by Ashley Hind
Good boy. No more words come. The buttons at his shirt front are immediately being undone. He has no body shame, only pride. He swells the chest out to show his brawn. The hair there is blond, soft. The fizzle is inside me but I don’t think it showed - maybe just a slight flutter of the eyelids. Don’t betray yourself now. Remember he is the one all about betrayal. Don’t stroke that chest and bring about memories of tender times before the bubble burst. Stay strong and focussed. The expensive brogues are kicked off and the trousers drop to display crisp white boxers. There is a bulge in there but it will get much bigger. Don’t hold it however much you want to feel that expansion into something you have masturbated feverishly over. Rein yourself in and make his wait excruciating.
He stands in his underwear, looking unfazed. The socks have stayed on, which is particularly unsexy, but in fairness I didn’t tell him to remove them and so, as a stickler for specifics, I should be glad he followed my word to the letter. I hold his gaze as I drop to my knees. I see his breath catch. I rummage in the bag and bring out the neoprene restraints. They are so simple: bands that fasten with Velcro around the thigh and then around the wrist, securing the arms by the side. They seem non-threatening, such is the simplicity of them, but the slave cannot break free. He tugs a little to test this. This is when trust is most in peril. I rise up onto my feet again. I look him in the eye and allow my smile of triumph to spread slowly. He is full of lust for sure, but that instinctive arrogance has been subdued just a little.
I could go to town on him here but strangely the instinct is for teasing gentleness. I bend at the waist and lean forward until I am close enough to smell the skin of his chest. I don’t touch him with my fingers, only the tongue, and only the very tip of it. It runs wetly across those taut pecs of his. I feel the muscles there twitch. My tongue flicks across one nipple. He sighs and I detect the immediate swell of him here. I have not done this to anyone before. My husband thought this too emasculating. Still, I don’t have to worry about what he thinks now, or anyone for that matter other than myself. I can immerse myself in me.
The other nipple gets the same teasing treatment. I gently blow too, which will increase the itch in his hardened flesh. He will want the warmth of my mouth. Silently he begs for it. I make him wait a little longer and use rapid flicks of the tongue to drive his need. Then I suck and he exhales in a sigh. Then the suck turns to a gentle nip, the flesh held between top and bottom teeth and tugged just a little. He breathes a profanity to show how much he likes it. He seems to taste of iron, of blood. This vulnerable little morsel at my mercy could have the red cloud forming and I need to fight this before I lose myself.
‘Go on your knees,’ I tell him.
His eyes open. The expression is serious now, the habitual leer gone. He knows this is more than idle role play. Down he sinks to bring his face in line with my groin. My hand is already there, up under the pointless hem of my dress, pushing down inside the waistband of those rubber panties. His eyes widen at the sight. Such a treat for him: this utter pervert who sends me anonymous texts that have me frigging like a mad woman. My fingers are constricted but I can manage to slide one up along my slit and then press. This one stroke threatens to be all it takes but I draw in my breath and steel myself. Get control back. Don’t lose yourself like you did that night with horrible Bertrand watching. This witness must wait.
‘You said at the party that kissing boots was not something you did. I wonder if you wish to change your mind now.’
‘Yes,’ he says, almost without pause.
‘Say “yes, Mistress”.’
‘Yes, Mistress.’
‘Well, go on then, fuckweed. Get down there and show me.’
I think he might baulk but he does not. With his arms still restrained he has to go down with caution to avoid a face-plant straight into my toes, but he manages it. I’m actually quite warming to the sight of men kissing my boots. I’m forced to press harder at my crotch because of the twinge there. It is a thing to relish: arrogant Samson, at my mercy. I let him continue as I locate the studded collar and lead from the bag. I tell him he is my pet and he just keeps on licking like a good dog as I fasten the collar. I release his wrists from their binds but put his arms immediately into other action, leading him around the room on all fours. Humiliating him is good. I don’t feel vulnerable at all. He does as he is told, without making a joke of it. He could rise up now if he wanted but he instead wants what is to follow, even when I remark upon his rump and how ripe it looks for punishment. The promise of me is enough to bind him.
