♦ When Crush casually lifted up his top to reveal his tight little stomach, as he has so many times before, who knew that it would lead to this? Him: mine. Me: in control and loving it.
He just looked so good. Now that I think about it, I suppose he didn’t look objectively any better than usual, but something caught me. Suddenly, I had to have him. That stomach had to be in my grasp, getting stroked, kissed and licked.
I rose from my seat and pushed him backwards hard onto our waiting bed. He flailed and fell, his eyes wide less in surprise than in anticipation. He likes it when I get fired up. I think he enjoys being almost wowed by my lust for him.
I joined him on the bed, clambering over his lower half to plant my lips on his stomach. Soon he was under a barrage of kisses and not long after that rough grasps were added to the assault. I was dedicated to just having as much of his beautiful stomach as I could. My movements were hurried and desperate.
Both our tops were the first to go, lost in a hustle and shuffle of fabric. His chest was my next battlefield. He doesn’t usually like his chest scratched since his skin is delicate, so I thought it best to ask. But not in a submissive way. Although I was asking his permission, I felt in control. I had control. It wasn’t a “Please may I?” sort of question it was more of a “You won’t mind if scratch up your chest, will you? You can do that for me, can’t you?” style, all honeyed and filled with poorly hidden threat. The idea of making someone agree to something they have a hint will turn out badly for them simply because they can’t say no, they can’t resist me, is intoxicating.
“OK,” he replied, “but just a little bit.”
“No, a lot.” I told him. “But for a little bit.”
I was going to scratch him hard, but he wouldn’t have to be good for long. Scoring the long lines down his chest was wonderful. It was satisfying, exhilarating and even naughty to know that ordinarily I couldn’t get away with this. He took it well, his gasps no more than I’d expected and no less than I’d hoped for. I leant in to kiss him and he sucked forcefully on my neck, leaving me gasping too.
I stripped on top of him and removed all his clothes. I decided, almost without consulting myself, that I wanted to give him a treat. I wanted to spoil him. It would have to be my signature move. That would do it. Now, to get the baby oil…
I got up quickly, surprising him, and went over to the chest of drawers. As I rummaged, he took a turn at surprising me and asked “Can I have a drink, Miss?”.
I blinked at him, knocked somewhat for six by the unexpected and submissive-sounding “Miss”. Somewhere inside my core a little switch flicked and started a Rube Goldberg machine that would power my control of him for the rest of the session. Dominant mode: engaged. Again, as with the ‘decision’ to treat him, the change seemed to occur on auto-pilot. I hadn’t suddenly thought to myself, “Hey, I know, I’ll take charge”. It just happened.
The switch was thrown and it was too late to go back.
Like a thing possessed I hunted through my drawers for equipment my mind had pre-loaded. I wanted certain things without any real thought at all. I found baby oil, as I was going to anyway, and set it to one side. Next came the blindfold, which I slipped over his eyes. The leather collar, more masculine than my own, followed and was placed gently but firmly around his throat. So far, such a good boy. No objections.
I pulled his hands through our permanent feature, the red rope ties attached to our headboard, and tightened the ropes. Almost as an afterthought I hunted for the small spreader bar and walked to the base of the bed to restrain his feet. He looked fantastic. You would not believe how good he looked all subbed up like that because frankly I didn’t either. Whether he felt a sub at heart or not, it suited him.
As I buckled the last cuff around his ankle, Crush wriggled a little, playfully dodging my grip. “Behave yourself,” I told him, “or maybe I won’t be nice to you at all. Be a good boy or you won’t have any fun.”
That saw to the wriggling quick enough.
With my gorgeous lover restrained, I added my weight to the mix, kneeling between his legs on the bar of the spreader. I opened the baby oil and poured the cool liquid onto his waiting cock.
It was time for my special move.
His hard cock suitably slick, I grasped it with one hand and rubbed the other firmly over the head of his sex, swirling my hand at the wrist. It’s a little trick I’d half-thought up, half-stolen from a book; the palm of your hand rubs over his cockhead in a sort of rotary wrist-based way I have always wholly failed at adequately describing. You need a fair bit of lubrication and it doesn’t hurt to be awfully firm. In any case, it’s got a 100% success rate in my (admittedly small) book.
Crush, for example, loves it.
I continued to pour baby oil liberally over his erection at intervals, using the excess to make his thighs and abs glisten in the light. Crush was wriggling and wriggling and eventually I had to get up from kneeling on his spreader because of how he was making it bite into my legs.
“Do you like it like this?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered.
