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22 Ekim 2023, 19:43
Before he comes home, I take a shower and straighten my hair. I get dressed in a black skirt, black tights, knee high black boots, and a white blouse. I look neat and professional, as though I'm going to work. I meet him at the door, and give him a long hug. "You smell nice," he says, and he kisses the top of my head. I hold him for a long time. Although I know it doesn't make any sense, I can't help but feel a little sorry for what am about to do.
"Are you ready?" I ask him.
"Always," he says.
I take him by the hand and lead him into the bedroom. I take his shoes off, unbutton the top button of his shirt, and make sure he's comfortable leaning back against the pillows.
During this part, when we're getting ready, I am always very gentle. He knows not to talk, but if he forgets and starts to say something, I just put my fingers to my lips and whisper shhhh, and smile. I straddle him, and put my hands on the side of his face. "I love you," I say. I brush a little bit of his hair off his forehead, stroking it to make it smooth.
I unzip my bag, then take out everything I need and lay it out on the bedspread. First, I sharpen the eyeliner, dropping a curl of peel into the bag, and dulling the nub against my palm. "Close your eyes," I tell him. I place my hand on the side of his head, to hold him still, and then draw a soft line across his upper eyelid, where the skin meets the lashes, smudging it lightly with my thumb. Then I draw another line beneath his eye, pulling the corner of his lid taut with my fingers. "Good," I say. "Now the other one."
After I finish the eyeliner, I snap open a plastic case of gray eye shadow, and brush one light stroke across each lid. He is very patient while I do this; his eyelids even don't flutter. When both lids are finished, I say, "You can open your eyes now."
I return the eyeliner to the bag and unscrew the cap of the mascara. I tilt his chin up and cup his head with my hand. 'Look up," I say, and stroke the brush along his eyelashes. He blinks rapidly, and I wait for him to finish before applying a second coat. I do one quick brush across his lower lashes, and then I do the other eye, clearing away a tiny clump clinging to his bottom lash with the corner of my little finger.
I look in his eyes, which dark and smoky now. "Good," I say. I open the blush and sweep the fuzzy, thick brush along the edge of his cheekbones, twice, then rub it in with my palms. He presses his face affectionately against my hand, and I let him linger a little before I take my hand away.
I open the lipstick and tilt his head up again. "Go like this," I say, and pout my lips. He smiles, and obeys, and I slide the smooth, waxy red lipstick along his top and bottom lips, until they're entirely covered. I take out a Kleenex from my bag, and press it to his mouth.
"Kiss," I say, and he does.
I take out the nail polish, shake it up, and take out the brush. I take my hand in his hand, and then carefully begin painting his thumbnail dark blue. I concentrate very hard on what I'm doing, making sure that no color gets anywhere on his skin. He will be wearing this polish all week, so I want to make sure I get it right. A while ago, we were out at a bar and he ran into a friend he hadn't seen in a while. "You're painting your nails now?" the friend said, I took his hand. "No," I said. "I am." The look of pride on his face, and the look of confused envy on his friend, is something I will never forget.
I paint his thumb, his index finger, his middle finger, his index finger, his pinkie. I am caressing his fingers as I do, rubbing them softly between mine. Although I do not look up, I can see him out of the corner of my eye, looking at me intently. I am drawing it out, letting myself linger. In a way, this is my favorite part, these careful preparations. Not only the sensuality of it, and the slow build towards what's coming next, but the simple fact that he lets me do it, this strong man letting me dress him up like a doll.
I switch to the other hand, moving even slower now. I let the tips of his fingers brush my chest, as though by accident, and I see him freeze, but I let it go by as though I didn't notice. When I am finished, I blow lightly on both of his hands. "Perfect," I say. I place his hands in his lap. I see that he is starting to get hard under his jeans, and he sees me see.
I slide down to the foot of the bed and rest his feet on my lap. I tug off his socks, my fingers tracing the arcs of his feet. I separate each of his toes with my fingers, smoothing off any dust with the pads of my thumb. I lift his right foot and bend over it, looking at it closely, squeezing it against my body, and then I begin to paint his toes. This takes even longer than his fingers. I am wringing out every drop of anticipation from him; from us both.
When I'm done, I blow on the drying paint once more, and then I pull back to admire my handiwork. "Look at you," I say. I kiss his forehead, and he sighs and leans against me.
