If not now…

“Tell me about it”

“What?”

“You heard.”

“Well, I’m in my corner office on the 53rd floor. I’m at my desk…”

“What are you wearing, slut?”

“Suit, shoes-”

“You’ll tell me properly if you know what’s good for you.”

“The suit is an Anderson & Sheppard basted fitting in a 15 ounce navy cloth, with alternating beaded stripes. The shoes-”

“Don’t be cute with me, bratty slut. How does it feel when you wear it, sitting your big chair. That oh-so-expensive cloth gently cupping your balls and cock as you talk with your mistress.”

“Well, I-”

“Stand up. Look out at the office floor, between the gaps in the frosted glass. How many people are out there?”

“A hundred, hundred and fifty maybe? I haven’t counted, I-”

“You know every one of them, because you picked them by hand. They’d all run through fire for you, big man that you are. With your five thousand pound suits filled with a cock that gets hard just thinking of the money they’re making for you. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought of which ones you’d like to fuck across your big desk, both the boys and girls. Are you getting hard and drippy being told this, dirty bitch?

“Touch it. Rub it slowly. And shut the fuck up and listen as I tell you what I’m going to do.

“I’m coming down there with a big fucking pair of scissors – proper tailor’s shears – and I’m coming right into your office. You’re going to be waiting for me, standing, arms in front of you, leaning against the window, looking at me, holding out your belt. I’m not going to make eye contact with you yet, fucker – I’ll take that belt and turn you into the wall, hard, feel my weight at your shoulder, your face pressed into the cold glass as I cuff you with the belt like a kid in a drugs bust. Prissy, privileged white boy getting his collar felt, who’s going get some treatment before I’m through with you.

“So we’ll make the perp walk a bit easier, shall we? You’re going to whimper when you feel me push those bound hands higher up your back, but you’ll shut up damn quick when you feel the cold blade down the back of those expensive pants. I will cut through to the skin, you’ll shudder as you feel the blade pass between your ass cheeks and so close to the perineum you might mistake it for a tongue. Then, I’ll get furious. I’ll slash, tear and lacerate those fancy-pants and leave you exposed for the total slut you really are. No doubt you’ll get hard from me doing that, dirty fucktoy. But I’m not done by a long way.

“I’ll pull the jacket straight back, propping you up with my knee and stretch you. You’re going to feel my hands everywhere inside that Thomas Pink shirt. Pulling and pinching your slutty hard nipples, pressing at your throat and windpipe. I’m going to gouge strips so deep down your back you’ll think you’re wearing pinstripe skin. But you are going to fucking love it. As I push you up the window when I tear at that flesh, I know I’ll sense your swollen cock press against the glass, splayed, crushed, throbbing and seeping precum from its shiny head. Am I close to what you were thinking about, fucktoy?

“Don’t speak. Don’t say a fucking word. Keep rubbing yourself. Slip a finger inside those merino wool layers and feel the strain at your underpants. You’ll be ready to smash plates with that thing when I’m through with you. Feel it pulse. You want to let it out, grab it, wank it, feel that hungry flesh and my dirty tongue in your ear. But it’s going to stay there until I say, because your needs mean nothing. I need to hear you tell me you get this.”

“This is your cock, ma’am. I’m only here to serve you. Take me and use me.”

“Not today, Fucktoy. But soon. When you’re least expecting it…”

 

Advertisements

Coming and going

I have risen and left you sleeping. I slip my cage on and am ready to face the day. It is a deceptively cool mediterranean early morning and the dew sits thick on the grass,  bursting through the broken path that winds steeply to our door. Outside the umbrella pines and groves of olive trees cast shade that we will welcome in the high heat of the afternoon.

It’s a little chilly to be wearing nothing, but it helps to get the tiny cage on, my cock shrinking rapidly after the warmth of our bed. The temperature adds to my sense of feeling small all over. The stone flags in the kitchen feel cold and rough on my bare feet, as I fill the kettle. A cafetiere of thick, black coffee and flakey croissants to be served at the rough wooden table that dominates the room.

