To have his cock and lock it? (2)

Previous part here: http://skinshallows.blogspot.co.uk/2017/02/to-have-his-cock-and-lock-it-1.html

***

His next memory was of coming to in bed of what felt like a cross between a modern hotel room and a fancy private hospital room. Ian could feel the cool, smooth sheets, the low, warm light and a light blanket or sheet over his body. It was only when he tried to move that he realised that he was naked and that there were wires stretching out and flat pieces of metal - electrodes? - stuck to his skin in several places. On his head, chest, hips, belly, feet, inner thighs. Other places. Including his cock. At least his cock was still there, he thought as he reached down to make absolutely sure. He had no idea what had happened, couldn't remember anything between the time in the waiting room and now. He had no idea how much time had passed or even if he still was in the same building.

Yet he wasn't scared. Not as scared as he should have been, all things considered. He looked around the room and saw a camera, no, two cameras, suspended from the ceiling and clearly pointing towards him.

Someone must have seen that he was awake now because the door opened and someone walked in. A tall, dark haired middle-aged woman he vaguely recognised, but didn't remember.

''Hello. I'm glad you are with us again… fully, this time,'' she smiled.

''Ummm… what… I don't remember anything!'' Ian blurted out. His voice felt hoarse, straining. 

''No. You would not. I can assure you everything went according to plan. Your treatment appears to have been completely successful. Of course, we won't know until some time in… the real world passes, but you can leave as soon as you are ready.''

''So… excuse me, who are you?''

''I'm Annika Marsden. We met before, but the whole process tends to cause a degree of amnesia that temporarily extends beyond the procedure itself. The procedure will remain inaccessible to your conscious mind at all times. I have all the documents, including your consent forms, here,'' she placed a folder on a bedside table. ''You can look through it any time you want, and of course your partner was kept informed at all times. ''

Ian remembered now. Dr Marsden. The creator of the program and co-owner of the OC-Lab. He reached out to take the documents, the sheet covering him slipping down. He nervously pulled it up. Annika Marsden smiled at him. It felt like an indulgent smile, ''Don't worry about modesty. We have seen… quite a lot of your body, throughout the last few days,'' the smile looked just a little bit more like a smirk now. Ian shivered, his mind trying desperately to remember, remember anything at all.

''You remember WHAT we did, Mr Fergusson?''

''Yes… yes, I do…''

''For the next ninety days, give or take a few, your partner will have a complete proscriptive control of your orgasm.''

''Proscriptive control?'' Ian flinched.

''You will be unable to orgasm without her explicit permission or instruction. She will also have some prescriptive control, which means that it should be significantly easier for her to make you orgasm if she wishes to. This feature of our neural conditioning program for biological males is not quite fully develop yet, and for now comes as a… side effect of the process. Most of our customers welcome it, but some never choose to explore the opportunities it presents,'' Dr Marsden seemed a little sad at this lack of customer adventurousness. 

All this was said in a matter of fact, professional tone. Ian felt the implications sink in. 

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. He's done it. THEY have done it. Marie had a full control now. He actually won't be able to come without her permission. He felt his blood flow to his cock and an erection growing quickly, tenting the thin sheet covering him. He tried to conceal it with his hand, discreetly slid under the sheet, the embarrassment making him harder even faster.

''Yes… yes… I remember,'' his cock was now fully erect under his fingers. Dr Marsden was ignoring it, even though she obviously could see what was going on.

''Before you get ready to leave, we usually recommend that our customers test the bind we have created. I suggest you masturbate now, Mr Fergusson,'' she glanced at the sheet in his crotch area now, ''and check for yourself. We have cameras here, and the feed is available to your partner too. We can also switch them off, if you prefer. Though we'd rather not miss the opportunity to monitor your progress,'' she smiled beatifically, ''Or you can just go home immediately. ''

Ian felt his cock pulsing at the thought of Marie - and this woman, and possibly others - watching him masturbate. He believed what she said earlier, yet he didn't feel completely convinced. He'd never had problems orgasming. Even that one time when he was locked up in a chastity device by a professional domme keyholder, he experienced small orgasms, not very satisfying, but orgasms nevertheless. The idea that he would be denied without any physical constraints, however convincing the science spiel, was still a little preposterous.

''No, no… The cameras are OK. I'll… I'll try, I'll do it now,'' he groaned, his fingers grasping his rigid cock almost without his mind's participation. It felt completely normal, warm, hard, throbbing a little in anticipation of the pleasure. 

''Excellent, Mr Fergusson. I hope you enjoy your new wiring,'' Annika Marsden stepped away from his bed and walked out of the room.

Ian grabbed his cock firmly and started to stroke. He thought of the cameras above him, and threw the sheet off, arching his back a little and cupping his balls, full and heavy, with his other hand. He imagined Marie seeing him on her laptop screen. She liked watching him masturbate, and sometimes made him perform for her, dictating rhythm and count, teasing him or hurting him as he stroked. He shivered, his cock pulsing in his hand, precum drops appearing on the tip. He closed his eyes and sank into the sensation, his hand on his own flesh, waves of pleasure washing over him, his breathing getting deeper, faster, his movements getting into the old, familiar, perfect rhythm that he preferred and that always got him to the edge and over it without fail.

Images filled his head, not a specific narrative, but disjointed flashes; Marie straddling him, her hand on his throat, panting, her teeth exposed in a grimace of furious lust; her nails on his back, the sting of her crop on his butt, the names she called him and the low whispers of encouragement and praise that turned him on as much or maybe even more than the name calling; and other women, bodies and faces over him, perfect feet in heels so high that she just laughed at the idea of ever putting them on; a sequence of wet cunts pushed in his face to lick and pleasure until his jaw ached. 

