Dominance and submission are not really kinks

I'm probably going to use the term "dominant" quite a lot in this blog, so for clarity here is my personal and subjective definition.

When I say "dominant" here,  I mean "sexually dominant". And what I mean by "sexually dominance" is a desire for, a want of,  a sexual arousal and satisfaction resulting from being in control of sexual interaction.

That's it.  Nothing else and nothing more. I'm not claiming it as a correct definition,  or the best one, it's what works for me and what I mean when I use this term.

Understood like that, dominance/submission is not even a "kink" in the way most other kinks are. It's more of a preference,  a style of doing sex and relating in matters sexual,  a dimension on which everyone who's not asexual can be placed.  It's a "how", not a "what".

In its more extreme forms,  it finds its expression in formal  D/s or other kinks that are often included under the BDSM umbrella.

But it's of course also perfectly possible to have kinks which often correlate with dominance/submission without being obviously dominant or submissive. Sado-masochism,  cross-dressing,  sensory play,  exhibitionism,  pegging are often used as part of D/s play but can also be done without power exchange or counter-intuitively to their obvious associations.  A masochistic dominant flogged by her submissive or a female submissive anally pleasuring her male dom are just two obvious examples.

This confusion between specific kinks and dominance/submission combined with the Hierarchy of Worthy Kink  often seems to result in somewhat disparaging comments the high clergy of HoWK make about "fake doms", "vanilla kinksters", people being "just bottoms" and a whole lot of other snobby,  hierarchical bullshit.

All that is well known stuff.  But stay with me a little longer.  What if we look at it from the other side? What if we remove the kinks from dominance/submission?

I believe it's perfectly possible.  I believe you can be sexually dominant or sexually submissive and not have any "kinks" that would be recognisable as kinks - no freak to get on,  no paraphillias,  no weird shit arousal triggers,  no fetishes, not even liking for rough sex.

It's surely possible to be "traditional vanilla"  in everything you do -  let's say, prefer piv sex in the bedroom, with low lights and no props, a bit of oral - and still be dominant or submissive: to deeply enjoy and get off on being in control or being controlled.

It's an accepted wisdom that "vanilla kinksters" are prowling all around, looking to pollute kink spaces, and, shock-horror, hoping to get laid. But so are vanilla doms and subs. Out there, not even hiding, in very plain sight. Ask your auntie Dot.

This time of the year (1): Catch and see

It's cold, colder even than the date on the calendar and the early nightfall would prepare me for. The time before the high Christmas rush of expectation but long after the last vestiges of the summer get swept away with the rotting leaves, the time just before the first snow, the time of wet pavements and damp air seeping into your bones with a permanent drizzle. 

I'm slouching with my back to the wall, few metres from the door to the pub inside which I was supposed to be fifteen minutes ago; the energy spelled out by the fast footsteps of my rushing here suddenly gone, the focus dissolved into a suffocating cloud of anxiety.

I take a deep breath, counting to ten seconds on the exhale and to eight on the inhale. Two more, my heartbeat still fast. I can't do it, can I? I'm not actually going to do it, am I? 

And even if I am, even if I do take those last few steps and walk into the warm interior filled with tangled voices and a smell of coffee and booze, what is the chance that I won't be walking away after half an hour's empty wait? 

More deep breaths, glancing from the corner of my eye at the pub door just in case you are there, waiting, after all. Searching for the lost thrill in the fear that's now got merely clammy.

I dig a packet of cigarettes from my pocket, manage to pull one out, my fingers shaking; stick it between my lips that feel dry and cardboard-numb; can't find a lighter; mumble a ''fucking hell'', under my breath, but loud enough to attract a glance from a passer by; that gives me a narrower focus I actually need; I start going through my pockets more methodically.

The lighter's flame appears suddenly. In all my funk I didn't notice anybody's approach but I am grateful for the kind gesture. I lean down to the light, instinctively protecting it from a gust with a cupped hand. Only when I suck in then quickly exhale the first drag, I notice that the hand holding the lighter is shaking. Only when I raise my eyes to say "thank you" I see, and realise, just before I hear. 

''Hi, M.'' 

The shock of it is not any lesser for the fact that this is what I came here for. All the words I had in such oversupply are stuck tight in my throat; all I can do is smile stupid and giddy; until I catch your eyes and my smile disappears slowly; I drop my cigarette and reach out with my hand.

I have to describe it here, don't I? The private gesture, so overused that it's turned cliche now; my palm on your cheek, my thumb tracing your mouth ajar, sliding in, probing, penetrating, a not-so-subtle hint of what might come later, your tongue soft and slippery and searching, your lips closing gently just as mine open over teeth nearly-clenched in a hint of a snarly smile.

I'm panting, all the anxious expectation and suspense and anticipation of before spilling out, coating my skin with a glow that I can hardly believe isn't visible, coating my mind with a flickering forest of bluewhite flames; I'm letting it take me higher; now, suddenly, I don't even know how or when, I'm not leaning with my back against the damp wall of a late November street but pinning you against it; my left hand in your hair, clutching, pulling your head slightly back and to the side, probably uncomfortably; I don't give a slightest fuck, in fact it's better this way; my right hand around your left wrist, pushed onto the bricks fast and harsh until you ''ouch'' in pain; then pushed along the brick, grazed some more; my mouth on your neck vaguely in the region of your ear, ''Hello, boy,'' I whispershiss; get my face even closer; smelling you; fucking hell; how much I wanted this, all those years, all those years until I was sure; sure that neither of us needed or wanted it; until it was safe to arrange a meeting, as per widely publicised recommendations, public place, not too long, we'll have a coffee or a drink, chat and laugh; sentimental melancholy of things impossible and others that could have been; shared nostalgia for a long-gone virtual adventure never made flesh; and yet I am here; my breath damp on your skin; my tongue tracing your carotid, sliding all the way down to the clavicle; tasting you dizzy; my left knee pushed between your legs; my eyes closed; forgetting to breathe then remembering again in a frantic gulp; then stepping back, looking at you from a foot away.

