Thursday, 15 February 2018

This time of the year (2): For me

Continued from here.

I keep looking, first at your cock; my silent and focused looking, grown from desire but at the same time pushing desire into the background, as shameless as your display, your obedience as bold as my demand. Then at your face, for the first since I told you to strip, directly into your eyes, that smile of mine again, your lips ajar.

"On the bed. On your front. Still for me. No talking."


You obey, as I expect you to, in the low light your body spreads pale gold against the hotel bed white, your arms loosely around your head, not quite protectively, your face sideways and down, averted from the side I am now approaching; still. For me.

I wonder if you can hear me breathe, if my breathing crossed the line from just loud to nearly panting, take the few steps that separate my chair from the bed, sit down on the edge, around your thigh level, lean down. Just a little. Not necessary, but I want to, for some reason. My left hand in the small of your back. The scratch marks fading but still visible, and warmer than the surrounding skin when I touch them with fingers of my right hand.


''Fuck," I say.

You take a deep breath, then exhale, but don't move and don't say anything. Everything feels slow motion but fluid, like an underwater trance. I don't remember ever being as focused as I am now, but I don't think of any plan or a task or an objective. There is only now. I retrace the marks with my fingertips.

Lean lower and touch your skin with my lips. Open them, my breath damp. Tongue, a long lick and my moan, muffled; desire spreading all over my skin.

I shuffle higher on the bed and stroke the nape of your neck, my hand moving into your hair, playing with it, pushing your head into the pillow, my face next to you, laugh that somehow manages not to be a giggle, a whispered 'Good boy' before I bite your earlobe and straighten up, the left hand still in your hair, holding your head in place, the right one taking a lazy swing, landing with a splat on your ass. It's not hard, and I quickly follow it with another one, and another, playful swats with a relaxed palm. That's why the twelfth one comes as a shock: my swing is wider, the impact much heavier, all from the palm, unexpected. You flinch visibly, yelp, tense up to my laughter. I add another smack with similar parameters, followed by a few faster, lighter, sharper ones, fingers mostly, my hand smarting now, pink imprints visible on your butt, the way you tense and relax into each smack reflected in your breathing, heavier, partially muffled by the pillow.

''Getting pretty pink, boy,'' I stop and place both my hands on your ass, lightly, feeling the heat, wanting to dig my nails in and drag them down the reddened skin, stopping myself, for now, listening to your body, sliding my hands down, between your legs, pushing them apart, gently, more of an indication of how I want you to move than a forceful pressure.

"Bend your knees, lift your ass up, keep your head down, try to keep relaxed or the next bit will really hurt,'' I say, panting a little. You obey, I stand up and look at you for a while, such a classic pose.

I had a plan. A sequence of steps. Items I thought I'd use. Things I knew you'd like me to do, maybe even beg me to do if I did it right. Ideas, even. Huh.

But just now the ideas don't matter and what you might want matters even less. I take a bigger breath and reach to my belt, undo it. You can probably hear the slight clang of the buckle against the metal button of the denim skirt. I pull it out, the leather worn and familiar in my fingers. Fold it in half and stretch using both hands. There is a sound, half way between a light thwack and a click. I do it for effect, for the sound that not-quite-precisely foretells that other sound that I am already excitedly waiting for.

I wrap the buckle end around my right hand and get near to you, run the edge of the other end along your back all the way from the nape of your neck down to your reddened ass, let it slide lower between your legs, leave it there for a split second longer, then slowly drag it back up in a meandering line as if tracing yet invisible patterns on your skin, lift it free of your body and take a swing.

The first one is light, as is the second, but I'm impatient now, I want to hit you harder, I want to see the welts come up and feel you squirm and moan. I stand with my feet further apart, and swing again, the leather splatting hard across your right buttock.


Faster and harder. Maybe I should have tied you up after all, though you are still holding up to the impact and the pain, holding up to the desire covering my skin fluid and viscous.