His arousal reached its peak, his whole body electric with need, his whole being focused on one thing only, that thing he had to have, had to have now.

And he couldn't. 

However hard or fast he rubbed, and whatever image he called to his mind, he couldn't come. If felt like his balls would explode with the accumulated tension, the skin on his cock rubbed raw, stretched close to splitting, copious precum streaming down the shaft. Overwhelming pleasure turned into pain, even as frustration, paradoxically, made him even more aroused. He moaned, then swore, then whimpered. 

You can't come, boy, a voice echoed in his mind. Marie was laughing. You can't come until I tell you to. That's what you wanted, slut boy. She seemed a little angry and very amused, happy but a little contemptuous. Ian wasn't sure if this was a real memory or a fantasy. 

He moaned again, louder than normal, his cock getting sore, his arousal unabated. ''Please… I need to come so bad… please… please….'' he knew she liked him to beg, he knew it turned her on to say no, but it turned her on to say yes too. He tried to imagine her saying ''yes'', tried to hear her voice, conjure that permission. It didn't work. He moaned louder, his muscles tensing, shaking, straining, the lust morphing into pain. ''Please, Ma'am... ohhh god, please, please... I need it so bad....'' he felt himself turn onto his side, curl up, then turn over, his painfully hard, dripping cock rubbing against the sheets, the humiliation of all the people that were watching his predicament flooding his mind, tears of frustration making his face wet as he humped the bed in a futile search for relief. 

He was fucked. He was completely fucked and he had only himself to blame. It was perfect. 

***

I'd love any feedback, particularly from males who could comment on the physical sensations of frustration as I am, for obvious anatomical reasons, a little shaky on the detail there. Either comment, or email me via the contact form here.

Before it ends

My eyes are fixed on the exposed side of your neck. I touch you there, running my fingers down to your shoulder. Nails dragging from behind your ear down along the line of the tendon, catching on the clavicle. Again. And again. Not deeply, just teasing. You squirm. I wish they were longer or sharper. Deliberate again. I want to mark you. You are moaning, eyes closed, chest visibly lifting and lowering, long deep breaths. My desire coalesces in my mind.  I want to leave a row of short, parallel cuts on your shoulder. Not very deep, short ones, maybe two inches long each. I want it so much it makes me catch my breath and stop what I'm doing and think of a tool suitable for making a thin, neat, permanent ladder of little scars. One of them maybe a little less neat.

I tell you what’s going through my head, and you gasp, your breath hot and rapid on the damp skin of my wrist, ‘’ Yes. Please do that, M. I want to wear your marks. Permanent ones. I want the cuts. I hope they spill a little too much blood…’’ you’re talking in low voice, almost whispering, but it’s steady, as if you were out of the daze or in a different kind of daze maybe, slow and fluid and focused, and this steady fluidity make me feel floaty. You are fucking me up so much, still, after all this time. I love it.

You open your eyes and look up at me,’’Serrated blade, M?’’

‘’Maybe not as jagged as a cheap steak knife, something finely serrated. What you might slice a tomato with,‘’ you offer

‘’A small, fine metalworking blade,’’ I suggest, partially in jest, partially in earnest, my fingers resting lightly on your shoulder, my tongue running along my upper lip, my cunt throbbing.

This conversation, matter of fact and yet somehow surreal at the same time makes me giggle, seems as it should break the spell but actually doesn’t, makes me realise how comfortable we are here, doing this perverted thing that we do.

I think of your leaving and my leaving, of both of us going back to our respective realities, soon - too soon, and perhaps for good this time, because we never know when it’s going to be for good so it’s better to think this way, it’s better to think that this is all the time we have and that every time must be made as precious as the first time and must be treated as the last time, because it might end up being so.

I think of the time we have left before the fantasy ends and reality reasserts itself, and all that we will have done here will seem like a story told on a perverted erotica blog. And then I think of how much the lines between the fantasy and the real are blurred just now, so much that maybe we don’t quite know which is which and that if you really leave in two days’ time  with a neat row of cuts on your shoulder - one of them perhaps less neat than the others, perhaps left to heal without using butterfly strips to keep the edges together - if you take this mark back to your reality, maybe it will remain blurred forever, the curtain never pulled completely closed, a reminder always there, not just in the neural circuits of your mind but obvious, blatant, palpable in the most literal sense of that overused word, to be felt every time you put your fingers there.

This possibility is making my head spin and my breath speed up in a way that goes far beyond sexual, not that the sexual isn’t there, but it’s morphing into something else, something bigger if just a little lower key, a desire to own you -- or at least that part of you that you have given me -- not just fully but with some illusion of permanence, as symbolic and un-real as these things are.

I’m driven by the same impulse which makes people carve their initials in school desks and in living trees, the same desire that I indulged when I took the sharp little blade of a slightly rust-stained knife to the wind-bent pine tree overlooking the narrows the mainland and the island, with the view of that hill on which the last photo I’d sent you was taken before your arrival here, the same need that drove my request to carve a declaration of your submission in that board that’s now not just sanded and oiled but wet with your sweat, wax and probably quite a few drips of precum and saliva too.

It’s going dark outside but it’s a bright dusk, with pale blue-grey sky and a full moon high and silver above the hills on the other side of the water and, unheard of at this time of the year, it’s snowing. Slow, large flakes sailing slowly down, sliding along invisible air slopes, twirling in vortexes of light from the house’s large plate window.

I leave you there for a minute and return to the workshop, picking up possible tools for what I have in mind. My hands are shaking, just a little bit.

‘’Stand by the window, J. Spread-eagled. Legs wide, palms flat on the glass. Well supported, leaning a little,’’ I launch into instructions as soon as I walk back into the room and although you seem a little thrown by all that, you obey.