''Coffee? Whisky? Herbal infusion?'', I say, giggling, my right hand now on your chest, as if I had to keep touching you, as if it was physically impossible not to.

You nod a yes, I lick my upper lip, the air is damp and cold but feels like cinders sliding down my throat, ''Actually, I booked a room,'' I smile, a normal, playful smile now, a little challenging, eyes darting to yours, almost-but-not-quite-locking, shifting away, defusing; 

''Actually, I booked a room too,'' you offer, also not quite looking at me at first, then we both do, laughter bubbling up, I'm shaking my head, 

''Once a slut always a slut,'' you shrug a yes, as if it was an obviously shared understanding, comfortable now, we go to get that drink.

--- continued here.

Boots off

This is another little foot fetish story. A lot of typical foot fetish scenarios are worked into a context of a top/bottom dynamic, but although I don't mind including some in my D/s imaginings, I usually don't focus on that. I want my D/s to be about me, not a body part or a particular act. But I do have a bit of a foot fetish fetish, quite separate from anything to do with power exchange. Thus this -- though it could turn into something a little more kinky in a follow up, if there is one.

-----

That summer I was working as in a small local hotel as a general dogsbody, doing anything from managing bookings to waitressing. I worked in the dining room that evening and it was a busy night so I was pretty worn out after running between tables and the kitchen for four hours. Eventually everything was finished and other people left to do whatever young hotel staff do after work on a Friday night. I was ready to leave too, but stopped at a set of benches on the grass to the side of the hotel carpark for a cigarette before my drive home.

It was dark but not completely dark, with the full moon, clear sky and light from the foyer giving everything that quiet, eerie glow of a night-time countryside places.

I was wearing knee-high low heel boots over fitted black denim trousers, and my feet were killing me. I contemplated taking my boots off even before I drove home, but for now I lit my cigarette and sat back, right foot crossed over my knee, my back stretching, enjoying my rest and looking forward to the bath at home.

It was then that guest that I had seen around for a few days appeared with a polite ''Good evening'', asking me if it was OK if he joined me on the bench. I didn't object, he sat next to me and we did more small talk, the usual stuff.

I dragged on my cigarette, complained again about my long shift and indicated towards my boots with a  wave of my hand, "I really want these off now, I hope you don't mind". I wasn't really asking, and before he said anything I put out my cigarette and reached to unzip the first boot.

"No, no, of course not," he said and I realised he was actually staring at me.

Or rather, staring at my boots, at my foot placed across my knee, my hands pulling the zip down and the boot off, complete with the sock, my foot free. I flexed it and wriggled my toes, ankle still resting across my knee, the bare skin pale in contrast to my trousers, the chipped red nail-polish looking still acceptable in the low light.

I heard a sharp intake of breath from the man sitting next to me and it was really only then that I consciously realised what was going on, or at least got an idea of what it could be. The strangest thing was that it should have crept me out but for some reason it didn't and I made a bit of a show of struggling with the zip of the other boot until he offered to help and I accepted it. I still don't know why. I was tired, I'd had a large drink before I left the building, my mind was in that twilight zone where the standard version of reality becomes less solid and possibilities start slowly swirling around.

And so I said ''Yes, do help if you don't mind,'' knowing now that he more than didn't mind, and he dropped to his knees on the ground by the bench and carefully unzipped the boot, pulled it off, pulled off the thin cotton sock too and I found myself with him sitting on his heels in front of me, holding my foot in both his hands, his fingers starting to rub gently.

"May I?"

I wondered if it was sensible, again, but those swirling possibilities were doing their job and actually I was enjoying the situation and enjoying getting just a little, fuzzily, turned on by the now obvious sexual tension. I slid my other foot up between his knees so it rested against his crotch and yes, he was hard and made a small stifled groaning sound when I touched him.

"Yes. I'll tell you if I get uncomfortable," I said.

He started massaging and stroking - and his touch was exquisite. Firm when necessary, soft when needed, rubbing and pressing the muscles in the various areas, pushing the hem of my trousers up to get to my ankle, then lifting it up as he leaned down at the same time, bringing my foot closer to his mouth.

He looked at me as if to check if it was ok and I sighed  and nodded a yes.

It was greedy but slow at the same time, wet and firm yet pliant and it made me, suddenly, throbbing, wet, aroused beyond what I could have ever imagined having my feet caressed could possibly do. I wanted my other foot licked now, or both at the same time, I wanted to feel his cock on my sole, skin on skin and not through layers of fabric, I wanted to fuck him with my feet there and then.

I moaned and he stopped for a second, as if waiting for me to tell him it was OK to go on.

''Don't. Stop. Now. I'm so fucking turned on…'' I stuttered, breathlessly, undoing my belt and unbuttoning my jeans, and sliding my hand into my panties, between my labia, feeling my own wetness and heat. The next part was bizarre, in hindsight, but by then I was too turned on to think that much. I made my fingers really wet and withdrew them, leaned down and smeared the sticky wetness on my toes and instep.

''Lick. Taste for yourself.''

He did, with a sharp intake of breath and a moan louder than mine had been, his tongue now frantic on my toes, then sucking them, his hands firmer holding my foot, as if he wanted to stop them shaking.

"Let's get out of here before someone else comes out" I offered when he came up for air, the voice of reason making itself heard in my mind, or maybe just making sensible arrangements for the rest of the evening. He got up without a word, standing there and waiting for me to move.

"Carry these for me, will you?'', I nodded towards my boots before walking to my car, barefoot, the bits of gravel in the packed-dirt carpark rough on my soles, my boots in his hand.

I didn't live far so I didn't bother putting them back on and just drove barefoot. We didn't talk much on the way, as if either was a little scared of spoiling the mood, piercing that bubble that we placed ourselves in when his lips touched my instep for the first time. I took my turn, parked the car, opened my door, put my right foot on the paving tiles of the driveway.

"They'll need a wash now" I said, not even teasingly but simply stating the fact.

"Yes. Yes, they will," he replied.

