by R. Greco
MY HEART BELONGS TO…
R. Greco
Sizzler Editions
ISBN 9781615088744
All rights reserved
Copyright 2016 R. Greco
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.
For information:
http://SizzlerEditions.com/n
A Renaissance E Books publication
CONTENTS
Chapter One: The Master’s “Little” Girl
Chapter Two: The Master’s “Little” Miss
Chapter Three: The Master’s “Little” Toy
Chapter Four: The Master’s “Little” Mess
Chapter Five: The Master’s “Little” Jewel
Chapter Six: The Master’s “Little” Angel
Chapter One: The Master’s “Little” Girl
1
“I’m a naughty little girl and I can’t control my pussy.”
I lay whimpering, wiggling my ass out of the puddle I had just left on the bed. My masturbation had reduced me once again to a quivering mess, making me squeak an admission out loud to no one with a faux ‘little girl’ voice I had never thought would come out of my mouth.
I hated what Jon had done to me.
I loved what Jon had done to me.
A usual Sunday night up here in Marin County?
Well, not really, but when I thought of Jon I couldn’t get my sweats down and my hand in my panties fast enough. In only two weeks knowing the lanky guy with the mess of chocolate colored curls and deep right cheek dimple, I had been reduced from the usually solid and sane thirty-five-year-old woman I am to a puddling little girl. In his care and by his urging, I was consistently fantasizing myself back to age sixteen and those first scary stirrings of my sexual awareness, where my pussy truly did betray me nightly as I scooted my firm little ass (an ass I wished I still had) to the edge of the four-poster in the attic-cum-bedroom of my parent’s house, diddling myself like a manic until I came. That I was regressing with Jon, when I had been in his presence, every single time we talked, here alone masturbating, unnerved me as much as it excited me. It excited me even more that he exploited yet coddled me about it.
I had questioned myself plenty in the furiousness of this ‘relationship’ – how I had met/discussed/then succumbed to this man so quickly and how Jon had found that one button to push that would open the flood gates (literally and figuratively) to what I seemed to be aching for but didn’t realize I wanted until I sucked my thumb, put my long raven hair in pony-tails and blubbered “No, Sir, please, I’ll be good”. I had never been this open with a lover before (even my ex) and certainly never whimpered or actually cried as I admitted my little girl-ness and came buckets.
Jon had a spell on me I was both titillated and scared of. He was a puppet master, a warlock, a fiend and just what I had so desperately needed in my life.
Home just two days I was masturbating wildly to memories of him and our middle-of-the week tryst. The snippets of memory made my clit constantly ache...
Jon knocking on my hotel room door ... the first time we’d meet in person ... walking by me to check the view (as I would come to later learn he meant more than just the city skyline you could see from my seventh floor room window), while I literally plastered myself to the wall hoping I wasn’t dreaming the vision before me – the long curly hair down the strong broad back, his low voice, his little buns I could spy even under the winter jacket. Jon catching me at the door, smiling down and without a word pulling me into him for a liplock that nearly made me swoon. (Okay, I did swoon). The visit to Rockefeller Center and Times Square a blur as he held my hand, took liberties in cabs and store alcoves I couldn’t believe I allowed. His knowledge of the sites, whispers in my ear about what I was seeing matched with what he was really thinking. Back to my hotel and the mayhem that ensued.
Most of what I masturbate about occurred that late afternoon when we finally got back…
* * * *
By the time we returned that first night, wet and cold from a light early December snowstorm, despite hunger pains and exhaustion, Jon and I were well into the throws of an attraction that had grown quickly our first day together. Feigning innocence (truly) I peeled off my wet jeans, making excuses for the totally functional panties I was wearing (though silk and red) never assuming we’d get into anything as fast as we did. Let’s face it, a whole day of running around in New York City, thrashing through a sloshy unpredicted sleet storm, neither he nor I smelled or felt our best. Jon bade me lie next to him and we began kissing. Within minutes he had me moaning and spread eagle, thrumming his fingers down the front of my undies. Breathing into his kisses resolute “Yes-ess”, Jon quickly changed his tickles to open handed swats! I let him smack my covered pussy – a fact that fucks with my head so much it scares me every time I recall it – engorging my covered clit until I came at what could have only been the eighth swat.
