Wednesday, 9 August 2017


Very old one I just remembered. I wouldn't use "cum" as a verb now, and I'd not say "pussy". But I still love silk, so the main point remains valid.
I received a parcel today, a small package; initially I thought it was a large letter with some documents as it was flat and rigid, but when I absent-mindedly cut the plastic mail-bag and opened the package up, I realised what it was. 
The paper gift-type bag inside is black, printed in pale pink, with long, wide, satin, dark pink ribbon ties at the top. I don't like pink, I never wear pink outerwear and hardly any of my lingerie has pink accents (though sometimes they are unavoidable if you want a particular model that otherwise is perfect). 
This time, though, the pink is OK. More so: it is quite pretty, and when I read the ''Covet & Desire'' logo printed on the bag, when I realise what it is that has arrived, I can already feel the first wave of excitement coursing through my body. It's not sexual, not yet anyway, more like the state of a delighted child that is unwrapping a present. 
But my hands are already shaking a little when I grab the bag, still half in its plastic sheath, and run from the kitchen where the mail lands to the bedroom where I can explore it at leisure.
I impatiently pull off the rest of the plastic and slide my fingers along the surface of the bag, its smooth, thick, semi-matte, lacquered paper. My hands tremble when I untie the ribbons, I can feel the little spasms of arousal between my legs as I pull out a folded parcel of black tissue paper.
From inside that emerges my latest purchase, a pair of small, black, silk knickers; only the elasticated, narrow ruffles are of the palest pink lace. I fondle them, rubbing the thin satin  between my fingers: it's smooth, slightly crinkly, both cool on the skin and warm to touch at the same time. It feels alive. 
I pick them up, run the fabric along my lips. It slides easily, electrifingly. My mouth falls ajar, and a small involuntary moan, like a deeper breath, escapes it. My tongue is dry and my pussy is getting wet, I can feel droplets of moisture on my freshly shaven labia – I did it just this morning in the shower and I have been a little wet ever since. This little wetness is becoming a flood now, and I can't help but unzip my trousers with shaking hands, plunge one into my sheer black mesh and red butterflies shorties. What's left of my hair on my mound is sodden with the juices of my arousal and my pussy is open, like a ripe fruit, the thick, sticky liquid slickly covering my sex.
I slide my hand along my slit and moan, so intense is my need, so powerful the anticipation. Presently, I fall onto a chair, my knees wide, my trousers and pants round my ankles, my dripping cunt exposed.
I can't wait any more and I grab the silk knickers, cover my right hand with the thin material and stroke my clit with it. The sensation is exquisite, all the nerve cells of my skin jumping up, electrified, my pussy spasming in a sudden mini-orgasm, my calf and thigh muscles flexing and relaxing repeatedly, my back arched.
I run the fabric lower, gathering some of my copious wetness with it, pushing it inside my dripping slit. My left hand wanders under my top, onto my nipples, erect and rubbery under the sheer mesh bra, the fingers squeezing, tweaking, twisting.
I am moaning now, and desperate to cum, but I don't let myself get there yet. It's time to wear them. 
My trousers and other pants come off and I pull the new purchase on. They are too small for my big ass, I knew they would be when I bought them but there was something about them I couldn't resist even when just seeing the photo on the website and frankly so far all my expectations have been fulfilled. 
Anyway, they are not too small to wear, and I can easily pull them up. The bikini design is quite forgiving and the front covers my pubis while the back almost covers my bum. They stretch nicely and are not too tight on my hips, and they fit perfectly where it matters most: between my legs, where the pooling dampness of my bubbling arousal needs something to soak it up, and what's better than pure, black silk. Even the gusset is silk and it feels sublime against my slick pussy.
I will wear them all day, luxuriating in the feeling of the fabric against the slippery wetness of my hot cunt. I will let them get drenched in the liquid of my arousal until the fabric is soaked through. 
Then, I will carefully peel them off, raising them to my face to smell my own excitement, rub the damp fabric on my engorged nipples, then lick my own taste of the gusset, then thrust the crumpled silk between my legs again, the walls of my sex already pulsating in the anticipation of an orgasm, my clit hard and nut-like between bright-red, swollen lips of my sex. My fingers furious between the silk and bare flesh, I will cum, shaking uncontrollably, more liquid flowing out, my legs convulsively opening and closing on my hand wrapped in my new knickers.
Then, I will pack them back in their tissue and bag, sliding in a small vial of fragrance, addictive obsessions go well together. I want you to wear the scent too. 
I shiver, imagining you unwrapping the package, handling the fabric, bringing it up to your face, inhaling my scent – I hope some will be left a week or so later when you receive it. I will imagine you running the material along your own engorged sex, then rushing to the bathroom to pull them on, then adding your cum to my juices. 
I will seal the bag, and write the address out. 
Your name, then the company, then the suite number and the building. The street, city and state and the post-code, or rather the zip-code as you call them over there. 
I hesitate over the Customs declaration. Should I write out the real content, and disclose the price I paid, or would it be easier to just be vague and appear cheap? Stamps and Air Mail label go on next.
 Finally, the ''Private, to be opened by the addressee only!'' warning, next to the Customs sticker. Or maybe I should not bother with this one, this time?

