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!

----

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 (4): Feel me

Continued from here.

I slide my hand under your belly and find your cock, rigid and warm, slick with precum, grab harder, stroke, my other hand pressing, then lightly slapping your butt down, making it thrust into the vice-like grip, your panting faster, in wincing pleasure.

------

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

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

''Feel me.''

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

''On your knees on the floor."

You slide down, head still on the edge of the bed between my spread knees. 

"Take my boots off.''

You give me a smile, broad and dizzy, on your knees by the bed, now leaning down, your hands stroking the leather, stopping at the buckles, hesitating at the zip pull.

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

''Upwards. To the edge.''

We are playing the scenarios we have shared as fantasies so many times, pressing the buttons and pulling the levers we imagined working, for real now. 

And they work. Astonishingly. I still - still - still - still - find it amazing that they do. How, I am not sure. 

Either flesh just happened to serendipitously match with what we spent so much time imagining, or the fantasy triumphed over the reality even when confronted with it. Whatever it is, it's patently working.

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

"Enough."

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

''Lick, slut.''

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

''Inner thighs.''

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

''Lick my knickers.''

I'm floating in a sea of pleasure and lust, your mouth making the already wet fabric soaked, your breath a warm steam, your tongue and lips perfect. 

Pliant, probing and caressing, somehow more thrilling because separated from my skin by the thin layer of drenched silk. My hands are -- loosely -- on your head, neither pushing nor pulling, just there, ready to adjust if needs be, one of them slides lower to your ear, fingers squeezing the fleshy lobe, nails digging, just a little bit, pulling.  You groan, whether in pain or lust, I don't know. My legs are spread wide open, one foot braced against the bed, the other placed, lightly, on your upper back.

The joy, a basic kind, all-of-the-body, washes over me in slow waves. I won't come like this of course, but I don't really want to. The earlier urgency is gone. This is a slow and perhaps the most selfish of all pleasures, when you, as a person, disappear, when we, as ''we'' and the thing that connects us, the thing that burned so hot only few minutes ago, disappear. 

Even the want is gone. All that remains is my pure sensation. 

My hand moves your head away, my foot shifts from your back. My other hand moves down, pulling the silk to the side. 

''Fingers.''

''Two. Curved up.''

My voice, low, a little syrupy, a little gritty, slotted in-between the panting breaths but slow and sure. A tool, but a tool that's been honed deep under my consciousness, purposeful more in the way of cat's claws' purposefulness than a Sabatier knife's. 

"Find the right spot.''

Your fingers moving, probing, searching. Subtle changes in sensation, varying degrees of pleasure that, despite your fingers being inserted few inches deep in my cunt, remains skin-shallow until you do find the right spot indeed and the pleasure goes deeper.

A slow rush, spreading velvet from the dense point of gold at the centre of my pelvis, outwards, to my hips, the small of my back, upper thighs, breasts, down to my toes and along my arms to my fingertips. 

A deep breath, a moan. Rising. Maybe uncontrollably, certainly hard to control. 

Fuck. 

My eyes closing, my head thrown back. 

''That's it. Rub there.''

I let the sensation spread wider, pulse out, sink into me as I sink into it and become one with the pleasure. 

-- tbc, probably. 

But it could end here. Not a bad place, huh?

This time of the year (2): Strip for me

Previous part here.

Less obvious, less tense, less wired, less easy later.

The room is on the tenth floor and in the lift, we both look down, both a little awkward, then at each other, then away again.

''Turn round,'' I say, suddenly, something -- something different from the initial flare of lust that drove me in those first minutes -- emerging. 

''Turn round and face the wall. Place your hands flat on the wall at shoulder height,'' I repeat, elaborating.

''Yes, Ma'am,'' you reply, your voice suddenly slower, thicker, almost slurred in a way that the couple of drinks we've shared doesn't get close to justifying.

My hand moves to the lift's control panel, finger presses the ''stop'' button, the lift halts between the floors. I step closer to you, stand directly behind, slide my hands under your shirt, feel your skin all the way up to your shoulders, warm and dry, not yet seen, I can't wait. 

For now, I merely dig my nails in and drag them down, two paralel tracks shivering down your back. I can feel you tense up, brace yourself, stifle a groan, then relax, my flat palms steady on your hips. I want to pull your shirt off, see the pink marks before they fade, taste them. 

My mouth is dry, air thick and sharp in my throat. I'm not sure if I remember ever wanting anything as much as I want this, now, all of it, so much that I don't even know where to start.

I unblock the lift. You remain in position until we get to our floor, only moving when I indicate it's OK for you to do so. The logistic realities intervene in the meantime by means of keys and doors and room layouts until I'm sitting down, in the chair, my legs stretched out and crossed at my ankles, and you are standing in front of me, a few feet distant.

''Strip for me.''

You look at me, ours eyes meet and I smile a little, just one side of my mouth, your eyes dark and steady.

