by Joanna Angel
“You have ten seconds!” He licked and licked, and I knew . . . I was most definitely going to cum in ten seconds. I was holding it together pretty well, but my pussy felt incredible. I could feel everything tensing up inside of me, my legs shaking.
“Ten, nine, eight, seven...” I said. With each notch down, he sucked on my clit harder. I started pushing my pelvis into him, grinding into him again for even more pressure. By the time I got to one, my pussy juices were going down his throat. I felt such a release. Quite frankly, after such a long stint of shitty one-night stands, combined with never having any privacy in my own apartment, I hadn’t had a good orgasm in a while. I’d get turned on at work while I touched my pussy on stage, and sometimes I’d get wet during my lap dances, but it was all a tease. It felt so good to cum inside this guy’s mouth, this stranger’s mouth, and he appreciated it like no other.
“You’re a good boy.”
He gulped down my moisture and replied, “Thank you, Mistress” in a deep voice, sounding not unlike a young Morgan Freeman, who . . . had just swallowed a tablespoon of my cum.
I uncuffed him and positioned him on all fours, much like I’d done to birthday Josh on stage. I unhooked his belt and pulled his pants and boxers down to his ankles. Lo and behold, he had a huge boner. He really got off on getting me off, and I found this to be quite beautiful.
“What do we have here?” I said, looking at his fully erect cock, which was partly hiding underneath him since he was on all fours. “Did I give you permission for that?”
“I’m sorry, Mistress. I couldn’t help myself!” he replied.
I saw a tiny bit of shiny moisture at the tip of his cock, a drop of pre-cum. I grabbed his dick and looked him in the eyes, faux-furious.
“You understand me, you are not allowed to cum until I give you permission.”
“Yes Mistress,” he replied. I mean, I knew that’s what he was going to say, I just wanted to hear him say it. I scooped up the droplet of pre-cum with my finger and shoved it in his mouth.
Then I grabbed a condom and put it over my dildo. I covered it in lube, which was readily available near all the toys.
“Now, let’s see if you can handle my cock,” I said.
I slid my cock into his asshole, and I must say, it went in with no effort at all. He had a nicely shaved, smooth ass. This was definitely a guy who left the house hoping to get ass-fucked. I loved the way my cock looked sliding into his asshole. I know there wasn’t technically any sensation in my cock, but I could truly feel my own erection. I continued to plow into him, and he thanked me with every stroke. It was my first time doing this, but I felt like a natural. I’d had a cock inside my ass before, so I just followed the commandments and did unto others as I would have them do unto me.
He looked back at me, moaning with pleasure. I slid deeper inside of him, he arched his back and threw his neck back, breathing heavily. I could see pearls of sweat drip from his mask.
I grabbed a latex glove and put it on my right hand. It was like the hottest medical procedure ever done—I began to stroke his cock as I fucked his ass. He started to squirm.
“Stop!” he yelled. Now . . . was I supposed to stop? My instinct was to stop, but I remembered his safeword was “mercy.” Not “stop.”
“How dare you tell me what to do!” I said. I took my hand off of his cock and I smacked his ass hard, to the point where it turned pink. It turned out my own hand could do more damage than the flogger.
“I’m gonna cum! I don’t know if I can stop!” he said. Man, I felt bad for the guy. I could see he really wanted to follow instructions . . . but he also really wanted to take my amazing ass-pounding. The way he worshipped me, and the way he followed instructions, and the way he took my cock so well, these were what made him such a good slave—but these good qualities worked against him right now that his infatuation with me and his cooperative asshole were making him want to explode.
I know I wasn’t any kind of expert in this field, but I decided this guy was doing a damn good job, and I was going to go easy on him without letting him know it.
“Why don’t you ask me for permission?” I said. “You never know, if you were a good boy today, maybe, I just might say yes,” I whispered.
I returned to stroking his cock and pounding his ass.
“Mistress, can I please cum?!” He repeated it again and again and again, until it sounded like he was crying. I stroked his cock a few more times, and I could feel it throbbing in my hand, just aching to cum. The amount of power I had over him was incredible.
