by D. M. Dewey
Chapter 4
Now back to our friend Sam. I believe I’d just finished smacking him in the dick after demanding he put on the now infamous red panties. He reluctantly obeyed. I was delighted to see that they fit him perfectly and that he looked as ridiculous as I'd hoped. “You look like such a pretty little slut, loser!” I cheerfully teased. “Go clean my kitchen while I watch a movie.”
He bowed. “Yes, Goddess.” He turned on his heels and began cleaning the kitchen, happily chatting about this or that, asking where I kept things or where to put something. He chirped away, but then I could tell he was beginning to feel a bit too comfortable. He started to ask some personal questions such as, “Where are you from, Goddess?” and “How long have you lived in L.A.?”
“You talk too much, slut,” I snapped. “Keep your nose down and work.” It hadn’t occurred to me that these subs would talk. It was a little like making a dreaded phone call and you can only imagine your side of the conversation, completely forgetting there would be someone on the other end of the line.
He laughed and said, “I’m just making small talk, Goddess. That’s all.” He wiped at the countertop and loaded the dishwasher. “I’m finished with the kitchen, Goddess. Do you have anything else you would like me to clean?”
“No, slut. That’s fine.” I got up from my couch and turned off the movie I’d been trying to watch. “Come over here and lay down on that table.” I pointed to the large round lounger in the center of the room. I had covered it with an old sheet so I wouldn’t get the cover dirty.
Sam scampered over to the table and hopped up on it. I walked over in my most menacing way, my eyes burning down on him as I tried to contain my absolute loss for what I would do next. Here he was, a submissive, all happy and waiting for my devious, twisted mind to do as I wanted with him, but I had no idea what I wanted to do. So I did the most obvious next step. I tied him up. I had put the “under the bed restraints with matching detachable cuffs” under the cushion of the lounger. So I took off his pretty red panties and cuffed him with him lying on his back. The focus of his anticipation was apparent by his heavy breathing. He was scared of what was to come of him.
I took my crop and began slapping his balls quickly but firmly. He groaned in pain, but he didn’t want to give me the satisfaction of crying out. He bit his lip and I kept going. I decided I wanted him to feel more of my control over his average man meat, so I tied his balls and cock up in a very tight package with some leather string that is normally used for making necklaces. I wound the leather around his sack in neat, tight passes that got progressively closer to his balls, making them stretched and tight. They sort of looked like they could burst, so I figured I did it right.
I felt very proud of myself. There he was, all bound and still struggling a bit, his cock all exposed and wrapped in a forced erection harness that I had constructed. So I celebrated by slapping him hard in the nuts. He let out a loud groan and tried to instinctually cover his precious privates, but since his hands and legs were bound very wide and open, he couldn’t do anything to protect himself. I slapped again and again and again. Each time he writhed and struggled to no avail.
“Whose balls are these?” I demanded.
“Your balls, Goddess!” He grimaced.
“That’s right. They are my balls to do with as I please.” I snarled. “If I wanted to cut them off right now, I could. You couldn’t do anything to stop me, could you?”
“No, Goddess.” He begged, “Please don’t, Goddess. I’ll do anything. I will be a good slut for you. I promise.”
I stopped slapping him. I reached for the nipple clamps that I had gotten in the mail a day earlier. They really looked wicked. A chain connected them and when the chain was pulled, the clamps would bite down harder. Brutal. I put them on him.
“OHHH!!! God, those fucking hurt!” He kind of laughed at the discomfort. “I can’t take it! Please, take them off!”
“What a pussy you are!” I said as I pulled on them hard just before I took them off. I was being too nice.
I got some lube and a rubber glove. I put on the glove and I doused his tied-up genitals with the slippery lubricant and began to stroke him.
“You can take it, slut. See? I’m not so bad. I can treat a slut like you nicely too,” I cooed in a very fake sweet voice.
“Yes, Goddess,” he said as he began to relax again and enjoy his rubber-handed jerk-off session.
