As you wish

I stole this one in its entirety from the wonderful, wonderful story by 19syllables. I loved the setting, the sense of a moving place evoked so well that reading it made me think I was sweating despite sitting in cool 17 degrees with a cup of tea. And then I felt the erotic aspect, which was magnificently delivered yet not exactly aligned with my inclinations and thought (because I would, wouldn't I?): what if we gender-swapped the characters? The author graciously allowed me to do just that, so here we are. Apart from the pronouns and the tube topography, some anatomical details and a little bit of outer and inner dialogue have been meddled with. The narrative curve and the setting remain, for which I am eternally grateful to the original author. Please do go and read her story too, of course!

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It's 91 degrees on the streets, but underground is much hotter, maybe 100, maybe even 105. The other passengers and I hang limply from the handrail, willing the journey forward so that we can ride the escalators out into the fresh air. But nobody is willing the journey forward more than I. I need the destination.

I’d already been locked for ten days, last three spent on her side of the pond, when she texted me;

“Come over. Now.”

Just that. No promises, no information about what was to come. She knew I was free, and she knew I was at her beck and call.

“Oh, yes please!” My neediness bled through my words as my heart-rate shot up at the very thought. The next text was more specific.

“Use your new toy. Take the tube. Be quick.”

I know already that that’s ten stops from the hotel to her place. On the Northern Line, one of the busiest, oldest, deepest underground lines in the city. It’s not built for hot days or modern London. It can be an ordeal on any day, but in the summer it’s hell.

I could refuse, of course. Claim busyness, claim feeling unwell, unused to the lack of air-conditioning that's paradoxically shocking to someone living in even higher summer temperatures. Or negotiate a permission for a taxi ride. But I love to please her, and I’m so very hungry for even a small chance of any relief.

I want to run to her like a puppy called to heel.  I want her to praise my slutty obedience and be pleased with how well I followed the instructions. Yes, I want her to be pleased, regardless of how much I enjoy it, or not. At this thought, my flesh presses harder against the metal bars, the discomfort rise and with it, my arousal.

Hers is a twisted sort of sadism. It catches me in a web spun from my own need . It makes me my own punisher, willingly stepping up to the challenges she sets me as route to the intensity I crave.

I throw on canvas shorts and as thin a shirt as possible and cringe at my own wantonness as I slip the toy in and message her that I’m leaving. She doesn’t reply, but I know she’s received my text as the low hum starts in my ass within seconds of my pressing ''send".

I walk with quiet purpose to the tube, I’m smugly pleased and ashamed both at once; it’s a tight rope balance between being her good boy and her filthy slut, vertiginous and dizzying and I can't quite see properly just now. Halfway down the escalator a feeling of being lowered into a warm water takes over me, as the air becomes thick with heat, breeze-less and stagnant. The people coming up on the facing stairs look flushed and wilted – their hair stuck to their faces and their eyes uplifted to the light at the end on the tunnel. But I descend.

It’s fairly quiet on the platform, I stand a little away from the other people as I’m nervous that they’ll hear the buzzing, the maddening, incessant buzzing, that they’ll see me for what I am; lascivious and libidinous, shameless and yet still ashamed.

The coming train pushes a chunk of hot air forward and it animates everyone on the platform who were, until that moment, static. A suited man, tie undone, looks up from his phone and takes a step towards the edge, a woman holds her billowing hair away from her face and picks up her shopping bags. I instinctively place my hand at my crotch level, never more grateful than now for the tight lattice of metal bars that confine and restrict my erection. They mustn’t see, nobody can see.

The train is busy, no room to sit, maybe that’s a good thing, no, maybe that’s a bad thing, will I hold it? I think I can hold it. Imagine the alternative. Fear, actual fear rather than embarrassed nervousness, coats my skin clammy and hot. A creep. One of those disgusting public transport pervs. No, don’t imagine the alternative. I turn so I am facing the corner of the carriage. Concentrate. Be calm, poker face, nobody will suspect you. I hold the handrail next to me and look into the thin layer of darkness between the carriage and the tunnel's wall.

I try to zone out during the journey, it seems best to try not to engage with my longing, my largely self-inflicted predicament. Not to dwell on the humming in my ass, not to focus on the insistent pulsing of pleasure deep inside me, not to think about how pleased she will be if I do this right, not to even start thinking of all the ways she might tease me, use me, please herself with my torment or my pleasure. Especially the last one. Not to go there.