Your jacket drops on the chair to your left, your hands move to undo the buttons of your shirt, slowly but without hesitation, neither coy nor embarrassed.

I move my eyes down, to your fingers. You are taking your time, leaving your buttons undone one by one, a lighter strip of skin in the opening of the shirt, a glimpse of a smooth chest and a shadow of a fine trail of hair leading down. You lean down briefly, your eyes still on me, take off your shoes and socks, move them to the side, straighten up. 

Your gaze still on me, I can feel it somewhere around my forehead, top of my head, looking at me looking at you.

This is not a show, there is no teasing in the way you slide the shirt off your shoulders, fold it and place it on the coffee table, your movements slow, deliberate and precise in what feels more like a ritual than a seductive, gradual exposure. You undo your belt, pull out and roll it. 

A hand extends to the coffee table, the belt gets placed on top of the shirt, but you are still facing me, watching me watching you. It's hypnotic, and I am not sure who the subject and who the hypnotist is here.

Your fingers undo the button of your jeans and pull down the zip, your hands move smoothly to your hip bones and pull the trousers down, to your knees and lower, until you can step out of them, pick them up and roll loosely before placing on the coffee table next to the shirt and belt. You are standing straight now, your hands loose at your sides. 

I can see the lines left by the summer shorts, half way across your thighs and above the waistband of your boxers, your skin paler between the areas that retain the heat of the southern sun even at this time of the year. I can see the outline of your cock pressing against the checked red fabric, and I let another skewed smile creep on my face.

You have stopped moving. I give you few seconds, tempted to say something about the lengths a woman would go to if she's denied an online dick picture, quickly stifle an emerging giggle, let the invisible wire connecting us stay taut, the air thicken with anticipation.

"I said 'strip'."

I can hear a louder inhale, a slight hiss of air going in through your nose, then "Yes, Ma'am."

Your hands moving again, fingers hooking behind the waistband, pulling the boxers down, your feet lifting, stepping out of them, until you are standing in front of me completely naked, cock hard, grown fully erect between my repeated command and your compliance, your chest and midsection rising and falling in deep breaths that feel like you are trying to purposefully calm yourself down.

All the anxiety, all the nervousness, all the awkward that fluttered around me before are gone. And not because I don't feel awkward or nervous. Not because I grew in confidence or relaxed into a role, into the role even. Nothing about me, nothing about the essential situation has changed, yet everything has changed. What's gone is not the nervousness but a possibility of it. There is no room for nervous awkwardness in a true now. And now the now is all that is.

Now, I keep looking, first at your cock. My looking is silent and focused, grown from desire but, as for now, has pushed desire into the background. 

Now, my looking is as shameless as your display; now, your obedience is as bold as my demand. 

I shift my gaze to your face, for the first time since I told you to strip, direct, into your eyes, a smile of mine again, your lips ajar, dry even at the distance. 

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


--- continued here.

Still: a lust letter

This is a VERY old one, slightly edited only, as it remains surprisingly on point. 

And now for tonight.

At your 7pm, which will be midnight here, or later -- but not before that time -- find yourself alone, and naked.

Have a shower. Wash thoroughly, everywhere.

Shave. The more, the better, you know that. All that excessive body hair is rather silly.

Particularly on the interesting bits, gets in the way. There is a reason why sex toys don't come with furry bits, and it's not just manufacturing difficulty.

So off it comes: your ass, your belly, your balls, the shaft of my cock, the thighs too. Yes, I did say the thighs.

What would people say? I don't care, darling. They probably don't give a monkey's, and if they do, well, you'll just have to face the music or refrain from wearing shorts for a wee while. 

So, get on with it. Razors, soap and a steady hand. I find that male razors work better, but if a pretty ladies' one called Venus or something silly like that puts you in a mood, go for it. The round, slightly bulbous handle end on that one comes handy if I want something small but noticeable in my ass when playing with myself after shaving, which always gets me rather wet. You may try that if the idea appeals. 

OK, enough.

Now feel your skin, touch and stroke yourself. Glide the soapy hands slowly down your sides, to your hips, then curve back towards the midline of your ass, then down. Close your eyes and just feel every inch of your body.

So clean, so slick. Perfect.

Think of it as a playground, a blank space to be filled with pleasure and pain, longing and desire.

Your whole skin, not just the few inches that cover the fairly insignificant body part that men seem so attached too.

That's mine now anyway, so don't focus on it. It's not important for you.

That's why I shave -- despite my feminist principles -- because nothing compares to the feeling of smooth silk satin against the bare skin of

my freshly shaven labia -- the skin so thin there, the blood pulsing so close to the surface. The droplets of water dripping down as I step out of the bath. The sensation of lips or fingers or a tongue there, feels like being touched under the skin rather than on the surface. But I'm digressing.

Dry yourself nicely. A big, fluffy, soft towel. All the folds and crevices.

