This time of the year (5): More

Continued from here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

'Wanna taste, slutboy?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

Given

Femdom is this week's Kink of the Week, and although I rarely manage to co-ordinate my posts here with any of the sex-blogging memes, I couldn't possibly miss this one, could I? After all, this whole blog is woven about and around ''dominant female'' dynamics. So here is a little scene for all you kinky readers. 

------------------


I'm watching him float in that grey space filled with blue glowing haze, that place I neither can or really want to go to, but that I love imagining. The place I love feeling vicariously reflected in my own mind and body. The place I love taking him to.

And to have him like that -- slutty and desperate and trembling in staggered breaths, pleading for something that he could just have but he's given me to control as I please -- to have him like this takes me somewhere too.

Balancing on the edge between the shimmering sea of my own lust and the sharp focus of power, a shiver of excitement that takes the sexual and transforms it into something beyond and above it, a heady high that nothing else compares to.

I can't take my eyes off him.

He's going ever deeper as he gets ever closer, losing his self there, his mind almost gone, his whole body given to the building up of pleasure.

All of his pleasure to be given to me.

I am suddenly shaken by a need to touch him; no, not just touch him, and not even hurt him this time, not to make my mark, not yet; now I want to fuck him, so much that it makes me moan and swear, though what's left of my reason tells me it wouldn't be ideal in the circumstances, so I let that thought go, aware that there will be time for that. 

I moan through my own racing breath, reach between my legs to cover my fingers in the slippery wetness, lean over, grab his hair at the back -- it's short, so I grab his right ear too -- pull him back, awkwardly, to the side of the headrest. His face is now close to mine, my right hand pushing his chin up as I cup it between my thumb and fingers, slide lower to his neck. I can feel that the pressure restricts his airflow a little, my palm steady on his constricting trachea. I can feel him doing his best to breathe under my hand and it makes my whole body tingle.

He's body is tensing, not knowing what's coming, almost ready to start fighting me, torn between the impending orgasm and the animal reaction to the threat my hand on his neck implies. I move my hand up, the thumb stays under the chin, the fingers up along his jaw and towards his mouth, grabbing.

I push them all in, not too deep, not to gag him but to be inside him, somehow, and this will have to do. It feels like I am fucking his mouth with my hand and he instinctively starts sucking my fingers in rhythm with my movements.

I can feel his arm moving against my chest as he is stroking faster, his body tensing and although he can hardly talk, he manages, "So close now M... please... may  I... ooooh... please..."

I pull his head further back, my fingers digging under his tongue, my thumb pressing harder, my face moving closer to his. "Open your eyes, J. Look at me."

He does, right there on that edge, the dark brown eyes fixated on mine and yet gone completely at the same time, waves of energy washing over me, the power and desire in a hot ball, glowing, pulsing.

I nod, slightly.

“Now, slut boy. For me. Come,” I say, barely managing to keep myself from shouting.

I feel his body buck, a deep groan spills out of his mouth over my fingers. His features twist and contort into that ecstatic expression that's so alike to the expression of pain.

I can't take my eyes of his face. 

His pleasure is resonating in me, flowing from him to me, given all, becoming mine.

I reach down, meeting his cum-covered fingers and cock, scooping as much as I can, bring it back up to his mouth, rub onto his lips, and deeper. His eyes have closed but he licks and swallows obediently. I smile, then lean down to his face again and briefy kiss him, taste what's mine. 

His breath is slowing down, deeper and steadier, but little shivers are still travelling through his body. I let go of his head and pull him closer, both my arms around him, into a tight embrace; hold him, his face below my shoulder, somewhat awkwardly across the gearstick and the handbrake.

I am thinking about the way I manhandled his face earlier, remembering the tightening of his airways under my hand, the heady mixture of his fear and elation mirrored and reinforced by my own. I am scared, scared of what might happen, and scared of what I might do, and yet riding an exhilarating wave that I don't want to break.