‘’Closer. Not as close as to touch glass with your cock,’’ I adjust you, using my words and soon after, my hands, small pushes and pulls to indicate the direction, ‘’Here. Yes. That’s great. Perfect,’’ I run my hands down your sides, then up your outstretched arms, checking the new tensing and flexing of the muscles, the changed way your skin stretches.

‘If anybody came round just now they’d be for a surprise,’’ I snort, my fingers playing with your erection, turning it larger and more rigid. I step away and look. Your body pale, despite the tan, in the low light of the room against the dark that has fallen outside. I switch off the light and now it's just a silhouette, and what seemed to be dark has turned into a purple grey, gently opalescent with the moonlight.

I want to leave you like this, forever, spread-eagled across the window, in the eternal violet charcoal of dusk. I want to keep you like this, forever, in the eternal glass case in the library of my mind. And although some part of you, some version of you is there, just like this, in some version of some reality, it is only a sliver, a lab slice of a symbolic specimen that defies what must be and what is.

I shake my head, almost violently, my hair spilling in a tangle rather than a stylish swish, step back. My palms on your shoulders, fingers moving to meet on your throat, thumbs pressing down, my mouth near your ear ‘’Quiet now. Quiet and still.” You whispermoan a ‘’Yes, M’’ and I start touching you. Methodically. Systematically. As if I was doing everything possible to memorise it all, as if there were obvious and crucial differences between the skin along your shoulder-blade and that covering the tendons of your neck and that over the soft flesh below the ribcage.

The touch varies. I press and stroke. I pinch and scratch. I move my face so close to you that my breath condenses on your skin, blow on you gently or fast, and brush you with my lips. I bite and lick. I leave trails of what remains of my lipstick and saliva and breath, pink grazes and teeth indentations and hickeys.

The cuts come fast and sure, as if out of nowhere, shallow, closer to symbolic nicks than slits designed to leave obvious scars, but there is a spreading net of blood trickles blooming on your back and there is a humming in my head. I take my eyes off you for what’s intended as a split second but ends up much longer.

It’s still snowing. Huge flakes whirling down slow and thick  to settle on the grass, to cushion everything, to muffle time and slow down sounds.

I pull the belt out of the loops of my skirt, double it up in my hand, position myself and take aim. The crack of leather on your butt makes me shiver, as much as your stifled moan, a violent twitch and the way you move your hips in an instinctive flight response to then return to position, your back maybe arched a little more, your knuckles maybe a little whiter on the narrow window frame.

‘’Count.’’

You do, your voice sometimes steady and sure, sometimes breaking, sometimes hardly there, the welts merging together into a greater field of red, hot and tender to my hand when I touch it after the belt is dropped.

‘’Well done, boy,’’ my left hand on your just-belted butt, my right one on your dripping cock, your long moan making my nipples harden against the lace of my bra.

It’s still snowing.

A little later, I lay you down out there, the cold of snow a welcome soothing for your tormented skin, at first, the pink dissolving into dirty green mush under the combined weight of our bodies, I fuck you slow and urgent, deliberate and messy, until we both cry out and come to.

We return inside to tend to the cuts and bruises, to sleep - together this time, the toes of my left foot touching your calf, the fingertips of my left hand nearly-brushing your right one - to wake up to late morning of a pale blue skye, a small, white sun and a huge daytime moon above us, the last night’s snow all gone, to the tidying up of the workshops, to the locking up of the house, to the long drive to the airport.

***


We are standing in the departures, upstairs, just before the security, facing each other, a couple of steps off the main stream of passengers walking past with their plastic bags for liquids and gels, their belts and boots in their hands.

There is a silence around us, a bubble, similar to the one that we stood in, shivering, the first time we met, that day when I slapped him in the middle of the arrivals hall and he dropped to his knees and kissed my feet in fishnet stockings and ridiculously uncomfortable shoes. 

I am wearing old jeans and tattered Converse hi-tops today and neither of us is shivering. But I still reach out to touch his face, my palm on his cheek, my fingers near his ear, my thumb brushing his lips, spreading them apart, briefly running along the damp inside, then withdrawing.

''Fuck. I guess this is it,'' he looks briefly at the ground as he says this, then back at me, our eyes locked gain.

''Fuck. I guess it is,'' I am somewhere between a giggle and tears. 

We embrace, quickly, then he turns away, makes his way to the end of the security queue. 

''Be good for me, J,'' I call to his back. 

He glances at me over his shoulder with a somewhat sad-looking ghost of a smile.

''I will. Endlessly, M.''

Fetish: perfectly fixed

**Perfectly Fixed**


If you are into any form of kink (itself a not exactly well-defined term), you likely will have used the term ''fetish''. 

Dictionary definitions tell of *sexual desire in which gratification is linked to an abnormal degree to a particular object, item of clothing, part of the body, etc.* and it gives following synonyms: *fixation, sexual fixation, obsession, compulsion, mania; weakness, fancy, taste, fascination, craze, fad; idée fixe.* Here on FetLife, we can obviously add *a kink* to that list.

Wikipedia defines **sexual fetishism** as sexual fixation on a nonliving object or nongenital body part but even here we come across difficulties, because what exactly IS a sexual body part (apart from the genitals)? One can argue, for example, that the intense sexual interest in female breasts typical for current western culture is extremely fetishistic and by historical and ethnographic standards it certainly could be seen as such. 

While medical definitions of fetishism and paraphilias emphasise distress caused by such pattern of arousal (either primary, or more often through shame or stigmatisation associated with it), in colloquial speech, *fetish* is used simply for intense sexual interest in anything that isn't ''standard'' sex, or even some very standard sexual acts and objects if enjoyed and/or fixated on with a non-standard intensity. 

