Samantha

"I'll be home from the teaching job at seven thirty babe. Be ready for me okay?" A high, dulcet voice returned to me over the cell phone, "Of course. I'll be wearing the pink shirt."

While I normally hate cold weather, the gusty winds off of Oneonta made me grateful. The long black coat I had to wear for protection from the cold hid the bulge that appeared in my jeans quite admirably. The next ten minutes walking to the Fezra after school center saw me soften up as the thought of my girlfriend grew less immediate. It simply wouldn't do to walk in on a bunch of ten year olds with a raging erection.

I teach chess there, part time, twenty hours on a usual week in a number of activities and workshops. Combined with my scholarship, it paid most of the bills and provided most of the textbooks. I love the game, and I do like to teach, although a lot of the smaller children grated on my nerves. I'm something of an artist when it comes to my game, and a lot of the grade schoolers were there because their parents wanted some sort of cheap babysitting.

But it was a Tuesday, where my schedule got me to work early. I've never understood what impulse drives educators to put high school schedules simply earlier than for younger children. Be that as it may, I had a small, elite class ahead of me for the next four hours. I'm no grandmaster, and one kid in particular, a Jonathan Kalchy, gave me a real run for my money at times, even beating me when I gave simultaneous exhibitions. I keep telling the center people that they should get a real master, not some 2086 college student. However, this was the middle of nowhere, and the chances of a really strong player coming by were miniscule.

It pains me to admit it, but I kind of cruised through the lesson on autopilot. I ran through the 1953 Zurich book, so I could use Bronstien's commentary instead of my own, and then set up some matches, turned on the clocks, turned off my brain. I was trying to mentally both hurry the time along and not to think about Samantha enough to give the little twerps something to snicker about. I was thankful that this particular group was low maintenance, as my brain wasn't really there then. I think they sensed it, but were too polite to comment.

Finally the proverbial bell rang, and I collected that day's game results and chucked them into a little cabinet I had. Throwing on my coat and almost quivering with excitement, I skipped out. It was a twelve minute walk from the Fezra center to my apartment. I made it in eight minutes forty seven seconds. I have a perfect clock in my head.

Walking through the lobby of the building, I passed by a mirror. My brown hair was blown from left to right across my head, and I spent a minute or two combing it into some semblance of order with my fingertips. Watery blue eyes checked out my figure, and wondered once again why she chose me. I'm a bit over five foot nine, weighing one eighty five. I'm athletic, and a few years of martial arts have given me large shoulders and hands, but while I'm not fat by any means, I don't have rock hard abs or a six pack by any stretch of the imagination. I'm told that my face, while pleasant to look at, is cold and aristocratic. Part of that is because of my environment, but meh, a lot of that was there even before I went off to this shithole of supposedly higher education. 1490 SAT score for this. I turned my head to the left and spat, remembering an old friend from back home in New York.

Wondering why I was hesitating, I vaulted up the steps to my apartment of 3H. I purposely fumbled with my key in the lock for a moment, to make sure she heard me and could be near by the door. I opened the portal, and I sniffed in the scent of new paint in the hallway. Funny how I didn't notice it before. I stepped through, and saw her.

People might say I'm rather attractive, but Samantha was stunning. Five foot six, with emerald green eyes and ever so slightly curled blond hair that almost formed a circle around her face. While I was never impolite enough to ask enough about her weight, she was slender, toned. I would say athletic, but she had a knockout pair of tits, 36D, and I knew because I was there when she bought her bras and several other of her outfits.

She was wearing one of them now and my cock was already stirring from looking at her A tiny white "skirt", covering only her waist and a tiny part of her pubic region; from the back her firm, round ass was completely exposed. Further up, she was wearing that wonderful pink shirt, made out of an extremely stretchy polyester. It was about three sizes too small, and her breasts were clearly defined under them. Looking at her like this made me certain that there was a God.

Silently, she walked over to where I stood, knelt softly. She wrapped her arms around my knees and planted a soft kiss on my burgeoning crotch. I softly stroked her hair and whispered "good girl. Is my dinner ready?" She rubbed her face against me while she replied "Almost, I've already eaten myself and your place at the table is set. I'll serve you."

