He licked me as though he were a sun-blind desert nomad and I an ice sculpture of his most longed-for mirage. No tip-of-the-tongue delicacy, no butterfly-soft tease; he gave me the full weight of his tongue from the cleft of my buttocks to the nape of my neck as I moaned and my legs opened in involuntary expression of my arousal.
Inflamed by my reaction, he dipped his head again and painted swirling circles of heat in the small of my back and across my arse cheeks. I closed my eyes and lay passive, sublimating between a fierce burning crucible of need and the molten liquid fire of response within.
With each stroke, a nip of flesh between teeth to make me stiffen and gasp, the gentle brush of enamel on skin then return again to hot, wet tongue. He explored the landscape of my backside, finding and addressing each curve, each plane, first with gentle leisurely strokes then sucking wide-mouthed on my rounded softness, probing and searching, assessing with his questing tongue, his spit-slippery lips.
Moving slowly, with certainty and deliberation. hands followed mouth, kneading, stroking, filling, until at last I felt his heavy cock press against my slick and eager cunt. As his lips enclosed my earlobe, I dissolved in the hot breath-filled hollow between shoulder and neck. He made a warm sweet puddle of me and immersed himself with a sigh of delight.
His hands covering mine, our whispers of pleasure and desire met and mingled in our front-to-back entwining. Plunging deep inside me, he took and gave in equal measure; control without demand, understanding that the submission of my body to his brought mutual uplift and fulfilment.
By the time he turned me over and presented his dripping cock to my open, eager mouth, I would have given him my soul for the asking.
Today, I desperately want to be dominated. I thought I was just horny but even after a wank featuring a beaded glass dildo and much fantasising about rough gangs and rope, I still feel a deep yearning inside me which I know from experience can only be fulfilled by willing obedience to the will of another. To have the burden of decision-making – even for something as banal as ‘shall I have a cup of tea now?’ not just lifted from my shoulders but held high over my bowed head, is something my whole body and mind cry out for right now.
To be naked and compliant, to follow orders without question and to be used for the pleasure and desire of someone who wields control and authority; is what I need, so badly. I crave the inner peace of willing surrender. I long for direction and command.
Just to kneel, eyes lowered and body exposed. To keep still and quiet as I am inspected, assessed and (hopefully) found to be to the liking of the one into whose hands I have placed my trust. My throat is aching to be held firmly, my ears are straining for instructions. My mouth is twitching for kisses, for pinches, for the biting of my lip as I am . My wrists are incomplete without the bindings of ownership; I have too much freedom of movement and idle laxity of limb for comfort. Every nerve ending is screaming to be put to use at the service of another.
Sex? Not necessarily, even for this insatiable slut. I’ll beg for it, if that is what is required of me – and enjoy every pleading word. But orgasms are not my goal, neither is the white-hot furnace of denial. Whether my directed role today is passive fucktoy or accomplished courtesan, I will open my wet throbbing cunt or my soft eager mouth in welcome. If I deserve a beating, I will present myself; kneeling with my arse high and my face to the floor. When peace and quiet is required, I will offer my face for the gag and step softly on bare feet. I will scream, whimper, laugh, chat, recite, repeat, obey.
Left to my own devices, I am lazy and self-indulgent, without purpose or direction. I don’t need validation, for I am complete and secure in myself. I will not accept abuse or coercion – everything I do will be with my conscious consent. I am submissive, not lost or weak. I find strength in my submission.
All week, I have been out of sorts – irritable and uncharitable, my blood full of sharp burrs and my mind skittering from one grievance to the next. An evening of tequila shots with my lover in a London pub has smoothed out my most dangerous edges and mellowed my disposition considerably. Only a small smouldering coal of resentment at the world remains, tucked under my breastbone, partially smothered by the fun I’m having. It will take more than fun to extinguish this poisonous ember but I’m wary of intimacy while angry. There’s too much to fear. The risk of a short circuit between my internal rage and my masochistic, submissive need. The space between mind and body in which a gust of desire could reignite that sullen glow. I’m happier than I have been in days; why risk it? Smiles and tender kisses are my restorative tonic for now.
