“Uppity little cock,” she said. “I determine the course of your pleasure tonight, and whether you get any at all. Nod if you understand.”
I nodded.
“I’m going to remove the gag now,” she said, “but you are not to speak.”
I nodded again, and her fingers pulled the sodden panties from my mouth.
She climbed on my face and ordered me to use my tongue. “And use it well, or there will be consequences.”
She’d never been this imperious with me before, and I found that I was slowly sliding into a deeply submissive version of myself that I barely recognized. I had a sudden sense of myself when I was young, and I’d first been exposed to bondage, playing “Han Solo frozen in carbonite” by wrapping myself tightly in an afghan and lying on the couch, not moving for hours at a time. It was almost meditative, my current predicament, and I had only the sensations of my tongue inside her wet, slick pussy, and my cock vibrating slightly from the rubber ring around it.
It snapped me out of my reverie when she came again, this time even harder, and she ground her face against my mouth and nose until I was gasping for breath. I felt used; I was merely a tool to provide her orgasms. I was always, I felt, a selfless lover, but at that moment I felt barely necessary or regarded, and it was an immense turn-on for me.
“How’s this little thing doing?” she asked, flicking my cock.
I didn’t answer, for fear of reprisals. She slapped me.
“I asked a question, cock,” she said.
“Sorry, Jen,” I said. Before I could continue and answer her question, she slapped me again. As before, I could feel each slap in my cock.
“For tonight’s pleasures, you will address me as Mistress, or Ma’am. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“You may continue.”
“My cock is hard and aching, Mistress, and it desperately wants to be inside you.”
“Just what I like to hear,” she said.
She climbed off of my face and moved down my body. I could hear the click of the cap on a bottle of lube, and then feel the cold slickness slathered on me. She squatted above me and I felt myself slowly sliding into her ass. She groaned in pure pleasure, and I was almost pissed that I still couldn’t see her face. We were both big fans of my cock in her ass, although it was almost never performed with me being some toy-like adjunct to her own pleasure.
I could hear and feel her fingers pleasuring her pussy as she slid up and down on my hardness. It would be a lie to call Jen inhibited at any time, but something about my immobilization and lack of sight unleashed something new in her and she sounded almost animalistic grinding away on me.
“Mistress, can I come?” I begged.
“Absolutely not, cock,” she said, and ground extra hard on me and on the vibrating part of the cock ring. I thought about databases and baseball (I don’t even like baseball) and anything else I could that was not the slick sensation of my sweet, kinky girlfriend riding me with abandon. She stopped still, except for her fingers furiously sliding in and out of her pussy, and groaned and quivered as she came again. I held on, digging my fingernails into my palms in an effort not to come inside her.
After a moment, she rose off of me, causing me to groan in frustration and pleasure. She collapsed onto my chest, our sweat mingling as she took the clamps off my nipples (ow) and snuggled against me.
“What do you think, is my cock ready to come yet?” she asked.
“Yes, Mistress, fucking please, yes,” I begged.
“Very soon,” she promised.
She got off of me, and the bed, and then told me to pull my knees to my chest. I hesitated for just a moment, and she slapped my thigh. I quickly complied. She tied my thighs to my calves with some rope she pulled from somewhere. I marveled at how thoroughly she’d prepared this all while I innocently slept. I wondered if I should forever be napping with one eye open after this.
I heard a jingling of something and then the bottle of lube opening again. She smeared a liberal amount around my exposed asshole. My cock, which had flagged just slightly, jolted upright again.
“Oh, you like that, don’t you?” she laughed.
“Yes, Mistress. I love it when you put your fingers in my ass,” I said. I felt bold and confessional, and although she’d had her fingers in my ass plenty of times, I’d never outright told her how much I liked it, relying always on my gasps and moans to let her know how I’d felt.
“Oh, if only it was my fingers tonight,” she said. That little irrational fear gripped my heart for a moment. I could trust her, right? I felt very vulnerable with my cock and balls and ass exposed like that, and I wondered if she was prepared to go farther than I was or could.
