Tag: dominance

Bubble

Pop Pending. by amie-faerie via DeviantArt.com

Waiting is a game best left to the protagonists. They are methodical in their introspection, which of course is fascinating. But only in small doses for those in the world stripped of will and purpose.

The good guys can tolerate the doldrums of time wasted. For the rest of us, the ambling majority, the true posture of patience is pretty much impossible.

But give us something sweet to suck on while we wait, and that is a whole different story.

I’m not the first, and I won’t be the last. It started with a ride on a bus. I sat two rows behind them, sweating and cursing under my breath when the bus overheated one Wednesday in August.

Her laugh gave me something to absorb besides the sweltering heat. I was drawn in by her luscious disregard for her surroundings, and I listened as he told a story about punching a brute at the top of a hill, one summer day just like that one, then watching him stumble down the rocky face, crying for his mommy.

I could almost hear the little bully’s wails in between her giggles and sighs.

And that first drink led me to follow them off the bus. All the way to her home.

He kissed her against an elm tree growing thick and full next to her front steps. The branches cradled their shoulders, hiding their lips from view. But I watched from a tree away as her leg wrapped around his, drawing him closer and closer until there was nothing between them but heat.

Guilt and embarrassment took me right past them at a pace that left me breathless when I turned the corner.

But weeks, then months passed, and I found myself there. Again and again. Waiting for another sip, another taste. One more glimpse of someone else’s delicious world.

I stood at the gate to the tiny alley that ran beside her building, the angry bite of late autumn making my cheeks and fingers red and raw, and I watched. He scraped a thick layer of frost from her windshield while she teetered on the stoop, sucking on one of those horrid skinny cigarettes and touching her bare throat.

She never dressed appropriately for the weather. But I suppose some people just carry too much heat inside their beautiful bodies to be bothered by the chill in the air.

They did this often, and despite my every attempt to give up this deplorable addiction, I continued to ogle them nearly every morning. My alarm went off at 5 and I was perched in my spot at the edge of the alley by 6:20.

Unless I’d fallen asleep in her back garden.

He would finish with the scraper and slide it into his back pocket. She’d toss her filter in the street. He’d bend to pluck it out of the gutter, shaking his index finger at her until she stepped off the curb and stuck her tongue out at him. Giggling. Cheeks rosy from more than just the temperature.

She was as predictable as ever. But not him.

He shook his head this time and stooped down so that his eyes were level with hers. He whispered to her, I could never hear what he said, even as the depth of his voice rumbled through my belly, but she cupped her hands in front of her and lowered her eyes. So obedient.

His gaze skimmed the street, forcing me back into the shadow of the alley, as he slipped the butt into her palms, drawing them together and lifting them into the air above her lowered head.

Like a magician’s assistant in a turn-of-the-century sideshow, holding up an invisible apple for the blade or bullets first strike. Trembling with something I felt in the pit of my own belly.

I imagined what he might be saying into her ear. “Don’t drop it again, little girl.” I didn’t need to see his face. It was branded into the backs of my eyelids. I could never be free from it.

His long, slender fingers played in her hair while he slipped his other hand beneath the hem of her skirt.

I’d never seen her protest, but there was a first time for everything. She whimpered and said something that brought his eyes back to hers, as his fingers tightened in her hair, tugging her head up to meet his glare.

My own thighs trembled and I used every ounce of my willpower to hold back a groan.

I knew it was wrong, this sick fascination with him. And her. I’m not insane, after all. Just a lonely voyeur with too much time on my hands.

But I had gotten more brazen, watching their windows and sitting on her back stoop to listen to them make love as I touched myself in the dark. I could envision the actions that went with each sound, I could imagine his expression in the amber light they always left on, as his fingers squeezed the sides of her throat and his body pressed against, inside, and around her.

I could even feel his fingers just then, as I watched them in this stolen moment, half a dozen yards in front of me.

He bent forward and kissed her on the cheek as he pulled her arms down and plucked the cigarette from her palm.

The look on her face made me whimper.

“Have a good morning, Lil. Don’t be late for work.”

