I wasn't in control of my actions. Something about the way you always sneaked up behind me in the shower, your cock greased with soap, pushed my face into the icy tile, pinned my wrists over my head and rammed into my asshole until the words you hum in my ear afterward, over and over, like a tape recorder - Sweetheart, you're lovely, Honey, I want you - melted like the soap swirling around the tub and running down the drain. I know I agreed to be your submissive. When you spank my pussy I writhe until I am so engorged I beg for the cock you shove into me, my head thumping the headboard, while I cum, shaking, loud and long and hard. It's not as if I don't tremble from the pain, become lightheaded from the humiliation.
But it was as if someone pulled a switch in my brain, not a light switch, but one of those turn-off-the-electricity-on-the-city switches from the old black and white movies. It's not that I intended exchange roles. I intended nothing. The switch flipped and I jumped, astonished at my strength, never considering the consequences of what I was about to do.
You'd fallen face down in the pillows in one of your post-coital naps. I perched naked on the edge of the bed and peeled back the covers to reveal the muscles of that ass I love to hold as I stare up at you while you thrust into me. There is a muscular ridge that reminds me of a Sierra sunset and I wanted to run my hand along it, gently, a tickle, then follow it with my tongue, nuzzling past your asshole to your balls and burrowing into your crotch so I could urge you awake, hard now, with my mouth, but no. That's what you would expect me to do, to awaken you with a blowjob. It was time for the unexpected. Your eyelids fluttered and I rose, quietly. Better to keep you asleep.
I tiptoed into the walk-in closet and opened the bureau drawer where, under my bras and panties, you store your playthings. I fondled the collar, inhaled the leather that makes my pussy throb, and tied it around my neck, then found the nipple clamps, which I snapped in place. I gasped. Always before I lay back on the bed, waiting for you to straddle me. Then you apply the clamps, watching as the pain turns my face red and my nipples to sentries.
I turned toward the full-length mirror and reached between my legs: swollen and wet. A voice in my head said stop, beg his forgiveness for acting without permission, but that voice was hushed, as if another being had taken control of my mind and now forced my body into a new type of submission. I stroked my clit and dipped one finger into my pussy, then two. Always the reward for my submission was your heightened desire for me. Would this act result in the loss of that desire?
I moved like a cat burglar. Clad in collar and clamps, I rummaged through the drawer and found the butt plug, lube and metal cuffs. Cold and harshness is what I wanted you to feel, the way I feel, my cheek pushed against the shower wall. I strode out to the bedroom where you still slept, dropped the plug and lube at the foot of the bed and, with a deftness that belied my inexperience, snapped one cuff into place, then the other.
You stirred. "What?" you asked, beginning to roll over. I placed a knee in your lower back and slapped you on the cheek. You jerked a hand, and I wondered if you meant to touch your cheek or return the blow, but the cuffs stopped you. Your face was a tableau of momentary confusion turning to recognition.
I slapped you again. "On all fours."
"What are you doing?" Another wallop.
