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.