Born To It

You have become, in my mind, an elusive dream that I want to capture and make reality. But we've been friends for sufficiently long now that I'm not sure if I can change the dynamics without spoiling things. I am going to try, though. I have to, don't I? You've made it clear that there is a hidden dimension; you appreciate the frisson as much as I do. You sexy thing...

When I make up my mind to eventually host one, I am on pins inviting you to the party. Will you say yes, will you say no, will you laugh at my suppressed eagerness, desperation, bare lust? I expect you'll come. You want to touch me as much as I want you to. It's just engineering it so you feel comfortable with it; so it's your idea, you hiding behind the safety of a conscious choice to go with it. I can't appear to be seducing you, I have to be implicit.

The planning is fun. I'm going to wear leather. I see in your eyes a gleam at the very mention of a basque so I exploit you and make you help me try it on. I'm suddenly shy and turn my back to pull off my clothes. I want you to make me turn round; tell me not to be silly, we're friends, for God's sake. And we are, aren't we baby? I want so urgently for you to look at my tits, to follow your gaze and make sure that it flicks to my nipples. Just to be sure. So I adopt a brazen air and casually spin around. Ask you whether I have enough to do justice to such a fine item of clothing. Oh my God, but I'm cupping them and I'm not shaking. And you, my wanton woman, are looking in the right direction. What do you reckon, baby? Will I fill it? Your reassurances are reassuringly croaky.

It does up at the back and I genuinely won't be able to manage it without contorting myself; I don't want that indignity while I'm struggling for 'casual'. Holding and positioning the cold skin to my skin, I ask for your help and you give it. Zip me up. I can feel your fingers unsure and trembling. Oh, but there is knowledge in your hands; have you rehearsed this? Have you thought of it? Have you sought this innocent exchange that is loaded with want? Our daily contact has strayed from friendship towards intimacy. Emotional intimacy has led us to this place; in my bedroom, clinging to the innocence. Your hands turn me to face you and on my shoulders they are warm and firm. I am aware of your thumbs rubbing distractedly over my collar bones. Move them lower, move them lower...

But we're stuck like that, facing each other and you're grinning and frowning and tilting your head from side to side in an appraisal of me. You like it. No fettering underwear, tits pushed and jiggling. I love the confusion that flits across your face. Have you ever looked at a woman like this before? I expect you have but don't even realise it. I'm going to make you want me so badly, baby.

You want me to parade for you. Lord, but my legs have started to tremble slightly and I'm annoyed at the disloyalty of my experienced, flirty body. Come on, legs, it's just walking. You've done it a million times. And you've done the other thing, the seduction, often enough. Just not with you. How to do it? It's not second nature, it's calculated. I know you've watched my usual swagger for years but the femininity of the basque lends my arse a particular wiggle, a sway to my hips and a tippy-toeing to my bare feet. You watch silently for a second or two and then demand I approach you. You want a closer look, don't you baby? I hope that what you really want is to touch me.

You reach your long warm hands towards my tits and I can feel my stomach clench with the anticipation. I know I'm covered but it doesn't matter, I'll still have the pressure and the knowledge that you've touched me. Oh god, I hope I'm not wrong. Clear my throat, shuffle slightly, smirk at you. And then. You cover my tits with both of your hands and weigh them and squeeze, as if examining me, with the veneer of cool assessment. And I am standing and swaying and not breathing for fear of jolting you out of your reverie with any intake of air. They're nice, you say. Such a bland word. Think of another. They look good, you murmur. Better. Your thumbs are working the material and do you know what you are doing? You're stroking my nipples; your focus is trained on them. Excuse me, but you are arousing me. You'd better stop right now, baby, or I'll move us on.

The material is too thick to betray my arousal; you can't feel the points of hardness under there. But I can and with every caress, my clit flinches and my cunt pulsates. Soaking and slippery now. My voice is gruff as I ask you for confirmation: Does it really suit me? I'm fishing, of course. But once the sentence is past my lips, the moment is over. You are silent - blushing and smiling at me but you're also leaving the room and I am left standing there, wondering about what has just happened between us.

But I want more, want to play with your mind a little longer, so I call you back in and persuade you to help me with the zip. Again. Dressing quickly, I steal a look and see your eyes are averted, have lighted upon my toys. You know well about my passions and I have intrigued you with stories, haven't I? With a carefully neutral manner, I pick up the little black flogger and hold it out to you. Feel the tassels, I say, feel how soft they are. And by god, you do. You let them flop through your fingers and trail over your lap, dragging them slowly over your jeans-covered crotch. To my joy, you hold it like a woman born to it; it looks at home in your grasp. How do you like it? you ask. Oh, so hard, baby. That's what's in my mind but it might be scary for you so my mouth says: flicked rhythmically on my arse. I lower myself down next to you where you're sitting on my bed. You practise a little on your leg. Like this? you ask, peering at me sideways. You're too gentle with it, really, but I'm loathe to break the spell so I tell you: that's just right, but on my arse. You wince when I use that word, prefer bum, I know. But I need to shock you, reach into you with words and ideas, plant and suggest and make you realise what it is you want. Get up, then, you say, but it sounds like a question. You're excited, nervous. Your legs are tightly squeezed together. Does that make it feel good, baby? Can you feel it aching? Mine is. You lovely bitch.

I get up and move forward, trying not to rush, to advertise my desire. I turn my back to you slightly and bend at the waist a little. Not right over. Not yet, if ever. I can't presume anything. I need something to hold on to but I'm stranded in the middle of the room with my back to the bed; nothing to steady me or stop me falling over with lust. Never mind. I really must have this, must have you strike me and witness the dawning in you. You take so long to move that I can't be sure any longer that you are going to. I fight the urge to turn around, to hurry you. I want this to be your idea. So I exercise some patience, especially for you. And then it comes, like a whisper. I am frantic with the sensation; so tantalising yet so unsatisfying. Oh, please do it again, do it harder, flog me, hit me, beat me, hurt me. But I stay silent. That level of want would surely be too much for a fledgling such as you. Are you messing with me, baby? Did I do it right? you ask. I can't help myself; I suggest you try again but this time with some passion behind the swing of your arm, the flick of your wrist, the set of your mind. So you do and it's an improvement and I whimper deliberately to encourage you. My strategy works and the next stroke is hard and it makes me start with happy surprise. My cunt tells me you did it right; I can feel my knickers getting sticky and warm. I rock, almost imperceptibly, on the balls of my feet and twitch my arse from side to side: a physical plea to you. And you strike me again. And again - each time a little more firmly and confidently. Now we're getting somewhere. Fuck, how sexy is this?