And yet……all the way home, amongst the chuckling and good-natured exchange of quips; something else is building between us. Something dark yet joyful, intense and intoxicating, which roughens his voice and prickles my skin. A drawstring of desire which tightens his hand on mine and pulls my gaze to his suddenly-intent eyes. He finds me irresistible; I am insatiable for his touch. There in the summer night it hums, arcing between us in sparks and pulses of want and need.
We hurry home.
In the lounge, we are playful as puppies. Still laughing, still romping. He falls at my feet, declares himself my slave, tickles my feet. I know he’s joking but I’m too much of a literal-minded pedant to allow it pass without comment. “I don’t want a slave” I remind him, grinning and jerking my foot away from his fingers. “I’m looking for a Master”
And with that, his eyes change and his posture straightens. “Put your foot out” he orders, and with a shiver of delight at his suddenly-authoritative tone, I comply.
The tickling recommences, light strokes of his fingernails against my sensitive soles, occasional scrabbling of pressure in the nerve-dense hollow of my instep. I’m battling my urge to yell and draw back; I’m very ticklish – but he has a firm grasp on my ankle and he’s testing my obedience to his will. My inner conflict between the impulse to flee this stimulus and the desire to submit to his control is showing on my face; pupils dilated and eyes wide, mouth twitching as I hold back the involuntary tickle-giggle.
He can see what this does to me; the way I’m looking at him drives hot blood into his cock, which is visibly swelling with every suppressed squirm transmitted through my muscle and sinew.
He stands. Hooks his thumbs into his shorts and pants, yanks them to his ankles. I’m halfway off the sofa already when he reaches for my tumbled curls and draws my mouth onto him. His half-moaned exhalation of pleasure triggers a hot flood of wetness from my cunt as I kneel before him and rub my tongue back and forth against his stiffening shaft.
I love to do this. His cock filling my mouth, his hands cradling my head, the rough carpet against my kneecaps; this is my favourite place to be. I look up and his eyes are closed, his mouth half-open, head tilted back as he loses himself in the sensations of my mouth around him.
I pull him slowly, deeper into my throat, working my tongue up and down, round and round. When I look again, he is watching me suck on his now stone-hard cock. As our eyes meet, he groans and I whimper; a simultaneous wave of aching lust at the other’s reaction sweeping over us both. His hands tighten around my head, it’s as though he can hear me thinking yes please, fuck my mouth, use me for your pleasure, that’s what I want, please give it to me. He does.
The harder and faster he thrusts, the more I urge him on; bobbing my head to his rhythm and bracing myself on my thighs for stability against this desperate, beautiful onslaught. I gag and he pulls away in concern, no, no, come back to me, fill me, have what you want.
I can’t go as fast as he needs now, he grabs a handful of my hair to pull my head away; taking charge of his cock with the other fist in powerful urgent strokes. I wait to be allowed to provide his pleasure again, mouth open, tongue extended, eyes locked on his. The sight of me pleading with my eyes and stance wrings another groan from him, he pulls my head close so that I can wind my tongue around and over his balls in slow figure-of-eight movements. When he pushes the head of his cock back between my lips, I thrill with adoration and submissive gratitude.
By the time we make it to the bedroom, I am all burning need and slick drenched cunt. Mental focus and submissive fulfilment have succeeded where drink and camaraderie could not – the last spike of bad mood has been crushed, ground to nothing between our close-pressed bodies. There is no irritation left, no silent rage, no phantom fire. Only us in this moment.
His dexterous fingers bring me to orgasm in minutes. I want him inside me; he wants to fill me with his come. We move together hard and fast; kneeling on the bed, leaning against the wall, face-down on the bed again, his hands pulling my buttocks apart as he fucks my arse with savage strokes, my face upturned to his as I mewl and moan the glorious pleasure-pain of my penetration. There’s a feedback loop between us, our movements, our breathing, our panted whispered encouragement is dragging us inseparably towards orgasm. We come together drowning in a wash of purest sensation that pulls a long moan of surrender from him and a shuddering, gasping collapse from me.
In the house of my psyche, she resides below ground level. Down in the deepest cellar, in her soft-furnished boudoir she sprawls across a four-poster bed, naked and tousle-haired and ready for mischief. Across her skin are scrawled the scars of a hundred lessons imperfectly-learned; crossed-out names and instructions ignored. She’ll flaunt them with insouciance, they are a challenge and a come-on. “Can’t catch me” they mock silently; and “is that all you’ve got?”.