"Look at you," I say again, and now something else slides into my voice?the tiniest note of scorn. "You're Anadolu Yakası Escort (http://www.34f5.com/) so pretty." I take his face in my hand and turn it side-to-side. "Do you want to see how pretty you are?"
He pauses, almost imperceptibly, before he nods. I take my phone and snap a picture of his face, then drop next to him and take a photo of both of us as I kiss his cheek possessively.
"Don't you like that?" I say, showing him the photo. In it, I look proud of what I've created, but his eyes, which look almost bruised from the makeup, are downcast, as though he can't quite bear to look directly at the camera. His mouth is a soft dark blur.
"All dressed up," I say, my voice low and mocking. "And so excited for what comes next."
I run my hands through his hair and lean in towards him, as though I am going to kiss him on the lips, and he looks in my eyes. I jump back as though he has given me an electric shock.
"No," I say. "You know better than that. You don't look at me. You look at the ground." I grab his hair by the roots, tug it up hard, and then slap him across the face.
He lets out a quick sharp breath, but he keeps his eyes pinned obediently on the ground. I stroke the place on his cheek where I hit him, and then I slap him again, three times in quick succession, each slap punctuated with a sharp yank of his hair.
"You're a slut," I tell him. "You're a pretty little slut. Aren't you?"
He nods.
"Say it." My hands are moving all over him, petting his hair, his ears, the back of his neck.
"I'm a pretty little slut."
"Look at me now."
He does. His eyes are big and blue. "You like this, don't you?"
He nods again, and I push his head down.
"Say yes."
"Yes."
"You like it when I dress you up and hurt you?"
"Yes."
"Slut." I say, savoring the word. "Are you
ready for your punishment? Are you ready to see what sluts get?"
"Yes. I'm ready."
It's time. I unbutton the rest of his shirt and pull it off him, unfasten his belt, unbutton and unzip his jeans, and yank them down. I am rough and business-like as I strip him. I pull off his boxers and throw them to the side, and once he is naked, I open the bag and take out the collar and the leash. I fasten the collar around his neck, pulling it tight, clip the leash to the hoop at the front, and then drop the end of the leash in his lap.
I take out the ball gag. He opens his mouth without being told, and I slide the red plastic ball between his lips, and fix the gag behind his head. I slap him twice more, but a little lighter now, because I know it hurts more with the gag in. I yank the leash tight.
"Go," I say. "Get on the floor." He climbs down off the bed, and I lead him over on his hands and knees to the other side of the bed. "Face down," I say, and he rests his forehead against his arms. I slap his flank. "Ass up," I say. "Higher. Higher. Good boy."
Once he is in position, for a little while, I am gentle again. I trail my nails lightly up his thigh, across his buttocks, and between his legs. He shivers, and I follow the trails I've made with my fingers with the lightest of kisses. I cup his ass with my hand, feeling him tremble, and then I bring my hand forward, hard, and the sound of the smack is loud and jarring.
"You want this," I say, needing to hear it for myself as much as anything. "You know you deserve it."
He can't say anything with the gag in, but he nods, and his stiffening cock answers the question for me. I remember when he didn't know this was what he liked; when he did it only to indulge me. But as soon as I saw him, I knew what he was looking for.
I hit him again, and again, until kind of dark energy overtakes me, and I'm no longer keeping count. It's dizzying, knowing that I can hit him as hard as I can, hurt him as badly as I've ever been hurt. I can let myself loose, set that fury in me free, and he'll take it all in, begging for more. For once in my life, because I control him, I don't need to control myself. That my love and fury don't break him are the greatest miracle in my life.
When I surface again, his ass and thighs glow pink and red, and my hand is stinging and my breath is coming fast as fast as his. I dig my nails into his skin, leaving a set of deep claw marks on him, then bend forward and rest my face against his leg. I kiss him, right where the marks are brightest, and curl my fingers in his hair. He takes a deep, indrawn breath that, through the gag, sounds more like a moan.
"Did that hurt?" I whisper. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry. I know." I stroke him again with my fingers, all along his back and neck, until he is almost purring.
"Here," I say. "You must be getting tired of wearing that." I unfasten the ball gag and slide it out of his mouth. A little trail of drool comes with it and I wipe his face with my hand, letting my hand rest on his mouth for a little while so he can kiss it. I kiss him on his cheeks, his forehead, his mouth, taking his bottom lip ever so gently between my teeth.
