Ice Cream

WARNING: IF YOU GOOGLED THE EDIBLE TREAT ‘ICE CREAM’ THIS IS NOT THE PAGE YOU WANT. THIS PAGE IS FOR THOSE OVER THE AGE OF CONSENT (18 OR HIGHER). THIS STORY CONTAINS ELEMENTS OF BD/SM AND IS NOT INTENDED FOR ANY BUT MATURE, CONSENTING ADULTS. OKAY, MAYBE NOT MATURE. BUT DEFINITELY ADULTS.

She danced around the kitchen naked. This was her preferred state in the summer anyway, His order only served to make it even more fun. Veggies were steaming, the chicken was marinating and awaiting the grill, and the salad sat in a chilling bowl in the fridge.

Tapping her lip she pondered what to serve Him for dessert. It was so freaking hot. Ice cream. That would please them both–He loved it, and it made it simple for her to dress up. Throw a few berries on top, a swirl of whipped cream, add a drizzle of caramel sauce and voila! A classic treat taken up a notch.

As His car pulled into the garage, the chicken was just finishing, the glasses on the table were pearled with sweat-drops from the iced water within, and the electronic candles added ambience without heat. It was so fucking hot! Wiping sweat from her forehead with her arm, she went outside to the back deck to snag the chicken. When she returned, He was there, sampling the fingerling bits of veggies she’d laid out on a tray on the island.

“Mmmm, good hummus dip. You’re getting a good hand with that.”

“Hi Sir, and thank you.”

She blushed prettily, glad that her evening cooking classes had added this dimension to their days. Laying the platter on the island beside the crudities, she dropped to her knees and rested her head against his strong thigh. From here she could smell the lovely scent of her owner, the musk of man, the hint of urine, the woodsy scent of his morning shower washed away with a day of work. This was her man, her Master, pure and elemental. His hand rested upon her head a moment, then gave a pat.

At this signal, she rose, and kissing His mouth softly, she removed his tie and jacket, moving quickly to the bedroom to hang them neatly. Scooping up his tee-shirt and shorts, she returned. This time of moving him from the businessman to her man had become a valuable service that soothed them both.

Moving back to the bedroom, she hung his pants, stored his dress shoes, and washed her hands before returning to serve them dinner. A quick glance at the dining room showed that he had removed her setting, placing only her water-glass on the floor by his chair. Her heart beat thickly in her chest. It would be one of those evenings, then.

The meal passed far to quickly.

He’d only fed her the tiniest of portions tonight, drawing and holding her close to him again and again. He was reminding her with every allotted morsel that she was his. It reassured her as no sweet love song ever could.

“Sir, would you like dessert?”

“I would, yes. What did you plan for tonight?”

“Ice cream–”

“Go in the bedroom. Lay on the bed on your belly. I believe I will have my ice cream in there. I’ll get it myself.”

This was out of their ordinary routine, to be sure, but He was the boss. Casting one curious glance over her shoulder at him, she moved towards the bedroom. He was watching her, that dangerous half-smile on his face. Making a shooing gesture with his fingers, he wordlessly bid her to obey expediently.

She lay as He had directed, across the bed. She wondered if he would put the bowl on her butt, or in the middle of her back. Or maybe splatter it on her and lap it off. There was no way to know, facing away from the door, on her belly. She wanted to look when she heard his footsteps coming, but didn’t dare.

“Good girl.”

And didn’t that make not-looking that much better? She smiled into the coverlet. One ‘good girl’ from him was worth a thousand other platitudes.

Something cold trailed down her spine. She shivered, feeling goose bumps erupt. Felt like the back side of a spoon. She wondered if he had soaked it in his water-glass. It was fucking cold! It felt wonderful considering the heat.

“Ice cream, I believe you mentioned that was for dessert?”

“Yes Sir.” Her  muffled voice came from the bed.

Something freezing cold pressed against her pussy.

“I have a different kind of “iced cream” in mind, my dear slut.”

And He slid the ice dildo into her hot, creamy cunt.

Orgasmic Stranger (3)

His hands rested upon her shoulders. Although his touch was light, it forestalled her from turning.

“As a writer, I’m sure you are consumed by curiosity.”

It was a statement, not a question. Likely for the first time in her life, she held her tongue.

