A Perfect Night 7

Disclaimer: All characters are over the age of 18, and are mature, consenting, unrelated adults engaged in a safe, sane, and consensual BDSM relationship with a Daddy Dom D/s dynamic. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. Your feedback is always appreciated!

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Different times demand different styles of play, and lately the intense play I crave has been on hiatus. This saddens me even as I welcome the new facet to our dynamic. Indeed, I begged for this, pleaded for it, and the outcome pleases me every bit as much as it does him. Still though, I crave...something. I'm not even sure what; I only know that I long for total, complete submission, being owned by him in every way possible.

He finds me in front of the mirror after my shower, oiling my heavy breasts and distended belly. I am so large now, and I can tell from his hooded gaze that this pleases him mightily. When we go out, vanilla veil firmly in place, everyone can still see how much I am his. It is possible that this pleases him every bit as much as the private play.

"More," he says when I move to set the oil aside. "Don't miss a spot."

"Yes, Daddy." I resume oiling my breasts.

"Work your nipples," he orders. "Nice and hard now."

"Yes," I gasp. God I love his orders.

"Make them hurt a little as you milk them for daddy." He leans back against the door frame. I love watching myself in the mirror, eyes meeting his, both of us riveted to my changed form and how well I obey him.

"Oh please, yes." This. This is what I have missed, the bite of pain, the tone of utter command, the chance to show him how much I can take.

I pull my nipples, milking hard enough to coax a few drops out, and rough enough to make me moan.

"Is your pussy wet?" He asks, voice a low rumble, distant freight train making me shiver in anticipation.

"Always." I do not bother lying. He knows the answer.

"Well, then, we should do something about that." He takes my hand leads me to the bed, but instead of joining me on it, he opens the neglected toy chest.

My happiness escapes in a squeak that makes him smile even as I know I'll pay for such eagerness later.

He brings out the silken rope and bids me to kneel on the soft carpet of our room. Binding my wrists and forearms behind my back with methodical precision, he tugs hard enough that I feel each knot. He stops just below my elbows. "That's perfect," he says and I swear I can hear his smile. There won't be any complicated breast or torso binding tonight, and I'm fine with that. This is enough. This is, as he says, perfect.

Still behind me, his arms encircle me, hands finding my breasts immediately. He is clothed to my nakedness, a contrast that never fails to thrill me. His rough jeans drag against the soft skin of my back.

"Full?" he asks and all I can do is moan.

"Do you want Daddy to milk you? His hands barely skate over my swollen breasts, nowhere near the pressure I need.

I bleat my need, an inhuman sound of need, but his chuckle is just shy of cruel. "You will wait."

Oh god. I crave the wait almost as much as I dread it. The lights are low in our room, a few candles lit, and soft music playing. He was busy while I took my shower, and the fact that he planned this makes my insides light as champagne bubbles. He always knows what I need, even when I don't have the means to articulate it.

Coming around to the side of me, he reaches for a candle, smiling wickedly. Another Dom would blindfold me at this point, keep me guessing, but gags and blindfolds are punishment tools around here. Leaving my eyes open is a signal that tonight's erotic torture is all for pleasure. He hefts my heavy breasts, weighing them with his hands, still not giving me relief. Eyes locked firmly on mine, he dribbles a little wax over one tit. My skin is still slick and soft from the oil and the hot wax rolls the length of my breast, a long, hot lick that is quickly followed by another rivulet of wax.

As he works, the wax decorates the tips of my hanging nipples, pools beneath my breasts, and drips onto my distended stomach. It's not the sting of a flogger or the thwack of a paddle or the sharp, mean bite of the clamps, but the heady mix of pleasure-pain grows with each drop of wax. He circles me, admiring his work, the same way he does when he's marked my flesh, given me gorgeous crimson stripes. I glance over at the toy chest.

"No," he says firmly. "Not yet."

"Soon?" I can't keep the eagerness out of my voice.

"Perhaps," he muses. "If you are very good."

"Or very bad." That eagerness. I can't control it.

He laughs because he does know me well. "Hush." He grabs one tit none too lightly, pouring a steady stream directly onto the tip.

I hiss and his laugh this time is a dark thing.

"Sorry, Sir," I say, even though I'm not really. I'd happily endure whatever pain he doled out because he always pushes just far enough, and I can't wait to see how far he pushes tonight, where he will take us.