I'm not terribly fond of the term fetish or fetishism, because it seems unnecessary to me: we might as well talk about turn-ons (generally) or kinks (if we want to emphasise less-than-normative character of our turn-ons). And yet, occasionally I wonder if the notion of a fetish as a particularly strong and intense arousal associated with a specific object or act isn't worth preserving. 

I was reminded of this a few days ago when watching a movie. Not porn, not erotica and not even a movie with a particularly noticeable romance or attraction plot but a fantastic adventure story with a ''12'' rating. 

The scene I am talking about was cartoon-type fun and less than 30 seconds long, its only part that could be described as graphic maybe a second or two long. And yet I caught myself breathing just a little deeper as I saw the tied hands, the coil of the whip, as I heard its crack, and I caught myself stifling a gasp in that one moment when the shirt on the hero's back was split open, the edges of the split darkened momentarily, his head lolled and his eyes glazed over in a badly-acted expression of agony. 

I had had the same reaction before, but what I realised this time - following a browse through a few YouTube flogging/whipping playlists - was how specific it was, how narrow the space between ''not enough'' and ''too much'' was, how precisely I could pinpoint the ''fetishistic trigger'' to the very specific moment a whip breaks previously-untouched skin in a specific area of back and shoulders, how a welt was not quite enough but flaying off flesh in stripes was too much, which ratio of back to face felt right (roughly 2:1 for shorter scenes), what distance I am looking from, and ideally, what pattern the marks create (this is moving from existing movies to the one I would play in my head) and so on, and so on.

And there is something similar going on in many fetishistic desires, isn't there? The *just-so* factor, where Greek feet are so much hotter than Egyptian ones (or the other way round) for a foot fetishist, where it has to be pale pink Keds, shoulder-blade long, wavy but not curly red hair, a particular angle of a bowed head. It's more set than most turn-ons, more immutable. I am reminded of one the dictionary synonyms for ''fetish'': fixation. Yes, that would be it. 

**On Acts and Feelings**

Quite a few discussions I have recently seen on Fet concerned the subject of fetishistic satisfactions. Of people (OK, men, and specifically, male bottoms, or male submissive bottoms even) looking for a particular *ACT*. And how women (specifically, female tops, and even more so, female dominant tops) have very little to zilch interest in play that is solely about a specific act. I **really** don't want to get here into the topic of male entitlement, selfishness or a complete lack of understanding what female tops might be looking for some male bottoms demonstrate, as this subject has been covered many times. 

What I find really interesting is that there seems to be a big difference in how (most) female tops and (many) male bottoms ''process'' those fetishes, kinks, acts. 

Men -- at least the men that are the most visible, and set the tone of the whole discourse -- seem to look for acts. Women seem to be looking for a certain feeling. And I don't mean the old chestnut of women necessarily wanting more attachment, relationshippy fuzzies, non-sexual and non-kinky stuff in exchange for play. I mean feelings-in-the-moment, for which the acts just make a convenient path to. 

I once had a long list of fetishes, but then I realized that it's pretty pointless. Yes, I do like some ''activities'', and I definitely don't like others. But making such a list is mostly just an invitation for people (OK, men) to try and connect on the basis of these ''activities''. 

And I don't really give a monkey's about the majority of ''activities''. My few fetishistic fixations are all about small acts of great intensity, that only work in a broader context of an extended encounter, a dynamic, a relationship. 

I am not going to arrange a ''face slapping date'' or ''telling you you are mine'' date; a ''touching someone's face in that specific way date'' or a ''blindfold date''. I still have a few specific ''activities'' on my list, but even those are not really things-I-have-to-do. They are much more along the line of fairly (but not perfectly) reliable ways to get the feeling I am after. 

I don't know why it is like that. 

I suspect that the nature of male arousal and the whole sexual response makes it easier for men to associate very specific things with arousal, and then fixate/condition this association into a strong habit by repetition while having sex and masturbating. 

This is likely reinforced by porn and a laundry-list of activities offered by sex workers providing personal services. 

I suspect that men are, in fact, also seeking a specific feeling, but that feeling is very, very reliably associated with a specific act, and thus seeking an act is easier. 

I wondered for a while if it really is a male/female thing or more of a top/bottom thing, and I didn't come to any conclusions. 

I suspect it is a combination of both: bottoms are more likely to look for acts as they are about sensation, and so are men. The latter is very obvious in perfectly vanilla settings where guys seem to become obsessed with things like anal or deep throating for example, to the point of becoming aggressively pushy or deciding to cheat in a monogamous relationships simply to get a particular "thing" done. 

And thus, many male bottoms will sit close to a fetishist-act-central, while many female tops would seek specific feelings that do not necessarily reliably tie to any specific act. 

More on backs here

And more on flogging here

VS110

I have written quite a few first-meeting scenes. This one is one of my two favourites. And it was the first one in an important story. 

***

It's not even half past eight in the morning and although I've had a good night at the hotel, I'm still a bit woozy from the eight hour drive yesterday and the early start today.

The landing is announced. Suddenly my tiredness is gone, my back straightens, my heartbeat picks up, my breathing deepens. The sounds of a working airport, the colours, the shapes, the people milling around, all the external stimuli melt into the background, not disappearing but weaving themselves into an out-of-focus shimmering whole. My focus turns to my body.

I can feel the shoes I am wearing, uncomfortable platform sandals with four inch heels. I can feel the load concentrated in  the balls of my feet, a bit painful, the arch freer than normal, all that making me stand taller and straighter but more precarious.