I can maintain it; it’s a mind trick like willing yourself not to be ticklish, I suppress the rising need to moan, to flee, to see to the growing need inside myself now now now NOW.  It’s possible until the train jolts or new passengers alight or disembark and I’m jostled about and required to make fleeting eye contact or polite engagements like “sorry” or a smile. One person even makes the ‘you know it’s illegal to transport sheep in heat like this’ comment to me.  Each time I have to reassemble my armour and find a way to disappear back into myself a little.

I like to arrive to her calm, cool, composed, not showing the seething desire until later, much later; until I am explicitly instructed to do so, made to do so; but right now I’m wet and I smell of sweat and sex. I’m wet on my temples and I’m damp behind my knees. I’m wet under my arms and on my chest and under my hair. I’m wet in the small of my back; at King's Cross I felt a rivulet run down into the crease of my butt.

I’m wet in my boxers too, the sticky mess of precum threatening to seep through onto the outer shorts' fabric. I stand with my legs slightly crossed, but then that makes me unbalanced and now pushed into the middle of the carriage by people moving in and out I have to dangle from the ceiling too much while the train makes its rattling scream as it banks around a subterranean corner, so I uncross them. And then I cross them. And then uncross them and close my eyes. Please let this stop, the next stop be Belsize Park.

I walk carefully up the stairs, despite the heat better choice than the cramped elevator would be, and as I ascend into signal, a text arrives.

“Let me know when you get this.”

“got it now”

The intensity of the buzz in my butt increases, and I can't help it but let out a moan, a whimper that surprises even me with its intensity. It’s a sex noise or a pain noise, I don’t know quite which but its definitely not a London Underground noise.  A 30-something woman in front of me looks back with curious concern. I get hold of the handrail and rest my forehead briefly against the dirty tiles that should be cool, but are not, waving her away with an "I'm OK, just a strained muscle".

Oh Lord, I feel so close now. My fingers are white knuckled on the handrail, I am biting my inner lip hard enough to feel sticky saltiness on my tongue. I look at my feet, seemingly composed, in dark boat shoes. I don’t know if I can do this, this last bit. I’m so thirsty and I feel like I’m pulsing, splitting apart with heat and longing; teetering on the edge of my capability.

I walk out of the red arches of the station, past the hospital and towards the Heath, faster, almost jogging; I would be running if it wasn't for the heat.

The buzzer of her apartment feels like a life-saver.

She answers, “Hello?”

Fucking ‘Hello?’ Like a question, like she doesn’t know its going to be me, I lean into the intercom and just implore her with a single, breathy, begging "Please....". There is no reaction. I am not sure if I am angry or desperate enough to be nearly crying. "Please... Ma'am..."

The buzz in my ass stops just when she buzzes the door open, a relief that is borderline disappointing, but makes me even more aware of the painful straining of my caged cock. She meets me on the stairs. Barefoot, the dark red of her toenails peeping from under long linen trousers, her shirt stark white, her hair un-carefully pinned up, escaping in long strands of gold. Her hand on my cheek is dry, surprisingly cool to touch. I must look bedraggled, sweaty, red, worn out.

“Look at you” she says, her thumb running along my cracked lips. "Bit desperate, huh?"

I nod, not trusting myself to say anything. My eyes close briefly, then roll back in my head, I moan over the touch of her fingers.

Inside her apartment, she makes me stand in the middle of the room while she unbuttons my shirt, unpeels it off my back, undoes my belt and zipper, pulls the shorts and the boxers down and guides me as I step out of the bundle, naked now but for the steel cage against which the red flesh of my straining cock is pressing against; dripping wet and dirty and desperate and at least a little pathetic.

She's looking at me, smiling, but without mockery and in that moment, she has me exactly where she wants me, needing her in every way, physical and emotional, beyond begging for it, already yielding, giving myself to her in any way she would take me. In this moment, again, I am hers.

"Good boy. Beautiful. Thirsty?"

I nod, not trusting myself to even produce a coherent 'yes'.

She pours me a glass something -- champagne? Prosecco? from a bottle sitting in an ice bucket. It's cold, boozy, and feels like a water of life. A flannel dipped in the same ice bucket gives me a jolt initially, but I submit to her ministrations, as I knew I would, as she know I would. She wipes me down all over. My back and my arms, my chest and my buttocks. I can feel her fingers brushing the nape of my neck and one of my nipples and have to stifle a whimper again, standing there limply but for my confined cock; pliable in her hands as she manipulates me to access everywhere, lifting my arms and spreading my legs. The cold cloth landing on the cage, dripping icy water onto my engorged dick, makes me yelp, then moan into the quenching pleasure of it.