My panties were drenched.
Not giving any of this much thought or even remarking on how I had reacted – it’s every day I get my pussy spanked, right? – Jon flipped me over, pulled the back of my undies just down and under my round ass to expose it, then proceeded to spank my bottom and describe my apple red cheeks until I came again, pressing my pussy into the single bed.
Turned over again, I was a rag doll in the handsome man’s not-so-subtle control as he attacked my bra, coaxing my nipples out and over. Once again I came, this time simply as Jon suckled my thirty six C’s and pressed his obviously hard cock against me as I turned into him. Jon finally yanked off my drenched panties, held my thighs wide and put his middle finger inside me as I cried out. He let me ride his hand a few moments, kissing while finger-fucking me then (I still can’t believe this) he stopped, retracted his hand, smiled across me, reached over to my night table and grabbed my hairbrush!
“Jon no, no...” I pleaded, though we both knew I truly didn’t mean it.
Wack-a-wack. Jon slapped the back of the brush down against my suffering gloppy lips and within a couple minutes at the most I was coming so hard and long my juices splashed up my belly and up over to Jon’s chin.
And we still had a dinner date to get to.
That this first meeting was progressing so well thrilled me, and though I had hoped, I had never counted on such a deep attraction.
At dinner, Jon tried not to stare at my quite bared cleavage, as we suckled, sipped and smiled knowing more was coming for the night. Now that we were both sufficiently showered, coiffed and relaxed I almost feared what else he might make me do. Jon had informed me his house was ten minutes from the restaurant. His condo loomed in my imagination, the denizen of this wildly creative sexual man. True, he had managed a bunch of nasty stuff in my hotel room I could never have seen coming. Still what did I know from the instruments of delightful torture and various incantations Jon had in his humble abode?
I needn’t have worried, of course. In fact, I never really was. Still we hardly even got through the door when Jon rolled, kissed and massaged me free of my jacket and long skirt.
“You’re going to come for me again,” he said leaning back from my lips, “harder than before.”
“That, I’d like to see,” I snickered. “At the hotel I was leaking, you had me so cra…”
Jon had his mouth down my belly, then his cool curls across my inner thighs. His mouth was on my covered mound before I could protest or catch him. Stripped to panties and corset it all felt wonderfully erotic with him mouthing me while I was still technically dressed. Breathing ever so slightly across the front of my panties the sudden warmth (and looking at his head dipped down there) made me come, a quick
shuddered dry quake which Jon caught then eased my panty aside to place a thumb inside me.
“Jon!” I squealed, riding an aftershock.
“You are so my naughty little girl, aren’t you?”
No man (or woman for that matter) had ever had the confidence to talk to me this way, especially after only just meeting me. Jon’s assumption about me (and my pussy), his knowledge that I would succumb to him, that I would even like hearing the words ‘ naughty little girl’ – knowing I would even more so than I knew – was making me crazy and as he licked me I rolled down for as much as what he was doing as what he was saying.
He placed his lips softly on mine.
“J...J...” I couldn’t stop myself, I was roiling, my hips bucking, fucking his mouth as he licked my lips, up and down at a maddening steady rhythm, opening my pussy lightly but not enough, flicking at my clit but never truly getting in there to give it complete attention.
“Who can’t control her pussy?” he asked his mouth still on my crotch.
“Jooooo,” I mewed.
“Who is my naughty little girl who can’t control her pussy?” he repeated more sternly. He leaned up on his elbow looking up over my shelf-like pushed-up double vanilla-ice-cream scoop cleavage. “Kay?”