Sunday, 6 August 2017

It's a long drive

They've been in the car for hours now, and the day is fading. The road is almost empty, the crowded motorways of the industrial north and the Central Belt long gone, the purple and brown hills covered in heather raising around them, the jaggedy edges of the higher peaks dark against the sky. They are going west, past the lochs set on fire with the reflections of the setting sun. She flexes her toes, almost-bare on the pedals, her shoes kicked off at the start of the journey, the heels too high for driving.

“The wash-bag in the glove compartment,” she says, he clicks the lock open without a word.

Among the usual debris of charger cables, almost-empty cigarette packets pens, lighters and crumpled paper he finds a red, rectangular washbag. He opens it.

“Yes, M?”

“Get your cock out and put it on. Now.”

There is an edge to her voice, a new confidence, and she isn't even surprised when he does what he's told, immediately, without hesitation. She glances sideways. He's almost fully erect. It takes him a while to clip in place the straps of the leather cock ring and ball separator, but he manages.

“Good boy. Check the inner pocket.”

He reaches inside the bag again and pulls out a pendant on a thin leather thong, a silver dogtag, plain on one side, with an engraving on the other; he examines it closely, his breathing deeper.

“Well? Are you ready for that, J?”

He doesn't say anything, but puts the pendant on his neck, carefully, the metal gleaming against his tshirt, his long fingers clasped around it, the lines of engraved “M's” clearly visible on the polished silver.

His cock is completely erect now, harder because of the straps that bind it. She knows his instinct is to touch it and she knows he's not doing it because she hasn't told him to. That turns her on and she smiles to herself and moves in her seat, one hand on the wheel but the other reaching under her skirt, her butt lifted up momentarily. She waits for a downhill to take her foot briefly off the accelerator, leans down, the car veers a bit but soon is back on track.

She throws her panties into his lap, he picks up the crumpled bunch of black silk, raises it to his face. That view of him, shamelessly obedient by her side, tied up cock, face in her knickers, the mark of her ownership around his neck, turns her on even more, her pupils dilating, her lips flushed and tingly again, her skin warm and charged, the wetness of her arousal making her thigh tops slippery; her clit throbbing, hard, needing touch.

She moves her left hand from the gearstick onto the wheel as the right one disappears under her skirt, hitched up so the tops of her stockings are visible, her fingers playing in the slippery wetness, rubbing the hot bud of her clit, sliding inside and coming back out, her eyes in a dead fix on the road, her left hand clutching the wheel in a tight grip.

She knows what she's doing doesn't make sense from any point of view but that of her own desire, but that's what she wants to do now, maybe because that's what she did before so she's creating a deja vu of her own making, and it's her story so she's taking it her way, at steady sixty on a mountain road at dusk; her fingers rubbing in a frenzy, her face contorted, her breathing fast, raggedy, moans breaking out, an effort not to close her eyes as her orgasm shakes her, both acutely aware of his presence next to her and at the same time forgetting for a moment that he's there, her foot off the accelerator as she comes back to the relatively normal, both her hands on the wheel now, the fingers of the right one slick and sticky, the smell of her sex in the air.