I take a gingerly few steps across the drive, he follows me in, through the hall and into the living room where I collapse on a messy sofa covered with a mess of books, clothes and unspecific household items. I eye him carefully, standing in the door, my boots still in his hand, looking a little unsure but smiling a little too, looking hopeful but not as if he was going to push anything, and the memory - the feeling itself - of our little encounter on the bench by the carpark comes back to me, the bubble is still there.

I'm tired though, weary and stiff, my body feels numb despite the still present damp warmth between my legs and the echo of his mouth on my foot, so I stretch my legs out on the rug, ankles crossed, and wave my hand towards him.

''Just dump them here. Bathroom is off the hall, there should be a bowl and other stuff there.''

His smile grows bigger and he turns back and disappears in the hall, to emerge in few minutes carrying a square plastic washing bowl that I normally use for my more delicate underwear filled with hot water, and what looks like at least three of my best towels over his forearm. The pockets of his jacket seem to be stuffed with other bathing supplies and it all looks a bit silly and a bit touching and I am now sure I do want tonight to continue, and I'll worry about what to do next afterwards.

He puts one of the towels on the rug in front of me, the bowl on top, then drops to his knees and reaches to my feet, rolling the bottoms of my trousers up, his fingers straying lower but not remaining there,  before I put them in the bowl. The water is hot, but not burning, the splash of bath oil fills the air with jasmine, rose and lavender, and when he starts washing my feet I stop thinking of pedicures or of miner's wives in coaltown cottages, because although his touch is firm and practical, it's also undoubtedly, unmistakeably erotic, his fingers, slippery with soap and water, rubbing my skin, carefully, thoroughly, toes first, one by one, than between them, taking his time, moving to the soles, mostly still with his fingers but occasionally reaching for a flannel. He moves to my ankle next, more of a massage than a scrubbing, pressing the tired muscles and rubbing the swollen parts.

It's all happening in silence, apart from my occasional sigh and a ''yes, that's great'' of confirmation and encouragement, and I can hear my own breathing, and I can hear his, maybe a little deeper and faster than it would be normally but not in any way obvious. When he's through with the washing, he moves the bowl/towel ensemble to the side and places my feet on another towel, this time it's the big, thick, pale grey bath sheet which makes a luxurious nest. I expect him to start drying them with as much care as he put into the washing but instead he sits on his heels and picks my right foot, still covered with the film of water, up in both hands, leans down, gives me the same look he did at the bench and when I nod with a smile, brings it to his mouth, licking, kissing and then licking again, the damp of his saliva mixing with the damp of the water.

This is turning me on again, and I sigh and moan a little to show him how I'm enjoying it and to let him know he should go on, which he clearly takes seriously because the next moment he's on his back on the floor, my right foot still in his hands but now directly above his face, the left one still on the towel on the floor next to his shoulder.

He focuses on the sole next, his lips moving slowly, almost methodically, starting with the little toe and along the outer edge, firmer on the tougher skin of the heel, I can feel his teeth, biting but not painfully, than the inner edge, towards the arch, his tongue probing, testing, lingering, tasting, especially between patches of skin with different texture, tracing and mapping my sole and however ridiculous it might sound it feels like he's making love to my foot.

I sigh and adjust my position, unzip my trousers again, start slowly touching myself, wet and hot and starting to throb, arch my back a little which makes my foot push down on his face and he lets it happen, his mouth open and his breathing now close to panting. I move the right one up against him, make it creep up his side and to his cock, full, hard, straining against the fabric of his trousers.

''Turn sideways. No… take your pants off first, then turn on your side, the other way round… do the other one now…'' I stammer. He stops, with a little delay that feels like coming up for air more than reluctance, gets up and starts removing his trousers, pants, socks. Our eyes meet and I can't help but laugh a little, to him rather than at him, in wonder at this thing we are doing here, the bubble of sex that surrounds us and in which all that matters is the mutual need. He smiles back, his eyes growing wider when he sees me pulling my jeans and panties off, my legs open wide and wanton, my fingers emphasising rather than concealing the slick spread of my cunt, the swollen bud of my erect clit emerging between the labia a perfect counterpart to his rigid cock.

''Oh fuck….'' he groans, back on his knees, closer to me, leaning lower.

''Do the other one, I said,'' I don't know how or why I decided to do it, why I am not doing the obvious, the natural thing here and pulling him in, making him use that clearly accomplished mouth of his between my legs, but I know that's what I want just now so there is no reason not to suggest it, even if the suggestion comes out somewhat harsh and demanding.

He moans again but does what I told him to do, attending to my other foot as I focus on the pleasure pooling between my legs, as I get closer to the plateau on which I can stay for a while before reaching the edge of my orgasm, not caring now about the sounds I make or the movements or the view he might have from down there, until I have had enough of that, until I want more and different, and pull away from him, get up and make for the door.

''Come on,'' this comes clipped and harsh again, not because I want to humiliate him but because all I can think about now is my own need and this man whose desire lit that flame has now - at least for this moment - become nothing but a tool of its fulfillment.

He follows me to the bedroom, a couple of steps behind me, and waits expectantly when I stretch myself on the bed, on my front, my feet hanging off the edge of the bed, my legs slightly apart but not enough to let him see anything much.

I make myself comfortable and, with my head on my crossed arms, give him a glance across the dim room and call ‘’C’mere. Get to work. My soles, now.’’

In less than an instant he’s on his knees down there, his mouth and hands eager and beautiful, touching, stroking, licking, stopping, perhaps to look at my soles, the pressing and sucking again, almost all of the muscular tension of the whole day gone now, replaced by the spreading glow of arousal, my skin supple and warm, my cunt dripping with desire that is less directed at than facilitated by what he’s doing for me.

I raise my hips a little, my pelvis feels full, flushed and hot, I want to be touched. My feet spread wider, I am sure he can see up between my legs now, and even if he can’t, he’ll be able to smell me. I want his mouth elsewhere now.

‘’Come up and kiss down my spine, slut,’’ I say, the ‘’slut’’ unexpected yet bizarrely fitting.