You'll need some body lotion. Make sure you use it on all areas you can reach. Sadly my favourite scents don't come in lotion format, so I'll leave the choice to you, within reason. Nothing too floral or blossomy and by no means fruity. Smoke, musk, a touch of rose, some animalic notes, that kind of thing.

Pay particular attention to your hands, shoulders, ass, groin, pubis, balls. I want you smooth and altogether lovely.

I want to be able to imagine running my fingertips along your spine, all the way from the nape of your neck to the small of your back and lower, sliding between in the crack and down towards your asshole and the softer, sensitive area between that and my cock, pressing a little.

I want to be able to imagine you kneeling, bent over, your smooth back and ass exposed and vulnerable. Raising my hand, a loud smack and a pink mark on your skin. And another one, and a few more, your skin getting redder. 

Just because I can. And because it turns me on.

But I'm digressing again, wandering away to a different scenario.

Take a butt plug. I am sure you have one. Not a particularly big one, just so your slutty ass is filled and as a reminder of who owns it now. Lube it up. You can use your saliva, suck it and lick it a bit for me so it glides in easily. If it's not enough, apply some lube and in it goes.

Have a blindfold ready. Black silk scarf ideally, if you have one; but as it's all imaginary, anything will do, or even just a fantasy of one.

Now lie on the bed, on your back, legs spread out, knees slightly raised; hands away from your body. A warm room would help, but I am sure rooms in the US are pretty warm.

Put the blindfold on.

Lie still for a while. Become aware of your body, your skin, your muscles, the breath and the heartbeat.

**

The door opens.

Somebody comes into the room. Footsteps on the wood, then movement of air nearer you.

You can sesne me leaning over you, the slight shadow falling over the bed despite the blindfold, the warmth of a human body, the scent of my skin, some sweat, some sex, some perfume. Jasmine, rose, smoke, brine. 

I touch you.

My hands on your legs, moving slowly up to your groin. Thumbs in the groves, fingers spread out on the hips.

Do you want to move? Raise or sideways shift your hips towards my touch?

Don't. 
Stay still. 
Don't fucking move.

My hands moving up your sides. Tracing the curve of the soft flesh between the hipbone and the ribs.

Then along the bottom rib, towards the sternum and up again, towards the

nipples.

I tweak the nipples, you can feel my breath close to you, damp on your skin. 

My mouth on your nipples. A bite on each, then gone.

No touch for a few seconds. Wait. Stay still.

Are you hard yet?

Suddenly, the flat of my tongue on my cock, just licking up, from the base to the tip.

My lips around the cockhead. Nuzzling. The tongue running in the groove between the crown and the shaft, then the tip teasing the hole on top.

My hands on the shaft, guiding it, running the head around my lips, my tongue flicking out, licking up, now my teeth grazing the bottom side. Sucking the head in, my tongue in circles around it inside my mouth.

Then I'm gone.

You can hear a couple of steps towards the bedhead. I lean down.

A touch on your lips. Fingers, running along, opening them, running underneath between the inner lip surface and the teeth. Stopping in the corners, then moving again.

Taste them; stickily, salty, earthy. You know that I must have touched myself only seconds ago. 

You may lick my hand. Suck the fingers. Lick between them. Lick the inside of my palm. Lick every square inch of my hand. Kiss the inner surface of my wrist. Taste me. 

Don't move otherwise.

Don't touch me and don't touch yourself.

My fingers running down your chest. You can feel my nails, and as they move down, they curve, and I am scratching now, first gently, then harder, digging in, grazing, almost breaking the surface of your skin in some places.

I lean down and lick the marks on your chest while my fingers move to your sides, slide under your butt, dig in, pull it up, then scratch lines across the curves of your buttocks. Is it painful enough to make you groan?

Be quiet, slut. It isn't that bad.

Are you hard now?

Let me check.

My hand on my cock again, grasping, grabbing at the base. Stroking, fast, rough strokes. Close to painful, pulling hard. Harder.

Now I stop.

Imagine me climbing on top of you, my weight across your pelvis, my drenched cunt sliding onto my cock. 

Clenching but not moving though, just there.

I lean forward a little, my fingers tweak your nipples, pull harder, pinch.

Then I straighten up.

All you can feel is the weight on your hips, my cunt opening up, enveloping you; and my inner muscles contracting.

Stay still. If you want to thrust, control that desire.

Concentrate on feeling the heat and the slick wetness of my cunt.

Squeezing your hardness. Little contractions, fast, then slower, holding your cock for longer.

Now contracting harder, the whole sheath squeezing my cock inside, then releasing.

You can hear me breathe faster, shallower; moaning a little. Rocking my hips, rotating them, swirling even, riding you.

You can feel my hand move towards my clit, as I work myself towards the

orgasm, I touch the base of my cock with every stroke.

You can feel the sticky wetness running down, you realise how aroused I am because I'm so incredibly wet; my cunt is throbbing, my moaning louder and you realise I am hardly aware anymore that you are there. 