I was bucking, my still slightly covered pussy in his face, willing him to not make me say it while aching to admit it – whatever it really was I was admitting – at the same time. Jon simply lay there, kissing up into my wetness then lying back to look up at me, smiling, waiting, devilishly waiting.
“Please…” I cried. That’s when I felt the tear well up in my right eye. Just what the fuck was this black magician doing to me?
“You need to admit it or I will stop right now. I mean it Kay, I mean it.”
I looked down and felt the tear trickling. Could Jon see it too? Would he be shocked or scared? I could not manage it if he stopped licking my pussy now.
“Either you admit you are my naughty little girl who can’t control her pussy, or I promise Kay, I’ll stop. I really will stop.”
“Please,” I said, blubbering.
“Say, ‘I am a naughty little girl who can’t control her pussy’,” he said then leaned in and licked my suffering lips once again. Only once.
“I … I am a, a naughty little…”
“No no,” he said and a shiver ran up my spine.
This was too dangerous. I was on the edge of breaking loose.
“Jon, please. Please...” I said looking down over my heaving tits at the guy. Shit. Why wasn’t I naked now? As with everything else Jon did I had to assume he had purposely not bared me to tease me even more.
Fucker!
“Say it like a little girl,” he breathed into my thigh and I began to really cry then.
“Jon I can’t,” I whimpered, but my liquid low voice broke. I had already reached the spot, the cadence, the inflection he wanted and as Jon nuzzled ever closer to my open hot place I did say it, exactly as he wanted me to say it.
“I am, I am, I am a naughty little girl who can’t control her pussy,” I admitted wiggling, crying, softly declaring in as light a voice as I could while Jon lapped at me, and opened my lips finally with his nose.
I came, opening, ejaculating on him as he pressed hard into me and I glazed his cute face down there in my cunt.
2
The Internet is a scary place for an undersexed late thirties divorcee’. I met Jon in a chat room and somehow we got on the phone the very next day. Within another we were talking about the real possibility of meeting. My job allows a lot of travel. In fact our New Jersey office had been aching for me to come out for a few days, so meeting Jon wasn’t so difficult… rationalizing that on my next trip I’d be meeting a man I had just ‘met’ over Yahoo chat then only talked to on the phone was.
I do get out a lot though. Before, during, even after my marriage I could count a cornucopia of rather bohemian folk as my friends. I’m also bisexual and though I didn’t explore that side of myself the five years with my hubby, I had been these two long years after my divorce. But with the dates I’d managed, men or women, I had been mostly – dare I say it, dare I think it – dom. Not leather-clad, whip you till your ass bleeds dom, though I do have a few leather boots and one or two corsets. It’s more like I lead in the bedroom, get up on a cock, or go down on the girl in question. I am the one who usually sports the strap-on. I’m the one who usually has whomever over to my spacious Tudor. I’m the one who even has occasion to play mommy to a pair of gay men.
That’s why this thing with Jon was unnerving, yet exciting.
“He’s gotta make his move soon,” my friend Jack said as we sat at our local tavern taking in Monday night football.
We were sharing our usual sports ritual. Jack knows me enough to have suspected that my ‘end-of-the-week-rendezvous’ had been a smidgen more interesting than “Oh yeah, he was a really nice guy and I got a lot of work done at the New Jersey branch,” but he wasn’t about to pursue it further. The lanky black guy had met me through my ex, Paul, and I constantly joked that Paul got the SUV, the living-room flat screen and I got Jack. More often than not, Jack and I are mistaken for a couple. This Monday night though the bearded guy at the end of the bar didn’t seem to care if we were. He had indeed been staring and smiling my way for most of the game but my mind was on things other than some cute guy flirting with me from across the bar, the game playing over our heads or even Jack’s dancing deep eyes.