I reach up under my skirt and slide off Pendik Escort (http://www.34nda.com/) my underwear. They are white and silky and soaked with excitement. I ball them up and hold them in front of his face until he realizes what I want. He opens his mouth obediently and takes them into his mouth. I bury my face in his hair and breathe in deep, taking in the smell of him. "Good boy," I say. "You're so good." And he is.
My strap-on and harness live in the bureau drawer next to our bed. I go over and take them out. "Eyes down," I say, but he doesn't need the reminder. His face is flushed, and not just from the blush and the slaps.
Once I'm standing behind him, I unbutton my blouse and take off my skirt and stockings, folding them neatly and placing them on the floor, and I slip off my bra, bending over him to let the tips of my nipples graze along his back. Then I slide on the strap on and harness, cinching the buckles tight against my hips. His whole body is shaking, and I put my hand on his back to steady him.
I go back behind him, lube up two fingers, and rest them, gently but firmly, between his buttocks. I'm always a little nervous, right at first; scared I'm going to do it wrong, that I'll hurt him, but not in the right way. Still, there's nothing for it except to go forward, so I do. "Are you ready?" I ask. He nods, and I slide my fingers into him. His whole body tightens, and he clenches around my fingers, and seeing him so eager and nervous is the hottest fucking thing. "Oh, you like that, don't you, you little slut," I say. "You were so hungry for it, you pretty, pretty boy."
I work my fingers around in him until I feel like he is ready. "You want me to fuck you?" I whisper in his ear, my mouth so close to him I can feel all the tiny hairs prickling along his skin. "You want to get fucked?" He nods, and makes a little noise through his improvised gag, which isn't allowed, so I smack him on the ass, then press the head of his cock against his opening. "I'm going to fuck you now," I say. "And you're going to beg for it."
I take the underwear out of his mouth, and then I brace myself against his hips and push the cock in, slow and sure and deep. The raw gasping noise he makes is everything.
I pant, grab his hair and yank his head back, slide the cock out slowly and then, even slower, thrust it in again. "You little cockslut, tell me that you want it."
"I want it," he says, panting.
I draw the cock out, until just the head is inside him. "What do you want?"
"I want you to fuck me?" Just before he finishes the sentence, I'm inside him again, and his voice skids upwards into a little jagged whine.
When I'm fucking him, something strange starts to happen in my mind; it's though I'm split, and I can feel the silicone cock as though it's part of my body, but I can also feel him, his sensations, every jerk and twitch and quiver, as though they are my own. I start to lose myself in the rhythm; his back shiny and slick with sweat, his ass flexing, clenching, his breath ragged and desperate, his cock rock hard. I vary the motions; grinding my hips in a circle, then staying still and using my hands to guide him back and forth along my cock, letting him fuck himself against me, using his own desperate need as a motor to torment himself. The room is full of the sound and smells of fucking, wet slaps and gasps and groans.
I pull out of him, and he lets out a small miserable sob. I grab his shoulder and roll him onto his back, spreadeagle his legs, pin his hands with mine, and then sink into him from above. I am as desperate as he is; hungry for the smell and taste of his sweat-drenched skin, to feel him buckle underneath me; I pump my hips against his hips again and again and again until I've forced myself over the crest and sink my teeth his shoulder as I am overtaken by a messy, painful climax.
As the waves of pleasure subside, I slide the cock from him and fall back against the edge of the bed. He is a sight to behold: flushed and exhausted, makeup smeared, body drenched, his huge erection bobbing between his thighs. I leave him there, stand up, and undo my harness and put it away. I cross into the bathroom, where I splash some water on my face, and run a brush through my hair.
When I return, he give me a look of open, miserable need before he remembers the rules and drops his eyes. I take him briskly by the hand and pull him to his feet, then lead him over to a chair in the corner, facing the bed. I push him down until he is seated, and then spread his legs painfully apart. Although I know he won't move until I tell him it's allowed, I take a pair of scarves from on top of my dresser and bind his legs to the chair legs, and then take a pair of handcuffs from my bag and clip his hands together behind him. He is limply obedient as I do this, his head lolling as he sprawls across the chair.
When he is positioned, I climb onto the bed and take out my vibrator. The climax I had while fucking him was powerful, but it wasn't quite enough. I need to be able to control myself if I'm going to drag this out for him.