I’m not expecting you down yet, so feel suddenly exposed when you appear in nightdress and bathrobe at my back. I am standing at the kitchen countertop, hands resting on the stained wooden boards, as you come up behind me. Your cheek is warm as it presses into my back and I am suddenly aware of how cold my skin has become, and how it responds to the warmth of your flesh. Both your hands slip around my hips and rest upon the cage, your right hand holding the metal shaft itself, the left cupping the slightly raised and swollen balls.

You pull one of my hands back and under your night dress, pressing my fingers up into your messy cunt. I feel the heat of your breath intensify on my back and my cock flickers in its cage. Barred like a prisoner, I am an amputee imagining a phantom limb. I quickly fill my metal stump and feel the strain backing up inside me. You keep hold of the cage and lead me to the table, pushing me up against its edge. You kiss me and ease me back: “lie down, love, and focus on me”, you coo.

And I am spread upon the hard wooden table, four limbs hanging over its edge. And you set to work with your rope. Lashing my wrists under the table, you link up the rope to bind each ankle to a table leg. And you calmly fetch your lovingly prepared breakfast, and sit at the end to eat at leisure, sat between my legs, just the top of your head visible.

I don’t know how long you take, but it seems forever. I can hear you, out of sight, eating and drinking, taking your time as I feel the bindings on my wrists start to bite. My ankles are feeling a bit numb as you rise. Gently you cup my balls again, and rest the bottom of your full mug of coffee on the cage; the heat transfers quickly and soon my cock is warm, and then hot, from your drink. Instinctively, I writhe as the heat moves from swelling my cock to heating it. You withdraw and I relax, but now wide-eyed as I know what the game is.

Throughout the morning, you continue to work around me, taking every opportunity to tease or torture my caged member. A feather duster and vacuum cleaner as you clean the room, to tickle and suction; a bunch of herbs and a couple of raps from the spatula as you sear the meat for our slow-cooked stew; or a quick flick as you pass, the anticipation building. Until finally, after what seems like days, and with the loss of feeling almost complete in my external extremities, you stand naked before me, allowing your breasts to fall and smother the prisoner.

And you rub, enfolding the stub of my manhood in your capacious breasts, their warmth and softness stirring new life into its limited sphere of movement. As you work it, you bend and kiss my lower belly and thighs, leaving imprints of your lips like seeds in a flower bed. The numbness in my limbs has immobilised me completely except for my total focus at its core. As I lift my hips instinctively with your movement, the contrast between paralysis and super sensitivity in different parts of my body is putting my brain into overdrive. Heart racing, dry-mouth and shallow breathing, I feel myself struggling to process the feelings inside me. I ache, I hurt, I desire I crave, I need closure on this overstimulation of the senses.

And you have the key, fitted into the barrel lock, it pops and the metal sheath slides in your hand. Barely is it off than I have risen to full erection, my red, desperate cock straining to reach the skies before it is encased again, this time in the warmth of your mouth.

Gripping tighter on the rope as if to tear the table in two I can only lie as you lick and tease my tumescence, slowly sucking in deep and then releasing to tongue the tip with staccato flicks. All the while reminding me who owns my cock, and who can tell me when to come.

I close my eyes and give into the sensory collapse, unable to bear it any more, desperately straining not to come. From the distance, as though shouting through water, at last I hear your voice, the simple, single word: “come”.

And I am gone.  Spent and busted like a gambler’s luck. Ruined and broken like the winding path that led me here.

Helios

The knickers cut across my thighs as I sit alone on the wooden chair, naked except for them and a black leather collar that rides high on my neck, where the dampness of my sweat is prickling. Pink silk with blue lace details, they pack my cock so tight and small it feels like a chastity device. It is both because of the cold and my nerves that I shiver and wait.

You enter wearing a kimono, some sort of harness in your hand and point at the floor. I kneel, legs spread, looking up to you. You let your kimono fall open, your flesh spills out, delicious, soft and ripe. You bend to kiss me once on the head, I catch the scent of you as your breasts sway in my face, and then the jerk of your hand, as you slip over the head harness and the ball gag into my mouth.