He always was so fucking frustrating with his exit.

She saw me that morning. I’m sure she had a thousand times, but that day, she locked eyes with me. And I felt something inside me break.

I tried to turn and go, but I was frozen. Locked in the gaze of this woman I wanted to be. Coveting everything about her, down to the smooth, olive skin she got to live inside of. She stared at me long enough that I thought she might scream, or call to him. But she only stood there.

It was the first time I’d ever seen him turn back to her after saying goodbye. His exit was final, always. But this time he turned, walked back to her, and dropped his forehead to hers. And I heard him as if his head was bent to my own.

“I need you.”

Her eyes found mine again as that tiny, mischievous smile played on her lips. She slipped her fingers into his beard, kissed him in a performance worthy of an ‘R’ rating, then broke away breathless.

“Let’s call in sick.”

And from that day on, that wicked woman became my dealer in a drug that I’m not sure I’ll ever be strong enough to kick.

I’d never hurt either of them. After all, if they were gone, what would I wish for?

Nothing is quite as colorful and vibrant and real as someone else’s bubble. Even if you have everything you could ever want, there’s someone, somewhere, with more.

instructions

awake before dawn
searching for the list
her bullet point set of
instructions
the day cannot
begin
without that list
from him

scrolling through
reading each point
with her lips
not simply her mind
the weight of life
it’s thousand and one
responsibilities
suddenly
pared down into
the manageable mass
of a simple
sheet of paper
a recipe
for a perfect day

years of failed attempts
on memo pads
and fancy notebooks
all intended to simplify
but each
laughing, mocking, humiliating
her
between the lines of
failure and defeat

but with his
authority
a gift she had eagerly
bestowed
these lists created by
him
fill each moment with
a chance
to please
an assignment
to ace
an opportunity
to succeed

she smiles at #8
and reads them
again
then again
filled with the pleasure
of accepting
his will
and surrendering
her own
submitting to the
complete
control
and squirming beneath
the ache of it
obedience is as much
a drug
as power is

and she folds the list
deftly
slipping it sweetly
into her bra
and moves around her
morning
with the sweet kiss
and firm smack
of being loved
properly
by the only person
who’s ever truly
understood

then reciting #1

it’s always
number
one

remember that you are
beautiful
and that
you
are
mine

 

 

third

He guides me
my commander and
collaborator
coaxing the engine within
until it churns with the
mechanical velocity of
rage
fiercely generating a heat
that threatens to consume
not just me
but all of Us
His hands
slow mine
teaching, training
painful pleasure amplified
by anticipation

left to my own devices
my impatience
the reckless ache
of my need
might rip her to
pieces
but bound against my
eager exploration
He controls us both

His whispers in my ear
instructions
which somehow slow my blood
but roar through me
like a freight train
vibrations that pass
through us
both
and reverberate
out
like the hot
stinging
flush
on her body

pressed into her
by Him
filled to an
unimaginable depth
I find My Power
beneath the
forceful demanding presence of
His
and sandwiched
between
D and s
I explore the rich
intoxicating
fullness
of being
wanted by both

of being
the undefinable
third

Become

In the garden
Playing a game
Fits of giggles
Spill
From the charge
Of joy
Felt only upon
Letting go

A childlike freedom
Born only from
Innocence
Or
Surrender
But in the latter
It is a
Metamorphosis
Known by few
Yet
Held sacred
By those who do

In your garden
As my laugh rings
In the air
Until
I am
Cocooned
Within your grasp

I change

I emerge

I become

Lead me

you don't fear me by pandaface333 via DeviantArt.com
you don’t fear me by pandaface333 via DeviantArt.com

Bind me
To the edges
Of your imagination.
Strip me
Down to the nakedness
Of your desires.
Pin me
To the darkness
Of your will.
Make me
Obey the need
Of my submission.
Break me
Right through to the heart
Of my surrender.
Take me
Anywhere in the world
Of your words.

Lead me,
With your unique Dominance…

I can follow.

I will follow.

