by Jillian Boyd
Sometimes, when things are aligned just so, she can come from her grinding into me. I can tell this is going to be one of those times. When she comes while fucking me I find it as sexy as hell. With each forward thrust she moans as the strap-on rubs hard against her clit. The closer she comes to orgasm the faster and harder she starts pounding me. I can feel my cock begin to leak a little of my own mess as she grabs on to me and begins to bear down in earnest. I hold on to her shoulders and to her arms. Her face is pressed against my shoulder
“Right there,” she whispers. Her body tenses as her orgasm slams into her. She breathes heavy, making small little movements into me, grabbing me, kissing me - all the little things you do to try and keep those waves of bliss coming. Eventually she stops fucking me, pulls out and lays down next to me. “That was so fucking good.” She smiles. “Give me a couple minutes and I’ll let you lick my pussy.” Confident. Happy. Very Domme.”Yes, Ma’am. I love tasting your pussy. Thank you for letting me,” I breathe back. And as she lays there catching her breath afterwards I swear to myself that I will never bring up my earlier question again because I know the answer. A man simply does not do this with a woman. A submissive does this with his Domme. And she is such a Domme. I am her boy. She doesn’t want, need, nor desire a man in her life, but she does want me. She wants to love me and own me and fuck the way she wants. And this exotic, sensual, and off-the-fucking-charts sexy woman likes to fuck me in the ass with a strap-on. I take it. I love it and I always come back craving more of it. Her boy always will.
The strap-on comes off. On her back, her hands in my hair, she lets me lick her pussy and play with my cock. She whispers to me, sometimes playful, sometimes with an instruction. She’ll make me stop and she’ll slap my face, ordering me back on her clit. I let her know when I get close and she says “Mess on my leg, boy. Put it there. Don’t you miss. Don’t you stop.” And she pushes my face flat against her wet cunt and holds it there until all I see and all I taste and all I feel is her pussy and I let myself go on her leg. Because that’s how her boy makes his mess. That’s how a submissive does that.
That Touch of Angora
Elizabeth Coldwell
The doorbell rings as I’m applying a final coat of coral lipstick. Timothy, punctual to a fault as always. Sometimes I wish he’d arrive a couple of minutes late, so I’d have the pleasure of adding an extra stripe to his backside for his tardiness. But the Marylebone Road could have been transformed into a river of molten lava and he’d still find a way of crossing it in time to make his appointment.
I pat my hair into place before going to answer the door. The tight bun isn’t a style I favour in my everyday life, but it’s what Timothy has requested, just like the angora twinset and the string of pearls around my neck. And what the client wants...
Most of the men who visit me have very specific tastes when it comes to what I wear. It’s usually the first-timers and the one-off callers who just want to see me in something tight, black and shiny. For Simon, I’m the headmistress, complete with mortarboard and flowing gown; for Tony, the nurse. And then there’s Neil, who wouldn’t care if I dressed in a ratty old towelling robe and had my hair in curlers, as long as my toenails were painted the correct shade of scarlet.
But Timothy’s tastes are singular, unlike those of any client I’ve had before. To accommodate them, I’ve had to make a special investment. Luckily for him, he’s worth it.
As I open the door, he flashes me a shy smile. A smidge over average height, with blond hair that falls over one eye and a dimple in the point of his chin, he’d earn a second look if you passed him in the street. He fills out his well-cut, charcoal suit quite nicely, the result of a fitness regime that includes regular sessions in the gym and swimming pool, along with a few special exercises of my own devising. Timothy may only visit me four or five times a year, but I make sure he never leaves without enduring a thorough workout.
“Good afternoon, Mrs Worthington,” he says as I usher him inside. “I do hope I’m not late. I brought you a present.” He thrusts a bouquet of red roses into my hands. There’s a card tucked into their cellophane covering. Even without opening it, I know it contains my tribute - I would never call it anything as vulgar as a fee. I slip the envelope into my cardigan pocket with a nod of acknowledgement.
“Why, thank you, Timothy. They’re beautiful. Come through to the drawing room and I’ll put them in water.”
