Vanilla Boyfriend Suffers for Mistress Girlfriend’s Pleasure
A bunch of neon signs. It was the middle of day, The ugly glass-tube truth. Dangling wires. Urban dirt. The building itself had a fascinating style. It was half Bauhaus and half plain paper bag. One of the signs went “XXX!!!”. Another remarked, “Toys for Sale”.
They parked across the boulevard. The woman turned to the man and asked, ‘That’s it?’
‘That is the place.’
The woman made an announcement then. ‘I ain’t goin’ in there. Not in THIS lifetime.’
So the man unsheathed a confidential tone. ‘Look, you’d probably enjoy it’, he said. ‘Has the ambience of a locker room. And for team testerone. Where a bunch of little males fail to hide their… enthusiasm.’
The woman considered this quiet observation. She made a quiet observation of her own, ‘One hears the voice of experience.’
‘Not exactly.’ The man blushed a tiny bit. ‘Been there once. It was sort of a dare.’
‘Well I dare you now.’
‘And I dare you.’
‘I am not going in there.’ A very final tone.
To this the man courageously replied. ‘And I will not venture in that establishment alone.’
The woman giggled, ‘Yes you will.’
A poignant pause.
‘Oh shit… .’
The woman unleashed four very simple words: ‘Buy a riding crop.’
‘You forgot an extremely important thing.’
The man went shopping.
It took twenty minutes He returned with a box like a box for roses. He offered the roses to his Mistress. ‘Mistress… ‘
She jumped him. And she pinned him. Just took him in her arms. Her powerful muscles kept him down. She squeezed and squeezed and squeezed. ‘Open wide slave.’ Tongues can penetrate. She kissed and kissed and kissed and kissed. And sat down like she hadn’t even shaken up the world. ‘Om.’
She started the car.
The first law of deadening is put lots and lots and lots and lots of soft and light and flexible objects and no short circuits between the source of noise and the curious ears. The second law of deadening is to not care, if the ears win.
The woman’s bedroom was full of soft, light, flexible objects. Pillows. Bedspreads. Comforters. Rugs. A couple of ratty old beanbag chairs. The friendly face of a torture chamber. And, in the woman’s words, ‘If a anybody asks, “What was all that racket in there?” I’ll smile and tell ’em I was flogging my boyfriend.” She grinned.
Then she stopped grinning, ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’
The man had thought about this day a lot. A lot. ‘I want all the world for you. But I can’t get all the world. Store is out. Always will be out. But the romantic in me does not believe this. So I want at least a part the world – the part that is me – to be for you. So I’ll do anything you want to do and do anything you say. Or to put less grandly, I am Joe submissive and got the hots for ya babe.’ A pause. ‘Course in real life my giving has a memory leak. Or something. Some flaw. Some minor – maybe some not so minor – flaw or set of flaws. I want to try though.’ A brief hesitation. ‘On a more prosaic level, But I really do not care for pain. Really, really do not care. So I’m in fact a little bit scared.” Another little pause. ‘But to answer your question, yes I want this. Yes.’
‘I want you to understand: it will hurt. You will suffer. I will make you suffer to make me orgasm.” She kissed him with exaggerated gentleness. ‘Konx.’
She stood back. ‘Slave undress.’
Her slave quietly and quickly undressed.
‘Kneel before me.’
Her slave followed her command.
The woman inspected her property. Her man. Her man and her slave. She walked back and forth and back and forth. Patiently, thoughtfully back and forth. And the man looked down.
He kept his eyes down. Kept looking at the floor.
‘Kiss my left foot now.’
Her man kissed her left foot. He started with the toes,
‘And tongue between the toes.’
The sound of his obeying was the only sound in the room.
‘Stop. Lift your eyes. Slave look up at me.’
She was like a perfect sky at middle of the night. Where a trillion stars erupt.
‘Get the whip.’
The man obeyed. He retrieved the box. He began opening the cardboard… .
‘Wait. Present it. Present the whip from on your knees.’
He knelt. He took the top off the cardboard box. The man held the box to the woman.
She grasped the whip, And tried the whip, A few slashes through the air. The man saw and heard. ‘Lay across the pillow. Bottom up for me. For my whip.’
Her man obeyed. The woman whipped him.
Vigorously. Again and again. Again and again and again and again.
She wore an intent, hard expression. Her lips became a line.
The man felt the energy of her desire in the blows. Despite this, he moaned.
The woman summoned-up more power. She gave it to her man.
Sweat formed on both bodies.
Mistress whipped him more.
Her man started blinking. The woman grabbed his ponytail and beat her slave some more.
Again and again and again and again, And again and then she stopped.
‘Slave, get on your knees.’
He rose stiffly to his feet and fell loudly to his knees. Mistress leaned over and kissed her possession.
Then the woman touched herself.
Her passion and her pleasure and her energy and might entranced the kneeling man. He felt happiness and pride.
As she went for number eight, she said, ‘Masturbate my slave. I’ll decide if you may come. I will tell you.’
Afterwards, the woman lay on top, upon the man. She held him in her arms. And stroked his hair. And closed her eyes.