When I look at him again he's sitting there, almost motionless, shaking just a little, his hands holding on to the edge of the seat, breathing deeply, his cock even harder, his eyes darting rapidly between me and the road.

I reach out with my left hand and pick the panties off his lap. He shivers at my almost-touch but I move my hand away and bunch them up to wipe some off the stickiness between my legs. They were damp before, now they make a wet rag. I reach back to his side again, my eyes on the road and run the fabric along his cock, throbbing and hot to touch even through the material, dripping with precum. My wetness makes it slicker and the smooth satin is nearly gliding along the shaft, lubricated by the mixture of our fluids.

His breath more raggedy now, his body tensing in the attempt not to move, to stay still for me. I smile, warmly pleased that he remembers that's how I like it. My fingertips touch his skin directly on the up stroke, where the cockhead bulges out, the skin stretched and shiny, precum flowing. I keep them there for a second, maybe longer, press harder; he breathes out, a hiss of air through clenched teeth. I look at his face briefly, as much as driving allows, and his head is thrown back, eyes closed, mouth falling open in a moan. I retract my hand, and the panties with it, move it up to his face.

“Hold these and taste us, J.”

He grabs the silk immediately and buries his face again in the drenched bundle, unfolds it, sniffs; I keep changing my focus from the road to him, sitting there with a bound, exposed, pulsing cock, licking sex out of my knickers; consumed by desire, totally shameless, totaly slutty, becoming mine.

I reach with my left hand again and start stroking him, leisurely, my fingers moving to his balls as I move down, my thumb playing with the frenulum and the hole on top on the upstroke, my whole palm working the cockhead, slow but strong strokes, getting faster as I yank him roughly, pull and push, then again run my palm in circles back and forth over the head, rubbing the tip, the flatter area and the rim all at once.

“Legs wider, J,” I say and he moves his knees apart, giving me better access and at the same time making himself appear more vulnerable, his panties-filled hands still at his face, his heartbeat so loud and fast that I can hear it, and feel it, certainly, at my every movement.

He's squirming now, his hips jerking in small thrusts as he is fighting against his body's desire to fuck my hand, so I stop and give his cock a slap, not a brilliant one considering it's my left hand and an awkward angle, so I add another one, also clumsy but somewhat more efficient if only because this time it's on his balls, swelling and tight between the leather straps.

He cries out, a muffled yelp, but seems even more turned on, making small growly noises, something between whimpers and moans, sucking on the silk of the panties, then dropping them down and biting his lips. All this effort he's making to let me have my way with him the way I like, and how this act of giving himself to me seems to turns him on, turns me on in response; I'm getting wet again, and tingly lipped, and my own breathing is faster and deeper now.

He'd have come now if it wasn't for the straps but as it is, he just stays rock hard, with a nearly continuous steam of precum oozing out, and I keep playing with him, casually, over the next few miles before I withdraw my hand and extend it out, palm up towards him.

“Clean this up for me, J.”

He holds my hand between his two, securely but gently, with something approaching reverence. I realise that it's the first time he actually touches my hand, touches anything of me with his hands. It's electric.

He brings my hand to his mouth and starts licking.

At first it's careful sucking, as if he was trying, savouring the first taste of me. Then it gets more hungry, devouring each finger, deep in his mouth, his prehensile tongue curving lengthwise, fitting my hand like a fleshy glove. I glance at him again, momentarily taking my eyes off the road; his eyes are closed, he's breathing deeply, taking the scent in as he goes. His mouth opens to let in a sharp breath and I feel his heart pick up pace, his body trembling slightly, then he moans. Another breath, deeper this time, and he's licking my open palm now, his pointed tongue probing up between my fingers, his hot steaming breath on me. He kisses my palm, now wet with his saliva more than my juices, presses and laps with his tongue, sucking and tasting more and more, moves to the top part, his tongue extending between the fingers again, then starts kissing and licking my wrist, its sides first and then the inner surface where the skin is the thinnest, his tongue sliding under the leather bands I wear there.

