To Obey Her

by Jillian Boyd

  She probed a second finger in, and then a third and - oh God, that stretch. It felt amazing, and combined with the friction of her fucking in and out of me, and her soft whispered words - “Oh Helen, look at the way you take it, such a pretty arse” - I was right on the precipice.

  “Please, Claire, please.” I fucked toward her as she fucked into me, until her fingers were knuckle deep and buried as far as they could go.

  “Look at you begging for it, my darling. You didn’t expect to be in this position when I came over earlier this afternoon.” She did something with her fingers - twisting or slanting or curling them - and my arse and cunt spasmed for joy. “But you like it, don’t you?”

  “So much,” I cried.

  “And you’ve almost forgotten yourself, haven’t you?” She didn’t wait for me to answer. She dipped her head between my legs and licked my clit, pushing me over the edge.

  I came harder than I’d ever come in all my forty years. Wave after wave crashed through me until I was washed up on the shore like a shipwrecked sailor. I could barely lift my own head when my orgasm was done with me.

  “You alright, pet?” she said as I came to. I found her above me, unwrapping the scarf from my wrists.

  “Better than ever.”

  She massaged my hands and moved my arms in slow circles to get my circulation going. “Learning to let go?”

  “Ah,” I said. “A little, I think. But I have so much more to learn.”

  She pressed a kiss to my palm. “I’ll gladly teach you for as long as you wish.”

  ***

  She took me to greater heights that day, and the next day, and the next. She taught me the joy of being fucked up the arse and cunt at the same time; of being gagged and bound and chained to any piece of furniture she fancied; of nipple clamps and remote control vibrators that only she controlled. She taught me to dread and to savour the paddle and the riding crop. Sometimes she made me come seven times in one day; other times, she forbade me to come for weeks.

  I relished in being so open to her, so vulnerable, so ready to give her anything.

  “I love you,” I blurted out one afternoon when she was fucking me over a desk chair, my arms and thighs bound to the chair legs so I couldn’t turn around and see what she was doing, so that every pleasure was a terrifying, glorious shock.

  “I love you, too, my darling.” She draped herself over my back and held my bound hand. “So much.”

  Three years on, the press has gotten more used to us - almost bored. But sometimes they still ask stupid questions, especially after we got engaged. She proposed to me, but me being the elder, the press assumed I was the one to pop the question, and she let them believe what they wanted.

  “Do you really want to be tied down to someone so much older than you?” said one interviewer when Claire was on a press tour for her latest movie. “Look what happened to Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher.”

  “She’s hardly tying me down,” Claire said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “If anything, I’m the one who’s tying her down.”

  CMA

  Anastacia Lucretia

  “I want to come,” she told me, probably forty minutes ago. I’m actually not sure exactly how long ago it was, as my face has been buried in her pussy and she’s never allowed me to stick an adhesive clock on her thighs. Her pussy needs a clock app, I think to myself.

  Time, when I’m with her, isn’t a constant thing. I might glance at a clock once or maybe twice when we’re fucking if I get the chance. Five minutes or seventy might go by - time will speed up or slow down. Time might tear past us and we’re amazed that we’ve been together for two-and-a-half hours. The ancient Incas, Celts, Egyptians and cloistered monks in Russian stone cells, praying to haloed idolatry, all listened to God’s time. I hear that same clock when I worship her cunt too.

  Usually my Mistress was never satisfied with one orgasm. First she would want a warm-up orgasm by pushing my head and face again in her crotch. I don’t mind - I love it. As long as I can remember, I’ve loved eating a woman’s pussy. My vanilla girlfriends used to tell me that the other guy’s that they’ve dated never would stay down on them as long as I did. With Mistress, I want to suck her pussy and lick her wet until my blood type changes to “Pussy Positive”. A finger, and then two, in her pussy while I suck and lap at her clit and pussy-lips brings a louder and wetter response from her. This is the wet face that submissive dreams are made of.

