Most of my kink is psychological. You can grab a fist of my hair, and push your cock to the back of my throat and order me to keep it there, until you release me, as I squirm with my hands tied behind my back and try not to gag. I’d be wet in seconds. Tell me it’s a punishment, that I’m your set of holes to do with what you wish; tell me to show you how much I want those grades, or that promotion; tell me you won’t tell my boyfriend if I do everything I am ordered to please you. Tell me any of that, and I’d be absolutely soaking.
This was one new for me. There was no being told, there were no orders. I’d be the one doing the telling, the ordering and when described to me it gave me the knotted sensation I always crave in my stomach- but this time it was mixed with nerves. I’m naturally submissive. I am confident in my abilities to please, pleasure and take orders from someone who, in that moment, I stand in absolute awe of as they give me the tightest twisted feeling in my stomach. To be that to someone else, I am never so sure.
I hadn’t unpacked when we arrived. This was intentional. We’d had an evening before hand, an evening I still think about now, warmed by red wine and good food. The part I always think about was when he took the chair from the side of the room, and sat it directly in front of the sofa. Just far enough away that he could take everything in. I’d hoped he’d sit in it, I hoped I’d be made to kneel in front of him and take him in my mouth, and I’d hoped he’d sit and give me instruction as I lay on the sofa. I was right on all accounts.
It was the next morning, as I got out of bed and washed my face. I took slightly longer than I should have done, because I wanted to give him enough time to enjoy before I made him feel guilty for it.
As I walked back into the bedroom I could hear the rustling. That’s when the knots began to tighten; both nerves and arousal, constricting in my stomach. I glimpsed through the door and watched for a few seconds. His head back, one pair in his hand, one around his cock as his other hand gripped furiously at himself and the lace. Another pair were on, pulled tight and cupping his balls. He looked good, really good. The match of feminine and masculine. It looked neither overwhelmingly one or the other, it looked new.
And so the scenario began.
“What are you doing?”
His eyes opened, wide, and his hand faltered, loosening around the black lace and his cock.
“Those aren’t yours.”
I walked over to the bed, leaning in to kiss him. He relaxed, I relaxed. Perhaps he didn’t think I would go through with it.
“Turn around, keep these on” I pulled slightly at the waist of the blue pants. I knew they were dirty, and I was going to make him feel dirty for it too.
As he kneeled, facing away from me, I pushed his head into the pillow. He does that when he fucks me, but I wanted to do it before I’d begun. I wanted him to feel small without having to tell him.
And then I spanked him, perhaps one of the most counter intuitive things for a submissive to do. But I liked the noise, I liked the way he moved under my hand. So I did it again. I reached for my plug, pulled the blue material to one side and covered him with lube. I didn’t say anything, I watched him wriggle in anticipation and I filled him. I listened to him moan, as it settled into position, and smiled to myself.
“I’m going to spank you six times. Count them for me”
His voice was different. I’ve never had the good fortune of fucking someone with a voice quite like his. When he tells me what to do, or calls me a slut, I melt inside and it seems to all settle into my pants. This time it was different, quieter, smaller.
“I’m going to fuck you. Stay where you are.” The groan from the back of his throat suggested he was more than happy with this.
I stepped inside my harness, and covered my new cock in lube. As I removed the plug he was left empty, and I wanted to be the one to fill him.
As he was so keen to wear my underwear, he could be fucked in them too, s0 I pulled the pants aside, and started to slowly and deeply fuck him.
“You can touch yourself, but don’t come.”
I was achingly slow at first. Perhaps he thought it was part of it, torturing him. And perhaps it was, but matched with my wish to be careful and work out limits. I enjoyed watching myself push deeper inside him, framed by my dirty underwear. Until I realised I wanted to watch his reactions.
He turned over, as ordered. Spread his legs, as ordered. Touched himself as I fucked him, as ordered. By this point, I’d almost forgotten about the scenario completely, and was wrapped up in watching the levels of ecstasy on his face as my thrusts got faster and faster. And as I watched, heard and felt him orgasm, the feeling of satisfaction, of pleasing and of pleasuring him washed over me again. Perhaps that wasn’t what he had in mind, perhaps he wanted me to be harder on him. Punish him for his orgasm. Take him into the shower and make him kneel covered in his own mess, force my soaking cunt into his face until I came and then piss all over him, washing away both of our messes (he’d already hinted he would be more than okay with this). But that’s for another time…
They say practice makes perfect.