by Joey W. Hill
“Some people use plastic, but I like to have my sub stand on something soft and warm. It has a rubber backing to absorb liquid, though. Remember the other night? You became a horse, and it was an amazing thing to watch. Tonight, we create something different.”
He started as she smeared a handful of clay-like substance along one shoulder. It was crazy, how he was more skittish about the unknown things she might do than the harshest punishments he could see coming from the frustrated Mistresses at The Zone.
The clay was warm. As she packed it on, it stayed where she put it. It also seemed to be hardening fast, like wax. She applied it to his chest, back, abdomen, buttocks. It smelled like earth and cocoa butter. He’d used cocoa butter lotion on his tattoo to keep it supple while healing, per the artist’s direction.
Regina had left that shoulder bare and was stroking the design. “This is a good symbol for you, Marius. I think you’re the skin over the armor, being ripped away. Duncan is the armor and the man beneath.”
He tensed. He didn’t want her going down that road, but fortunately she returned to working with the clay. She spread it over his ass, tracing the seam between his cheeks, the sensitive lines where buttocks and thighs met. Her touch was meditative, like she was detached from his reaction as she savored her own.
“It’s different for you, isn’t it?” she mused. “Whether intentional or not, you chose Mistresses who think the way women are expected to do. How is he doing? Is he engaged? Is he thinking about me? What is he feeling?”
She chuckled, a husky sound that stirred his nerves like a hot summer breeze. “I prefer to think about what I’m feeling and thinking. What I’m doing. Am I engaged? You can only touch my heart and mind if I allow it, and right now I’m busy pleasing and engaging myself. I’ve blindfolded and gagged you so I can watch your reactions and feed off the pleasure of those. No interruptions except those I want.”
His breath had slowed while she spoke, but his heart had compensated threefold. Her fingertips glided over his upper thighs, back along his sides. His cock was throbbing, aching and stiff, and she was ignoring it. His hands were clenched in fists above his head.
“I told you my thoughts go to some interesting places when I do this. I think of a goddess, at the dawn of creation, sculpting life. I imagine this is the way she did it, spending days, maybe years, to create every curve, angle and feature of a male body like yours. She wants to know exactly what she’ll have the joy of gazing upon when the babe grows to manhood.”
A blade slid through the clay on his shoulder, a curved edge that scraped him as clean as a razor and left a tingling burn behind. Her voice was a sensual current, carrying him away from the shore he knew.
“When a baby is born, we think that’s perfection. New, pure, unsullied. But a goddess looks into our future and uses our experiences to sculpt her vision of our adult selves. That’s what makes the results interesting, how those experiences affect our bodies, our faces. Our soul and heart inside. The soul is as visible to her as our bodies.”
A smile entered her voice. “Despite her interest in our souls, I imagine she’d linger over a body as fine as yours. I would if I were her. She’d also weep at some of the damage you’ve done to her work.” The blade slid down his back, over the upper curve of his buttock, her fingers following and stroking, lingering over various scars. The chain clanked as he shifted. Her touch stilled, her voice dropping.
“And here’s where I imagine myself stepping into that goddess’s bare feet, for she never wears shoes. Perhaps on occasion there’s a soul, a sculpture, so fascinating to her she decides to keep him for herself for a while. She hasn’t yet given him eyes or a tongue, just a powerful, yearning, virile body, and what goddess wouldn’t want to take full advantage of that? She wants to see if he can serve her as she desires.”
She was doing it again, transforming him. Suddenly he was a faceless entity in a goddess’s workshop, with no existence beyond the molding and sculpting of her hands, the direction of her voice.
The part of him that stayed in this reality became acutely aware of not being able to control any of this, not without destroying it. He stilled as she set the blade to the base of his cock, her thumb against the top of it to control the movement as she scraped a long smooth line along the turgid flesh. She hooked the curved edge under the glans and pressed metal against him. His thighs quivered.
