As you wish

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

----

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

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

“Come over. Now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let me know when you get this.”

“got it now”

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

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

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

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

She answers, “Hello?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good boy. Beautiful. Thirsty?"

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

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

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

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

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

"As you wish, Ma'am."

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:

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:

 

Girlie things

While I am at it, I might as well share some older pornography I wrote with you. This one is getting on for being 10 years old now, and I am somewhat ambivalent about the whole feminisation thing, but I do love me some gender bending and I made it work for me at that time. 

Here is a sample that you won't get free from Amazon:

He gets up from the chair, slowly, a dazed look on his face, his eyes scanning the room in search of a mirror, but I have purposefully covered the only one.

"Later," I say and walk towards him, pull the tie of his dressing gown and let it drop   open; pushing it off his shoulders so he's standing there completely naked.

His body is hairless, waxed and lotioned; and the way he stands, slightly turned aside, makes his cock and balls disappear in the shadow of his sleek thigh. I can't resist running my hands along his arms, then gently turning him round and doing the same on his back, from the shoulder blades skimmed by the tumbling hair, along the spine and down to the curves of his smooth ass.

He stands there motionlessly, like a mannequin or a wax model, letting me turn him round, paw and prod, allowing my hands to roam on his skin, strangely cool, as if I was touching a statue, only a slight, occasional shiver an indication that there is a living human being inside the body.

I love that. I want him to stay like that, I want to pull the wig off his head, lie him on the floor and slap his face until rivulets of tears smear the makeup all over. I want to straddle him and have him beg me to hurt him, not with my words and taunts but with my nails and fingers, and I even think that if I did that, he'd probably let me. But I don't yet have the courage to destroy this story, to divert from the script by more than I've already done. 

I shrug again. I've made my girl, now I must dress her.

I make the few steps to the bed, picking up pieces of clothing. Bikini-cut silk panties first; he moves at last, perches on the edge of the bed and pulls them on, almost all the way up.

"Lie back, sweetie," I instruct and as he does, I lean down and gently push his balls inside the body, then tuck his cock, which starts to harden a little under my hands, but remains pliable, between his legs, pulling the panties up to finish the task. They sit tight on his ass and keep everything in place.

As he sits up, I pass him a pair of hold ups, topped with a wide band of black lace but otherwise nude, sheer, with a black seam. The silicone sticks well to his smooth skin and they stay up with no problems.

The dress took a while to select, but I'm happy with my choice, a simple straight-cut thing of heavy, flamboyantly patterned silk with a Chinese collar and a long side slit that goes almost up to the thigh, exposing the edge of the stocking top. The shoes are medium heeled, wide-strappy suede, not stilettos, but go well with the dress.

He walks around the room experimentally, teetering a just little but mostly surprisingly steady, the heels and the confines of the dress adding a sway to the movement, the silk rustling slightly with each step.

He seems somehow more alive now, more real than even a few minutes before, as if the makeup and clothes - just meaningless trinkets really, less than skin deep all - conferred some primal transformational power.

What I see in front of me goes beyond fetishism of a man in knickers and stockings. Like a shaman that paints the body and puts on an animal mask somehow becomes the animal, so donning the clichéd female adornments seems to have created a path for some forlorn, abandoned part of his person to emerge.

He turns around, almost a pirouette, a hand on the hip, looks at me sideways, smiles, pouts a little. The effect is undeniably feminine, sexy, sultry.

Pretty. Fucking pretty. PRETTY. I spit this word out at him. No. I don’t. I imagine doing it, I do it in my head, then smile.

"Perfect. Now this and we are good to go," I say, getting the last item out if the wardrobe, a satin lined swing coat; a silky, almost black mink.

He gasps when I shake it and hold in my hands for him, then walks slowly towards me, turns round and slides his arms into it, wraps it around his body, crosses his arms hugging himself into the luxurious softness.

I walk towards the large standing mirror, until now covered up, pull the sheet off.

''Meet Nell."

_______________

You can read the whole thing (there is sex in there, I hasten to add) for less than price of coffee here:

 

The Room

A different scenario this time, an experimental scene that has a F/m couple in a company of a female submissive/masochist. Do answer the final question, either in comments or via direct message to me. 