  My fingers slid out, wet and shiny in the light, as I began to dive in for another orgasm when I heard her begin to string “Stopwaitokayokayokaywait*laugh*okayreallystop,” in that low, feminine-husky voice she has when she’s comfortable and loving what we’re doing. Her hands pushed my face away from her sex, then casually rested her fingers in my hair. I pressed my lips to a thigh. Slowly opening and closing my mouth, still worshipping her skin. Just worshipping her. I will worship whatever she wishes, whenever she wishes, for as long as she wishes. Her skin is magic.

  Her come still drying on my cheeks, lips and face, she languidly turned from her back to her stomach, expertly bringing one leg up and over my head. She grabbed a bed pillow and hugged it into her tits, chest and stomach. I saw her spread her legs a bit. I kissed the back of one thigh, then the other, before attempting to place tongue against pussy from behind. “Hey,” she said, “Not there. Up.”

  This command is a treat because I didn’t get to eat her arse every day. And I loved it. You can get it as creamy as a cunt; you just have to work at it. It takes time and dedication. It takes practice.

  I would alternate between making my tongue flat and rasping it against the entire area of her little pink pucker. Back and forth, up and down, nosing between the warm crease of her cheeks. Then I would point my tongue and try to stiffen it as much as possible so I could dive past her outside skin and actually get it inside her. It’s not much inside her, but the sensation of a pointed tongue there is something no one forgets once they’ve experienced it. For some people, having your arse eaten and rimmed becomes an addiction, and my Mistress was an addict.

  She was on her knees and elbows with me kneeling on the hard floor beside the bed now. She was making slow, lazy circles with her bum, her head cradled between her arms. I could hear her muffled little cooing noises. Damn, those noises were sexy. But then again, she was the sexiest woman I’ve ever known in my life.

  I would stay here forever if I could. I would eat and lick her arse for as long as she allowed me, probably forgetting about food or water until exhaustion overtook me and, I’d imagine, falling unconscious behind her with my battered tongue still sticking out from between bruised and tender lips. I really do like it that much.

  She stopped moving her bum and began to turn around, sitting on the bed, facing me. I knelt back, my eyes closed, still enjoying the intimacy and closeness of being of service to her. I wanted to savour the scent and taste of her, trying to write it indelibly on my mind the way Sumerians applied the tips of reeds against wet clay tablets so their message would last multiple millennia. I wanted to be able to bring myself back to this moment whenever we were apart and I wanted to feel closer to her.

  I felt her hook a finger thru the large ring in the front of the leather collar I wore. It was her collar, secured around my neck, locked with a small padlock. She drew me closer to her, looking at me. “I like the difference,” she whispered to me.

  She looked happy. She looked content - but, more importantly, she looked at me with acceptance. When I found her I found the woman I’ve always wanted to worship and serve. She was a woman who was a lifestyle Domme who wanted a submissive and slave like me. “What difference?” I asked back, quietly, with a smile.

  She put both hands in my hair and drew me both down and closer so she could lay a kiss upon my head. “I like the difference in how you eat my pussy versus how you clean my arse.”

&n
bsp; The words came out conversationally, but hearing something like this out of her mouth always rocked me. I blinked, processing it. I loved to hear her speak like that to me. Plain. Dirty. She spoke with such a casual sounding sentence in a conversational tone with such an incredibly explicit message. I would rather hear something filthy said to me casually than all of the fake phone-sex voices I’ve ever heard in my life before her.

  My Mistress was the one that taught me long ago the difference between “eating pussy” and “cleaning arse.” There is a significant difference because there’s obviously no clit there. She’d explained to me years ago about how you eat a pussy with the intention to make it come, but an arse was made for a submissive like me to clean for her. And since she explained it to me, it’s been that way ever since. She’d say “eat my pussy,” or “lick me,” or “make me cum.” But when it comes to her arse, it’s one thing and one thing only with her. “Clean it. Clean my arse, bitch.”