When I come, you disappear.

Hold this image in your mind, concentrate on it.

Feel me there.

Now, play the audio.

Hear me come.

**

When the file finishes, you may touch yourself.

Bring yourself as close as you can without an orgasm, then stop.

Now, tell me how it went.

Ask nicely, and I may say ''yes''.

---end

Night falls

Another random(ish) but generous excerpt. 

------

I don't know him. I have no idea who he is. And yet he's here, and will be here for the next few days, and I can still taste him on my lips, and I want more, I want more of him, possibly more than I have ever wanted anything or anybody in my life. 

[Fuck. There I go...

Where?  

Where? Off my rocker, into the void, to deep submission. My velvety electric grey space. Just unreal how you can take me away like that. M, I love it. A part of me is giving in, like I'm turning myself over to you. Heady, dense daze.]


By the time I pull in by the house I can hardly see, staggering as I climb out of the car. The cold, briny air hits my lungs, the damp of the night condensing on my skin, the moon high and pale in the unusually clear sky, the jaggedy peaks tearing the purple darkness on the other side of the inlet.

I unlock the cottage door and, still leaving him in the car, walk in, check things, try to gather my thoughts, rake my mind to see if there are any left.

The fire has been set up in the grate and I light it at the same time as lighting a cigarette, clicking the coffee machine on, realising how ravenously hungry I am, but still, maybe too tired to eat so I peel off the seal and uncork the bottle I grabbed at the shop, pour myself a generous measure, down a large gulp in a way unbecoming what is a a decent enough malt, the fiery smokiness coating my mouth and throat, spreading the warmth from inside and onto my skin. 

I still don't feel like making food but now remember Callum's gift, pull the oily paper off, tear into the greasy flesh of the salmon, firm and perfectly flaking, not like the supermarket stuff, the flavours bursting on my lips, the salt and smoke and the fish itself, reminding me less of my own taste, but of his, the taste that still lingers in patches on of my lips and tongue and suddenly I am again aware of how aroused I am, my clit erect, my cunt contracting almost-painfully, my lips flushed, my nipples hard, my heartbeat rising.

I briefly contemplate the idea of dragging him out of the car to fuck, fast and simple, here and now, on the kitchen floor, the door barely closed behind us; but once I visualise it loses the appeal so I contract my kegels, drink some more of the whisky, tear off another messy piece of the fast-disappearing fish, and that's how he finds me when he comes in: standing barefoot on the tiles in stockings torn after hours of shoeless driving, in front of the kitchen counter, my hair a mess, my makeup smeared, gulping whisky, my fingers greasy, my mouth crammed full of smoked salmon, my thighs sticky with sweat and desire.

I am not sure how long he's been there when I see him standing in the door, leaning against the frame, his bag on the floor by his feet, watching me, squinting a little, a shadow of a strange smile somewhere in the corners of his mouth, a look that's both glazed and hungry in his eyes. 

I think this is when it truly hits me, finally, the reality of what's happening, of what I am doing, here in one of the most remote places in the country with a man I know nothing about, about to pull more walls down. 

I am slowly letting out the animal that lives in my mind, not really thinking about the one in his, and I am scared again, not quite sure if scared of him or of myself; and that fear makes my body ripple with desire, shakes me so much that I turn away, pick up a cigarette from among the debris on the worktop, light it, grab another glass, pour him a drink but not pass it on, lean back against the counter, looking at him.

“How are you, J?”

“I'm hard, M,” he replies, after a pause, his eyes down to the floor, his voice quiet, almost hesitant.

I can't help but let my pleasure and relief show in a smile, drag on a cigarette to mask that, then reply without acknowledging what he said, “Your bedroom is on the right, it's en suite. Don't get dressed after you clean up, just come back to the living room.”

By the time he's done I have had a quick shower too, changed into black jeans and a white shirt, the denim of the trousers rubbing against my swollen labia to remind me of my arousal, as if I needed to be reminded at all. 

I am sitting on the leather sofa in the living room by the fire, the logs burning well, my legs stretched out on the rug, the first drag of a spliff I have just rolled and lit dry and rasping in my lungs, then mixing with alcohol and lust, spreading throughout my body in golden, red crested shimmers. He walks into the room, naked but for the towel around his hips, makes the few steps from the door towards me, stands there without a word. I can hear his breathing, then a muffled gasp when he sees what's there on the low coffee table.

“Get rid of that towel, J, and come down here,” I say, and he does as told, dropping to his knees by my feet, completely naked now, sitting on his heels, eyes down, as I straighten up, lean over, take the black leather collar off the table.

“Do you want this? Do you want to wear it for me?”

He nods, almost imperceptibly.

“Say it, boy.”


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The twist in the kink

Another sample from a novella-length series of scenes. Check the link for the full story - or just enjoy this part.

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No, it's not what you think.