****

We're in a hotel room. Fairly lavish. There's a girl there with us. Not a real girl, obviously, but a young woman. She's a stranger. Maybe someone picked up at a club. Maybe a prostitute I'm paying.

She seems attractive in an obvious way, dressed and groomed and made up to show it.

It feels fairly late. I'm really tired.

I drop down heavily into a padded leather chair, get you to pour me a drink. A whisky, neat, in a short cut-crystal glass tumbler, poured from a decanter available on a side table, liquid smoke coating my tongue in a memory of another place.

I tell the girl to strip and she starts doing it in an elaborate, seductive-dance way. This annoys me so I shout to her, almost a bark, "Just take your fucking clothes off". She stops for a moment, seemingly confused, but then obeys.

You are sitting on the floor to the side of my chair, your head nearly resting on my thigh. I can see you look at her get naked, I can see your jeans bulging with an erection.

The girl's breasts are small but not tiny, round, with a softness that's so strongly implied as to feel palpable. In contrast, her nipples are huge, thick and long, dark, almost purple brown, grapelike.

She's standing there, about six feet away from us, naked and exposed in this nakedness, her heavily made up face and carefully straightened hair somewhat incongruous with her nudity, smooth, olive skinned, waxed or shaved completely hairless apart from her head hair.

She doesn't react in any visible way to my hitching my skirt up, pulling my knickers off, to my hand grabbing your head, pulling you closer, your burying your head between my legs first, then unzipping your trousers and sliding your rigid cock into my cunt. I wrap my legs around you and keep you still there, on your knees in my grasp, my hips making small movements only, my cunt clenching in a slow rhythm.

I look at the girl, she's watching us intently, wordlessly, but her chest is rising and falling in heavy breaths, she's visibly biting her lip and her nipples appear to be really hard, the areolas swollen, the tips even darker.

Her right hand starts to slowly move down to her pubis, her left to her chest. I can hear her gasp.

"No. Don't you fucking dare" I bark towards her and she moans, almost a mewling sound but drops her hands, now hanging limply along her body. There seems to be something odd about her, not just her silence and sexual compliance, but a distant feeling, maybe feral, maybe drugged.

"Come closer!"

She obeys and stands inches away from the armchair in which we're still joined in the sort-of-fucking embrace. I reach up and take one of her nipples between my fingers, squeezing it. She moans again, her eyes close.

I reach between her legs. Her thighs are wet, literally covered in sticky, slippery juices, her cunt dripping; hot. My fingers -  two then three slide inside her, I ram them hard and fast, as deep as they'd get and she wails, high pitched sound that could be pain as well as arousal.

"Filthy fucking slut. What are you here for?"

I finger her, hard. She's moaning in reply, "Please... pleasepleaseplease.. "

I let you go and stand in front of her, grabbing a bunch of her hair in my fist, pulling her head back. My hand still mashing her pussy. Her hips arch towards the movement of my hand, and I withdraw it after one hard and fast thrust. She squeals in protest.

I slap her, her head held in place by my holding her hair, my palm smarting from the blow. I push her down on all fours. Her ass is round and firm, and the position she's in means her cunt is showing between her thighs, dark swollen labia and the red, visibly pulsing, fleshy opening. Her hips are rocking and she's making those pained, mewling moaning noises.

I smack her butt. Hard. And again. There's a belt... no... a riding crop on a round side table, next to the spirit decanters. A solid looking tool, not a joke novelty item.

I grab its plaited leather handle and whack the girl's butt with the flapper. A series of short, sharp smacks leaving red welts. She's wailing now, and although I can't see her face fully I can see enough to notice tears flowing down her cheeks, her makeup completely messed up, her lip bitten and bloody.

She makes no move to get away and in fact adjusts her position so her knees are wider. The next swat of the crop lands on her upper thighs and the one after that, on her exposed vulva. I repeat the blow, slightly lighter, alternately dragging the crop across her upper thigh and her pussy and hitting her, seven more times. I stop after that and slide the flapper of the crop fully between her legs, dragging it along her slit now.

She's rocking her hips, literally humping the implement.

"Filthy fucking cumrag, aren't you?" I hiss.

