Mystery Dom

It had been Saturday when my stranger had first found me restrained, and had played with me. He'd given me three orgasms, and I'd given myself a fourth later, reliving the experience while messaging with him.

It had been Thursday when he'd

used

me. He'd fucked my throat until I choked, and he'd paddled me until I was crying. Then he'd cuddled me to sleep and messaged me later to make sure I was okay. I was more than okay.

That blissful haze had lasted all day on Friday. I couldn't focus at work. That wasn't a big deal - I didn't have any close deadlines, and I picked out some tasks that I could do mostly on autopilot. I went to the bathroom more than usual, partly because I wanted to take a look at the marks on my ass and tits - nothing very striking, you might not have noticed them if you weren't looking, but I was proud of them. I'm not normally very talkative, and if anyone noticed I was acting odd they didn't say anything.

But on Saturday, another feeling started to creep in. I hadn't had an orgasm all week and my body wouldn't let me forget it. I woke up and started idly fantasizing about how it would be the next time, when he finally fucked me. He'd pull on my hair while he took me from behind, and I'd feel his seed spurting into me as we came simultaneously.

I'd never had unprotected sex, I didn't know if I'd really be able to feel that. Besides, in reality he'd probably use a condom. But in my head it felt wonderful.

My hand was under my pyjamas and I was near climax before I managed to stop myself. I wasn't going to cum without permission.

I forced myself to get up, get dressed, and have a cup of coffee. While I drank it, I idly pulled up my light skirt and started playing with myself again. So I changed into a thick pair of jeans. I still found myself rubbing at the crotch all day, and a few times I unbuttoned the waist and slipped my hand down. My fingers slid easily through the folds of my skin to find my clit, and I could feel on the back of my hand that my panties were soaked. I pulled myself out after just a few moments each time, quivering, even more achingly desperate than I'd been before. For similar reasons I wore a padded bra and a turtleneck.

I could have messaged him. I wanted to. But somehow I felt like we were engaged in a battle of wills. I felt that he wanted me just as I wanted him, and that we were competing to see who would break and get in touch first. I didn't want to lose. I'm not sure why, but it felt right. I resolved that I wouldn't be the first to message.

When I went to bed, I wished I had a chastity belt. It would have been easier than using willpower.

---

11:18, Me: Please sir

11:18, Me: Please, I need to cum

11:18, Me: I need you to fuck me

Sunday morning. My resolve had lasted less than a day.

11:20,???: "Need"?

I wasn't sure what to say to that. I mean no, not "need" need, but also yes. Rather than try to explain what I meant, I settled for

11:21, Me: Please sir

11:21,???: Five minutes. Naked and blindfold in your room

I jumped a little to read that. My heart started pounding.

11:21, Me: Yes sir

My coffee was too hot to finish right now, so I abandoned it on the kitchen counter and practically flew upstairs. I threw my clothes in a corner, straightened out the bed a little, and scanned the room for my blindfold. I hadn't put it away since Thursday and it was on the bedside table. Then I noticed my bladder and ran to the bathroom.

I returned just as I heard the front door opening. It's the kind of town where we keep a spare key under the doormat, which is how he'd let himself in the first time. I tugged the blindfold down and knelt, hands on my thighs, facing the bedroom door. I tried to steady my breathing.

I heard the stairs creak softly as he climbed them, and a few seconds later, footsteps padding to the doorway. Then nothing. Was he just looking at me? I imagined that he might be imagining what he might do with me, and my breath caught. I was close to saying something - I didn't know what - when I heard two more footsteps, felt a hand cupping my face, raising my mouth, his lips pressed against mine and his tongue parting them.

Fire broke out in my cunt, and I began to moan as my own tongue pressed back against his. I raised my arms to hold him, felt them brush his arms - and then clutch at nothing as he pulled back from me.

I made a disappointed whining noise and he spoke. "Hands on your thighs, slut. Keep them there."

I breathed an uh-huh as I complied, and then caught myself. "Yes sir," I said quietly, shakily.

He drew back in, cupped my face with both hands this time, and began to kiss me again. I moaned more intently as I kissed him back. I pushed my shoulders back and my tits forwards, hoping to get more bodily contact with him there. I gripped my thighs with my hands. Then I bunched them into fists and pressed my nails into my palms. I needed to feel his body pressed against mine, and eventually I couldn't stand it any longer and I reached for him again.

Again, I barely brushed his skin before he pulled back, and I felt the sting of his hand slapping my face. I gasped, it wasn't physically very painful but it felt like a rebuke and that hurt. "We need to train your self control, whore," he said softly to me, and I barely managed to reply "yes sir. Sorry sir." He said "good girl," and my heart skipped a beat.

