by Kay Jaybee
The instant he uttered the words she dropped the whip to the floor and stood back to admire the view. He looked magnificent. Red stripes covered his rear view, his head was drooped and his arms shook. He was hers. The power surged through her.
Pausing for only a few more seconds she untied his legs and arms. He groaned as he flexed his limbs.
‘On the bed. Back down.’ It wasn’t a request.
He winced, fresh moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes as his burning back hit the cool satin sheets.
This time she just took his wrists and fastened them to some previously hidden black silk ties that hung from each side of the bed. He pulled at them, testing her work. He was held firm, helpless, but without the extreme discomfort of his previously stretched captivity. Now what?
She took off her wet thong and sat astride his chest. He could feel sticky juices smear against him as she got comfortable and began to undo the rest of her basque. Shrugging it off, she began to play with her tits again, rubbing them together before licking her fingers and circling them around her nipples. She started to groan beneath her touch, moving her fingers faster, eyes closed, and her mouth mewing with pleasure, until finally she came. Her whole body shook against him, her quivers melting into his trapped body.
He whimpered hopelessly up at her, his eyes pleading, as she began again. This time she put three fingers between his lips. He gobbled at them gratefully. She laughed at his eagerness, before pulling them away and inserting them into her snatch, jamming them quickly in and out of herself, leaning back so that he could observe her working herself off.
Again she came, high on her own dominance, before returning her fingers to him to clean off with his tongue. He savoured her taste, squirming beneath her, desperate for any relief, any movement which might bring his own satisfaction. This woman was insatiable.
His head swam as she sat on his face, continuing to fulfil her own selfish need. At least he could feel her properly now, and he felt almost giddy at the scent of her sex as he darted his tongue across her clit. Then, remembering the poem, he began to lick her long and slow, extracting a deep satisfied growl from her throat.
Seconds later she exploded against him, her third orgasm taking over as she rocked against his face.
As she rolled off him, leaving his mouth soaked in sweat and come, she watched his dick sway in its case. Little flecks of white pre-come dripped out of its sides. It was almost time. The poem was nearly over. Had he deserved pleasure though?
She knew he wanted to speak, but he wisely remained silent. That was a point in his favour. He’d done well to stick to the poem’s instructions. She made her decision, and carefully, so as not to provide additional stimulation, undid the cock case.
He failed to stifle his moan of relief as he felt air around his dick. He looked at her in hopeful expectation. Would she touch him? It was all he needed. Or would she still deny his need and just enjoy the sight of his suffering?
She leant close to him, stroking his hair, and whispered, ‘You are a very good boy,’ before kissing him hungrily. Her previous orgasms forgotten, she was ready to go again. He was too delicious to free. The sight of him trapped there, willing, delirious with craving for her touch, could keep her going all night.
He managed to stammer out, ‘Thank you Mistress’ his mouth dribbling. He didn’t care. The final line of the poem ran into his mind. He knew what to do. He began to plead, his lips pouring out words of need, begging for her touch, making promises of future debasement and correction. Swearing eternal submissive devotion.
She swelled beneath his words. A slave to keep. She said nothing, but nodded, and licking a single finger, lowered it very very slowly towards his cock. It seemed to take an eternity to travel from her mouth to his skin, but when it finally touched him he felt he’d been ripped asunder. Held by the silk restraints, his body jerked off the bed and his head swung from sign to side, as he screamed in relief.
‘If you make a noise like that, then I’ll have to use the gag.’ She picked up the whip again and stood by his heaving body. ‘So, am I a bad poet?’
He licked his lips, trying to form words from his dried out throat, ‘you are a very bad poet Mistresses. I look forward to reading another of your pieces.’
She trailed the leather across his chin, ‘I bet you do. Perhaps you could help me compose one?’ She picked up the ball gag and, without waiting to hear if he objected or not, fastened it around his face. ‘No time like the present!’
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