She moans, loud, her thighs closing on the crop. Her whole ass is covered in welts.

I move the crop between her legs and lean down. Her hair is a mess now, sweaty and tangled.

"You came here to be punished, didn't you?"

She moans a sobbing "Yes".

I spit at her, not her face but from behind, so it lands on her back, a thick glob, immediately followed by a smack on her red ass follows, my bare hand hot in contact with the tender flesh.

I'm kneeling on the floor behind her now. I raise my eyes and half turn my head towards the chair to  look at you, I almost forgot you were there for a while, but now I want to see what's going on with you, considering that only few minutes ago you had your cock inside me.

My question is unspoken but clear in my eyes, scanning your body, from your rigid cock to your eyes, darkened by arousal and wide open. You're still wearing your shirt even though you're naked below waist.

I smack her butt again, the heat of the whipped skin delicious on my hand, desire pooling between my legs. My eyes never leave yours.

"Turn over, scum whore."

I push her onto her face. She rolls over obediently, her knees raised and spread wide, her bare cunt open and needy. I pick up the crop again, tap her pussy with it, a light strike, then a slide along her slit. Her hips are bucking.

My left hand wanders almost absent mindedly to her nipple, large and fleshy between my fingers. I squeeze it and pinch it, twisting. She screeches, stifled, her back arching up, hips pushed as if begging.

I slide down to floor level next to her and take her fat nipple in my mouth. It's exquisite, rubbery yet warm and responsive, and having it between my lips sends delightful jolts down into my core, then stop and look at you, still tweaking the girl's nipple while I talk.

"I might need you to fuck her for me. But that's later."

After a while I shift between her legs and nearly- lying down start tapping her clit and labia with my hand, rhythmic smacks that are almost a caress. She comes hard, and keeps coming, in convulsions and with loud moans.

I get you to kneel at her side at hip height and watch, as I watch you watching her, looking at her whole body writhe, it feels like she is doing it for you even though she ostensibly just ignores you. She is grabbing her breast very hard, tweaking and pulling her nipples, hurting herself as she is rubbing her cunt, and you start to stroke yourself very, very slowly looking at her. When she comes again, it's loud and graphic, she doesn't stop, her face looks pained but she keeps going, like she was made to do this despite every logical reason not to. After what seems like a fourth orgasm, or a fourth wave of an immense one, she's still going, panting and crying but her body seems to be loving it, her face deformed now by the need, the pleasure, the pain. She is there, in front of us, a pantomime of horniness, an idea of an object made of flesh, a slut incarnate if there ever was one.

I turn to her again, lean down, ram my fingers in her, then replace them with the handle of the crop. It's rough and hard but she clearly needs it rough. She's coming, coming again, and although it's somehow connected to what I am doing, it's not really.

Her want and her need are independent, her own; not focused on me, or on you, we are merely tools of its fulfilment, used as needed to satisfy something that's entirely of hers, not much more than a plastic toy, not much more real than a porn clip on a loop, not more significant than a hooker one might pay to perform a particular service in a particular way that presses particular buttons with a particular intensity.

And as much as she appears to be inhuman in her desperate need, in this greedy abandon, it's not her arousal and her relentless pursuit of sensation that makes her seem so, but her self containment, her entire lack of concern with anybody else unless they can be used to intensify her sensations. It's in the moment of that realisation I recognise something -- somebody -- in her, I recognise an aspect of my own self, the thing that made men stop mid-action, turn away in a mixture of revulsion and surprise once they realised that it really was not about them in any meaningful way. None of this is verbalised at that time, it's more of a split-second awareness, so clear and stark that it adds a sharp edge, a shriek of quick laughter, to my own arousal. I stop doing what I was doing and abandon the girl to her subsiding wave of orgasms to reach between my own legs. I'm not far off. The crumpled, abused body on the floor; your rigid cock in your hand, and my own hungry cunt, the sheer depravity of the scene brings me to the edge, I come fast, quick, deep.

Few minutes on, I get up from the floor; you look up to me and I know what you want so I let you lick my fingers, the greedy mouth closing on them wetly, a moan.