I'm also horny as fuck, and we still have a few miles to drive.

“You OK, J?”

He mumbles a low but seemingly confident yes, so I shake myself out of this moment, push away my tiredness, let go of him completely, grab a blanket from the back seat and cover  him, "Sleep now, boy. It's not far."

He seems to drop off before I even get back to speed on the main road. I drive on as the road gets narrower, steeper and wilder, then single track; small villages thinning out to single houses; all passing by in a blur of a fast-falling night and my own tiredness.

I can't see him clearly in the dark, but I know he's sleeping next to me, and although there is a part of me that still finds it hard to believe, I am getting closer to accepting that yes, it's  actually happening, yes, he's here, now, in this car, on this road, on the way to becoming mine.

In times like this the reality, the greater scheme of things loses all importance, and all that matters is the here and now, accepted without questioning. The self, one's own self, and others' too, reverts to what it was originally for, an efficient tool for focusing and processing the here and now. The search for meaning and the attempts to understand become irrelevant. 

Things are, and that is all that matters, without a why, without a how, without what for. I reach out with my left hand, briefly touch him somewhere in the region of his knee, reassure myself again that he's really here, that I am not dreaming or imagining any of this.

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.

-------

See other entries inspired by this week's prompt:

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.

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.

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.

Boots off

This is another little foot fetish story. A lot of typical foot fetish scenarios are worked into a context of a top/bottom dynamic, but although I don't mind including some in my D/s imaginings, I usually don't focus on that. I want my D/s to be about me, not a body part or a particular act. But I do have a bit of a foot fetish fetish, quite separate from anything to do with power exchange. Thus this -- though it could turn into something a little more kinky in a follow up, if there is one.

-----

That summer I was working as in a small local hotel as a general dogsbody, doing anything from managing bookings to waitressing. I worked in the dining room that evening and it was a busy night so I was pretty worn out after running between tables and the kitchen for four hours. Eventually everything was finished and other people left to do whatever young hotel staff do after work on a Friday night. I was ready to leave too, but stopped at a set of benches on the grass to the side of the hotel carpark for a cigarette before my drive home.

It was dark but not completely dark, with the full moon, clear sky and light from the foyer giving everything that quiet, eerie glow of a night-time countryside places.

I was wearing knee-high low heel boots over fitted black denim trousers, and my feet were killing me. I contemplated taking my boots off even before I drove home, but for now I lit my cigarette and sat back, right foot crossed over my knee, my back stretching, enjoying my rest and looking forward to the bath at home.

It was then that guest that I had seen around for a few days appeared with a polite ''Good evening'', asking me if it was OK if he joined me on the bench. I didn't object, he sat next to me and we did more small talk, the usual stuff.

I dragged on my cigarette, complained again about my long shift and indicated towards my boots with a  wave of my hand, "I really want these off now, I hope you don't mind". I wasn't really asking, and before he said anything I put out my cigarette and reached to unzip the first boot.

"No, no, of course not," he said and I realised he was actually staring at me.

Or rather, staring at my boots, at my foot placed across my knee, my hands pulling the zip down and the boot off, complete with the sock, my foot free. I flexed it and wriggled my toes, ankle still resting across my knee, the bare skin pale in contrast to my trousers, the chipped red nail-polish looking still acceptable in the low light.

I heard a sharp intake of breath from the man sitting next to me and it was really only then that I consciously realised what was going on, or at least got an idea of what it could be. The strangest thing was that it should have crept me out but for some reason it didn't and I made a bit of a show of struggling with the zip of the other boot until he offered to help and I accepted it. I still don't know why. I was tired, I'd had a large drink before I left the building, my mind was in that twilight zone where the standard version of reality becomes less solid and possibilities start slowly swirling around.

And so I said ''Yes, do help if you don't mind,'' knowing now that he more than didn't mind, and he dropped to his knees on the ground by the bench and carefully unzipped the boot, pulled it off, pulled off the thin cotton sock too and I found myself with him sitting on his heels in front of me, holding my foot in both his hands, his fingers starting to rub gently.

