The comeback fuck

I was starting to feel healthy again and the Country Boy had mentioned his urge to be spanked. I was determined to find a way of meeting him.

Our houses are off limits at this point in time and I was unable to drive. The Drummer chimed in and said he could give me a lift to the park after work and collect me later. I appreciated his offer but I couldn’t get my head around being driven by my partner to a liaison and possibly have him hang around discreetly in the car park. The Country Boy said he could collect me and drop me home but in the end I felt like a soft bed, lots of warm skin and space to warm up my rusty spanking hand.

In a fit of enthusiasm, I booked a motel for an after-work meeting and confirmed arrangements. Then I wondered how on earth I’d get there. The Drummer ended up picking me up from work as I still wasn’t able to drive — I felt awkward, as if I was new to the prostitute scene and he was my pimp dropping me off at a seedy liaison point. He found my discomfort amusing and bid me a good time. I mumbled a thank you and tried to make the mental transition from exiting a domestic situation into a sexual one but I jittered impatiently when the check-in clerk gave me the long-play version of the motel’s facilities. I didn’t give a flying fuck about the in-house laundry service and the pool, but just needed a quick point in the direction of the room and I’d sort the rest out.

I sent the Country Boy a text message with the room number and directions and only had enough time to kick off my shoes and fold back the bed cover (are they ever laundered?) when he knocked at the door. In seconds he was on top of me on the bed and we struggled with prioritising a first rough-and-ready encounter or waiting a few minutes to shower and then savour each other all over. We compromised and showered quickly, and followed with the roughest tangling on the bed I was able to muster. Although it’s the first sexual encounter I’ve had in some time, I can’t recall most of it amidst the flurry.

I was still wired from not reaching orgasm and he had recovered quickly from his. I spilled the contents of my bag on that handy carpeted bench in most motels that usually holds suitcases or whatever it does. In my haste of running late and some nerves of excitement about meeting later in the day, I had forgotten what I’d packed. Three lengths of soft rope, collar, lead, wrist and ankle cuffs, caribiners, vibrators, lubes … enough for plenty of scope but not so much that I’d scare him away (I hoped).

To my delight the cuffs fitted his wrists and I attached a couple of caribiners to the D-rings purely to make a rankling sound. After weeks of playing out scenarios in my mind, I experienced choice overload and didn’t know what to do next with my willing subject apart from smacking his arse. My dominant side doesn’t come out often but my desire to bend and manipulate him was focused like a beam of white light in my mind, and he looked at me once and said I had a crazy person’s look in my eyes. So I threatened him with a blindfold and gave his backside a couple of test smacks while I was arranging my thoughts.

The answer came to me: he needed to be on all fours facing the bedhead with his broad but taut, spankable arse in the air. He obediently placed himself in position and I ran a length of rope through the D-rings on the cuffs and secured an end tightly to each side of the bed. I admired my handiwork: as he was a novice to being held captive, I had given him enough leather and rope to look at and think about, but plenty of lateral movement to shift along the ropeline if he became uncomfortable.

His arms were far apart and I admired the sweep of his back. Looking further down his body, his legs were close together and I asked him to part them for me. I sat on the end of the bed facing away from him and slid under his hindquarters so his cock was dangling above my face. I held his buttocks and pulled him toward me, nestling his cock in my mouth until it swelled to a size larger than I could hold. I pulled his backside towards me as a signal for him to fuck my mouth and he understood and rolled his hips into me.

I didn’t trust myself to hold his cock safely in my mouth as I slapped him for the first time and I took over masturbating him. When he had settled into the new sensation of my hand massaging his cock, I landed the first slap on his right cheek with a sharp sound. He moaned quietly and I became a little power silly and started laughing. I rubbed and ran my fingers around both cheeks to settle us both again, removing them from his skin occasionally so he couldn’t predict the next strike. My left hand landed without warning and gave him a matching pair of marks and he moaned again, this time with more depth and volume in his voice.

I checked into his welfare and he said he was enjoying himself.