I step away.

I walk out of the door and you follow me to my bedroom. The bed has been made, the sheet clean and smooth, the cover pulled aside. There are pillows ready, and a few lengths of smooth, shiny black rope have been neatly placed near the headboard.

I look at you and take off my top. I am wearing a body of plain black lycra, the sheer cups of the bra section showing my nipples, hard and darkened, ready to be touched and licked.

I reach under my skirt and pull off the panties, damp and smelling of my arousal, drop them on the floor. I leave my stockings and skirt on and look at you, waiting expectantly, your cock not as stiff as it was earlier but not entirely limp either.

And you still don't know, do you?

I sit on the edge of the bed and reach for one of the thinner pieces of rope.

“C'mere, boy.”

You come near, getting fully erect within seconds of my touching you. I tie your junk, round the base and then in a cross between your balls, tight enough to be felt and effective but not as tight as to have you lose blood supply any time soon. Your balls are smooth, shiny, bulging; the skin stretched and hot. Your cock is rock hard  now and you moan again when I lean my head down to grab it and lick around it. It feels like we've done it hundreds of times. Actually, we have, in one way or another, haven't we?

My tongue moves slowly on your skin, smooth, wet licks that have you gasp and shiver.

“Mmmm. I love this. I want to slap it now.”

“Please. Please do, Ma'am. I need it...”

And so I do what you're asking for and you reel a little again and moan again, and I moan too, a deep ooooh turning into a louder, hoarser, lower 'Ohhhh fuck...'.

I am so turned on now, so wired up that I almost – almost – give up the plan, interrupt the script that I have in my head in order to just push you on the bed, hurt you some more the way I love hurting you and the way I know you love being hurt, until I am so close to orgasm that a touch of my fingers combined with your tongue would make me explode.

But no.

“Now, J,” I say, getting up and hooking one of fingers of my left hand in a D-ring of your collar.

“Yes, M?”

I jerk my head sideways, indicating the rope still there on the bed.

“These are not for you, this time.”

You're quiet.

“I am not asking you to dominate me, J.”

You're still quiet and now I think I've blown it. I think you won't be able to do it, either because you aren't able to or because it's a turn off for you or because you don't trust yourself to. Or because you can't even understand what I am talking about.

I move a little closer, and my hip brushes against your groin, your cock still rock hard.

“You. Will. Do. Exactly. And. Only. What. I. Say. When I say it. How I say it.”

My voice is slow and measured, the words coming out in what would be staccato if I picked up the pace a bit.

Your eyes are down now. I let go of the collar and cup your chin in my hand, gently, running my thumb along and between your lips, in the gesture that's become a part of a ritual between us, the tip of you tongue momentarily wet and stiff on my skin.

“Lick it, J. Like a good slut.”

You do, as you did before, sucking and then using your lips and flat tongue on my palm, in between my fingers in those spaces where all my tension, and pain, and desire and excitement focus so much, then across my palm again and down to my wrist.

“Now let go,” I say, even though I don't really want you to stop.

Your breathing is faster again, eyes half-closed, and you drop to your knees obediently when I put my hands on your shoulders.

“Good boy. Remind me who owns you.”

“You do, M.”

“Who owns your slut mouth and your hands and your cock?”

“You do, M. I'm yours.”

“That's my boy.”

“You will do what you are told, won't you, J?” My hand is playing with your hair, your eyes down.

“Yes, M. I will. I will try. It won't be... easy.”

I laugh. It seems odd to have you say that just now, after everything I've put you through, but I understand what you mean. It won't be easy for me either, the jarring clash between giving you the physical means to take control while demanding that you still – more so, even – give it to me. And it will be harder for you, because I know that you make a much more convincing top that I have ever made a sub. Just not with me.

“I trust you. I would not let anybody else do this. But I know you will do it exactly as I want it done.”

“Yes, M.”

“C'mon then. Up you get,” I run my fingers through your hair again, grab a handful, together with your ear and pull you up, before letting go and climbing onto the bed.

You're standing next to it,  looking slightly baffled and a bit unsure, but there is that little smile in the corners of your mouth and I am starting to think it might work after all.  

I sit back against the headboard and pick up a decent length of the rope, roll it into a neat coil and throw it at you, “Tie my wrists to the headboard. Start with the left one. Use secure loops but not too tight. I will tell you if I am uncomfortable.”

You catch the rope and tighten your fingers on it, as if pondering something, then suddenly you're here, holding my hand in yours again. I wriggle down the bed so my head is where I want it to be eventually and I am now laying flat on my back, my left arm semi-extended towards the headboard.

“Kiss my wrist again.”

Mouth on my skin, steaming damp, your tongue touching lightly, your face closer to my hand.

“Up the forearm now.”

Your lips are moving in a slow trail of kisses along the inner surface of my forearm, all the way to the crook of the elbow.

“Lick back down...mmmm.... beautiful. Good boy. That's enough. Get on with the rope now.”