You hold both my cheeks between your hands, staring deep into my eyes. Without breaking the contact of touch or vision, you sweep up my face until the tip of the ball is resting at the apex of your labia. I can smell you now, fresh and wet, your softness resting on my face. And with a single thrust you scrape my ball gag down and between your lips, pressing the clit like a grocer’s thumb carelessly bruising fruit. At the bottom of the sweep, you hold my head down firmly, as the blood gathers and my face fills out the frame of the gag, blowing hard and struggling but powerless in your hands. I hear the last of your breath leave your body – it is the groan of an emptying valve.

A handful of hair and I am back up, pulled in and scraped even closer. You pause to rub my nose into your clit as the ball hovers at your cunt entrance. The blood rush of returning upright mixes with your heady aroma and I feel a sideways lurch, my balance now slipping. You tighten your grip, and then I feel your feet turn out and your hips and legs opening. And now we are done with long sweeping strokes. Short angry stabs at your hooded, swelling bud, thick with mucus and the strings of my saliva, the ball now rattling urgently in my mouth as I vainly try to swallow. I gradually tip back further and further as you drag me under you, my head now a statute in a crane’s cradle that you sweep and drag, up and down, back and forth, faster and faster across the scratchy outer lips and smooth wetness within, shaking with the force of your heaving lungs and impending climax.

And when it comes you clench me tight between your legs and it seems my whole face is sucked into you. My ears are sheltered from your cries as you come, but I can feel them through my head and whole frame. I close my eyes and give in to the moment as you flood my face with your need to take me and use me. To make me feel filthy because you know that’s what I need. And to ratchet up my desire with no prospect of release. Because that is what you need.

You flinch and now I’m falling, my back hits the floor, shattering the glass of my feelings that are blown and shaped around your desire. You bestride me like Helios, and I can see the sun and the moon and stars stretch out before me as I slip into your darkness.

 

Backside to the future 

As with many CIS straight men, the pleasure of penetrating my own bottom has come to me reasonably late in life. And so far it has been a solo performance as I have discovered the joys of the prostate orgasm. So when I think of how this might be done as a duet, I’ve had some fairly fixed fantasy ideas. Such as the one in the .gif below.

https://nipples-n-milking.tumblr.com/post/168854861764

I think part of the point of this image was meant to be the drippy vagina, the long thread of mucus dangling as she pumps. But, to be completely honest, I didn’t even notice it was two girls when I first saw it, as I was so taken with the movement – the bouncy joy and the forcing of the receiver’s face into the floor.

I reblogged it on tumblr because it represents my usual feelings about pegging. When I eventually get to receive it, that is how I have always imagined it. Being ridden down into the floor, the sense of being filled combined with being face down eating the carpet. All the submissive vibes and sexual pleasure in one. Take that, dirty slut.

Don’t get me wrong, it is still very hot, but I now have a new focus for my fantasy. It is no longer an anonymous pegger fucking me. And that changes things, because it is no longer an abstract fantasy, but something to be realistically considered. And anal sex is a bit more complicated.

For instance, I think it unlikely I will get to a level of bouncy joyfulness like that shown until there has been some practice. Given my circumstances, I am not sure if that will happen very quickly. But it has also gone from being an abstract dangerous, delicious taboo to an expression of love.

I don’t want to be pegged like a dirty slut so much as fucked as an expression of Dommely love. So my fantasy is changing now. We are lying side by side after a long time kissing, touching and reassuring. My ass has been well lubed and fingers have been used to open me up, with kisses of reassurance and holding.

She is wearing the harness with the dildo we have chosen as right for the first time. I have shown my worship and submission by going down on her, fellating her harnessed peg, She has forced my head down onto it until I gag. It is slobbery and wet, and we lube it together.

I raise one leg and she pushes inside me, easing my fears and opening me with her words and gentle kisses on my shoulders. We make love like this, half spooning, with a half hitched leg letting her in. Once inside me, she just holds the position. Letting me get used to the feeling of being filled. Slowly she withdraws half way, and pushes back in; I am nervous but she strokes me, assures me with her love. She thrusts again. Better. Easier. By the fifth time I am pushing back to get her deeper.