“Good girl,” he murmured, as if he knew how hard it was for her to remain silent. She felt the heat of him behind her, the warmth of his hands on her. It soothed even as it made her nervous and she wondered for a moment at the duality.  She, who was clear-headed, level thinking, and as she had been told on numerous occasions, nosy, was standing quiescent as a stranger touched her.

“So, you’re here to answer more questions. I wonder if those questions are for your vast legions of readers, or aimed deeper? Are you asking about the lifestyle,” he paused, the slight tinge of annoyance in his voice the only indication of how she had affronted him last night.

“Or are you curious as to your reactions to being controlled, and your response to pain? You, a forward-thinking, liberal woman, being submissive? How could those two pieces fit together within you?”

There was another pause, and his finger caressed the side of her neck.

“Was there, I wonder, a certain slight longing to feel the weight and tension of a collar about your own neck?”

His hands slid up, his fingers encircling her throat. There was tightness in the grasp, and her nerves jangled. Yet, along with the racing beat in her chest, she felt a tingle deep inside her belly. Was it his words, or his actions, that were making her quiver?

“So many questions, little one, and so few ways to get them answered, except to beard the lion in his den.”  His voice had gone from silky to humor. So many different messages contained there. She’d heard the hunter, and the hunger. She’d heard too, the dominant.

“Do you like hurting women?”

The words all but fell out of her lips. His fingers remained around her throat, not reacting to them at all.

“In here, or in my home? Of course I do! It makes my cock rock-hard to put a woman through an ordeal that the vanilla world would call abuse. In here? It’s a dance. It’s a hunger. It’s a need for the women that I play with, as well as for me.”

Another pause, another flip of her belly as his fingers flexed around her neck, a caress reminiscent of a tickle. She felt goosebumps erupt down the back of her neck, and the sudden clench of her nipples as they rose, hard.

“Play? It didn’t look like a game to me.”

Was that her voice? Soft and breathless, she sounded unlike the strong and capable woman who had left her house such a short while ago.

“Make no mistake, little girl; while there is fun, for all parties,  it isn’t a game. We do what makes us feel. For some of us it feels good. For others, it hurts. Pleasure is found on each side of the pain, for giver and receiver.  We come together to feed our various desires. Understand, little girl, that this need, whatever it may be for each of us,  is as integral to who we are as the color of our eyes.”

She swallowed, knowing that his fingers would feel the bobble. There was heat under his fingers, heat against her fragile flesh, a flush of something that ran down to her breasts, and arrowed down to her folds.

She wanted to deny that just this. . .this barely-there touch, and his simple truths, had any effect upon her. That said, she was nothing if not scrupulously honest, even with herself. That was why she was thrice-divorced, and currently very unattached. Men, at least the men she had been with, didn’t appreciate her bare-bones honesty.

“Okay. I’m….curious. I wonder why she let herself get whipped. I wonder why you touching my nipples made me have an orgasm.”

“I didn’t touch your nipples.”

The protest bubbled up immediately.

“You most certainly did!

His laugh was a hot gust of air against the back of her head. He was so close to her. The tremor zipped up her spine, tightened her nipples, and made her lower folds swell. There was the familiar ache of long-suppressed desire. And the new longing for the feelings he’d stirred to life last night. It had been so long since a man had made her want this way.

“Touch is far too mild a word for what I did to your tits. I hurt your nipples. I tugged them, pinched them, rolled them. I felt them crush beneath my fingers, felt them rising and begging for more. Felt the stress and tremble in your skin as I twisted them, and the shivers that passed through you as I did. I enjoyed your reactions to the pain…your lovely round bottom pushing back into me, your soft gasps, the scent of your hair coupled with the smell of arousal seeping up from between your legs, and the arch of your body as you spurted cum into your proper panties. No, little girl, I didn’t ‘touch’ your nipples. What I touched was the beginning of something new.”

His hands fell away from her throat. His words stirred something deep and dark and powerful within her. She expected him to touch her breasts again, just as he’d finished describing.  It was hard to admit that she hoped for it,  lusted  for it. A quiver of anticipation flared through her as she waited for that touch. Nothing happened. She took a deep breath, preparing to turn to face him.  Yet, he stood so close that doing so would have meant taking a step away. Before she could move, his hands fell to her hips, holding her still.