He follows me through to the room I use for the handful of men who require domestic discipline. The walls are papered in eggshell blue with a discreet grey stripe, the armchairs wing-backed Victorian reproductions. Everything is designed to recreate a time and place that exists nowhere except in my clients’ heads.
“I love the outfit you have on, Mrs Worthington,” Timothy comments. I pause in the act of unwrapping the roses from the cellophane. Of course he does. She - the real Mrs Worthington - was wearing something almost identical the day his fetish was formed. A pink angora twinset, a tight black pencil skirt and patent leather court shoes.
He told me the whole story when he rang to arrange his first visit. When he was 15, he had a neighbour of around his mother’s age. A widow, she’d lost her husband in a boating accident, and Timothy used to do odd jobs for her to supplement his pocket money. One afternoon, while thanking him when he’d managed to retrieve her engagement ring after she’d dropped it down the kitchen drain, she enveloped him in a hug. Such an innocent gesture, but the touch of her soft, fluffy cardigan against Timothy’s bare forearms and the scent of her perfume - Chanel No. 5 - sparked the circuitry deep in his brain, creating an indelible connection that influences him to this day. Some men are turned on by rubber, some by thigh-high boots and others by big breasts cradled in cheap lace lingerie. Timothy’s fetish is angora.
“Thank you for noticing,” I say, with the tone of sugary gratitude he likes, “but I’d really rather you didn’t speak, Timothy, darling. You have much more important things to be doing - like stripping for me.”
He doesn’t argue. He’s probably been dreaming of this moment since he left the shiny glass phallus of an office block where he works. All the way over on the Tube from Canary Wharf he’ll have been hard in those neat suit trousers, using the flowers to disguise the solid bulge at his crotch.
While I finish arranging the roses in the cut crystal vase, Timothy begins to undress. With my back to him, I can’t see what he’s doing, but the noises of his belt buckle clunking as it hits the carpeted floor and the rasp of his zip coming down tell me all I need to know.
When I eventually turn round to face him, he’s naked, except for his underwear. My lips curve in a mocking smile. I can’t help wondering what his colleagues would say if they knew that beneath his corporate clothing he’s been wearing tiny satin knickers that struggle to contain his erection. A damp spot mars the crimson fabric, damning evidence of his arousal.
He’s not the only client of mine who arrives in women’s panties. The difference between him and the others is that they wear them on a daily basis - a lifestyle choice, if you like. Timothy put his on this morning because I ordered him to. His fear that one day he’ll be discovered in them only adds to his arousal, and though I’d never admit it to him, it sends a flood of liquid heat to my pussy, too.
“Very nice, Timothy.” I fight the highly unprofessional urge to walk over and stroke his thick cock through his panties. He looks adorable, with his eyes downcast and his cheeks flushing red with embarrassment. “Now, I have a couple of chores for you. The grate in the fireplace needs blackleading. Then, once you’ve done that, I’d like you to take down the curtains. They’ve been needing a wash for a while. I’ve left an apron over the back of the chair for you.”
“Yes, Mrs Worthington.” He doesn’t quibble - simply goes to put on the silly little apron. It barely covers anything, and is designed to maximise his humiliation. Naturally, he loves wearing it.
While he sets about bringing the iron grate in the fireplace to a shine, I go to make myself a cup of tea. I like to sit and sip it while I watch him work. For a while, I actually engaged the services of a cissy maid, Petula. She used to come in twice a week, clean the house from top to bottom, and then obediently bend over to have her bottom smacked with a rubber-soled slipper. She’d still be working for me now if she hadn’t smashed one of my favourite vases in an attempt to increase her punishment, the attention-seeking little pain slut. But in many ways, Timothy is a more than adequate replacement, happy to do whatever menial tasks his beloved Mrs Worthington requires.