"May I?"

I wondered if it was sensible, again, but those swirling possibilities were doing their job and actually I was enjoying the situation and enjoying getting just a little, fuzzily, turned on by the now obvious sexual tension. I slid my other foot up between his knees so it rested against his crotch and yes, he was hard and made a small stifled groaning sound when I touched him.

"Yes. I'll tell you if I get uncomfortable," I said.

He started massaging and stroking - and his touch was exquisite. Firm when necessary, soft when needed, rubbing and pressing the muscles in the various areas, pushing the hem of my trousers up to get to my ankle, then lifting it up as he leaned down at the same time, bringing my foot closer to his mouth.

He looked at me as if to check if it was ok and I sighed  and nodded a yes.

It was greedy but slow at the same time, wet and firm yet pliant and it made me, suddenly, throbbing, wet, aroused beyond what I could have ever imagined having my feet caressed could possibly do. I wanted my other foot licked now, or both at the same time, I wanted to feel his cock on my sole, skin on skin and not through layers of fabric, I wanted to fuck him with my feet there and then.

I moaned and he stopped for a second, as if waiting for me to tell him it was OK to go on.

''Don't. Stop. Now. I'm so fucking turned on…'' I stuttered, breathlessly, undoing my belt and unbuttoning my jeans, and sliding my hand into my panties, between my labia, feeling my own wetness and heat. The next part was bizarre, in hindsight, but by then I was too turned on to think that much. I made my fingers really wet and withdrew them, leaned down and smeared the sticky wetness on my toes and instep.

''Lick. Taste for yourself.''

He did, with a sharp intake of breath and a moan louder than mine had been, his tongue now frantic on my toes, then sucking them, his hands firmer holding my foot, as if he wanted to stop them shaking.

"Let's get out of here before someone else comes out" I offered when he came up for air, the voice of reason making itself heard in my mind, or maybe just making sensible arrangements for the rest of the evening. He got up without a word, standing there and waiting for me to move.

"Carry these for me, will you?'', I nodded towards my boots before walking to my car, barefoot, the bits of gravel in the packed-dirt carpark rough on my soles, my boots in his hand.

I didn't live far so I didn't bother putting them back on and just drove barefoot. We didn't talk much on the way, as if either was a little scared of spoiling the mood, piercing that bubble that we placed ourselves in when his lips touched my instep for the first time. I took my turn, parked the car, opened my door, put my right foot on the paving tiles of the driveway.

"They'll need a wash now" I said, not even teasingly but simply stating the fact.

"Yes. Yes, they will," he replied.

I take a gingerly few steps across the drive, he follows me in, through the hall and into the living room where I collapse on a messy sofa covered with a mess of books, clothes and unspecific household items. I eye him carefully, standing in the door, my boots still in his hand, looking a little unsure but smiling a little too, looking hopeful but not as if he was going to push anything, and the memory - the feeling itself - of our little encounter on the bench by the carpark comes back to me, the bubble is still there.

I'm tired though, weary and stiff, my body feels numb despite the still present damp warmth between my legs and the echo of his mouth on my foot, so I stretch my legs out on the rug, ankles crossed, and wave my hand towards him.

''Just dump them here. Bathroom is off the hall, there should be a bowl and other stuff there.''

His smile grows bigger and he turns back and disappears in the hall, to emerge in few minutes carrying a square plastic washing bowl that I normally use for my more delicate underwear filled with hot water, and what looks like at least three of my best towels over his forearm. The pockets of his jacket seem to be stuffed with other bathing supplies and it all looks a bit silly and a bit touching and I am now sure I do want tonight to continue, and I'll worry about what to do next afterwards.