“Are you ready to explore more? You may find answers to some of your questions. You may find unexpected questions, and certainly interesting answers.”

She nodded, as much to herself as to him.

“Yes. I-I would like to find out more.”

His hands slid from her hips, yet moments later, they were over her shoulders again. He was lifting a thick, mask-like blindfold to her face.

“B-but…how will I….”

“shhhhh,” he cautioned her. “It’s time to let your body listen.”

Orgasmic Stranger (2)

Wedding-BDSM Style

by Ebony Onyx Black

While not for everyone, a wedding in submissive style has its own traditional elements.

Ebony pushed away from her computer, and rose, pacing around the room. She had tried multiple times to write the article, rereading her texts to remind herself of what she was feeling at each critical moment.

What she remembered most was the mysterious stranger who had tormented her breasts and nipples until she had an orgasm. Arriving home last night, she’d stripped, blushing at the condition of her panties. Her nipples were pink-bruised, and she’d stroked them gently, watching in the mirror, imagining his hands there. So lost had she been that she’d crawled into bed, sans shower, pleasuring herself, and for the first time ever, hurting herself. Squeezing her nipples wasn’t the same as his touch had been, but the poignant reminder made her cum hard, her pussy squeezing around her thrusting fingers as she’d exploded.

Walking to the window, hands thrust into the pockets of her jeans, she fingered the smooth agate she kept there to help her think. Smoothing it round and round her fingers, she looked out to her front yard, not really seeing what lay beyond the glass. In her mind’s eye she saw the woman tied in rough rope, the bright slashes of red welts on her fair skin.

What she really needed was to visit the club in the day. To see …whatever there was to see. How could she possibly do her article any justice at all without more facts?

She who was usually so meticulous and organized, never even thought to call ahead. One moment she was writing, the next she was sitting in her car, parked in front of the innocuous entry to Club Crop.

It looked…like any other old brick building in the city. The windows were high up, the door was heavy metal. It looked just like what it was, an old warehouse on the edge of town. She wondered if anyone was even there. She’d be pissed at herself if there wasn’t. Why hadn’t she called first?

Her heart raced. She knew why….and refused to admit it.

She was not nervous.

“Get ahold of yourself, woman!” she told herself sternly. Sliding from her car, she hitched her micropurse over her shoulder, and walked with purpose up the walkway to the door. She knocked. Waited. Knocked.

Turning she gazed across the parking lot. Though there wasn’t a car in the back lot, there were cars on the street. Surely someone was here. Looking back at the door she saw a small sign on the tiny window inset in the door.

Ring bell for entry.

“Duh,” she said aloud, depressing the black button.

“Yes?” came a voice.

She peered around. Where had that come from?

“I’m Ebony Onyx Black and…”

“Right-the reporter. C’mon up.” There was a dull buzzzz and a click as the door lock was released. As she pulled it open she looked up and saw the small speaker inset above the door. She was not paying attention today!

She stepped in, allowing a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimness.  Taking a deep breath, she reminded herself that she was here to follow up on her story. Nothing else.  She blinked, looking around. To the right was a set of wooden stairs. At the landing, a sign said “OFFICE” with an arrow pointing up and to the left. Putting on her best “I’m a reporter don’t fuck with me” attitude, she climbed the stairs to the second floor.

***************************

“What can I do for you, Ms. Black?”

He was young, certainly under 30. The tee-shirt he wore fit like a second skin, showing muscular arms and torso that might have made a weaker woman drool. His eyes were blue, his hair a sandy blonde. He looked like a surfer dude, somewhat grown up.

He was cocky, too.

He smiled at her in that way that young people did when tolerating an older person. It grated.

“I’m doing some follow-up on the story I’m working on. I came to the wedding last night- I was invited by Charlie Dunn – and I think I need some more information.”

Charlie Dunn owned the building, the business, and was a well-respected member of the community. She had agreed to keep his name out of the article. But he’d wanted her to be objective.  They’d been friends since high school, yet she had never known this side of him. It certainly made sense, now. He’d always been a leader. People listened when he spoke.

He had presence.

“Ah. Charlie sent you. Gotcha. Well, feel free to wander around. There are a few people here, just so you’re not surprised when you see someone on the cross or something.”