I turn on the vibrator, Kurtköy Escort (http://www.34nda.com/) and its quiet buzz fills the room. I start by putting on a little show for him; trailing the bullet across my breasts, hardening my nipples, and running it across my stomach, pulling my pussy lips wide to show him my swollen clit. But soon, I am too intent on my own pleasure to care that he is watching. I fall on the bed, grinding against the vibrator, and come in a slow, sweet wash of pleasure. And then I leisurely roll over, spread my legs, and begin teasing myself again. It takes another ten minutes, but I wring a third climax out of myself, and once I do I am pleasurably spent.
At last, I click off the vibrator, stand up, and walk naked over to the chair where he sits. I stand between his legs, not touching him, but his hips buck as I approach, as though of their own volition. "Did you like that?" I ask.
He nods. His whole face looks heavy, swollen with lust. I slide my fingers into my dripping cunt, and hold them under his nose. "You want this?" He nods again, and inclines his head hungrily towards me. I snatch my hand back.
"You want to lick it off me?" I say, and ever so slightly graze his lips with my fingertips, but as soon as he opens his mouth, I laugh, and take my hand back again. I finger fuck myself until my hands are soaked, then stroke my nipples, slathering them with my own juice. I tip his head up and dangle my breasts in front of his face. His mouth falls slackly open, his pupils dilated so wide they look black.
"You want to suck my tits?" I say, and he groans a wordless assent. "You want me to ride your face until I come?" He groans again. "You want me to fuck you, pretty boy?" His hips are slowly circling, his buttocks clenching; he almost looks like he might cry. I step back, dip my finger in my wetness again, then daub his lips with it, which he immediately, desperately licks.
"I didn't say you could do that," I say, and he whimpers. But instead of slapping him, I run my hands through his hair, brushing my breasts against his face, and he buries himself in them. I drop to my knees and push his thighs as far apart as I can, then paint a trail of wetness along them, the lightest touches circling and coming closer and closer to his cock, delicately teasing. I am so close I know he can feel my breath on him, and every so often I trail my long hair lightly over him. His eyes are squeezed shut, and his pre-cum has taken on a milky color. I know he won't last long.
"Baby," I whisper. "I want to fuck you. Are you ready?" I untie his legs and remove the handcuffs, then lead him, stumbling, to the bed. I arrange him on his back, wrapping his hands around the bedposts. "Don't let go," I whisper. Then I climb up the bed, until my open legs are positioned above his face.
Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, I lower myself onto him. On other days, his technique is exquisite; I've taught him exactly what to do with his fingers and lips and tongue. But he is beyond that now; he cannot attend to anything but his own desperate need. He hungrily licks and sucks and nuzzles at my soaking cunt as though he could satisfy himself by doing so, but he only works himself up into more agonizing paroxysms of desire.
At last, I pull myself away. He jerks his head up wildly and then drops it down again, exhausted. I slither down the bed and position myself between his legs, and kiss the tip of his painfully swollen cock. It jumps at my touch, and he gasps; I swirl my tongue around the head and flicker it at the base, and he moans. I give it a quick, long suck, tasting the salty beginning of his orgasm, and then I sit up.
"You want to come?" I ask him.
"Yes." It's not so much a word as a raw, panting exhalation.
"Not until I tell you."
"I know."
I slide his cock into me, savoring the look of pure bliss that crosses his face, the way his jaw goes slack and his eyes widen. And then I begin to ride him and his expression changes to one of intent concentration and he grips the bedpost until his knuckles turn white, trying not to lose control. I slow down and speed up, slow down and speed up, and with heroic concentration, he manages to hold on. He starts to beg: "Please, please, I'm going to come, please, please, I can't?"
"You can," I whisper. "I know you can."
I ride him harder, feeling my own climax build, grinding myself against his cock, as he squeezes his eyes shut and begs me not to even as he urges me on. "Please, please please please please," he babbles, his whole body writhing, and we're racing against each other, but both on the same side; I slam myself against him and explode into orgasm, "Yes," I say. "Oh, baby, yes, come for me," and he climaxes in one long, body-wracking shudder.
We lie against each other for a long time, our bodies cooling, the sweat drying on our backs. He looks as though he's passed out, but two of his fingers softly caress my back. When I can breathe again, I stand up and go to the bathroom again. I get a damp washcloth, and a glass of water, and I carry them out to the bed. I sit down and rest his head on my lap, holding him up so he can drink. Then, ever so carefully, I wash his face, wiping off every trace of the makeup. Later, I will take him into the bath and wash his whole body, rubbing lotion into the claw marks on his back, shampooing his tangled, sweat-soaked hair.
