Luna

James felt like he'd been watching the clock forever. The second hand ticked off moments that felt like little eternities and his office was deathly quiet, so quiet he could hear the rapid, nervous pounding of his heart. He couldn't make any sense of the spreadsheets on his desk, He couldn't focus, couldn't concentrate on anything but the ticking of the clock. His cock was rigid in his trousers. It was almost painful.

Fifteen more minutes. James did a shot of bourbon from the bottle in his bottom drawer, straightened his tie, pulled on his jacket, locked the office door and headed for the elevators. It felt like every pair of eyes in every cubicle on the floor was watching him as he left for lunch, like they all knew. He forced himself not to look at his watch. The elevator took forever to arrive.

It was cold outside, February cold, with traces of ice in the gutters and the parking lot bleached white with salt. The skies were gray and dull. He started his car and pulled out of the lot; he almost took off his wedding ring while he waited for a traffic light to switch from red to green, but couldn't being himself to do it.

When he pulled into the motel lot he parked beside her little red sports car, the only other car in the lot, and hurried up the steps to room 218. She'd given him the key when she brought him the spreadsheets that morning; fresh from her cigarette break he'd been able to smell the smoke over her perfume, and thought he'd seen her nipples poking against her white oxford shirt, her young, firm breasts cradling a dark blue tie.

"We're taking lunch at one," she'd told him, and then turned without waiting for a response; he could only nod, for his mouth had suddenly become too dry to speak. His eyes clung to the curves of her ass as she'd left his office. He couldn't have looked away from their hypnotic motion even if he'd wanted to.

Was he really going to do this? His hand trembled as he held the key up to the lock. Why? His wife, Emily, hadn't done anything wrong; he still

loved

her, he did, she was pretty and demure and attentive and didn't drink to excess, like he did – she didn't do anything to excess. She was... plain. Ordinary. Familiar. He had spent seven years with her, sweet years, but vanilla years. He knew Emily so well that even now, closing his eyes, he could see her as clearly as if she were standing right in front of him.

James barely realized he'd put the key in the door until he'd unlocked it and stepped inside. The motel room was dark. The curtains were drawn tight and the air smelled of cigarettes.

"Close the door," she commanded. "Take off your clothes."

There was no hesitation now as James hurriedly obeyed, almost without thinking. Despite her youth, her voice carried the weight of authority. It demanded obedience. He'd been obeying her for three months now, ever since she'd been promoted over him, stealing the job he'd been working his ass off for

years

to get only to have this little grad student steal it away. It still angered him, but he'd learned to deal with it. He removed his shirt so quickly he ripped off a button; he slid out of his trousers without bothering to undo his belt.

"Nice, Jimmy," she purred; she was close now. He could feel the heat of her body near his, yet he shivered. "Very nice."

"Caitlyn-"

"Miss Luna, Jimmy. Just because we're out of the office doesn't give you permission to call me by my first name." She ran a finger along his hip, over his stomach, up to his nipple, and gave it a brief squeeze. "I'm still your boss."

His eyes were adjusting to the darkness now; he could see her body, long and tall, slim in most places yet voluptuous where it counted; the heavy swell of her breasts, the roundness of her hips.

"You're trembling."

"Yeah," James admitted. His voice trembled as well.

"Get on the bed."

He did as he was told, slowly, telling himself he could still leave and knowing that he

should

leave, but he was helpless to turn back now. Caitlyn lit a cigarette. He saw her face in the brief glow of the lighter, young, cool, her pursed lips painted red, her impossibly blue eyes framed in black mascara and dark-blonde bangs. Hers was the sort of beauty men used to die for, and she knew it; every man in the department did as she asked and then asked for more. She owned them.

Just like she owns me, James thought.

Caitlyn smoked her cigarette, taking her time, as James lay naked on the motel bed. His cock was painfully hard, a thick iron bar. He didn't dare say a word, barely dared to breathe, even, as he silently pleaded for her touch. She looked down at him and grinned.