If she’d left him unbound, merely ordered him to keep his hands curled around the chains, his eyes closed and mouth shut, would he have obeyed, simply to please her?
The thought startled him.
She removed the blade from his genitals and gripped his hair, pulling his head back. She patted more clay onto his exposed throat, then skinned it off once again with the blade. Slow, letting him feel the pounding of his pulse beneath the press of the knife.
“She’d need to fuck him before she sent him off into the world, to leave her mark upon him, wouldn’t she?”
He nodded vigorously. God, he wanted that. Wanted to ram into her soft, wet cunt, feel her grip him with those strong, internal muscles.
He let out a groan and snarl of frustration when the tip of the strap-on nudged his rear entry. No. He wanted—
Her fingers wrapped around his throat, holding him fast, restricting his breathing.
“You belong to this goddess. You submit to her will. She can keep you a slave forever, make you crawl on your hands and knees, make you climax over and over. You control nothing, because your loss of control is what pleases her, what turns her on so much. You want to fuck her, bring her to climax, but no. You haven’t earned, learned, or accepted, what that desire is. You tell yourself you’re taking, but only a goddess takes. A servant serves, gives, submits. He cuts himself open and lets her take it all. That’s how he finds his salvation.”
She drove in, hard, and he strangled on a curse. She chuckled, a sound of lust and heat. “So tight. Lucky for you, this goddess believes in lubrication. She’s going to bring her newest creation to life, over and over, until he understands. Even when she at last cuts him loose to wander the earth, he belongs to her.”
“Want inside you…” The words were muffled by the gag and she disregarded him anyway. She thrust, teased him, brought him to the cusp of climax, took it away and started again. The clay dried on his skin where she hadn’t scraped it free. She stayed buried deep within him when she used her blade on it and pressed harder, both within and without, making him flinch. His body was twisting in the chains, hers moving with him. He was groaning against the gag, the cloth saturated with his saliva.
She took him up and nearly over, such that he snarled like a crazed animal when she pulled out. Yet she’d aroused him so much, he didn’t have time to rally and strike back before she’d set him off balance again. She gripped his cock in a blissfully firm grip.
“Stay very still so I don’t hurt you. Can you stay still for me, Marius?”
He nodded, though he had second thoughts when a hard, thin rod began to slide into the slit of his cock. She paused.
“Okay. Nod again for me. Tell me you’re going to stay still or I’ll remove it.”
She had an implacable, stern voice in this mode, yet the way she mixed care with it messed him up. He found himself nodding again.
She slowly let the rod invade him, sending tendrils of that weird not-good/good mix of arousal and trepidation through him. He’d done sounding once or twice with mediocre results, but submitting to it with her had him stiffening further in her gentle hands.
“Lovely. To bring a creation to life, one needs lightning. Electricity.”
Christ. He jumped at a crackle of sound, right next to his ear. A fucking violet wand. But she wasn’t done. Something cool and sharp slid along his shoulder, a prick in the pocket of his collarbones.
“It’s amazing, what putting together a knife blade, electrode pads and a cock stuffed with a urethral sound will do. At a certain point a man will feel like he’s having a climax even when he’s not. Wave after w
ave, pounding him against a brick wall that never gives way, never relents a bit. And then, when the climax does come, it’s overwhelming.”
Her breath was against his ear, her body against his back. “It destroys his fucking mind. All his walls are knocked down, so there’s nothing between him and his Mistress but his overwhelming need to do everything for her.”
She applied the electrode pads with tantalizing touches on his genitalia, and then ran the wand along his cock before he could figure out any kind of defense. It was an invasive, crazy feeling, impossible to describe.
His groans had words, lost against the gag, but Christ, this was… He bucked and convulsed as the wand danced over his cock, again and again. She lifted it away to alternate the sensation with the grip of her hand. Sometimes she played with the sound, sliding it out an inch and then back in. She rubbed her pussy, clad in satin, against his ass. Then she was back to using the wand on him. Not just on his cock. Nipples, a tingling path over his abdomen, then back to his dick. Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck…
She was right. Suddenly it was like he was coming, only he wasn’t, and the feeling was going on and on, like a torture that he wanted to stop yet didn’t.