She wants you to add your own graffiti to the collection. Maybe yours will be the winning score. She lives in hope and quietly envies the serenity of her submissive sister upstairs. What does it take to achieve that peace? Not sullen surrender; not disappointed disengagement – she’s well-worn and weary of both. She is the child who swats at the wasps until they sting then lights the nest on fire in retribution and cries at the burn of the smoke.
Reach for her, she will wriggle out of your grip and taunt you for being slow. What will be your response? Will you turn her over your knee and redden her skin with your palm until she begs for mercy? Will you twine her hair around your fists and drag her to the wall for a furious punishment fucking? That’s what she wants. That’s what she schemes to achieve. Nothing frustrates her more than getting exactly what she asked for.
She’s the opposite of Sleeping Beauty; no princess slumbering in a tower until woken by the Prince’s kiss. No, this is an impudent and unrepentant serving-wench who, having been dismissed from her post, stays wide-awake in the dungeon because she likes it there.
Cuff her, rope her, chain her – she will wriggle and test her bonds; escape if she can. You should have restrained her tighter.
Ignore her, she will kick and scream. The harder you use her, the more indifference she will feign. She’s a contrary bitch and she doesn’t want capitulation, or accept aggression.
She needs distraction. To be held teetering, gasping on the edge of orgasm denied, to be brought to the brink, again and again, to have her mind and body occupied with the pursuit of rewards earned and to have to work hard for it.
After reading Jadis Liddell’s inspiring post about cock-sucking skills, my mind started working in a kinky direction (no change there then) and I envisioned cock-sucking lessons with a stern Mistress. Obviously, at that point I had to kick off my knickers and grab a big flexible silicone dildo to properly explore the scenario in my mind. After two – one leisurely and one frenzied – orgasms, I’d honed the scene to my liking. This is the result.
I’m a terrible show-off and teacher’s pet. I just have to be top of the class, otherwise I feel….cheated. Sitting here with my fellow-students at these desks, I can feel that familiar driving need to excel, setting my jaw and squaring my shoulders. We are not here to learn History or Maths or Physics. We are here to hone our oral skills. And I’m not talking about a debating club.
We sit still and in silence, waiting for our teacher. The seven of us are no longer strangers; we have swapped names and stories over introductory cups of tea. No-one here knows how competitive I am, how much I need recognition and reward. I hope I don’t embarrass myself.
The door is briskly pushed open and she enters; all black PVC and killer heels. Long dark hair swinging at her back and crimson lips quirked in an anticipatory smile. She reaches the front desk. The smile disappears.
“You are here” she begins in clear, ringing tones “because you want to learn the skills of a successful courtesan. I am your teacher and you will address me as ‘Mistress’. I do not tolerate disobedience, disrespect or inattention. Any such behaviours will be punished. If you cannot comply with my rules, now is your chance to leave.” She points to the door. We sit, watchful and silent. Am I the only one who feels a pricking of desire in response to this show of authority? Can she see submissive awe in my – or others’ – gaze? If so; she gives no sign.
“Good. Let’s begin.” She points with the riding crop she’s carrying at Sasha, the girl to my immediate left. “You. Go to the cupboard and distribute the equipment”
Sasha rises and I try to suppress a pang of jealousy. Why didn’t Mistress pick me?
The equipment turns out to be an assortment of silicone dildos. One in particular catches my eye – it’s large, at least nine inches long, ribbed and very chunky. What better way to impress than to take on the largest, most challenging option? But I’m not entirely confident I can manage it. Fear of failure wars briefly with arrogance until I receive my dildo. Not the biggest one. I’m half-disappointed, half-relieved. Part of me secretly hopes whichever girl who gets that large mock-cock, splutters and gags on it, surrenders and asks for a more manageable option. I wouldn’t. I’d rather choke than concede the red rosette.
It goes to Becks. She looks appalled for a moment, and quickly stifles a nervous titter. Our Mistress smiles kindly at her. “Don’t worry” she says “we’ll take it slowly”.
My allocation is a respectable seven inches or so, modelled to look and feel as realistic as possible, right down to the slightly comical fake balls at the bottom of the shaft. I can work with this.
Mistress talks us through the anatomy of the penis, points out particularly sensitive zones, and watches as we all practice handling and stroking our dildos. She seems satisfied, but has taken no particular notice of me so far.
