This story has been circling in my head for the last few days–while hanging my laundry, while making my bed, while cleaning the bathroom, while at work–it won’t leave me the fuck alone. I guess my liminal time is over, and I’m feeling my way back into story mode. Gosh I’m forever glad about that! ~nilla~
ps…you’ll find the inspiration (or mother?) story here.
Pillow talk always came after play time. A chance to lay together in their soft bed, to rub sore spots and kiss and connect tenderly after the intensity of pain and submission and wild sex.
She was having wild sex a lot, after a long dry spell without any. That he was demanding, that she was accepting was a total surprise to her. Yet here she was, the dents and puckers on her skin a clear reminder of being bound tightly. The throbbing in her ass and cunt another reminder, of his cock savaging her tender bits while she was helpless to say no.
Such was the life of a consensual slut and her Dom.
“I have a new reporter.”
“You often have new reporters. That’s what happens when you become an editor. You collect reporters, then guide them through the process of crafting stories out of news bites.”
“That’s a very jaded outlook.”
“That’s hard cold reality, slut.”
“Well, yeah. But still…”
“I’m not knocking it, it’s just what your kind does.”
“My kind?” Her voice raised fractionally.
He pinched her nipple, making her yelp.
“Your kind. News people.”
“May I remind Sir that if it wasn’t for “my kind” of people, we would never have met?”
She used her fingers in air quotes, knowing he didn’t like it when she did that. His head fell onto her breast, and bit roughly. Arching, squealing, giggling, she was torn between pleasure and pain, a state he seemed to constantly devolve her to.
“Sorry! Sorry! SorEE!” she half-laughed, half screeched as his nipping teeth settled around her nipple. Too bad her pussy lurched awake as his mouth manhandled her tender flesh. As he bit and suckled, his fingers found his way over the soft rise of her belly, down between her thighs, and slid into her sopping slit.
“You’re very wet again,” he murmured against her breast.
“Yessir,” she gasped as his fingers groped into the slick hole, then began to roughly finger-fuck her. It hurt, gosh, her pussy was so sore already. The soreness began to twist, turning into a deep fire of pure wanton need.
“Please…please…” she moaned, not really sure what she was asking for. Her body began to shake, to quiver. As he growled ‘come for me, cum now’, his teeth sank deeply, sucking her nipple and a large chunk of titmeat into his mouth. Fingers drilling her roughly, breast engulfed, her body was no longer hers to command. Arching, whining, she exploded against his hand, as stars exploded behind her eyes.
When she roused again, it was nearly dark.
“I made you cum twice more…do you remember?”
She tried to shake away cobwebs, but she was too groggy.
“You’re very cute when you’re an over-used piece of meat. My cock slid right inside your greedy cunt, my fingers went up your ass, and you were laying there moaning and grunting. My sweet fuckhole…”
Laughing, he slapped her hip as he slid from the bed.
“Let’s eat, I’m starved.”
Tugging her up by her bedraggled ponytail, he grinned as she wobbled her way to the kitchen, pushed by his hand in her hair.
“I’ll take pity on you, slut.”
He slapped a glass of sports drink in front of her.
“Drink that. Nope. ALL of it. Yeah? I don’t care if you like it. You need to replenish your electrolytes. There. All the way..good slut. Now you can make me dinner.”
She pointed a shaking finger at him.
“Cute. And it’s kind of you to offer, but my cock needs rest. And food.”
Her eyeroll went unnoticed. She rose, feeling better as her body sucked up the hated blue drink. She grabbed some potatoes and began scrubbing them.
“So tell me about your new reporter.”
For a moment her mind went totally blank. Wiping off the potatoes and piercing them with a fork, she tossed them into the microwave.
“OH! Oh, right! Miranda Jennings. She’s new to the magazine, and is my little protegé. She’s sweet and biddable and…”
“and you think she’s a submissive.”
“I do! She’s always trying to please me, and has this soft voice. There’s a story in there somewhere, but she’s not revealed it to me. I know she’s single, know she moved here to San Francisco from the East Coast, and that she has a cat named Mr. Bugles.”
“And from that brief summation you believe she’s submissive?”
“It’s just a vibe I get from her. You knew I was submissive before I did. I was wondering if you could meet her? Or help me try to help her? She seems very withdrawn and unhappy. Okay, not like she’s dour every moment of the day, but …”
“You’re a fix it kind of gal. You know you can’t really fix people unless they want to be fixed, right?”
“Of course Sir. But I was wondering if I sent her to the club to do a story about…well…”
“Don’t waffle. Say your piece, slut.”
“Well, a lot of people see submission and dominance as an abuse cycle. I would love to have her work on an article to discover the truth of BDSM. It’s a sex glamour thing…a dark glamour…that sells magazines, and fascinates people as much as it repels them. And I think it might help her discover things about herself, too.”
He watched her move competently around their kitchen, setting the breaded chicken in the pan, chopping up greens for their salad, while the potatoes uttered their peculiar high-pitched scream from inside the microwave. She did have a point. People did think BDSM was abusive. Not those who participated, mostly. Certainly at his club it was important that consensual behavior was observed by participants. Perhaps Master William would consent to having the woman hang with him.
“I’ll talk to a few of my guys and see if one of them is up for having a reporter trailing their ass for a week. We’ll see if he can work on her to consent to participate in a few scenes–non-sexual of course, unless they work that part out between them.”
Laying down her tomato knife, she crossed to him and lay her head on his shoulder.
“Thank you Sir,” she murmured.