by Tinnean
“I can do it,” he muttered, hopping on one foot to tug them up over his ass. His rather scrumptious ass. “It’s you insisting on takeout all the time. I’m getting fat.”
I snickered and didn’t say anything else. Having already stripped down to just my T-shirt and boxers, as soon as he was ready, I shucked those off, too, and reached for his hand. We ascended to the playroom together, tightly holding hands.
As Will—Master closed the door behind us, I assumed my normal position, waiting for him, and sank to my knees, letting out a deep exhale as I went. We had developed a new routine where Master would collect my collar first of all, and I’d take it before we went any further into the session. He stood before me with that thin band of tan leather between his hands, and I knew I needed to interrupt him.
“Permission to speak, Master?”
“Of course,” he said, sounding surprised.
“Please, don’t ask me any more.” I kept my eyes fixed on my hands, which were resting on my knees.
“Ask you what, Jesse?”
“About the collar. Please don’t ask, just take it. The answer is yes. It will always be yes.”
His fingers went to my hair, rubbing my head reassuringly as he walked silently around me and crouched at my back. Master kissed my left shoulder, letting his lips linger there, then kissed across my back to my right shoulder. He carefully placed the collar around my throat and gently fastened it at the nape of my neck. Then he kissed the buckle.
“I will never take this for granted,” he said, repeating the words that were written on our contract to each other. “I will never hurt you. I won’t ever let you fail.”
“Thank you,” I whispered. I wanted to tell him I love you, but it probably wasn’t the right time to say it.
The heat in the playroom was on, and it was warm already. I felt the prickle of sweat on my back as I sat there naked and itched for something more. Whatever he wanted from me, I was ready to give it. Master straightened up behind me and walked back around with his hand still gently caressing my hair.
He was giving me time to find my headspace for the session, but I wanted him to push me, for me to find out what my own limits were. As my Master, he was always challenging my perceptions of sexuality and sex, and I thrived on discovering these things with him.
“Open,” he said, tapping on my cheek.
Master drew his cock from the confines of the holy brown leather pants and stroked himself slowly, teasingly, as it filled with blood to its full potential and hardness. I was holding my hands behind my back, as was my normal waiting position, and I could feel my own cock responding to the sight of my Master touching himself. It was too fucking erotic—live porn.
I wanted desperately to lean forward and enclose the tasty flesh of his cock between my lips, but my training prevented me from moving without permission or a direct order. Even though I knew the likely outcome would be his cock in my mouth anyway.
Master was smiling as he ran the leaking head of his cock over my parted lips. I attempted a sneaky lick of the head, and received a warning slap round the face for my efforts. With his cock, of course. Master obviously decided that he liked the feel of that and proceeded to smack my face a few more times with his dick.
I was definitely hard after that. Master took hold of my head in both hands and roughly thrust his cock into my mouth. I gagged a bit at first, then relaxed as he slowly drew it in and out of my mouth a few more times. I no longer needed a warning that he was going to be relentless in his attack. I expected and even welcomed the force with which his cock met the back of my throat, even if it did make me choke and gag and make spit slide down my chin.
My efforts were soon rewarded by his delicious come, hot and thick as it spurted down my throat.
“Such a beautiful little slut, my little whore,” he murmured, caressing my cheek.
Master took my hand and pulled me up to standing. He walked to the wall and selected a riding crop, then circled me, tapping various spots on my body to correct my posture. Occasionally, he’d spank my ass with it, just for fun.
I waited with my cock leaking as Master replaced the crop on the wall and selected a flogger instead. He kissed me lightly on the lips, then put the handle between my teeth with a warning. “Don’t drop that.”
I followed him to the rope area, and he selected several black lengths and began to work them around my torso; he’d uncovered one of the mirrors opposite us so I could see the progress he was making and appreciate the pattern the ropes made against my skin. When the first rope section was complete, encasing my chest but not restraining me at all, he collected a much thinner length of black string. This, he looped between my nipple rings and tied tightly, pulling them toward each other.
Master went and collected my wrist cuffs and bound them tightly. The second length of rope started its journey by binding my hands together, then it was threaded through a point in the middle of my back and through the ring in the ceiling, pulled tight enough to force me on to my tiptoes.
If I fell, the ropes would catch me before I could hurt myself, but it would be uncomfortable. Master would never have left me in a vulnerable position such as that, which is why I guessed he had me carry the flogger in my mouth.
“Good boy,” he said as he removed the toy from my aching jaws.
Master started by whipping my front, from where my nipples were aching from the tension down over my stomach to my thighs, teasing my cock, which was bobbing for attention, and to the backs of my calves. I was much more used to him whipping my back, and through the ropes it was a different sensation completely. There wasn’t a lot of room for him to work, but he had conveniently left my ass free from any bondage.
“I think I would like to gag you,” Master mused.