He obeys wordlessly, I don’t look at him but can feel his body next to mine, his erection brushing my thigh when he leans down, his lips slow and precise on the back of my neck, moving down, my hips lifting up to meet him, his hands on my buttocks, his moan in response to my ‘’Yess, there…’’ when his tongue slides down to my ass and brushes my anus before getting the first taste of my wetness.

He’s stretched between my legs now and I’m rubbing myself on his face, all vestiges of decorum gone, panting and moaning, first on all fours, then shifting up, so I’m nearly sitting on him, my thigh cramping a bit but I ride it through, my hands in his hair, pulling, the focus of my desire moving from the exquisite sensations flowing over my skin to what I am doing with him and to him, the sounds he makes appear pained and this is turning me on in the most unexpected ways and I want more of it, fucking more, and more, shifting again and pushing him into a place that would fit what I want and need now.

I’m leaning against the headboard, my knees up, he’s flat on his back on the bed still, looking dazed, sticky faced and a little bit breathless.

''On your front and fucking lick,'' I hiss, my toes brushing his lips as he follows my command, the thrill of doing it like a jolt through my whole body, suddenly aware that I could actually kick him, make his lip split on his own teeth, make his bleed here for me, and maybe he would lash back out at me, but maybe he wouldn't and that possibility makes me dizzy with desire of a kind I have not experienced before, the same one that prompts me to push hard against his face and mouth, make him gag and groan in discomfort.

I'm rubbing myself furiously now, my clit like a hard and slippery nub under my fingers, so sensitive that I can't even touch it directly. I grab blindly to the side of the bed, grasp a diIdo I use occasionally and slide it deep into my throbbing cunt, the pleasure of this act a huge gasp and a swearing moan. He's still licking and kissing my feet but I can see him glance up to all the action between my legs now and then.

''Stop... just watch me. Don't... touch... yourself... without... asking....'' I stutter, high up there on the plateau of my pleasure, his frustration and obedience rising the heat.

He does as he's told, though his breathing is fast and loud and when I moan he responds with small, quickly stifled moans of his own. I get close, closer, almost there, my pleasure the whole of my world, the man I brought to me bed a panting shadow on the very periphery of it, his waiting, his patience, his at this moment utter focus on what I am experiencing an afterthought, a sweetly hot one but no more than that.

I come alone, in a huge, convulsive shiver spreading from my toes to the top of my head, and spilling at my core, a scream and a laugh few seconds later.

I stretch and relax, my right foot sliding to his crotch, now I remember him again, grateful and happy, with no urgency.

''Please...'' he whispers, and I answer with a not-quite-dismissive ''OK, go on then. On my feet," his hand a blur, his panting moan turning into a deep groan, the sticky warmth of his release splattering and dripping off my instep.

''Clean it up now."

I'm not really thinking he will, but it seems worth trying, the newly found role talking through me more than me talking from the role, his breath warm on my toes as he leans down to obey.

l

Let's go

I'm sitting down on a large leather couch in one of the not-quite-generic settings in which we play out these scenarios. Perhaps the cottage on the shore of the isolated cove at the end of a narrow single-track road, perhaps the log cabin in the forest, perhaps a hotel room somewhere in the Mediterranean.

I'm comfortable, at least physically, my legs stretched out, my bare feet crossed at the ankles, one of my hands resting on my left knee, the other holding a lit cigarette.

You are standing in front of me, not to attention, but not slouching, feet slightly apart, head slightly straight, as I told you to, as you obeyed.

I am looking at you, my eyes briefly scanning your body and moving to your face, stopping there. I am staring now, surveying your face in close detail, as if I've never seen it before or as if I was to never see it again, as if I was seeing it for the first time and for the last time, as if it was the hello and the goodbye, as if everything has always been the former and the latter. Sharp features, narrow lips with a hint of a smile, looking younger than you are, thick and a little unruly dark hair, grown a bit longer than usual, straight dark eyebrows, and the eyes, cast down, avoiding my gaze, as I told you and as you obeyed.

''Kneel,'' I say, one word only, spoken quietly, or at least quietly for me, my eyebrows rising a little to confirm the request, even though you can't quite see it unless from the corner of your eye.

I could have added your name, or the one we use between us, and I could have added one of those hot -button words, I could have said ''Kneel, slut'' or ''Kneel, boy'', or even make it more dramatic with ''On your knees, bitch''. But I don't, because we don't do This Kind of Thing any more, I am not even sure why, maybe the words have lost their magic or got worn out through overuse, maybe because we don't need them anymore.

You obey, dropping to your knees in front of me, your eyes still averted, as I told you, wordlessly, as I told you too.

Your face is pretty much on the level with mine now, maybe a few inches lower, the downward cast of your eyes more noticeable. I lean over, my hand on your cheek, my thumb running along your lips -- you knew it was coming, didn't you, there is little that's unexpected now in the grander scheme of things after all -- your breath on my skin, that touch, that gesture so obsessively overused for the simple reason that it still makes me shiver a little, however many times I do it, and maybe it always will.

I smile a small smile, my thumb sliding between your lips now, a slight movement of my hand making your head tilt up a little. My eyes still on your face, on your mouth, on your lips forced slightly open by my thumb.

''Look at me,'' I say and your gaze shifts immediately, catches mine, locks with it and we are staring at each other now, pale blue into dark brown, dark brown into pale blue, searching for something that's perhaps not even there, wondering if it ever has been, remembering, pulling it back, losing it again, waiting, waiting, and I know it's my move, my role, my prerogative to do something and I use it to do nothing, to keep looking, pale blue into dark brown, until time disappears and everything else disappears, until all that's left is my palm on your cheek, your breath, now deeper and slower, on my skin, the air moving into and out of my own lungs in the same rhythm, and my gaze locked with yours, the dark brown filling my whole field of vision, my focus sharp against the background so blurry than it's gone.