She nodded.

“I’ll round someone up in a few minutes to guide you around, but you can go down to the main floor and see what’s up.”

“Thanks.” Rising, she took the man’s hand, shook it firmly. It seemed to amuse him that she squeezed him so hard, but he was gentle when he squeezed back.

‘Cocky prick,’ she thought. He must be what they called a ‘dom’ because he certainly was a ….confident sort of fellow. That kind of attitude could be wearing after a bit, she mused as she ka-thunked her way downstairs in her heels. Wondering where to go, what to look at first, she wandered to the far doorway. Inside here is where the wedding took place, if she remembered correctly.

On the wall directly inside was a rack containing more than a dozen kinds of whips. Ones that looked like the kinds that horse racers used, and long coiled ones that made her very nervous. Such was the style that the man had used on his bride last night. Trailing a finger down the intricately braided handle, she was startled by a voice directly behind her.

“So, you’ve come back then, little girl?”

 

Oh, My!

Tentacle-Doorstop_24910-l

Lookit what my writing friend Will Crimson found for me on the interwebs… now I want one. LOL! Isn’t it charming? It sends creepy yet erotic shivers right up my spine…

It’s a doorstop, of all things.

You may remember that Will has my absolute favorite-of-all-time Tentacles series…if you’ve never read it, I highly recommend all of the series. Let’s see if I can find you a link…ah…here you go… 🙂

Will has several chapters to this story, so do yourself a favor, have your best vibe nearby, curl up and get comfy, and read them all at once…guaranteed, once you try one of His tentacle stories on …you’ll be hooked (yeah, pun intended)…!

*********************

Another “oh my”…….?  While YOU are sitting and reading me here, *I* am sitting or laying or standing…being beat, fucked, head-to-the-wall, and other various and sundry tortures.

Like “piggie tickling”.

Like whallops with the fucking pink hairbrush.

Funny aside here…I got myself a *new* hairbrush. It was time. But *Master* loves the old hairbrush, so I’ve put it into my bag for work, where I wear my hair up. That way I have it accessible for brushing out, right? We met at Starbucks a week ago…remember the story of His “new best friend” that I wasn’t quite sure *who* he was?

Well, I forget why now, but I was pawing through my work tote while Master was talking to the guy…and I pulled out my pink brush, and a few other things…and then stuffed everything back in.

On MLK night, He and I were talking. He was NOT in a good mood, and I was cheering Him up, some, and then out of the blue He asks me why I had my pink brush with me.

“You saw that?” I said, astonished. I was certain that 100% of His attention had been focused on his “best buddy”…. yet obviously not.

The Man is simply amazing that way.

“Of course I saw it…” He says, almost exasperated. “That brush and I have a cosmic connection, nilla.”

I snort, then giggle.

“Of course You do,” I mutter around giggles.

“He is my favorite, and after all, nilla, you introduced us…”

Yeah. Right. My (stupid) innocent bad.

🙂

Oh my (gawd)!

******************************************

There is yet another “Oh My”…sometime today (I think, or maybe Monday?)….and …. maybe it will be YOU who did it to me…

My blog will surpass 400,000 hits!

OH MY!

So…. thank you…it’s truly awesome to watch those numbers go up and up…You did that…coming here, reading what I have to say, commenting…all of you have been part of this journey with me…some a long time, some new…but whomever you are…thank you. I am truly blessed to have such a loyal and horny fan-base! 🙂

****************************

Saturday evening on my drive home from work, I was talking to the Man. Well, He was talking, I was listening. A bit of banter, a bit of whining…oh, okay, a LOT of whining.

You see, I’ve been on worse than O-restriction this last week. I had one orgasm, Tuesday. Feels like a lifetime ago.

And rather than just leave me feeling sexually “dead”, He decided to leave me sexually aware.

Very aware.

Half-way-there orgasms suck. You get almost to the brink of explosion…and pull back and stop.

It’s torture. It’s arousing. It’s incredibly frustrating.

It leaves one feeling constantly needy, constantly wanton.

Constantly wet.

He loves it, LOVES doing this to me.

Tonight (Saturday as I write this) He ramps it up even more, and ever so casually.

So tonight when you’re having your two half-o’s….