Take off your jeans, you say. I unbuckle and unbutton and unzip and shuffle them to my knees. You want my knickers off too? I ask, longing to end the question with the word 'Mistress'. You do. I ease them off and can feel my lips parting as the juice floods me. Goddammit, I adore that sensation. I bend right over and clasp my legs just above my ankles. Now my open cunt is visible to you. I don't know if you look at it. Don't know whether you can see how the folds are now pulled apart. I am squirming in this unfamiliar situation. Not with what of it all but the who. You. You are faced with my bare arse and my bare cunt. I'm glad I can't see your eyes...

I'm a bit nervous now - you're a novice, you might hurt me in a bad way, aim wrongly or strike too hard, too soon. But you don't. You act instinctively and with such ease. And my soul is lifted as you begin. You give me such sweet pain and I am losing myself to it, to you. Your breathing is heavy and every so often, is interspersed with a moan. Or is that me? It's both of us. You are talking to me, narrating our pleasure. Oh, you love that, don't you? Do you like it this hard? Shall I carry on? I can see such red marks on your skin. I'm going to hit your pussy with this thing. Can I? Shall I? You're all wet, you know. I can see it. Can I touch it? It's trickling down. Does it hurt when I hit you? Stop the talking and do it. Just do what you want with me. Have me; I'm here for you to play with, to experiment on, to experience.

Suddenly, you stop. I sway a little but stay where I am, unsure what to do. And then your warm hand is moving across my arse, tracing the marks left by the tassels. And then your touch is wet because you've licked your fingers to anoint the welts. It stings and I sigh. I start to speak but you hush me, tell me to be quiet, you're busy and must concentrate. I smother a giggle of delight at your tone. You are just born to it. I can feel your breath as you lower your head to my arse and then you spit on me. Spit three times and cover my skin in warm, soft wetness. I am shocked at the baseness of this - so crude and vulgar. And yet, my mind is reeling with the eroticism of your actions. You massage the fluid into my skin and it feels incredible. My own mouth is bereft of moisture and is making soft moaning sounds. I put one hand to my clit and am thrilled by my own touch. Slow, circling movements with two fingers for a few seconds and I can feel my orgasm building, growing, swelling. And you can sense it too. I want to put my fingers in my mouth, taste my cunt. So I ask permission from you and am rewarded by you telling me what a good girl I am, how polite I am, that I will be satisfied soon but that, no, I may not suck the slippery stuff from my hand. Instead, and quite firmly, you tell me I am to be fucked. My knees buckle. This exceeds all my fantastic expectations. But not now. Not now? Oh god, I could cry. You are firm, though. It is to be saved, for us to enjoy at the party. I had forgotten the party. You speak with such a grin in your voice - Be patient. And I adore you for being so very born to it, for just knowing.

*****

I’m ready for you now. I’m looking at myself and it’s an ok view. My confidence is wavering because this means so much to me and if I don’t grasp this chance; my punishment for vacillating will be severe. Made up, dressed up, filled up with you.

You’re late, of course. I was sure you would be; I love to be made to wait, and you know it. It’s something of the submissive in me that makes me enjoy being treated so disrespectfully. It’s a game, isn't it? And one I’ve been playing for a very long time. Only now, it’s going to matter.

How you make my breath catch when you come through the door, baby. So elegant in trousers, flowing from your hips.And those heels! Enough to trample me, body and soul. You’re a Goddess of a woman, a hypnotic witch; and I’m spellbound by you. I can’t stop staring, can’t speak clearly, remark inanely that You’re here! Poor me, so pathetic with lust. Your breasts are barely shielded by your shirt and I know that’s deliberate. I can see straight through it to your bra and if I stare a little harder, I can make out your nipples. So I do stare that bit more and you catch me at it. I’m expecting a knowing smirk when I meet your eyes but you’re looking so stony, so calm, and so superior. I don’t know if you’re aware of this but I prefer that look. I expect you do.

My house is bursting with happy people, some a little drunk already, some looking so out of place that I want to take them kindly by the hand and lead them home to their comforts. But I have to deal with you. You made me a promise and for the sake of my mind, it must be kept. Those displaced neighbours will have to manage by themselves. No hostess-me tonight. I look for you and you’ve gone. My belly flips and swoops. Rushing to the kitchen, I find you pouring yourself a drink – a very large glass of wine. Hello you, says my mouth. Let’s fuck now, says my mind. Can you read my mind? Oh, please read my mind. I’m smiling so hugely that I feel silly and you are still not. Not even a glimmer of a ghost of a hintof a smile. And while we all know I like it like that, you’re beginning to unnerve me some. There’s a fragment of song going round in my head: ‘I want you to want me’. Why I should think you might not, I don’t know. Because yesterday in my bedroom did happen, baby. For both of us and you weren’t just messing. It made you as wet as it made me.

Don’t I get a kiss hello? Well, yes; yes you do, my lovely. I approach you on surprisingly confident legs and assume the position: about a centimetre from your body and thoroughly expectant. You lower your head to mine and I order my eyes to stay open – no simpering, now, eyes. Yours are wide as our noses bump and I can smell the wine on your breath; I’ve not had any and it’s powerful. It is a swoony smell when mixed so intricately with your cigarettes – like sex, like passion. You smell like a woman and I want to be sure that you taste like one, too. We’ve kissed in the past; cheeks and edge-of-lips. But I am going to make this one a real kiss, a sexy, tongue and spit kiss. We’re both wearing lipstick and as our mouths touch, there is a slight sticking feeling as make-up meets make-up. It feels very sensual to me. Your beautiful red mouth opens slightly and I run my tongue over your lower lip, from side to side and then dart it gently inside, meeting your tongue. It makes my stomach twist, doing this. You taste like I always dreamt you would and I want to prolong this, kiss you in earnest, forget myself. I expect you to pull away but you don’t – your chin is pressing hard against mine and I feel you respond, gently biting and sucking slightly on my lip.