“This needs to be slightly slicker,” she said, and climbed up the bed toward my face. She pressed something stiff and rubbery against my lips and I opened up to take it inside.
“You know how much I love it when you fuck my face?” she asked, a rhetorical question. “This is what it feels like.” She slid the rubber dick between my lips and into my mouth. I gagged a little on it, but slowly relaxed and took it deeper and deeper.
“I must get a snap of this,” she said, and I heard the camera on her cell phone go off.
I wanted to object, but I knew it would look hot. I imagined her masturbating later to the sight of the dildo in my mouth, and I desperately wanted to fuel her fantasies.
She pulled the strap-on out of my puckered lips with a pop and moved until the stiff and rubbery head was pressed against my asshole. It slowly, inexorably slid inside me while she encouraged me with little suggestions.
“Just relax, you know you want it up there,” she said. And I did, in a way that was a little scary and raw to me. Of course, the reality was that I could do nothing to stop it, tied up and exposed as I was. That scared the hell out of me and excited me in equal measure.
Soon, she was up to the hilt, and her hips were pressed to me.
“You took it all. Good cock,” she said.
She started sliding in and out then, at first slowly, but then with more enthusiasm as she got used to doing it. I moaned in pleasure, unable to stop myself. I feared her slap, but she told me to let go, to give in to the sensation.
“I fucking love you, Jen,” I cried out. There it was. I’d said it. I’d never said it to her before. We both froze, the words hanging in the air. Then she slammed into me, hard, and I gasped.
“I fucking love you, Kevin,” she said, renewing her pace.
I wanted to kiss her, hold her in my arms. I’d imagined telling her I loved her before, and it had always involved candles and wine and dinner, never her fucking my ass with me tied up and loving it.
“You can come now, cock,” she said, slipping as smoothly back into character as she had slipped that hardness into my ass. To emphasize her point, she stroked my cock as she fucked me. That was it. Cock ring be damned, I was a goner.
I came as hard as I’ve ever come. I could feel it landing on my face and chest as spasm after spasm rocked my body. I felt quick fingers at my lips and realized she was scooping up my own come and putting it in my mouth. I swallowed as she asked, that extra bit of kinkiness making my orgasm last just that much longer. Then, spent and exhausted (in a good way, this time), I lay there and panted, realizing only then that she’d come when I did, and was still in the aftershocks of it all.
It took a few moments and then she gingerly slid the strap-on out of my ass and untied my legs. I stretched and flexed them while she uncuffed me. Finally, she pulled the blindfold off and shielded my eyes while I got used to the light. She was a sweaty, beautiful mess, and I loved her, in that moment, more than I had ever loved anyone before in my life.
I suddenly felt vulnerable and shy and exposed, as I started to process all we’d done. She’d tied me up and dominated me and slapped me and fucked my ass and fed me my own come, and I’d loved every moment of it. I couldn’t hide from that, not after tonight. She snuggled up
to me, with my arms finally able to hold her in return, and I saw the look of love and acceptance on her face. I felt calm and at peace with myself in a way I don’t think I’ve felt in years.
This was the night I finally woke up and realized that there are no downsides to dating a kinky girl, not when you’re a kinky guy.
THE WEIGHT
Rachel Kramer Bussel
I settle into my favorite position: naked, facedown on the bed, arms by my sides, legs slightly spread. I’m not moving, but inside I’m twitching with excitement. I wait, like this, for Damian. He’s in the kitchen but he knows I’m in our bed, eager, hungry. He knows he is the only one who can give me what I need. Now he does, anyway. I’m pretty sure when we first got together all those years ago, he thought it was just my kink or fetish: get on top of me, hold me down, provide that rote set of actions that get me off.