"Are you ready?" I ask him.
"Always," he says.
I take him by the hand and lead him into the bedroom. I take his shoes off, unbutton the top button of his shirt, and make sure he's comfortable leaning back against the pillows.
During this part, when we're getting ready, I am always very gentle. He knows not to talk, but if he forgets and starts to say something, I just put my fingers to my lips and whisper shhhh, and smile. I straddle him, and put my hands on the side of his face. "I love you," I say. I brush a little bit of his hair off his forehead, stroking it to make it smooth.
I unzip my bag, then take out everything I need and lay it out on the bedspread. First, I sharpen the eyeliner, dropping a curl of peel into the bag, and dulling the nub against my palm. "Close your eyes," I tell him. I place my hand on the side of his head, to hold him still, and then draw a soft line across his upper eyelid, where the skin meets the lashes, smudging it lightly with my thumb. Then I draw another line beneath his eye, pulling the corner of his lid taut with my fingers. "Good," I say. "Now the other one."
After I finish the eyeliner, I snap open a plastic case of gray eye shadow, and brush one light stroke across each lid. He is very patient while I do this; his eyelids even don't flutter. When both lids are finished, I say, "You can open your eyes now."
I return the eyeliner to the bag and unscrew the cap of the mascara. I tilt his chin up and cup his head with my hand. 'Look up," I say, and stroke the brush along his eyelashes. He blinks rapidly, and I wait for him to finish before applying a second coat. I do one quick brush across his lower lashes, and then I do the other eye, clearing away a tiny clump clinging to his bottom lash with the corner of my little finger.
I look in his eyes, which dark and smoky now. "Good," I say. I open the blush and sweep the fuzzy, thick brush along the edge of his cheekbones, twice, then rub it in with my palms. He presses his face affectionately against my hand, and I let him linger a little before I take my hand away.
I open the lipstick and tilt his head up again. "Go like this," I say, and pout my lips. He smiles, and obeys, and I slide the smooth, waxy red lipstick along his top and bottom lips, until they're entirely covered. I take out a Kleenex from my bag, and press it to his mouth.
"Kiss," I say, and he does.
I take out the nail polish, shake it up, and take out the brush. I take my hand in his hand, and then carefully begin painting his thumbnail dark blue. I concentrate very hard on what I'm doing, making sure that no color gets anywhere on his skin. He will be wearing this polish all week, so I want to make sure I get it right. A while ago, we were out at a bar and he ran into a friend he hadn't seen in a while. "You're painting your nails now?" the friend said, I took his hand. "No," I said. "I am." The look of pride on his face, and the look of confused envy on his friend, is something I will never forget.
I paint his thumb, his index finger, his middle finger, his index finger, his pinkie. I am caressing his fingers as I do, rubbing them softly between mine. Although I do not look up, I can see him out of the corner of my eye, looking at me intently. I am drawing it out, letting myself linger. In a way, this is my favorite part, these careful preparations. Not only the sensuality of it, and the slow build towards what's coming next, but the simple fact that he lets me do it, this strong man letting me dress him up like a doll.
I switch to the other hand, moving even slower now. I let the tips of his fingers brush my chest, as though by accident, and I see him freeze, but I let it go by as though I didn't notice. When I am finished, I blow lightly on both of his hands. "Perfect," I say. I place his hands in his lap. I see that he is starting to get hard under his jeans, and he sees me see.
I slide down to the foot of the bed and rest his feet on my lap. I tug off his socks, my fingers tracing the arcs of his feet. I separate each of his toes with my fingers, smoothing off any dust with the pads of my thumb. I lift his right foot and bend over it, looking at it closely, squeezing it against my body, and then I begin to paint his toes. This takes even longer than his fingers. I am wringing out every drop of anticipation from him; from us both.
When I'm done, I blow on the drying paint once more, and then I pull back to admire my handiwork. "Look at you," I say. I kiss his forehead, and he sighs and leans against me.
"Look at you," I say again, and now something else slides into my voice?the tiniest note of scorn. "You're Anadolu Yakası Escort (http://www.34f5.com/) so pretty." I take his face in my hand and turn it side-to-side. "Do you want to see how pretty you are?"