I’m leaning in to you a little awkwardly so I put both hands on your waist to steady myself and I can feel you flinch. Your mouth is not against mine any more and it is as if you have pushed me, such is the horrible shock. I never wanted that to end, baby. But your body is still pressed to mine, quite motionless. Now you’re smiling. I can see it in your eyes and my stomach lifts. The kitchen is busy. My friends and neighbours are milling and chatting and deliberately not looking. Except some of them can’t seem to avoid snatched glances at us. I think that we must just radiate. You pull away from meand whisper Come on. I feel helpless to deny you so I take your hand and follow as you drag me past faces that float and voices that shout – greeting and questioning and wondering.

It’s less crowded by the stairs and I stop for a second to prolong the agony. Such a masochist! The music infects us both and we begin a little dance; watching your body sway fires me up inside. My instinct is to touch you but you look so luscious that I don’t want to spoil the moment. My own body stills but my head is racing. You’re moving very slowly, not really in time with the music. Perhaps you have a different tune playing in your head. It’s a great one, whatever it is, because it makes you so sexy and laid open to me. It’s as if you are performing and I am the only member of the audience. Baby, let me touch you, I croon in my head and it’s as if I’ve spoken aloud, because you reach for my hand and plant it on your hip so that I am forced to resume our dance – I can’t help but move in time with you.

Our bodies are very close now and every so often I can feel our thighs brushing together. It is like electricity, like static that pulls us nearer. Before I’m aware of it, we’re holding on tight and the leather of my basque is against the silk of your shirt. You’re so soft and firm beneath my fingers and they begin to roam over your back, finding places to touch that make your mouth form little round "O"s. The shapes of your mouth become sounds of want as I move towards your arse and take hold. I pull you even more closely and press my thigh into your crotch. It’s as if I’ve awoken you. Such a simple, familiar act has turned this from play to real. Abruptly, you pull back, raise your eyebrows at me and look towards the staircase. I nod and we run. Really run – all the way up and into the bathroom. I lock the door and we stand and breathe for a moment. All the while we are inches apart, leaning against the bath. There’s no talking now, no laughing. Just me and you in the bathroom, our lust between us like a creature.

You look apprehensive. I feel it inside me, the anxiety in your mind at the prospect of what is surely to come. It’s gone too far for you to back out, to pretend you were joking. And I wouldn’t let you. Somehow, I would persuade you to fuck with me if I had to. But I don’t need such contingency plans. It’s you who is in control – as ever; not because I have allowed you to be but because you just are. Before the thought has registered in my head, you have me in your arms and are crushing me against you, kissing my neck and brushing your teeth against the soft skin. I am covered in goosebumps and the tingling on my skin is matched by the tingling in my cunt; like little electric shocks coursing through me. But this is too cuddly, too romantic. I want you harshly and violently and now. Come into the bedroom with me, baby, I say. And before you can refuse, I turn my back on you and leave. I can hear you hesitating behind me – Let me use the toilet first. But I know you want to wash, to primp and preen and we haven’t time for that. Besides, I want you raw and untarnished and just as you are. No soap or spray to disguise you. So I tell you Please, no, come now. You sigh. Resigned to my wants.

Tell me what you want I say, teasing you. Turn to the wall. Spread your legs. Arms up, you whisper. Short, staccato little sentences that have me complying with speed. With my back to you I say, But I’m still dressed. Do you want me to strip? I am rewarded with the most surprisingly hard slap to my arse I have ever felt. Where the hell did that come from? No practise swipes first? Again, I want to giggle, with the sheer unexpectedness of you. Fortunately, I don’t because you seem to be in no mood for levity. Oh, baby, how I love it like that! Don’t let’s make this fun. Let’s make it nasty. But I quickly realise that it’s not up to me; it never was. You tell me to keep my face to the wall and I hear you rummaging. I know what you’re finding. So, here I am expecting something cruel and wanting the pain like I want to breathe, when I am brought up short by the softest caress on my back, travelling down over my arse to my thighs.

Spank me, please spank me I murmur, the longing now an obsession. But you want me unclothed. You tell me to undress and to Be quick about it. I know you want to see me struggle with my dignity. I am down to my thong, presuming that although I love to keep it on, you want it removed like every other stitch. I loop my thumb in the waistband to pull it off but you bark at me Leave it on! Now stand still. If you wriggle I’ll stop. The flogger, my darling toy, is in your hand and is whipping against me in that most exquisite way. I am reeling with it, my legs weakening, my raised arms struggling to remain up. How fast the time passes; I have no idea how long we have been like this but I must move my legs to regain my composure, to balance myself.

With awful clarity, the world returns to me as you abruptly still your arm. I have displeased you somehow and I could cry with the worry of it. But I steal a glance over my shoulder at you and you are just staring at me. Is the poor little girl getting tired of standing still, then? Such sarcasm. Such little care. Yes, I reply. Yes, what? you growl. You seem furious with my impudence and I cower involuntarily at your tone. I know what you want me to say but I just need to see that annoyance streak across your face again, so I just shrug my shoulders. I get what I want from you instantly – a look of such arrogant despair. It’s like we’re dancing again – choreographed to perfection. Address me properly, you say. So I do – Yes, I’m tired, Mistress. I’ve pleased you. You like that, like the deference. Spread your legs – I have something for you. Are you going to make good your promise of yesterday? But I am to be tormented further. You present me with my leg shackles, the cuffs separated by a metal bar – I will have to keep my legs open with these on. You keep your eyes resolutely on mine – I couldn’t look away even if I wanted to – whilst you put the shackles on me. The interlude is soon over - we quickly resume. I am now standing facing you but you turn me roughly around, press down on the back of my head, forcing me to bend over for you. I wait impassively. I have no idea what to expect. You have cupped your right palm slightly and slapped it onto my cunt. The fleshy part at the base of your thumb is against the opening of my cunt and your fingers are against my clit. Cupping me. I am aware of your body surging forward, against me. Your left hand is on my shoulder to steady you and the other is pressing and squashing - kneading me.