I remembered that he still had that plug in his ass so I pushed on that some more to remind him of his humiliating situation. He groaned.
“No cumming unless I say so, slut!” I barked at him.
“May I please cum, Goddess?” he asked.
I slapped his dick. “No! I didn’t say you could!”
“But I’m really close. Your hand feels so good. Please, Goddess?” he asked again. “Please?”
“No, slut!” I abruptly stopped rubbing him. His hips strained for my hand.
“Oh, please, Goddess,” he begged some more.
I reached for the plug in his ass and took it out with a disgusting pop. EW! Not the cleanest thing I’ve ever seen, and stinky too.
“Look at you, slut!” I scolded him. “You’re a dirty, disgusting, shitty mess. How dare you come here in such a state?”
“I’m sorry, Goddess, but that has been in there for a couple of hours now. It's bound to be a little disgusting at this point.” He laughed a little with embarrassment.
I reached over to my so-called bag of tricks and pulled out a pink vibrator that had a bulbous end that curved up. It was meant to hit a woman’s G-spot. I figured what was good for the goose was good for the gander, right?
I turned it on and lubed it up. I pushed it into his ass and I thought the top of his head was going to blow off! He immediately started to groan and gyrate.
“Oh my fucking God, Goddess!”
(Wait… should I slap him for that? Shouldn’t it be, “Oh my Goddess, Goddess?” I would have to decide on that later…).
He panted as he said, “I have never felt anything like that! It is hitting my prostate perfectly. Holy shit! That feels so good!”
Things started to get really messy at that point. I stroked him with my gloved hand and fucked him with the vibrator at the same time. He could barely control himself.
“Goddess, may I cum? Oh my God!” he yelled.
“No, slut!” I hit his dick again.
“Goddess, please! I beg you! I can’t hold it any longer!” Just then he erupted and spewed like a volcano.
I abruptly stopped all contact with him in hopes it would ruin his orgasm, but he was too far gone with that vibrator up his ass. Damn it!
He panted and attempted to regain his breath, his chest heaving as he remained held down by his restraints, his stomach covered in a sticky mess.
I got up and walked over to my freshly cleaned kitchen and picked up a spoon, then returned to Sam on the table. I scraped the cum off of his stomach with the spoon and then shoved it in his mouth. “That’s for cumming without permission, loser.”
He gagged on his own man juice. It was disgusting to watch, but it was a necessary measure to take for training purposes. He had to learn that his orgasm was not his anymore and that if he wanted that pleasure, he would have to pay for it.
I unstrapped him and he sat up. He looked as fresh as a daisy! It was if he had been in a deep sleep. He’d reached a very intense sub-space and I had caused it. Success!
I had no more use for him, so I dismissed him. He thanked me for my training and asked if he could come back. I told him I’d think about it. He left as naked as he had arrived, butt plug in hand.
Chapter 5
Maybe I should tell you about how I got to this place in my life. I wasn’t always throwing pussy to the wind. I was married to a man named Harry for several years and lived with him for several more prior to our signing the paperwork. He was reluctant to get married as this was going to be his second marriage. He was happy with us just liv
ing together, but I was all: “I feel like I’m the only woman in the world who isn’t married. It makes me feel like an unwanted toy alone on a shelf!” I had no idea where that image came from. I blamed it on the “crazies” that women go through in their thirties.
Being a woman in her thirties sucks. They’re supposed to have everything all planned and happening. You know, kids, husband, house, and job. It blows. At least in my humble experience it does, and I found that a woman in her thirties goes a little nuts. A wash of panic colors her every move. “Is that him? Did I just pass ‘the one’ in the Tampax isle while searching for a douche?” or “Shouldn’t I be happier?” or “Jesus, what is wrong with me? Could it be that my damn heavy thighs are actually ruining my life?”
Needless to say, this time in a woman’s life is stressful and my advice to men that are dating them is this: Buckle up, cowboy, it's gonna be a hideous ride. But don’t worry, in less than ten years, it should be over and you will have about ten blissful years of coexistence before menopause strikes. God bless and Godspeed.