  She played with me with her hands. She fisted some of my hair, then played with my ears by pulling on an ear lobe before actually putting the tip of her finger inside. No one else before her had ever put the tip of one of her fingers inside me like that before. Her legs came forward so her feet and ankles hooked around the back of my legs. I could feel her draw me closer towards her. I could feel the heat of her skin get closer, and then closer, and then finally the much anticipated the touch. She was so dominant with me. She was so aggressive. She has such a casual way of handling me. I am her property. I am her boy. I belong to her completely.”Yours please,” I whispered to her.

  “Always” she whispers back.Fuck. I love that.

  “And,” she continued, “I’m thinking about letting you mess tonight because you’re being so good.”

  I smiled, eyes closed, as she continued to pet me. I imagine her running her hands over me the way an owner might pet a prized animal. I cupped the back of her calves and slowly massaged them, trying to let her know how much I loved being with her. Doing what we do. Being who we are to each other, finding our own way in our female-lead relationship.

  “You know best, Mistress mine,” I whispered. I meant it too. I realised a long time ago that in order for us to be in a true femdom relationship I had to give her all control. All control of me, all control over us. I relied on her to make our plans in our day to day lives like where we would go, what we’d eat, or what we would do in our free time. And she made all decisions regarding me and my sexuality. She decided how I would serve her, how she wanted me trained specifically to her needs. She decided when we would fuck, not me. She decided if she wanted my cock in her or if she wanted to fuck me with one of her strap-ons. It was her decision how long to keep me in my chastity device and if and when I would be able to mess for release. And I loved how our relationship worked, every aspect of it.

  She playfully grabbed another fistful of my hair and pulled my head back so she could stare directly into my eyes. “Why, yes, I do know what is best for you.” I could feel the connection that we have instantly click into place. If she captures my eyes, I feel like I’m in the middle of that old-wives’ tale of a snake being able to “charm” a bird if the bird meets its gaze. That is what she does to me, she charms me.

  She kissed the top of my head again. “First, though, I want you to clean my arse more. I love the feeling of your tongue there.” She rolled back on the bed and began on the process of putting her legs on the tops of my shoulders. I put my hands under her butt and began to lift her until I could begin worming my tongue to where she wanted it. And as I found her hole and began to give it the attention it deserved, I grew excited. I was excited because I didn’t always get a chance to make a mess every time we were together but tonight I might be allowed to do so. I had learned, with her help, to find more satisfaction with giving her orgasms. Making her feel good and bringing her to orgasm matters more than mine and me making a mess.

  It’s a huge, huge difference between what we do and how a vanilla couple fuck. I’ve heard vanilla guys say “I do everything he does! I eat pussy! I’ll lick arse! In college I had the girlies lined up, brah!” They’re not interested in learning what separates vanilla guys from submissive men. Not really. The conversation has never actually gotten to a serious level between me and them.

  Because the difference is this: what they do is foreplay in their head. A vanilla guy will lick and suck, will eat, nibble, bite and smack his lips when he feels like he’s done a good job and ready for something else. A vanilla guy will wipe his mouth discreetly on the bed sheets, swim the comforter back to the headboard of the bed, meet his lover’s eyes expecting a heartfelt “that was wonderful” medal to pin on his chest and have a more-than-reasonable expectation for either “My turn!” or “And now, let’s get down to the fucking main event!”

  For a bottom, for a submissive, or the male slave, it’s all about the service. Service, to a submissive, is a beautiful thing. It can be a catharsis, paying homage. It can be something so deep that the connection between top and bottom is unlike anything else on earth. But, the only thing I have a reasonable expectation about during this adoration is that if I don’t perform up to her standards, there will be retribution. I have no crystal ball that can tell the future, certainly when not dealing with a creature like a dominant woman.

