Switch
Published by Alethea Hunt at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Alethea Hunt
Smashwords Edition: License Notes
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Other Titles by Alethea Hunt available at Smashwords:
Perspectives of Love
Working Away
Him
She stands there before me and my pulse rushes at this first sight of her in all her glory. Not the mousy beige apology of a woman I met eighteen months ago but a proud confident vision in leather basque and boots, the transformation from caterpillar to butterfly a pale comparison to that of my lover. I have released the woman within, the secret dominatrix. My secret dominatrix.
She steps back and her eyes are appraising, confidently assessing my clothes, my body. I have followed her instructions to the letter, hand job, shower, blue jeans, white t-shirt. Those instructions made me smile, so precise, so beautifully written in a hand-made invitation. An address and a time, presented as though they had come from someone mysterious rather than my lover. I love that word; lover. I have had girlfriends in the past, but she is different. She places herself in my hands and lets me mould her, shape her like the gardens I love to create. Somewhere in the process we have grown together. We are lovers.
We arrived from different starting points. There was no mountain I couldn’t climb, no woman I thought I couldn’t seduce. Tonight we are equal. Tonight she will be more than my equal. Something in the unfamiliar boldness in her eyes puts me on edge, so different from the woman I first met and I am glad I humoured her and did as she asked. My hands burn to fidget and I focus on keeping them still and relaxed by my sides. In a look and a set of followed instructions, the power in the room has shifted.
An unexpected wash of emotion runs through me: lust yes, but I had expected that; pride, she is my creation; fear, I am about to become hers. Tempering them all is love. I find my eyes prickling with tears and blink them away hurriedly, ashamed of them; for the first time I can remember unsure of my role in the bedroom. She touches my jaw, allowing her fingers to brush my stubble, sending prickles of excitement shooting through the marrow of my teeth. I bite down hard and the feeling escalates in both pleasure and discomfort. Her lips are soft and feather light against mine and she whispers my name as though it is a magic spell. Her perfume fills my senses, the smell of skin and leather and lust.
“Remove your t-shirt.”When she speaks her voice has dropped from its usual pitch, into something sultry and commanding. I’ve played this scene in my mind a hundred times in the planning and I always pictured myself holding my own, moving at my own pace whilst meeting her commands with an insouciant smile. Instead I find my adrenaline filled hands leaping to her command, my t-shirt dropping to the floor in an unseemly rush. I am disappointed that before I can meet her eyes her tsks of disapproval reach me. Something that feels uncomfortably like insecurity stabs me square in the stomach. I square my shoulders defiantly and lift my face to hers. She has seen me naked many times. At this important moment, what is it about me that disappoints her?
With a flick of her wrist she draws my attention to both the thin black crop in her hand and my crumpled t-shirt on the floor.
“You have a laundry maid?”
My mouth twitches into a smile at her question, quickly squashed by the disapproval in her eyes. I start to bend to retrieve the offending article but stop immediately at the press of the crop under my jaw, turning my face up towards hers.
Her voice is soft, but powerful all the same. “No answer for me?”
I fumble over the words, disarticulated sounds escaping before I manage to force my tongue and throat to fully co-operate. “No, I mean Yes.”
“No to the laundry maid?” I expect to hear amusement in her voice, but there is none.
“Yes, I mean, I have no laundry maid.”
“Mistress”
The word escapes like a held breath whispering into the stillness of the room. A cliché hanging there between us. And yet at that word my cock stirs in my jeans, suddenly more alert to the tension.
“Yes, Mistress.”
My blood seems to drop away, leaving me feeling lightheaded. Mentally I shake myself. This is a game for her, another step in the recovery of her confidence. I have called her forth like a sculptor releases the living figure from the block of stone. This flesh and blood creation I had imbued with a voice of command, but still, I had not anticipated the commands applying to me, nor my responses being so immediate, a flame to a fuse I didn’t even know was there.
Delicate fingers trace patterns across my pecs and I tense against them, thrusting forwards to increase the pressure. My advances are rebuffed and she withdraws her hand. I had been prepared to humour her, react strongly to her tentative forays, but it seems she is more than capable of playing her role. I should be pleased, I am, but beneath it I am disconcerted by the reality of being out of control.
“Tidy your shirt and remove the rest of your clothes.”
I fumble for the top stud of my jeans, using my toes to loosen my shoes, in a hurry to move beyond this stage to the touching and the sex. She stops me in my tracks once more, this time with a gentle hand.
“Tidy your shirt and remove the rest of your clothes.” There is definite emphasis on the first part of the sentence and I acknowledge my mistake and retrieve the t-shirt.
I remember the different dynamic between us the first time I removed my shirt. The sun was relentless and I made to pull my shirt over my head without thought. I caught her eyes, the flash of need so at odds with the shy and indecisive nature I had come to know over the last few weekends working in her garden. The mousy divorcee and the cocky landscaper, almost the plot for a cheesy porn flick, and I basked in the look, preening my own self confidence returning her crumbs of the sight of my chest without wondering at the depth of her hunger.
But that look was the first moment of my awareness of her as a woman not a client. I began to notice her, then more than that, she began to intrigue me.
I realise I am unconsciously folding my jeans and place them on the chair with my t-shirt. Feeling ridiculous, I shake out my socks and fold them to. The elasticised waist of my boxer shorts is unaccountably snug, the cotton tented by the erection I blame entirely on the tightly laced leather corset she is wearing, and yet the implication of those clothes is as uncomfortable for me as it is arousing and as I slide my fingers under to push them down butterflies flutter in the pit of my stomach.
