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.”


------

Read the whole tale here:

 

This time of the year (3): Still, for me

Continued from here.

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

-----

You obey, as I expect you to. In the low light your body spreads pale gold against the hotel bed's white, your arms loosely around your head, not quite protective, your face sideways and down, averted from the side I am now approaching; still. For me.

I wonder if you can hear me breathe, if my breathing crossed the line from just loud to panting. I take the few steps that separate my chair from the bed, sit down on the edge, around your thigh level, lean down. Just a little. Not necessary, but I want to. 

My left hand in the small of your back. The scratch marks fading pink now, but still visible, and, when I touch them with the fingers of my right hand, warmer than the surrounding skin.

Fuck.

''Fuck," I say. Stroking, featherlight, then pressing. 

You take a deep breath, then exhale, but don't move and don't say anything. Everything feels slow motion but fluid, like an underwater trance. I don't remember ever being as focused as I am now, but I am not thinking of any plan or a task or an objective: things happen as if through me. 

I press harder, then release, retracing the marks with my fingertips, then lean lower, touching your skin with my lips. 

The lips open, my breath damp, my lips moistened too, feeling the texture of the graze, the minute changes in temperature indicating where my nails went a little deeper, a little shallower. Tongue, along the graze, repeated sideways flicks, feeling the tiny area of less than a square inch, tasting. Teeth, closing over a fold of skin crested with the scratch, for the tongue to explore more thoroughly. Released, for a long lick, sliding freely into a moan; muffled; my consciousness expanding beyond my mouth, desire spreading all over my skin.

I shuffle higher on the bed and stroke the nape of your neck, my hand moving into your hair, playing with it, pushing your head into the pillow, my face next to you, a laugh that somehow manages not to be a giggle, a whispered 'Good boy' before I bite your earlobe, starting slow and gentle, closing harder before I straighten up, switch hands, the left one in your hair now, holding your head in place, my knees firm on the bed. The right hand takes a lazy swing, landing with a splat on your ass. 

Not a hard one; quickly followed with another, then another, a series of playful swats with a relaxed palm and fingers. So the twelfth comes as a shock: my swing is wider, the impact much heavier, almost all of it from the palm. Unexpected. You flinch visibly, yelp, tense up. 

I laugh and this laughter surprises even me; it feels like it doesn't belong to this particular story; yet I can't help it, and don't really want to help it either. It is what it is. I am what I am, so be it. 

I add another heavy smack, followed by a few faster, lighter, sharper ones, off the fingers mostly, my hand smarting now, leaving visible pink imprints on your butt. You tense and relax into each smack, reflected in changes in your breathing, now heavier, partially muffled by the pillow.

''Getting pretty red now, slutboy,'' I stop and place both my hands on your ass, lightly, feeling the heat, wanting to dig my nails in and drag them down the inflamed skin, stopping myself, for now, listening to your body, sliding my hands lower, between your legs, pushing them apart, gently, more of an indication of how I want you to move than a forceful pressure.

"Bend your knees, lift your ass up, keep your head down, try to keep relaxed or the next bit will really hurt,'' I say. I'm panting a little. 

You obey. I stand up and look at you for a while.

Such a classic pose. I had a plan. A sequence of steps. Items I thought I'd use. Things I knew you'd like me to do, maybe even beg me to do if I did it right. Ideas, even. Huh.

But just now the ideas don't matter and what you might like matters even less. 

I take a bigger breath and reach to my belt, undo it. You can probably hear the slight clang of the buckle against the metal button of the denim skirt. I pull it out, the leather worn and familiar in my fingers. Fold it in half and stretch using both hands. 

There is a sound, half way between a light thwack and a click. I do it for effect, I do it so you can hear the sound that not-quite-precisely foretells that other sound that I am already anticipating.

I wrap the buckle end around my right hand and get near to you, run the edge of the other end along your back, all the way from the nape of your neck down to your reddened ass, let it slide lower between your legs, leave it there for a split second longer, then slowly drag it back up in a meandering line as if tracing yet invisible patterns on your skin. 

Now I lift it free off your body and take a swing.

The first one is light, as is the second, but I'm getting impatient now, impatient with lust and with my own need, one that refuses to be analysed or even understood, one that, in this moment, simply is, demanding satisfaction, filling my airways, making my skin hot, my cunt wet and my pupils dilate.  