And now the brown is gone too, split into the myriad colours the human iris has, an endless vortex pulsing and rotating slowly, your eyes - your actual eyes - rolling back in your head, far enough for me to need to pull you back, not to the reality of the room, not to the couch or the rug under your knees but to the pale blue centre, to my focus for your spiral; a low, deliberate ''stay - with - me - boy'', my other hand in your hair now, holding your head still and steady, my breathing controlled to keep me on that ridge, to keep the golden eyed creature in its place behind the blue, until it's time to let it out to play and to feed, to ask the wordless question and wait until you answer, wordlessly at first, until I move my hand and free your mouth, until the ''Yes'' spills out, grows into ''Please'', morphs into ''Yours'', multiply into an endless sequence of those, alternating between whispers and moans, until you are ready, until you are yielding, until you are taken, held, mine.

Let's go.


------

This was inspired by the ''Eye Contact'' prompt from Wicked Wednesday but somehow morphed into something not quite as smutty and exciting as it was supposed to be. But it is what it is. For other entries, check the WW page:

All the ways I'll take you (1)

I watch him undress in the bathroom. I am standing in the door. He baulked visibly when I told him to keep it open, that I wanted to be able to see him, whatever he does.

He's slow, almost hesitant in his movements and I realise he's waiting, maybe hoping, for me to turn away before he needs to use the toilet; the violation of his privacy he's consented to more stark and obvious at this moment when the sexual undercurrent runs deeper and more quiet.

I'm not sure who's feeling more awkward and more obscene here, him for agreeing to this, or me for insisting that he does. What matters really is not what I see, what matters is that that he did agree, and that I can. And so I leave him there, with an instruction to wait for me in the living room when he's ready and go to do some dressing up.

Off come my jeans and my boots. I hesitate for a while, then pick up the corset, loosen the laces, lie down flat on the bed to do up the eyeletsof the steel busk, struggle to lace the whole thing tight enough for a good effect but with a little breathing and moving space. Plain black silk knickers, stockings, black suede courts I can just about walk in and my tatty, long leather jacket complete the ensemble. I look at myself in the mirror, not-quite-yet-a-caricature of a porno Domme, let down my hair, shake and brush it to get some of the frizz out. Pick up another toy from my bag, smile at its matte blackness. This will do.

He's waiting as instructed, naked, kneeling or rather sitting on his heels on the rug, knees apart; collared; hands clasped together behind his back, head down, his eyes rising up momentarily when I open the door, then lowered again. I stand in the door looking at him as he's waiting there, wordlessly, obediently, ready for me to do whatever I can think of and probably some more too.

I walk towards him, plonk myself down in the big leather armchair, stretch my legs out so my crossed ankles are placed between his knees.

I know he wants to look at me, speak to me, but I also know he won't until he's allowed to. For now he's to remain mute, his eyes on my feet, his body tensing visibly as I slowly slide the tip of my right shoe up his thigh, towards his caged cock, the heel trailing a faint pink mark along his skin, the tip nudging his balls. He moans faintly, then bites his lip to stifle that sound, his eyes closing, his head jerking sideways.

I hook my other leg over the chair's armrest, pull the panties to the side exposing my sex, run my fingers slowly along the fleshy folds, my hips rising slightly which makes my right foot dig deeper into his groin.

He's panting and had he not been locked up he'd be rock-hard now, the flesh of his cock bulging against the rings and straps of the device. I'm getting turned on, by his groans and deep breaths, by my own exhibitionist display, by the touch of my own fingers on my labia and clit and by the way he both cringes against and appears to crave the increasing pressure of the shoe against his body.

I remove my foot, the places where the heel dug in raw and red; reach for the toy I brought with me, a sleek, curved black dildo/vibrator designed, apparently, for perfect stimulation of the G-spot, with rave reviews to confirm that, and more.

“Come nearer, boy. Open your slut mouth and make this wet for me.”

He obeys, shuffling closer on his knees, licking the toy for me before I slowly slide it inside, the walls of my cunt contracting around it, the curved shape indeed reaching the right spot. I don't use the vibrating function, just slowly fuck myself with it, letting the pleasure build up and gather, the fingers of my other hand dancing over my clit.

My legs are both hooked over the armrests now and he's kneeling between my knees, eyes lowered as instructed, not saying a word.

“Want a taste, J?”

“'Yes M. Please. God, yes, plll...”