She is a new creation, intriguing in a whole new way. When I straighten she rewards me with a lingering caress from balls to crown, her fingertips dragging slightly against the sensitive silk of my skin, circling her fingers lightly beneath my head. Her whole body is close to mine, crowding me and I fight my initial instinct to hold her and pull her close followed swiftly by the need to pull away, protect myself. Her eyes burn with possessive knowledge of me coupled with something predatory that made my throat constrict and my cock harden and twitch against her tightening grip.
“Good Slave.” she purrs in my ears and an answering warmth spreads in the pit of my stomach. This is familiar ground, even if the words are not. Pleasing her always pleases me. Her face is pressed into the indentation of my collarbone and she inhales deeply, her leather clad breasts brushing teasingly against my nipples. Her teeth nip sharply followed by the soft brush of her lips. Each new sensation causes me to pulse against that circle of thumb and forefinger holding me so effectively.
I realise I have not fully contemplated the erotic torture waiting for me when she steps away from me and the cool air from the window rushes across my overheated skin. Since that first sight I have been ready to fuck but I can sense relief is a long way from coming. The thought is either excitingly disturbing or disturbingly exciting. I can’t decide which.
In our early couplings I overwhelmed her with my confidence and seduced her, deliberately overcoming her self-doubt simply because I could. It was fun, a game I had played a fair few times before. This is rapidly moving away from game into new undiscovered territory. I could overpower her, push her onto the bed and ease my length into her. I can smell her arousal through the alien scent of leather and the sweetness of the candles that litter her dresser and I know her pussy would be wet and welcoming. I could just take her, but I know I won’t.
This is for her. A reclamation. A new beginning.
From the earliest days the strongest feeling I had for her was the need to nurture. Before it was sexual, before she was more than a client on my waiting list, I recognised her vulnerability. It was written all over her, from her shapeless clothes to the hesitant eye contact, she was as fragile as the seedlings in my nursery. The decisions she left to me, despite her clear plans for the rough patch of land that would under her vision become a garden, showed a tendency to try to please me at odds with our client/contractor relationship. She was used to deferring. I wanted her to make the decisions.
Her slim, precise fingers slide a ring over my swollen head and skilfully manoeuvre it to sit tight against my root. My eyes close in anticipation of the subtle pressure as she tightens the fastening. Instead, with an almost imperceptible creak of leather, she drops to her knee and swallows my length in one smooth spit slicked motion. I feel my head pushing against the soft flesh that jumps in a near gag and suddenly there is no sensation except in my cock. My head drops and I watch as her cheeks hollow and her hand burrows between my legs to cup my balls, teasingly pulling them away from me even as my skin tightens them against my body. Always vocal, my appreciation escapes my lips unrestrained.
“God. Yes. That feels so good, A..”
Her lips leave my cock at the first syllable, the swift slurping noise and cool air firing the initial warning to my fevered brain. Sluggishly though it fails to react until the tight squeeze just short of actual pain refocuses my attention and snatches the words from my tongue.
With lithe grace that speaks of hours of hard labour in the gym, she rises in one fluid motion from crouching at my feet to her full height, and though she is still inches shorter than me I feel compelled to meet her eyes.
“Did I ask you to speak?” The pitch and tenor of her voice has me feeling strangely confused, increasing my arousal and tying my tongue in knots, whilst giving me the distinct impression I have let her down. I struggle to find the correct response, the need to apologise unnerving.
“No Mistress. I’m sorry, Mistress.”
A small angry voice inside me rebels and shouts that she’s clamped my cock not removed my balls, but the greater part of me, the part that hums and strains for the attention of this beautiful woman ignores the complaint with aplomb.
The shaft of the crop slaps lightly against my thigh and I flinch at the implication. A relatively new toy, we’d spent hours poring over our choices on line before committing to the purchase and still further time exploring the range of sensations it could elicit. I know in my mind there is no hit she can deliver that would do more than sting unpleasantly, but somehow the underlying tension our play is creating is heightening every sensation, my reactions uncharacteristic.
She moves behind me and strokes the rectangular tip of the crop across my skin from the relatively hairy top of my thigh where each movement teases and tickles to the smooth skin of my buttocks which twitches and tenses at the slithering leather.
With a tiny flick of her wrist the tongue of leather traces the crack of my ass, its slim shape insinuating itself between my cheeks, grazing my opening, triggering a flurry of embarrassing fluttering clenches as though I am trying to seize it and draw it inside me. This was a play we had not rehearsed, at least not in this configuration.
Colour heats my face and throat, my only consolation that she is still behind me, tracing the path of the crop with her fingertip, through hair, over smoothness then tantalizingly through the cleft, past the pulses I cannot control and still downwards over sensitive skin and deep into the fleshy fabric of my balls. I swallow convulsively and try to shake the sensation of utter powerlessness that overwhelms me.
With sudden clarity I understand the selfishness of my initial seduction. I had mastered her body, drawn positive reactions from flesh that was tentative because I understood her body better than she did. And now she repays the favour, dragging a response from my body that my mind does not want to acknowledge.
Her hands on my hips guide me to turn. I nearly stumble the few steps to bed as my mind refuses to focus on this most basic task, confused by the wealth of sensations coursing through me.