“Wha–wha–wat?? MASTER? Wha-th-huh?”

He laughs, the brute, and then continues.

Why nilla, you’re all flustered. Yes, you lucky slut you get two half o’s tonight! Six minutes apart. Have one, rest, then the next at the 6 minute mark.

He doesn’t even tell me not to fuck it up, no “oops”…because He knows I won’t. I’ve texted him after ever fucking torture session, each one worse than the last.

OMFG

And you’d best be aware of the time, slut. This needs to be done by 10. I’ll watch for your text. I won’t read it…just the time stamp.

At 10, If you are not done, you’ll need to give me a third half-orgasm.

Oh, and full chicklet outfit…including the ass plug. Capiche?

I repeat.

OMFG.

Well…it’s ten past nine already. I desperately need to get my ass upstairs and get to it. Adios mi amigo’s…(do continue reading however, as I’ve written this post all during the past week, just so you’d have some titillating (? really?? Seriously, my life just isn’t that titillating — no, it’s not —  really! But you all are curious so, …well….I try to accommodate!)

*************************************************

My vanilla week was kind of crappy…no one could go out in the cold and burn off energy – ergo child wars that erupted over the least things… sigh…an angsty teen, monotonous chores…just everything seemed blah.

But it’s midweek as I write this now, and I’m trying to remember what it feels like to be with Him. Behind closed doors with Him. What it feels like to have His fist in my hair in a place where no one can see Him push me across the room with it, or bend me over His knee. Where no one is there to witness Him slapping my cheek, or pinching me, or putting clamps on my nipples.

What does that feel like, again?

At home, I can put the pegs on so that they cause pain–but I control it. Too tight? Oh, move it here. Too loose? Oh, just fix it there. Sure I’ll do it to the best of my ability…and there are many nights that I’ve sat with tears in my eyes as that fucking chicklet outfit hangs down between my legs, weights pulling my nipples to the floor (or so it seems) because it hurts so much, because I swear my tits are on fire from the searing pain of it.

But for Him to do it means His way. Too far up the nipple so it bites a ton? Too frikkin bad, slut.

Oh, don’t want my finger in your asshole?

Suck it up sunshine. They’re His holes and He will do as He chooses.

Yeah.

My choices are not merely mitigated, but abrogated. Gone. *poof* dust in the wind. My choice is to go into that room with Him, and remember what it feels like to be a fully submissive pain slut.

Is there dread?

Maybe a little. The oh-my-gawd stinging, deep pain of that fucking pink hairbrush is a remembered pain. It takes my breath away. It leaves one hell of a mark. It hurts. 

It sure as fuck-all hurts.

Mr. Belt might show up…and if he does, it will be after FPH has thwapped me a bit…so rather than being a lovely stingy pain…it will hurt like holy fuck-all.

Who knows what else will happen? Not me. Not even  Him, I would bet. He’s had a shit week, a really shit week…and while He wouldn’t make me bear the full brunt of it…I’m sure I’ll get some of it.

That pleases me, btw.

To be His tool of release? Yeah, there’s a pleasure for me in that.

In the end, I’ll be bruised, and achy, and sore, and tired, and well-fucked and orgasmed out…until then, a long rest-of-the-week of partial orgasms lays ahead…(if I had any doubt the Man was a sadist…He has well and truly laid that to rest!)

So as you sit with your Sunday coffee, that week of partial o’s lays behind me, and He lays ahead of me.

What a lovely “Oh, My!”  that is to anticipate.

Desire (2)

She researched. It was what she did best. It was her career, her hobby, her solace. The stinging remark he had made just before he’d pushed the elevator button, sending her away had burned in her mind.

“I don’t date vanilla women.”

What the fuck did that mean, anyway. She swiped angry tears away with the back of her hand. That her hand was shaking, she ignored. She wanted to play the role of the dismissed-as-wanting female…it looked that way from her perspective, and sure as hell felt that way, too.

“Vanilla this, fucker,” she muttered, giving the finger to the garage ceiling, imagined waving it in Mr. Stephen Howard’s fucking fine face.

The bastard. The….fucking bastard.

She got into her car, and drove home, flushing with embarrassment as she remembered her preparations for seduction. Her bedroom resembled the scene of some horrible attack. She, the neatness queen, had things strewn hither and yon. Stalking through the room, she ruthlessly folded tops, bra’s, panties, putting everything away with a snap and a bang.