“Good,” I said, and I hit both cheeks almost simultaneously for a cracking sound that made my eardrums sing.

I experimented more with alternating between sucking his cock and spanking him until he was rock hard and my palms were bright red and stinging. When I thought we had both had enough, I kneeled behind him and massaged his backside. He started backing into me and I ran my tongue from his balls to his anus and rimmed him while wanking him with a free hand. Pre-come was dripping from his cock and every breath he emitted was loud and starting to fill the room.

My mind snapped with a new idea: I undid one of the rope’s knots and slid it through the cuffs to release him. He stretched and then smiled when I said I wasn’t finished yet. I was warm to the core and wetness was almost dripping down my thighs; my only thought was that his weapon-like cock should be inside me sooner rather than later.

I laid him on his back and clipped the wrist cuffs together over his head so he was sprawled out over the covers for me and looking slightly helpless. I wanted to stop and admire the view but his cock was irredeemably hard and he was murmuring something important about me needing to ride it. I slipped on a condom and climbed aboard with my ankles tucked into his sides and knees raised into my chest. His cock protruded between my upper thighs and I teased him by squeezing my thigh muscles around his hardness. He asked and complained and begged and shouted that I had to fuck him right then, and I upped the ante and started massaging his cock against the soft skin of my pubic area. I became concerned that guests in neighbouring rooms could hear his new pleas — and I was wild with lust anyway by this stage — and I lowered myself on him. He rocked his legs up and down to maximise penetration and I gave him permission to express his frustration. I took him for a ride with my hands on his shoulders while leaning forward, grabbing his legs behind my back when I leaned backwards, and sitting upright and gripping the bedhead while he sucked my swinging breasts. Again, I wasn’t able to come despite my most energetic efforts and he ended up exploding inside me.

I think I was too excited to relax enough to reach orgasm but the hours with him flew by in a haze of pleasure. After we were sated, we showered together and talked about my experiences with female ejaculation. We finished with a quick hands-on attempt at getting me to squirt, but I was out of practice and I promised to brush up on my research and try again next time.

It’s good to be back.

Go to work for the day … or go fuck Country Hottie for the day?

Let me pretend I thought about this for more than five seconds. Country Hottie had a few days off work and invited me to visit him. The last weeks of my resignation period have been filled with ostracism, politicking, lazy bastards trying to involve me in their late projects so the soon-to-be absent me can take the blame on their behalf and some constrasting heartfelt support and kindness from others that has had me hiding tears too regularly. And I have three months’ sick leave because I’m usually conscientious and sick leave isn’t paid out on exit. Easiest decision ever. The hardest part was deciding what to take.

I experienced a pang of guilt early in the day and hoped like hell I wouldn’t be involved in a bizarre event or car accident that made the news (a friend once skipped work to see me when I was living interstate, and it was the day a baggage handlers’ strike broke and she was seen standing in the airline queue on the TV that night; another was featured on the front page of a newspaper after a photographer snapped him enjoying a ride at an agricultural show instead of being at work), but today space junk didn’t fall from the sky on my head and  traffic parted like the trip was meant to be.

I arrived and Country Hottie said, “So, what was this plan you had in mind for me?”

I replied, “Massage you and jump you.” I considered my bluntness and lack of detail and added, “I know it’s a simple plan, but simple plans are often the best.”

He said he wasn’t good at trying to be submissive and I negotiated impatiently that all I wanted from him was to relax and be still. I’m not sure if grinding his groin into the mattress while I was massaging his backside was relaxing either of us as I was getting awfully distracted, and by the time I had oiled his feet he was rubbing them over my breasts, but he tried to relax and not participate, I guess. As I rolled him on his back and worked from his thighs to his upper body, he had me flipped over, pinned underneath him and was sliding his slippery chest along my body.

I have little gaps in memory and the order of events, but before I showered I remembered remarking that I was covered in oil, sweat, my own wetness, squirt juice and the semen he massaged into my breasts when he came on me.