  I may make her very, very happy with my manipulations and ministrations of her skin and flesh. I may reach inside and touch her soul on a level that makes her feel like she’s found her natural place in the world - and when she’s done, we’re done. There might be more, but it isn’t my decision. And I might go without anything for me yet I serve anyway. Gladly. I run to the reverence, the veneration of she and me knowing that this is what this is. Maybe I’ll get something more, maybe not. It’s still the best thing I’ve ever known.

  Eventually she did get enough, and this time I was rewarded. It was my lucky day.

  “Kneel on the floor in front of me,” she instructed as she sat in front of me so I was situated between her feet. “Open your mouth,” she said as she stuck her index and middle finger in my mouth. “Suck my fingers.”

  I obey immediately because this isn’t a time for a discussion on what she plans on doing or what is about to happen. This is a time for me to follow directions and do exactly as I’m told.

  ‘Suck my fingers the way you suck my strap on.”

  I start to suck her fingers the way she wants as she watches me. It’s such an intimate thing, knowing that you’re being watched while you suck. She goes, at first, one knuckle, and then two knuckles deep in my mouth, but eventually she begins putting both fingers all the way past my lips, on my tongue, until I felt her knuckles against the front of my teeth.

  I think of her fingers as her cock when she begins to rock them back and forth out of my mouth, saying “keep it wet” to me, so the skin glides smoothly in and out. When she gets to the back of my tongue, I feel her press down with her fingers, trying to make even more room before she backs them out until just her fingertips are resting on my lips, then pushing deep, almost gagging me. I see a smile on her face and a look of satisfaction as she mouth-fucks me, making me do it, knowing that I feel very self-conscious and a little humiliated but will do it anyway for her. Everything I do is always for her.

  “Touch yourself,” she instructs me. Her eyes watch intently as I fist my cock, knowing that the reason I’m so hard is because of her. “Come on, you can do better than that. You have to if you want to mess,” she says, trying to encourage me. My erections are always because of her. Her other hand plays with my nipples, alternating back and forth, pinching softer and then much harder. Sometimes she twists them, sometimes she pulls them. When she does this I feel a direct connection from nipples to cock, making me even harder than before she started.”Let me know when you’re close, bitch,” she says to me in that voice that is both matter-of-fact and sexy-as-fuck at the same time. I squeeze my eyes tight
and it doesn’t take me long. I try to say something around the fingers she is forcing between my lips but I’m quite sure the words I am trying to say are unintelligible and, actually, they may not be in English. Her fingers leave my nipples and cup beneath my cock. “Put it here.”

  I pointed - I tried to aim, I really did -, panted, squeezed my eyes shut, then open, then shut, groaned around her fingers that were still finger-fucking-mouth-raping me, and spilled my mess –mostly- in the palm of her hand. I kept jerking and jerking, putting my mess literally into her hand. As many times as I’ve given her my mess, it’s always so hard to get my aim right. I’ve told her how difficult it is and she doesn’t care. She wants it where she wants it and that is all. There is no having a discussion about it. It belongs to her so I do as she says and I try to do my best.

  “Good boy. Good, good boy,” she whispers to me. Her fingers come out of my mouth to the back of my head, grabbing a handful of hair, pulling my head back until I was looking at the ceiling. “You know what’s next. Clean up your mess,” she says in a little sing-song voice as she brings her cupped hand up and turns it over with a quick little movement, putting the contents into my mouth. I clean up because it’s what is expected of me in our relationship. I swallow, and when she holds her hand flat I lick the palm of her hand, cleaning the last bit of me off of her. I am proud of myself that I am able to do this for her so easily. In the beginning, when we started, there was a whole training process with my cleaning-up until I was able to do it easily as second nature.

  She gets up to go to the bathroom and wash her hands. I kneel there, in the dark, with all the tastes and scents of both her and myself on me and mine. I notice a cold moon is shining through the sheer curtains covering the window, trying to brighten the room. It didn’t matter that I was in the dark, or that my knees and nipples were sore and aching to the point of being uncomfortable. I was a collared and owned slave who was loved by his Mistress - and I was never happier.