When there was nothing left, she sat, panting, on the edge of her bed. Why? What was she lacking, that he found unpalatable? She’d been hit on constantly in her life. She wasn’t stunning, drop dead gorgeous, but she was sexy. Attractive. Fun to be with.

“Stop it.”

Her voice brooked no argument. With a sigh, she rose and got a facecloth. Blotting her tear-smudged eyes, she tried to put him out of her mind.

“Unattainable, like Prince Harry,” she muttered into the washcloth. Except. He wasn’t.

“I don’t date vanilla women.”

The facecloth fell into the sink with a plop. As if on autopilot, she went into her office, and booted up her computer. First, a google search. Which led her to wiki. Which lead to articles about BDSM, fetish, and other sexual deviancy.

She sat back, stunned. Her mouth opened and closed for a moment. Surely, BDSM, Dominance, submission…that was a twisted darkness. And, okay, perhaps she had fantasies that wouldn’t be classified as “nice” …but.

She shook her head. Her fantasies hadn’t gone this way. Not really. She bent over her computer and read.

******************

Blinking, her eyes refocused on her office. It was dark, except for the glow from her computer, currently illuminated by the video of a man beating a bound woman. She paused the player, and rose as if coming out of a pool of hot water. Her body trembled, her nipples were hard pebbles, and her panties were soaked.

She had seen several of her darker fantasies played out before her. She’d been researching for hours. And as always, got lost in it. It was deep into the night, nearly midnight. She arched her back and stretched up to the ceiling, then bent slowly to touch her toes. The smell of her own sex was intense. Clit tingling, pussy slippery, she knew she could have an orgasm in minutes.

But she needed to think, not get lost in more physical sensations.

He was a dominant. It explained a lot. The assessing looks he gave most people, as if he was looking into them, not just at them.  He exuded a confidence that was almost off-putting. And God, he made her so turned on.  Torn between desire for a cup of tea, which would guarantee insomnia, and the need for sleep, she headed for bed.

And dreamt of him, beating her.

*********************************

For a week, she didn’t see him at work. Her department was currently doing a huge R & D project, which meant a lot of runs to the management offices. Files, print-outs, flow charts, demo’s.

When she wasn’t at work, she was on her computer at home. Blogs, stories, movies, stills. First-hand accounts of submissives, of dominants. She began to understand a darker side of her own sexual leanings that she’ always tamped down. The one guy she’d dated who’d held her immobile when he fucked her brains out…she’d been full of passion for him, and had been bereft when his contract had run out and he’d headed back to Liverpool. The guys she’d been with after him had paled in comparison. She had no idea. She didn’t feel submissive…but the idea of being taken, used, made to do things sexually that she would never in a million years give voice to?

That was all fantasy, wasn’t it?

Where had all this come from, she wondered. She’d had a great childhood, never been hit or abused in any way. She’d always felt that people into kink…well, she didn’t really suppose that she’d believed it was more than a farce that was on television for effect.

It was real.

It was raw, and explicit and.

And she hated to admit how much she was attracted to it.

She had never been hit, never been bitten or tied up. Only Liverpool Larry had come close to enacting her dark dreams. She slept little, during the week of learning. On Friday, she was exhausted. She paid little attention to the dark circles under her eyes, and her general fatigue. She was caught up in the two worlds…work and BDSM culture and wasn’t sure where to put her feet.

*****************

The day was finally over. Friday, at long, long last had ended, taking the last of her energy with it. In the parking garage, trying to work up the energy to go home, she leaned her forehead against her car door and just breathed. The coolness of the glass calmed her, as she fumbled with the key in the door lock.

“Let me.”

His voice, like warm chocolate over ice cream, came from behind her. She turned, resting her rump on her door. The lethargy fell from her like a coat, shrugged away with a surge of temper.

“Why?” She all but snarled.

“Because you’re obviously …”

She cut him off with a wave of her hand, a stomp of her foot.

“No! Why did you say that to me?”

He smiled a gentle smile, then pushed off the car he was leaning on. His finger pushed a fall of hair from her cheek, then slipped under her chin. The warm puff of air from his mouth tickled her ear.