She asks me to kneel and then guides me down until I am supported on a padded stool with my waist level a few inches above the top of the mattress. The bed has been recovered in honour of the evening, dressed with a new black satin sheet which seems to flow like liquid against my skin.
The bed should have been my first clue to the sensualist hidden under the shapeless sweats and t-shirts. My first glimpse through a half open bedroom door on our third or fourth date was tantalising enough for me to ease the door open. Antique brass, the bedposts towered five feet into the air, spanned with swirling curves and strict verticals. It reigned dominant over an otherwise sparse room, even the bedcovers, snowy white heaps of heavy weight cotton paying clear second fiddle to sheer magnificence of the frame.
It is a bed that inspires fantasies. For the life of me I can’t remember which one of dreamt of this.
Her voice purrs in my ear, requesting, with all the subtle over tones of a woman in command, that I bend forwards and stretch my arms out to the sides. The position feels awkward, my stubble rasping uneasily against the smoothness of the sheets, but the main discomfort is my ass waving unprotected and inviting, raised high above the rest of my body.
Leather cuffs buckle securely around my wrists and my arms are pulled tightly, but not uncomfortably, out at right angles to my body and secured to the bed frame. Theoretically I know I can spread my legs and stand, and with concentration could unloop the rope from around the curly ornate metal freeing my hand. Mentally I rehearse this knowledge to still the unexpectedly nervous twist in my guts.
We have been working towards this power exchange for over a year. Destroyed by a cheating spouse, the alluring woman tying me to the bed had been reduced to a pale plump shell, all her womanly potency hidden under despondency and comfort eating. From the arousal of my curiosity at that first flash of need she began to creep into my thoughts in a way I had never experienced before. My father used to rebuild classic cars in the garage of our family home. I had never understood the joy he said he found in finding all the parts as fragments of scrap and putting them back together again, but that was what I wanted to do for her. Gradually I fed her self confidence with gentle flirting over coffees, her self esteem with praise for her plans and her hunger with casual flashes of my body. Unconventionally for now, we date in a traditional way, movies and meals, trips out and about and do not live together. Through conversation, I found the twisted scrap of her life and started to put it all back together. She started to shine. With a little encouragement she started to reclaim her fire. Each step she takes contains a little of me. She is my creation and I am proud of her.
Proud of her and a little afraid, although of what and whom I am unsure. I was trapped from the first touch or her hand, long before the cuffs circled my wrist. Very little has changed with the application of restraints; they are simply an acknowledgement that I will bend to her will.
Her fingers trail the length of my spine, circling the bumps and dipping in the hollows. It is a leisurely exploration. My cock aches and I long to dip my hips and press it into the silken mattress. Her hand pushes between my legs, as though she has heard my pleas, and cool fingers clasp lightly my burning shaft, balls drawing tightly against my body as the smooth skin of her wrist tortures me. I am seconds away from begging. This is the distillation of fear. I am afraid of these sensations and the extraordinary need they are drawing from me.
This was supposed to be a game. Her on top. The final restoration of her position as woman, ruler of men. I was not supposed to want her like this.
Again the smooth touch of the crop’s leather tongue laps its way across the exposed cheeks and dips into the cleft between. As before, I clench against the implied intrusion in a mixture of surprise and fear. We have discussed and trialled many of the aspects of this evening’s pleasures increasing her confidence, but this aspect, no. Again her finger follows the crop and this time circles then gently presses against the tight ring of muscle. Press and release, press and release until, as the top joint of her finger is swallowed, my lust soaked brain recognises a game I have played with her. My cock is aflame with burning need and I twist my face against the sheets, my breaths matching her play, hissing out between gritted teeth. Her finger twists and burns, my cock aches for release and then with no warning she withdraws. A needy moan vibrates the air, and I realise to my shame it is mine.
The length of the crop presses horizontally across my cheeks as though she is deciding where to place her strikes. Each touch, somehow cool and detached from the flesh and blood woman behind me, ratchets up my need. Her mouth, hot and wet and unrestrained, licks and bites and nibbles and sucks and beneath her I melt and buck until with a swipe of tongue across my entrance I whimper like a child.
Holy Fuck. My entrance? I clench and buck and sob as the tiny part of my brain that is still rational considers this idea. Part of me always before considered an exit was in such a short space of time becoming something quite new entirely. I recall some porn we stumbled across in our preparations for this evening: a strict leather clad woman fucking a penitent female sub with a heavily built strap-on. My cock had hardened at the images and I had allowed myself to think it was only from the appealing proposition of the woman beneath. Now suddenly I am considering the scene with me in her position. My body shakes with the release of orgasm without shedding a single drop.
Sinking limp and boneless into the mattress, except for the incongruent turgid erection trapped between my weight and the sheets, I moan in disbelief at the intensity of the experience. Her delicate fingers stroke gently up and down my spine, comforting, calming, understanding in a way I almost resent.
“You do realise you will be punished for this?” Her voice is cool like balm, her words petrol to my fires.
“Yes, Mistress. I’m sorry Mistress.”
“First I will spank you, then you will count twenty strikes of my crop.”
My pulse rate increases and blood rushes round my body as though seeking escape. Rational thought struggles for supremacy. We have experimented on each other with the crop. We both know what it feels like. I am a tough man, she a slighter woman. And yet, nothing of this experience is quite what I had expected.