I stayed silent, hoping. Master let the ropes down a few inches so I was secure on both feet, then smirked at me as he collected a red ball gag and gently secured it on my tongue, buckling it at the back of my head. After he drew the rope tight again, forcing me into the uncomfortable position and securing the rope on the wall behind me, he pressed a red handkerchief into my hand to replace my safeword. Little gestures like that made me feel so safe with him.
Master had clearly decided to work on my ass and thighs, and I welcomed the warm ache that developed from holding the position and the measured flicks of his flogger. Every now and then he’d hit harder, drawing little squeaks or moans or grunts from my gagged mouth.
He’d positioned me so I could see everything in the mirror opposite us. It added another layer to my arousal, and I begged him with my eyes to please, please take mercy on me and let me come soon.
“I wonder,” he mused, flicking the tails over the front of my thighs, earning a muffled scream. “I wonder if I can whip your cock until you come.”
Had I not been gagged I would have likely told him yes, he probably could whip me to an orgasm. He seemed intent on trying, anyway, moving my legs apart wider so he could whip my balls, which was simultaneously horrendously painful and incredibly arousing.
Master leaned in closer to me and, ever so softly, trailed the leather strands up from between my legs, over the shaft of my cock, and left them drifting, teasing the most sensitive part of the head.
“Let go, sweetheart,” he whispered against my ear and, with a tiny flick of his wrist, a few of the leather tips caught the head of my cock again and I screamed my throat raw as my orgasm exploded out of me.
Master worked quickly to release me from the confines of the ropes, aware that, with the release of that sexual tension, my instinct would be to sag into the ropes, which would be uncomfortable and likely throw me off balance. His arm secured me around my waist as he undid the knots, then removed my gag, then took the handkerchief from my hand. He left me with my makeshift safeword right up until the last moment.
He knew my desire—bordering on need—for quiet after a session, and took me down to our bathroom with the lightest of kisses brushed against my knuckles. I foun
d my words again in my own time, not surprised that they were murmured offerings of love.
I had so much more to give him.
I’D APPLIED to several MA programs, never really expecting to get a response from any of them. I had sort of decided I wanted to pursue an old desire from my childhood to work in a museum as a curator, but that required a lot more work and study into areas of conservation, as well as my actual study of firsthand primary sources. It would be worth it, though.
When the response came back that I’d not only been accepted into the MA History program at UW, but my application for funding had come through as well, Will’s reaction was almost more excited than my own. I sort of sat at the breakfast bar in our kitchen, reading and rereading the letter over and over without any of the information sinking in, before Will gently took it from my hands and read it for himself.
“Fucking hell, Jesse,” he whooped, spinning me up into his arms and around. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” I said, still dazed.
His smile was contagious. Soon, I was leaning into his embrace and fixing my lips to his. We laughed as we kissed, slowly at first, then with more and more enthusiasm.
“I love you,” Will whispered, pressing his forehead against mine. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Thanks,” I said again. “I love you too. More than anything.”
“I was waiting for a special moment to give you something,” he said, his arms looped loosely around my waist. “Can I do it now?”
I kissed the corner of his mouth and tucked my hand in his. I’d go anywhere with him and he knew it. He took me upstairs to our room, and I immediately made myself comfortable in the middle of the bed, tucking my bare feet up underneath me.
Will pulled something out of his dresser and sat down opposite me. I raised an eyebrow at him in question, and he opened his hand to reveal a long piece of dark blue thread, braided around a single gold thread.
“It’s your collar,” he said softly.
My heart dropped to my stomach, then started beating even harder. “Oh,” I managed to breathe.
“I, um, I wanted to give you something that you could wear every day and people wouldn’t necessarily know what it was. But we will, you know?”
“Yeah,” I said and held out my wrist to him. Not the wrist that was already covered with ratty friendship bracelets from my childhood, ones that I hadn’t taken off since the first time I’d tied them back on again. The one that was bare.
Will brushed his lips over my pulse point and affixed the braided thread around my wrist.
“It’s not permanent,” he said softly as his deft fingers knotted the threads. “But that’s how it’s supposed to be. As we go on, it’s going to wear out, and one day it’s going to break.” He blushed a little bit as he continued, “Um… then you can put the broken one in your treasure chest and kneel in front of me again and I’ll put a new one on. And when that one breaks, I’ll put another new one on. It sort of symbolizes… I don’t know. That things aren’t permanent. Things are going to change, we’re going to change, and that’s okay. Because I will keep on putting a new collar on for you, I’ll keep making these promises to you over and over again. I don’t want you ever to fear it breaking, okay?”
I nodded, emotion thick in my throat. My collared wrist reached up and my fingers threaded in his hair, tugging his face to mine for a kiss. Once he’d brushed his lips over mine, he pressed them firmly to my wrist again, this time right over the knot.
“Wedding rings are designed to be permanent, you know,” he went on, “and so many marriages don’t work out. I think it’s better to accept the inevitable changes and embrace them, and when the new collar comes along, then the new promises we make to each other will reflect who we are at that point in our lives, rather than trying to force ourselves into being this”—he gestured between us—“forever.”
“Will Anderson, you are an exceptionally clever man,” I said softly.