And now she has taken me to the subspace. I am channelling the pain into joy, and the feeling of being filled and fucked by Miss. She is whispering the words that make me feel alive, the words that assure me I am Hers. She is Big Spoon curling around and inside me and now she reaches around and takes my cock, which is growing firm under her assurance and her still-lubed fingers work me harder, feeling the effect as I rise and clench around her proxy cock.

She is thrusting quite confidently now, and I am taking it with short jolts and grunts of joy as her hand works me nearer the edge. With something inside me, my tumescence is lessened so she is now stroking me faster, taking a run up towards the cliff edge. Her lips at my ears, her hot, fast breath whispers me to the edge, holding back at the last minute. On the third time her voice is insistent, her command unmistakable: “come for me, Darling”

And I am over, now free-falling, the spiralling spume now spilling over her knuckles and fist as she holds tighter, levering off my pouring cock to push harder inside me, deeper, utterly filling me at the back as she empties me at the front. I cry out in relief and pain, joy and hurt, and wonder and love.

Click on the lips to see who else is getting in on the action this week:

Fighting the urge

“Is it all planned?”

“Yes, miss”

“Then tell me how it will play, slut”

“A picnic spread before us on the deserted Sussex Downs, gingham cloth, stoppered bottles and cut sandwiches. You looking beautiful in a swirling summer dress, bright red cupid’s bow lips stand sharp against the white-out sky as I squint into your eyes. A pause as I kneel to fill your drink, you look at me, nervously biting your lower lip. The sun feels warm on my face, and shimmers on your shoulders, bared to the breeze coming off the sea.

“And I want you. I want you now. The cup knocked and platters flipped as I spread you eagerly, you grip my neck tightly as I push up frantically against your billowing skirts. Thumbs loop your knickers and they are in my hands in an instant, I grasp your wetness firmly, slipping two then three digits inside your warm cunt. You squirm and your eyes are telling me: take me, Darling, and I am up against you eating at your mouth and neck as our food lies unwanted.

“Your hands busy and efficiently pull me free, massaging my balls as I strain at you with my drippy cock. This is about now, and our urgent need to fuck away this feeling with no time for the touching niceties of the bedroom. My dripping fingers are now out and my forearm is across you, bearing down upon your falling figure and I take you with all the energy I can muster. I fill you frantically, my hips hammering at your ass, the buttons flying from your blouse as I tear you open to feast upon your body. Every thrust like a blow as you grapple with my shoulders, we are fighters in the ring, you are down and I must hold you to the count, until the shaking in my legs can stand it no more. My desire needs your affirmation: the clenching of your cunt in reflex action, its wetness seeming to try to force me free while your arms encircle me. And I am spent, and you have me locked in the hold until I tap and submit.”

“Good boy.”

The Waiting Room – part 3

 

This is the final part of a three part story. For part one, click here. For part two, click here.

I was prepared for this, but I wasn’t prepared for this. You have been prepared for everything. I sit on the edge of the bed but I barely feel I am touching it. The shredded knickers now feel tight across my cock, which has swollen like fruit in the sun. The weight in my guts has gone. My neck is stiff, my shoulders feel shot through with a dull ache, and I can feel bruising rise around my face and upper body. But I feel a lightness in my limbs that I haven’t felt in years and a sudden clarity like I’m finally seeing a landscape after fog has lifted.

You are kneeling behind me, pressing a cool cloth to my shoulder. Beneath it, four marks that in a few years might look like the result of a fall, but might also be construed as a letter ‘M’ if you were looking to see a pattern. Four strokes as though from a miniscule cane or a paw scratch from a wildcat. A couple of them were controlled – deliberate, shallow slices that burst the ripened skin. The other two shakier, one slightly gouged as though a shaking hand was holding the knife, struggling to press as the bearer was overwhelmed with a force greater even than her desire to see the marked flesh.