Leaving Timothy to his own devices, I go to the kitchen. Even there, I don’t slip out of rôle, tipping NICE biscuits onto a doily-topped saucer. I prefer a chocolate hobnob, but according to Timothy, these were Mrs Worthington’s favourites. Sometimes I think I missed my true vocation. I’m sure I’d have made a great actress, but that’s such an insecure profession. And working as a pro domme pays so much better.
When I return to the drawing room, I take a moment to admire the sight of Timothy down on his knees, scrubbing away with the black lead. The taut satin panties stretch tight across his round, peachy backside, and the feminine frills of the apron contrast beautifully with his broad, masculine back and hairy legs. If only he knew that today I’ve devised a brand new torment for him.
By the time I’ve drunk most of my tea and munched a couple of the thin, bland biscuits, Timothy has finished polishing the grate. He rocks back on his haunches, clearly admiring his own handiwork. Even from across the room, I can tell he’s done a good job, the kind that would have earned him words of praise and a handful of pound coins from Mrs Worthington. Maybe even a hug to that pillowy bosom of hers. But my standards are high, and I haven’t finished with Timothy yet.
“Not bad,” I say, with a curt nod of my head. “But you’ve only done half the job. There’s a stepladder in the hallway. You’ll need it to reach the curtain rails.”
The ceiling in this room is high. Even with the aid of the ladder, it’s going to be a stretch for him to complete the task. But the things we want the most in life never come easily, and like all my clients, Timothy needs to put in some serious effort to earn his pleasure.
He goes to fetch the stepladder, returning with it clutched awkwardly under one arm. I watch as he sets it up by the window, waiting until he has one foot placed on the bottom rung before I say, “Oh, no, Timothy, not so fast.”
“I-” He turns to look at me, obviously wondering what he’s done wrong. The look of confusion on his face has me creaming my panties.
“For this job, you won’t need the apron.” I try to keep my expression neutral as he unknots it from around his waist. “Or the underwear.”
“But...” His gaze darts from the window to me, then back again. Clearly, he’s worked out what I intended him to do. With the curtains gone, anyone glancing over from the houses across the way will be able to see him framed in the glass, stark naked. I’ve never asked him to display himself in such a brazen way before; whatever I’ve ordered him to do, especially if it involves being in a semi-public place, he’s always had his skimpy undies to protect him. Am I in danger of pushing him too far? I’ve never taken him all the way to his limits, always given myself - and Timothy - the option of raising the stakes. Mrs Worthington’s games have only ever flirted with danger. Today, they’re giving it a full-on humping.
“Are you refusing to obey me?”
“No, Mrs Worthington. It’s just... Someone might notice me.”
“Oh, Timothy. You say that like you have a problem with it, when you and I both know that’s not the case, don’t we? I mean, just thinking about some stranger getting an eyeful of your cock and balls - well, it’s got you hard as a rock in those panties, hasn’t it?”
He doesn’t need to glance down to confirm the truth of my words. The head of his dick is peeping over the waistband, and the wet satin is moulded to his shaft, outlining it in indecent detail. He might as well be bare already.
Knowing he’s beaten, he peels down his underwear, and lets the scrap of fabric drop from his trembling fingers. The room smells of expensive perfume and excited male as I stand waiting for Timothy to go up the ladder. He still has the opportunity to refuse, to tell me this is a step too far, but he doesn’t. Maybe the reward of being buried in my angora embrace after all this is over is just too much for him to resist.
The treads creak beneath his weight as he climbs to the top. I feel powerful; in control - my usual emotions when I’m dominating a client - but today there’s an extra sense of pride. Both in my ability to construct a scene, and in Timothy’s willingness to take that extra step for me. He can still call a halt to proceedings at any moment, but I don’t think he will. His erection hasn’t diminished in the slightest, and that tells me everything I need to know.
He unhooks the first of the curtains one ring at a time, working slowly, carefully, like a bomb disposal expert who’s aware that one wrong move could prove fatal. The heavy brocade slithers to the floor, and as it does, he releases a long, hissing breath. Timothy climbs down, moves the stepladder to the other side of the window, then repeats the process all over again with the other curtain.