The denim of my skirt, thick but soft, brushing my knees, closer fitting on my thighs and hips. The stocking tops, tight against my skin, the nylon stretched over my legs, seams under my toes. Silk of my knickers on my buttocks and pubis, soft and slick, its cool caress on my labia. The corset laced from just below the small of my back to just below my shoulder blades; not very tight but tight enough to smooth the curve of my flaring hips, to make me aware of how my breasts raise and fall as the air moves in and out of my lungs, to make my heartbeat resonate under my constrained ribs.  My nipples, erect, brushing against the cotton lining, harder than usual, darker too, the flush spreading beyond the areolas, the arousal more general than sexual but with the sexual bubbling under the surface, only the skin away. The satin lining of my jacket on my bare arms, the crinkle of leather against leather as I play with my car keys in my pocket. The pulse in the wrists, behind my knees, in my clit, my temples, under my collar bones.

I breathe in deeply, flex my fingers, lick my lips.

I'm not quite sure he'll be here. I'm not sure I'll recognise him. I'm not sure he'll recognise me, although he certainly has more chance than I do.

People are coming out now, and I'm grateful for the tinted glasses I put on earlier to protect my pale eyes against the unseasonably bright sun of the late autumn.

And then I see him, and I'm sure - almost sure - completely sure - that it's him.

I stay in place, looking at him through my dark glasses, my attention shifted again, the background still fuzzy but my focus entirely outwards now, my eyes fixed on the tall, slim guy with short dark hair, looking younger than what I know his years to be; walking out of the gate, slowing, almost stopping to scan the field.

He seems cool enough and yet there is a jaggedy edge there, not just for obvious reasons, a highly-strung core under a composed exterior, energy with a desperate twist. Can I really read this from seeing somebody walk twenty steps across an airport hall? I shrug. Probably not. I'm imagining it, projecting the him-in-my-head onto the real man getting closer to me this very minute.

It doesn't really matter, though, or it will stop mattering very soon, here and almost-now.

I still can't quite believe it, the imaginary lover from the imaginary playground, unimaginably here, in flesh and blood; now walking towards me across the concourse, now standing in front of me, a slight smile in the corners of his mouth.

Here. Now.

I smile too, but remain silent. The words are gone, not lost but receded to the back of my mind. I can feel electric shimmers crawling over my skin. My hands, now out of my pockets, dry and warm, supple, tingling, ready. My lips, flushed swollen.

“M?” he says, eventually, after what seemed hours but was a second, maybe two.

I nod but stay silent, reach out to his face with my hand. My fingers somewhere between his jawline and his cheekbone, my thumb on his lips, running slowly back and forth between them until they part under my touch.

He breathes deeply, something between a sigh and a moan.

My fingers slide down his neck. I'm smiling, looking straight into his eyes though he doesn't know it because I still have my sunglasses on, my hand pressing down, my head moving in a slight nod as the pressure increases; he's looking down at the floor, at my red-painted toes.

“Here. Now,” I say.

He hesitates for a moment, the moment gets longer and I think I've blown it. I think he'll look up, step away, we'll talk, I'll ask him about the flight, he'll answer, we'll get coffee, discuss immigration checks, customs, in-flight entertainment; the background will get into focus, the blade will lose its edge.

I leave my right hand on his shoulder for another second and step closer. So close that we are almost touching each other; reach with my left hand to his right wrist, to the thick black string tied loosely around it, my fingertips brushing his skin, resting briefly there. I tug lightly, twisting it twice until it digs into his skin.

And then, led by an impulse alien even to myself, I take a step back, then another one; remove my right hand from his shoulder and with just a small swing, I slap his face, fast and hard, hard enough to make his head reel, as much from the impact as from the suddenness of it.

“Now. Here,” I repeat, a movement of my head indicating what I expect.

And then he does the imaginable but unbelievable and drops to his knees, bends down and kisses my feet; here, now, his lips dry and hot on my toes, left first then the right one, then the thin nylon covering the instep between the straps; his breath now damp and warm on my skin.

There are people around us, mostly obliviously busy on their way but some slowing down or even stopping to glance then shift their gaze away, a group of teenagers is giggling, but all sounds and movements are flat and muted, coming from afar, and all I am really aware of is his kneeling at my feet in the middle of the arrival hall, bang between the WH Smith newsagent and the information desk, at almost 9am in the morning; the finger marks blooming pink on his cheek; here, now.

He straightens up, his eyes still down, still on his knees, and I lean down, touch his shoulder again.

“Get up, J,” I say.

The normal reasserts itself, the background sounds and objects and people emerge from the opalescent blend and come back into focus; I takes my glasses off and look at him directly. He looks back, fixing my gaze, his eyes dark, his pupils dilated, and the intensity of that stare is such that I bursts out laughing, because there is nothing else to do; not hysterical and not delirious but not far off either of those.

“Let's go. It's a long drive.”

------ More meetings:

To have his cock and lock it? (1)

This is a germ of an idea. A teaser for an entirely new (and possibly quite long) story, let's say. Let me know what you think, either in comments below or directly via the contact form. 

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

Ian got up from his seat, feeling a sudden tightening in his chest and throat. Marie was already standing up and strode in in two quick steps without looking at him. He followed her, the memory of the recent events that brought them here running like a film in his head.

**

"I want you to lock me up. Not just tie with leather straps when we play sometimes. Like, properly. With a device. I think it would really make things better for you. I'd love to do it for you. Please, Ma'am,"  Ian looked at her from the sofa, eyes darting up to then quickly return to the pages of the book as if to make it seem less important a request, less pressing a need. Though using her honorific, something that slipped out without his consciously deciding to do so, indicating that he was talking in a submissive to a dominant mode, might not have been the best idea.

"No."