I want the fucking so much. Please fuck me. Don’t make me ask. But damn it, you do. Out of the blue, mid squeeze, you say to me: Fingers or strap on? And I am flabbergasted. The moment has arrived and I am suddenly terrified of it. Well? You’re impatient and my butterflies disappear when I hear the control in your voice. I am torn. You might take your new role too far and forbid me either one. That I could not bear. So I choose the strap on. You smirk at me again. The harness is beautiful, leather and chrome with long leather ties for around your perfect hips. You need some guidance fitting the dildo into place and again our eyes meet as I turn to help you. Such a look. No smiling, no frivolity. I can see that you are not doing this just to please me. It’s in you.

It’s tied on to you. It juts out from the plane of your hips, bobbing a little with each slight movement you make. I want it so very much that I turn around, reposition myself and wait. And you laugh at me. Oh, you are so needy, you say. Yes, I am pitifully needy, Mistress. In need of you. I want to yell at you to come ON, I have waited long enough. But that is part of the game, the joy of it.

But it isn’t long. Although with my back to you I can’t see you, I am aware of your nearness to me. And then the head of the dildo is pressing against my slippery, eager cunt – nudging and insistent. I move my hips backwards to meet you and the dildo’s large head slips a little further in until the pressure building up at the opening to my cunt is unbearable. You make a slight thrusting movement and we are unstoppable.

Downstairs, the music plays and we are moving to the thudding that comes up through the floorboards; we are moving to our own thudding hearts and bodies. You are so sure, so confident and so instantly proficient. The front of your thighs bash against the back of mine and the length of the dildo rams fully into me with every shove of your hips, with every backwards thrust of my arse. It’s very nearly painful. Don’t stop. Please. Hurt me, fuck me, please. You’re breathing so hard, groaning with every plunge, muttering heavily at my back: Dirty, horny bitch. Shut the fuck up and just take it. You sound almost angry. So I close my mouth and bite down hard on my joy. My clit is crying out for your fingers and you read me; steadying your hips, leaving the dildo resting fully inside me, you reach around with both hands and pull open my cunt. Holding it like that, you somehow manage to simultaneously rub me and squeeze me and rapidly bring me to the brink. I never want to stop doing this with you but I am not in charge here. Oh please, baby. I don’t know what I am begging for but you seem to.

I want to come so much but you haven’t spanked me yet. I almost daren’t ask for it, but I must have your hand on my arse, my legs, anywhere you can reach. Suddenly, you yank the toy out of me and don’t even give me the chance to gasp in protest. You want a spanking, don’t you? Tell me how much you want it. Tell me properly and I’ll slap you so hard. My legs are wobbling slightly with the effort of remaining upright and my mind is racing. How do I ask? I take a chance on "respectful but desperate" and say to you: Please, Mistress…spank me. Hit me with your hand. Slap my arse for me. Make it hurt as much as you want it to. Please… I’m met with only silence. You tell me to turn around and kneel at your feet.

Once down on the floor, you make me repeat myself, make me speak with head bowed and eyes lowered. Please, Mistress – I have wanted you so much and for so long. I can’t bear waiting for it much longer. I will do anything if only you’ll do it for me. I must have said it right, for you snap at me to get up and turn back round. I spread my arms wide and support myself against the wall with hands that are damp with nervous sweat. And you hit me. Again and again, getting harder and louder with each stroke, your firm hand against my firm arse like a paddle. But so much better than a paddle because it’s a part of your body, it’s you. My skin is stinging and I know there’ll be marks – marks that I can wear like a badge of honour after we’re done. The heat created by the meeting of your skin on mine is spreading throughout me, warming me outside and in.

It has to end sometime and when you let out a long, loud sigh, I know it’s over. We must move on to other things; I must let you resume fucking me. It’s no hardship. But this time, the fucking is not for fucking’s sake – it’s for making me come. There is no art to it now; I sense your mind is not on your technique. It’s hard and a bit brutal, with urgent slapping and squelching noises coming form between my legs. It hurts me and I know I will feel bruised and battered inside tomorrow. Your reserves of stamina are amazing and exciting; who’d have known you’d fuck like such an old hand?

Your right hand materialises in front of me and is soon between my thighs, grabbing roughly at my cunt, fumbling with some skill for my clit again. I am so swollen and ready that your fingers find me and press hard in exactly the right place. Slowing the rhythm of your hips, you begin a consistent and perfect caress, getting quicker as my rapid breaths turn to moans. You want to make me come and I am happily helpless in your grasp. Before I can even alert you, I feel it building. I can’t stop it. I can feels tears in my eyes and I can hear us both calling and crying out; such beautiful synchronicity. . Come now for me, bitch. Just come... I am gon

Truth Or Dare

I have the most beautiful friend. I met her whilst out walking my dog and the moment I caught sight of her fingernails, I was hers – mind and body. She exudes power and I’m really a submissive little girlie underneath the assertive exterior. I’ll give you a for instance: I was in the chemist the other day and out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a woman at the counter. She was stunning - full length faux fur coat, blonde hair, well made up, high heels and an attitude. She just oozed dominance; my instant and overwhelming inclination was to drop to my knees and call her Mistress. She caught me looking at her and sort of smirked at me, so superior and haughty. She must get that adoring leer all the time. Just gazing at her, (and having her know I was gazing) made my day. I love it when that happens.

But ordinarily, I am quite an arsey little bitch. And my friend? She is not unselfish, she is not tolerant, she is not a giving woman. But I adore her. I want her so much but she is aloofness personified when it comes to intimacy. She teases me. As long as I don’t try to touch back, she’s safe. But my priority is not safety - I love the danger of adoring her, of finding substitutes for her to relieve myself with.

We spend quite a lot of to together and she knows how I feel; she exploits me and I happily let her. During a conversation one day, she said: "Do a dare for me, will you?" Kiss you? Touch you? On my knees and worship you? Not that. She continued, "I want you to go to the Common. Wear a vibe inside you. Walk for a while and email me when you get home with the details. I expect a lot of detail".

I agreed. Good girl me.

*****

Being told to do this by her was arousing enough. Actually doing it very pleasantly blew my mind.