He puts one of the towels on the rug in front of me, the bowl on top, then drops to his knees and reaches to my feet, rolling the bottoms of my trousers up, his fingers straying lower but not remaining there,  before I put them in the bowl. The water is hot, but not burning, the splash of bath oil fills the air with jasmine, rose and lavender, and when he starts washing my feet I stop thinking of pedicures or of miner's wives in coaltown cottages, because although his touch is firm and practical, it's also undoubtedly, unmistakeably erotic, his fingers, slippery with soap and water, rubbing my skin, carefully, thoroughly, toes first, one by one, than between them, taking his time, moving to the soles, mostly still with his fingers but occasionally reaching for a flannel. He moves to my ankle next, more of a massage than a scrubbing, pressing the tired muscles and rubbing the swollen parts.

It's all happening in silence, apart from my occasional sigh and a ''yes, that's great'' of confirmation and encouragement, and I can hear my own breathing, and I can hear his, maybe a little deeper and faster than it would be normally but not in any way obvious. When he's through with the washing, he moves the bowl/towel ensemble to the side and places my feet on another towel, this time it's the big, thick, pale grey bath sheet which makes a luxurious nest. I expect him to start drying them with as much care as he put into the washing but instead he sits on his heels and picks my right foot, still covered with the film of water, up in both hands, leans down, gives me the same look he did at the bench and when I nod with a smile, brings it to his mouth, licking, kissing and then licking again, the damp of his saliva mixing with the damp of the water.

This is turning me on again, and I sigh and moan a little to show him how I'm enjoying it and to let him know he should go on, which he clearly takes seriously because the next moment he's on his back on the floor, my right foot still in his hands but now directly above his face, the left one still on the towel on the floor next to his shoulder.

He focuses on the sole next, his lips moving slowly, almost methodically, starting with the little toe and along the outer edge, firmer on the tougher skin of the heel, I can feel his teeth, biting but not painfully, than the inner edge, towards the arch, his tongue probing, testing, lingering, tasting, especially between patches of skin with different texture, tracing and mapping my sole and however ridiculous it might sound it feels like he's making love to my foot.

I sigh and adjust my position, unzip my trousers again, start slowly touching myself, wet and hot and starting to throb, arch my back a little which makes my foot push down on his face and he lets it happen, his mouth open and his breathing now close to panting. I move the right one up against him, make it creep up his side and to his cock, full, hard, straining against the fabric of his trousers.

''Turn sideways. No… take your pants off first, then turn on your side, the other way round… do the other one now…'' I stammer. He stops, with a little delay that feels like coming up for air more than reluctance, gets up and starts removing his trousers, pants, socks. Our eyes meet and I can't help but laugh a little, to him rather than at him, in wonder at this thing we are doing here, the bubble of sex that surrounds us and in which all that matters is the mutual need. He smiles back, his eyes growing wider when he sees me pulling my jeans and panties off, my legs open wide and wanton, my fingers emphasising rather than concealing the slick spread of my cunt, the swollen bud of my erect clit emerging between the labia a perfect counterpart to his rigid cock.

''Oh fuck….'' he groans, back on his knees, closer to me, leaning lower.

''Do the other one, I said,'' I don't know how or why I decided to do it, why I am not doing the obvious, the natural thing here and pulling him in, making him use that clearly accomplished mouth of his between my legs, but I know that's what I want just now so there is no reason not to suggest it, even if the suggestion comes out somewhat harsh and demanding.

He moans again but does what I told him to do, attending to my other foot as I focus on the pleasure pooling between my legs, as I get closer to the plateau on which I can stay for a while before reaching the edge of my orgasm, not caring now about the sounds I make or the movements or the view he might have from down there, until I have had enough of that, until I want more and different, and pull away from him, get up and make for the door.

''Come on,'' this comes clipped and harsh again, not because I want to humiliate him but because all I can think about now is my own need and this man whose desire lit that flame has now - at least for this moment - become nothing but a tool of its fulfillment.