So yeah, that was me. I (and my first choice was to say “Me” but the computer corrected me, but I think it is wrong.” Fortunately, despite all of the unravelings that I tried to bestow upon Harry and our relationship, it was all thwarted by his kindness and ever-present patience. When I finally got my shit together and grew into my forties, he left… very suddenly. I feel bad that he never got to know the better forties version of me because I am totally rocking them. Come to think of it, however, men go crazy in their forties, so I’m better off. How people can spend a lifetime married is beyond me, and beyond about two out of every three couples.
So we got married after I finally had enough hissy fits to prove that I was worth having as a wife. I think I was a pretty good wife. I cleaned, I cooked sometimes, I never cheated, and I worked hard at my job and was supportive of his hobbies and dreams.
Each night we would reconvene on our respective reclining overstuffed chairs. I have great animosity toward these chairs, as I feel like their entry into our relationship was the beginning of the end. They permanently separated us from each other during our “together” time. We used to cuddle on the couch and absentmindedly rub each other’s achy parts and feel a sense of closeness, but now all we shared was a drink or five while watching American Idol or some other ghastly game show.
Our two dogs would sit by our feet and our cat would twitch her tail in our nice suburban house with our two nice SUVs parked in the driveway. Our faces and waistbands got more bloated by the day from our sedentary but blissfully ordinary life. Now this was happiness. We didn’t have to prove our love through sex anymore; we had transcended all of that unnecessary groping and fondling. Now all we had to do was burp and smile from across the room and wave and say, “I love you.” It was practically the same difference anyway without expending so much energy and possibly not getting a full night’s sleep.
I remember looking at Harry one night and thinking, I might never have sex again and that is really sad because I really like sex. This moment was very haunting for me. It would creep up on me while in bed at night, lying next to my husband who was snoring peacefully, so close but fathoms away. The gulf we had created was just too big to cross and even a reach of a hand was just too much of a chance for either one of us to take. I have a lot of respect and admiration for my husband for leaving when he did. I was way too scared to do it myself, and looking back, it had been only a matter of time.
I had known Harry for many years before we even started dating. I was a single mother of one very cranky boy, a homeowner, had my own car and job. I was a chef at that time. I had graduated from culinary school in a city where I had moved to on a whim. My son was two at the time, and I had no family around and just a single friend, who was a lifesaving support for me. So I guess you could say I had come a long way from where I’d been a few short years before. Where I had been before was NYC. I had been a club DJ and a bartender, and the cutest boy in the bar had knocked me up. So I felt I was getting my shit together.
I remember one day working side by side with my unknowingly future husband. He'd looked at me and said, “You have your own house and a good job and you’re cute. You’re a catch. You may not know it from working with me, but outside of work, I’m a regular cupcake.” It'd completely took me off guard and made me fall in love with him almost instantly.
Harry came over one night to hang out with me while my son was out of town visiting his father in NYC. We shared a bottle of wine and talked kind of awkwardly, since it was the first time we’d spent any time alone together. My neighbor had called it, though, just weeks before.
One night my neighborhood lady friends all got together for a night out. We decided to dine at the restaurant where I worked, so we were given special VIP treatment with lots of treats being sent out from the kitchen when Harry came out and paid a visit to our table. He was charming and funny and sat down with the ladies but directed a great deal of attention to me. When he got up and left, one of my friends commented about how he was my soul mate. I scoffed at the idea, but sure enough, less than a month later, he was there sitting with me, drinking wine, and laughing.
We watched TV that night, talked, and got to know each other a bit. It was the late 90s and 11:00 p.m., so Seinfeld was about to come on next. He said to me, “If this is a rerun, we’ll need to make out.” Of course it was. So we did. Then we did more than fool around. We did the dirty dance. Harry came over that night and never left. It was nice to have a man that really knew what he wanted, and he made sure I knew that what he wanted was me.