“Because, little one, I saw your ghosts.”

Act One

Time stands still.

She sits, hands in her lap as He has directed her. The blindfold snuffs out the daylight in the room beyond. The television across the room blares out its political drivel; it was on to drown out her cries, she knows. From before, when she first came into the room with Him, and He drove her ruthlessly over the edge and into orgasm. On loudly to drown out the moans and mewlings of pleasure, as His hand works between her slapped-apart thighs, her nose pressed to the wall.

It is loud to drown out her yelps of pain when He hits her. To drown out the sound of His hand striking the round white bottom of her, and the sounds she makes when His toys smack ruthlessly upon her exposed flesh…thighs and ass, arms and tits.

For now the only sound is the television, blaring across the room.

She measures each breath as she was taught in yoga, drawing slow, deep, purposeful inhalations to help quiet her racing heart. He’s gone. He’s been in and out several times, answering His phone where she cannot hear the conversation.

There is no time, only breath.

There is no fear; she trusts Him implicitly. There are nerves, and they well up, through her breathing, racing her heart and making her shiver. Her nipples bead into tight pearls, then relax again when her breath calms.

The sound of the key-card in the lock is loud. Or perhaps she is only attuned to it. The door opens, the sound of nearly silent feet. The pressure of air moving across her bare shoulders as the door opens, then closes.

Outside, she sits, poised and perfect as He has set her to be. Inside she is a morass of emotions. Fear rises, is suppressed.  Nerves make her skin feel sensitive. As He begins to speak, she swallows hard, trying to loosen the grip of emotions tying up her throat. She daren’t move; He has bid her to sit, to remain just so, and don’t fucking move.

His voice is firm. “This is my slut. Slut, this is Sir D.”

She cannot speak. It is real. The scene has moved from fantasy to reality. He wants her to speak, she can feel it. But there is that lump in her throat that prohibits speech. And the swirling roil of thoughts suddenly jangled in her head that prevents rational comment.  Yet, they are waiting. Weakly, her hand lifts from her thigh. “Hello Sir” she barely whispers.

She feels him approach. Which Him is it? The hands are gentle but firm on her head, pulling her forward. She can feel the heat of Him. But the smell of him is not that of her Master.

He directs her. “Put your hand here.”

“Unzip this.”

“Reach inside and take out my cock.”

“That’s a good girl. Take out my big cock.”

“mmmm. Put in in your mouth, slut.”

She obeys. She is excited, nervous. She’s being tested here, auditioned. There is  the worry that she will let down her Master in some way. And then…there is no time for anything except being in the moment, the moment that his girthy cock fills her mouth, stretches her ruby lips around the shaft, and gags her.

The hands continue to hold her head, driving his thick pole into the recesses of her mouth, her throat. She coughs around it, gags, which makes him moan. He holds her there for a minute. She doesn’t let herself pull away…or she hopes not.

The puddle grows between her legs, and she knows there will be a wet spot on the couch.

As if he could read her mind, he pulls her foward. “On your knees! Lick my balls! Suck them into your mouth. Yeah..yeah…good. Lick the shaft…good slut..”

She laps, licks, sucks. He is different in taste, size and texture from her Master. She can’t tell from her gloved hand, but her mouth knows.  His voice comes from long away, even as his hand presses her hard against his groin.

“Take out your tits. I wanna see your tits.” She obeys, tugging them from her bra. She feels the rub of the heavy black lace on the underside of her breasts, the pinching grab of his hands. As she sucks, he tugs. As she gags, he pulls.  Her knees ache, but she doesn’t feel it, not really. It’s just part of the now. Another layer to the sensation sandwich she is consuming.

When he bids her to rise, takes her hands and pulls her across the room, she knows there is more to come. Much, much more.

 

Perchance (pt 1)

He hated being alone. He liked the feeling of a woman in his life. The scents, the sounds, the textures. The sex. Oh, yeah, the sex. He moved through the scene these days, picking up a woman here and there, but no one really meshed. No one stayed. No one was “in it” except for the fast thrill, the adrenaline of a good lashing, the hot glow of a well spanked ass. Oh, he was good at what he did, damned good. But an occasional beating here and there was not satisfying on a deeper level.