After quite some agonising time of him moaning, wriggling and bucking, as well as more of this delicious yet stern call and response, he began to crumble. “I want to be inside you, Miss”, he whimpered as I rubbed without mercy at his glans. There was only so much of this he could take. For Crush my special move is like a wonderful torment, at the same time ecstatic yet never quite reaching full crescendo.
I straddled him and leaned into his face. Pulling on his collar I hissed, “maybe I shouldn’t let you be inside me. Maybe I should just make myself come on top of you like this and leave you there.”
“Please, Miss, I want to be inside you.”
“Louder.” I still remembered our session recently when he had made me practically shout my head off as I begged him to fuck me. That memory made good fuel for my cruelty. A little taste of his own medicine.
When he had raised his voice to a normal talking level, I decided it was enough for me. His quiet bedroom voice sounds so different to his usual that it was a thrill to muddy his normal tone with our dirty fucking.
I teased him a little by rubbing his cockhead over my slit, moistening it to allow for easy entry. I was pleasantly surprised to find how wet I was. Pussies are fickle creatures and at times my mental arousal is much greater or much less than my physical one. Domination, as I’ve mentioned before, is not nearly so natural and visceral for me as submission. It doesn’t grab me by the cunt and force me to get sopping wet for it. But here I was, sopping indeed. I’d enjoyed this more than I realised I had.
I lowered myself onto him and told him to start fucking me. Screw it, I was in charge, why should I do any of the work, at least at first? Let him make the effort. Let him work for his pleasure. I was going to sit back and enjoy the ride.
And, oh, how I did.
My hand snaked down between our sweat-slick, oil-daubed bodies and found my clitoris. I started to stroke myself on top of him as he pounded up into me, his feet just finding purchase in their restraints. Being on top is one of my least favourite positions, but it really felt good just then. My fingertips worked frantically at my clit whilst he moaned and groaned. He was loving this. He told me later that my special attention to his cock had had a strange effect on him. He was dulled, but in a good way. His cock couldn’t feel the specifics of its pleasure but just an all-over haze of wonderful feelings. It was, apparently, a strange but brilliant sensation.
As I began to near my peak I relented and joined in with his movements, taking some of the strain of fucking ourselves into bliss. I came on top of him, my orgasm blundering through my body and forcing filthy words out of my mouth. The heady mix of control and climax was too much for me and my only pressure valve was a stream of dirty dominance moaned into his ear. He was my bitch. My slut. He was filthy for making me this way.
When I regained some semblance of normal thought patterns, my dominance straightened itself up and took on a more controlled air again. I continued to ride him. He breathed heavily, his eyes still covered and his body still all mine.
My voice now calm again, I told him, “I think I’ll have one more and then I’ll let you go.”
And so I did, using my fingers as I rode him, putting most of the fuck-effort in myself this time, fucking myself on his cock. I leant into him, the heat of our bodies intense. The orgasm that was building inside me was going to be too much for me without collapsing into him this way. I pressed my face into his neck and, as the orgasm hit, my mouth found his leather collar. I took it into my mouth and bit down hard, clamping my teeth down on it whilst waves of energy rocked me. I climaxed hard, pulling at the collar round his neck with my teeth, and action that seemed to me at once submissive and dominant. I was clamping down on it like a bit in the mouth of a fucktoy but also tugging roughly at the mark of submission at this throat, reminding him he was bound.
I rolled into another peak and let go, sitting up fully and pulling the blindfold from his eyes which were wide and strangely, almost ethereally pale. I know that when I submit and am wearing a blindfold I begin to crave the sight of him. The deprivation is hot and the amplification of my other senses is wonderful, but I need to see him. Having my blindfold pulled off mid-fuck is an erotic experience. Your eyes wince at the light newly hitting them while at the same time you strain to see your lover. The sight of them after what seems like so long deprived is almost an orgasm of its own.
Removing the blindfold like that was a trick I had picked up from being a sub and so I knew the power of it now that I was dominant. I love that I took something I knew worked because it worked on me and applied it to him now he was mine. He told me later that he really liked that part too, so I get to feel extra-smug.
As my orgasm faded, I took him in my arms in a pleasantly sweat-ridden hug. I kissed his warm mouth lovingly, stroked his hair and then tried to remove his restraints all too soon, my trembling fingers fumbling at the ropes and buckles.
“I could have done that myself,” he offered, knowing there are ways to get out of the red rope ties.
“No,” I replied, “you couldn’t. You might have been able to get out of them physically but I think you’ll find you’d have had a hard time managing it. After all, you were all mine.” ♦