He was thrashing in his bonds, crying out, kicking, but she was too nimble, moving around him and keeping the wand going over his cock as he screamed for release, for mercy. He was enraged, needing to do violence. Yet he also wanted to beg. To do anything for her.
“Please, please…fuck…”
She took the wand away, though it felt like the metal rod was still vibrating. Probably the throbbing of his cock. He hoped like a lost man in the desert when she removed the electrodes, but then groaned in despair as she pushed the strap-on inside him again. She’d put everything else aside to wrap her arm around his waist and hip to give her more leverage. Christ, she fucked like a man, shoving into him so he was pushed up onto his toes. She didn’t touch his cock, and it was slapping against his abdomen from the force of her thrusts, giving a whole new meaning to the term beating off.
Her breath rasped and he suspected there was a clitoral stimulator on the strap-on to get her off. But she didn’t go over either, pulling out and stroking his chest, his sides again. She loved playing with him this way, and nothing he did swayed her from her course or rushed her. She would not be moved. She was the wall itself.
Like a goddess who had all eternity to play with her creation in her workshop.
He was panting, his body quivering. He’d stopped trying to tell her what he wanted to do to her. She removed the gag, her fingers deftly slipping the strap and plucking out the ball wrapped in the soaked kerchief.
“What do you want?” she asked in a voice that gave nothing away. It was full of emotion, but he couldn’t latch onto a single one to identify and use it.
“Please. Let me give you pleasure. Please.” He couldn’t handle her doing it as she’d done it before, driving him to climax and then handling her own needs, denying him the right…the privilege.
A privilege. “Please,” he said with a dry throat and tongue.
She moved away from him and he thought she was going to turn him down again. He would deserve it. He hadn’t done enough to prove he wouldn’t be a total shit to her at the first opportunity. Because he would be. It was the desolate truth.
The chains holding his arms above his head loosened enough he could drop them to his sides, but he was still bound. A scraping, a chair moving across the room. The noise stopped behind him, and he heard her body settling into it.
“Turn around, get on your knees and come to me.”
He dropped. She’d given his arms enough slack to be at his sides when standing, but when kneeling, they were raised to shoulder height again, just enough freedom to be frustrating. But he wrapped his hands around the chains and used the anchor to move forward on his knees. He bumped into her leg.
“Stop there,” she said.
Leaning forward, she ran a strap around his throat, buckling it securely. She hooked his wrist cuffs to the back of it, the chains swaying above him. Now his hands were denied the ability to participate.
“Use your mouth to figure out how I’m sitting. You don’t touch my pussy with it until I command you. And I won’t forgive an ‘accidental’ contact.”
He started with her knee. He had to suppress a quiet oath as his lips trailed over her inner thigh and he realized she was sitting in a chair with arms, and she’d draped her thighs over them, spreading them out like Rod Stewart’s double entendre reference to angel wings. He wanted to touch her with his hands, his body, with every fucking inch of himself, but she’d taken away everything but his mouth with which to worship her.
He stopped over her pussy, and hovered there, breathing hard to inhale her arousal. His head was bowed, his fists clenched. An ache was in the center of his chest, hard enough to clog his throat. What was the matter with him? He could play with her now, soon as she did what he was sure she would, have him go down on her. He would be able to prove how good he was at that. Way better than goddamned Rob.
Yet when she molded a hand around the back of his skull and drew him to the center of that flower of soft, glistening flesh, all he wanted to do was eat her out like a starving animal, suck on the petals of her labia, bite them, thrust his tongue into her deep. Fuck her with no control, no finesse, just pure hunger, a driving need for her that was riding the edge of violence. He wanted her to gush, to grind herself against his face, scream her pleasure as she suffocated him with her sex.