At lunch we had a heart-to-heart talk and he said he had no problem meeting switched-on, attractive women but their sexual conservatism has been a deal breaker. One considered having her hands bound beyond her limits and they said they wouldn’t consider indulging him in his BDSM interests if in a committed relationship. None would support him seeing other women with an interest in fetishes so he could feed that side of his sexuality elsewhere. I said his situation was a reminder of the fortunate position I was in and that breaking free of ego issues and social conditioning got easier with practice (and making the most of my side of the bargain) but I could understand how a lot of women don’t learn to both merge and separate love and sex. I said my problem is that I struggle dealing with people and the sex isn’t usually a problem as it doesn’t often get that far. We sighed and decided to make the most of the day and return to his house.

Part of the afternoon was spent seeing the other women’s point of view: I was sitting on the edge of the lounge with a large dildo in my cunt surrounded by a dozen clothes pegs attached to my labia and clit. My hands were tied behind my back and he was standing in front of me with his cock sliding in and out of my mouth. If I allowed his cock to fall out of my mouth, he would smack my breasts with a riding crop. I let him slip out a couple of times to test the water and the strikes were firmer than I wanted to tolerate; he also gradually leaned back so I had to bend to not lose his cock, which made the dildo start to slip. Very clever. I’m the first to agree these games aren’t everyone’s idea of a good time and the breadth of his experience can be intimidating, but seeing him switch to the part of his mind that concocts these scenarios is like opening and allowing part of his sexual expression to bloom.

The last part of the day was spent lying on his loungeroom floor with him on top piledriving me into quivering orgasms every few strokes, thinking the other women have no idea what joys he could give them if they trusted him. He’s healthy, athlete fit, responsive, skilled, open to any scenario and stays hard for as long as desired — communication dramas aside, the man is a human playground and it’s not every day I’m left lying on the floor so exhausted with heart-singing pleasure.

The universe punished me with a rotten head cold the following day that genuinely kept me at home. It was worth it.

Squirting, binding, fucking

The next day I spent an evening with Country Hottie.

I was in a leading-from-behind frame of mind and the plan I formulated was to emerge from the bedroom in underwear and leather accessories, hand him the lead and take my sweet time undressing and teasing him until we needed to devour each other. It didn’t work like that at all.

Instead, he removed the garments from my lower body and went down on me. I’m unsure about this squirting caper now: he got me too early in the night and I sprayed like a burst water balloon over both of us. This time he kept going until the feeling of fullness escalated into abdominal discomfort without end and the eventual second expulsion of fluid over the floor, lounge and my face was more a relief than a curiosity. I don’t know how the women in do-it-yourself porn videos keep smiling as they go for seconds and thirds in front of the camera (M1 sends me unsolicited clips even though we aren’t in touch any more) — I was hurting and finding it hard to stand from dizziness.

After a brief recovery he fucked me on the lounge and had the stamina of the detached while I had peaked too early. The bend of my body sitting semi-upright helped his deep thrusts hit my cervix and he was unrelenting even though I was squirming up the wall with each impact. I suppose this was silent payback for my dealings with him earlier in the week.

When I was a crumpled wreck on the upholstery, he laid me on the floor and brought out his ropes. I relished the opportunity to relax as he got the dominant urges out of his system. Again, it didn’t work like that at all. I was lying on my back and he tied my wrists together above my head, and artfully bound my lower body with my legs bent and apart and suspended in the air. The rope ends were tied to furniture to ensure minimal movement. He stuffed a large dildo in my vagina, a vibrator in my anus and alternated slapping my exposed buttocks and clit — not quite my idea of relaxation after the previous treatment.

He found a way of trussing ropes between my legs to hold the toys in place and turned to face the same direction as me. He squatted and I tongued his arse and I could see one arm moving rapidly, presumably wanking over my belly. The bastard would not come and my legs and shoulders were seizing from being unable to ease pressure on the hard floor.

When he came close to orgasm, he removed the bindings and toys and I had time for a quick stretch before he pounded me from on top until he finished. I enjoyed that part very much.