We move on to tongue work. Now is my chance, I’ve been told many times that I’m good at this. I lap the dildo from base to head, using long, firm, slow strokes then flickering gently over the glans. I close my eyes and play it for real, imagining the grunts of satisfaction, the groans of abandonment from my disembodied lover. Curling my tongue sideways around the head and rubbing slow circles against the stiff synthetic frenulum, I am lost in the moment. I want to feel its hardness fill my mouth and so I purse my lips over the tip then plunge my head down as far as I can, taking it deep into the back of my throat then drawing back slowly, teasing with my tongue as I go.
I realise there is silence. Open my eyes. Everyone is staring at me.
Mistress has one elegant eyebrow raised. “What do we have here?” she drawls, swaying over to my desk “A show-off? Or a desperate little slut?”
My cheeks flame. I am both, of course but I don’t know which answer is the right one. She holds up her hand halfway through my stuttering apology.
“You’re a little ahead of yourself there” she says, and I try not to smirk at the pun.
I can’t work out whether I’m in for trouble or a treat. I can feel the eyes of the other girls on me; are they hoping to see me punished? I would be, in their position. Perhaps they are nicer people than I.
“Stand up” orders Mistress. “Go to the front of the room.”
I obey, wondering whether my knees are visibly trembling – or my hardened nipples can be seen under my jersey top.
“Get on your knees” she says, and although I still don’t know whether this is praise or punishment, I follow instructions promptly.
“Gather round” says Mistress to the others, and comes to the front desk to stand over me.
“Since I evidently have such an advanced class here, let’s move on to the next part of the lesson” she announces and I wince at the sarcasm in her voice. No gold stars here then.
She takes something from the desk drawer and buckles it around her hips. It’s a harness. With an enormous strap-on dildo attached. Bigger and twice as intimidating as the one Becks has been wrapping her lips around for the last fifteen minutes.
Mistress smiles down at me cruelly. “Let’s see your skills in action again, shall we?” She nudges my lips with the tip of the monster. “Take it from the top”
I lick and suck at the sides of the shaft, top to bottom, over the tip, around the base. Looking up, I catch her eyes, darkened and intent on my bobbing head. “Don’t stop” she husks. “Open your mouth”.
She thrusts the huge dildo into my mouth and slides her hands into my hair, holding on firmly to stop me pulling away. I’m being fucked by this glorious, dominant woman as aggressively as any man has ever taken me – no, more so.
There is quiet in the room, only our hard breathing and the wet sounds of my mouth being used. From the corner of my eye, I see the others leaning forward, fascinated. Are they shocked? Aroused? Enjoying their witness of the lesson I am being taught?
My jaw begins to ache, but something stubborn and proud in me won’t ask for mercy. Mistress can see this in the furrowing of my brow and the tilting of my neck as I try to find a comfortable position to continue.
“As deep as you can now” she says, and I swallow, feeling the now-warm silicone slip to the back of my throat. Still I push my head forward, clenching my stomach against the gag reflex, until my face is pressed against the straps of the harness and her PVC dress.
“That’s enough” she says, withdrawing. “On your feet”.
She doesn’t sound impressed, only firm. I scramble gracelessly to a standing position and wait, wet-lipped and breathing heavily.
“You do that very well”. Her tone is soft but her eyes are piercing. “However, I don’t like showing off, and you my dear, are a little too smug about your prowess. So here is your punishment.”
“Go over to the wall and stand facing it with your hands behind your head until I release you”. I’m stung by her criticism, all the more so because I know it is deserved. The only thing that keeps me from dissolving into flaming resentment is the warmth of submissive desire that lingers alongside my overworked jaw muscles and sore knees.
I stand there, silent and still as she shows the rest of the class deep-throating techniques. There is much spluttering and the occasional retch. I smirk quietly to myself, no longer resenting the words of praise she doles out so sparingly to the others.
The class is dismissed. I am left alone with her, still in my punishment pose. My arms are numb.
She moves close behind me, reaches up to my shoulders and turns me around. Indicates with a tilt of the head that I can put my arms down. Draws the riding crop gently across my cheek.
“So, my dear. You like to show off do you?”.
Humbled, I nod.
“And I sense you like to be reined in as well”. There is amusement in her tone. I nod again.