He wanted that because he knew his uncontrolled, raw response was what she wanted. His wants didn’t matter, and understanding that was such a relief, such a release of weight, he swayed. He didn’t want to have a name. He didn’t want to be created and released from this goddess’s presence to make his way in the world. He didn’t want to be Duncan or Marius; he wanted to be the marionette in a goddess’s workshop, serving her however she desired, no other demands or expectations on him.
Not because he wanted to escape his life, but because for the first time, he felt like he’d been given one. Something that mattered. Someone that mattered.
And that terrified him, awakening the blackest parts of his soul.
Before she’d pulled the chair over, she’d ditched her bra and panties and shrugged back into his shirt, liking the feel of it but not wanting any barrier between her flesh and his mouth. It was working on her like he’d never want anything but pussy again. She came in a matter of minutes, though she’d intended to hold out longer. Regina arched up, rubbing her cunt against his face, his clever tongue, the firm lips, the roughness of his jaw.
The chains clanked as he strained against her. He made animal noises of need as savage as her cries. He kept going as long as she needed, and modulated his strokes to a hungry yet gentle licking so she could keep him there, enjoying the aftershocks.
She was a little amazed at the force of the shudders still coursing through her. God. Goddess. Everything in between. If that was what a little visualization could become between them, coupled with strap-on and oral play, then actual sex might realign the planets.
She gripped his hair, stroking, pulling. She permitted him to keep nuzzling her. When she finally put enough pressure on him to make him stop, he braced his jaw against her inner thigh, his breath bathing her soaked labia. Her heartstrings tightened at the evidence he didn’t want to be pushed away.
She studied him, the flushed skin below the eye mask, the set of his jaw, the way his body was quivering, his muscles all tight. Intuition told her not to unchain him. He was resting between her legs, but he was not at rest. She could almost feel those demons howling, telling him he needed to get his shit together, take charge of this bitch. Yet she didn’t think they had the upper hand yet. From the way his skin was creased around the outside of the blindfold, she suspected his eyes were closed tightly, as if warding off their battle roars. When she stroked his hair off his forehead, he leaned into her touch.
“Introduce him to the pleasu
res of submission and safety in the here and now to get to the treasure beneath. There’s a trove there.” Marguerite’s words. Had they gotten there?
Maybe not, but they’d taken some steps in the right direction.
He still had some of her “clay” on him. A mix of heated wax, lotion and some other ingredients she’d tailored from a spa treatment she thought could have intriguing applications on a sub. As she’d painted it on him, drawn shapes in it to tease and caress him, she’d enjoyed every reaction of his fine body.
He probably hadn’t realized when he finally started to climax, since the beauty of the wand and sound combo was that the climax had no beginning, middle or end. It was just endless. But her eyes had drunk in the gushing fountain from his cock, the way it had splattered his thighs, the slender rod plinking to the floor, expelled by the force of his ejaculation. That cream still marked him, drying like the remains of the lotion-clay mixture.
Gentleness could be administered with every bit of ruthlessness as the bite of a single tail. Each sub was different in what could break him down. The key wasn’t the degree of pain administered. It was about consistency; not relenting until whatever strategy was employed unlocked what was inside of him. Sometimes that door got blasted off its hinges. She hadn’t made it that far, but she was pretty sure she’d made it harder to close.
Now for the next step. He needed aftercare, but the question was what kind. His chest was rising and falling more rapidly, and the press of his forehead against her was getting more insistent, like he wanted to drive his head through something far harder than her palm.
In a few moments, he’d be as ready for cuddling as a dangerous animal coiled in the back of a cage. “Sit back on your heels,” she said quietly, when she could trust her voice. She had to reinforce it with touch, putting her palm to his chest and pushing him into position. When she rose from the chair, the tail of the open shirt she was wearing—his shirt—brushed his face. He caught the hem between two of his fingers, though his hands were still bound behind his head.