He asked if I wanted to come again, and I said no. I’m fine. Really, but thank you for asking. We curled up and I left before he found the energy to contemplate another round; I was sore all over for two days. If nothing else, the itch for bondage has been scratched for a while this time around.

Fight

Preparation

I assembled, packed, unassembled, re-packed, paced the house, showered, unpacked, checked my phone a dozen times to ensure he hadn’t cancelled, re-packed and pounced on the tick of the clock that I was allowing myself to leave the house.

The timing was good: I tried a new route in daylight that got me there a longer but quicker way and I arrived in the comfort of darkness. I stopped in the town centre to change shoes and breathe a few moments.

I parked and knocked on his door. Hair straightened and tied back, fresh make-up with darker eyes and glossier lips than usual, pressed white shirt, charcoal pencil skirt, black heels and leather compendium. No earrings — lose them too easily. Friendly-but-tired-after-a-long-work-day smile. We didn’t shake hands but he welcomed me in. I left my handbag in the entrance hall.

I flipped out brochures and property prices I’d ripped from the web and prattled inanities about the market as he walked me around the loungeroom. He started friendly enquiries veering towards where I live, who I am, who I’m with. I brushed him off with a fabricated life as a divorced career changer with little interest in men and no interest in clients. He maintained generous personal space between us in the open plan kitchen and dining room; a third of the house inspected and I hadn’t noticed any clues of when or where he would transfigure.

Aggression

Home office, main bedroom, second bedroom, I talked about walk-in robes and en suites and he asked more insistently if I would consider dating a client. Preparing to strike. He had left until last the narrow and dark hallway and compact bathroom, toilet and laundry. Which one? I didn’t have a plan to instigate action if he let me inspect the house without interruption — suddenly I was more nervous about something not happening.

He closed the personal space in the bathroom but moved to allow my exit. I checked the toilet perfunctorily and stepped out towards the laundry. He blocked my path silently. In heels I was taller but he dominated the space with presence alone. Too early to resort to panic although my heartbeat was hurting my eardrums. I stood my ground and told him to let me through.

He asked for a date, a kiss, just one, he knows I want to, he’s lonely, the town lacks single women, just one kiss. I said no, no, no, no, let me finish my job and I’ll leave without reporting you. Let. Me. Go.

There’s a gap here. The next thing burned in my memory is being pressed against the wall of the hallway with both of my hands locked in one of his and my compendium wedged against my throat. He licked my face. I spat at his. He slapped mine and I spat again, giving tacit permission for more. I remembered later that he alternated sides — a considerate attacker.

Another gap. I remember seeing my fishnetted legs strobing under the entrance hall lights as he dragged me by my feet towards the loungeroom. My skirt must have gathered somewhere around my backside. When was the transition from vertical to horizontal? I twisted and launched for my bag and car keys. He slapped my thighs so sharply that my eyes shed tears of surprise and the keys slipped from my fingers.

We wrestled on the carpet. I don’t know where the buttons of my shirt ended up landing. He stuffed the rags of my underwear in my mouth. I spat them out and bit his arm. He wrenched my inner thighs between his thumb and fingers and sent flames through my nervous system. Easy way to stop me biting.

We surged with the same adrenal gland chemicals and fought with the same intensity but he was stronger. I squirmed and pushed and shoved and we shed the same amounts of sweat and exhaled loudly in unison. I sent strings of verbal obscenities as surprises but words were useless against the decades he’s spent strengthening his body.

Pleas

I scanned my surroundings and was surprised to see I had dragged myself with him atop me in a full circle towards the front door. With the realisation of my effort came the loss of my energy. Nothing. I slumped and moved to bargaining with my captor and wished to myself the gift of a second wind. He said I could leave when I had done what he planned. I nodded and looked away. He cajoled and offered me water, fresh clothes, safety if I obeyed.

My prediction about duct tape and hessian rope was wrong: a box on the bookshelf contained lengths of chain, thick powerlifters’ nylon and velcro straps with large D-rings and rock climbing caribiners. I didn’t protest my wrists being shackled. He left my legs unfettered and guided me to the dining room, his spare hand carrying jangling metal for the next phase.