I didn’t know how to tell him for a long time it wasn’t that at all; it was him. He was my fetish, he was my everything, which made it easy to give so much of myself right back to him. It didn’t even feel like a choice. Better for him to think I was just a kinky girl, rather than kinky for him. He already held so much power over me after that first time, another bit of it might set me permanently in the cage he’d placed me in, the one whose invisible bars I met everywhere I turned, with every thought that passed through my mind. He’d invaded me inside and out, to the point where he didn’t need to do or say anything to keep me in place. He had me, every inch of me. I was only twenty-two, but I knew exactly what I wanted and, once he sank his claws into me, what I needed.
“No,” I told him, looking up at him and blushing as I felt the tears rushing to give me away. “Just you. All of you.” He’d looked at me for a long time. I could sense the smile along his lips even though he didn’t dare show it to me. He likes to look stern even though I can read him just as well as he can read me and I know that while it’s not an act, there is a heart as tender as mine beating beneath the layers of menace he slips into when we are together. He manages to make the transitions seamless, though, so I never know which Damian I will get, how rough he will be, how deliciously far he will push me.
That first night was a lot like tonight, but no matter how many times I prepare myself for Damian, I’m never truly prepared. I couldn’t be, even if I could peer into the future with some kind of kinky crystal ball. Some things you have to live through moment by agonizing, dazzling moment. He steamrolls over my anticipation, crushing it like he crushes me, until I am a blank slate. Oh, he likes my dirty mind well enough, the fantasies I cook up and spin for him, but he wants me to know they’ll never come true, not exactly, not the way I conceive of them, anyway. His fantasies will, and do, and he will make them mine whether I like it or not, even though I always wind up liking it, even when I’m literally kicking and screaming.
Sometimes my fantasies morph into his, or maybe it’s that they merge. Maybe it’s that what I think I want is never actually what I really do, or that when the fantasy comes alive, like now, it’s more intense, more scary and far more arousing than I ever could have predicted. Damian takes away my predictability the same way he takes away my mobility, my breath, my agency; they’re there, and in a flash, they’re gone. I could protest, but he knows me too well for that. I like offering those elemental facets of my being to him, only him. I like the way he looks when he knows I’ve stripped away even the flimsiest of barriers between us. Too many of my exes thought stripping was about the skin, about getting naked, and that was all it took to see all of me, to capture me. How little did they know. I’m the queen of the invisible cover-up, but Damian can induce fear and lust and a scarily possessive passion all with a look, even with my clothes on. So now, when I’m bare in every sense of the word, is when the real magic happens, when I truly come alive, and so does he. I can almost see the power shift animate him, light him up like a rocket about to shoot into space, only it’s my space he’s about to barrel through; the spaces inside me, the ones I’m not even aware I’m clinging to, he’s about to invade.
There’s nothing showy about this. If you were watching us, you’d see a large white man lying on top of a smaller white woman, if you could see her at all save for her brown hair splayed across the sheets. There are no pillows beneath me; he is pillow enough for both of us, even above me, his heavy softness cushioning, momentarily, what he is about to do. I’m aware we could be on the floor, we could even be on the sidewalk; he could get me to do that, I’m pretty sure, my cheek pressed to the filthy concrete, drool leaking out of my mouth. So any lack of amenities simply makes me more conscious of what I do have in this moment: him, his body, every last ounce. I don’t know how many there are, ounces or pounds, but I know there are a lot. I know he can easily scoop me up into his arms. I know the guards size him up when we get on a plane. I know he is not just big, but huge, so when he is on top of me, I am small, able to be crushed, flattened, compressed.
It feels like the air whooshes out of my lungs; I’d take a polygraph and tell you it makes a noise, like when you deflate a balloon, though the rational side of me knows it’s a silent motion. It seems to go so fast, even though I know it’s actually escaping me in tiny increments as he settles on top of me, as the full weight of him starts to crush me. I am calm as I savor both the last breaths I have, and their extinguishment. I wish sometimes I were smaller, and he were bigger, that his very presence could smother me entirely, but we manage to come very close, his arms atop mine, his heft making me feel petite, worthy of what he is giving me, whether I truly am or not.