He follows me to the bedroom, a couple of steps behind me, and waits expectantly when I stretch myself on the bed, on my front, my feet hanging off the edge of the bed, my legs slightly apart but not enough to let him see anything much.

I make myself comfortable and, with my head on my crossed arms, give him a glance across the dim room and call ‘’C’mere. Get to work. My soles, now.’’

In less than an instant he’s on his knees down there, his mouth and hands eager and beautiful, touching, stroking, licking, stopping, perhaps to look at my soles, the pressing and sucking again, almost all of the muscular tension of the whole day gone now, replaced by the spreading glow of arousal, my skin supple and warm, my cunt dripping with desire that is less directed at than facilitated by what he’s doing for me.

I raise my hips a little, my pelvis feels full, flushed and hot, I want to be touched. My feet spread wider, I am sure he can see up between my legs now, and even if he can’t, he’ll be able to smell me. I want his mouth elsewhere now.

‘’Come up and kiss down my spine, slut,’’ I say, the ‘’slut’’ unexpected yet bizarrely fitting.

He obeys wordlessly, I don’t look at him but can feel his body next to mine, his erection brushing my thigh when he leans down, his lips slow and precise on the back of my neck, moving down, my hips lifting up to meet him, his hands on my buttocks, his moan in response to my ‘’Yess, there…’’ when his tongue slides down to my ass and brushes my anus before getting the first taste of my wetness.

He’s stretched between my legs now and I’m rubbing myself on his face, all vestiges of decorum gone, panting and moaning, first on all fours, then shifting up, so I’m nearly sitting on him, my thigh cramping a bit but I ride it through, my hands in his hair, pulling, the focus of my desire moving from the exquisite sensations flowing over my skin to what I am doing with him and to him, the sounds he makes appear pained and this is turning me on in the most unexpected ways and I want more of it, fucking more, and more, shifting again and pushing him into a place that would fit what I want and need now.

I’m leaning against the headboard, my knees up, he’s flat on his back on the bed still, looking dazed, sticky faced and a little bit breathless.

''On your front and fucking lick,'' I hiss, my toes brushing his lips as he follows my command, the thrill of doing it like a jolt through my whole body, suddenly aware that I could actually kick him, make his lip split on his own teeth, make his bleed here for me, and maybe he would lash back out at me, but maybe he wouldn't and that possibility makes me dizzy with desire of a kind I have not experienced before, the same one that prompts me to push hard against his face and mouth, make him gag and groan in discomfort.

I'm rubbing myself furiously now, my clit like a hard and slippery nub under my fingers, so sensitive that I can't even touch it directly. I grab blindly to the side of the bed, grasp a diIdo I use occasionally and slide it deep into my throbbing cunt, the pleasure of this act a huge gasp and a swearing moan. He's still licking and kissing my feet but I can see him glance up to all the action between my legs now and then.

''Stop... just watch me. Don't... touch... yourself... without... asking....'' I stutter, high up there on the plateau of my pleasure, his frustration and obedience rising the heat.

He does as he's told, though his breathing is fast and loud and when I moan he responds with small, quickly stifled moans of his own. I get close, closer, almost there, my pleasure the whole of my world, the man I brought to me bed a panting shadow on the very periphery of it, his waiting, his patience, his at this moment utter focus on what I am experiencing an afterthought, a sweetly hot one but no more than that.

I come alone, in a huge, convulsive shiver spreading from my toes to the top of my head, and spilling at my core, a scream and a laugh few seconds later.

I stretch and relax, my right foot sliding to his crotch, now I remember him again, grateful and happy, with no urgency.

''Please...'' he whispers, and I answer with a not-quite-dismissive ''OK, go on then. On my feet," his hand a blur, his panting moan turning into a deep groan, the sticky warmth of his release splattering and dripping off my instep.

''Clean it up now."

I'm not really thinking he will, but it seems worth trying, the newly found role talking through me more than me talking from the role, his breath warm on my toes as he leans down to obey.

l