“Yes, yes you may.”
I plunged deep into his asshole and grabbed his cock, milking his prostate and stroking him to completion. So much semen spilled out of him. I let it spill into my gloved hand. When he was done, I removed the glove and disposed of it in the upscale leather trash can.
He pulled up his pants and collected himself. He got down on his knees as I sat on the leather bondage ottoman. I patted his head—nice and smooth and wrapped in latex.
“Good boy,” I said, and I smiled kindly at him. I truly meant it.
“Thank you,” he replied, and I knew he meant that too.
I sat there in my post-play moment, patting his head, coming down off my mental and physical high, listening to the reverb of the electronic music outside the door. Enjoying this special Saturday night with a masked stranger whose name I didn’t know, feeling a sense of connection I never knew I was looking for, but was glad I found.
To go back and see Naomi get dominated, turn to page 106.
To continue with Naomi in this fantasy, turn to page 115.
“I don’t know what it is about me, but I seem to get a lot of requests in the VIP room at work to dominate my customers,” I said. It was true. Customers who desired a run-of-the-mill, plain ole naked grinding dance from the other girls would specifically ask me to spit in their face or whip their ass, or call them a pathetic scum of the earth. I was never sure if I was supposed to take it as a compliment or not.
“Well you’re a natural!” Rachel said. “I knew that right away—why do you think I invited you here?” She laughed a tinkling laugh.
“Well, I think I just need to really go there to understand what feels so good about being degraded,” I suggested.
“You know, the best Doms are often also the best subs!” Rachel said.
“I didn’t know that, but it makes sense. Well Rachel . . . I guess . . . I’d like you to . . .” I wasn’t sure what the politically correct way was to ask someone to beat you up. But I didn’t have to complete my sentence. Rachel grabbed me by the hair and looked into my eyes.
“From this point forward, you do exactly as I say.” I obediently nodded. I couldn’t believe this was the same girl who served carrot juice in sparkly Uggs.
I followed her into a private room, where I saw a few pieces of bondage furniture and a shelf from floor to ceiling that was full of whips, paddles, chains, ropes, floggers, dildos, clamps, and more. I mean, there were things I couldn’t name because I had no idea what they were. This was like a high-end torture boutique.
“Sit!” Rachel said, pointing at me like I was a dog. I sat down on what appeared to be some kind of bondage bed.
“The safe word here is ‘mercy,’” she said. “That’s what you say if you’d like me to stop, and I will stop immediately.”
“Alright!” I replied.
“Do you have any injuries, or any sensitive areas, or trigger words or hard no’s I should know about?” she asked.
Already, this was exciting. I’d never been involved in any kind of sexual situation where my medical history came into question. Normally I was just concerned about a guy lasting longer than five minutes, and not passing out drunk in the middle of going down on me (which had unfortunately happened . . . more than once).
“No!” I said. I mean, I don’t think I had enough sexual experience to even know what my limits were, but I was excited to explore them and figure them out with the same g
irl who served me coconut water when I needed it.
“Very well then. Now, remove your clothes,” she demanded, and I obliged.
She grabbed a bundle of brown rope from the shelf. It looked like a supersized version of the twine I would use to truss a Thanksgiving turkey. She also grabbed a riding crop, a flogger, a few dildos, and a Hitachi Wand. We were standing in silence, and I was both petrified and horny. I was already beginning to understand the appeal of being submissive, and I had barely begun.
Before I knew it, she had started tying me up in the rope. The bondage bed I was on had various hooks on the sides, which we used to attach the rope. She worked on me methodically, making me stretch my arms and legs out so she could measure how far some of my limbs were from the hooks. This was a kinky math equation, and I was the undetermined variable.
She spread my legs open as far as they could go and tied each ankle to a post on the bed. The rope was surprisingly smooth. It was the same beige color of twine, but it wasn’t rough, which was a relief. While I did sign up to be dominated, and I did indeed want to feel like a personal fuck-toy and a slut, I did not want to feel like I was a stack of cardboard on the sidewalk ready to be recycled.