I have worn love balls whilst out often – they are enjoyable enough but not as kinky, not as easily felt nor as sexy as a vibe. I have also worn a vibe on the outside of my body, laying lengthways against my pussy, from arse to clit and held in place by my clothes. The ridges press against my hole, my clit, my arse. I love that. But never inside me. I have a little silver vibe that I use for my clit usually – it’s the one I had in mind when you suggested I wear one to the Common. But I like width, bulk…I like to feel fullness. So then I was going to use my favourite dildo…purple and veined and scented and beautiful. And very well used. But she didn’t offer me that as an option.

I settled on a small, 4 inch vibe – slightly flared at the base, wide enough to feel good but almost too long. Pink and with a large head, ridged and bumpy and soft to the touch. When I went upstairs to get ready to go out, I put it inside me and the urge to just lie down, bend over, straddle it, fuck with it was irresistible. My cunt sucked that little fucker right in and I didn’t want to take it out. I so love fucking, love ramming that damn thing in hard and fast and slow and steady. So I did. I stood and leaned over the windowsill, reached to grasp it from behind and fucked myself, quickly and urgently. Sometimes, I get lost in the sensation, my body and mind taken over by the joy of it…

It was hard not to put my other hand on my clit, hard to not rub, squeeze, come while I fucked. So hard. I love to do the two together. That feeling of being so full while I circle my fingers, like my whole body is focused, centred there. As if no other part of me exists.

I stopped myself. Left the vibe inside me, put on some tight knickers, pulled them up and squirmed at the sensation of it not fitting flush against my body. The end jutted out about half an inch and when I pulled up my jeans, I put my hand down to feel its rubbery hardness. I tentatively took a few steps around to see how it felt and it was good. Great. It made me walk a bit awkwardly but it wasn’t going anywhere, wasn’t going to fall out and couldn’t be seen if I didn’t pull my jeans up too high or too tightly. And I left the batteries in. Just so I could feel extra nervous about it accidentally switching itself on whilst I was out.

Sitting in the car was almost painful – I had to sort of hover my arse off the seat a little. But it felt wonderful – all my thoughts were concentrated on my pussy and the vibe and the feelings, the wetness, the throbbing. I was very glad it was only a short drive to the Common. And it was fortunate that the driver’s window is broken – had I done as I usually do and wound it down, I would have had some interested looks at junctions - I couldn’t help moaning. For once, I was pleased the seam of my jeans couldn’t press against my clit – I don’t know if I could have stopped myself coming.

(I think I’ll put it inside me again when I write the email to her; to recapture the sensation – I’ll sit down and lean back so it rests there. It’ll feel so good; it’ll be almost uncomfortable, make my clit ache, and send a pulsating up inside my arse. It’ll be switched on and be gently vibrating.)

Once at the Common, I couldn’t decide on where to walk. On the path where there were other people or in the usually deserted woods. I went for the woods first. The dog ran on a bit but I wasn’t really paying her much attention – my mind was overwhelmed by the feeling. I have never been so wet, so soaked and ready and slippery and horny. The fact that this was her idea only increased the sensations.

With every step I took, the vibe slipped rhythmically in and out a tantalisingly tiny amount – just enough for me to be intensely aware of it, to make me quite frantically want fucking. My jeans have no inside pocket and when I was fairly sure I couldn’t be seen, I put my hand in and fingered my clit as I walked. Damn, I couldn’t do that for long. I love to tease myself, bring myself to the brink of orgasm and then stop for a while before beginning again. I could do that for hours. But now, I was finding it hard to control, hard to resist the pull of that incredible, huge, gushing orgasm that I was constantly on the very verge of.

My urge was to go home, to make myself come, to satisfy the longing. A very large part of me couldn’t believe I was doing this. (A part of me still can’t believe I actually did do it.) But just to prolong the agony – and the pleasure – I walked for longer than usual. I went where I knew there were people – good, plain, boring people with no idea that I had inside my cunt this most drenched vibrator, no clue about my aching clit, the shuddering inside me, the silent desperation. I spoke to a man and a woman; on the tip of my tongue was a confession, a revelation…wanting to surprise, disgust, shock and arouse them. But I passed strangled pleasantries instead.

I couldn’t take it any more. Home. Into the lounge. Forgetting about everything except gratification, long waited for, I yanked my jeans and knickers down and (deliberately) oblivious to the uncurtained windows (and the lodger upstairs) lay on the sofa and took hold of the end of the vibe. My muscles had a firm grip on it and I had to pull to get it out a little and then back up. Oh God, the relief to be able to fuck myself, to bang hard and in time to my pounding heartbeat. I am noisy; I groaned and cried out and put my fingers against my clit. It was so slippery that I could barely maintain the pressure. But it took only a minute. Then the build up, the quickening, the rising sense of impending flood, the drowning and quaking and juddering. I was dizzy. And the orgasm: so intense and long and like a thudding throughout me. And then the after-shocks deep inside, making me twitch and yelp and sigh - sensitive yet replete, her name in my mouth and the image of her darting around my mind.

Tea For Two

"Tea. Now", she barks at me, holding out the empty teapot. Never mind that I haven’t finished mine, that this is the third cup she has demanded from me and that I am tired from cooking her supper and bathing her. I rise instantly and move rapidly across the room to where she sits on the sofa. She’s wearing the smallest skirt and the silkiest blouse. Had I not dressed her earlier, you wouldn’t be able to tell that she’s wearing no underwear. I can’t disguise my urgency, my rush to please her. And she likes it that way – loves to see me so selflessly submissive. There is the resident gleam of power on her face: no smile, her gaze unflinching and direct. "Yes, Ma’am", I chirp, happy to do any small thing for her. I almost want to flick a salute in her direction, or a wink, but I resist the urge to give the frivolity in my heart free reign. My thoughts are whirling – I know this is a prelude, setting the scene. As I leave the room, I bump into the doorframe, rattling the teapot lid into the silence.

In the kitchen, I wait for the kettle. She will be sitting unconcerned, twiddling her thumbs, humming, twirling her hair through her fingers. And smirking. I know she’ll be smirking, for she has such plans for me, is going to humiliate me so lovingly today. The prospect sends little shivers from my belly throughout my body, making me moan gently and involuntarily. Hurry up, kettle…

"Serve me", she instructs, when I re-enter the room. The tea things are on the low table in front of her and as I bend over to pick up the pot, she sighs: "And for goodness sake, get yourself down on your knees to pour. I can’t bear to have you looming near me". I slip quickly to the floor and prepare a cup for her. But not for myself. I am so awash with tea already that I can feel the familiar pressure behind the waistband of my knickers. While this is only as it should be, I’m pushing her. And she bites. "Do you want to annoy me?" she says. "Are you being deliberately badly behaved? When I have tea, you have tea. Now do it properly or I shall tire of you".