I use the time between strikes to breathe, deeper, louder, more elaborate, streams of exhaled and inhaled air like a caress on my lips, the lips dry, flushed swollen and ajar. Your ass is now covered in marks, a nearly uniform dark pink background to a chaotic hash of raised welts, some of them edged with thinner, darker, graze-like lines made by the edge of the belt. I strike lower, on the more sensitive skin of your upper thighs and you yelp, flinch, nearly flail, but stay in position. I make the belt shorter and smack your butt again, the slightly curved end imprinting red crescents on your inflamed skin.

You are panting in loud, hissing breaths, your muscles flexing and hips moving as if to adjust, balancing the avoidance and the seeking of pain, the obedience and the desire to escape.

I laugh with the sheer joy of this act as much as with the residue of my own nervousness, the belt now longer again, a big flat whack across your buttocks, your loud moan, an inarticulate groan that morphs into an ohhhhh that turns into my name, a moan that I inhale and to which I respond with my own.


I want to touch you again, so I unwind and drop the belt and step closer, my palms on your ass, the heat of red skin and the raised marks under my fingers.

Fuck fuck fuck.

Rubbing, stroking, mapping the remade surface of your body, fingertips and then, after a second's hesitation, my lips, barely touching, my cheek, hot against the heat of my marks. I slide my hand under your belly and find your cock, rigid and warm, slick with precum, grab harder, stroke, my other hand pressing, then lightly slapping your stinging butt down, making it thrust into the vice-like grip, your panting faster, in wincing pleasure.

I stop and you visibly baulk, then relax in what feels like a disappointed relief. I push you back down, stretch myself on the bed, gather your naked body in my arms, your breath warm and damp on my neck, my legs still in stockings and boots hooked around yours, the soles rubbing up and down your calves.

I bunch my skirt up and guide your right hand underneath.

''Feel me, boy.''

You groan when your fingers meet the damp silk, I arch my back up a little inviting the touch, you start stroking slowly along the wet fabric clinging to my slit, upwards, finding the hard and sensitive bud of my erect clit, making me catch my breath and moan, dig my fingers in your hair, push you where you belong.

''On your knees on the floor. Take my boots off first.''

You slide off the bed and give me a smile that feels broad and dizzy, I can't help but respond to it with my own, and a low chuckle, part satisfaction part joy.

You are on your knees by the bed now and leaning down, your hands stroking the leather, stopping at the buckles, hesitating at the zip pull.

''Go on then. You know you want to," I'm laughing again when your head drops lower, your lips touching the leather, your tongue taking what seems to be an experimental lick.

''Upwards. To the edge.''

We are playing the scenarios we have shared as fantasies so many times, the buttons and levers we imagined, and I still - still - still - still - find it amazing that it appears to be working, that the flesh on flesh either matches what we spent so much time imagining or that the fantasy has managed to trump the reality even when pushed into this reality, but whatever it is, it's patently working.

Your tongue slides off the leather onto the nylon of the stocking, wetly tracing the top edge of the boot.


I adjust my position, shuffle my butt to the edge and hitch up the skirt again, pulling your head in.

''Lick, slut.''

Your face is buried between my wide-spread legs, my knees up, my hips raised by a pillow.

''Inner thighs.''

Your tongue and lips touch my skin above the stocking, wet, slithery, exquisite and electric, a trail of kisses and licks along the edge of the fabric, occasionally sliding under the edge but just a little, I don't know who's teasing whom now, not that it matters. I want more and pull your head in position.

''Lick my knickers.''

I'm floating in a sea of pleasure and lust, your mouth making the already wet fabric soaked, your breath a warm steam, your tongue perfect, pliant, probing and caressing, somehow more thrilling because separated from my skin by the thin layer of drenched silk. My hands are -- loosely -- on your head, neither pushing nor pulling, just there, ready to adjust if needs be, one of them slides lower to your ear, fingers squeezing the fleshy lobe, nails digging, just a little bit. My legs are spread wide open, one foot braced against the bed, the other placed, lightly, on your upper back.

The pleasure, basic and all-of-the-body, washes over me in slow waves, I won't come like this of course, but I don't really want to, the earlier urgency is gone, this is a slow and perhaps the most selfish of all enjoyments when you nearly disappear for a moment and all there is is pure sensation.

-- tbc, of course.

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