Under You – #DsubVerse

Sweet Surrender by Maroon via DeviantArt.com
Sweet Surrender by Maroon via DeviantArt.com

In the dark, you whisper
Unafraid. Unbroken. Unintended.

“Under my soul.”

I know your voice, bittersweet Dominance
Unleashed. Unbridled. Unexpected.

“Under my skin.”

You command obedience
Unquestioned. Unabashed. Unknown.

“Under my spell.”

I fall to worship you
Undoubting. Undressed. Uninhibited.

“Under my care.”

I know your voice, deliciously demanding
Unashamed. Uncuffed. Undefined.

“Under my will.”

In the dark, you whisper…
And I surrender
Unafraid.

Under you.

 

** Poetry prompt #DsubVerse by @HeCalls_me_L, Prompt 82: I know your voice.

Spoonful of Perfection

tumblr_m0g37mR4Hm1qb8aeto1_500[1]

A whispered wish, “Spoon me, Please?”

I love being wrapped up in you, your arms secured around me tightly, your leg thrown over mine, your breath, hot and hopeful against my neck.

I giggle and sigh, revelling in this perfect moment, until your whispers raise the bar of perfection.

Your kisses on my ear begin the dance, and as they turn to nibbles and licks, my heart races and my body ignites with the fire that consumes me everytime we touch.

I sometimes wish we could touch all day, every day. That your hands would find their home on my soft curves and that your tongue would find sanctuary in my mouth. You chuckle at this, because they do… “Isn’t it better that they get to come back to you? That you get to miss them a little before they return?”

Locking me in place, you let your hands explore their lovely world, while your tongue and teeth make their meal of my flesh. My fingers skim through your beard, up into your hair, and you rumble your approval at my touch.

I cannot stop it, or control it, you drive the need within me to the limits of my imagination. Your fingers trace the slick, moist folds and circle the center of my desire, drawing out the music you love to make by playing me, just like an instrument.

But your gentle teasing quickly morphs into demanding coercion, kneading me straight to the edge of reason until I erupt and trickle down the peak with more molten desire.

You are merciless, because I have surrendered to you. You take my pleasure, over and over until you decide to reward it with pain. My mind almost cannot keep up as your hands pinch and twist, smack in that most delicious way, and force me to remain open when my legs try to avert the sensation.

As you shift me, to pin me, and push me over the edge once again, I think I might lose myself and begin to beg, “No more.” But you laugh, and breathe, “One more.”

I’m so lost, I can only follow your command, and let go so that you might be sated by my next release. But your fingers don’t stop as the waves of another climax crash into me.

You never stop. I think you might keep me like this all night. I beg again for completion, but you swat me, hard. You get to decide. Oh sweet heaven on earth, what did I do to deserve this overwhelming reward.

The frenzy of pain and pleasure clouds my mind until the edges of each orgasm begin to blur. I feel like just a ball of sensation, your toy, your plaything. I try to reach for you, but you tell me to let go.

The bliss of being owned by you explodes inside me and all around me. My mind is empty. I am pure pleasure. You have succeeded.

As your hand slows and you release your grip on me, my thoughts slowly return. You turn me to face you and whisper, “Make me cum, kitten. In you… on you… just make me lose myself too.”

All I can think is that I can never give you what you give me. But exhaustion fades fast in the presence of my desire to please you. I giggle again, I don’t know why, but it elicits that smile I adore.

I tease you, barely brushing my fingers over the smooth skin of your thick manhood until I can feel the veins pulsing and throbbing below the surface.

I lower my soft, heavy breasts over you and stroke you with them, gently, while you watch. “Such a pretty sight.”

It is my turn to make a meal of you, but I revel in the feel, and smell, and sight of you. Rubbing my face against your velvet covered steel, just like a kitten, I barely lick the tip, tasting the salty drop of lust that has gathered, just for me.

You pull my long hair away from my face, holding it gently, but demonstrating your control in the handle you now have on me.

Unhurried, but aroused at your control and the expression on your face as you gaze down at me while my sweet mouth is filled with you. Your moans and the tiny motion in your hips make me hum my own song of desire.