You wrap my wrist with a triple loop of the rope, check that it's not too tight and then fasten it to one of the balusters of the headboard. I pull at the tie, it seems secure but comfortable.

“The other hand now, J,” I hope my voice isn't shaking too much.

I'm getting frightened now, my mind fighting my body's impression that there is something seriously wrong going on. Your hands are tied... your fucking hands are tied and you are just letting it happen... is ringing in my head and reverberating through my body. I am scared. Not turned-on-and-excited-scared, but simply scared, so scared that my voice is on the verge of breaking.

I want to tell you to stop. Now. I want to tell you to untie me. I want to test you - now, now, now, NOW! - to make sure that you would do what you're told when you're told. I want to test it, but I know it's too soon. Too early. I'd blow it if I did it now, so I dampen down my fear, settle myself into the trust, into the faith that I have in you, and in my own ownership  and control.

You keep checking that I am comfortable, talking in a lower, soothing voice and I am getting more relaxed, but it isn't really what I want either, I don't want to slip into a dizzy submissive fog.

I need to assert my power, the power which - if it is to be real, if it means anything at all - is still there – should be still there - even now when my hands are tied. The power that should be more apparent and paradoxically, more visible now that I am physically restrained.

“Push a pillow under my butt. And one under my head.”

You obey, checking again that I am happy with my arrangement, murmuring something low that I can't quite catch. My knees are a little wide, my elevated hips making me feel exposed. I don't really feel comfortable like that – not without my hands free – but I am also turned on, and getting more turned on, with every command you obey, with every minute that passes and the situation doesn't crash around us. I let the underlying arousal wash over me now, swipe away some of the fear and tension, paradoxically clear my mind and focus it.  

“Kneel on the bed to my right. Hands on your knees. Eyes down. Roughly at my chest level.”

I look at you from my position, smiling, a little laugh escaping. You're  above me, and I can't reach out to you, grab you, direct you; not even touch you. For that matter, I can't even reach and touch myself, and god how I want to now, suddenly, when I see your smooth skin and erect cock curving up between your thighs as you kneel next to me.

My hands are gone.

But I have you. Your mouth. Your hands. Your cock.

No, not  yours. Mine.

“Stroke my cock, for me, J. Count twelve strokes and keep them slow.”

You obey, counting as you move your hand, your eyes locking with mine. I am smiling, even though my breathing is faster and yet deeper than normal, even though the tops of my thighs are getting covered with a slick dampness of desire and my lower back is arching just a bit.

“Twelve...” comes out with a gasp, my cock still in your grip.

“Come closer. Here. I want to taste you.”

You get near me, lean over a little, the tip of the cock almost but not quite touching my lips, “Closer!”

You obey, and at a slight turn of my head I can now lick my cock, shiny with the first drops of precum, hot and twitching when I run the tip of my stiff tongue along the bottom side, pressing harder on the frenulum, making little circles in that sensitive spot.

“That's perfect. Don't move now, just hold it there.”

Your breathing is shallow and I can see the muscles in your groin and lower belly flexing, as if you were trying to stop yourself from pushing in. I take the cockhead between my lips and tighten, sucking, my tongue swirling around the top. You moan, your right hand moving towards my head, then stopping half way, landing on the headboard. I turn my head, move my mouth away.

“You're doing well, J. Lick my breasts now. Through the lace. Use your hand on the other one. Gently. No teeth.”

You take a deep breath and start doing just that, your breath hot on my skin through the sheer fabric, your lips and tongue ravenous yet soft on my right nipple, your fingers stroking and tweaking the other one. I want to put my hand on your head, and then I realise that I don't need to, that you are exactly where I want you and doing exactly what I want you to do, and I close my eyes and let out a deep sigh that turns into a moan, making small, guttural noises of encouragement, praise and pleasure as you go.

You're lying next to me, the bound cock brushing against my thigh, my knee bending and pushing between your legs now, rubbing and pressing on that hot, throbbing flesh, the dampness of the precum mixed with saliva drying on my stocking.

“Feel my cunt now, J.”

Your right hand moves down between my legs, bunching the skirt higher, your fingers sliding into my swollen, wet slit, making me gasp and rise my hips towards your touch, move my legs to close them tightly on your hand, grasp it there, then release; your mouth still on my breast.

“Want to taste me?”

“God yes... Please, M...”

“Stand up by the bed and lick your fingers... I want to see you... That's it. That's a good boy. Like that? Do I taste good? Want some more? Want to touch yourself?”

“Fuck.... yes, yes, M... please...”

I let you reach down again and use my juices as lube, watching you stroke my cock, your knees slightly bent, your hips pushing forward as you fuck your hand, picking up the pace as if you were racing towards orgasm.

“STOP. Hands off.”

You groan but obey, again. Perfect.  

“Do you know what I want to do now?”