I’m about to congratulate him on completing the task when it happens. A bus, making its progress along the street outside, passes by the window. Rush hour is over, and the top deck is all but empty. Still, just for a moment, the dozen or so people on board get a look at Timothy in all his glory. Even before he can move to cover his crotch, I snap, “Hands on your head.” With unthinking obedience, he does as he’s told. I can’t even begin to imagine what’s going through his head right now - or those of the passengers. Only once the bus has gone do I tell him he can get down from his perch.
“Oh, Timothy, what a good boy you are.” My praise is sincere, heartfelt. He’s done all I asked of him, and more. “You stood there, you didn’t flinch, and you showed the world what a gorgeous cock you have.”
“I - what if one of those passengers took a photo of me?” he says, beginning to process the implications of what’s just happened. “They might post it somewhere. I could go viral. What if my boss sees it - or my fiancée, for that matter?”
“You silly boy, you don’t need to worry about that. I’m certain they wouldn’t have been at all interested in your face.” I stare pointedly at his dick, which hasn’t wilted an inch. Despite all his protests, part of him relished being able to show off that big, beautiful thing. “But right now, a photo of your private parts is the least of your worries. I want you over my knee.”
“Whatever for, Mrs Worthington?”
“I don’t tolerate shoddy work, and you missed a spot when you were scrubbing the grate.”
Timothy doesn’t object, even though we both know I’m lying. The whole session has been building towards this moment, and he’s draped himself face down over my lap almost before I’m settled on the couch. In this position, the angora of my unbuttoned cardigan is brushing against his flanks. This fleeting touch must be infuriating for him: a momentary tease when what he really wants is to be wrapped in the soft wool, encased from head to toe.
I run my palm over Timothy’s bare arse, the cardigan’s cuff tickling the sensitive skin of his balls as I do. He writhes on my knee, clearly aching for more prolonged contact, and I use my free hand to hold him in place, enforcing my dominance over him.
“Please, Mrs Worthington...” he murmurs. A weaker woman might give him what he craves, but in this house, pleasure never comes without an accompanying dose of sweet pain.
“Shh, Timothy, you know this is for your own good.”
There’s tense silence as I raise my hand. We both know what comes next, but it’s such fun to string out the anticipation, to the point where Timothy’s almost begging to have his bottom tanned. At last, I bring it down with
a sharp slap. Timothy whimpers but keeps his position. I rub the place I’ve spanked, dissipating the heat through the whole of his backside. Then I repeat the smack on his other cheek, just as hard.
Spanking and rubbing, spanking and rubbing. Over and over, till we’ve both lost count of how many spanks he’s received. The skin of his arse has flushed from pink to mottled red, hot to the touch. His breath is harsh and desperate, and he’s trying his best to hold back sobs. This is catharsis for him, just as it is for all my clients; wiping away all the strains of his life, all the disappointments and petty irritations, and replacing them with the hot, cleansing fire of well-earned punishment. His whole world has been reduced to this room: to the steady, rhythmic clapping of my hand against his cheeks and the accompanying touch of angora. Timothy’s eyes are closed, and in his mind, I’m sure it’s his kindly, buxom neighbour who’s spanking him.
Does his fiancée know this is what gets him off? They might well have discussed it, only for her to declare herself unable to meet Timothy’s bizarrely specific needs. I’ve heard that story so many times before - the wife or lover who can’t, or won’t, fulfil her man’s fetish. More likely he’s never even raised the subject, afraid of being met with incomprehension or mockery. But his angora-clad fantasy woman doesn’t judge, and neither do I.
When I slip a hand between his body and mine, his cock is rigid, silken juice leaking from its tip to wet my skirt. I relax the pressure of my hand in the small of his back. “You can get up now. You took that very well, Timothy.”
His relief is palpable as he scrambles off my lap and onto his feet. “Thank you, Mrs Worthington.”
Timothy’s hour is almost up; just time for him to receive the release he craves. Though he’ll have to do it himself, of course. Out of all my clients, Timothy’s the one who tempts me to break my ‘no handjobs’ rule, but as always, I hold my resolve.