My tongue massages the soft, tender head and traces along it’s boundaries. My lips skim down the shaft to where my fingers stroke and play. My warm, wet mouth surrounds you and I glance up at you again, to see your euphoria.

I draw out the pleasure as long as you allow, before your grip in my hair tightens and your hips buck anxiously as I suck you deep into my throat and swallow, closing around your helmet to a loud groan and pressure from your fingers to keep me there.

I can feel you trembling and throbbing against my tongue, and attempt to pull away so that I might extend my amusement and suspend your satisfaction. But you don’t allow me, forcing yourself deep against my tonsils so that I have to swallow again.

Lifting my face by my hair, you thrust yourself up into me, over and over until your grunts turn to languid growls and I taste my luscious reward being released in thick, creamy ropes.

I swallow every drop, suckling you like you were some exotic dessert. You smile down at me and whisper, “Come here.”

You wrap me up in you, once again, my back to your front, your leg thrown over mine, your breath, hot and sated on my neck.

I giggle again, and sigh. And we end, where we began.

A spoonful of perfection.

Moonlighting, Part Five

To catch up on the whole series, click here. This is the final installment. Let me know what you think!

“Chelsea, what I want is to take care of you. I want to give you the life you deserve. I want to help you accomplish everything you have ever wanted to and I want you to help anchor me, make me a better man, and turn my world upside down, over and over again. I want to love you the way you have always deserved to be loved…

“I’d like you to move in with me. If you need some time, or need me to court you, …I’ll give you anything, sweet girl. But my goal will be to own you and have you near me always.” Pulling me into him, he stares into my eyes and whispers against my lips, “Tell me, little girl, how to make you mine.”

My heart feels as though it might stop. I can’t answer because I simply cannot believe this is happening. A subconscious fantasy turned reality… in mere hours?!

While my mind is swirling, I suddenly remember, “I told Rachel I would check back on her!” I bolt upright and glance at the clock. It is nearly 11. I can’t stand going back on my word, and I don’t want her to sleep on the couch. I start to get up, then wonder if I need permission. I look back and forth between him, the clock and the door, unable to form words.

Master begins to chuckle as he sits up as well. Taking me by the shoulders, before wrapping his arms around me, he kisses my hair and says softly, “Stop spinning, little one. Please go get dressed, go check on Rachel and come back.”

Such a simple command, but, with such a huge affect. My mind clears, my pulse slows, and I feel completely quieted, like he just wrapped me in a soothing, warm blanket.

Had I always needed to be given orders? Was that part of my problem with anxiety over the years? Or did he create that need within me?

As he pulls away, I stroke his cheek with my fingers and search his eyes for the answers. What I find is peace. It doesn’t matter, I simply need to surrender.

After a moment, I move to stand and he follows me before grabbing my wrist and pulling me back into his arms. I sigh against his lips as he kisses me, and wonder if he wants to see if I’ll pull away. I wonder if he’s testing me.

I wrap my arms around him, deepening the kiss, and allowing my eyes to close. When he releases me, softly and sweetly, he whispers, “Don’t be long, little one. If you are gone more than 30 min., I will have to come collect you.”

He gives me the most delicious grin and I feel my cheeks heat, he was testing me. Exerting his dominance over me in a new way, to see how I’ll react. That smile tells me I passed the test.

He spins me around and swats my naked and wickedly bruised bottom towards the door. I wince but giggle and run to the kitchen to collect my clothes. As I dress, I think about everything that has happened tonight and wonder if I can discuss it with Rachel. I could use a confidant, someone to help me sort through things. Perhaps I shouldn’t discuss Master, though… without permission.

As I slip into my jacket and check my reflection in the dark glass of the upper cabinets in the kitchen, I realize, she is going to ask. It’s late, my cheeks are far more flushed than usual, and, well, Rachel just has an intuition about these things. The conversations we’ve had regarding Master and my questions about submission had always come from her perceptions of my desires.

Running my fingers across my lips and staring into my own face, I simply couldn’t think what I would tell her if she asked what happened.