It comes out as a barely articulated moan, broken when the dildo covered in my juices gets pushed somewhat roughly into his mouth, letting him suck, then pushing deeper into his throat, gagging him momentarily, to be retrieved and plunged into my pussy again.

~~~~

You're not allowed to look up at me, anything above the hip line is forbidden. You are not allowed to touch me. You have to stay there and stare at my cunt, your face inches away from it, watch my fingers move, watch the toy sliding in and out of me, covered in slick juices, my flesh throbbing, more liquid oozing out.

Each of us is reduced to pure flesh, you because I took your voice away, and I because all you can see of me is my cunt. You are so close that I can feel your breath on my skin, I can hear it too, sharpish, panting, with a muffled moan every so often.

I'm getting closer, panting and moaning myself, my back arching, my hips raising though not quite high enough to touch your face.

I know I could get you to lick me now, to taste me exactly in the places I'd enjoy being tasted, to make me feel the simple, physical sensation of the touch of your tongue on my skin, of the added shiver that would undoubtedly enhance my simple, hedonistic pleasure.

But then there is the sound you're making every time I get a little closer to you, the growl turning into a moan breaking into a whimper, the thickly palpable tension of what I am making you do, how much control it's costing you to stay still and mute and obedient like that, and that is unbelievably hot, hotter than any touch or caress could possibly be, the electrifying sense of the power you gave me, of keeping you there at the edge, stopping you from doing the obvious and natural thing, and the thought of your cock, unable to get hard, straining and painfully constricted; and this is what I choose now, pulling the dildo out again just at the very edge of my orgasm, this can wait, just now I want this state of ecstatic arousal more than the release itself, so I straighten up, my feet back on the floor; lean over you and grab your hair, as much of it as I can get hold of, pull your head far back, your mouth opens.

I make you lick it, suck it, take it deeper, fucking your mouth with it, pulling out, then slapping you as you gulp, a loud splat on the cheek making your head recoil and sending a jolt of arousal through my body, god I want to hurt you now, hurt you more, leaning down over you in a ridiculously laced up corset, my breasts spilling out at the top, the high heels still on my feet, but all the paraphernalia of sexiness don't matter any more, as you spit out the toy, as I slap you again, and again, my own face now a grotesque grimace somewhere half way between fury and lust, as if even there was a difference, and then my hand suddenly stopping mid swing, slowing, I am touching your inflamed cheek with my fingertips, run them along your jawline and to your lips, parting them, letting you lick and suck my fingers, your eyes rolling back in your head, you lips soft, and eager, your tongue stiff and obedient, and I am moaning.

“Enough of that now.”

I tell you to move further away, sit on the floor with your back against the sofa. I stretch my legs out again, light a cigarette, smoke looking at you contemplatively, not so unruffled and contained anymore, the hand prints on your cheek glaring red, the heel marks fading on your thigh, your breath raggedy, your hands instinctively moving to your cock and then away, with that grimace indicating a mixture of pain and arousal that I love, that I've learned to look for on your face, that I put there, that turns me on so much.

I pick up the g-spot toy from the floor.

“Here, boy. Catch,” I toss it to you and you do catch, somewhat surprised.

“Use it. You've done it before, you told me in detail. I want to see you fuck yourself for me. Spread those legs wide and show me how much you like it.”

You're turning it in your hands, your eyes low. I'm a bit surprised at that, considering everything else, but I can sense that you're getting more turned on too.

“C'mon. Why do you think I told you to get extra clean earlier? Show time. NOW.”

I flick my foot towards you, the shoe falls off and lands almost in your lap, we both laugh though you pick it up somewhat reverently and I briefly wonder if I should tell you to lick it while you're at it, but that would be a distraction from the thing I want you to do.

I throw a packet of lube at you too and thus encouraged you proceed to do as told. There is a slow reluctance to your movements at first, as if you were crossing another line here, as if this was somehow different from jerking off at my command or licking your cum up as it drips out of my cunt, as if it was even more than letting me put a padlock on your cock, more than taking away not just your orgasm but even your ability to get hard.

Your slutty self takes over eventually, and you're applying the lube liberally to the toy and to yourself, your knees spread wide, your heels closer to your butt as you manoeuvre the tip of the dildo into your anus, first tentatively, then still slow but harder, more decisively, with a deep moan as it slides in, as its curved shape fits to your body, as I suspect, hits your own sweet spot.

You're doing what I was doing only a while ago with the same object, fucking yourself, the movements of your hand more jerky and faster, your hips rising to meet the inward thrust; letting the sensation take over your body, biting your lips and moaning, your eyes rolling back again, your knees twitching, shameless and completely exposed to my gaze. Mine.

“Stop. Enough. Now. Leave it in.”

It takes you a few seconds to react, squirming there on the rug, your hands placed away from your body as if trying to fight the temptation.

“I... oh... I need to get hard, M... please... let me get hard...I won't come I promise... it's a fucking torture!” you blurt out suddenly.

“Well. Yes. You signed up for that, I recall.”

You don't answer.

“Getting a little desperate? I fucking love you desperate. I don't think I've seen you really desperate yet, boy.”

I leave you there and get up, my shoes now off; move a heavy Georgian dining chair away from the table, dark wood and leather seat; place it in front of my armchair.

“Get on that, J. Knees wide. Back straight. Hands behind. That's right. Good boy.”

~~~~

I get the other supplies out and set to work, talking to him as I cuff his hands behind the chair's back, wide leather cuffs lined with softer suede, clipped together. My longest, wide black belt goes round his waist. Two others, around his thighs.

“You can safeword at any time, you remember? If you do, all that caboodle comes off and the play is over for today. It doesn't mean you get to come of course. If something is less seriously wrong, you may address me by my full name and we'll stop briefly for adjustments,”

“Otherwise you'll stay quiet unless I ask a question or tell you to speak. Moaning is OK. “

I sound a bit daft even to myself, but I feel I need to say these things just now, just as I take a coil of smooth rope and start winding it up around his chest and upper arms.

I haven't done it before – not that much, not on a real human being, naked and yielding under my hands – and I have never imagined how thrilling it would be, to adjust the tightness of the binds, to make the knot at the back secure, to make sure that there is enough room for him to breather and move a little bit but not too much, to make him more constrained, more vulnerable, more helpless with each buckle done, with each knot made fast.

I tie his ankles to the chair legs too, simple multiple coils secured with a knot between the wood and his skin. I make sure there is enough give not to rub much, not to restrict the blood supply; run my hands along his calves, still smooth having been shaved clean this morning, up to his knees, along his inner thighs and across the restraints there. My hands meet at his balls, bulging from behind the leather strap of the cage, find the base of the dildo still buried inside him, nudge it deeper. He moans at that, a deep, long groan that makes my cunt clench and prompts me to run my tongue along the gaps in the cock cage, its tip caressing the visible flesh in swift flicks. He's shaking.

I get back up, stand above him, look at my handiwork.

His eyes are tracing my movements, lowered, but still open.

There is one more thing. I pull out a scrap of black silk from my pocket, an old scarf that will do perfectly for the kind of blindfold I want, covering his eyes while not cutting al the light or even all his vision completely. I tie it behind his head, run my fingers along his opening lips, lean down and bite his left earlobe, first gently, then harder until his groans in pain, my right hand below his chin, pushing his head back, the heel of it gently pressing on his throat.

I get myself a dram of yesterday's malt, go back to my chair, light a cigarette and extend my crossed legs up, my feet in his lap, then check the pocket of the jacket I am still wearing. The remote – different to the one I used in the morning – is there too. As for now, I rub the nylon-covered feet on his inner thighs, balls and cock and just look at him, straining as if to test his bonds, then relaxing, his mouth ajar.

The rope on his upper body is pale against his skin, tightening with each inhale, softening a little on each exhale, his breathing getting deeper and slower, as if he was zoning out, trancing; completely given there for me to do as I please and yet also gone into some space I can only see from the outside.