He glances at the nightstand. Next to the candles is a half-full tumbler of whiskey on the rocks. His thick fingers pluck one ice cube free. I'm shivering before it even touches my skin, and he uses it to flick the wax free of my skin, one cold jolt after another until I'm shivering, stripped bare of wax, reduced to just this rising need. His big hands coast over my bound arms, checking the circulation without fussing over me.

The softest flogger we own comes out of the toy chest. I've been very, very good apparently. It's my favorite for the light sting with very little thud-I can take quite a lot on my most sensitive places, and he knows this well. And he knows exactly where I both want and fear it. A few warm-up flicks against my back before he's circling to my front.

"How badly do you want milked?" he asks.

"Bad," I moan.

"Show me." He unleashes a series of flicks across the top of my tits. This isn't one of the punishing floggers-the soft red marks he raises will quickly fade but the sensation lingers as my need builds. He works his way down, and I am so wet my inner thighs are coated now. I start to tense my legs, and smack! A quick sharp blow across my nipples.

"None of that now," he chides. He knows I've climaxed from nothing more than muscle tension and his talented hands delivering well-placed blows. I widen my stance as his torment continues, a steady rain of sensation across my tits until I'm begging for his hands. I'm leaking a bit, but it's not enough. I know his hands will burn and sting a bit, and God, I want that.

Finally, he drops the flogger. "Move," he commands, a hand fisting in my hair. He maneuvers my swollen body until I am kneeling in front of the bed, then he pushes on my shoulders until the are supported by the low mattress, my face resting against the soft comforter. My belly and tits dangle in this position, and he pulls my hips until I am fully on display for him.

I hear the snick of his belt buckle behind me and my whole body starts to tremble as his pants hit the floor. He tosses his thick shirt beneath me and goosebumps break out along my back and arms. Finally. Finally I will get relief in the best way possible.

His big, muscular thighs widen my stance, large hands arranging my hips until his cock is brushing my swollen folds.

"You want Daddy?" he asks.

I moan my need.

"Say the words." His voice is a steel-toed command to my quivering insides.

"Fuck me, oh please fuck me." I know I've begged just right when I feel him against my opening, big blunt head demanding entry.

Slowly, his thick cock pushes in as he strokes my back, my bound arms, my belly. Anywhere but my tits until with a hard thrust, he's all the way in and his hands finally find my aching breasts.

Broad thumbs stroke down my dangling tits, finding my dripping nipples. I moan at the first hard pull. He's so damn good at timing thrusts to pulls, milking me firmly, almost roughly as he fucks me.

"You are beautiful just like this," he murmurs. "My little milk slut. My pregnant girl. Who owns you?"

"You do," I breath with the reverence I reserve for these moments.

"Who decides when you get milked?"

"You," I moan. "Oh, God, you. You. You."

"That's right. Good girl. Because you're mine. And if you need something what are you supposed to do?"

Ah. There was a lesson in all this after all. And I know the answer. "Ask."

"What do you need?" His voice is gentle as cotton, but firm as iron.

"You." Then the words spring free, pulled from my inner depths. My voice breaks. "I missed you. God, I missed you. I missed playing."

"Me too." His lips are at the back of my neck, a gentle kiss to the counterpoint of his rough thrusts. "But you're still mine. Still my girl."

"Fuck yes." I'm close, so close now as his thrusts are perfectly angled to scrape my g-spot as his thick fingers torture my nipples.

One broad hand leaves my now-empty tit, wet fingers trailing over my round stomach, finding my patch of hair, parting me. But not touching.

"Please. Please, I want to come. Please, Daddy."

"You need this?"

"Yes. Need you so bad." I'm whimpering and wailing now.

"That's it. Come for Daddy." His finger finds my clit as he hammers my g-spot. I come on a strangled cry. The orgasm crashes through me-an intense wave that makes my whole body clench-pussy. Thighs. Belly. Even my neck muscles get in on the action as I swallow reflexively.

His thrusts get erratic now, all finesse gone as he finishes with growl. I feel his cum hit my cervix, feel it drip out as he pulls back. Owned. I am owned, a fact underscored by each mark, each drip, each sweaty inch of me.

He unties my hands with infinite tenderness, rubbing my hands and arms. He helps me into the bed, cuddling me close. My hands are free now to roam, and I do, reacquainting myself with his body. Not to arouse. Just reconnect as we drift off to sleep, one of his broad hands on the curve of my belly, the other cupping a breast. Perfect. This is perfect.