She takes an ice cube and puts it in her mouth and I welcome her cool tongue into me as she kisses me. The white gauze curtains billow in the breeze like the very epitome of cool and I close my eyes and give myself to her. She takes my hand and leads me to her bedroom, the hair now loose and down, spreading on her shoulders and back in a silvery wave. I look at the bits of kit laid out on the bed, excited and anticipating, and -- almost idly -- wonder if she's going to unlock the cage today. I could ask, but it's not the way we do things, and then I realise that on some fundamental level I don't really care.

"Kneel, boy," she says, "head down, ass up."

I obey, sinking into the grey electric space she can take me into like no other.

"As you wish, Ma'am."

This time of the year (5): More

Continued from here.

Once? Ten times? Not at all? It doesn't matter. We are beyond both the idea and the reality of an ''orgasm''. Or I am, anyway. Not so sure about you. Not that it matters, not right now, not for yet another long while, anyway.

I'm glowing now, not merely on the surface, but like an ember, the core warmer and more luminous than the skin, faster and hotter, almost liquid, the heat and want and pleasure a low laughter of emerging universes. 

My legs swing round your head, I sit up and pull you up to me, onto the bed, my hands all over you, checking, touching, stroking, pinching, my lips too. I feel smooth and free, unencumbered by any expectation or concern. I'm not playing a role because there is no role to play. Whatever is, is, and it's right, simply because it is everything that is, everything that can possibly be. 

I look at your face, carefully, my gaze an anchor for your dilated pupils, my mouth a roadsign. Smiling. 

"I want to do... few more things. Gotta prepare. You go to the bathroom and do your bit, and I'll see you in about 20 minutes. All clean and... ready. Off you go, boy."

There is a bit of finality in my "ready", even more in the "off you go". I lean to you, my hand on your shoulder, my mouth brushing the other one, lips opening, teeth grazing, biting. Fast and sharp. My other hand sliding between your legs, grabbing hold, squeezing, stroking, pulling a moan out of you. 

Hotel beds tend to lack handy anchor points, and I am glad that at some point I did do some planning, that I packed a few things that will make what I have in mind possible after some threading through, pulling, huffing and puffing on my side. 

I have a bit of time before you emerge from the bathroom, so I sit in the only deep armchair in the room and, catching my breath, realise how physically aroused I still am, wet, flushed, almost-throbbing, my clit erect, sensitive, making me gasp when I reach down under the straps and touch it with my fingertips. I grab the purple dildo which I placed on the coffee table for what I hoped was to be a striking effect. Effect be damned, it feels too good sliding inside my cunt to worry about staging. 

I need to sit a more upright, my feet about 16 inches apart, but the sensation of my cunt clenching and unclenching on the silicone curve is definitely worth it. I allow a low moan before composing myself. 


You come out of the bathroom, a white towel around your hips, your eyes darting from the bed to me and back. You see the stuff arranged for practicality rather than to look either menacing or promising yet still gulp, audibly. This brief gulp turns into a moan when I call you closer to me and, undignified as it is, extract the dildo from its current location. I'm laughing, unbecomingly for the high erotic charge, but I guess by now we can allow ourselves this. 

Laughing, or even joking, won't break the taut thread of desire that links us, won't make me want to hear your moan, beg and scream any less, and I don't think it will make you want to be hurt and used and restrained any less. We are beyond the ritual and beyond the protocol, and although I still love when you call me 'Ma'am', it's not any more essential than a latex professional Dominatrix uniform would be. 

'And I actually do love me some latex,' I say, ruminatively, out of the blue, which stops you in your tracks, even more as it's followed by a burst of full-on laughter. 

'No. Don't worry, it was just something off topic I was thinking about. I don't have a full gimp suit hidden in my magic carpet bag. C'mere.'

I wave the dildo, wet and sticky and smelling of my cunt, towards you. 

'Wanna taste, slutboy?'

I don't need to ask this question, really, do I? But I like it when you say it, when you confirm it and when you ask for it. I like the way your voice shakes a tiny bit, breaks a little, gest husky, when you say it.

'Yes. Yes, please. Ma'am. Please.'

I point to the rug near me and you drop to your knees, the towel falling off to reveal a fully shaven and at this moment, very hard indeed cock. It twitches when I slide the curved piece of silicone between your lips, and drops of precum appear on top when I push it deeper, making you suck. 

'I'd like to see you suck a real cock one day.'

You moan around the dildo, your eyes rolling back in your head, closing, then coming back to fix on mine. I pull the dildo out of your slut moth and slap you, lightly. Hot, damp cheek on my palm. It's obscene, depraved, magnificent, beautiful. I want more. I want all of you. 

Practicalities of access suggest a more convoluted - literally - tie, but there is something so damn compelling, so perfect, about a spreadeagle. So we'll start with that.