearly, even if still through the eyes clouded with overwhelming desire. Maybe for the first time I am starting to believe fully not only that he's actually here, but that's he is mine to play with as I see fit.

"We're going out for a little walk, J. Just down the coast. You'll wear these."

I toss him the two items I took out of my bag in the meantime. There is a small smile in the corners of his mouth when he catches the first one, changing into an almost 'whoa' when he realises what the second one is.

"I'm keeping this of course," I say, showing him a little key.

"And drop this fucking towel, boy. Really."

He does as told and I can see his cock now, not hard, which is pretty convenient considering, but not completely limp either. I like him naked, exposed like this, smooth and clean, though he's also somewhat different now after what happened earlier. The typical male post-orgasm recoil isn't particularly apparent but for that brittle, coiled energy that I sense can both explode into rage and collapse into morbid darkness being just a little closer to the surface, just about detectable in the way he moves, the way he looks, or doesn't look, at me.

"C'mere," I beckon him to the chair I've sat down on.

I take both items out of his hands again and put them back on the table.

"Put your hands on the back of your neck. Straighten up. Feet apart. Hips slightly forward. Between a military and a Tai'chi stance. Good boy. Stay like that."

He gets a little harder when I touch him, and his cock unfurls further when I squeeze some lube out and return to it with slippery, cold hands.

"You need to stop this. Think wholesome thoughts or we'll be here all day," I squeeze his dick at the base and this, combined with whatever he's thinking about works well enough to enable me to slip the steel rings onto his cock.

It's not really a long-term-wear chastity device but it looks much better than those full-on plastic things and will stop him from getting completely erect or ejaculating. The straps that go over and below balls and the little padlock add a bit of an edge and I love the final effect. He's getting hard now – trying to – a groan confirms what I can clearly see as his cock fills up against the bindings.

I spit on my already lubed-up fingers and briefly touch the visible parts of his shaft, slide them over his bulging balls, then pull the D-ring attached at the end and lick the parts of the cockhead accessible between the straps, my tongue fluttering between leather strips.

I'm surprised how much seeing him bound like that turns me on but now I know I'm going to have loads of fun with this today. It's just a right size to let him get almost-erect and I love the way his cock pushes against it, the way it responds to the mixed signals of my teasing and the limits placed by the cage. And of course there is more.

"Lovely. On your knees now and bend over. Head down."

I kneel to his side and run my hands along his hips, his recently-spanked and flogged ass, the skin flushed but the bruising not quite yet visible. His back, curving down to his shoulders, is untouched apart from the scratches left by the small serrated blade last night.

I have a sudden urge to make them deeper, to use something sharper, cleaner, to make him bleed there and then, and that image makes me gasp, my throat tightening, my fingers moving as if by themselves onto his ass, rubbing the inflamed skin, feeling the flush in the places where my open hand hit before. He's flinching a little, his breathing deepening, I can hear a whimper and a hissy exhalation coming through his clenched teeth, a slight shiver passing just under his skin. I swallow hard and take a deep, slow breath letting this desire flow through me, taking control of it, refocusing it on what I'm doing just now.

More lube and the small, bulbous plug goes in, smoothly. He won't be terribly comfortable but we are not going far and it's not exactly about his comfort anyway.

I suddenly become aware of the absurdity of the whole scene, the lengths we go to, and the depths we sink to in order to play with that snarling, gold eyed creature that eats and breathes lust but goes beyond lust itself, into that place where focus and oblivion merge.

And yes it's about pleasure but I still sometimes wonder what it is that makes us compelled to reach for pleasure to the place where any notions of dignity and reason become meaningless, and how we've ended up here, on the hardwood floor of an old cottage, between the sea where the fishermen drown every year and the jagged peaks, where people chasing another high – but perhaps not so different kind after all – fall to their deaths every year.

And here I am, my slippery fingers working a piece of moulded plastic into his ass, his cock straining against steel and leather, his moaning making my thighs sticky with desire and as I get up I burst out laughing, not at him and not even at myself but at the sheer delirious nonsense of all that.

"C'mon, J. Get dressed. There is a place I want to show you."

We walk, a short stroll along the road and then to the shore, through a muddy field to a pebble beach, then clamber over the rocks in a shortcut towards the small ruin rising just off the coast. The stone bridge has lost its planks but it can be crossed if you hold on to the parapet walls and take a few careful steps on the crumbling edge.

I let him go first and as he's about half way I press the button on the little remote I earlier slipped in my pocket.

He stops, clutching at the stones, with a loud "Fuuuck..." and for a moment I fear he might slip and fall. It's only a few meters down to the wet rocks below but I wouldn't want him to break anything. But he makes it safely to the other side and I follow him.

He looks at me, a mixture of anger and arousal fighting each other in his expression, melding together, "Fucking hell, I could have fallen," he says, somewhat petulantly.

"You didn't though," I shrug and walk up the path to the small courtyard at the top. It's overgrown with nettles, brambles and tufty grass, the earth bubbling up with dirt and roots and plantlife, filling the space between the crumbling walls.