I want; want so much that it's not even clearly the I that's wanting, the want and the I have become identical.

Want to hit you harder. 
Want to see the welts come up. 
Want to feel you squirm. 
Want to hear you moan.

I stand with my feet further apart, and swing again, the leather splatting hard across your right buttock.

Fuck.

Faster and harder. 

Maybe I should have tied you up after all. But you are holding up to the impact and the pain; holding up to the desire that covers my skin fluid and viscous.

I use the time between strikes to breathe. Deeper, louder, more elaborate. The streams of exhaled and inhaled air a caress on my lips, the lips dry, flushed swollen, now ajar. 

Your ass is covered in marks, a nearly uniform dark pink background to a chaotic hash of raised welts, some of them skirted with narrower, darker, graze-like lines made by the edge of the belt. I strike lower, on the more sensitive skin of your upper thighs and this makes you yelp, flinch, nearly flail, yet you stay in position. I make the belt shorter and smack your butt again, sharp and forceful stings, the slightly curved end imprinting red crescents on your inflamed skin.

You are panting now, loud, hissing breaths, your muscles flexing and hips moving as if to adjust, balancing the avoidance and the seeking of pain, the obedience and the desire to escape.

I laugh again. The laughter contains the sheer, exuberant joy of the physical act, the joy I can't understand and for now, don't want to understand, letting it be whatever it is, letting myself be whatever I am. The joy that's rising higher, spreading wider, penetrating deeper with my not-quite-conscious awareness of your essential role in it. The joy that's made possible by your holding up to my desire to hurt you and to mark you. The joy that's made flesh in your giving in to the want that's me. 

The belt, now longer again, comes down in a big, flat whack across your buttocks. Your loud moan, an inarticulate groan at first, morphs into a clear ohhhhh, followed by my name. I inhale this moan and I respond with my own.

Fuck.

My knees almost buckle in a breathless wave of bodily lust. 

Want to touch you again. 

I unwind and drop the belt and step closer, my palms on your ass, the heat of red skin and the raised marks under my fingers.

Fuck fuck fuck.

Rubbing, stroking, mapping the remade surface of your body, fingertips and then, after a second's hesitation, my lips. Barely touching. Then my cheek, hot against the heat of the marks I've made. 

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.


----Continued here.

Base and basic

We talk and write a lot on the Interwebs about desire being a thing of the mind, about the brain being the most important sexual organ, about "sapiosexuality" even. We write smut that borders poetry and sonnets dripping with filthy name calling, but sonnets nevertheless. We do text-only sexting and go on and on and on about seductive words and the elusive mental connection that trumps, or transcends, or oh-so-perfectly expresses the carnal.

And it's all very true. And yet. Some days it's not about the sexual magic, or the words, or the connection, or the intensity of the dynamic, or a mindblowing-orgasm-as-glorious-oblivion. Some days it's as carnal, as of-the-body as it gets.

Some days it's about the hungry cunt and nothing else really matters at all. The insistent sensation - not even an emotion, never mind a feeling or thought - a heavy fullness, a tension in the lower belly and breasts, as if your pants have suddenly shrunk even though you know they haven't. Erect clit and blood-flushed labia, slick and slippery dampness, swollen, tingly lips impossible not to lick or touch, dilated pupils that make you squint in a bright light.

It gets more insistent, and more physical, a constant reminder of the basic and base want; desire as a need for release more than anything else. All of the skin warm and sensitive and wanting, whole body a mirror for that hungry cunt.

And when you get it, it's not about sharing or giving. The orgasm less of a overwhelming wave of ecstatic pleasure than a powerful spasm of release, strong but brief, intense but focused.

Any fantasy will be abrupt, disjointed and utilitarian, and if there is another flesh-and-blood body there, conveniently placed to be grabbed and used, it will be a mere tool, a flesh-and-blood plaything, a cock a better model of a dildo, fingers and mouth intelligent toys for satisfying that need,

Some days it's about nothing else but that hungry cunt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

''Hi, M.'' 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--- continued here.

All the ways I'll take you (1)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Want a taste, J?”

“'Yes M. Please. God, yes, plll...”

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

~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Enough of that now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop. Enough. Now. Leave it in.”

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

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

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

You don't answer.

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

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

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

~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More.

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

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

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

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

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

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

-------

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