Her hand smoothes comfortingly across my skin in a swirling pattern that is mesmerising. Soft and gentle, despite my fears I am lulled into a strange state of hypersensitive calm, my nerves chasing the soothing sensation like iron filings chasing a magnet. I raise my hips from the bed and present them like a ripe fruit for her delectation. She murmurs quiet praise of the muscles beneath her fingers and it is as though the last words she had spoken were a dream, a fevered imagining.
Without any discernible pause her hand slaps harshly against my cheek sending cold shivers of shock racing up my spine and forcing a yelp from my lips. The next strike has hit before the touch of the first has turned to gentle warmth, the next again before my skin scorches fully into life as moorland flames beneath a hot sun. The blows rain down without pattern or repetition, each a precise delivery of sting and shock and heat. My body must be broken, the nerves damaged or else I would have to admit that the sensations are turning from pain to a heated fullness that has spread from cheeks to balls to cock. The fiery tingle stoking my lust blows aside my rational mind and demands my full attention. Her murmurs are now in soft praise of the heat of my skin, my barely stifled moans, the tightness of my balls. And I want it all, her softness, her praise, the stinging slap of her palm.
Just as I commit to the pleasure, surrender to her hands, all becomes still. Her trailing fingers turn my face to hers and she bows low over the bed to whisper in my ear.
“The safeword is red. I will stop if you use it.”
Fear again lurches in my belly, but is overpowered by twisted desire. Twenty strikes when the most we have experimented with is two or three in a set, and never on skin as alive to sensation as mine is now. She has given me a safeword and I pray I will not use it, but everything is suddenly less certain than I had thought.
She has paid attention to our research, our experiments, and has become the secret dominatrix I never suspected I wanted.
The first strike of the crop is a moment separate from time. The sting is white hot, sharp but over in an instant. I am confused by the sudden absence of pain, then the heat and cacophony of sensation floods my body and my brain. A small puff of confused pride congratulates me on the silence I maintain by will power alone. My tongue stumbles over the line I know she wants to hear as though trying out a foreign language for the first time.
“One Mistress, Thank you Mistress.”
Her hand smoothes my skin and I know she is pleased with me. The warm glow her pleasure brings me is bewildering. Her finger trails just below the epicentre of fire and her lips press cool and gentle against me, sending a shudder of desire bolting through my core.
“Shall I continue?” Her question is soft and I know what she is asking. She is concerned she has really hurt me and that I am only being brave for her sake.
The strike burnt like a brand, but I need to be brave for my sake. Be brave and admit I want more.
“Please Mistress. Nineteen more.”
Her teeth nip lightly at the inside of my thigh. She doesn’t make light of my need, or criticise it, just takes it as given, as though she expected nothing else.
“Nineteen more.” Her hand swirls soothingly and the crop lands, seemingly millimetres from the first strike. My breath leaves with a whoosh and I suck back fresh air equally audibly.
I count and thank, she strokes and kisses and strikes.
I time my breaths as the stripes consume my ass. At her gentle touch I have time to calm my breathing and prepare a breath to carry me through the strike. I try to burrow my face into the mattress, desperate to swallow the cries I feel would disappoint, or heaven forbid, frighten her. She sees my need and places a smooth satin pillow under my head. With gratitude I take a deep mouthful and bite down through the next stoke, my groan no longer suppressed but swallowed by the silky fabric.
I have forgotten about her beyond the soft touch and stinging stroke. This is all about me. I think no further than the next breath, the next bite. I am flying.
All too soon my alien tongue struggles through the syllables of twenty.
Her hand hovers just beyond my heated skin, but I can sense its presence in the disturbance of the air. Tentatively her hot, wet tongue traces the lines leaving silvery trails through the red heat of my imagination.
More pillows are pushed between my hips and the mattress and I slump forwards burying my cock in their lush cool softness. Her mouth is replaced by ticklish trickles of oil and as she massages the slippery fluid into my skin she answers the question I couldn’t verbalise, describing the purplish hue of bruising, the remaining stripe and rectangle of white from the final strike fading into the raw red heat of my skin.
For long seconds I relax into the massage, ignoring the creeping unease that begins to form knots in the pit of my stomach. The oil, which at first had cooled and soothed has now capped the heat which is building like a storm. Her tender fingers are suddenly instruments of torture, each touch a blaze of fire.
That touch, those delicate smooth fingertips, inch towards the sensitive entrance which flutters with a previously unimagined sexual purpose. I ask myself what I want more, to feel her fingers inside me or feel my cock inside her. As her nail grazes the length of my cleft from coccyx to balls I realise it doesn’t matter one iota what I want. She will take what she wants and I will be grateful for the crumbs she gives me.
The rhythmic pressure hints that she expects admission.
“Please, Mistress.”
“Please what?”Her fingers continue in their maddening rhythm and my breath catches in a half pant, half sob. Please what? I push back against her fingers in the futile hope that they will slip inside and relieve the coil of want forming in the pit of my stomach. I cannot ask her to breach the tight ring of muscles and fuck me. I writhe against her, against the pressure of her fingers, against the unwanted desire, until I am close to explosion.
One more withdrawal, with the skilled timing of an expert sadist, leaves me empty and needy in a way I couldn’t have imagined an hour ago.
“Ask me nicely and I have a present here for you.” Her voice is low and teasing, with both a smile and smoulder running through. I twist and pull, creating a new burn in my shoulders before I give in and allow I cannot see what she might be offering. I can see her face though, her eyes bright with desire, her mouth swollen as though I have been kissing it. She is beautiful and I subside against the pillows and force myself to form a sentence.