He pauses, almost imperceptibly, before he nods. I take my phone and snap a picture of his face, then drop next to him and take a photo of both of us as I kiss his cheek possessively.
"Don't you like that?" I say, showing him the photo. In it, I look proud of what I've created, but his eyes, which look almost bruised from the makeup, are downcast, as though he can't quite bear to look directly at the camera. His mouth is a soft dark blur.
"All dressed up," I say, my voice low and mocking. "And so excited for what comes next."
I run my hands through his hair and lean in towards him, as though I am going to kiss him on the lips, and he looks in my eyes. I jump back as though he has given me an electric shock.
"No," I say. "You know better than that. You don't look at me. You look at the ground." I grab his hair by the roots, tug it up hard, and then slap him across the face.
He lets out a quick sharp breath, but he keeps his eyes pinned obediently on the ground. I stroke the place on his cheek where I hit him, and then I slap him again, three times in quick succession, each slap punctuated with a sharp yank of his hair.
"You're a slut," I tell him. "You're a pretty little slut. Aren't you?"
He nods.
"Say it." My hands are moving all over him, petting his hair, his ears, the back of his neck.
"I'm a pretty little slut."
"Look at me now."
He does. His eyes are big and blue. "You like this, don't you?"
He nods again, and I push his head down.
"Say yes."
"Yes."
"You like it when I dress you up and hurt you?"
"Yes."
"Slut." I say, savoring the word. "Are you
ready for your punishment? Are you ready to see what sluts get?"
"Yes. I'm ready."
It's time. I unbutton the rest of his shirt and pull it off him, unfasten his belt, unbutton and unzip his jeans, and yank them down. I am rough and business-like as I strip him. I pull off his boxers and throw them to the side, and once he is naked, I open the bag and take out the collar and the leash. I fasten the collar around his neck, pulling it tight, clip the leash to the hoop at the front, and then drop the end of the leash in his lap.
I take out the ball gag. He opens his mouth without being told, and I slide the red plastic ball between his lips, and fix the gag behind his head. I slap him twice more, but a little lighter now, because I know it hurts more with the gag in. I yank the leash tight.
"Go," I say. "Get on the floor." He climbs down off the bed, and I lead him over on his hands and knees to the other side of the bed. "Face down," I say, and he rests his forehead against his arms. I slap his flank. "Ass up," I say. "Higher. Higher. Good boy."
Once he is in position, for a little while, I am gentle again. I trail my nails lightly up his thigh, across his buttocks, and between his legs. He shivers, and I follow the trails I've made with my fingers with the lightest of kisses. I cup his ass with my hand, feeling him tremble, and then I bring my hand forward, hard, and the sound of the smack is loud and jarring.
"You want this," I say, needing to hear it for myself as much as anything. "You know you deserve it."
He can't say anything with the gag in, but he nods, and his stiffening cock answers the question for me. I remember when he didn't know this was what he liked; when he did it only to indulge me. But as soon as I saw him, I knew what he was looking for.
I hit him again, and again, until kind of dark energy overtakes me, and I'm no longer keeping count. It's dizzying, knowing that I can hit him as hard as I can, hurt him as badly as I've ever been hurt. I can let myself loose, set that fury in me free, and he'll take it all in, begging for more. For once in my life, because I control him, I don't need to control myself. That my love and fury don't break him are the greatest miracle in my life.
When I surface again, his ass and thighs glow pink and red, and my hand is stinging and my breath is coming fast as fast as his. I dig my nails into his skin, leaving a set of deep claw marks on him, then bend forward and rest my face against his leg. I kiss him, right where the marks are brightest, and curl my fingers in his hair. He takes a deep, indrawn breath that, through the gag, sounds more like a moan.
"Did that hurt?" I whisper. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry. I know." I stroke him again with my fingers, all along his back and neck, until he is almost purring.
"Here," I say. "You must be getting tired of wearing that." I unfasten the ball gag and slide it out of his mouth. A little trail of drool comes with it and I wipe his face with my hand, letting my hand rest on his mouth for a little while so he can kiss it. I kiss him on his cheeks, his forehead, his mouth, taking his bottom lip ever so gently between my teeth.
I reach up under my skirt and slide off Pendik Escort (http://www.34nda.com/) my underwear. They are white and silky and soaked with excitement. I ball them up and hold them in front of his face until he realizes what I want. He opens his mouth obediently and takes them into his mouth. I bury my face in his hair and breathe in deep, taking in the smell of him. "Good boy," I say. "You're so good." And he is.