I don’t know how long we sit like this. I’ve lost all track of the hours that have passed since I entered this room. This anonymous, mass-produced space that has sucked all reference points from it, including time itself. This stasis is shifted by a single press of soft, dry lips on my scabbing shoulder and gentle hands at my neck, drawing up the remains of the bra into a rudimentary gag. I’m jerked out of my reveries by a sharp tug backwards of my head. Your hands tying the errant strands of straps, hooks and corsetry.

“You’ve been a good boy today. I’m proud of you.”

Those are the longed-for words that now burst like whisky through my chest. Your voice is gentle but even, in tone, pitch and pace. It’s granite wrapped in silk.

“Stand up and slip those knickers off for me, pet.”

And here I stand, once again looking at the floor, my back to you, with the saliva building in my mouth, offering a pair of breached panties for your use. You take them and, pulling back on my arms, slip them up to my elbows as a connecting strap behind my back. With one hand holding the strap, you can pull and twist to control my hands like a marionette. But now, you slip your own lubed fingers under my arm, running them between my legs.

Gently, you cup my balls and rub across them with your thumb, and run my cock teasingly through your fingers, smearing greasy prints along its increasing length. You are kissing my scarred shoulder as you work me to tumescence with increasing vigour. My breathing is now so hard yet muffled, and the moans are stifled with a gentle tug at the gag from behind. Your voice is so close I can almost feel your tongue in my ear.

“Tell me how you want it, fucktoy. Tell me how much you want to come”, your breath like a furness now, over my ears and neck, your tongue tracing the ridge of my trapezium.

“I want to come, ma’am.”

“Say it again, slut”

“I WANT to come.” Then “Ma’am” added as a desperate afterthought, as though it will tip the balance in your decision. Your hand lets go, leaving my hard cock straining in its upward trajectory, and you squeeze my nipples hard, which are still indented from the clamps.

“Touch it for me, slut. Stroke it like I want you to. Slow, long, deep strokes. Feel me in every inch you pull.”

I touch and connect, suddenly taken with the need to draw this desire from me. My knees are shaking, and feel like they will buckle soon, I stroke with urgency, feeling every receptor in my cock sending electric impulses through my whole body. Yet it feels heavy with a burden, like a length of lead piping.

“Faster”

And your tongue now moves to the other shoulder. You open your mouth and I can feel your teeth resting on its surface, squeezing gently as if testing for pressure points or weaknesses. I’m light headed from the lack of extra oxygen I need, and instinctively bite at the gag, trying to lift it with my tongue, feeling it snap back as I let go. One way or another I need this to end. I no longer care how, I just need you to take this away from me. This arousal that started as a worm in my guts and has now blown into a thrashing cobra on which I’m struggling to stay aboard.

I stroke on harder, quicker, blowing fiercely through the gag, and through the pain in my body, driven by the furious need in my cock to find that cliff edge. Where I can dive beyond this bodily self, into the safety of that space.

“Please let me come, ma’am” I now whimper, no longer even sure if you hear me.

“Not yet, slut. You need to work harder.”

“PLEASE”

“NO”

Then your teeth are back in my flesh, slightly deeper.

“Oh, God…”

And you haul hard on the straps and my elbows are pulled tight to my side, hands fly away from my cock leaving it flapping like a flag in the breeze.

“Oh pleasepleaseplease…”

“Touch. It. Again. GENTLY”. The ironic fierceness in that last word not lost on my otherwise spinning mind. I need to refocus. For you.

I touch myself gingerly, picking it up like a cudgel and gripping with a new sense of purpose and skill. And I stroke, riding the foreskin harder, drawing down the precum from its weeping eye, ears alert to your commands, conscious of the grip on my shoulder, but already the cliff edge is here and I need to feel myself free falling. You are now sensing everything with me, and bark low in my ear:

“NO”

But soon even I will be powerless to stop piling over into blue oblivion. My fingers feel like they’re trying to pull back on the reins, as the runaway force of my desire bounces roughly over the headleads of those cliffs.