Suddenly, Master’s arms circle me from behind and his lips find my ear. “Are you stalling for a reason, little girl?”

I look down at his hands and smile at the return of that soothing relief. That feeling of surrendering the decisions to him.

“What should I say, Master, when Rachels asks about my night?”
“You want to discuss it with her? You two have become close, haven’t you?”
“Yes, Sir. I… I want to sort through my feelings with you, but…”
“Go on, sweet Chelsea,” he turns me in his embrace so that we are facing each other.
“I have shared a lot, with Rachel, already, Sir.”
“I have, too,” he whispers, smoothing my hair from my face and smiling.

I smirk at him, realizing this internal struggle is just silly. Surrender. “May I discuss it with her, Master?”

The tender expression that I suddenly recognize washes over his face. Oh, my… It is love. He kisses me softly and whispers, “Yes. Discuss whatever you like with Rachel. Whatever you need to do to answer my question, little one.”

As I make my way into Rachel’s apartment, I feel the goofy grin on my lips, but can do nothing to rid myself of it. She’s lying on the sofa with her eyes closed, so I make my way inside as quietly as possible.

“Ya don’t have to sneak around, I’m not asleep,” she says, actually sounding better than earlier. “Some fantastic lady made me soup that has some kind of magical, healing power to it.” She laughed, before falling into a coughing fit.

“Obviously, it didn’t work THAT well,” I giggle and rush to bring her a glass of water.

She looks at me as I hand it to her, and her lips curl in a devious smirk, “He finally told you!!”

“Told me what?” I try to be coy, but I’m a terrible liar.

She rolls her eyes at me and drags me to sit next to her. “Come on, Roni, spill.”

I freeze, hearing her call me that name. She knows me as Veronica. Marie knew me as Veronica.

Martin knows me as Veronica.

“Hey! You were just smiling and now you look like…” As tears fill my eyes, she can’t finish.

I stare at my hands in my lap and think about pretending to be Veronica all this time. Wondering how little of Chelsea is in her. Martin might think he loves me, but has he really gotten to know me? Even if Veronica is who I’d love to be… It is still just pretending.

“What’s going on? Why are you crying?” Rachel pushes my hair back so she can see my face, before grabbing the tissues off the table.

“Yes. He told me. Martin has asked me to be his. Me alone. But you just reminded me… I’m not sure he even really knows me.” I grab one of the tissues and wipe my eyes. When I turn toward her, the confusion in her face makes me continue.

“My name is really Chelsea. I was married when I started… coming here. Martin thought the fake name would make it easier for me. But I just realized… Rachel, I’ve been pretending to be someone else. How could he know that he wants me when he doesn’t really know me? He turned his life upside down for someone who doesn’t exist!”

I drop my face to my hands, sobbing, “Fuck.”

Rachel remains quiet for a few moments before laughing softly. I look up at her, startled, and she laughs harder.

“Oh, geez, Chelsea. Just think about that for a second, would you?!” She grabs my shoulders, turning me toward her, “For the last few months, because of this ‘pretending’, you’ve been happier than you were for years before. You told me so, two weeks ago. You told me that you wished you could have more than this. You told Marie you wished you could find a guy just like Martin.”

Sighing, exaggeratedly, she grabs a tissue, and wipes my cheeks. “What exactly did you pretend to be that you aren’t? What exactly are the differences between Veronica and Chelsea?!”

Trying to think it through only makes me more upset, because I can’t see the differences. So instead, I clear away Rachel’s dishes and used tissues from the table. Taking everything into the kitchen quietly and filling the kettle to make her more tea, I set out to wash the dishes, but sense her behind me.

“I’m just going to make you more tea and get you into bed. You need to rest, so you can get better, Rachel. You don’t need to help me sort out my love life.”

“Don’t you see, girl? Look at what you are doing right now! Serving me, to make yourself feel better! You ARE Veronica, Chelsea. You went searching for this act. You sought out a place where you could really be yourself. Where you could submit in the only way you felt comfortable with at the time. Now, you want more, but can’t get past the pretending?