She took my arms and raised them above my head and did the same. I remembered the time my ex-boyfriend and I ordered some kind of bondage tape on Amazon and attempted to use it. He’d bound my hands behind my back, and I’d pretended for as long as I could that it was impossible for me to break out of it, trying to keep up with the sloppy role-play, but eventually, the tape just came apart and we gave up. However, right now, I legitimately could not move. It was a natural reaction to attempt to resist the ropes, to try my best to see how easily I could weasel out of them, and there was absolutely no way at all. If she left the room, I’d be trapped. I was literally at her mercy. There were devices in here that could potentially kill me, if she felt like it . . . and . . . well . . . that was pretty fucking hot.
She grabbed a riding crop and circled around the bed, staring at me with disgust. I could hear each step as her stiletto heels hit the concrete ground. I would have been trembling, if I could have moved.
“You think just because you’re a stripper you can handle this?” she said. I wasn’t sure what to reply, so I just sort of shook my head. It was somewhere between a no and a yes.
“You think you’re so powerful up on that stage. You think you can just bat your eyelashes and shake your pathetic little ass and get anything you want, don’t you?” I shook my head again, but she had a point. I genuinely did believe all of the things she was accusing me of right now.
“ANSWER ME WHEN I SPEAK!” she said, and WHACK. She smacked her riding crop hard on my left nipple. I screamed. I wasn’t expecting that at all. I could feel a sharp pain in my breast, like I’d just gotten stung by a bee, but, like, a bee that made me horny.
“YES!” I said, getting back to her question of how cool I thought I was.
“YES, WHAT?” she demanded.
“YES, RACHEL!” She whacked my right nipple, which I actually appreciated because my nipples were feeling incredibly uneven, and something about only one of them stinging made everything more painful. Not that I was going to let her know that this second whacking made me feel better.
“YOU HAVE NOT EARNED THE PRIVILEGE TO ADDRESS ME BY MY FIRST NAME. YOU SAY ‘YES’ OR ‘NO MISTRESS’ WHEN I ADDRESS YOU. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”
“Yes . . . Mistress,” I replied. I did understand, and I seriously regretted taking for granted all the times I’d called her Rachel. She continued to whack me all over my body with the crop. My nipples, my thighs—she even went down to the other side of the bed and whacked the bottoms of my feet, which hurt more than any other place I was whacked. I yelled and winced in pain ... but also, felt compelled to thank her in between the yelling and wincing. I was both thanking her for making me feel good, and thanking her for not murdering me. Thanking her for continuing, and thanking her for stopping. There was so much pain and pleasure and uncertainty, and I had no idea what she was going to do next—no idea what my body could even handle. My lack of power was turning me on so much, at the same time that it was scaring the shit out of me. This was a very intense emotional roller coaster the carrot juice girl and I were having here.
By the time she stopped whacking me, my body was covered in goose bumps. I wasn’t sure if I wanted her to whack me again, or if I was relieved that she had stopped. She circled the bed, and I attempted to follow her with my eyes, to try to predict her next move, but I couldn’t really see much from this angle.
WHACK! She hit me right on my pussy lips. I screamed. This had to have been the most terrible and incredible feeling I’d ever felt. I wanted an ice pack and an orgasm at the same time. The blood rushed through my body, and this time when I yelled, it was a combination of a sex moan and a scared-for-my-life cry. She shot me a sinister smile and put a latex glove on her hand. With her covered hand, she caressed the goose bumps on my body, and then moved down to my beaten pussy. She jammed two fingers inside.
“Well, what do we have here? It looks like . . . your pussy is wet,” my Mistress said. She took her fingers out of my pussy and shoved them in my mouth, I suppose to prove her point that, yes, my pussy was in fact wet. I sucked my own juices off her latex glove.
“Yes Mistress,” I said.
“What a little slut you are. Getting wet from your beating!” she said.