I felt a shoe nudge in between my knees and I shifted them apart, my hands back on my thighs. It kept nudging until they were almost at right angles, fully exposing me. Then it pressed against my cunt and began to rub up and down slowly and I groaned out loud, feeling the firm leather slide easily through the folds of my skin.

He gradually picked up the pace while I grunted and squirmed, fighting to keep my hands where they were. It didn't take long before I knew I was near my threshold. Was this how I was going to get my first orgasm in a week, being molested by a shoe? I struggled to keep my control.

When the shoe pulled back I was briefly relieved. But then I felt it press up against my lips. I jerked my head away, but it found them again. I made a squeaky "mmh?" of protest without opening my mouth. But I knew what he wanted. Shuddering, I pushed my tongue out slightly.

It's not that it tasted bad. There was a slight taste of shoe polish, and my juices were a little salty. The texture was smooth. If I hadn't known what I was licking, it would have been unpleasant but not aversive.

But I did know. I was licking a shoe worn by a stranger, that had gotten coated in my pussy juices while it was being used to masturbate me. I was licking back and forth, making sure I cleaned it thoroughly. I had my nose scrunched up in disgust, but I was doing it anyway. And when it pulled away, I was saying "thank you sir" in a small voice.

And when he didn't reply, but just put his shoe back where it had been in my crotch and started rubbing quickly again, I was even closer to orgasm than I had been. It was humiliating to admit that it might happen, but it would be worse if it happened without permission. So after just a few moments I blurted out, "ah! Please can I cum sir?"

Of course the bastard didn't let me. He slowed the pace of his rubbing down, to where I was in no immediate danger. "Remind me what you said in your message, slut?"

I shuddered and tried to keep my voice steady. "I need to cum, sir."

"And what else?"

I thought back to all of ten minutes ago. "I need to be fucked, sir."

"To

be

fucked?"

It took me a few moments to work out what he meant. In my defense, I hadn't realized when I wrote the message that I'd be quizzed on its exact wording while distracted. My face flushed. "I need - need you to fuck me, sir. Ohhh," as he paused rubbing to briefly press harder into me, then resumed.

"And then I asked what you meant by

need

," he said softly. "You never answered. What will happen if I don't let you cum?"

What kind of question was that? I tried to figure out what was going on through the lust-induced haze in my brain. It was clearly a figure of speech, couldn't he see that? Except of course he could, but I still meant something by it. It had been shorthand and he wanted to know what it was shorthand for.

Or he could guess, and he wanted me to say it anyway. Or - I realized that I didn't really know myself what I'd meant, maybe he guessed

that

and wanted to watch me squirm as I tried to figure it out.

Apparently I was taking too long, because he flicked his foot, briefly putting an uncomfortable amount of pressure on my crotch. "Answer me, slut."

"Ah! I, I'll go crazy sir. I feel like I'll explode. I-" I was kind of just saying what I'd expect someone to say in my situation. What I'd have a character say if I was writing porn. I tried to figure out my own answer: "I don't know if I can focus at work sir."

"That's a good reason," he said, but he sounded noncommittal. "And what happens if I let you cum but don't fuck you?"

The thought hurt. I felt a lump in my throat and tears welling in my eyes. Of course he couldn't see them behind the blindfold. I was still achingly horny, and if he'd wanted he could probably make me cry and cum at the same time. For all I knew that was exactly what he wanted. But I tried to take his question as just a question, not a declaration of intent. The answer was that I wanted him to want to fuck me, and if he wasn't going to do that then that felt like I wasn't good enough. But I didn't know how to say that so I just went with "I'd be sad sir."

He didn't reply immediately, and I could stop thinking about my thoughts and feelings and go back to just experiencing them. His foot didn't let up, and the possibility that he might not want me still hurt. Was

this

how he was going to give me the orgasm I was aching for? Not just fucking me with a shoe, but fucking with my emotions? I loved-or-hated the thought but it clearly heightened my arousal, and I loved-or-hated that it had that effect on me and that made it better-or-worse.

I don't think he changed how he moved his foot but the noises I was making became guttural cries. Tears flowed openly down my cheeks as I desperately twitched my cunt as far forwards as I could. That was pathetically little in my kneeling position but I couldn't help but seek more contact with anything that might give me release.

I didn't have permission to cum, but I couldn't hold it back and I couldn't form the words to ask. Instead I relaxed my control over my hands, which had been holding a death grip on my thighs. I let them fly up to my face, where they could cover my tears.

Almost immediately he pulled the shoe away, and I kept humping uselessly at the air, on the brink of orgasm but unable to tip myself over the edge. I let out a last "uaaaagh" and then began to sob gently.