He attached my ankles with chain around the legs of a dining chair. My hands connected to my feet with more chain draped through the chair’s support beams. As he was arranging other chairs in a formation, I scratched away at the velcro around my wrists and freed my left hand, then my right. As he bent to remove his pants I dropped the wrist restraints and fled with the chair still attached to my feet — he had wound the chain around and not through the wood and the furniture had to come with me.

Funny moment one: I dipped my head to avoid being seen smiling when the futility and stupidity of this tactic hit.

Defeat

I ended up lying on the floor while still attached to the chair, as if I were eating a meal and everything had been tipped backwards at 90 degrees. The tiles were cold and he collected a cushion from the loungeroom for my head. I rejected the gesture but quietly wanted to hug him for being a sweet bastard. He punished me with nipple twists and slaps that elicited unguarded shrieks of pain. I had revealed my tender spots and he pinched me there again when I refused his cock in my mouth.

He turned his body around and my world became black when his testicles spread over my face. I felt digits on my breast and started licking to avoid another wrenching. He edged lower and I knew what was coming.

Funny moment two: When he insisted I use my tongue on his arse, I called him perverted and disgusting and filthy and I couldn’t do that because I didn’t know what to do. My script writer needs a kick in the pants. He was spotlessly clean and hairless and I was in reality wanting very much to pleasure him with my tongue.

Submission

My hands were turning red and purple from restricted circulation and the bend of the chair prevented his next act of fucking me. I was the quietened victim with my eyes shut and head turned. Yes, I will do as you bid and promise to behave if you loosen the bindings. I ended up facing the chair, bent with my head resting on the seat in an upsidedown J with hands fastened in front. With time and space now to watch and absorb, I was aroused and tried to conceal my readiness for his cock by clenching my thighs. He slapped them open.

He fingered me and I came with my eyes open in a naive attempt to bely my body’s ripples. He wasn’t done and I abstractly watched a rain shower spray from my cunt. He was pleased and I still disbelieved that my body holds these fluids for his taking.

He entered my messed-up hole and I bit my lip to contain my noises. I was unsure whether to continue feigning horror or head towards redemption and give myself to him. Don’t fantasy rapists want to ‘convert’ their victims? I must have started rocking back into his cock — a finger invading my anus let me know we were still in role. My final pleas were for mercy when his cock moved towards the space broken by his finger. Another gap — sensation overload? I remember him taking me anally for what seemed a long time but can’t remember how much I enjoyed.

He withdrew and stood by my side as I lifted my head for the next act. There weren’t any words and I don’t recall any cues but at the same moment we broke into warm smiles and he hugged me and we laughed and kissed like reuniting lovers. He freed my wrists and we tongue kissed and found new reserves of a different kind of energy. I was more talkative than he about the previous 90 (that was all!) minutes — he said something about needing to stage a roleplay if we do another one and I wasn’t sure of his meaning. I was already dragged in too many mental directions to ask. I’m curious now but it’s probably not important as once is more than likely enough now I’ve come down. With the return of commonsense I thanked him effusively for *not* letting me escape when I was mostly naked and attached to the chair.

He led me to the sanctuary of his bedroom with murmurs of affection and how early the night still was. I stopped by the bathroom to tame the mass of fairy floss that was my hair and to tidy the rings of eyeliner that smudged more than I could have planned — I looked completely fucked.

Not a dress-up doll

The tall, skinny, purportedly kinky man I met a couple of weeks ago was given the benefit of the doubt when he cancelled the hotel meeting. We since exchanged some ideas and photos and agreed it was my turn to organise the next ‘first’ meeting.

A measure of self protection kicked in and I was loathe to book and pay for a hotel room in case he backed out again. Meeting at my house was an option as  The Drummer would have been at work, but I didn’t want a relative stranger in my home until we had a higher level of trust and comfort.

No matter. The weather had been good all week and I concocted a Plan A outdoor scenario with a Plan B in-car activity in case the meteorologists got the sunshiney forecast wrong. I gave him the meeting place and time and said I’d supply the rest.