I am so aroused now that I can hardly divide my attention between the road and my hand. It has acquired an existence of it own, separate from the rest of me. I am not sure if I am the person behind the wheel, aware that we are now driving over the bridge, or if I am, in fact, my hand and somebody else, something else is pressing the pedals, adjusting the steering and now -- yes, now -- retracting the hand to change the gear on the exit roundabout.

My body together in one piece again, I shiver with my own renewed hunger, and although this wasn't planned at all -- but then nothing was planned more than in a very vague sketch, so perhaps it doesn't matter, perhaps I can move and readjust the plot as I want, on the whim and spur of the moment, so -- I take the first right after the roundabout, down a short wooded track which ends at the gates of a closed-down quarry, now hardly visible in the dark; park there, turn towards him, sitting there with a dazed expression on his face, his eyes barely open, his mouth ajar, thin lips glistening with saliva, oddly relaxed andon edge at the same time.

I unbuckle his seatbelt, then lean over him, my body brushing against his cock, reach down and work the lever that lowers the backrest of his seat as far down as it will go, so he is now reclining, spread out there in the dark, not moving, his arms flat against his body, his clenched fists the only indication of how wound up he is.

I think I am supposed to wait with this, make it a major feature or a milestone of some kind, but I don't care now because I really, really -- really -- want to do this, to wrap his cock with more than my hand or my knickers or my straps, now, not later or tomorrow but now, here. I start clambering over, hitching my skirt up, trying to avoid impaling myself on the gearstick, his hands move as if to grab me or hold me up.

“Put your hands behind your head, J.”

“Yes, M,” he obeys.

When they are where they should be, I wriggle myself in place, leaning awkwardly over the dash, suddenly grateful for the amount of legroom the car has, barely avoid sitting straight down in his lap in a totally unintended way, half laughing at the contortions my own desire compels me to perform. Now I am straddling his hips, the tip of his cock barely brushing against the hot, wet, flushed folds of my labia, and I want to feel him inside me so much that I lose all patience and desire to tease and prolong this, and lower myself onto him, let it slide in, fill me up, hot and hard and throbbing.

I know I am too tired and tense to orgasm again so soon, I don't even want to, I want to hold him there, feel him deeper and fuller as I clench my cunt on him, fuck him as hard and fast in the dark as my awkward position allows, let his cock rub against the pleasure points inside me as grind my ass into his hips, small but insistent, forceful circles despite my legs cramping against the parts of the car, my arms and shoulders locked against the dashboard.

I slow, stop completely, look back over my shoulder in the dark. I can barely see him but can hear those little grunts and moans coming from him again, getting louder and more desperate, then dissipating as he bites his lip, hard, only the hissing sound of breath coming from between his teeth.

“You won't come yet, J? Will you?”

Back in my seat, I've put on the light on his side, so I can see him better, still stretched out, his hands still clasped behind his head, his cock pulsing.

I reach out and squeeze him, at the base, feel how unbelievably hard he is, while undoing the straps that bind the cock. I don't want to give him a ruined orgasm but I'm not sure if I want him to just climax either, even though he needs it badly now, his breathing deep and fast, his lip bitten so much that it's starting to bleed.

I lean down to his face and kiss him -- not really quite kiss at first but lick, along the clenched lips, the salty, metallic taste of blood sharp on my tongue, his bite relaxing as I flick the tip to the upper lip, then to each corner of his mouth, quick, fleeting touches before I move away.

He's moaning loudly now, blabbering in a dizzy way, his eyes closed, his words a little slurred. He's coming up with things I haven't heard before, slipping in and out of the third person, then the "Ma'am" suddenly appears which I although I recall mentioning long time ago as appropriate, was never used between us before, but at this moment it doesn't feel odd at all, it feels right and proper and just what it should be, and I love it, I love every second of it, I love it not quite believing it's actually happening, that he is here, now, that I am touching him, tasting him, hearing him.