“Being upset about Martin falling for the fake you is ridiculous! There is no fake you. It’s just you. The growing and changing Chelsea.”

I look back at her, those words sinking in like none that I ever could’ve offered myself. As I finish the dishes and the kettle whistles, I recognize how “serving” has always been the thing I turned to. When my marriage was failing and I simply could not do enough at home, I sought out this extra place where I could give of myself, because I needed it.

I smile at her and walk over to take the kettle from the stove. “I guess you might be right, Rach. It was never about acting, it was about finding myself.”

Staring at the door, I take the kettle off the heat. Rachel laughs at me again.

“Go!!!  I am perfectly capable of getting myself to bed, Ron– Chelsea. Go.”

Stepping out of her apartment, I contemplate telling Martin exactly what happened. I think about what I might want out of this relationship. I wonder at how I can go from submitting once a week to every day, hour, and minute.

When I open the door into the foyer, and remove my jacket, I can’t imagine even wanting to go home, at this point. And when I turn to see him, wearing jeans and his undershirt, his natural body language filled with such… command, I am compelled to kneel at his bare feet. To submit to him.

After a moment, I steal a glance up at his face. His tender smile from earlier makes me blush. He reaches down and strokes my face before offering his hand. I take it, and he pulls me up and against him.

Kissing me hard and letting his hands explore my body, he whispers, “I want to fuck you again, little girl, so bad. But I need to know what you are thinking and feeling.”

I smile at the difference in the man he is with me. He was like this, after my punishments, even if he rarely spoke, but I never truly recognized that this was MY Dom. That the tender firmness was how he made me at ease and how he made me feel good. He is so different from Rachel’s and Marie’s Dom. Different, but the same in so many odd and exhilarating ways.

When he starts to drop his hands, I whine softly, “Please, Sir. Your touch is comforting. I have longed for it, without realizing it, for so long. Please, don’t let go.”

“If you allow me, I’ll never let go, little one.”

I giggle and smirk up at him, cocking my head to one side. Just then, I knew exactly what to say. Exactly how to answer.

“Ask me again, Sir? Please?”

“To be mine? How to make you mine?”

“Tell me to. That is all you need to do, Master. Tell me to be yours, and I will be yours. For as long as you’ll keep me.”

His face split into a smile that could have lit the room. “You want to submit to me, then. That is what you truly want.”

“I want to be yours. I want to serve you. I want to please you. I want to bring you pleasure. I want to give you my pleasure. And I want to, and will, turn your world upside down repeatedly. Because I know, you will always right it, quickly and with command. …I want your command.”

I become breathless, at my own words. The desires of my heart and spirit, so tightly intertwined with the desires of my body. “I really want your command,” I repeat, leaning into him, to feel his heat and his own desire.

He groans and bends his lips to mine but does not kiss me. “There is a lot more to discuss. Arrangements to be made. ideals to understood. Limits to go over… Lives to blend…”

“Tomorrow, Sir… Please?  For tonight, just take me… Accept my submission? Please, Master?”

He growls, pulling me hard against him, his eyes searing into me, and his lust scorching my entire body, drawing my own to the surface. “I do love the way you beg, sweet Chelsea.”

Lifting me as though I were nothing, he carries me into the bedroom. As we undress each other, it feels like the first time, all over again. I contemplate how long that feeling could last. But then, as he covers me with his body and enters my sore, swollen and used flesh, I feel a sense of him coming home.

He kisses me, and it feels like completion.

He strokes my body, and it feels like I’ve never been touched in my life.

He says my name, and it sounds like he is naming me, for the first time.

He moves, on top of me, and it feels like magnetism, as though we are always meant to be touching.

And as we slowly climb to the top of our climaxes, I cannot imagination ever experiencing bliss like that again.

Until he wakes me, at sunrise… to take me, again… to heaven.

Dancer

I finished my latest installment of the Dancer series on Hipster Intelligence Agency.

It is a story about Natalie, an eighteen year old, quite cocky and self confident girl, seeking Dominance without quite realizing it. She throws herself in the path of a handsome, but rumored playboy who quickly helps her see things in herself that she had never realized. And makes her want things she has never wanted.