I had done honors work in high school, got an aforementioned 1490 SAT score, and that was before that third writing section, when the maximum was 1600. There were only two reasons I went to a lame school like Oneonta, with it's backwards academic standards and its location in the middle of nowhere. One was a thirty thousand dollar endowment a year, paying my tuition bills and making an education possible. The other was this chick. She was on the cheerleading squad for the football team. I don't follow football. In fact, I was never much one for campus life, one of the reasons I got an apartment away from it, but this one time my disdain for my fellow co-students wavered for a moment and I attended a game.

I saw her there of course, which made the game *far* more interesting. I didn't ask her out of course. I mean hell, someone as hot as she was had to have a boyfriend, and there had to be a lot more eligible guys out there than that weird English major who had condescension and snarky sarcastic comments out of every other sentence.

So of course I was flabbergasted when she asked me out two weeks later. The rest of the relationship was even weirder. I wasn't a virgin by any means, I had girlfriends before, but never like her, and I'm not talking about her figure. I'd say she was a submissive, but it never extended out of the sexual, and it was always her idea to descend further. She held the reins of her own submissiveness, begging me for cock and calling me nothing but "master" one minute and discussing the intricacies of Diogenes stoicism the next. It left me with my head spinning every night after I invited her to move into my place.

Which was totally fine by me.

The smell of pasta brought me out of my reverie. A small salad, some spaghetti, some orange juice to drink (I hate soda), it wasn't a feast by any means, but it was a nice homey dinner. The table was a bit small, and squareish, being able to seat one on each side, and I took my place on a low slung, green swivel chair with almost overstuffed cushions that I sank into.

Samantha knelt to my right on a cheap throw rug. I started to eat the salad, tossing occasional glances at her. She was thrusting her chest up, trying to emphasize her breasts and attract my notice. It was one of the unwritten rules of our game, she could do anything she wanted to attract my lust, as long as it wasn't obvious that she wanted it. Open begging for my touch was only allowed to begin once she was naked. God she was hot in that tight shirt. I crunched on a crouton, sipped some juice, and let my right hand dangle low and feel around her breasts. I made a special point of not looking at her, letting only the sensations of my hand flow to my engorged dick.

The fabric felt a bit like rubber, but that could have just been my imagination. Her breasts were soft and warm, and I could just sink my hand into them. Groping around, I felt a nipple, lightly rubbing my thumb around in a little circle. I heard a soft sigh of content. I squeezed, drawing a gasp from her, and then turned to the side and pulled her head into my crotch.

"Pull it out and suck it." I tried to keep my voice steady, even, authoritative, but a low animal growling was what was came out. Holding power over someone this absolute tended to bring out the animal in me, but worries over my mental health simply dissolved at the sound of her pulling my pants down. I kept my hand on her tits and admired the heat and softness.

My cock sprang out of my boxer shorts, already erect and throbbing. I let go of Samantha to let her concentrate on...... more important things. I turned back to the remains of my spaghetti, waited for the feel of lips on the tip of my cock. I gave a buck with my hips and thrust deep into her mouth, prompting a gag reflex.

I've only got an average sized cock, just a tiny bit over 6 inches. Part of it is my only experience with this whole Dominant/Submissive thing comes from stories I read on the internet, where the "Alpha Male" always seems to have a ten inch long dick at the least. While I realize that 99% of those are either pure fantasy or some lying bull shitter, it sometimes gives me feelings of inadequacy. Having her gag on me made me feel bigger, and that always felt good. Besides, it opened up......

"How am I supposed to enjoy my meal with a blowjob like this? Suck it bitch." This time I turned to the remainder of my meal enjoying the sizzling feeling of her hot little mouth over my pleasure stick. She alternated her motions constantly, sometimes concentrating on the head, sometimes pulling my entire shaft in, inciting a terrific little throb when I got to her soft palate, occasionally withdrawing her mouth completely to kiss and lick my shaft. I glanced at a mirror in the dining room, and enjoyed watching the perspective of the blond hair bobbing up and down over my crotch. God the heat felt good, and even seemed to make the meal tastier. She was bobbing and sucking as I ate and drank, and I thought that life couldn't get any better.