“Please let me come M... I'm aching for you so bad.... Please please let your slut touch.... I need it so badly... I'm dying for you Ma'am... Please may I stroke.... Ohhh M... Please... Please, M...”

I reach down to his cock, run my fingers along its throbbing length, then withdraw, "Stroke for me, J. I want to see you come."

He breathes in deeply, raggedly, his back arches slightly, his hips raising as if to meet his hand by a fraction of the second faster, he grabs the shaft, runs his fingers along, there is enough precum there to make the strokes smooth and luxurious.

“Slower, boy. Much, much slower.”

I've never seen him come before and I want to enjoy it now, I want to take it for myself, taste it, feel it, make it mine. I want him to take his time however much his body wants to race to the climax, I want him to prolong the wait just a little bit more, to see him slow down when the whole of his body, his skin and all his nerves are screaming to go faster.

“Tell me when you are about a minute away. Take your time, J.”

He nods with a moan of “Yes, M. Yes,” and carries on, moving fingers down to the balls, squeezing the base to slow himself down, his eyes glazed, rolling back a little, his lips ajar, little grunts and moans coming from his mouth.

I'm watching him float in that grey space filled with the blue and black glowing haze, that place I neither can or really want to go to, but that I love imagining, I love feeling it reflected in my own mind and body, I love being the one that takes him there; and here I am now, again, balancing on a ridge between my own lust and the focus I need to hold his need in my mind.

And to have him like that -- slutty and desperate and trembling in staggered breathes, pleading for something that he could just take but he's given me to control as I please -- to have him like this takes me into that other space, the place where the hot, wet, throbbing, purely carnal desire meets the sharp, shimmering focus of power, both combining to make me shiver in excitement that takes the sexual and transforms it into something beyond and above it, a heady high that nothing else compares to.

I can't take my eyes off him.

He's getting ever closer, losing his self there, his mind almost gone, his whole body given to the building up of pleasure, all of his pleasure to be given to me.

I am suddenly shaken by a need to touch him; no, not just touch him, not even hurt him this time, not to make my mark, not yet; now I want to fuck him, so much that it makes me moan and swear, though the remains of reason tell me it wouldn't be ideal in the circumstances, so I let that thought go, aware that there will be time for that. I moan through my own racing breath, reach between my legs to cover my fingers in the slippery fluids and lean over, grab his hair at the back -- it's short, so I grab his right ear too -- pull him back, awkwardly, to the side of the headrest. His face is now close to mine, my right hand pushing his chin up as I cup it between my thumb and fingers, slide lower to his neck. I don't want to choke him but I can feel that the pressure restricts his airflow a little, my palm on his constricting trachea and it makes my whole body shiver.

He's tensing, not knowing what's coming, almost ready to start fighting me, torn between the impending orgasm and the animal, instinctual reaction to the threat my hand on his neck implies. I move my hand up, the thumb stays under the chin, the fingers up along his jaw and towards his mouth. I push them all in, not too deep, I don't want him gagging or throwing up there, just want to be inside him, somehow, and this will have to do. It feels like I am fucking his mouth with my hand and he instinctively starts sucking my fingers in rhythm with my movements.

I can feel his arm moving against my chest as he is stroking faster, his body tensing and although he can hardly talk, he manages, "So close now M... please... may  I... ooooh... please..."

I pull his head further back, my fingers digging under his tongue, my thumb pressing harder, my face moving closer to his. "Open your eyes, J. Look at me."

He does, right there on that edge, the dark brown eyes fixated on mine and yet gone completely at the same time, waves of energy washing over me, the power and desire in a hot ball, glowing, pulsing. I nod, slightly.

“Now, slut boy. For me. Come,” I say, barely managing to keep myself from shouting.