Saying that, having bent him over the bed, I remember how I would have protected myself if allowed to by Madam Destiny. I remember how Lionel took matters into his own hands. I bring out the metal cuffs and Samson looks momentarily reluctant to comply.
‘Trust me, you won’t want to stop me,’ I tell him. He holds still and lets me snap the clasps shut around his wrists. A renewed surge of triumph fizzes through me. Then I am upon that rump, gloved hands clawing at the thin material of his boxers. I pull them down but not all the way, exposing maybe only half of his prone backside. The cheeks are relaxed in this stance. Nails on it would have been good. I know how Madam Destiny’s felt on me. Still, you can’t have it all ways, and I’m not sure I could have done what I do next without the gloves on.
‘You thought I would be just another pushover falling into your bed, didn’t you, Samson? You thought me too straight-laced for all this, despite my beauty. You never imagined being at my mercy, unable to stop me doing things like this.’
I have only deposited a cursory amount of saliva onto my middle finger but I slide my hand down his boxers anyway. I run along where he is most vulnerable, down the crease, following that little line of raised skin to where the balls are scrunched together between his closed thighs. This is real control, to see his little jerks as the tickle gets him, the instinctive defensive tautening of the buttocks. This arse is used to slamming his prick home with macho disdain. I know his mind is racing. My husband thought admitting to liking any attention here tantamount to admitting to homosexual tendencies. I wonder if Samson is feeling his own masculine pride about to crumble. I stroke and tease, eventually allowing my fingertip to stay pressed at his hole, defenceless as it is with him being open, bent loosely across the bed. I give a pause for him to contemplate how I am going to make his arse mine, and then I am pushing on until I am inside him up to my first knuckle. Strange: be asked to do this and you could feel dirty and used; do it of your own volition and you feel like a queen of sexual potency. He gasps and uses God’s name in vain.
‘Goddess, actually,’ I inform him. I work the digit within him, wiggling it, pushing on. I privately railed about the fact that my husband never did such dirty things to me and yet this is the first time I have given the favour to any man - and they have glands up there that positively yearn for such attentions. I know Samson’s prize cock will have swelled further, even if he thought it was already at its hardest. I so want to reach around and grab it at last. I want to rip down his underwear and have it spring out to be grasped and wanked and feasted upon. But I must wait. Bondage is all about taking patience to the limit: the Master’s as well as the slave’s. The joy will be ever greater the longer I can restrain myself.
I take the paddle from the bag. I thought about using my hand first but I want to explode against those more muscular male buttocks. The memory of that first impact on my own backside is crystal clear: the shock and the joy and the sear of it. It was as defining a moment as losing one’s virginity. He will never have known anything like this. The fire is in me and I deliver two sharp strikes to each cheek in turn. He shouts and jerks, wriggles from side to side swearing, even turning onto his back with eyes blazing. They don’t blaze as bright as mine. I am on the bed, wielding the paddle over him and his cuffed wrists held up in defence. I am grabbing his silly hair, cursing him through gritted teeth, commanding him
to get back onto his front. He obeys.
This time I press my hand to the back of his neck to force his face down as I unleash the next flurry of strikes. He wails into the bed covers but his cock will be pulsing. The boxers are spanked further down to expose him all. I can see glimpses of his shaved balls, so full for me. The arse goes scarlet but he does not try to turn again; that burn I remember so well needs easing, and only more smacks will do that. I keep going, using all my willpower to remain in control and temper the weight of my strikes. You will never know such a feeling of satisfaction to compare with the one you get from spanking a man like Samson. It is almost an orgasm in itself. The red cloud looms again but I fend it off, measuring my speed, dragging out his joyful suffering until the endorphin rush finally breaks over him and his wriggling ceases. I have dealt him unforgettable bliss. Right now every ounce of pain felt is converting into unwavering adoration that will have him desperate for just one more second of me. His hurt has turned to undying love. The sting will return as the natural drugs wear off but I will be drawing other pleasures from him by then.