“Yes Mistress . . . I am.” Not to get too politically incorrect here, but I do enjoy being called a slut. I like the word. I know we’re not supposed to use that word anymore, but truthfully I like it. I was glad Rachel, I mean, Mistress, and I were on the same page about this. Perhaps we could get a special sex worker pass to continue to use the word.
She aggressively stuck her fingers back in my pussy, interrupting my thoughts. The lubricated glove was cold at first, but growing warmer. She curled her fingers inside of me and circled my clit with her thumb. Her fingers felt more intense than all the hipster cocks I’d sampled in Brooklyn, combined. The spot she was hitting was creating an ache deep in my abdomen, while the sensation of being totally open to her heightened every pull and push. I wanted to buck against her, and the fact that I couldn’t use my legs just made the “wanting” even more intense.
From my angle, I could see her arm moving rapidly and forcefully as her fingers dove in and out, again and again and again. With my body stinging and my pussy dripping, this all felt incredible. I could feel the blood circulation in my hands getting thinner, and my body began to get cold, but my pussy felt so warm. My legs were starting to squirm around, but she used the arm that wasn’t inside of me to hold me in place. She was such a small, dainty girl, but she had so much mental and physical force over me.
My pussy was pulsating. I started pushing my pelvis up in the air, and she kept pushing it down and calling me a slut. Eventually I just lost control over everything in my body (not that I had much control to begin with). She pulled away, and . . . gush. A giant puddle of ejaculate poured out of me. Now I understood why these beds were made of leather.
I felt like I was in a complete daze. What the hell had just happened?
“YOU MADE A MESS!” she said. I genuinely felt bad about that, because I did live with a messy roommate, and I absolutely hated when she didn’t clean up after herself. Even if her mess wasn’t pussy juice, I thought it was incredibly rude. But I had also never tied her up and stopped her from cleaning up her mess. Had I not been tied up right now, I’d have been looking for paper towels immediately.
Instead, I just laid in a puddle of my own squirt, coming down from the orgasm high.
“I’m sorry, Mistress!” I said.
She ignored my apology and dug her fingers into me again. I tried so hard to resist but she kept going, jamming her fingers into my beaten and swollen pussy. I was yelling and screaming, and then . . . she stopped. I was breathing heavily, shaking, my legs twitching on the bed.
“Please Mistress! Please! Help
me cum again. Please!” This may sound like an exaggeration, but I was sure I was going to die if I couldn’t release myself again. This must have been what it felt like to have blue balls? It was painful with her hands in me, but it was more painful with her hands out of me. My pussy needed simultaneous pain and pleasure right now—it was screaming for attention like a wild beast.
She grabbed some clothespins that were strung together with twine. I figured this ancient contraption was there in case . . . you know . . . any of the dominatrixes needed to do their laundry or something. I mean, there was so much stuff on the shelf that looked kinky and sophisticated— between the rope and these clothespins, why was she using the stuff that looked like it came from Home Depot, instead of a high-end BDSM shop? Was there something about me that inspired her to get so . . . rustic?
I’m sure you won’t be surprised when I tell you that she did not use the clothespins to hang dry any of her delicate dominatrix garments. She clipped the pins on my already- stinging nipples.
“AHHHHHHHHH! “ I cried. A gust of warmth circled around my upper body. She jammed her fingers back into me, and I started gushing again. I screamed more loudly than I think I ever had before. I worried I was making too much noise, but I suppose this type of noise was normal, and even encouraged in a dungeon.
“WHAT A GOOD SLUT!” she said. Phew. I was glad to be doing a good job here. Really, I was.
As a grand finale, she took the Hitachi Wand and put it right between my legs. It felt so soft and sensual compared to the other pussy torture I’d gotten. I started cumming again, but a whole other kind of cumming than the squirting. The tension in my insides completely released. I was cumming so hard I was crying, and I couldn’t stop thanking the Mistress for what she had done. My nipples were burning and my pussy was in ecstasy. Just as my orgasm began to wind down, she reached up and pulled the twine between the clothes pins, yanking them off my nipples. I couldn’t believe that an entire layer of skin didn’t come off with them. How did she do that?