The last thing I want is tea. I want the fulfilment of her assurances. "But Mistress, you promised…" I can’t stop the whine in my voice – it’s a product of my need, my desire for her ministrations. She has promised me some time on her lap, over her knee, her hand on my arse, oh god, don’t make me wait any longer; I have been so patient… "Just pour the tea", she drawls, supremely unconcerned. We finish the pot. I am aroused by so many things by this point that it is hard to differentiate between them. Her mere presence always has me in a state of heightened awareness, the muscles in my belly tight and my nerve endings flickering. Serving her, my deference and her responding coolness – these things as ever have me alive with longing. But the need to piss is the biggest thing, the hugest, most pervading sensation. It doesn’t hurt. Yet. This last, coupled with the longing for my pledged spanking, makes me forget myself. I start to beg her. It’s a little soon to be begging but I am past caring. "Please, Mistress, let me lay in your lap. I won’t wriggle, I’ll lay still, I’ll be good…"

I sound quite pathetic and I know it. She reaches down beside the sofa and pulls forth a riding crop, swishing it gently in front of her, then leaning slightly forward and flicking it oh-so gently against my arm. "Stand", she says. And I do, imagining my pleasure is about to be granted. But she is a very cruel woman. Getting to her feet, she extends the crop towards me and her wrist twitches it against my thighs so tauntingly gently that I want to grab the damned thing from her grasp and throw it to the ground in frustration. Naturally, I remain where I am and listen with my head bowed while she makes a mockery of me, tapping me with the whip in time to her words: "I will not have you make demands of me, bitch. You are privileged to serve me and that should be sufficient for you. I spank for my own enjoyment, not yours. If you forget your manners one more time, you will have to leave. I cannot abide such blatant neediness. Is that quite clear?" I can only nod. Tears are prickling my closed eyelids and I can feel myself shudder with anxiety. I think she sees this for she seems to take some small pity on me. While I remain standing, objectified before her, she settles herself back onto the sofa and beckons to me with one finger. "Come. Lie down. Don’t look so miserable, girl". I know how to do this, know that she is inviting me to adorn her lap, at last.

She is stroking my back, running her hand down over my buttocks and onto my thighs. The skin of her palm is cool against my flaming body and she intersperses the fluttery touches of her fingers with sadistic little pinches and scratches. I am struggling to lie immobile, knowing that any slight wriggle will cause her to stop. "What a pretty arse you have, my little slut." I am quivering to her tone – so gentle and appraising yet belying an edge of venom. "I shall have to spank you presently. Ask me nicely…" So I begin my litany of cajoling coupled with praise, need mixed with joy. And after only a couple of sentences, she begins. Her hand is so shockingly swift that my voice catches in my throat like a squeak, but I lay still. My belly is over one of her thighs, my crotch over the other. I try to be imperceptible as I press down hard against her, shifting a little so that the underside of my pussy is pressed against her right leg and my lower belly is prodded by her left knee. If it looks a little awkward, I don’t care – it feels like paradise.

She is smacking me and the sound is like a heartbeat; a loud, thwacking heartbeat. Every stroke presses me more firmly against her. The combination of my smarting arse and thighs with my aching, bursting, ready-to-flood bladder is making me dizzy. I am losing myself. The pain is so sweet that I could cry. It reaches a point where it is no longer recognisable as pain – it has transformed into pleasure and takes me rising up and up, my soul bare and free. My hips are bucking against her, trying to get a purchase against her body. My clit is against her knee and with every stroke, I rock and arch and gasp. I want to come; the feeling of want doubles with every slap but she can read me – she slows her hand every time I reach the brink and murmurs into my fuddled mind "When I tell you, bitch."

There is a spreading wetness between my legs and a burning ache in my lower belly. My cunt has been melting onto her lap, my juice unstoppable. But now, I am aware of a different wetness, thinner and brighter and harsher. And so hot. In small jets, I feel it pulse out of my bladder and trickle down my lips towards her thighs. I have lost control; have pissed on myself and on her. But her hand does not cease yet and I am brought up sharp by her voice "You dirty (smack), filthy (smack), naughty girl. Did I permit you any form of release yet?" By way of a moan, I acknowledge that she did not. We continue; the smacking relentless and so beautifully perfect, the wetness stinging and humiliating, the pleasure intense and bright.

At last, she brings me down. With such skilful care, she makes sure I return with grace and dignity. She can be so sensitive to my needs. And when finally her hand stills against me, I flop – not having been aware of how tightly wound I was. She bends her head down and spits gently on me, her saliva like a balm. When it has mingled with my sweat and dried in the warm air, she begins again with cream – cold and light and perfect for my marks.

I lay replete upon her. But she is not finished with me yet. Her hand trails its way towards the cleft of my cheeks and pries them apart. Sliding her fingers down between them, she finds my cunt, so slippery and open. Briskly, almost shoving, she puts two of her perfect fingers inside me and begins to fuck. I am not sure how much more of this I can stand. I want to let my bladder go, want the gushing to start now. But I know I may not until she tells me. So I must endure the pleasure of her fingers curling inside me, palm down and almost grabbing my bladder. Every thrust she makes intensifies the sensation, which is fast approaching pain. It is completely beyond my control to stop a little escaping – the sensation makes me judder deeply; I clench my muscles tight, the effort of controlling myself a sweet agony.