Then, finally, in my ear you whisper “now” and I can give in to those forces greater than me, my body and, ultimately, my mind. I’m flying free as you bite down hard on my shoulder and pull at the straps, releasing my grip on my pumping cock that is strewing my seed like an irrigation sprinkler, kicking bursts of fiery liquid onto scorched earth.

It’s like the final searing in a series of brands, burning the pain into my shoulders, my chest, my body and my cock. I slump to my knees, almost hanging off the strap you hold me by, spent, broken and ruined as the orgasm you have just dealt me. I’m lying curled up my own fluid like a lanced boil, withering visibly each second. The carpet now feels as harsh as the light streaming through the gap in the curtains. And your fingers at last unhook the sopping gag from my mouth, releasing a low outpouring of cries and anguish and desire and pain, and joy and hurt and bafflement at how many emotions can pour out of a man so entirely drained of all reserves of energy and resistance. There is no ‘I’ any more. It feels like there is no space left for me in this claustrophobic room where everything I have lies spent on the ground.

I am awake. I am in the bed. Shivering slightly. And alone. Without looking I can sense my utter solitude in this room. My eye is caught by the flicker of a new message on the tablet on the bedside table. As I stretch to reach it, I am reminded of every stroke and their meaning across my tired frame.

“You did well, pet. Better than I dared hope for a novice. I’ve watched the video and the photos Cindy took for me. Your performance has made this so real – I hope it felt as real for you at the time. It certainly looked it, from what I can see.

“I hope you don’t feel disappointed, pet, because this is as real as it gets. We play for real, but our desires, and the urge to get what we need from each other, live inside us. There is no place where ‘we’ live. There is no ‘next’. There is no waiting room where we sit in anticipation of the real thing. This is the space where we live.

Yours, M”

 

The Waiting Room – part two

This is a continuation of a previous story – click here for part one.

What are you waiting for?

I realise that message has been on my screen for several minutes. I read the instructions and it’s now I notice the chair, a low ottoman positioned three feet from the end of the bed. I reply:

“I am your owned little slut.”

I put down the tablet and kneel in front of the chaise longue, head down as required, but I can see the opening door reflected in the TV. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, suddenly aware of my rising and falling chest, the cool air on the bare arms at my side. And the slight tremble in my fingers as the door clicks shut. I swallow hard. I feel your presence at my shoulder. I look at the carpet, trying to keep my breathing even and my body alert, ready to respond.

A pair of black Fuck Me shoes containing sheer black stockinged feet appear in front of me. They shift slightly as you sit, and then slide apart as your legs spread wide. I focus on a spot on the carpet in front of the chair between your knees. We sit like this for maybe 30 seconds, but it feels like forever. My stomach starts to cramp under the sheer tension of wanting someone to break this thick silence. Eventually, you speak:

“Look at me”

Slowly my eyes rise to meet yours, past the sheer stockings and a black leather one-piece corset and skirt. Above the pushed-up breasts your face is almost hidden by jet black sunglasses and a fountain of fawn hair that sits on your shoulders. Dark, heavily painted lips, somewhere between blood and red wine. Somehow you seem taller than the cropped images and censored scenes you’ve allowed me to see, bigger, more overwhelming from my prone position. To reinforce this you lean down and whisper into my face:

“Do you have something to say?”

All through today’s journey I have been memorising the lines I’ve prepared and which I now hope are good enough for you.

“I am your fucktoy. I’ve given myself to you in my thoughts and daily practice, but I’ve come here today with no expectations except to be used for your pleasure, as you see fit. My body, my cock, my orgasms are yours. Take me and use me and leave me with nothing but the pleasure of having served you.”

Your face still inches from mine, you deftly clip a clamp to each of my nipples, linked by a chain, with a threaded bolt on each to adjust the tension. The setting is in the middle, which means I feel them but will stop noticing unless they are tightened. A ‘reducer’ to ground me a little and create a baseline for the pain.