“Please Mistress. Please may I have my present?”
She stretches down next to me, the leather covered curves hugging against my sweat soaked skin and presses kisses into the muscles of my shoulders, just out of reach of my lips. Her fingers brush my hair from my brow and she looks into my eyes, searching. I have no idea what she is looking for or what she can see.
“Do you trust me?”
This is not a question from my Mistress, but from my lover. My answer is from my soul.
“Implicitly.” I say it and mean it to the limit of my understanding.
She reaches over me and presses her mouth to mine fleetingly, a touch with wealth of meaning captured in cells of skin and magic of nerves. Then she is gone and with a quiet whisper of cloth, so is my sight.
The seconds drag. I explore the boundaries of my current situation. It is hard to look beyond the ache in my cock and heat tormenting my skin, but I am aware of a slight slackening in the binds pulling my arms. I give a testing pull and find I am still fastened, but with an increased degree of freedom. I find the blindness disorienting and I lift my head trying to place her movements by sound alone, but either she has left the room or she is able to keep very quiet. My mind races, freed from delirium by this hiatus, and it infuriates me, intruding on the freedom of this experience with analysis of my performance and hers, concerns about what might be coming next. I scrub my face in the pillow, flex my feet, rotate my wrists anything to move away from the mental and back into the physical again.
With a rustle of fabric she settles next to my hip, her booted leg drawn up against the ticklish skin of my flank. Again her fingers begin their sensuous stroke, again the drift of cooling oil between fingertips and ass. Something cold, smooth and hard joins her finger and I jerk into the pillows. Gradually this strange implement warms, heated by contact with my skin.
Suddenly its texture and shape are familiar to me and I tense against the howls of dismay roaring through my brain. I don’t want that hard metal plug entering my body. It’s too much, too solid. The safeword forms in my brain but refuses to reach my mouth.
She is pressed against me, murmuring close to my ear how delicious it will feel to be stretched, to be full, how different it is from any other experience she could give me.
She would know. I love to slide that chrome shaft deep inside her, retreating, twisting and thrusting till her pussy drips and I can slid in, stimulating myself still further on the unnatural hardness swallowed by her ass.
The metal has warmed and seems less alien, less scary, as it drifts over my oil slicked skin. I recall how many times I have asked her to trust me, confident I can take her to a new peak of excitement. Maybe that is where she is leading me.
The game begins again; press, release, press, release, never quite enough pressure to breach entry.
“Ask nicely.” The thread of hot steel is back in her voice. She is still my lover, but the Mistress is firmly back in control.
“Please Mistress.” My voice is hoarse and stressed. “Fuck me.”
The pressure becomes insistent and I push back against the intrusion. More oil trickles against my opening and the smooth invader slides inside. The stretch burns, punctuated with shafts of white hot pleasure that tingle and shiver and pucker my skin to gooseflesh, until I am fully breached and centred on the feeling of fullness and heaviness. The soothing hand is back, stroking the length of my spine and I am elated by my own daring.
Behind me there is silence. The hand withdraws and I am left alone. Experimentally I roll my hips, gasping as the plug remains static, firing icicles of pain and pleasure and nameless sensations that are combinations of both through my pelvis.
“It is what you expected, or what I told you it would be?” Her voice suggests she knows the answer and that she was right. I am so absorbed in the sparkling rivers of excitement coursing through my body I treat the question as rhetorical and am repaid by subtle but undeniable pressure burying the tip tightly against a new powerful bundle of nerves. My moan shakes the bed and vibrates the plug even more powerfully. Her fingers are knotted in my hair, arching my back, clenching the muscles in my ass and rubbing my aching cock against the silky smooth pillows crushed beneath me.
“Is it as good as I told you it would be?” The syllables are crisp and distinct falling like shattering glass on my shivering body.
“You were right, Mistress.” The words are ground out between my gritted teeth. “I didn’t know.”
She releases me and I lie stunned, sweat leaching from my pores filling the room with the musky scent of my arousal. One at a time her hands take mine and I rediscover them with her touch, their sensitivity increased by their isolation.
Her fingers are everywhere, fireworks exploding in my cramped muscles as she brings my arms in close to my body, removes the pillows supporting me with the tortuous drag of silk against my engorged shaft, and encourages my weak legs to push my body further up the bed. Supporting my hips she rolls me supine and I sob against the change of pressure deep in my arse and the oily kiss of the sheets against my skin. The plug is heedless of my tender flesh, cruel in its stimulation and I fear and crave what I suspect is coming next.
Her mouth is a hot wet cavern that swallows my cock deeply, her tongue massaging, tracing the veins that stand heavily proud and my cry is more scream than moan as she both sucks and releases the catch on the restrictive ring.
The combination of pleasure and pain rips through every nerve and I arch, thrusting my hips against her face, forcing her to take it all, leaving me quivering on the very edge of orgasm.
I feel her vibrations around me then she pulls away, only to swing her leg over me, guiding me to her silken pussy and sinking down onto me. Only the bite of the intruder halts the threatened rush from balls to cunt. She rises above me and I feel the flex and contraction of her thigh muscles beneath my hands.
Merciless in her pleasure, she rides me hard, each rising stroke threatening to pull the orgasm from my body, each descent bringing the stabbing pain to stay its course.