My strap-on and harness live in the bureau drawer next to our bed. I go over and take them out. "Eyes down," I say, but he doesn't need the reminder. His face is flushed, and not just from the blush and the slaps.
Once I'm standing behind him, I unbutton my blouse and take off my skirt and stockings, folding them neatly and placing them on the floor, and I slip off my bra, bending over him to let the tips of my nipples graze along his back. Then I slide on the strap on and harness, cinching the buckles tight against my hips. His whole body is shaking, and I put my hand on his back to steady him.
I go back behind him, lube up two fingers, and rest them, gently but firmly, between his buttocks. I'm always a little nervous, right at first; scared I'm going to do it wrong, that I'll hurt him, but not in the right way. Still, there's nothing for it except to go forward, so I do. "Are you ready?" I ask. He nods, and I slide my fingers into him. His whole body tightens, and he clenches around my fingers, and seeing him so eager and nervous is the hottest fucking thing. "Oh, you like that, don't you, you little slut," I say. "You were so hungry for it, you pretty, pretty boy."
I work my fingers around in him until I feel like he is ready. "You want me to fuck you?" I whisper in his ear, my mouth so close to him I can feel all the tiny hairs prickling along his skin. "You want to get fucked?" He nods, and makes a little noise through his improvised gag, which isn't allowed, so I smack him on the ass, then press the head of his cock against his opening. "I'm going to fuck you now," I say. "And you're going to beg for it."
I take the underwear out of his mouth, and then I brace myself against his hips and push the cock in, slow and sure and deep. The raw gasping noise he makes is everything.
I pant, grab his hair and yank his head back, slide the cock out slowly and then, even slower, thrust it in again. "You little cockslut, tell me that you want it."
"I want it," he says, panting.
I draw the cock out, until just the head is inside him. "What do you want?"
"I want you to fuck me?" Just before he finishes the sentence, I'm inside him again, and his voice skids upwards into a little jagged whine.
When I'm fucking him, something strange starts to happen in my mind; it's though I'm split, and I can feel the silicone cock as though it's part of my body, but I can also feel him, his sensations, every jerk and twitch and quiver, as though they are my own. I start to lose myself in the rhythm; his back shiny and slick with sweat, his ass flexing, clenching, his breath ragged and desperate, his cock rock hard. I vary the motions; grinding my hips in a circle, then staying still and using my hands to guide him back and forth along my cock, letting him fuck himself against me, using his own desperate need as a motor to torment himself. The room is full of the sound and smells of fucking, wet slaps and gasps and groans.
I pull out of him, and he lets out a small miserable sob. I grab his shoulder and roll him onto his back, spreadeagle his legs, pin his hands with mine, and then sink into him from above. I am as desperate as he is; hungry for the smell and taste of his sweat-drenched skin, to feel him buckle underneath me; I pump my hips against his hips again and again and again until I've forced myself over the crest and sink my teeth his shoulder as I am overtaken by a messy, painful climax.
As the waves of pleasure subside, I slide the cock from him and fall back against the edge of the bed. He is a sight to behold: flushed and exhausted, makeup smeared, body drenched, his huge erection bobbing between his thighs. I leave him there, stand up, and undo my harness and put it away. I cross into the bathroom, where I splash some water on my face, and run a brush through my hair.
When I return, he give me a look of open, miserable need before he remembers the rules and drops his eyes. I take him briskly by the hand and pull him to his feet, then lead him over to a chair in the corner, facing the bed. I push him down until he is seated, and then spread his legs painfully apart. Although I know he won't move until I tell him it's allowed, I take a pair of scarves from on top of my dresser and bind his legs to the chair legs, and then take a pair of handcuffs from my bag and clip his hands together behind him. He is limply obedient as I do this, his head lolling as he sprawls across the chair.
When he is positioned, I climb onto the bed and take out my vibrator. The climax I had while fucking him was powerful, but it wasn't quite enough. I need to be able to control myself if I'm going to drag this out for him.