Something went horribly wrong on the communication and intention sides less than an hour before leaving home. He thought I hadn’t provided enough information. I said I wanted to keep things simple and there was plenty of time to build on the basics (you know, make sure the nuts-and-bolts sex is okay and then do the tied and lashed and hanging from the chandelier fucking — it’s okay to do it in that order, I think).

He instructed me to wear a specific outfit. I replied that was impossible because I hadn’t enough time; he said I was forgiven but in the future I was always to dress according to his requirements.

Always? Are you serious?

Yes.

My heart sank. A lot of his appeal was his fluid sexuality like mine and we had potential and desire to switch roles of dominance and submission or toss the whole lot out the window. Obviously not. I get excited dressing up of my own volition to please and surprise, or to occasionally adhere to a request, but his insistence on having bare-skinned, ready access to the lower half of my body at all times tipped the scales of equality the wrong way. For fuck’s sake, he wore an old t-shirt and cargo pants when we met and has the temerity to demand me to don towering heels and an arse-grazing skirt all the time? There were too many memories flashing before me of dragging armloads of clothes and shoes and trying to match undisciplined balls of seamed and fishnet stockings when meeting M1 and I didn’t want to go there or even partially there again.

I felt dreadful cancelling and ending contact (and then felt dreadful feeling defensive and angry because I shouldn’t have to feel bad) because neither of us would back down, but even in writing this, I can feel my upper lip curl thinking about always being costumed the same way to play every role.

On to cheerier news, I’m going on a road trip and having lunch with the country hottie. I’m not sure if lunch means eating food, devouring each other, or (hopefully) both but I’ll happily wear pretty underthings just in case.

One word

Tossed among the barrage of apologies from new/never-to-be/whatever man was a small throwaway comment: I had even bought some things including chain.

Why would you need chain? I asked, pupils expanded into black holes of bottomless curiosity.

Chain to tie around your neck and hold while you suck my cock, of course.

Of course. Squeeeeeeeeeeeal! The blast of testosterone that coursed through my arteries nearly left me horizontal.

What kind of chain?

Never you mind.

And now, of course, I want what I can’t have …

Why haven’t I imagined or seen this concept before — what dull rock have I been living under? The chain in my mind is an undisciplined light-mediumweight coil of several metres draped on the floor, brand-new polished steel so I can see the reflections of a thousand mes in its links, and unflinchingly cold to the touch. Loops nestled snugly around my neck with him (or anyone who’s willing, really, this is all about the chain) holding the dangling ends behind my neck and directing my head towards his shuddering cock. I suck sluggishly in a display of tart disobedience and feel every link wrestle with its neighbours as its  grip tightens around my reddening skin and toys with my oxygen supply.

Taking photos afterwards of chain maille patterns adorning my neck. Oh, yes. My neck averages 36 centimetres a circuit — I double checked. Never hurts for a girl to do her own hardware shopping.

Typical bloody woman

I caught up with the man I cancelled on a couple of weeks ago. My tolerance for meeting anyone wasn’t much improved, but I could never cancel twice in a row and maintain credibility that I’m generally a person of my word, so I went for drinks.

My brow must’ve creased in surprise a few times because he was normal. Easy enough on the eye though so skinny I feared I’d break him if we got to the having sex bit, communicative, polite, punctual, respectful and didn’t play a single mind game. And he laid his cards on the table before we left and said I was cute. I had to laugh about that because I hardly find myself cute and my persona at present makes a sabre-toothed tiger look like a kitten in a basket.

And you know what? I couldn’t tell if my lethargic level of interest during reflection time was the byproduct of family stresses earlier in the day or because there was no challenge. Never fucking happy.

We chatted during the week and at some stage I agreed to a hotel session this weekend. He’s booked the motel, found a venue for pre-meeting drinks and is happy for me to stick a tongue and toys up his arse. He made inclinations towards kinkiness so I slapped an orgasm ban on him and he seems to be obeying.

Why am I not more excited? I keep wanting what I can’t have and am lukewarm about what I can have served on a silver platter. I’ll extend his orgasm ban and see if it improves my mood.