Reaching forwards she grabs my shoulders and makes to pull me upright.
“Help me.” Her voice is ragged and breathy. “Come with me and sit up.”
Confused but responding mechanically to her words I move my hands from her thighs to the sheets and ease my exhausted body towards vertical. She hooks her arms under my shoulders and pulls my body towards hers, changing the stimulation until the pain and the pleasure and the pressure and the need explode and take me with them.
And afterwards there is nothing; nothing that can touch me. With a sudden clarity I realise my life will be split by this experience. Everything that comes now with be after.
The plug is gone, as is the porn star dominatrix. I snuggle my face into the perfumed softness of my lover’s hair, her head resting in the crook of my shoulder, the stiff leather corset gone, her body soft in all the right places. Only the slither of satin and the tender aches of my body remain.
I do not understand what happened and I do not need to. For the first time in this relationship, in any relationship, I do not know where we are heading. My heart swells at the idea. We are lovers. We will decide.
Her
I stand there before him, the robe I had worn to greet him pooled at my feet, my pulse erratic and nervous. He is spectacular in his cocky self assurance, but he is gentle and kind with it, helping me find myself again from the wreckage I had become to the woman I am now, a woman I have never been before. Tonight quite literally. I am what he has asked of me, although I suspect he doesn’t know it. His secret Domme.
He is beautiful: long lean muscles wrapped in skin burnished by the elements. Tonight he is my toy and I have dressed him as such in the blue jeans, white t-shirt of the boy next door look I so admired in my teens. He is so much more than I could have imagined then. I can smell his shower gel and cologne, masculine and clean above the slightly warm leathery smell of his jacket, helmet and gloves, left downstairs. I love that he has not tried to crowd into this house, tried to change me when I am not ready for it, but has encouraged me to come to life, held me safe, allowing me to grow and develop like his precious plants. I love that he loves me.
I was such a mess when he first started work on my garden then on me. I had allowed the failure of my marriage to convince me I was worthless and I wanted nothing more than to fade completely into the background of life. He has forced me to step forward, to take the stage. I watch the muscles flex in his forearms and jaw. I am making him nervous keeping him waiting like this. Good. Tonight I am a goddess and it will do him good to remember his place.
I can feel the power bloom inside me like one of his prized flowers. I had not anticipated a shift away from our usual dynamic but it is there. I can see from the darkness of his eyes that he appreciates the outfit but something new also twinkles there, an insecurity. I wonder if he believes I will think less of him if he enjoys this evening? He is so gloriously masculine, from the stubble beneath my fingers to the pride of his stance. He will remain so, even in this uncertainty, even if he gives himself to the surrender I suspect is lurking in his soul. I kiss him, the last act of a lover and the first of his domme. I withdraw, centring my thoughts on the persona I have created, the woman he needs, the one who can command.
“Remove your t-shirt.” My voice is lower than usual and I like it. I have practised with my voice and my body in the privacy of my bedroom, playing out this scene, watching others on the internet, designing the siren I want to be. The bodice is a work of extravagance, tooled leather I have moulded my figure to, pushing my body in the gym to a tighter, more honed shape than I have enjoyed even in my youth. Now, instead of the fluttering nerves I had expected she and I, the domme and the lover, have become one and I feel in command instinctively. He has rushed to fulfil my request, but with his usual casualness. Tonight I will leave my clothes on the floor and he will pick his up. The sight of his chest sends a familiar shaft of desire through me, which I ignore. I have learnt this role is about subjugating my desires for his. Strange that, since I am the one wearing the leather.
I swish the first of my toys, A slim leather crop. I have been practicing and can make it swish through the air and have lined up matching chalk marks on my piano stool. I have slapped it hard on my legs, but I suspect, like untangling hair, that it hurts a lot more when you let someone else do it to you.
“You have a laundry maid?”
He does when he stays over at my house. Me. But that is me the lover. I cannot imagine a goddess fumbling over dirty laundry and tonight, neither shall I.
He starts to smile and that is when I realise this is not a game, not if he is not going to get sloppy and smile and cajole his way into my bed. He will do this my way.
I push the crop under his jaw and force him to stand, enjoying but not reacting to the apology in his eyes.
“No answer for me?”
He fumbles through his responses and I feed on his increasing confusion.
I give him the word he is searching for. “Mistress.”
As he processes the word his cock stirs in his jeans, waking from the masturbatory slumber to which I had exiled him.
“Yes, Mistress.”
I feel the pulse and clench and my satin shorts soak at the crotch. I wanted him before but something in his voice makes me want him so much more intensely. I want to coax from his body the responses he has drawn from mine. My pleasure will be from his pleasure. This is a complicated game, the rules very different from how they appear to the casual observer.
I love his body, sculpted and defined and responsive. I trail my fingers across his chest and his nipples tighten as though I’ve traced ice across them. A game for a different night perhaps? He pushes his muscles against my hand and I punish him duly for this lapse of etiquette and punish myself in the process.
When I tell him to take off the rest of his clothes he scrambles to the task like a man possessed and I am flattered and pleased by his enthusiasm if not his precision. He is like a puppy, so eager to please and bemused by the boundaries and rules imposed. But like a puppy he will learn to respond with the judicious use of treats and admonishments and in that be content. He has learnt to go slow with me, to tease and build and prolong, and now he needs to learn to apply this to himself.