"Anxious?" Caitlyn casually asked as she blew a jet of smoke into the air. "You're begging for it. You need me to tell you what to do."

No he didn't – he thought he didn't; he'd always thought himself fiercely independent; he wasn't one to let other people push him around;

he

made the rules and his wife followed them without complaint – yet James found himself nodding.

"You need me to control you, Jimmy," she continued. "You think you want to be in charge, but only because no one's ever shown you how wonderful it is to give in, to submit, to surrender to someone who'll take care of you."

"Yes," James admitted softly.

"You don't have to pretend to be a man here, Jimmy," Caitlyn murmured as she crawled into bed with him. "You can let go. You can give in." She swung her long legs over his waist, straddling his stomach, pressing her ass against his cock. "You can be my little boy, Jimmy. You'd like that."

"Yes, Miss Luna," he quietly said.

"Submit to me, Jimmy." She leaned over him, her elbows on either side of his head, her round breasts barely inches away from his face, as she slowly rubbed her firm ass over his cock. "Tell me you're mine, Jimmy. Surrender to me. Be my servant, my slave... be my little boy and you'll never have to worry about anything again." Her voice was heavy and commanding, the cadence of her words matching the rhythm of her body as it slid against his shaft.

"Yes, Miss Luna."

"Mistress Luna. Call me Mistress, Jimmy," Caitlyn breathed in his ear.

"Mistress," James whispered. She wanted to be in charge and he wanted her to as well; he wanted to forget about the unpaid bills, the overdue projects, all the wearying responsibilities that tethered him to his dreary life. He wanted to be taken care of. He wanted to serve, to be owned like a pet.

"Good boy," she murmured. "Now close your eyes."

He did so, and felt a velvet blindfold being drawn over them; she lifted his head to tie the blindfold tightly around it. Surrounded in darkness, all he knew now was the scent of cigarettes, perfume, and the raw musk of the Mistress's sex; the sensation of her warm, wet hole slipping over the head of his dick as she raised her hips and rocked back and forth, sinking onto him, enveloping him in the tight glove of her pussy. She was the world, the universe; Mistress Luna was Goddess and James an unworthy priest sacrificing his mind and soul upon the altar of her sex.

"Yes, that's a good boy, Jimmy," Caitlyn moaned as she rode his cock, "That's a

very

good boy." She began pumping his shaft faster, and faster, siphoning his will, his very identity away with the intoxicating pull and release of her pussy. He could not remember ever feeling this much pleasure. He could not remember anything at all; and cried out as he reached blindly for her hips.

She abruptly stopped moving, and James felt a sting on his hand as she slapped it away. "I didn't give you permission to touch me," she snapped. "Remove your hands. Put them over your head. Touch the headboard. Now."

James quickly did as he was told.

"Mistress Luna fucks her toys,

not

the other way around. And you are my toy, Jimmy. Don't forget that." She placed her hands on his chest and raised her hips, pulling away from him, her pussy just barely grazing the tip of his cock. "Do you want me to leave you?"

"No," James whimpered. "Please, Mistress Luna." His blindfold grew damp as tears welled in his eyes. "Please don't leave me. I need you. I love you." He had never before wanted anything as badly as he wanted to thrust up into the warm, tight safety of her sex, but he dared not move. The weight of her hands on his chest might have been a ton of bricks; beneath her he was utterly helpless.

"Are you mine?" she asked.

"I'm yours," he nodded. "Yours forever, Mistress."

"Do you want to serve me?"

"Please," James begged. If she left now he would be broken, his spirit shattered, for at that moment nothing mattered more to him than his Mistress's pleasure. His job, his home, Emily, his wife of seven years – everything was nothing compared to the all-consuming ecstasy of obeying Mistress Luna.

"Who are you?" Caitlyn demanded as she returned to his cock with tender, agonizing slowness.

"Your toy," he wept; "your slave," for he could barely remember his own name now.