Our sex life was passionate for years. We couldn’t get enough of each other. My son grew to tolerate him, and I felt this was a happy family, and I think in all respects, it was for some time.
I didn’t show any signs of my dominant nature so much in the bedroom; it showed more in the daily decision-making and the making of plans. I said when and where we would vacation. I said when it was time to clean the house. I said when it was time to eat. I did, however, find a little pamphlet about how to give an hour-long hand-job that would “blow your man’s mind.” So I bought some lube and told my husband that I wanted to try it out on him. Of course, he was all too happy to oblige.
I worked on his cock for at least an hour and he begged me to cum. I wouldn’t let him, thinking if I held out on him it would result in a mind-blowing experience in the end… and it was. That was probably my first experience with tease and denial—a very powerful form of BDSM that Dommes use. The more they want to cum and the more you deny them, the more submissive the male becomes. He will quite literally agree to do just about anything you ask, and that to me is yummy.
Harry was the first person that I could achieve orgasm with. I’d always been jealous of women who could cum if the wind blew. It didn’t seem fair in the least bit. I could make myself cum, but why couldn’t I let someone else get me to that place? I had begun to wonder if there was something wrong with me, but with as much patience as one man can muster, my husband got me over that hump. I owe him a lot for that feat alone.
So basically, my life as a housewife was pretty standard fare. We entertained guests on occasion and, being that both of us were chefs, we treated our guests to some of the finest delicacies that the culinary world had to offer. We’d serve oysters, escargot, and seared foie gras with giant sea scallops and roasted filet mignon. Since we lived in a rather conservative Midwestern city, most of our guests felt as though they were being invited to participate in an episode of Fear Factor. But we didn’t care. We loved food and the feeling we got when we presented our hard work to our audience.
I eventually got into sales and moved farther away from what made me happy professionally. I made the mistake of thinking that wearing a suit would make me more of a grownup. My once Gothic black hair was now dyed a basic shade of brown with the obligatory highlights, and my tattoos were all nicely covered up. My son was now in private school, and I truly felt like everything was
on the right track. I was right where I was supposed to be, yet… I was incredible empty. I gained weight. I drank more. I had very little to say about anything. My husband stayed true to himself, however. He was a strong, happy person who was just grateful for the smallest of things. He loved life and the simple pleasures it provided, such as an afternoon of fishing by himself alongside a river or writing a new song on his guitar. He was content and further in life than he’d ever imagined he would be.
I was just the opposite. I wanted more—more money, more stuff, more food, and more friends. That is until my only sister committed suicide. When she did that, I made some drastic changes in my life. I had recently been on a mission to reconnect with dear friends from my childhood. I had gone to an art school in Michigan for violin and had made several lifelong connections. I was beginning to realize that I needed to find that person that I had lost so many years ago: Me.
I made plans to go to Los Angeles and visit my high school roommate, Sarah, whom I loved like a member of my family. My flight to L.A. was on a Thursday, and my sister died that Tuesday. I was in shock and overcome with grief. I told Sarah that I didn’t know how I would be able to make it to Los Angeles now; I was barely able to stand up.
She was very sympathetic and simply said, “Just get on the plane and if I have to, I will carry you off.”
So I went. I think it was hard for my husband to know what to do for me. He had a healthy outlook on death and had actually gone through exactly the same tragedy just two years earlier. He seemed to just gracefully mourn his brother in quiet appreciation for the time they shared together. I, on the other hand, was a sobbing, hateful mess.
The oddest thing happened when I got off the plane in Los Angeles. I saw Sarah. We looked identical. When we were in school, we were the exact opposite in looks. She had bleached blond hair. I had pitch-black hair. She had blue eyes. I had brown. She wore bright sunny California clothes. I wore black on black. But when we spotted each other, we both had the same look of “What the fuck?” on our faces. We both had plain brown hair, square-framed glasses, same skin tone, same overweight bodies, and same safe-style clothes. It was such a rude awakening for both of us. We had clearly lost our twinkle and had been shamed out of our identity as vibrant individuals.