The least-disciplined dominatrix

I am hopeless. In my fertile mind that gorges on images of metal and leather and scarlet marks on pale skin and the mindfuckingly pervading aromas of fear and serious sex, I can conjure film-length domination scenarios to the minute. And ideas, dialogue, bindings, timings and the great big exciting hoo ahh moment when I have been granted control of a willing and noble man who wants to see where I will take his brain cells and balls.

A glimmer of opportunity arose to visit ArmyDude late last night. We sorted out details and I asked what he wanted me to bring. He made a tactical error in saying that whatever I wanted was fine because I can do anything to him.

I replied that I was packing the arse tools and I’d see him soon.

In my handbag fitted a small container of lube, my camera phone and the strap-on harness with its two dildos. By the time I arrived I had a strip, on all fours, licking, fingering and fucking ritual plotted, filmed and in the can, ready to be acted out on real flesh and blood.

The reality of my dominant self sits at the opposite end at the back of the undisciplined universe.

I let myself into the darkened house, locked the door behind me and found ArmyDude sitting in the office chair in his study. Within 10 seconds of entwining my arms under his singlet and massaging the contours of his pectoral muscles, my nose was in his hair inhaling his freshly-showered scent and my tongue was running races along his ear lobes.

The ‘arse tools’ in my less-than-eloquent text message didn’t make it out of the bag. He stood, drove his tongue down my throat, pulled my pants to my knees and forced me to hobble to the bedroom like an arthritic penguin. I pushed back when he forced my body in an arc towards the mattress and he return volleyed me to the bed before I could catch breath.

He ditched more clothes, messed my hair, left my breasts spilling out of my bra and pushed my underwear aside to insert his cock. Something about turning the tables on a disheveled dominatrix triggered a rage of lust and he orgasmed in a few dozen heartbeats.

He apologised for not lasting longer. Dominatrix Girl laughed softly and replied that it was a compliment to the joys of her pussy.

We tidied and talked for a long time about his fractured existence and it became too late for seconds. I’ll focus more diligently and mess with his head next time — shambolic Dominatrix Girl needs to die.


Break. Repair. Repeat until I feel better

Fragmented thoughts and messages have been melding into a sequence of events ArmyDude might enjoy. Or not. I took some of his hints, used them to conjure bigger and nastier ideas and received a quiet “Wow” in response. My dark frame of mind shall interpret his feedback as permission to keep plotting.

I will disrobe before him and remove each piece of his clothing painstakingly, stopping to kiss where my fingers brush his bare skin. I will need to resist the dangerously soft and guilty moments that will tell me to stop and manoeuvre him inside my body rather than fuck with his head.

I think my leather collar will be too tight for his neck; need to search for an aesthetically-pleasing alternative that won’t abrade his skin. His belt, perhaps.

Break.

And thank him softly for wearing a symbol of temporary ownership.

Repair.

He is curious about watersports as the giver or receiver. Why deliberate over a choice when I can introduce him to both with a little twist? In his shower stall we will watch as the liquid heat of his body streams down his thighs. When spent, he will kneel and I will splash his torso with the contents of my bladder until our noses crinkle from the concentrated odour of our waste.

Break.

I will cleanse his soiled body with warm water and soap and generous scruffing with a towel until he is dry and restored. Lead him to the bed, lavish him with kisses and adoring words praising his courage.

Repair.

When his blood is again awash with excitement, I will strap on the artificial penis and penetrate him with the larger dildo of his daydreams. When he bucks in tune with my pelvis, I will lug the whatever-it’s-going-to-be around his neck, arching his spine and restricting his freedom of breath. My need to lash out will overtake his want for a fucking. I will own his body as a continuation of mine and use it to purge my sins.

Break.

Uncouple and slide underneath him, kissing more and talking and restoring his erection with my wet mouth. Ask how he wants to come and reward his bravery in telling me his secrets and letting me throw my inner rage at him.

Repair.

Hurt with care.

I need to see him soon.