I watch as his body is unveiled and marvel as my hunger for him scorches through me again. It was the moment I awoke, like the sun finally burning through a deep fog, when I first saw him peel his t-shirt from his sweat-slicked body, and a moment of deep shame, when I saw myself as he must see me. He humoured me, but he did so with such gentleness that I couldn’t hate him for it. He could have no idea of the hunger he’d awakened in me; a hunger for life.
That was the first day of my spring, a tender green shoot from the barrenness of a long hard winter. Dawn.
He folds his clothes carefully and lays them aside. It is not so much the act as that he is finally following my instruction, listening to the words rather than catching the gist. He is a living contradiction, his actions reflecting his reluctance to fall in line, his body stiff and hard and wanting. I hope he does not feel ashamed of his arousal, less of a man for accepting me like this. I am aware of the great honour he does me simply by taking this evening this far. He is so used to being in control, the captain of his soccer team, the owner of his business and tonight he has handed it all over to me.
He is as new to this situation, these emotions, as a child on their first day a school. What he learns now will colour his whole attitude. I reward his accomplishments so far with a gentle stroke of his proud erection. I love the warm silk of his skin, the smoothness, the elasticity and underneath the amazing science of blood and flesh made hard by lust.
I want him and he wants me and yet there are so many more steps in this dance to be learnt before the climax. The first is to let me lead. I crowd him, challenge him chest to chest like his opponents on the pitch and the fight is there in his eyes to restrain himself from restraining me. I tighten my grip both physically and metaphorically.
I test the waters again. “Good Slave.” His eyes clear from the struggle and light with pleasure. I feel an answering warmth within me. I only want to make him happy.
I cannot contain my unruly emotions and I do not want to share them. I press my face into the crook of his neck and take a deep breath. Instead of settling me, the smell of his skin, of blood heated cologne sets fire to my blood and I have to sip, to bite, to taste the salt sweet flesh so soft beneath my lips. He pulses beneath my fingers.
It would easy to become carried away and push him back on the bed and fuck like the animals we are, but this experiment has the opportunity to be so much more. Pulling myself away, I submit to the torture of a body denied. I do not want to lose focus through climax. I know he will use my weakness to regain the upper hand. He needs to know I am his sexual equal.
Overwhelmed that such a gorgeous hunk wanted to bed me I let him seduce me before I was ready, scared of missing the opportunity for ever. It was mentally excruciating, my lack of confidence wracking me with doubt and denying me the enjoyment he tried to give me, but a landmark moment. From that night he has taught me much about my pleasure and his.
It was a cathartic experience. From there a new beginning.
I wonder that he had ever met a woman who hadn’t succumbed to his easy charm and sparkling eyes although it was so innate and careless that I suspect he left behind a legion of adoring fans rather than broken hearts. He is the perfect gentleman, the antithesis of my husband, asking for my opinion and not only listening to the answers but taking the time to discuss them, he guided me rather than led me. I am not certain he would understand the subtlety of the difference.
With a hand made skilled by practice, I slide a ring over his cock, pushing it low and nestling it against his nest of hair. He is hard, but he can take it harder and tonight I want to push his limits, just a little. I drop to my knees and take him in one long swallow that has him growing against my flesh, tunnelling into my mouth. He tastes of musk and salt and I am ravenous, running my tongue along his length, swirling the crown to release his unique flavour. I become absorbed in my task, taking his length and rolling his balls between my fingers, enjoying the changing texture of his skin that tells me so much about what he likes. He lets himself go into the experience and I carefully draw another boundary line.
Given a chance his mouth will tell lies to protect his body. I need to take that away from him and listen to the skin beneath my fingers, the myriad ways he can tell me what he really wants. I cut short his vociferous outpourings with the turning of a screw.
I’m not inexperienced enough to think this alone gives me the upper hand: I know nothing I can do will put me in that position. He has to give of himself or we have not achieved everything we set out to. He meets my eyes and I realise he is on the cusp of giving way.
“Did I ask you to speak?” His pupils are dilated with lust and, I think, just a little fear. He did not mean to overstep my boundary and realises ignorance is no excuse. He is also a little angry, frustrated that he does not instinctively know the rules, irritated by their existence at all.
He apologises with poor grace: I accept with good.
I can only imagine how hard this is for him. It is only going to get harder. I can’t put into words how I know this is what he wants, but I know all the same. I am his creation. He needs to become mine. He is looking at me as though I am the most beautiful woman in the world.
I slap the crop across his thigh to gauge his reaction, not hard but he jumps slightly all the same. He has been helping me research this evening for months. We considered the huge range of toys on the internet. He picked this. Perhaps that was when I really understood what he was asking, the words hidden between the words. He made me hit him, just as he made me take his fingers inside me, just as he made me accept his cock in my ass and just like always he knew it would be what we wanted, what we needed, what we craved.
I don’t want him to see me, see how much I want him. If I touch him he will feel the tension and electricity coursing through me. Sliding the flat tip of the crop across his legs and ass I watch as he twitches and ripples his muscles, both chasing and retreating from the soft kiss of leather.
I cannot resist the spoiler for what lies ahead. He thinks he knows what I have planned, but I have a few ideas of my own. I want to take him out of his comfort zone and help him to fly.
My hand follows the crop through the musky channel already damp and hot and exciting. I pretend not to notice the flurry of spasms he cannot hide and move my finger slowly, relentlessly forwards and deep into the sensitive flesh, searching for the super sensitive nerve endings hidden beneath. The tight line of his shoulders and the tension in his legs betray just how much this is affecting him.