"And what do you want, slave?" she continued as she began fucking him once more. The muscles of her pussy clenched and sucked at his penis as her hands kept him pinned to the bed.

"To serve you," he moaned. Overwhelmed and consumed by the bliss of surrender he could do nothing but let his Mistress use him. Nothing had ever felt this good. The entirety of his life was rendered meaningless by this new-found apostasy of submission, and he knew all his years before were only a prelude to this, his true purpose in life. He wanted nothing but what his Mistress wanted of him.

James' face was suddenly covered in hot, wet flesh, his head gripped by a pair of smooth thighs, even as Mistress Luna continued riding his cock. Startled, he tried to cry out and the smooth, salty taste of pussy filled his mouth.

"Then serve me now, boy," commanded Mistress Luna, her voice muffled by the legs wrapped tightly around his head. "Eat that pussy, Jimmy. Eat it. Suck it. Lick that pussy, Jimmy. Lick it. Make it cum."

He did not hesitate to do what he was told, thrusting his tongue into the pussy that covered his face like a mask, sucking on its labia and tilting his head back to massage the clit with his lower lip. The woman above him groaned and bucked on his face, gripping his head tighter with her thighs even as Mistress Luna writhed on his dick like a serpent. The thought of refusing never occurred to him; blinded, the knowledge of where he was,

who

he was, slipped from his mind like so much water down a drain. He could see Mistress Luna in his mind's eye, young, blonde, haughty and flawless, as though the Gods themselves had realized all female perfection in her form. Oh, how he adored her, how he loved her with every fiber of his being; he began to cry with joy for being permitted to serve her, and fear that something this perfect would not be allowed him forever.

He tried to picture the woman sitting atop his face, but though glimpses of other women he had known – his prettier co-workers, the collegiate barista at the coffee shop, even his wife, Emily, with her doe-brown eyes and copper hair – flitted through his mind's eye, he could not hold on to any of them. Attempting to think of any woman other than Mistress Luna was impossible. It was Mistress Luna sitting on his face, and Mistress Luna fucking his cock, and his fevered, lust-sick mind saw more Mistresses watching, shouting, cheering on the erotic spectacle as if it were some grand sporting event.

"Oh yeah, Jimmy, eat that pussy," the Mistress moaned as she bucked wildly on his dick; "suck on her clit... yeah, oh God, you're gonna make her cum so hard, gonna make her cum all over your face..."

"Fuck your Mistress, you worthless little shit," the Mistress growled, grinding her hot box into his eager face; "fuck her good, slave! Serve her! Obey her! Make us cum!"

It was not necessary for him to think, only to serve. His arms and legs no longer existed, and the press of flesh atop his body made it impossible for him to move anything but his thrusting hips and sucking mouth. James was only a toy, a bundle of skin and nerves seething with pleasure as his owners used him to cum over and over again. His head spun as he breathed deep of the Mistress's pussy; her fluids filled his mouth and ran down his throat. He couldn't swallow or breathe or even move as the Mistress shuddered and drove herself deeper onto his cock, digging her fingernails into his chest, and crying out with pleasure as she came.

The Mistresses of his mind's eye grew vague and indistinct as he drowned beneath their weight. Even as he struggled to remain conscious he felt an orgasm being drawn out of him like hot taffy jerked from the pull; he heard himself cry out from somewhere very far away as his body erupted with pleasure and his mind shut down. A peaceful black wave surged across the landscape of his fantasy, and as James dove headfirst into that all-consuming oblivion his last coherent thought was one of satiation, the peace of being owned and never having to think for himself again.

He loved his Mistress. His life belonged to her.

***

His vision was blurred and his head full of clouds when he woke. His clothes were neatly folded at the foot of the bed, and a pack of cigarettes sat on the nightstand. James had quit smoking four years ago, but he pulled one of his Mistress's cigarettes from the pack and lit it, tears flowing unnoticed over his cheeks as he considered how selfless she was for leaving them for him. He didn't deserve such kindness.