(Dedicated to Tracey... our conversations inspired this one.
The dominatrix in the story is too loosely sketched out to be an accurate representation of you, but I'm not good at capturing personalities.)
*
She was kneeling astride my chest, completely naked. One hand was behind her, holding my cock. My wrists and ankles were tied to the four corners of the bed. I was helpless, turned on and feeling thoroughly humiliated... but still incredibly turned on. The hardness of my cock was a very concise testament to that fact. It's not like she was even pumping it, or alternately squeezing and relaxing her hand. She was just holding it. Using it as a barometer -- a guide to my state of sexual arousal.
And most embarrassing -- most humiliating -- most erotic of all... she was staring deeply into my eyes and I had absolutely nowhere to hide.
"How are you feeling?" she asked. "Looking forward to our little soiree?"
She was referring to the fact that we had company coming over. Another couple. I knew little about them or the nature of their relationship to each other, but I did know that they were both fully aware of the nature of our relationship.
"No," I said. Then -- "Yes. I think so. What's going to happen?"
"What do you want to happen?" she countered.
Damn. A perfect response to my question if it was an interrogation she wanted. Or an analysis of my fears and anticipations.
"I, um... I want to make you happy," I said. Perhaps the vagueness of my response would deflect her.
"Oh, yes? Does that mean you'll do whatever you're told?"
"Yes," I answered eagerly.
"Don't be so quick to answer. Before we get started, we need to find out whether you're likely to rebel and embarrass me if you get panicky."
"I won't panic." But she had felt the twitch in my cock. Her hand tightened round it briefly, in a mute acknowledgement of this slip. What did that mean, though? Was it the sudden realisation that whatever happened tonight was going to be completely beyond my control? The others may or may not have a pre-existing relationship that involved slavery, but I certainly did -- and I could expect to be answerable to any one of them.
"You're going to be naked all night, you know," she told me. "That's the absolute least you can expect. In fact, that's going to be completely non-negotiable."
I swallowed, then nodded. "OK," I answered.
"And don't go thinking that means that the rest of the night is negotiable. This is just a way of breaking you in gently. Of giving you some idea of what to anticipate, so that we can foresee any stumbling blocks. Because if you panic and rebel, then I'm going to look bad. And if I look bad, then things are going to be bad for you later tonight."
Another swallow. Another nod. "OK."
"OK," she repeated. Continuing with the eye contact. Clearly some elaboration was expected.
"OK..." I spoke slowly, thought rapidly. "I won't panic. I won't rebel. I won't do anything obstructive or refuse to do anything you command."
"When they get here, you're going to answer the door for them. You won't be allowed to get dressed first. I want you naked, vulnerable and self-conscious from the outset. You're going to spend the rest of the night like that, in fact."
I nodded. "OK."
Abruptly she let got of my cock and climbed off me. From my limited perspective, I could no longer see her, as she started opening drawers and cupboards somewhere at the foot of the bed. I listened as she started laying out clothes.
"If I want your cock hard, then you better get it hard quickly and efficiently," she said.
Now, clearly that wasn't going to be a problem. I had no idea what it was she was doing to me, but it didn't matter how humiliating and embarrassing it was, my cock clearly had its own ideas on an appropriate style of response. In fact, it seemed that the more embarrassing the situation, the harder it got.
"OK."
The rattling of a key in a lock informed me that she was opening our toybox. Sounds of rummaging, quickly followed by sounds of something swishing through the air. I knew what that sound heralded. Even if I behaved myself to absolute perfection, it was suddenly clear to me that some physical punishment was going to be involved. She enjoyed spanking me, and had recently upgraded to a bewildering array of whips, floggers... spankers... I didn't even know what half of these springy, leathery things were. I just knew that some of them had been inspired by her horsey days. I wondered if there had ever been a single equestrienne who had not harboured some dominatrix instincts.
"If I want your cock soft, then it better behave itself."
Oh. Damn. Now, that was going to be tricky. And to anyone who might have some difficulty understanding why, then I refer you to the earlier paragraph exploring the conflicting natures of embarrassment and arousal.
She moved back into view. She had on her best underwear, now. The most decadent, stuff she could find in the Victoria's Secret catalogue. If I still needed any clues, that was a good one. At some point tonight, she was expecting to strip off at least as far as her underwear. This stuff was meant to be seen. And not just by me. And if she was going to show that much flesh, then she was likely to show more. And if she showed more... well... it was a fairly safe bet that I would be eating her out while our guests watched. She was looking down at me, now.
"Well?" she said. I noticed that she was holding one of the springier items she had recently bought. I could swear I had seen her use something very similar on a horse once, for no discernible reason other than her own malicious amusement. Or to make it go faster. Or something. The finer points of horse riding were lost on me.
"Umm..." Eloquence was not a prominent feature of my response at that point.
She sighed. A little theatrically, I felt -- although I was smart enough to refrain from commenting on that.
"Are we going to have a problem here?" She moved her gaze down my body. "Is that thing going to behave itself?"
I wasn't sure how to answer that one. The required one wouldn't have been an honest one. I knew that. She knew that, too. She was taunting me. I started to squirm. I really didn't want to admit that this was going to be a problem.
The springy thing was coming in to play now. What was it called? A flogger? She moved down to about waist height, still staring at my cock, then swatted it with the tip. Not hard, but definitely enough to get my attention -- though of course, she already had that.
"I don't think this thing is going to behave," she said, but it no longer even seemed like she was addressing me. She sounded like she was talking to herself, now. Another swat. "I think it's going to stay hard the whole time we have company." Another swat. "And they're going to have to endure the sight of it sticking straight out in front of you as you serve them." Another swat, and then she turned to face me again.
"Is it going to leak?" she asked. "Because that really would be too much."
Oh, Christ. She knew it was going to leak. Why did she keep asking these questions? If there was one thing guaranteed to make me leak, it was a prolonged erection. And if there was one thing guaranteed to give me a prolonged erection, it was making a big deal out of it and telling me not to have one. Don't think of fucking hippopotamus? That's what this was beginning to feel like.
"Well?" She was looking at me again. Absently, I felt the light tip of the flogger, or swatter or whatever the fuck it was, brushing against my cock. Right at one of the most sensitive parts, where the foreskin joins the glans. Was she even aware of the contact? I didn't know, and the sensations were very distracting.
I struggled to focus on her face. I could hardly claim the swatting had been painful exactly, but it had certainly helped to "tenderise" me a bit. This new feeling only built on that. "I don't know," I said.
"You don't know what?" Christ, but she liked to make me vocalise everything, sometimes. Evasive answers just weren't good enough for her. Especially when she wanted to demonstrate to her friends just how much under the thumb I was.
"I don't know if I'll leak or not."
A lie. A blatant lie. But as close to the truth as I could get and still manage some semblance of salvation here.
"I think it will leak," she said. She looked back down my body towards my cock. I managed to raise my head and look as well. There was a steady flow now, and it was pooling on my stomach. She reached out and touched it with her fingertips, then spread it round my glans, drawing my foreskin right back as she did so. Immediately, I threw my head back down and started to thrash against this bit of contact. I hated myself for giving in to this, but couldn't help it. My hips raised off the bed and I tried to get the head of my cock away from her hands. Her pressure had been too light. Just a little bit firmer and I could have enjoyed what she was doing, but this featherlight touch simply threw me into a sensory overload that I was desperate to escape from.