Yet, here he was, driving to yet another Group event. New Years Eve at a bondage club was certainly more enticing than, say, heading down to Times Square. He knew he’d have fun with his friends, and taj would expect a beating. She always expected a beating. She spread herself around, generously, to the guys who came stag. And she was a delicious subbie. Just, not his. Who would’ve thought he’d be looking at exclusivity at this point in the game. He wanted his own subbie. His wife wasn’t in the picture, nor in the lifestyle. She preferred Jamaica and Rubierto. What the fuck kind of name was Rubierto anyway. Dickhead. Now that was a name. Suited the guy, too. Mr. Armani Suit Dickhead at your service. He chuckled.  Turned his car into the parking lot and prepared to pretend to have fun, at least until the fun kicked in.

She was pulled into the room by her friend Taj. They’d met forever ago. And yet she’d never felt compelled to explore Taj’s lifestyle…that walk on the dark side, until recently. Until Rubierto had dumped her for some older woman. She sighed. The jerk. Jerk-o.

“Stop that!” Taj commanded her brusquely.

“What?”  she asked, slapping on a polite smile as she was herded past a Mistress in the tightest black leather corset she’d ever seen a woman squeezed into. Her tits were…enormous and sat poised atop the cups like .. well, she couldn’t even think of a metaphor that fit that one. And she, a writer, even.

“You’re thinking about that dickhead Rubierto again, and he does NOT belong here.” Taj spun around, face to face–almost nose to nose.

“That no-good sonofabitch fucked you over. Move on, kiddo. You’re worth 20 of that fucked up dickhead. Trust me, tonight will change your life.”

Well, on that one point she would agree. She’d never, ever seen some of the things she’d already seen and that was just heading to the bar. She gave her order to the bartender. He lifted a brow in a somewhat condescending way when she ordered her ginger ale. She stared back. He winked, then passed her the glass of bubbling ale. Phew. One down, how many more encounters to go. This was the strangest thing she had ever done. At least it could prove to be good story fodder, she mused…when her brain shut off.

He walked into the club. Music flowed out into the crisp night air as the door opened, and a deep throbbing base accompanied the twinkling of stars in the dark sky. Crossing the room, he met taj halfway. Grabbed her hair from the back and pulled her into him for a hard kiss. She giggled, smiling up at him.

“I’m so glad you came, Sir! Listen, i brought a friend with me tonight. her first time. if you have a moment to spare, Sir, would you come and meet her?”

He smiled down at the diminutive woman. She was pretty, feisty, and a good sex companion.  What the hell, he owed her. Laying his hand on her rounded shoulder, he bent into her back and  nibbled her earlobe.

“lead on” he murmured against her ear. He could feel her shiver of delight. Her ears were extremely sensitive. She’d probably orgasm right now if he blew a bit into it. So he did. She stopped moving forward. Tilted her head to allow him greater access. He bit into her lobe again, then swirled his tongue in her outer canal. He felt the shudder run through her, the low moan that came from deep inside of her. Slipping his finger down her spine, around the sweet curve of her asscrack, he felt the wetness dripping from her. Hmm, a honey of  a subbie, to be sure.

taj turned to him, smiled. “That was a hell of a hello, Sir! Thank you, Sir. Will you come now?”

“Maybe later,” he said with a smile. He laughed as she pouted,

“Oh, you mean come with you to meet your friend? oh, I thought you were offering me a blowjob, pretty subbie.” She batted her eyes at him. Then laughed and led him to the bar.

She could not believe her eyes. Had that man just…just fingered taj? Nibbling her ear and …she was certain that taj had just had an O! in public! Geeze…was that…pussy juice on taj’s thighs? And why was she looking at taj anyway? She looked down, smoothing the camisole top she wore. Fidgeted with her skirt. Checked her mile high heels that Taj had insisted she wear tonight. Fishnet thigh highs? Ah well, best to blend in, she mused.

He looked at taj’s friend as they approached the bar. She certainly looked like an uncomfortable outsider. Well, except for the ‘nets and heels. Hmmm, his personal favorite. He glanced at taj. He would not put it beyond her to have set this up as some kind of …blind date. Perish the thought. This woman was as vanilla as they came. How the hell had taj persuaded her to come to a BD/sm club on New Years Eve?