I feel his body buck, a deep groan coming out of his mouth, over my fingers. His features twist and contort as the orgasm shakes him into that ecstatic expression that's so alike to the expression of pain. I can't take my eyes of his face, his pleasure resonating in me, flowing from him to me, becoming mine.

I reach down to his groin, meeting his cum-covered fingers and cock, scooping as much as I can, bringing it  back up to his mouth, rubbing onto his lips, feeding deeper, his eyes closed now but he licks and swallows obediently. I smile, then lean down to his face again and taste his own pleasure, pleasure that has just became mine, on his tongue.

His breath is slowing down, deepening but he's shaking, little shivers travelling through his body. I let go of his hair and ear and pull him closer to me, both my arms around him, into a tight embrace; hold him, his face below my shoulder, somewhat awkwardly across the gearstick and the handbrake.

I am worrying about the way I manhandled his face earlier, remembering the tightening of his airways under my hand, the heady mixture of his fear and elation mirrored and reinforced by my own. I am scared now, scared of what might happen, and scared of what I might do, and yet riding an exhilarating wave that I don't want to break.

I'm also horny as fuck, and we still have a few miles to drive.

“You OK, J?”

He mumbles a low but seemingly confident yes, so I shake myself out of this moment, push away my tiredness, let go of him completely, grab a blanket from the back seat and cover  him. "Sleep now, boy. It's not far."

He seems to fall asleep before I even get back to speed on the main road, and no wonder, he did some driving earlier and he's been travelling for a day and must be jetlagged and exhausted. He stays asleep throughout my brief stop at the supermarket in the next village and throughout my quick meeting with Callum, who glances quickly through the window and smiling, adds a surprise packet to his usual wares before driving off in his battered Defender.

I drive on as the road gets narrower, steeper and wilder, then single track; small villages thinning out to single houses; all passing by in a blur of a fast-falling night and my own tiredness.

I can't see him clearly in the dark, but I know he's sleeping next to me, and although there is a part of me that still finds it hard to believe, I am getting closer to accepting that yes, it's  actually happening, yes, he's here, now, in this car, on this road, on the way to becoming mine.

It's one of those times when the reality of the greater scheme of things loses all importance, and all that matters is the here and now, accepted without questioning. The self, one's own self, and others' too, reverts to what it was originally for, an efficient tool for focusing and processing the here and now. The search for meaning and the attempts to understand become irrelevant. Things are, and that is all that matters, without a why, without a how, without what for. I reach out with my left hand, briefly touch him somewhere in the region of his knee, reassure myself again that he's really here, that I am not dreaming or imagining any of this.

I don't know him. I have no idea who he is. And yet he's here, and will be here for the next few days, and I can still taste him on my lips, and I want more, I want more of him, possibly more than I have ever wanted anything or anybody in my life.


Read the full tale here:

Tuesday, 11 July 2017

Yanking the chain

I am standing in the door, leaning against the door frame, watching him.

I got up early, when it was still dark; still tired, not quite immediately able to believe where I was or what I was doing, the fuzzy tension of the morning arousal growing between my legs as I opened my eyes, my hand instinctively moving to stroke my flushing labia and hardening clit, remembering the feel of his mouth and his cock, remembering the feel of my own hands on his body, remembering the taste of whisky with a faint hint of blood I licked off the letters of my name I'd scratched on his back, remembering that he was here, now, the solid weight of his body on the bed, his skin warm next to mine, close enough to touch without

I got out of bed without waking him up, or at least tried to, made tea, had a cigarette, relit the fire,

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, one of the few I left for him to use. I am watching him bend down and start shaving, the dark hair falling off, quite a lot of it there, then crouching in the steam to reach towards the back, sitting down, stretching to reach to less accessible places; changing the razor cartridge, redoing the patches he'd already shaved for a closer cut.

It's a strange experience, to simply be there and observe; he knows I am here and he knows I am watching but he's focused on his task while I'm focused on him, my eyes all over his body, moving slowly from one place to another, a little smile in the corners of my mouth when I see the bare skin emerging as he makes himself smooth for me.

