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.

"Spread."

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.