It's beautiful, and thrilling. Some part of me wants to watch him, bound like this, forever.

I put out my cigarette, take a swig of the whisky, the remote in my hands now.

My feet are nestled between his legs, rubbing slightly, pushing and tweaking, moving slowly between his cock and the inner thigh, up to his navel and lower to his balls. I press harder there, my toes curling onto the hot, stretched skin, resting on the leather straps, pushing down, stretching the skin between the balls and the ring-held base of his cock, making him groan, his head lolling sideways, his mouth open, his breathing deeper but now getting faster, his whole body continuously tensing and relaxing against the ties.

I press the button on the remote, choosing the lowest setting, knowing the effect the slow vibration will have on him, the curve of the toy shaped such that it's bulbous tip is just now pulsing against his prostate, I can feel it in the way he tenses up, can feel it faintly in the toes of my right foot pressing the outside of the soft area between his balls and the base of the dildo, in the way he's trying to move his hips even though the ties hardly allow him to shift by an inch either way.

“Oh god oh fuck fuck fuck...” his breathing is getting staggered, his voice broken by erratic exhalations, so I turn the toy up, flipping the switch to the irregular pattern that varies the speed and intensity of vibrations; remove my feet from his lap and stand behind him.

He's whimpering now, as if he was in pain though his face isn't contorted by a tense grimace but surprisingly relaxed, the sound coming from somewhere deep inside his throat, low, growly, inhuman almost, becoming nothing but an expression of need; as if he was becoming the need itself, the what for and whose lost in the intensity of it.

I let the jacket drop onto the floor and hook my thumbs under the collar; his head falls forward, the back of his neck exposed, my fingers moving slowly up, feeling the muscles, tendons, vertebrae, stroking the short hair along his spine. He's shivering; little, constrained spasms, the body warm and electric under my touch; and when I lean down and lick his shoulder from the edge of the collar along the line of the right trapezius and back to the side of his neck, my teeth resting gently and then slowly closing on the flesh just under his ear, he starts to shake, his shoulders drawn in, his head fallen to the side as my right hand traces the line of the rope restraining his chest and upper arms, to his nipple sticking out just above the coils, rubbing harder just as my teeth bite then release.

“How does that feel, boy?” I whisper into his ear, my fingers now tweaking, twisting, pinching; my own breasts spilling out of my corset and pressed against his back.

I can't make out his answer, the words, if there are any, are lost in the growly moans.

“Use. Your. Words,” I say, slowly, my left hand now pulling his left ear down, and backwards.

“More... please... more... ohhh... more, M... you're killing me, M... more, please...”

I let go, move to the front of the chair, straddle him, his head at my chest level, my hand on his forehead, his face suddenly tense, the feeling that he's struggling, desperately trying to see me through the blindfold.

The cock cage is rubbing against my bare cunt as I adjust my position, supporting myself on my toes, then lowering my full weight onto him; his head held back, immobilised in my palms, I lick along his lips, the tip of my tongue stopping in the corner, then travelling around the line where the pink fades into the tan of his face. It's not a sophisticated or even  sexual gesture, it feels primal, animal, base, my hips pushed into his crotch, his body straining against the binds and against me.

“I...ohhhh... I'm going... oh...fuck...” he moans into my mouth and when I raise my head and look at his face, it's twisted, his teeth clenched on his lower lips, his shoulders shaking, his legs contracting as the combination of my touch and the toy that I've penetrated his body with rips the first dry orgasm out of him, a flash of contortion in his face, a flash of intense pleasure that affords some release while leaving him wanting even more. Leaving me wanting more too.

More.

I get off him, my own body burning now, my mind surrounded by a hazy, glowing halo and yet so clear; watching him shake, then go limp when I switch the toy off, then straighten up again when I bring him to by slapping his face.

“Ohh... fuck...” he bucks against the belts as the thing inside him resumes its work.

I'm back in my chair, slowly touching myself, close to the edge of my own orgasm, pacing it so it spills over the glowing plateau just as he appears to black out with another dry spasm racking his body.

And unlike normally would happen, my own climax doesn't make me relaxed, nor sleepy, nor emotional. Something starts to shift slowly, but inevitably, the haze and the glow are gone; and I laugh, I laugh like I often do after I come hard, but this laugh doesn't take me to a cushioned place of satisfied satiety, it pulls me higher. Sharper. 

It pulls me to more. To that place where I see oh so bright what I want. What I need. What I will take. What I will have. 

If anything it clears my head, allowing me to focus better, my mind sorting and reordering thoughts and ideas for doing more things with my toy, for all the ways I can take him.

-------

Read the whole story and find out what happened before and after this:

To have his cock [and lock it?] (3)

This is where they ended up in  the last instalment: 

You can't come, boy, echoed in his mind. Marie was laughing. You can't come until I tell you too. That's what you wanted, slut boy. She seemed both a little angry and amused, happy and a little contemptuous. Ian wasn't sure if this was a memory or a fantasy. He moaned, louder than normal, his cock getting sore, his arousal unabated. ''Please… I need to come so bad… please… please….'' he knew she liked him to beg, he knew it turned her on to say no, but sometimes it turned her on to say yes too. He tried to imagine her saying ''yes'', tried to hear her voice, conjure that permission, but it didn't work. He moaned louder, his muscles tensing, shaking, straining, the desire turning into pain. ''Please, Ma'am... ohhh god, please, please... I need it so bad....'' he felt himself turn to his side, curl up, then turn over, his painfully hard, dripping cock rubbing against the sheets, the humiliation of all the people that were watching his predicament flooding his mind, tears of frustration making his face wet as he humped the bed in futile search for relief. 

He was fucked. He was completely fucked and he had only himself to blame. It was perfect. 

****

Marie was waiting for him in what the OC-Lab called ''guest lounge'', and when he emerged she jumped up from her seat excitedly and almost run to him, a big smile on her face. 