Marie didn't even moved her eyes from the screen of her laptop but her ''no'' was a firm and a decisive one, and he didn't really expect anything else. They'd discussed it before, or he tried to hint, and hint and hint again. But the hints or suggestions hadn't worked and he felt he needed to make it clear to her how much he wanted it. To think of it, he didn't understand her objections.

"Why not?"

"I don't want to."

"But why not?'' He was worried about appearing demanding, or whiny, but if he was to have any chance of persuading her, he needed to know her reasons.

Marie turned towards him now, smiling but maybe just a little annoyed.

"I don't want to," she repeated, "This should be enough of the reason for you. We have an agreement, I recall? I say. You do. Boy."

He shivered a little, reacting to the change in her voice, to the slower, firmer tone, to the lowered timbre in which the raspy hoarseness made itself more apparent. And to that "boy" thrown in at the end, a reminder of the nature of their relationship.

"But... Yes. Yes, we do have an agreement. But... it would give you so much more control over my cock, Ma'am. I wouldn't be able to... I mean..."

Marie got up from her chair and made the steps towards him, standing just by the sofa, her knees almost touching him. She leaned down and cupped his chin in her right hand. He could smell her perfume, smoky and balsamic, and the leather of her wrist bands. Her fingers closed harder, she pulled him up, making him wince.

"Maybe you are forgetting yourself a bit here, boy. Maybe you need a reminder," her hand released him and swung, a short, fast slap of the ends of  her fingers that shocked him more than stung. Though it stung too.

"And sit fucking straight when you're addressing me as a submissive addressing a dominant."

Ian took a deep breath to stop himself from making noise, straightened up, put his feet on the ground and his hands on his knees.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am', he mumbled, the memory of her fingers hot on his skin, the humiliation of the slap magnified momentously by his cock starting to stir and fill up in his pants. He tried to adjust his position so she couldn't see his growing erection, but of course she did, a smirk emerging on her face, colour rising on her cheeks.

"I'm glad that's clear. As to control...,'' she glanced at his crotch, ''As to control over your cock, sweetie darling, it seems to me that I have quite a lot as it is, don't I? A mere slap and a few firm words and you are standing to attention. In every way possible, '' she laughed.

"Ian."

He jumped up to his feet. When she said his name, this way, as a separate utterance, he was to stand up, back straight, head down, eyes up, whatever he was doing and wherever he was. The reaction was reflexive, nearly automatic now and so was the way his cock hardened to a nearly-full erection, pushing painfully against the tautening fabric of his jeans.

She dropped onto the sofa, stretching back, her right leg bent, its foot on her left knee, her hands crossed behind her head, and looked at him in an appraising way.

''Ian. When we started this, this... arrangement. This relationship. I made it clear that the sexual part of it would be determined by what I want. I said I would respect your limits and that I would listen to your suggestions and ideas, but that the only two things I promised was to respect your limits and to dominate you. Not to fulfil your fantasy of submission. Is that correct, boy?''

He nodded.

"I can't hear you. Is that correct?''

''Yes, Ma'am. It's correct.''

''There was no dealbreaker must-haves on your side, was there?''

''No.''

"No what?''

''No, Ma'am. Sorry.''

''So, you are standing here in front of me. Nodding and yes-ma'aming me. Your dick hard because I showed you who the boss is, isn't it? It makes your dick hard to be shown your place, doesn't it?''

"Yes, Ma'am.''

''It makes your cock hard when I slap you, doesn't it?''

"Yes, Ma'am.''

"I like it too, of course. I almost like it too much to use it the way I just did. We match pretty well on this whole kink thing, don't we? And yet you feel this need to bring up something I have no interest in? And push it when I say I am not interested? The rest is not enough for you?''

Ian felt that the situation was getting out of control, and not in the way he liked. He regretted asking her (again), he regretted the way he stated his request this time, he regretted trying to push it or trying to understand why she wasn't interested. It didn't matter why. He was here to do what she wanted. He wanted to do what she wanted.

''But what really pisses me off here is that you have the fucking cheek to say that you would be somehow doing it for me."

She got up and was now standing in front of him.

"So. For the last time. I like you, Ian. I like you a lot. I like the dynamic we have. I like the way you respond to me. I like what I can do to your cock. I like what I can do to your mind even more,'' she reached down and run her fingers along the length of his faltering erection, making it rigid again. Ian moaned.

"I like to be in control,'' her head leaned towards him, ''I like touching you any way I want,'' she licked his neck, ''I like the sounds you make,'' she bit his earlobe, not a soft nibble but a sharp, hard bite that made him gasp, ''I like teasing you, sometimes,'' she squeezed his cock hard through the fabric, ''I like hurting you,'' her left hand was now playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, her nails scratching gently, then sliding lower and digging harder, ''I like that you like me hurting you,'' her other hand moved to his cheek, still smarting a little from the slap, ''I like your cock too,'' she said, suddenly matter of fact, almost cold, stepping back from him.

''I like to play with it. I like it hard and throbbing and I like the way you fall to pieces when you get to the edge and beg me to come and I like how your face looks when you do come for me. And I don't have any desire to see it or feel it in some ridiculous chastity cage."

"It's my cock and I will decide what happens to it in this relationship.''

"Now go to your room, strip and wait for me there like a good slut.''

And that seemed to be it then. They had sex later that day, playfully rough, but not less rough for all the playfulness, leaving Ian's back, chest and ass with a lattice of marks and splotches of bruises and she let him come, eventually, after bringing him to the edge of begging desperation several times, and he made a firm decision to never mention the whole sorry subject again lest he spoiled all the good things they shared.