I sit down against the raised bank of earth, leaning back, looking across the water to the black ridge on the other side. There is a breeze but not too cold, and the seamist has lifted now, the lines and colours clear against the blue of the sky. I close my eyes, breathe deeply in, let my body relax, stretch my legs out and slip my hand down the front of my jeans, touching the wet centre of my desire, my fingers stroking and sliding, finding my clit, hard and so sensitised that I can barely stop myself from moaning loudly, my back arching, pushing my pelvis towards my hand, wanting more.

I open my eyes and he's sitting next to me, staring with that look of intense desire, that longing that turns me on so much, the lines of his face both sharper and cleaner, his mouth in a near-grimace, his upper teeth biting on his lower lip, his chest rising and falling in a pattern of exaggerated breathing. I lick my lips, and show my teeth, partially because I feel like it, and partially for show, my eyes catching his, my right hand still between my legs, my left back on that remote, pressing the button again, holding it longer to speed it up.

I have tested the toy myself, in both orifices, though obviously I don't have the necessary anatomical equipment to check the effect of the increasing intensity of vibrations so close to a prostate. His eyes roll back and he moans, his hand moving to his groin, stopping, then moving again, clutching. I can almost feel the frustration and the pain of his cock prevented from getting hard by the straps, locked away, and although he relaxes a little as I release the switch, he's waiting for the next time, not knowing when it's coming or whether it's coming at all.

"Come closer. Undo my shirt and lick. I want to come."

He moves fast, his fingers shaking as he works the buttons open, brushing my breasts, finding my nipples poking through the sheer lace, stroking.

"Use your mouth. Through the lace."

His lips hot and instant, his tongue pliant; his teeth gentle, just occasionally grazing; delicious shivers through my body. I switch on the vibrator again and he shakes and whimpers into my breasts. My right knee, now bent, is rubbing against his crotch and I can feel the straps and rings of the cock-cage through the layers of fabric, his hips pressing against me.

I let my head fall back onto the grassy back, my eyes half-closed, my fingers moving faster as I get closer, his tongue, lips and fingers frantic on my breasts, the lace soaked with his saliva, my nipples so hard and swollen they seem close to exploding themselves, my clit throbbing in the same rhythm, my cunt clenching and I'm moaning on my edge before tumbling into orgasm, my back arching higher, my left hand clutching the back of his neck, pulling his face into my chest, my fingers grabbing a handful of his hair, my knee pushed between his legs, my fingers perfect just there, there, my pleasure spilling over into a snarl and a scream, and suddenly intensified by realisation of how frustrated his panting arousal is.

I become aware of him soon after, his face between my breasts, his mouth off my now too-sensitive nipple, his breath fast and damp on my skin, my fingers relaxing the grip. I straighten up, his head slides into my lap, my hand still on his neck, he's panting; when I turn his head sideways to look at his face, his eyes are glazed, half-closed, rolling back, his mouth ajar; his hips and legs shaking, almost convulsively.

I run the fingers of my right hand along his lips, drying now but still a little damp, he sucks with a deepening moan, voraciously, desperately and I let him do it for a while, then press the switch on the remote into the off position, tell him to get up; light a cigarette, climb up higher onto the grassy bank and sit down there again, looking at the dark ridge on the other side of the water.

He follows me, more composed now, sits next to me, wordlessly takes a cigarette I offer him, an expression of minor torment on his face.

"Tell me," I say.

"You are ruining me, M. This... this thing is," he hesitates.

I smile, "It can come off. As you know."

He nods. I take the key out of my pocket and show to him.

"Here. You can be free in a minute or two. Of this, and of the whole thing too. I'll take you back to the mainland. Hire a car or take a train from there."

This is a gamble, this last offer, one that implicitly equates ulocking him with ending this adventure, a test that opens a fissure of anxiety in my mind. I hope my hand isn't shaking too visibly.

"You don't really want it off though, do you? Surely. Can't be that bad. Not yet."

I'm trying not to smirk it but he can probably hear a hint of it in my voice.

"No, M. No. Not yet."

''And besides. You want me to ruin you, don't you?''

He inhales deeply, takes a drag on the cigarette, his other hand clutching his knee.

''Yes. Yes, M. I do."

"Good boy," I smile.

I am not sure if the relief is showing on my face, but he laughs a little too, and there is some shared, unspoken understanding that passes between us. I want to do it right, and I think he not only knows that but wants me to do it right too, even if neither of us knows the precise meaning of 'doing it right', even if it isn't possible to grasp it.

I reach over and feel him up through his jeans, along the constrained bulge of his not-quite-full-erection, lower down to his balls, leave my hand there, press harder, then grip as I feel him tensing up, his hips pushing forward, his upper back and neck away, a half-growl half-moan rising in his throat.


"Mine," I laugh, then let go, get up to go back.


---------


This piece has been posted for Molly's Kink of the Week. For more locked-up hotness, click here:






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