“Well now. Perhaps someone should take you firmly in hand. Teach you a little humility. Would you like that?”
“Yes Mistress”, I whisper “I would like that very much”
She runs her hands lightly over me, assessing, inspecting.
“H’mm. I think I would like that too.” She hands me a slip of paper. “Here is my number. Here are my terms. If you are interested in discussing a more…..intimate learning programme, then call me tomorrow.”
My eyes are shining, my body quivering. Private tuition! Teacher’s pet! She pinches my lower lip softly. “Until tomorrow then”.
She leaves in that confident sashaying walk. I gaze after her, incredulous and elated.
The paper says her name is Mistress Ella. I am going to call her. I want – so much – to be her best pupil ever.
I love a man in a suit. Well, I love the idea of a man in a suit anyway – sadly many actual men who habitually wear suits are dickheads.
So, hello unknown Men In Suits. Do you know what the sight of you does to me? Can you tell what’s going on in my head when I catch sight of you?
A well-fitted suit speaks to me of power, authority and responsibility. I want to submit to that power, feel that authority. I yearn to break through that professional detachment and make you forget your responsibilities until you can see only me, feel only me, want only what I can offer you.
I want you not to let me burrow under those neatly-tailored barricades of fabric. Keep your cool, reach with your hands but turn your head. Keep your suit on.
In my mind, I am standing naked before you in your office. The door is closed and from outside comes the low hum and clatter of people and technology. In here is silence.
You tug off that smart tie and use it to cover my eyes, knotting it firmly at the back of my head. You’re not interested in eye contact right now.
You don’t know my name and I don’t know yours – to me, you are the Man In The Suit; for you, I am just another executive accessory to distract you from the never ending flow of decisions and demands on your attention.
Pull me close so I can feel the fabric of your clothes rubbing against my skin as I twine myself around you. The contrast between your formal attire and my nakedness makes me feel wanton, you are Someone and I am someone’s fucktoy; here to fulfil just one purpose – to be used for your pleasure.
Push me to my knees, undo your flies, and stroke my hair with one hand as I suck you to hardness. The other hand still holds your phone in case you need to take an urgent call – you’d answer and talk business, still thrusting lazily into my willing, open mouth until the conversation ended. Then you’d look down at me with mild surprise, as though I’d ceased to exist while your mind was elsewhere, even as my tongue flickers over your shaft and your glans pushes rhythmically at the back of my throat.
Uncover my eyes. Pull me up, bend me over your desk, bind my wrists and fuck me from behind, taking me with firm fast strokes; you are busy and have important work to be done. This is just a routine break for you, no more significant than a refreshing cup of coffee snatched between meetings or a quick cigarette before you check your emails. Maybe you have one eye on your laptop as you thrust into me, maybe you’re looking out of the window and planning the next move in a corporate strategy while your hands roam across my soft yielding curves. Perhaps you don’t even notice that your breathing is becoming faster and heavier, that your body is moving more urgently against mine.
You grunt once, softly, as your hips buck and your come is spilled inside me. It’s a sound of contented satisfaction that you might make at a particularly good golf swing or an unexpectedly swift-arriving taxi. Your hands don’t linger on my bottom when you pull yourself free, your gaze doesn’t skim over the slick wet slit you’ve been using or my sweat-glistened back. You merely turn away, tucking yourself back in and rearranging your disarrayed trousers, retrieving your tie and replacing it neatly around your neck. Your mind is already on the next deal, the next challenge, just another task in another busy day.
When you leave the room without a backward glance, it is my turn. I fuck myself violently with the fingers of both hands, pinch my swollen nipples, smear your come across my lips and lick it off in ecstasy. Here is the pleasure you did not think to give me, these are the sensations of the anonymous women who has been taken, used and left; simultaneously deeply fulfilled yet still desperately aroused. When I reach orgasm only minutes after your departure, I notice your silk handkerchief lying beside me on the desk and draw it across my dripping, twitching cunt until it is soaked with our mingled juices.
I dress, repair my hair and makeup until I am once again the busy professional. As I leave the room, the only clues to our encounter only the slight flush on my face and the darkened handkerchief lying on the desk.