So when, maybe a week later, Marie brought his request up, he was more than defensive, doing his best to reassure her that it didn't really matter for him.  When she explained what she had in mind and how it was possible, he initially recoiled. Wearing a physical object that prevented him from becoming fully erect or ejaculating was one thing and whatever he'd claimed, he found it a red-hot turn on, even the idea of it making him hard and pulling up all the submissive urges from the recesses of his psyche.

Letting someone fuck with his mind - with his brain - using some experimental techniques derived from a combination of psychology, neuroscience and medicine was an entirely different matter.

She was pretty persuasive with her ''but this is what you really wanted'' argument though, and none of the research she'd done seemed to contradict the claims made by the OC-Lab, however preposterous or worrying they appeared at first. Numerous emails, several phone and Skype calls and one meeting with ecstatically enthusiastic customers (or was it subjects?) of the discreetly named and located and extortionately priced facility later, Ian found himself sitting in the blond-wood-and pale-leather-armchairs waiting room, white tulips stark in their glass vases, Mapplethorpe prints on the walls.

The door to the left of him opened, a tall man in his late twenties dressed in jeans and a loose shirt somewhat incongruent with the whole milieu appeared, smiling.

''Sorry to keep you waiting. Dr Marsden will see you now,'' he said, his accent a low southern American drawl, his smile a preppy perfection. Ian hesitated, then got up.

**

-- to be continued, perhaps

Two keys

He's come out of the bathroom, towel wrapped round his hips, a few slight pink marks left by the suede flogger still visible on his chest and undoubtedly more on his ass.

Something has changed in the way I look at him now. Some of the urgency and some of the mystery have been done away with and I see him more clearly, even if still through the eyes clouded with overwhelming desire. Maybe for the first time I am starting to believe fully not only that he's actually here, but that's he is mine to play with as I see fit.

"We're going out for a little walk, J. Just down the coast. You'll wear these."

I toss him the two items I took out of my bag in the meantime. There is a small smile in the corners of his mouth when he catches the first one, changing into an almost 'whoa' when he realises what the second one is.

"I'm keeping this of course," I say, showing him a little key.

"And drop this fucking towel, boy. Really."

He does as told and I can see his cock now, not hard, which is pretty convenient considering, but not completely limp either. I like him naked, exposed like this, smooth and clean, though he's also somewhat different now after what happened earlier. The typical male post-orgasm recoil isn't particularly apparent but for that brittle, coiled energy that I sense can both explode into rage and collapse into morbid darkness being just a little closer to the surface, just about detectable in the way he moves, the way he looks, or doesn't look, at me.

"C'mere," I beckon him to the chair I've sat down on.

I take both items out of his hands again and put them back on the table.

"Put your hands on the back of your neck. Straighten up. Feet apart. Hips slightly forward. Between a military and a Tai'chi stance. Good boy. Stay like that."

He gets a little harder when I touch him, and his cock unfurls further when I squeeze some lube out and return to it with slippery, cold hands.

"You need to stop this. Think wholesome thoughts or we'll be here all day," I squeeze his dick at the base and this, combined with whatever he's thinking about works well enough to enable me to slip the steel rings onto his cock.

It's not really a long-term-wear chastity device but it looks much better than those full-on plastic things and will stop him from getting completely erect or ejaculating. The straps that go over and below balls and the little padlock add a bit of an edge and I love the final effect. He's getting hard now – trying to – a groan confirms what I can clearly see as his cock fills up against the bindings.

I spit on my already lubed-up fingers and briefly touch the visible parts of his shaft, slide them over his bulging balls, then pull the D-ring attached at the end and lick the parts of the cockhead accessible between the straps, my tongue fluttering between leather strips.

I'm surprised how much seeing him bound like that turns me on but now I know I'm going to have loads of fun with this today. It's just a right size to let him get almost-erect and I love the way his cock pushes against it, the way it responds to the mixed signals of my teasing and the limits placed by the cage. And of course there is more.

"Lovely. On your knees now and bend over. Head down."

I kneel to his side and run my hands along his hips, his recently-spanked and flogged ass, the skin flushed but the bruising not quite yet visible. His back, curving down to his shoulders, is untouched apart from the scratches left by the small serrated blade last night.

I have a sudden urge to make them deeper, to use something sharper, cleaner, to make him bleed there and then, and that image makes me gasp, my throat tightening, my fingers moving as if by themselves onto his ass, rubbing the inflamed skin, feeling the flush in the places where my open hand hit before. He's flinching a little, his breathing deepening, I can hear a whimper and a hissy exhalation coming through his clenched teeth, a slight shiver passing just under his skin. I swallow hard and take a deep, slow breath letting this desire flow through me, taking control of it, refocusing it on what I'm doing just now.

More lube and the small, bulbous plug goes in, smoothly. He won't be terribly comfortable but we are not going far and it's not exactly about his comfort anyway.

I suddenly become aware of the absurdity of the whole scene, the lengths we go to, and the depths we sink to in order to play with that snarling, gold eyed creature that eats and breathes lust but goes beyond lust itself, into that place where focus and oblivion merge.

And yes it's about pleasure but I still sometimes wonder what it is that makes us compelled to reach for pleasure to the place where any notions of dignity and reason become meaningless, and how we've ended up here, on the hardwood floor of an old cottage, between the sea where the fishermen drown every year and the jagged peaks, where people chasing another high – but perhaps not so different kind after all – fall to their deaths every year.

And here I am, my slippery fingers working a piece of moulded plastic into his ass, his cock straining against steel and leather, his moaning making my thighs sticky with desire and as I get up I burst out laughing, not at him and not even at myself but at the sheer delirious nonsense of all that.

"C'mon, J. Get dressed. There is a place I want to show you."

We walk, a short stroll along the road and then to the shore, through a muddy field to a pebble beach, then clamber over the rocks in a shortcut towards the small ruin rising just off the coast. The stone bridge has lost its planks but it can be crossed if you hold on to the parapet walls and take a few careful steps on the crumbling edge.