You continue to lock eyes and bring out a MagicBullet. It vibrates almost imperceptibly until you press the point into each nipple, between and around the clamp, and it feels like I’m grasping an electric fence. I feel a dry heave starting in my guts and I’m trying to control the roll in my shoulders, but the shivers in my neck betray me. You alternate between sides, and each time you switch, you tighten the clamp. I gasp and that feeling of nervous sickness moves lower, I feel it sat in my groin, I feel terrified of letting go. It is so intense: you, me, the clamps, the pain and the buzz and the touch of the bullet, your heavy breath, the prickling carpet burning my knees, so I look up because I need to focus on the plain expanse of ceiling as I groan low, long and hard through bitten lips and clamped jaws.

You open me up with a thumb in my mouth and I gratefully, instinctually suck it as something to cling to with my tongue and my mind, and now you are holding my jaw with the rest of your hand. A single tear has tracked down onto your forefinger as the buzzing at my chest ceases and I falter; I can’t seem to concentrate on kneeling right, as though I can’t work out which way is up. You are now holding me up with your hand and from the force of your breath I sense a growling from somewhere deep inside. You are pressing the MagicBullet between your legs with your other hand.

You push forward into me, like a shoulder charge frozen at the moment of impact as your straightened arm presses the relentless toy harder, for longer. I feel the pulsing pushing through you into me. Your other hand is now cradling the back of my head, and I’m trying to support our weight kneeling, but still reeling from everything, just a foot from the edge of the bed. And I feel the waves of your arousal beating through you, each one thrusts up into my neck, each one a tighter grab of my hair, your nails digging deeper into the flesh of my nape.

And then we are over, you finally push me backwards into the edge of the bed as you launch off the chair, possessed, your groin in my face grinding my head down into the bed, your body folded over me, the sudden smothering of my face with your slavering cunt barely gives me time to breathe. Between your hungry thrusts I can hear your voice  commanding me to “fucking lick me, you fucking bitch”, and from instinct I paddle my flat tongue against you, pressing your hard, swollen clit and flicking inside you with the tip. But soon I’m little more than a mounted tongue as you fuck my face with urgency, and it feels like you’re going to break my neck. My head is wrapped over the edge of the mattress, the rest of me following onto the floor like a Dali watch.

Every.

Thrust.

Slams.

My.

Head.

Into.

The.

Mattress.

Every breath I draw is between your legs, the air sticky with the wetness of your aroma. Part of me considers calling upon THAT word, bailing out to breathe. But deeper inside I find a focus, and feel like I’m falling into a controlled tailspin that turns alternately night and day until suddenly I KNOW everything is all right. This is fine because you have led me to a place of safety.

At some point I realise we have finished up on the floor, and you are now sat over me yet I feel so in control of myself, it’s like our moods are merging in concert. I seem to anticipate your moves, and I can no longer tell whether I am responding to them or dictating them. This is what I have come for, and I cry out for that pain you promised. Hit me, hit me harder, build up a frenzy of famished biting – claw and pound my body with fists, knuckles, wrists and anything you have free that can connect. Grind me into the ground. I’m the nothing that is not there and the nothing that is. A blissed-out oblation.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. I’m only half aware of where I am, now lying in the recovery position, my breathing easier and my mind seems shrouded by a veil, with sensations occasionally billowing the sides.

Then I feel the cold of the paring knife against me, but I’m not afraid. You are tracing arabesques across my back with the lightest drag of the tip. A slip, and the bra is released by the blade. Then I feel it snagging, pricking then slitting the seat of the knickers. I’m no longer wary of the cut of the steel, I am completely immobilised by trust. A snap of latex gloves and I feel you push a plasticised finger through the hole and inside me – I’m so relaxed it slips on the sweat and inside, and you quickly press on my prostate, testing by my response until you find it. It slides me deeper into the anaesthetic of submission, each press holds me down and seems to skewer my whole body. I try to wriggle but the drug is too strong – I’m feeling any power drain out of me, and the rhythm of pump-and-release is building a tension so tight inside me, I need to feel everything harder. I need to be opened up to you completely.

The knife is no longer cold. I’m willing you to do it. And as you hold me firm with your gloved forefinger, you mark me in the way that completes me.

To be continued…