The warm weather today got me thinking about how nice a cool shower would be….and then my mind turned to kinkier ideas….with the result that I spent quite a while imagining this scenario then decorating myself with pegs and clamps before giving myself an intense pain-enhanced orgasm.
Today was hot. After a day in London, you’re sticky and grimy; sweat was rolling down your back on the Victoria line and edging into the crack of your arse with a maddening tickling touch. Your hair is damp at the nape of your neck, your face is shiny with the effort of walking home from the bus stop. All you want is a cool shower and a long drink. Preferably something involving large amounts of gin.
Your phone vibrates. Instructions received.
For a moment, you feel rebellious – but the flare of resentment is pushed aside by the wakening thrill of anticipation. What will be this evening’s task?
Take off your clothes when you get in. Close your eyes and wait for me at the front door.
Inside the house, you cast aside your handbag and gratefully peel off your workwear. The house is cool and the sweat of exertion dries quickly, lowering your temperature and raising goosepimples with the contrast. You close your eyes, standing still and careful not to slouch. The posture training was arduous but effective. You can almost feel the bite of the cane across your buttocks and thighs every time you catch yourself slumping.
Footsteps. Breathing. A hand strokes your hair, follows the line of your jaw and your throat.
“Hello, my little slut”
The hand brushes your breast until His fingers find your nipple. Pinches, hard enough to make you gasp.
You can’t see Him, but you know He’ll be smiling.
“Tell me who you are”.
You respond as He trained you, eager and adoring. “I’m your slut, Sir”
“Good girl. Now come with me, and don’t say a word.”
He takes your wrists, ties them together and uses the rope to lead you slowly up the stairs and into the bathroom. Once inside, He pushes you to your knees and ties the end of the rope to the towel rail so that your arms are raised over your head.
Your stomach is fluttering, halfway between fear and desire. You know He’s going to hurt you. You want Him to hurt you. You want it so much, your cunt is already slick and your cheeks flushed.
“No peeking now” He chuckles as he slips a satin mask over your eyes.
The deep, dull pinch of the first clothes peg on the sensitive skin of your breast makes you bite your lip. He adds more, one by one, until they bristle from both your breasts. You’ve lost count, is it twelve? fourteen? With each pinch, you’re calculating how much more it will hurt coming off again. A lot.
“Just one more” He reassures you.
Then attaches it to your lower lip. Steps back to admire his handiwork. “Very nice. Good girl. Oh wait – I almost forgot…..” He spreads your thighs wide and reaches between them to stroke your swollen clit before sliding the clip into place. “Perfect. What a beautiful little slut you are”
You hear the click of His camera phone. Suddenly your arms are free and the blood rushes back into them. You know better than to rub them or move without permission. He grabs a handful of your hair.
Still holding you by the hair, He pushes you into the shower and turns the water on. Cold water. You can’t help it, you scream and struggle. With His other hand, He smacks your buttocks hard – five, six times until you get yourself under control and stand still, gritting your teeth against the cold and the hundreds of tiny droplet impacts on the pegs. He shoves you forward and places your hands against the wall beneath the shower head.
He spreads your buttocks and plunges His sturdy cock into your wet, willing cunt. As you gasp and splutter under the deluge of cold water, He fucks you without mercy; slamming into you so hard the pegs on your breasts shake and rattle. Head held back by the hair as He uses you, hands against the wall, cold water raining down on you, tapping your clamped clit, the pain is so achingly fucking sweet, so gorgeously kinky, so deliciously overpowering.
His breathing changes – faster and shallower; you know He’s approaching His orgasm. You know what He’s going to do and your cunt clenches in anticipation. As He tips over the edge, He sinks His teeth into your shoulder and reaches around to sweep the pegs from your breasts, your lip, and the clamp from your clit. The pain is breathtaking; fire and scorpion venom flooding your nerves and searing your brain. Pegs clatter to the floor as you scream and buck hard against His spasming cock. You can’t breathe through the cascading water, you can’t move from His tightly-pinioning arms, you can’t see or think or speak; you’re riding the endorphin high deep into subspace.
He turns off the water, pulls off the mask and wraps you gently in a big fluffly towel. Pats you dry and holds you close until you start to drift downwards back to Him. He kisses you lovingly.
“Well done” He whispers. “Good girl”. All the words you want and need to hear from Him. You can’t feel the pain any more, only warmth and love and pride. You are His.