"I'm going to go out for a while. I don't care what happens to her, if she goes, she goes, if she's still here when I come back, it's fine too. You, though, don't leave the room.''

I close the door behind myself, and leave you two there.

What do you do?

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.

Let's go

I'm sitting down on a large leather couch in one of the not-quite-generic settings in which we play out these scenarios. Perhaps the cottage on the shore of the isolated cove at the end of a narrow single-track road, perhaps the log cabin in the forest, perhaps a hotel room somewhere in the Mediterranean.

I'm comfortable, at least physically, my legs stretched out, my bare feet crossed at the ankles, one of my hands resting on my left knee, the other holding a lit cigarette.

You are standing in front of me, not to attention, but not slouching, feet slightly apart, head slightly straight, as I told you to, as you obeyed.

I am looking at you, my eyes briefly scanning your body and moving to your face, stopping there. I am staring now, surveying your face in close detail, as if I've never seen it before or as if I was to never see it again, as if I was seeing it for the first time and for the last time, as if it was the hello and the goodbye, as if everything has always been the former and the latter. Sharp features, narrow lips with a hint of a smile, looking younger than you are, thick and a little unruly dark hair, grown a bit longer than usual, straight dark eyebrows, and the eyes, cast down, avoiding my gaze, as I told you and as you obeyed.

''Kneel,'' I say, one word only, spoken quietly, or at least quietly for me, my eyebrows rising a little to confirm the request, even though you can't quite see it unless from the corner of your eye.

I could have added your name, or the one we use between us, and I could have added one of those hot -button words, I could have said ''Kneel, slut'' or ''Kneel, boy'', or even make it more dramatic with ''On your knees, bitch''. But I don't, because we don't do This Kind of Thing any more, I am not even sure why, maybe the words have lost their magic or got worn out through overuse, maybe because we don't need them anymore.

You obey, dropping to your knees in front of me, your eyes still averted, as I told you, wordlessly, as I told you too.

Your face is pretty much on the level with mine now, maybe a few inches lower, the downward cast of your eyes more noticeable. I lean over, my hand on your cheek, my thumb running along your lips -- you knew it was coming, didn't you, there is little that's unexpected now in the grander scheme of things after all -- your breath on my skin, that touch, that gesture so obsessively overused for the simple reason that it still makes me shiver a little, however many times I do it, and maybe it always will.

I smile a small smile, my thumb sliding between your lips now, a slight movement of my hand making your head tilt up a little. My eyes still on your face, on your mouth, on your lips forced slightly open by my thumb.

''Look at me,'' I say and your gaze shifts immediately, catches mine, locks with it and we are staring at each other now, pale blue into dark brown, dark brown into pale blue, searching for something that's perhaps not even there, wondering if it ever has been, remembering, pulling it back, losing it again, waiting, waiting, and I know it's my move, my role, my prerogative to do something and I use it to do nothing, to keep looking, pale blue into dark brown, until time disappears and everything else disappears, until all that's left is my palm on your cheek, your breath, now deeper and slower, on my skin, the air moving into and out of my own lungs in the same rhythm, and my gaze locked with yours, the dark brown filling my whole field of vision, my focus sharp against the background so blurry than it's gone.

And now the brown is gone too, split into the myriad colours the human iris has, an endless vortex pulsing and rotating slowly, your eyes - your actual eyes - rolling back in your head, far enough for me to need to pull you back, not to the reality of the room, not to the couch or the rug under your knees but to the pale blue centre, to my focus for your spiral; a low, deliberate ''stay - with - me - boy'', my other hand in your hair now, holding your head still and steady, my breathing controlled to keep me on that ridge, to keep the golden eyed creature in its place behind the blue, until it's time to let it out to play and to feed, to ask the wordless question and wait until you answer, wordlessly at first, until I move my hand and free your mouth, until the ''Yes'' spills out, grows into ''Please'', morphs into ''Yours'', multiply into an endless sequence of those, alternating between whispers and moans, until you are ready, until you are yielding, until you are taken, held, mine.

Let's go.


------

This was inspired by the ''Eye Contact'' prompt from Wicked Wednesday but somehow morphed into something not quite as smutty and exciting as it was supposed to be. But it is what it is. For other entries, check the WW page:

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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