She drank wine. She thought about her friend feeling like a slut and liking the sensation. Good sex, it seemed, was all about letting go. Why was it so hard to let go?
She put Jim in the corner, giggled at his forlorn expression. He asked quietly what he'd done wrong. She sipped her wine and smiled, replying, "Nothing, Baby. I just want you there."
He knelt in his spot, pressing his nose to the tape she'd stuck to the wall, arms behind him, one hand grabbing the other wrist, his naked butt all shiny and beautiful. She sipped her wine and let her eyes roam over his body, the thick neck, the broad shoulders, the muscles of his back, his white ass and strong thighs. "My man meat," she thought to herself and giggled. She sipped her wine and picked up the remote, cranking up the stereo, feeling her buzz taking hold, making her feel wild, making her feel like taking risks.
She was losing her inhibitions. On purpose. Tonight was the night she made peace with herself. She sipped her wine and sang to her favorite song, danced over to him, ran her fingers through his hair. She thought to herself, "Tonight, I'll do whatever I feel like. Tonight, I'll fuck him or make him fuck me. Tonight, I'll be a slut."
She slipped off her panties and placed them on his head, giggling. She snatched her panties up in a hurry and leaned over him, letting her silky chemise brush against his back, kissing his neck, feeling him shudder. He turned his head and she planted a kiss on his lips. She tasted like wine. She parted his lips with her own and found his tongue. Their tongues did the waltz in their mouths, slow and soft, the way she liked; she was leading. She'd never appreciated tongue kisses before, but perhaps that was because he considered it an Olympic sport. For the first time, she was kissing him and being kissed the way she wanted to be kissed.
When she was done, she crumpled up her panties and pushed the wet wad into his mouth, then ran giggling to the bed, leaping into it.
"Now," she ordered, still giggling, "you be a good boy and stay right there while I play. Do you understand, Slave Boy?"
"Ym, Mmstrss."
She sipped her wine and opened her bedside drawer, seizing the little pink vibrator that she had fallen in love with back in college. She held it up before her and cranked it on full power, giggling at Jim, wondering what he must be thinking.
Was it her imagination or was he groaning? His cock cage was filling up again, she was sure of it.
She laid back on the bed, nestled in, made a nest among the covers, propped her legs up and open, and spent a few minutes rubbing herself, warming up. She tried pinching her nipples, giving her breasts a little rough massage. Her friend was right; it DID feel good.
In another few minutes she had her little pink vibrator just above her clitoris, not daring enough to apply it directly, just teasing herself, but doing an amazing job of it. She wasn't just wet, she was flooding, soaking the bed. She glanced over at Jim, so stiff, so male, so obedient. She panted, "Don't you . . don't you wish this was . . you?"
His whisper was soft and desperate. "Yes."
She risked it, put the tip of the vibrator right on her clitoris, making circles. "But," she panted, "it's not, is it?"
His reply was equally desperate. "Nm, Mstrss."
She squirmed and moaned, probably a little louder than she needed to, because she felt like it, because she was making her peace with his pain, with his denial, with his need, and her own. "Why," she panted, "why are you . . . in that corner . . . instead of fucking me?"
He whimpered; she could hear it. "Becm, ym pt mm hm, Mmstrss."
He wanted her. Wanting her was becoming an every day hum in his body, no longer a special event, but a normal intense background. He forced his mind away from imagining her body, all limber and female, her smooth, soft skin stretched out before him. The metal cage around his cock controlled him, re-purposed his mind elsewhere, not on sex, not on her beautiful body, but anyplace that wouldn't arouse him. Pain had enormous power to change one's thoughts, he realized, even when it was a small nagging pinch.
His mind had found other places to go, places that startled him. He thought about her, her thoughts, her desires, what she needed, what she wanted. He thought about her happiness. Inevitably, because he was a man with male hormones and a man's needs, he couldn't stop his brain from turning back to serving her. That need had deepened in an alarming way over the last few months.
Had she done that on purpose? Was he now being the man she wanted him to be? He had no complaints. It was hard to feel you were missing out on life when you came home and saw the smile and blush of love in her eyes. That filled him in a way nothing else in his life had and reinforced his deep, unabiding desire to give her whatever she wanted. It also reinforced his desire to do whatever she said, which was the more insidious and exciting of the two.
She laughed and watched his body sag. Even to her own ears, it sounded . . . unsympathetic. No, she decided, it sounded cruel. "Are you my good boy?"
Hopeful now. "Ym, Mstrss."
She felt herself twitch with pleasure, feeling a new wave of erotic tension building. She hummed, purred, caught her breath and ordered him. "Come here."
He scrambled, the metal of his cock cage biting into the flesh of his cock. It was instant erection when he saw her, laid back in bed, propped up by pillows, legs wide open. He moaned with pain and desire the moment he laid eyes on the gleaming moisture coating her swollen lips. The words, "I can't stand this" ran through his head. It was too much. She was too sexy.
He knelt and was ashamed of the very real whimper that left him. He could feel the tension on his face. There was pain in his eyes. The pain of his cock trapped and squeezed by metal and the pain of excruciating, unending desire.
She removed the wad of panties from his mouth. "Yes?"
He nearly cried. "Please, Mistress."
She prolonged it until he was sure he would go mad, running her hands through his hair, combing it with her fingers, feeling lazy and drunk and sexy. How could she not feel like a supermodel when she saw that look his eyes? How could she not feel like a porn queen? A Goddess? It was the look of a man with utter sincerity. It was the look that said, "I will do anything you ask if you'll only let me touch you."
"What do you want, Slave Boy?" She grinned, let out a little giggle.
The thoughts ran through his head: I want to touch you; I want to fuck you; I want to devour you; I want to be devoured by you. So many choices. He opened his mouth and let the first words that popped into his mind come flowing out his lips. "I want to please you, Mistress."
She laid back and moaned. "But it's not about what you want, is it?"
The tension in his face increased. His heart was going to burst. He felt nauseous. The butterflies were churning. Yet, somehow it all added up to the agony of desire and arousal. It shouldn't feel good, the pain of need, but it did. "No, Mistress."
Her grin was lazy. The pleasure glazed her eyes and made him fall in love with her and her body again and again. "Fortunately, that's what I want, too."