"Squeeze hard now; don’t you piss on me, bitch", she growls, and I almost let go at her tone – so menacing, so arousing. She slips her fingers out of me, draws her hand away and then tells me to rise. I am astonished – I don’t think I can open my eyes, much less get up. But I comply, as she knew I would. She guides me out of the room and I stumble with her to the bathroom. She helps me into the bath and I stand on the cold cast iron, swaying slightly and feeling dazed. "You will piss for me now – spread your legs and hold your pussy wide open for me so that I can see". I am so wet that it is difficult to grasp my lips in my fingers but I get a hold. I am quickly afraid that I won’t be able to perform for her, for me, but I bear down fractionally and like a torrent, it streams out – splashing wildly onto the whiteness of the bath. I am moaning and whimpering like a baby, abandoned to the relief. She reaches over to me and presses one cool finger against my clit. That is all it takes and before we know it, I am convulsing with such intensity, coming so hard on her hand, the juice mixing with the piss all over my pussy and her precious fingers. I buckle against the wall – completely spent and released. "Come, baby", she croons, "come and sit down. I’ll bring you some tea"…

The Sweetest Reward

You have summoned me to attend to you whilst you shop. I am to be deferential in public and fine tune my antenna to your unspoken wishes and desires. My behaviour and manner are to be prompt and keen and selfless, but without being vulgar or overt. Two women ostensibly out shopping but with a delightful, erotic, controlled agenda...

You wish for me to wear your collar while out - it is a beautiful thing and easily passes for a piece of fine neckwear. You make me kneel at your bare feet and without a flicker of a smile; you attach it around my neck, gently fingering the spot where my pulse beats.

"You are always Mine, are you not?" you murmur, stroking my collar bone. "Yes, Mistress, I am always yours" I reply. "Whether or not you wear My collar". "Yes, Mistress". "Today, it will serve as a reminder and help to avoid your dirty little mind from straying from your purpose, wandering to pretty women as we shop or becoming engaged with anything other than My requirements. Is that clear, girl?" "It is clear, Mistress".

With that, you turn from me, instructing me with your eyes alone, to remain where I am, and you leave the room. I am in a heightened state of awareness at the upcoming expedition with you - want to please you so much and to be the very best, most attentive girl you have ever owned. So, I stay on my knees, thrilling to the ache in the bone and muscle and flesh.

You return with a bowl of water and a towel, soap and lotion. I am to minister to your feet. You settle yourself in front of me, cross your calves and present me with your right foot. With great love and care, I clean and massage your feet from toes to ankle. I know you enjoy the sensations I am producing in you – I can hear you stifling a moan and I can hear you sighing with pleasure. Your voice makes my stomach swirl with both lust and a sense of calm that I can’t name. At this moment, I would stay on my knees before you forever if only to prolong the peace in my soul and the flame in my belly.

"Pay attention, my sweet little girl" – your impatient voice wakes me from my reverie and I continue with my task until I have cleansed and massaged and soothed each of your much-adored feet. You sit back and appraise both me and the work I have done. I am poised before you, held rigid by a flux of feeling: delight at having been allowed to serve you; discomfort because my legs are hurting; nervous anticipation at your forthcoming reaction.

"You have performed adequately", comes your high praise and I am self-indulgently gratified for a moment. But you see the pride I cannot help but wear and a fleeting frown crosses your brow.

"Up!" you bark, "You will remember to do as I instruct for My benefit, not for your own!"

I am cut by your tone, stung by your words and the paradox hits me afresh, how I am so aroused by your seemingly selfish harshness. I long to bathe in my own reaction, to fill my belly and soul with the simple delight you give me, but I would not be permitted such self-indulgence. I am aching to touch you more, to continue further and higher and with more urgency and you see the need within me: "You are not only a filthy minded slave but a transparent one too."

Your voice is mocking and I am taunted by the forbidden proximity of you. Your self control is a far worthier thing than my own, your self-discipline a practised art. I am immobilised with delight at your feet and try to extend my boundaries with you a little:

"Please, most wonderful Mistress", I beg and flatter you with all my might, "Please may I not touch you some more? Kiss your feet, ankles, knees…..?" You are merely amused by my plaintive request and smirk coldly at me: "Get up NOW, bitch, and do not make me tell you a third time" I obey, as we both knew I would…….

Our short journey is one of intense concentration – you on your own thoughts and me trying with all my might not to rush or drive with abandon. So eager am I to get to our destination that I swerve around slow drivers and tut imperceptibly under my breath. You hear me and issue me an order: "Pull over now".

Oh, I’ve annoyed you, roused your displeasure. My palms begin to sweat – in sympathy with the dampness at my crotch and I can feel that special and particular mixture of anxiety and desire sweep through me. It is not yet a totally sexual desire; more a desire to be reprimanded, shamed and controlled by you. You understand me so well, read my needs so intuitively when you say to me: "Just calm down. You are behaving in the most pathetically obvious manner and I cannot abide it. The more you panic, the more errors you will make and then I will have to punish you, won’t I? I may decide to dispense with your services altogether today and summon a more competent girl. And you most certainly will NOT be permitted the reward of pain that I know you crave." I am suitably contrite and apologise to you for my shortcomings – I know you love to hear me make anxious and abject amends, they appeal to your innate desire for power:

"Mistress, I will try harder. Please, please don’t choose someone else, I’ll be good, I’ll be better, please let me show you how well I can serve you" And I must have phrased it correctly, for you turn your head to the side window and in the most delectably staccato tone, you tell me: "Very well, you may continue to serve me today. Drive on, my eager little girl".

We have been shopping for over an hour. It is hot and claustrophobic in every shop we enter, airless along every stretch of high street and so crowded that I have to alternate between hurried steps and a half-run in order to keep pace with your arrogant stride, cutting a swathe through the rabble. We have bought so many beautiful things: books and jewellery and soft, ripe fruit from a market stall. My arms are laden with bags and I ache all over. My feet are sore from traipsing after you and the strain in my arms is stinging and pulling. I have to keep smothering my tiredness which threatens to evolve into annoyance. I must give you no inkling or I will forfeit my reward. And I know there is to be a reward – you are not a heartless Mistress, just a most generously cruel one.

It is very late. Only the heartiest shoppers persist. Our last stop is a lingerie store. Before we even enter it, my exhaustion lifts. I adore such places – awash with silk and satin and lace. The sight of the garments renews my vigour and I feel my lips broaden in a smile, feel my breasts tingle and my cunt flood in unison, in anticipation of what may come.

"Mistress, do you need underwear?" I whisper to you. I can keep neither the glee nor the huskiness from my voice.

"My, but what a predictable little thing you always are. I may decide to buy, I may not. That is hardly your business, now is it? What I must do is try on a few items. And you will assist me". My reward could have been no sweeter.