“I want to slap my cock. And balls. Make you wince. But I can't do it so you will have to do it for me. Hard, boy. Like a god little painslut you are. Ten good slaps.”

It's an odd but exhilarating feeling, to be lying there, spread flat, looking at you from below, unable to enforce my commands with any physical means, and to have you follow them, still. The first slap is loud, making my cock bounce sideways, the second makes you groan and pause.

“I said ten, J. And don't miss the balls.”

You cry out on the last one, your knees bucking under you, my cock twitching above the red-flushed balls bulging above the tie.

“Good boy. Come back here.” I spread my legs wider, bend my knees, place my feet flat on the bed. “Between my thighs. Where you belong.”

You are kneeling there now, your eyes moving from my face to my cunt, slick, hot and open, inches away from my throbbing cock, my clit so hard and erect that it must be showing above my labia.

“Lick me. Each side, then up towards my clit. Flat, slow and soft. No teeth. Make your slut mouth useful.”

You dive in, lapping and licking, your hands under my butt, your whole face buried in my dripping sex, my legs tightening around your head, wrapped around you, now crossed behind your back, pulling you in.

I am very glad I didn't go as far as making you tie my ankles and that thought makes me laugh out loud even through the thickening, sticky cloud of arousal building up as you keep eating me out; and oh my god how perfect your mouth is, everywhere I want it, everywhere I need it, adjusting and responding not just to my words, but my movements, twitches, moans and changing breath patterns; your tongue buried deep inside me, then flicking and circling around my throbbing clit, your lips soft and open, then puckered, kissing and sucking, then licking and tongue fucking me again.

For a moment I lose my awareness of you, all that's left is the glowing, ecstatic ''now'' of waves building inside me, spreading over my whole body from that wet, hot pool of desire you've disappeared in. I think I come then, but I am not sure if I really do because it's not even possible to draw a clear line between the plateau of pleasure I am on and any peaks that might spike up from it, and it doesn't really matter then and there.

You're panting and gasping, I am not sure if it's from lack of air, or arousal, or combination of the two, or the effort it takes to keep going with my cunt rubbed all over your face, my legs tight around your neck. I loosen up and release him from the grip, moving my feet down your back, pushing you up.  

“Get your face up here.”

It's slick with my juices and sweat dampening your hair, your lips swollen, your eyes wide, pupils dilated, mouth half-open, somewhere between a smile and a moan; and I can't help but laugh again, close to overwhelmed by a mixture of joy and lust, high on the moment, on the perfection that we are achieving here, on how well it's working out, on the fact that it is actually working out at all, and on how good it feels.

You kiss me, lightly, my tongue darts out to taste myself on your skin, the musk and brine coating it, making me moan and grasp your lower lip in my teeth, bite harder until you wince and moan, my cock stiff against my body, my legs wrapped around your hips now, my cunt rubbing on your pulsing hardness.

“Kiss my neck, then lick down to my shoulder,” your mouth moves where directed, my moan tracing the wet trail of your tongue, my legs tighter around your waist.

“Bite me.”

You stops, suddenly completely still.

“BITE ME,” I repeat, firm and loud, almost shouting into your ear.

Your teeth close on my skin, gently but noticeably.

“Harder.”

I am aroused enough to find it pleasurable, at the level when I can enjoy the intensity of the caress that borders on pain. But this is just a side effect. This moment is not about this kind of pleasure.

“Harder. Hard enough so it hurts. Harder, I fucking said!”

You stop and start talking in a low, 'normal' voice, dubious, questioning, “M... please... you don't really like it, do you? I don't want to hurt you...”

I am getting annoyed, annoyed enough so I want to slap you, “I said bite me hard, J. Do. What. I. Say. Bitch,” I hiss, even as I feel ridiculous doing that, adopting this language while flat on my back under you, with my hands restrained.

But it works. You obey, your teeth on my shoulder again, tightening until I wince, until I want to cry out. Until I do.

“FUCKING HARDER, SLUT.... Arrrrgh....”

It hurts. It hurts like fuck, and no, I don't like being hurt and yet the satisfaction of making you do it overrides the pain, floods my mind with a wave of arousal that has nothing to do with what you are actually doing but everything to do with making you do it, and maybe even with making myself put up with it, taking the flow of power to another place, a different level yet again.

“Stop.”

It's hard to say it without shrieking, what with your teeth digging into my skin and close to breaking it, maybe even breaking it now; but somehow I manage and you obey in an instant, your head laying still in the crook of my shoulder.

“Look at me, J,” I'm wincing as I say it but the grimace turns into a wide smile of satisfaction when you look at me, supporting yourself on your hands above me, your dark eyes a mixture of concern and something that borders on elation.

“I'm sorry, M,” you mumble quietly and it's all so bizarre that I am laughing again, through the dull pain of the swelling bruise on my shoulder.

I tighten my legs around you and push my hips up, my cock getting yet harder again when I say “Good boy.”