After a moment I felt him sit down next to me and pull me into a sideways hug, letting my cheek rest on his shoulder and his cheek on my head. We were pressed together along our legs and up our sides, the fabric of his clothing against my bare skin. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and I could feel where the sleeve ended and his arm emerged, his elbow bent so he could grip my shoulder firmly. After a few more moments he murmered the word "color?"

I took stock of myself. The last few minutes - had it even been that long? - hadn't exactly been pleasant. But they had felt somehow freeing, cathartic. I hadn't had an orgasm, but I'd had some other kind of release. I didn't think I wanted to go back to where he'd just taken me, not today. But I was still horny, and I still wanted him to fuck me.

"Yellow," I said, and I felt him nod. Then he said, "I'm proud of you," which made me feel proud of myself and I gave a small appreciative hum.

He continued, "I am going to fuck you. And you'll get to cum when I do." That was exactly what I needed to hear: he was telling me that it was his decision, not mine. I hummed again and relaxed into him.

But then he continued, "but maybe not today," and I stiffened. I tried not to sound pleading as I asked "when?" Then I added, "green, sir," in case he was worried I wasn't up for it. I honestly don't know if I was quite feeling green yet, but I really wanted him to fuck me.

He started gently scratching my arms with his fingernails. That helped both relax and arouse me. Then, instead of answering my question, he asked his own: "do you have plans for Saturday?"

Next weekend? That would be two whole weeks without an orgasm. "I don't want to wait that long, sir," I said in a small, kind of pathetic voice.

Wordlessly he took his right hand to my tit, gripped my nipple and started twisting it. I gave an "ah!" of pain, but he didn't let go. After a few seconds I realized that this was because I hadn't answered his question. "No sir!" I gasped, and he released me. The pain dissipated quickly, and I further realized I hadn't actually thought before answering. "At least nothing important," I amended. I'd planned to visit the cinema with a friend, but she wouldn't mind rescheduling.

He accepted that, and resumed the gentle scratching. "Here's what I'd like to happen," he told me.

He was going to make plans. He wasn't going to tell me what they were, but he thought I'd enjoy them. I'd go another week bursting with need, and he'd enjoy knowing how desperate I was. And on Saturday I'd cum when he fucked me.

"But," he continued, "I know this won't be easy for you. And I really don't want to mess with your job. So if you don't think you can handle it, just say so." He'd fuck me if I just asked. Today or any night this week. He wouldn't punish me, it wouldn't count in his mind as any sort of failure. He was proud of what I'd endured already. He thought I could endure more, but the choice was mine.

I didn't want it to be mine, but I understood why it had to be. This was new territory and he couldn't know how far I could safely go. He trusted me to figure it out for myself, and I didn't want to betray that trust so I took the question seriously. Could I last another week?

I didn't know, but I did think I could last until tomorrow. I shuddered in his arms and said haltingly: "I want... I want to be good sir. I'll try for you." I resigned myself to, at minimum, another full day of longing. More than a day, since it wasn't yet noon and tomorrow I had work.

He gave that smile that I can somehow hear, and said "good girl" and kissed me on the forehead. Those two words and two lips almost made the whole thing worthwhile just by themselves. Then he said, "I'm going to pack some of your things into a bag for Saturday. You'll bring it with you. No looking into it, and no looking everywhere else to see what's missing."

"Yes sir," I acknowledged. Having that bag lying around teasing me wouldn't help. I assumed that was part of the point. He got up and I stayed patiently kneeling. I listened as he rummaged around. He hadn't specifically forbidden me to pick up audio clues, which was good because I wouldn't have been able to stop myself - I can't pretend not to have heard something. But it made me feel less guilty about actively trying to hear what might be going into the bag. I didn't have much luck; I heard him open some drawers in my wardrobe, and pull out my box of toys from the bottom, but those were hardly surprising. No other sounds were distinctive enough for me to learn anything.

When he was finished he stood in front of me and said, "just one more thing, slut. You took your hands off your thighs without permission." In my defense, if I hadn't done that I would have came without permission. It had been an expression of self control. But also a failure of it.

"I understand, sir," I said. I straightened my back, and I put my hands back where they were supposed to be. "I'm sorry, and I'm ready."

I gasped as I felt the blow of his hand on my cheek. It was more physically painful than the last, but this time I felt no sting of shame, no sense of failure. It felt encouraging, like he knew I could do better next time. "Thank you sir," I said, and he said "good girl" and I heard him pad out of the room.

I stayed in place, breathing heavily, for several minutes after I heard the front door close behind him.