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; and not even by what he's doing, though I'm looking forward to running my hands over his newly smooth skin; but it's the act of watching that makes my pulse quicken and my muscles flex, my back straighten as a wave of arousal makes its way through my body with a deep breath I take.

I wonder if this is how men feel when they watch women they desire, and I wonder if he feels my gaze on his skin the way some women must feel the male look, I wonder if he feels the greedy hunger and sense of entitled ownership implied in that gaze, and I wonder if he knows how looking at him like that makes me feel.

He needs a hand now though.

I make the few steps towards the tub, lean over and turn the shower off. He's standing there, dripping wet and semi-hard, his bare skin making him appear more naked and exposed than just nudity would, the fact that the bath elevates him by a few inches so my face is around his chest level making the way his head is bowed down and the way he rises his eyes as if he was still trying to look up at me somehow more vulnerable.

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 coming out of his mouth as he exhales.

I take the 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," I say, my tone sounds harsher even to myself, as if to match the exposed position he assumes.


He's somewhat constricted by the bathtub but does his best to reach back and obey, opening himself to me. I finish shaving his ass, it feels very matter of fact, fast and deft, on some level less sensual than I would feel shaving myself, as if I was simply performing an operation on an object there, his self receding as I run the blades along his skin in smooth strokes, as I quickly replace the razor cartridge for a perfectly silky cut and to delay the appearance of the inevitable rash.

I give him a light slap and wash my hands under the sink tap, leaving him to rinse off and dry, then go back to my bedroom where he finds me quarter of an hour later.

I am standing in front of the mirror above the mantelpiece, reapplying the steam-damaged mascara to my pale eyelashes, and it takes me a few seconds to become aware of his presence; I am not sure if he'd been watching me a bit longer, if I'd missed the sound of the door handle or his knocking.

I see him in the mirror first, in the corner of my eye, blurry in the imperfect peripheral vision of my contacts, just a silhouette, only resolving when I turn round to see him walk towards me. Just as I asked he's wearing the lingerie I'd left for him in his bedroom; the silk panties 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 clad in black holdups with a wide lace band on top.

"What a hot little slut you are, J," I say when he comes closer, the collar in his hand, passing it to me to put on his neck as he kneels.

It's just as thrilling as it was last night, the repetition of the ritual somehow enhancing it, the expectation 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 against his skin, doing up the buckle but making sure there is enough space under the strap, the way I can feel his body tense and shiver slightly 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 beliving 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, the chain falling with a cold rustle onto his back, the looped handle around my fingers. The nipple clamps come next, adjustable ones with little knobs that allow to ration the pain and pleasure precisely. I tighten them, holding the connecting chain up at the time. If I drop it, the weight of it will pull on the clamps and cause more pain, but instead I get him to open his mouth and hold it between his teeth, this way he's effectively gagged and in a bit of predicament, knowing the pain will come if he opens his mouth whether to speak or for any other purpose.

I look at him like that, smooth, sluttily filthy in the silk panties on which the precum stain is now spreading, strappy high heels on his feet, a leash clipped to his collar, his mouth filled with the chain, kneeling for me, the pink scratches from last night visible on his back; still and ready; so ready; and in that moment I quite possibly want him more than I have ever wanted him before.

I want him, but also 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.

"Lovely. And you like it too, boy, don't you?"

He nods, then mumbles "Yes, M, thank you," the chain in his mouth making it barely understandable.

I walk the few steps to the big, low armchair by the window, tugging on the leash, he drops to all fours and follows, to sit on his heels on the floor by my feet.

I lean down and cup his chin, pull him straighter up, my thumb playing with the chain in his mouth, stroking his lip, his mouth nearly opening, a muffled moan raising from his chest, the air coming out in a hissing exhale from between his teeth. I pull him closer.

"Undo my shirt, J."

He does, slowly, his fingers fumbling with the buttons, goosebumps coming up on my skin where he touches it, my own breathing shallower, my nipples rising against the sheer lace of my bra.

"You may kiss my breasts if you want," I say.

