Tuesday, 6 December 2016


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


  1. And maybe it's good to pull him over the edge with you. Great story :)

    Rebel xox

  2. Your story has made me hard. Nice.

  3. "It feels like we've done it hundreds of times before, it feels like we are doing it for the first time ever."


    So lovely, the intimacy of those moments. :)