“Do you want to be my good girl?”
He wraps the leash around his fist, gently pushes down on the back of my head until I’m folded into a neat parcel with my head between his knees. Cold chain-links settle across my shoulder blades. I breathe in deeply, sex-musk and last night’s sleep in the sheets.
I do, very much, want to be his good girl. I want to own it and flaunt it, and bask in it. Obedience. It makes me wet.
“If you’re a very good girl,” he murmurs into the nape of my neck, “I might even let you come.”
If I weren’t being so good, I might have let out a tiny whimper of protest at that. Being told I am forbidden to come is an irresistible lure; an offering of indulgence on the other hand, is the direst of threats. But I’m being good, and a good girl doesn’t take control or make demands.
A good girl keeps still, stays quiet, opens herself wide, enjoys as much cock as she can handle.
Being a good girl is its own reward.
“Relax and don’t move.”
This is harder work than it sounds like, but I have a process. Picture myself, limb by limb, telling muscles to relax, letting tension melt away. With each little subsidence, a grunt of approval from somewhere above me.
He trails his hand, still clasping the leash, down my spine to where my arse cheeks divide. There’s no slack left in the chain, it’s not pulling at my collar, yet, but with the slightest increase in tension, it might. He doesn’t pull. Instead, he leans forward and relinquishes the leash, tucking it in and under me so that the edge of the leather loop lies against my clit and cold chain separates my lips. If I wriggle, I could rub myself with it. If I wriggle, I will have broken the bond of obedience that holds me in place. There’s no punishment for doing so, that would make obedience a matter of simple prudence. As much as I fantasise about being conquered, it’s conquering myself for him that makes me feel the most gloriously submissive.
He knows this. It gets him off to watch me – feel me – impose his commands upon myself, the way my cunt twitches and floods, and my eyes glaze. It gets him hard, when I go limp.
While I’m concentrating on staying both immobile and relaxed, he’s running greedy hands over me, hips to shoulders to neck, ankles to thighs and round to cup my breasts. I’m under no instruction to be quiet, but the more I abandon myself to appreciation, the likelier I am to get carried away and forget about being good.
“On your back” I uncurl and roll over, slack-limbed and unresisting as he manoeuvres me into a wide spread-eagle and covers my eyes with one hand. “Keep them closed and relax.” Lying on the chain puts just enough pressure on my collar to feel like a restraint; I cling to this for control. Relax.
He pulls my labia apart, tugging gently to stretch me open, releases his grip and brings his hand back in a sharp slap. I gather up all of the urge to arch and writhe, pour it out through my mouth with a long moan instead. I want to grab him, stuff him into me, grind myself against him until I explode, milk him with my cunt until he quenches this fire in me with a jerk and a groan and a splash of hot spunk. Wanting to, needing to – but not giving in to my greed.
“I’m going to play with you for a while, and you’re not going to move.” he says, and his weight settles down on top of me. “No peeking either.”
He guides his velvet-iron cock into position, head nudging at the opening of my cunt. “Does this feel good?”
“Yes!” I whimper, remembering not to nod my head in affirmation.
“How about this?” An inch or two deeper.
“All right then.” And he’s fucking me with long, slow strokes, deep and sensual, firm but tender, whispering praise and filth and adoration into my ear in hoarse tones while I teeter on the edge of losing control. Caught between my own determined compliance and his pumping hips, if I could only tilt my head, arch my back, lock my ankles behind his back, it would feel so good-
-but not as good as being his good girl. Not as fulfilling as having to work for my pleasure. There’s only one thing better than being a cock-happy slut, and that’s obediently pretending not to be, for as long as I can.