You instruct me to choose for you. I am puzzled. I am nervous – how will I get this one right? But you have done it deliberately - given me this challenge as a gift. I am molten at the prospect of getting it wrong, incurring your irritation and impatience with me. And yet, I truly want to get it right. Such a contradiction – the desire to please coupled with the desire to fail and consequently provoke your fury. Such mesmerising fury…

So, heedless to convention between us, I chose what I would like to see you wearing. A black, laced bra that will push together your magnificent breasts, a fine and delicate black corset, embossed with tiny rosebuds, a pair of French knickers that will accentuate the curve of your hips and sit snugly along the line of your pussy. All the things I long to see you in. I am momentarily floored when I finish selecting and find that my concentration has led me to lose sight of you. If I keep you waiting, your fickle mind will snap and my reward will be snatched from me before it has been properly offered. But I needn’t have worried so. Across the store, I can hear your unmistakably haughty tones as you bemoan to the timid salesgirl the heat in the changing rooms. I am then grinning with delight; your inflection so familiar to me. Again, within me rise the twins of fear and excitement.

You are waiting in a small, shuttered cubicle and I ask you: "May I come in, Mistress?" The communal area of the changing room is occupied by a harrassed, preoccupied mother with her small child and the doors of the remaining cubicles swing open – there is no one to hear my vocal submission.

Hearing your delayed "Enter…" I go inside and am overwhelmed by the sight before me. You are naked. Naked for me? My legs begin to tremble visibly and my already wet pussy grows instantly more swollen and saturated.

You issue my most favourite imperious command: "Kneel, bitch. Show Me what you have chosen to please Me. You do want to please Me, don’t you?" This last from you as I hesitate long seconds: I am afraid that I will lose control and grab at your glorious body.

Coming to my senses, I reply that I do. Firstly, I select the knickers and hold them out for you to see. They are flimsy things, more a sheer piece of silk than an item of clothing. I finger them with such reverence. I know that you will flout store policy and try them on over your bareness. "Put them on Me, girl", you purr, and I am reduced to am fumbling fool at your feet. A mantra sounds in my head: do it right, do it right, do it right… You step your bare feet into them and I begin to pull them inexorably upwards, towards your pussy, which I am trying so hard not to fixate upon. The knickers are tight fitting and need some shuffling as they make their way higher; my hands produce in you a kind of backwards and forwards motion, like rocking to and fro….first away from me as I pull them up at the front and then towards me as I pull at the back. With every forward sway, your pussy is briefly an inch from my face, my nose, my mouth. My senses are too overwhelmed and my mind is too focused on them. I must concentrate…

When the waistband is over your hips, I rest back on my haunches and gaze up at you. You ask me to smooth the already flush material against your body, ensuring there is no pinching or sagging. My hands rise to rest on your upper thighs and begin a small journey. With both, I reach behind and stroke your arse, running my palms in small circles and dimpling the flesh with my fingertips. I cup your buttocks and squeeze gently and rhythmically, trying to coax from you a reaction. But there is none. And I am pleased; I would be flummoxed if you let down your guard.

"Are they comfortable, Mistress?" I enquire. "You have chosen too small a size, bitch. Was that deliberate?" you are smiling through your venom. We both know it was, but the game is too good to suspend. "Yes, Mistress". Oh, I want to grin so much, to express with my body how delighted I am inside. But I’m damned if I will. Our own etiquette demands I am selfless - to grin with such lust and joy would be overstepping our boundaries. But the desire to do so is just gorgeous…

"They are tight, are they not? How much do you like to see Me wearing them? What is it that your poor submissive heart desires? Describe your feelings fulsomely enough and I will reward you". My mind whirrs. I am lost to my thoughts. Keeping my gaze trained only on your face, I try to give voice to them: "Mistress, the material hugs you so finely, the seam at your crotch outlines the lips of your pussy – I want to reach out and stroke one finger along that beautiful, bulging ridge, press fractionally harder where I know your clit is buried, massage softly where I know you open and swell. I want to kneel closer to you and rest my open mouth fully against you – graze your clit with my upper teeth and lap at the material lower down, to make your juices flow and run through the silk and onto my tongue….."

I am feeling dizzy with the words, dizzy with hope. You are seemingly unmoved before me but I just know I am affecting you – your thighs are clenching and I can see with my peripheral vision that your toes are flexing and curling. You order me to stand. I am a little slow to my feet as I have been kneeling for some time and am stiff and aching. I try to be as fluid as I can and wait in front of you, my breathing raspy from the mixture of lust and effort. "Lift up your shirt, my little girl", you say to me and I comply with embarrassing speed.

"You have done well today but you know I am displeased with your impertinence. You were trying to satisfy yourself, were you not, when you selected this piece?" you say, fingering the material where it covers your pussy, smoothing the seam that nestles against your clit. "Yes, Mistress, I’m sorry for being selfish" I reply, almost managing but failing to completely mask the raw lust in my voice. "You would touch Me and lick Me now, were I to allow it, wouldn’t you?" I agree with a sort of helpless moan. "Well, you may not. You will, however, stand completely reactionless and silent while I torture you."

With that, your hands rise to my chest and between thumb and forefinger, you pinch my nipples. I feel them stiffen against your touch and sweet, sharp bites of pleasure shoot to my clit. I must separate my legs a little, widen my stance: my muscles are clenching and unclenching quite unbidden and I will lose myself, will come right there before you if I do not.

"You like that, bitch?" your voice sounds so sweet and caring, so lilting and loving. I rock on my feet, sway against your hands, my eyes closed and my pussy, my belly, my entire being crazed with desire. I am struggling to make my reactions imperceptible to you, but I don’t succeed. "Get back down on your knees. Satisfy Me. Make it good, slut, make it the best you have ever done for Me". And I do.

I worship you through the material – holding your hips to steady us both. Then I move the crotch to one side and expose your musky, perfumed, glistening cunt. My tongue darts and swirls and presses and my lips suck and my teeth nibble. My face is awash with your juice and I can feel you drifting into that joyful place. You are thrusting oh-so gently against my face and from the depths of my immersion, I hear you whisper: "Make me come now".

And I do.

The sweetest reward…