Ian hesitated. His erection had subsided now, but the feeling of a nearly overwhelming and frustrated desire, of the desperate need to come, of the way his body shivered and tensed and whimpered on that bed, overlooked by cameras and attached to various wires, was still very much there, churning his insides and blurring his vision. Seeing Marie here brought it all to the forefront of his mind. For a split second he wanted to yell at her, for another - longer - he wanted to drop to his knees right here in front of her and plead for permission. 

She embraced him warmly and he could feel her soft breasts against his chest, her arms around him, the smell of her perfume and her skin, her whisper in his ear, ''That was so fucking hot, boy. Watching you there. I can't wait.'' She slid her knee between his legs and dragged it up and down along his rapidly returning erection. He groaned. 

''Or maybe we should get it out of the way now,'' her knee pressed harder and she bit his ear briefly, ''I've been thinking of having you come just here,'' her tongue was doing weird things on his neck behind his ear while the fingers of her right hand grasped his nipple. ''I came, imagining that, just before I drove to pick you up,'' Marie twisted his nipple. His low groan turned into a stifled whimper, ''I imagined telling you to come in your pants before we even got to the car,'' she was panting a bit now and he realised she was nearly as aroused as he was, ''I know how much you want to come, slutboy, I heard you whimper,'' Ian's head was spinning, his hips moving involuntarily, seeking stimulation of her touch, his cock painfully hard again, dampness of the precum noticeable in his pants. He was desperate to come, but he didn't want it to happen here, with others possibly seeing him, and he thought, as much as he was capable of thinking, that the occasion demanded more of an event. 

Marie stepped away, ''I decided not to, though. C'mon, boy,'' she pulled his arm and he followed, a huge frustrated erection throbbing in his jeans, his hands shaking. 

*

Ian was reclining on their bed, completely naked, his back supported by few pillows. His wrists were tied to the headboard, his legs spread wide and also restrained, albeit loosely, with ties stretching to the legs of the bed. 

His cock was painfully hard (again), precum dripping in a continuous trickle (again), the skin on the top stretched so tight that it felt like on the edge of splitting, his balls tight and full, his whole body trapped not just in the physical restraints (to which he submitted willingly) but in an invisible net of frustrated desire (to which he had submitted enthusiastically too).  A desire that could only be satisfied at Marie's will and whim. 

She was sitting on the side of the bed, watching him, her pupils dilated, fingers of her right hand twisting a nipple clamp attached to his chest. He groaned, waves of stinging pain spreading through his body, distracting him from the pulsing need in his cock. She reached down and stroked his shaft, her fingers flitting briefly over the cockhead. He bucked his hips, instinctively trying to prolong the stimulation. She laughed, a low chuckle of joy, and slapped his cock, hard enough to make it bounce. 

"I love this. I never realised how much I'd love this," she panted and lowered her head over him, her soft, wet lips closing on his cock, her tongue swirling. 

He moaned, unable to stop himself, ''Please, Marie... Ma'am, please... let me come... please...''

She lifted her face up and looked at him, ''No. I love you like this.''

''Please...''

''No.''

''Please......''

It felt like each ''please'' made her more aroused, made her breathing faster, each ''no'' coming out more rapidly on a sharp exhale, each subsequent lick slower, each slurp more ravenous. She was feeding her desire with his desperation, literally, gasping and sighing her delight every time he whimpered or tensed up. And he was yielding, letting her have her way with his body, with him, and now she was taking him more fully, climbing on top and sliding her wet, warm cunt onto his cock, clenching and releasing, her hips rocking back and forth, the fingers of her left hand fast on her clit. 

She moaned, letting out short, sharp cries, her left hand moving all over his body, grabbing, pinching, scratching. It felt like she was masturbating on his cock, and it felt like his cock wasn't his cock any more but her toy, an object she used for her own pleasure. He wanted to fuck her, to thrust and pound, but some part of him already knew that there was no point to this, that she would do it the way she wanted, and if she wanted him still and filling her cunt, that's what she'd have. 

Marie lifted her hips up and slammed her arse onto him, then gyrated. His cock spasmed, filling her throbbing cunt even tighter, suspended tight on the edge of release. She moaned louder, freed her right hand, leaned forward, grabbed his hair with her left hand and pulled his head painfully back. The slap came unexpected, hard and swift, then another one, his whole left cheek burning, her face above him, her mouth open in a grimace of pleasure.

''You...fucking... bitch... ohhhhh... fuck. Fuck. Fuuuck. My fucking slut... ohhhh,'' another slap, then her hand soft on his cheek. She slowed down, then stopped. Marie supported herself on her hands placed on his chest, leaning over him. Her hair, damp with sweat and tangled, fell on her shoulders and breasts and his chest, her eyes locked with his, huge, pupils dilated into dark vortexes, the narrow band of a steel-blue iris swirling with sudden violet. 

She was still now, the only movements the rhythmic falling and rising of her chest and clenching and unclenching of her cunt on his cock. She was smiling. 

"I'm yours, Ma'am. Yours. Your. Yours, '' he moaned into those eyes, into that smile. She placed her hand on his mouth, gently this time, and nodded. 

''Mine,'' the hand adjusted so the palm still covered his mouth while the fingers closed on his nose, restricting but not completely blocking his air intake. Her ass lifted again and dropped down, her weight transmitted through that hand pushing his head into the pillow, her hips shifting and rocking, a series of low sighs and murmurs of delight coming out of her mouth as she adjusted her body and started to fuck him again, this time in a faster, more regular rhythm, the nails of her other hand digging into his shoulder. 

Ian felt his mind starting to dissociate, detach from his body, the body she was using now and that wasn't his any more. He instinctively tried to take a bigger breath, slowly sucked in more air than her hand allowed, was pushed down harder, the nails digging deeper, her moans now loud, animal-like. She was nearly screaming, shaking, slamming herself onto him, slamming him into her, her hand removed from his mouth, nails dragging along his cheek and the side of his neck. He was sinking into a space filled with velvety electricity, floating away from the pain and torment that his body was subjected to. The pleasure and the pain melded together and he felt his control - all of it, not just his ability to ejaculate as he felt he needed to - receding further, then disappearing. 

---tbc, maybe