I let him go first and as he's about half way I press the button on the little remote I earlier slipped in my pocket.

He stops, clutching at the stones, with a loud "Fuuuck..." and for a moment I fear he might slip and fall. It's only a few meters down to the wet rocks below but I wouldn't want him to break anything. But he makes it safely to the other side and I follow him.

He looks at me, a mixture of anger and arousal fighting each other in his expression, melding together, "Fucking hell, I could have fallen," he says, somewhat petulantly.

"You didn't though," I shrug and walk up the path to the small courtyard at the top. It's overgrown with nettles, brambles and tufty grass, the earth bubbling up with dirt and roots and plantlife, filling the space between the crumbling walls.

I sit down against the raised bank of earth, leaning back, looking across the water to the black ridge on the other side. There is a breeze but not too cold, and the seamist has lifted now, the lines and colours clear against the blue of the sky. I close my eyes, breathe deeply in, let my body relax, stretch my legs out and slip my hand down the front of my jeans, touching the wet centre of my desire, my fingers stroking and sliding, finding my clit, hard and so sensitised that I can barely stop myself from moaning loudly, my back arching, pushing my pelvis towards my hand, wanting more.

I open my eyes and he's sitting next to me, staring with that look of intense desire, that longing that turns me on so much, the lines of his face both sharper and cleaner, his mouth in a near-grimace, his upper teeth biting on his lower lip, his chest rising and falling in a pattern of exaggerated breathing. I lick my lips, and show my teeth, partially because I feel like it, and partially for show, my eyes catching his, my right hand still between my legs, my left back on that remote, pressing the button again, holding it longer to speed it up.

I have tested the toy myself, in both orifices, though obviously I don't have the necessary anatomical equipment to check the effect of the increasing intensity of vibrations so close to a prostate. His eyes roll back and he moans, his hand moving to his groin, stopping, then moving again, clutching. I can almost feel the frustration and the pain of his cock prevented from getting hard by the straps, locked away, and although he relaxes a little as I release the switch, he's waiting for the next time, not knowing when it's coming or whether it's coming at all.

"Come closer. Undo my shirt and lick. I want to come."

He moves fast, his fingers shaking as he works the buttons open, brushing my breasts, finding my nipples poking through the sheer lace, stroking.

"Use your mouth. Through the lace."

His lips hot and instant, his tongue pliant; his teeth gentle, just occasionally grazing; delicious shivers through my body. I switch on the vibrator again and he shakes and whimpers into my breasts. My right knee, now bent, is rubbing against his crotch and I can feel the straps and rings of the cock-cage through the layers of fabric, his hips pressing against me.

I let my head fall back onto the grassy back, my eyes half-closed, my fingers moving faster as I get closer, his tongue, lips and fingers frantic on my breasts, the lace soaked with his saliva, my nipples so hard and swollen they seem close to exploding themselves, my clit throbbing in the same rhythm, my cunt clenching and I'm moaning on my edge before tumbling into orgasm, my back arching higher, my left hand clutching the back of his neck, pulling his face into my chest, my fingers grabbing a handful of his hair, my knee pushed between his legs, my fingers perfect just there, there, my pleasure spilling over into a snarl and a scream, and suddenly intensified by realisation of how frustrated his panting arousal is.

I become aware of him soon after, his face between my breasts, his mouth off my now too-sensitive nipple, his breath fast and damp on my skin, my fingers relaxing the grip. I straighten up, his head slides into my lap, my hand still on his neck, he's panting; when I turn his head sideways to look at his face, his eyes are glazed, half-closed, rolling back, his mouth ajar; his hips and legs shaking, almost convulsively.

I run the fingers of my right hand along his lips, drying now but still a little damp, he sucks with a deepening moan, voraciously, desperately and I let him do it for a while, then press the switch on the remote into the off position, tell him to get up; light a cigarette, climb up higher onto the grassy bank and sit down there again, looking at the dark ridge on the other side of the water.

He follows me, more composed now, sits next to me, wordlessly takes a cigarette I offer him, an expression of minor torment on his face.

"Tell me," I say.

"You are ruining me, M. This... this thing is," he hesitates.

I smile, "It can come off. As you know."

He nods. I take the key out of my pocket and show to him.

"Here. You can be free in a minute or two. Of this, and of the whole thing too. I'll take you back to the mainland. Hire a car or take a train from there."

This is a gamble, this last offer, one that implicitly equates ulocking him with ending this adventure, a test that opens a fissure of anxiety in my mind. I hope my hand isn't shaking too visibly.

"You don't really want it off though, do you? Surely. Can't be that bad. Not yet."

I'm trying not to smirk it but he can probably hear a hint of it in my voice.

"No, M. No. Not yet."

''And besides. You want me to ruin you, don't you?''

He inhales deeply, takes a drag on the cigarette, his other hand clutching his knee.

''Yes. Yes, M. I do."

"Good boy," I smile.

I am not sure if the relief is showing on my face, but he laughs a little too, and there is some shared, unspoken understanding that passes between us. I want to do it right, and I think he not only knows that but wants me to do it right too, even if neither of us knows the precise meaning of 'doing it right', even if it isn't possible to grasp it.

I reach over and feel him up through his jeans, along the constrained bulge of his not-quite-full-erection, lower down to his balls, leave my hand there, press harder, then grip as I feel him tensing up, his hips pushing forward, his upper back and neck away, a half-growl half-moan rising in his throat.

"Mine," I laugh, then let go, get up to go back.


---------

This piece has been posted for Molly's Kink of the Week. For more locked-up hotness, click here:

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