He shook his head before he continued. “You’re everything to me, Jesse. No matter what it takes, I will do everything in my power to keep you. I love you so much.”
“I love you too.”
It didn’t need to be stated—that we were going to make love now. It just happened, as naturally as breathing or kneeling or stripping out of our clothes. We didn’t make love to each other that often. We joked with friends that jobs were welcome in our relationship—blow jobs and hand jobs, and the newly discovered rim-jobs. But the physical connection of our bodies was special and sacred, and even though we connected sexually nearly every day, actual sex was rare.
I was laughing as he put his hand on my head and applied a steady pressure, forcing me down his chest.
“If you’re gonna fuck me, then you can at least suck me off first,” he said teasingly.
My mouth was already working his dick, so it took a few moments for his words to register.
“You want me to fuck you?” I asked.
“Mhmm,” he moaned lightly as my fingertips worked his balls.
“Sure?”
“Very. You’re an excellent fuck.”
I blushed and mumbled into his groin, “No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are,” Will said, then huffed and pulled me up so we were face to face again. “You’re excellent because you’re mine. Believe it or not, baby, you’ll get better with practice. And I’m willing to let you practice. Whenever you want, in fact.”
I laughed and caught his lips in mine again. “Okay,” I said, reaching for the lube.
By taking my time preparing him, I was teasing us both, I knew that and reveled in it. I was determined that the second time I made love to him would be better than the first. When he was aching and arching off the bed and crying out for me, I poured some of the slippery lubricant into my hand, slicked up my cock, and pressed against his stretched opening.
Will took my face between his palms and watched me intently as I breached him, entered him, and bottomed out, completely encased in him. My breath came in short bursts with the effort of controlling myself when all I really wanted to do was fuck him senseless.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his eyes focused intently on mine.
“Yeah,” I murmured. “Apart from the fact that your ass is trying to strangle my dick. Fuck, you’re tight.”
Will snorted a laugh, which made his torso contract and his ass muscles tighten.
“Fucking hell,” I muttered, gently rocking my hips into him again.
He was giggling as he tugged my face down to his for a kiss. They were short, breathless kisses that licked at each other’s lips as I found my angle and rhythm and started moving with him. Will was still smiling, having moved his hands to thread his fingers through my hair; the other one rested on my lower back, just gently guiding my movements.
Will was a very vocal bottom. And he liked to move, pulling his legs back to his chest so I could get deeper in him or grinding his hips against me, occasionally tugging painfully at my hair to make me cry out too.
As I started to chase my orgasm, my eyes locked with his, and I felt like I was lost in him. There was no doubt or uncertainty—I was going to spend my life with this man. This man who I could laugh with and love and fuck all at the same time. He turned and kissed the blue thread around my wrist, and I came with a harsh cry, spilling inside him.
He was still hard. He hadn’t come yet. But that was okay.
I reached for the lube, quickly smeared it over my ass, and without any preparation, angled myself over his dick and sank down onto him.
“Holy fucking shit,” Will moaned and arched into me.
The burning flash of pain dissipated as he filled me first with his length, then after only a few strokes, with his hot come, and with my leg muscles shivering, I collapsed onto his chest.
I put my head down on his shoulder, turning so my face was pressed into the curve of his neck and I could press my lips against the sweet, salty skin.
“Hmm,” I sighed
on a long exhale. Then I kissed him.
Will’s hands looped around my waist, resting on my lower back and securing me to his chest. I had a vague thought about moving for his sake, but quickly squashed it.
“Jesse,” he murmured into my hair.
“Yeah?”
“Did you… did you just come without permission?”
My mouth stretched into a wide smile, still pressed to a spot where I could feel his heartbeat vibrating against my lips. “Um, yes, Master.”
“Oh dear. Someone has been a naughty boy.”
“A very naughty boy, Master.” I was still grinning like an idiot.
He heaved a sigh and tutted at me. “Naughty boys get their bottoms smacked.”
“Oh yes, Master.”
Will laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest to mine.
“Okay, get off me, you great lump. Meet me in the playroom in five minutes.” I scrambled off the bed; the sound of his laughter followed me out of the room. “And no more clothes for the rest of the day!”
“Yes, Master!” I called behind me. There was no way I could stop smiling, even as I knelt for him and waited for the familiar feel of his hands in my hair, grounding me in another kind of reality.
One where I was his. Just his.
ANNA MARTIN is from a picturesque seaside village in the south-west of England and now lives in the slightly arty, slightly quirky city of Bristol. After spending most of her childhood making up stories, she studied English Literature at university before attempting to turn her hand as a professional writer.
Apart from being physically dependent on her laptop, Anna is enthusiastic about writing and producing local grassroots theater (especially at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, where she can be found every summer), going to visit friends in other countries, baking weird and wonderful sweets, learning to play the ukulele, and Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk.
Anna claims her entire career is due to the love, support, pre-reading, and creative ass kicking provided by her best friend Jennifer. Jennifer refuses to accept responsibility for anything Anna has written.