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.
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