It’s a pretty hot series, which I enjoyed writing a lot. I hope, if you haven’t already, that you’ll check it out.

Dancer
Dancer, Part 2
Dancer, Part 3
Dancer, Part 4

Let me know what you think!!

92251906-shades-grey

His perspective

I feel her curl up against my back, pressing her bare breasts into my skin. I know she needs her sleep, she hasn’t slept well in weeks. She scratches my skin lightly, those tenuous tiny circles that make me weak and make me hum. She slips her fingers up the back of my neck into my hair, making those circles there, too.  I hear myself groan and wish I could ignore her wiles.  Her lips touch my skin as she attempts another seduction tonight.  I tell myself to order her to sleep.  I tell myself to turn to her and gently tell her I can’t do this every night.  I tell myself to do anything but lie there, dismissing her.  But I do nothing.

She starts to relent, I know she’s feeling rejected.  But I still do nothing, I just close my eyes and allow the night to take over. I don’t understand why she seems to need something every single night.

I wake to her hands, still flowing over my skin, but more insistently.  She’s worked up, writhing and kissing the back of my neck. I glance at the clock, it’s 1:32 am. I wonder if she’s slept at all, but her fingers and lips and breasts on my back feel so good. Her wanting me. Her pleasuring me. When I turn toward her, those nails begin their journey over my chest and stomach. Her breath on my skin feels heavenly, and I realize she’s achieving her goal. I bend my lips to her, slipping my hand in her hair and dragging her into a deep hard kiss.

She moans into my mouth and my dick responds with a vigor that is unusual at this time of night. I push her hand down to feel, and her reaction is perfect. She wants it, pulling it free and worshiping it with her fingers and grip. She wants to use her lips and tongue, but I’m not done kissing her, so I hold her firmly. She whimpers against my lips and I want to hear it again, so I pinch and twist one of her nipples.  God, she’s so sexy when she’s worked up like this, making these noises.  I call her a slut and she practically cums just from my words.  

I decide to use her, the way she says she wants to be used.  I push her hands away and stroke myself, she watches and practically comes apart, again. “You want it, don’t you.  But you like watching me touch it.”  She moans and wriggles next to me, playing with her nipples and licking her lips.

“Fuck me with your tits, bitch,” I sound ridiculous, but she loves it.  She loves every second of it, and slides down on top of me, jacking me off between her heavy breasts.  Watching her, feeling her, knowing she’s not going to get any release from this, I think maybe I do like this.  I do enjoy having the power.  “I’m gonna cum in your face, slut.” I still sound like an ass, but it’s getting easier. And I love turning her on, getting her off, giving her whatever she wants.

As I get close, she’s moaning and whimpering, I love that fucking sound and blow my load.  It’s weak, she just sucked me off the night before, but two nights in a row! Maybe we’re getting somewhere. She thanks me. That feels weird, but she’s smiling.  She cleans me. She enjoys this. She likes me like this. She wants me like this. 

Why should I deny her the pleasure of pleasuring me? If it keeps her here, keeps her interested… I should act however she needs me to act.

I should be however she needs me to be. It’ll only get easier, right?

The kisses have. Those silly full blown kisses she wanted so badly each morning, now I even look forward to it. The way she looks at me after, and hangs onto me, and those noises…

The spanking has. That night I spanked her on the couch and finger fucked her until she was a quivering mess. That was awesome.

The humiliation has. The name calling and telling her what to do has gotten easier every time. I think I’m starting to like the dirty talk. It’s hot.

I don’t mind all the stuff we’re doing, but what if she keeps wanting more? What if I can’t be what she wants? What she needs?

If she needs me to tie her up… if she needs me to beat her until she cries… if she needs me to pleasure her for hours… and then clean her up after?

I’m not that guy. I don’t know if I can be that guy.

Maybe I just need to set the ground rules. She wants rules. She wants structure. She wants defined roles….

I have no idea what really goes on in my husband’s head. This is, of course, a guess. You tell me, Sir. Am I close?