My reward is going to be his cock. I wanted to wait longer but I cannot. Now he is in rapture it will be fuller and harder than ever, a sight to halt my breath. The saliva is pooling in my mouth. My pussy is almost screaming for it. I drag him over onto his back and see the bulge hidden in the fold of his boxers. I actually close my eyes, a way to delay the moment as long as possible. I pull his underwear completely off and then feel my way blindly back so that I am over him, my face just above his crotch so that the monster fills my sight as soon as I open my eyes. Then there it is. It is rock hard. It has a nice curve. It is not as smooth as my husband’s was. Worse, much worse, it is no bigger either. The fucking cunt has cheated me! I feel like my insides have been pulled out.
For a few moments I don’t know what to do. Lucky there is no cut-throat razor lying open like there was on the chest of the last man I fucked, or this room would be painted red right now. Then animal greed takes over and I am sucking him, deep, as if hiding the evidence will kill my disappointment. He writhes and gasps as I go to work, his cuffed hands even going to my head to hold me there and try to manoeuvre me up and down. That can only enrage me more. The saliva pours thick from my ravenous mouth and my pussy cries out for her turn but the mind demons want their say first. He has to pay.
He does as I want because he is putty in my hands after what I have just given him. He feels only rapture and adoration, sees nothing more than head-exploding pleasures on the horizon. I undo his cuffs and reapply them with his hands behind his back. He doesn’t flinch at all, such is the trust garnered. I seek out the nearest electrical socket, handily on the skirting board a few feet from the bed. I plug in the specially selected device. Which other Mistress carries hair clippers?
‘Cocks look bigger when there is no hair around them, Samson,’ I tell him to assuage any sudden nerves. I am down on my knees, that disappointment of rigid muscle bobbing close to my still hungry mouth. I can’t help but give him a few more sucks. Naughty mouth! Then the clippers are at work, pressed to his groin to take off the thick locks of mousy pubic hair, taking it right back to a light stubble. It does indeed make his prick look bigger, and more attractive, despite all the veins. However, it doesn’t stop the fact that his cock lied to me to get me here, so I reach into the bag for the blindfold and put it on him. It is best he doesn’t see what is to follow.
I get him to his knees again, that cheating prick stood upright from his closed thighs. I loop the handle of the dog lead around the post at the foot of the bed. Then I put my foot in his back, and press forward. The collar bites and he coughs and starts to choke. I get down behind him, using my weight to hold him at the extent of the leash. Then I reach around to grasp his cock and slowly stroke it up and down. He is half-choking but he remains static.
‘Have you heard of asphyxiophilia, Samson?’ I coo in his ear. ‘I have made quite a study of it. As well as being a fabulous Scrabble word, it is also the practise of restricting oxygen to the brain to increase sexual gratification. Some say it gives the most intense orgasm possible. Many who try it become addicted. Can you feel how much your cock is pulsing? I certainly can. It feels hard enough to go anywhere - even into that tight virgin arse of mine. Would you like that, Samson?’
He chokes something in the affirmative and I ease some of the pressure on his back. He gasps but makes no complaints. He would have given anything for me to have kept stroking that stupid, lying prick of his. My teeth are gritted and the red is clouding my vision. I slide the button and the clippers buzz alive again. They sound like a vibrator. I should have blindfolded him before letting him see them. He would have thought he was in line for further dirty, mortifyingly delicious bum treats. As it happens he is simply about to live up to his name - and just think, if he had been Christened Henry or William or whatever, I never would have thought to do this to him.
I run the clippers from his nape to his crown and the strip of cut hair falls down the back of my glove and onto the floor. It takes him a couple of seconds to gather what is going on but then he starts screaming and twisting. I just apply the pressure into his back so that the collar bites once more. That keeps him still. He can do nothing but frantically gasp obscenities and threats as I go about my task, shaving off that golden stupid fucking mane to a tight skinhead. I think he will look much better; far less of an arrogant cunt.