He seems to get heavier as the seconds pass, and it doesn’t take very many of them before my lungs are trying to find purchase, a way out, even as my nipples, smashed into the mattress as they are, tingle with the thrill of the fine edge of sanity we are dancing upon. We are both well aware of that fine line; we are tweaking it, plucking it like a guitar string, watching it teeter back and forth. Wondering where we will land excites us. I can hear it, feel it, when he pushes my arms down tight to my sides and wraps his hands over my head. Damian loves to cover my face with his giant palm, to hold it right over my lips, to cover my eyes, to literally manhandle me. He manages to somehow bear down even more and the panic starts to rise in me until he lets up for a moment.
I don’t gulp in greedy, deep breaths of air; that would be too obvious. I take the smallest breaths I can, savoring them, making do with what I can get, while I can. He raises up just enough to turn me over, settling down again with his knee planted firmly against my pussy, so firmly it hurts a little. He’s not trying to make me wet, or make me like it. I know that much by now. He’s trying to simply tell me that even his knee owns me, that even his knee can make me do anything he demands.
It’s the look on his face that makes me shudder as surely as if someone zapped me. I can breathe a little now, but I can’t move. He has me pinned, strapped in as surely as the fanciest of handcuffs. The shudder rises from my red-painted toenails on up. I tremble against him where his knee is greeting me, and he shifts so the pressure lands at my wrists, where he’s raised them above my head. At any moment he might shift both wrists into one meaty palm and tickle me, threatening my bladder, threatening my control.
I’m tempted to bite my lip, but I don’t. He’d only force them apart, force my mouth, like the rest of me, open; shove something, probably his fingers, many of them, inside. I’m not sure if I miss his weight yet, because I love how strong he is, how his strength brought to bear full bore demands an equal showing of strength from me. I look up at him, not sure which Damian I will see. Sometimes his hazel eyes are dark and stormy, and he’ll lean down and bite my lip, digging his teeth in, clamping down until I mewl to get away, and then giving me a few extra seconds of pain before rising and spitting into my mouth. Sometimes he’ll raise his hand so suddenly I hardly have time to be aware of what’s about to happen, then strike my cheek so hard my ears ring. Sometimes he shackles my arms above my head, to the cuffs secured to the headboard, an
d pinches my nose and mouth shut, holding them tighter and tighter until I start to truly thrash, and then he’ll let go of one hand, keeping the other in place. Like I said, I’m not into all the accoutrements of bondage, but I gladly give him my arms, and savor the tightness of a cuff or the sweetly deceptive smoothness of a silk scarf, even though he is my favorite sex toy of all.
Sometimes he just looks at me, stares at me so intently it’s a form of sadism in itself, if you’re the type of girl who shies away from being seen too deeply, from being naked in quite that way. His eyes devour me, shear all the layers off of me, drill into my consciousness as surely as any spell caster. He uses those looks sparingly, thankfully, because I am most helpless when he binds me with them, when he locks me down with a look that I’d be able to see from across the world. Those are the times when I truly know I’d do anything for him, though usually what I do in the moment is cry. Even one tear is such a symbolic surrender that it’s enough to make his eyes at least dim a little, following the tear’s path or going for the spot on my neck he loves to claim.
Mostly Damian likes to break me, to get me to crack so he can put me back together, if he chooses. Knowing he can choose is the spark that fires our relationship, that he can keep me whole, yet aching, or cracked open, raw, his, is the ultimate mental power trip. He likes to talk to me when he knows I can’t answer, at least, not with words. He gets his answer from the rest of me, from the way, when he feeds his fingers into my mouth, I open so wide I’m in awe as four fingers quickly invade my, truth be told, favorite hole. He probes my mouth like an explorer and grabs for my tongue, pinching, pressing, raking his short, smooth nails over it.
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