I turn on the vibrator, Kurtköy Escort (http://www.34nda.com/) and its quiet buzz fills the room. I start by putting on a little show for him; trailing the bullet across my breasts, hardening my nipples, and running it across my stomach, pulling my pussy lips wide to show him my swollen clit. But soon, I am too intent on my own pleasure to care that he is watching. I fall on the bed, grinding against the vibrator, and come in a slow, sweet wash of pleasure. And then I leisurely roll over, spread my legs, and begin teasing myself again. It takes another ten minutes, but I wring a third climax out of myself, and once I do I am pleasurably spent.
At last, I click off the vibrator, stand up, and walk naked over to the chair where he sits. I stand between his legs, not touching him, but his hips buck as I approach, as though of their own volition. "Did you like that?" I ask.
He nods. His whole face looks heavy, swollen with lust. I slide my fingers into my dripping cunt, and hold them under his nose. "You want this?" He nods again, and inclines his head hungrily towards me. I snatch my hand back.
"You want to lick it off me?" I say, and ever so slightly graze his lips with my fingertips, but as soon as he opens his mouth, I laugh, and take my hand back again. I finger fuck myself until my hands are soaked, then stroke my nipples, slathering them with my own juice. I tip his head up and dangle my breasts in front of his face. His mouth falls slackly open, his pupils dilated so wide they look black.
"You want to suck my tits?" I say, and he groans a wordless assent. "You want me to ride your face until I come?" He groans again. "You want me to fuck you, pretty boy?" His hips are slowly circling, his buttocks clenching; he almost looks like he might cry. I step back, dip my finger in my wetness again, then daub his lips with it, which he immediately, desperately licks.
"I didn't say you could do that," I say, and he whimpers. But instead of slapping him, I run my hands through his hair, brushing my breasts against his face, and he buries himself in them. I drop to my knees and push his thighs as far apart as I can, then paint a trail of wetness along them, the lightest touches circling and coming closer and closer to his cock, delicately teasing. I am so close I know he can feel my breath on him, and every so often I trail my long hair lightly over him. His eyes are squeezed shut, and his pre-cum has taken on a milky color. I know he won't last long.
"Baby," I whisper. "I want to fuck you. Are you ready?" I untie his legs and remove the handcuffs, then lead him, stumbling, to the bed. I arrange him on his back, wrapping his hands around the bedposts. "Don't let go," I whisper. Then I climb up the bed, until my open legs are positioned above his face.
Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, I lower myself onto him. On other days, his technique is exquisite; I've taught him exactly what to do with his fingers and lips and tongue. But he is beyond that now; he cannot attend to anything but his own desperate need. He hungrily licks and sucks and nuzzles at my soaking cunt as though he could satisfy himself by doing so, but he only works himself up into more agonizing paroxysms of desire.
At last, I pull myself away. He jerks his head up wildly and then drops it down again, exhausted. I slither down the bed and position myself between his legs, and kiss the tip of his painfully swollen cock. It jumps at my touch, and he gasps; I swirl my tongue around the head and flicker it at the base, and he moans. I give it a quick, long suck, tasting the salty beginning of his orgasm, and then I sit up.
"You want to come?" I ask him.
"Yes." It's not so much a word as a raw, panting exhalation.
"Not until I tell you."
"I know."
I slide his cock into me, savoring the look of pure bliss that crosses his face, the way his jaw goes slack and his eyes widen. And then I begin to ride him and his expression changes to one of intent concentration and he grips the bedpost until his knuckles turn white, trying not to lose control. I slow down and speed up, slow down and speed up, and with heroic concentration, he manages to hold on. He starts to beg: "Please, please, I'm going to come, please, please, I can't?"
"You can," I whisper. "I know you can."
I ride him harder, feeling my own climax build, grinding myself against his cock, as he squeezes his eyes shut and begs me not to even as he urges me on. "Please, please please please please," he babbles, his whole body writhing, and we're racing against each other, but both on the same side; I slam myself against him and explode into orgasm, "Yes," I say. "Oh, baby, yes, come for me," and he climaxes in one long, body-wracking shudder.
We lie against each other for a long time, our bodies cooling, the sweat drying on our backs. He looks as though he's passed out, but two of his fingers softly caress my back. When I can breathe again, I stand up and go to the bathroom again. I get a damp washcloth, and a glass of water, and I carry them out to the bed. I sit down and rest his head on my lap, holding him up so he can drink. Then, ever so carefully, I wash his face, wiping off every trace of the makeup. Later, I will take him into the bath and wash his whole body, rubbing lotion into the claw marks on his back, shampooing his tangled, sweat-soaked hair.