‘You fucking maniac bitch!’ He half-chokes, half-squeals, ‘I’m going to kill you for this! I am going to rip out your hair and rip off you face! I’ll fucking KILL YOU!’
Well, that’s not very nice, is it? I’m doing him a favour. Then a clear thought breaks through the head cloud and it dawns on me that he is right: killing solves a lot, does it not? All that disappointment, that shame of being tricked into fucking him, that all gets wiped away. The secret dies with him.
‘Oh, be quiet, Samson - you look a hell of a lot better now, attractive even. Now be a good boy and stay quiet because my pussy wants your cock.’
She does indeed. It’s not a lie. He can’t really argue. I take the door restraint from the bag. It’s another piece of very simple bedroom bondage. Each of two straps has a loop at one end and a bung at the other. Secure the wrists in the loops, raise the arms, place the straps over the top of the door and then close it. The bungs keep the straps from pulling loose. He is perhaps not yet in quite the frame of mind to see the wonderful simplicity of them but he cannot help shuffle on his knees across the room because I am pulling him by the lead. Just as I am noticing the big metal coat hook sticking out of the door at head height, one of the ice buckets gets knocked over, taking another with it so that there are ice cubes sliding everywhere and glugging champagne fizzing over the wooden floor.
I right the bottles and chide him with more smacks to his bare behind. He snarls but that cock of his is still rock hard. I push him back against the door and my suspicions are proved correct. The metal hook jams into the back of his head and forces it uncomfortably forward. Maybe the door restraints won’t work and I am boiling over inside because my pussy is practically crazed now. In the end I can only order him not to move and hope he obeys. In his current mood, he might not.
I sink to my knees to give him encouragement to do as I ask, guzzling on that cock no bigger than the one I knew for all those wasted years. My pussy won’t wait. I unzip the panties and feel the pool of juice there run out onto my bare thighs. I back into him. I am molten and ready. He cries out as I thrust back onto him. He goes half inside. I screech with desperate rage. I am slightly too tall in these heels to give him smooth access. They took ten minutes to put on. I don’t have ten minutes to take them off - my pussy will have murdered me by then. Then the red cloud delivers another clear thought. I delve into the bag and find the delightful dildo with harness set, still in their hinged presentation box. I have him stand on it, sucking his cock greedily in between giving i
nstructions, to keep him obedient and to sate my craving.
The box is short by less than two inches. The mist behind my eyes is getting thicker as my torment rises. It sees the possibility. I have him step off it again. I gather the ice cubes strewing the floor around me and frantically build a foundation for the box and place it on top. I have him step up onto it again. It is more unsteady but the height is perfect. By sliding the dog collar up I can ease it over the top of the clothes hook so that he is looped over it around his neck. This will keep him in place. I turn and this time, despite my urgency, I hold my desire and ease back onto him, feeling the gorgeous sink inside. God, for just two or three more inches of him, to have him spear me right to my centre.
I fuck him like this, my eyes closed, my fingers pinching my nipples hard through the rubber of my dress. I go as slowly as I can at the start but my flood is drenching my inner thighs. Soon I am slapping back against him, wailing like a lost bitch, jamming his restrained hands against the door. I want those hands grasping me, pinching and stretching me, thickly invading my tighter hole, but if I let him loose now he will only struggle for freedom or strangle me, giving me a taste of my own medicine.
I don’t sound like a goddess in full control, more like a nympho getting her first fuck ever. I want him deeper. I want him everywhere, this fucking cheat who has tricked me into giving myself to him. He feels absolutely rigid, fit to burst, even though the gurgles come from his throat. I can feel that the in-and-out slide is being compromised. I can see the growing pool of melted ice around my sexy boots. I have to bend my knees more and this has me panicking. I rush, forcing myself back ever faster while I still can. My fingers come down to aid my climax, squeezing harshly there as I try to force it out. I think for one horrible moment that it will not come at all but then in a flurry it does, fuzzing my ears with the blood rush, the pleasure billowing through me. With my last energy I thrust back and feel his seed spurting hard inside me. It will be the most intense ejaculation he has ever known.