I almost came in her mouth a second later when she somehow managed to get her tongue out of her mouth that was still wrapped around my meat and lick at my balls. I didn't want to go off so soon, so I pulled out of her, she only slightly resisting the withdrawal, and patted her hair as I zipped up. "Good girl, but you know I want to make it last a bit longer. I'll clean up the table. How much homework do you have?"

She hung her head low, and spoke the floor as I zipped up and started moving the plates and glasses to the sink. She always does that when I rebuke her, even mildly. "My apologies master. I did most of my work before, I only have a few trig problems, should take me about an hour. I'll go start them."

She headed into the living room, which was adjacent to the dining room. For an apartment building, it was quite spacious, with a red rug on the floor that looked more expensive than it really was. Coming in from the dining room, one would see two huge bookshelves dominating the far wall. To the immediate right was my work desk and the computer. In the center of the room was a low double leveled table, which Samantha was sitting next to poring over some mathematics problems. On the right wall was the television, and near the left was a brown, overstuffed couch. The couch wasn't placed flush against the wall, instead being placed closer to the table, although not close enough to sit on the couch and work at the table in the center. I silently walked across the room, taking up a copy of the Brothers Karasmasov before reclining on the couch and starting to read.

I spent half my time reading the translated Russian and the other half staring at her back. I've never understood her. She never talks about her family, any former boyfriends, or where she wants to go after school. She did seem to get off on my telling her what to do; it was the control, not pain that drove us along, but I couldn't get any gleam as to why she'd want to be controlled. I could never help but feeling that there was some sort of vitally important clue to her personality that was just out of my reach.

I resisted an urge to spit and pushed my attention back to my book. Perhaps Dostoevsky, whose books had given me some insight into my own self, could get me some insight into what she was.

I read.

I have an almost perfect internal clock. Thirty five minutes and fifty four pages later, I folded my novel on my forefinger and stated, in a dry, flat voice commanded "Take off your shirt Samantha." She didn't answer, just complied. Although I was facing her back, I got a bit of a rise from watching her strip off her top. "Good girl" I grunted out. I returned to my reading, she to her mathematics. Another twenty two pages, I finished a chapter and put down my book. She would be done with her homework soon, and I didn't want to be bogged down with my own reading.

I glanced at her. She was still bent over the table, scratching a pen on the table. Her breasts were big enough that I could see roundness from my vantage point. Even though she tended to get absorbed in her own work, I made care not to make noise when I slid from the couch and to the soft floor. I reached around her and felt up her tits. She started for a second, but didn't say anything, and a moment later returned to her trigonometry while I groped and fondled her, running her soft mounds in between my fingers. I would wait until she actually finished her work before I went to full fuck mode. While I enjoyed being distracted from my own projects, I never got the impression she enjoyed a conflict between my cock and her college duties. She took her grades quite seriously.

Kneading her tits, I felt more than saw or heard her finishing her work. Trying to remain calm, matter-of fact I asked "Are you ready for me to fuck you bitch?" Her answer was almost cooed out "Of course master. Your bitch is ready to have your cock in her." When she talks like that it always makes my dick leap. The submission is total, willing, eager even. I pulled her up, my hands still on her tits, and we started walking past the dining room down to the bedroom, passing a closet on the left in the hallway. We kept our various toys in that closet, including a set of her outfits for submission, like the pink shirt on the living room floor and the tiny "skirt" she was still wearing. I didn't think I'd need the ropes this evening. We marched into the bedroom together, my hands reaching around her and groping her tits, my cock rubbing against her ass through my denim jeans.

Once inside my measured nonchalance vanished entirely. I shoved her onto the large, low, overstuffed bed covers and jumped in after her an instant later. I dove my hands to her waist, pulling at her scant remaining clothing. A second later and it was gone, tossed on the floor somewhere. My fingers sought out her snatch, brushing lightly against a sparse blond thatching, confirming that she was damp, if not sopping. Time to fix that, I thought, and lightly spread her lower lips with my left hand while gently probing with my right index finger. She moaned and twisted her hips slightly, trying to maximize the contact. Flashing her a smile, I pushed on her clit, once, twice, a third time, always with the left thumb, twirling it in a circle before breaking contact again, each time a little harder, a little faster than the last. My other hand stopped gently probing around with a single finger, but inserted a second and was pumping fairly vigorously.