He knows he needs to drop the chain if he wants to do what I am allowing him to do, and I can sense his hesitation, then hear a loud gasp, close to a cry of pain, a moan and then his mouth is there, his breath hot and damp on the sheer lace fabric, his lips on the areolas, his tongue moving in slow circles, my skin flushing, hot, my breathing faster as my fingers trace the last night's scratches on his back, pulling him closer, grazing my nails along his spine.

I push him away when I get a little too hot and panting, button myself up again, my breath returning to relatively normal; pick up the chain joining his nipple clamps, tug on it and stretch but not quite strongly enough rip them off. I want that, and the pain that comes when the blood returns to the numbed flesh, to come later.

My hand on his head, I push it down, step lightly on his shoulder with my right foot, slide it down his spine towards the small of his back, my left one making its way to his mouth, my toes between his lips, opening them, then withdrawing; his face almost on the floor, his tongue lapping, wet and delirious, on my instep, ankle, his nose rubbing against the edge of my jeans, his hands on my heel, pulling my foot into his mouth, but it's too wide for that so he can't quite manage.

I can't help but laugh at the effort he's making but I am also ridiculously turned on, the streams of arousal from the recently licked nipples and the currently sucked toes meeting bang in the middle, in the core of my cunt, now wet and throbbing as I slide my hand under my belt and down between my legs, my right foot off his back and hooked over the armrest of the chair, my head thrown back as I immerse myself in pleasure.

He's kneeling, bent down double, my foot in his hands; sucking my toes one by one, then two, three at once, almost out of breath, panting, drooling and gagging. I can hear his moans through the haze of my own arousal, I can feel his tongue between my toes, his lips hot and wet, his teeth against my skin; his hands on my heel, holding it, his head up and down; I can feel he's looking up at me occasionally, but I am too lost in my own pleasure to respond so I just smile, let out a little laugh between my own panting breaths as my fingers move faster between my legs, as my back arches and my other leg moves, flexes, the right foot landing on his hip, the toenails grazing against his skin.

"Lick the arch... then my ankle, slut," I moan and he obeys, his lips sliding along the side, tongue trailing the arch, my foot pushing against his mouth, his whole face; the other on his side now, pressing against his hip bone just on the border of the soft area of the waist.

I'm coming now, my fingers rubbing hard, the toes of my left foot back in his mouth, curling and flexing against his tongue, my right foot moving blindly up, catching the chain and pulling off just as my orgasm erupts, and I am not sure who is louder when my own moan of pleasure rises into something close to a scream just as he cries out in pain of the blood returning to his nipples when the flick of my foot pulls on the chain and rips the clamps off.

I lean down and pull him up between my knees, reach to his chest and stroke the nipples one by one, he winces and squirms but when I move down to the floor next to him and slide my hand down his chest and to the silk smoothness of the panties he's wearing, he's rock hard, the satin sticky and soaked with precum; and when I lick his nipples, he flinches but his eyes roll back and he's moaning a mixture of "fuck" and "M" and "please", my tongue on the swollen soreness of his flesh, my teeth grazing slightly, then biting harder, my left hand on his lips, covering his mouth, his breath damp and hot in my palm.

"You like it, boy, don't you? You like me hurting you like this," I whisper somewhere into his collarbone, my fingers twisting his nipples again, my left hand pushing his chin up, his head tilting backwards, a half-choked breath coming out of his mouth as he groans his confirmation.

"Yes, fuck, yes, yes, yes M... I'm yours... yours, yours, M..."

"My slut. My boy. Mine," I laugh, low and raspy and warm, move my hand from his chin sideways, towards his ear, pulling the lobe, fingers brushing the hair, down the tendons at the back of the neck and to the collar, getting hold of one of the D-rings. I move away and yank it down so his face ends up in my lap, both my hands on his shoulderblades, his scratched back exposed and vulnerable, the curve of his spine leading my eyes towards his waist and his silk-clad ass and now I know what comes next.

Wednesday, 28 June 2017

You want to be used by a woman for her pleasure?

Here is your chance. I will just leave this here, and those who find this appealing can follow through.

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