I was bubbling to relate my trip to my friend, even to that guy staring at me if he’d listen, but I knew I could never come close to explaining how wet I was even then thinking about Jon. I could snicker a few of the more salacious details but anything more (though I damn well want to admit it) I feared I’d become embarrassed. Jon hadn’t been some guy I seduced, or an Internet fling I had met for a sport fuck. He wasn’t even a ‘booty call’ seeing as he was three thousand miles away. I guess in a way I didn’t know what he ... I ... we were really, but I did know he touched my mind in a way no man before had.
How would I explain my aching round the simple dynamic of being a sexy New Jersey guy’s ‘naughty little girl’? How did I even hint at the things Jon put me through, that I not only allowed but now ached for him to put me through again, without coming across as a submissive girl when Jack here, hell everyone in town knew me as the one who ran my fucks? Jack and I had never been intimate but he knew well my reputation as the voracious vixen in my usual encounters. How could I ever make him understand, make myself understand, that all bets were off the table with my sexuality where Jon was concerned. And how this simple fact thrilled and scared me.
How could I not tell Jack everything now that I was thinking of it?
“He’s leaving,” Jack said plucking me from my thoughts. The guy in question simply sauntered past with nary a word and I didn’t look up. I guess I hadn’t been returning his smiles sufficiently and now that we were in the third quarter of a rather boring game he was splits-ville.
“Where are you tonight?” the man across from me asked, shucking another handful of stale popcorn.
I really wanted to tell Jack about Jon, admit my little girl status and out-of-control puss, how sexually alive it had all made me feel. He was right. I was indeed somewhere else other then the bar right then. Maybe Jon wanted me to relate my experience. Maybe it would turn him on to have me say it aloud to someone else, or might it piss him off to the degree he might punish me for doing so.
I was sliding on the bare stool seat afraid to look down at my sweater and spy my nipples rock hard diamond points. I started shaking my right knee even. I felt like I was about to come.
“I need to tell you about the weekend,” I blurted, touching Jack’s forearm lightly. “And I need to tell you now or I’m going to explode.”
I would have thought the pussy spanking would have got him the most, but what had Jack gulping down his fourth beer (he had ordered two in the half hour I began my tale) was when I related in spec
ific detail how I had woken early Thursday morning, rolled up nice and close to Jon, scooted under the covers and took his cock in my mouth as he lay sleeping.
“I simply could not get the idea out of my head that he had made me come twelve, maybe thirteen, times between that day and night. I had been so selfish, so aching for a good man’s touch, so completely blown out of the water by this guy’s total puppet-mastering of me I had totally forgotten him. I mean, we had touched, tickled, I had even at one point begun sucking him but Jon kept turning the tables to where he was tickling or sucking me or whispering little naughty things and I’d simply lie back and let him have at it. When I finally woke him at like five or so, I got up on it even as it lay there only half erect.”
“Fuck man,” was all Jack could say.
I had never been this explicit with him. Sure, Jack knew my sometimes freaky proclivities probably better than most people. I had winked back at him when someone mentioned a strap-on, licked my lips when I saw a particular hunky guy walk by. He had met one or two girl toys I paraded around the local tavern. I liked to dress rather revealing most of the time, had flashed him a garter or two in our seven years knowing one another and he had spied a toy or two in my dresser draw when I hadn’t been so mindful to close it. But I had never truly mentioned any specific act or my involvement in any. Here I was rattling off specifics on how Jon had dominated me, made me talk in a little girl voice and how he had made me come over and over, how he had swatted both my ass and pussy and was now giving Jack graphic detail of how I had sucked Jon’s cock.
“I was possessed. I couldn’t stop sucking it. It was at that point the only cock I ever wanted. I couldn’t get enough.”
“Um, I...” Jack said squirming ever so slightly.
Okay, maybe I was just a little bit satisfied with myself for making him aroused. Really, Jack having been Paul’s friend all along precluded any physical intimacy between the lanky black guy and me, even though we were closer now than ever and Jack was decidedly my bro now more then he’d even be Paul’s again. What was he thinking of me now?