This finally got more of a reaction out of her than a moan, and she panted out "Master, please stop teasing me. Please eat me out or give me your cock."

I slowly disengaged from her and stood up at the edge of the bed. Calmly, I began stripping off my clothing, my shoes, socks, shirt, pants, underpants falling into a disorganized yet small pile at my feet. "Earlier, you referred to yourself as my bitch. I'd like you to keep doing that until I tell you to stop. Now ask again."

She doesn't blush often, but her cheeks went a little scarlet at that demand. But after a second's hesitation, she murmured out "Master, please fuck bitch or eat her out. Bitch is very horny and wants some release. Please master."

I strode over to the bed stand, got out a small tube with some oil. I carefully lubricated the generous inner slopes of Samantha's tits.

As I worked I said, "First you're going to have to please me bitch. I want to rub my cock on your tits, and then we can see about the fucking."

She knew what was coming and scooted backwards a bit on the bed so I could straddle her more easily. I placed my throbbing dick in between her tits, pushed them together, and started thrusting, losing myself in the slipperiness and softness. I slid so easily on her lubricated breasts and the air was cool, a sharp contrast to the heat I felt in my balls. A few particularly violent stabs tapped the base of her chin, and after a few taps she got the idea and craned her neck so she could kiss and lick the tip of the spear that was thrusting towards her. It wasn't really a blowjob, but it was quite a nice spice to the titfucking.

"All right bitch, you've earned your fucking." I was already throbbing, and I needed to pace myself not to go off too soon. I slid away, hanging over her directly. I put my palms on the bed to her side and gave her a kiss on the lips that had just a moment ago been wrapped around my cock. No taste of any remnant of my presence, just a faint hint of strawberry, courtesy of her lipstick perhaps.

I was lying directly atop her, and I noticed faint red swellings where my fingers gripped in on her tits. I pushed my palms against the bed to her side and ground my throbbing staff against her snatch. She smiled. It was a bit of a struggle, but I got my legs in between hers. Her thighs were like some soft bronze. I pushed outward, and she pushed inward. I had a standing instruction for her to fight ineffectually against my pushing her legs apart. It always made me feel like I was conquering, taking, overcoming.

No foreplay or teasing here, I thrust into her, stabbing as hard as I could. Her pussy was tight, almost perfectly contoured to my cock. It squeezed like a vice grip around me, and I gasped, and almost immediately tried to think about my schoolwork avoid cumming immediately. She'd been good, so I didn't want to play any games about not allowing her to cum. She deserved some pleasure, and I enjoyed indulging her. But first.......

I snarled in her face. "Arms above your head bitch, I want to see you on full display for me." She quickly complied, gripping onto a pillow near the bed stand. Her pink nipples seemed to stand up almost an inch from her generous tits, and I felt bad for a second looking at the tiny red marks where my fingers had squeezed her tightly.

But only a second. I smiled, stroked the side of her face, cooed "good girl" in her ear as I kept thrusting. I slipped and twisted around, trying to increase the friction, and I ground my pubic bone over her clit. I kept my thrusts slow, powerful, deliberate. Fuck fuck fuck, grind grind grind. My internal clock had long since turned off in the exaltation of passion, but I knew that my fucking was slow, rhythmic, unceasing. I wasn't exactly sure exactly how long I kept going until she gave off a low animal grunt and started jerking around. She didn't say anything, but I could see her bunching her jaws and holding it in.

My hands had shifted from palming the bed to wrapped around her shoulders, and I asked, my voice a bit ragged. "Enjoy it girl?" At her nod, I sped up my own thrusting. It was my turn now. She felt like I was grasping lava, every inch of flesh to flesh contact searing pleasure into me. My hips knocked for a second into hers, but the I pinned down her pelvis and pushed. My balls felt like they were a pair of balloons inflating, and I only had a few seconds before going off.