“Now move down there and kneel... let me see you... yess... that's it. Touch my cock for me. Hold it and stroke, slowly. Slowly I said.... get closer... now rub it around my cunt... mmmm....that's it. Feels good?”

The warm, smooth cockhead is sliding along my slit. Every time you pass my clit, I rise my hips towards it, the mounting arousal beautiful, pulsing, almost unbearable.

“Fuck yes M... you feel soooo good.... ohhhh....”

“Slide it in. I want to feel you inside me. Deep. Then stay still.”

You do as told, hard and hot, parting my slippery folds, reaching in, making me gasp with the sudden pleasure, the walls of my cunt contracting on the throbbing flesh.

“Ohhh... M... I'm so close... fuck...”

“Don't move. I know you want to but you will not. And don't come.”

Panting, your whole body shivering and tense with the effort of obeying my order, and I am not sure if the simple sensation of my cunt squeezing and relaxing over the cock that fills it or if it's watching you struggling with your own desire like that, but I am now myself getting lost in all that, my whole body, inside and out, on fire.

I untangle my legs and hook them on your shoulders now, which is not a mean feat considering that I am far from willowy or nimbly athletic, but I want you deeper now. All the way in, and stock still inside me, as long as you can manage. As long as I can make you.

You slide out with a groan, help me adjust and plunge deep back in. It feels like all the mounting desire of your body to thrust, to fuck me, to fuck something, focuses in this one movement, my cock even bigger and harder than it was before, filling me up, touching all the exquisitely pleasurable spots inside.

“Stay still,” I repeat.

You're breathing fast through clenched teeth, your hands under my butt, holding me close, your eyes fixed on my mouth as if it offered some kind of lifeline, then moving to my eyes, locking my dilated gaze, your teeth visibly clenched over your lower lip.

“Fuck... fuck.... ooooh god, M.... I...,” gasping now, breathlessly.

“Stay still,” I repeat, again, my cunt clenching over my pulsing cock, my feet turned somewhat awkwardly to join behind your neck.

A vague thought of 'how long are you going to last like that?' floats through my mind and I am smiling at that, a wide smile, a snarly smile, with an odd quick bite of my own lower lip, spilling into a low laugh that rises from somewhere deep inside my chest, and from lower down between my legs. I push my hips up, trying to get you even deeper, your balls hot and heavy on my ass, the curve of my cock perfect inside.

“You want to fuck me, boy, don't you? It would feel good to thrust and move, in and out, faster and faster, wouldn't it?”

“Yes... god yes... please M... I can't... I can't do it much longer... ohhhhhh....,” you moan again, your eyes fluttering, my cock throbbing, your body shaking.

“Out.”

I unhook my legs and let them drop on the bed, and you slide out, a look of something approaching a relief on your face.

“Move back. Sit on your heels. Knees wide.”

My feet land in your lap, the moisture covering you rubbing dry on the nylon of the stockings, one foot pressing the tip of my cock up towards your belly, the other pushing your balls back. You're panting again, short, broken breaths, head thrown back, your hands on your knees, fingers digging in as if for a distraction.

“Yes, yes, yes, please, M, yesss...”

I rub my right foot along the bottom surface of my cock, harder and faster as I go, all the way from the tightly stretched, precum covered skin on top down to the base and back again, pushing it further towards your flexing belly.

“Now. For me, boy,” comes out of my mouth as a low, rapid whisper and the orgasm spills out of you before I even finish saying it, a warm explosion of thick stickiness all over my toes, a squirt after a squirt, the muscles of your legs and belly twitching as I keep rubbing through the spasms and beyond them, until you start squirming when it becomes too much after your orgasm subsides.

“Untie your junk now and clean me up.”

You pull the bindings off my cock and slide down the end of the bed, your mouth on my cum-covered feet, licking it off, sucking bits of fabric, your tongue busy and obedient even now after you came.

I'm getting impatient. “Enough of this. Bedside table drawer. Now.”

There is a craft knife there and you know what to do, my hands pulling at the restraints to stretch the rope and make it easy to cut. The moment you put the blade back I am sitting up, grabbing the D-ring on your collar again, pulling you closer to me.

“You did well, boy. I loved it,” I kiss your neck just below your left ear, then straighten up. “Now, just a reminder...” my right arm swings casually, a light slap, more a symbolic reassertion than something intended to cause any pain.

But the contact of my fingers and palm with your face is electrifying, a jolt that makes me gasp, swear, breath sharply in through my nose, exhale between clenched, bared teeth, I want to – I NEED to - do it again, harder now, almost but now quite losing control, and one more time, ooooh fuck, my hand slides from your hot cheek up to your ear, grabs it, my fingers in your hair, clawing, both hands now, pushing you down, closer, between my legs, faster, oh my fucking god how I want it, and don't care if you are in your male post-orgasmic slump, I need your lips and tongue there, now, now, now.

Now. Mine.

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