He is the master of this slow seduction and I have learnt his lessons well. Each response he tore from my unwilling mind and traitorous body, the times I screamed no when he understood I meant yes, I need him to understand he was cruel. Cruel to be kind, but cruel all the same. I will be cruel to him if that is what he needs.
The bed beckons. He has done this to me before, scrambled my nervous system with a seemingly casual touch and yet the power I feel reducing him to a similar condition is an aphrodisiac stronger than any I have felt before.
The black satin covers are decadent and luxurious. Bent like a supplicant upon the altar steps, his face so masculine against the liquid sheen of the sheets he looks like a fallen angel framed perfectly by my magnificent bed.
The bed was an impulse buy. I was killing time waiting for the reclamation yard to open, searching for the perfect piece to turn into a water feature when the bed caught my eye across the crowded interiors warehouse. One of a kind, art nouveau curls and fronds chase across the more traditional nineteenth century style bedstead like the gates to secret garden, lost, overgrown and forgotten. It reigns triumphant over my re-emergence as a sexual being. It has been shrouded in white cotton, but somehow the black satin is what it has been waiting for.
It is the bed of my fantasies. This one is his, but it is rapidly becoming mine.
I know exactly how I want to see him.
“Bend forwards just a little further and spread your arms.”
I punctuate the idea with a little pressure from the crop to the back of his neck. His body bows, tendons stretched, muscles defined, ass presented, indefensible. Mine.
As I buckle the cuffs my hands are trembling. I will not consider whether that is in fear or in anticipation. What I do know is how much I ache for him. He is spread like a feast, golden skin, sheened with sweat, taut with concentration. Our eyes lock.
Everything that is hungry, everything that is needy, is reflected in his eyes. I hold his universe in the palm of my hand. I can see its fragility and its strengths. And he has many strengths. Like a fairy tale prince he has released me from the dreamless sleep of my life, the march of time continuing as I moved through oblivious and isolated. His legs are strong and broad like the trunks of mighty oaks, although I know his real strength lies, like the willow, in his flexibility. Only a truly strong man would bend for me. He has patience. He has waited eighteen months for me to be ready for this, first piecing me back together then taking me into new territory, slowly, hand in hand, exploring aspects of power in the bedroom from simple blindfolds to whole weekends spent keeping me on edge and denied. Just being with him fed my self confidence; he never acted as though he was something special but I could see my shares rise simply by being linked to him. When we met I wasn’t looking for a lover: I wasn’t looking for someone to love. I thought that part of my life was gone, frozen and detached, as real and as finite as my wedding photographs. He warmed me, allowed me to trust him by his gentleness. He made me feel safe to feel again. I want him to feel safe with me, everything he wants to feel, anything he wants, he is safe in my hands. We can both feel the edge beneath our feet. A tandem jump, but this time I am wearing the parachute. We will land safely because he trusts me.
He is beautiful, his strong muscles individually distinct, his tanned skin segmented by the thick black strips of leather. His back slopes towards me, the pale globes of his buttocks invitingly exposed. It is beautiful that he bends for me. Pride blooms again in my chest. I have given him this.
I trail my fingers slowly and deliberately down is spine, meandering, turning his attention from the whole to each focussed patch of skin, each tiny movement. I can feel the heat radiating from his core and I have to touch him, feel the silken skin wrapping the brand of hard cock, hotter than I have felt him before. I feel his balls draw up tight and I know if I were to release the clasp he would come, even knowing that release must mean punishment, his orgasm undeniable. He whimpers slightly and bites his lip. I understand his dilemma. He does not want to beg, but I am conspiring with his body and we will win. I know he want me like this.
Months spent learning to play his body distil into these moments. I know when to push, when to withdraw. Removing my hand from his skin is hard, but necessary. I trail the tip of the crop across his ass and drag it in a seemingly casual stroke across his virgin entrance and he clenches protectively. I know what he is feeling, the fear we are conditioned to feel coupled with the ache of desire, a delicate balance, sending innumerable chemical messages spiralling in contradictory patterns though every cell. My finger follows and his body heaves with each breath, his neck twisting and turning in unconscious distress. Press, release; press, release. My own body floods with the response he has taught me; his fingers ghosting over my body as I touch him. With an audible huff of breath he relaxes and I slip inside. Hot, tight, the feeling blows my mind and floods my pussy. I twist and withdraw, then press home, feeling each movement in the hiss of his breath, the tautness of his muscles, fucking him shallowly, knowing he is feeling it with his entire body. I know how much he wants to come, can feel my own incipient orgasm hovering and draw on all the restraint I possess. His groan as I withdraw nearly pushes me over.
I try to detach and regain control over myself, forcing the crop against his cheeks as if I could lay test marks against his skin by pressure alone. I remind myself that this comes first, before me, before him.
I am sorely lacking in control and bite and suck at his flesh like a lioness devouring her prey. Beneath my mouth he fights for his life. With a calculated swipe of slick tongue he breaks and sobs and I know he has lost. Something is broken and something is new. In me and in him. I stab my tongue inside him and wish for a cock to penetrate him, to dominate him fully. The hungry angry need to grind against him rises from the pit of stomach and I am only held back by the wordless shout and buck he cannot control. The elusive dry orgasm. I am shocked into calmness.
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