Dark Pleasures

It had been weeks since Sir was here last, months since his passion was so strong that he took his belt to me, driving me into sweeter submission than I have felt in years, and I am so eager to see him that I can't think of anything else. My mouth is eager to take him in. My scalp tingles when I imagine my hair entangled in his grip as he deliberately hurts me the way I like. I spent nearly my entire day browsing porn sites, haunting erotic story e-zines, struggling not to play with my sopping pussy as the primal scent of it soaks through my clothes. When I come, I want it to be a powerful and overwhelming relief, just for him.

But Sir is notoriously unpredictable, and tonight he has an unexpected delay, what if he doesn't come again? I don't want to think about it, about the anger and loss and frustration of that. Every email update holds some anxiety, fear it will be a new rejection. I log off the web, forcing myself to do something else besides obsess over refreshing my email. I try to read, not really seeing the words but the familiar pace of the process is soothing.

I jump at the knock on the door and half run to answer. I have had time to relax a little, I can keep my composure, do the small talk, share dinner and flirting without begging to be taken. I am patient, I know he needs to relax out of his world and into mine. There is mead, two glasses, three, distraction of on-line images of sex and submission, me on the floor at his knee, and then it is all over, and it all starts. Hands tight in my hair, close to my scalp, pulling me to him, the signal to submit and I melt into his lips. Then time becomes a blur of sensation.

It is difficult to provide an accurate time line of any event when a person's head is filled with nothing but the sound of blood rushing through veins and vessels, ears hearing nothing but moans and labored breathing. I remember a comment about giving orders, but I only remember my reply of "Yes, Sir," because it echoed over and over in my head. Yes, Sir I am yours tonight. Yes, Sir, I will take your orders, do your bidding, submit to your pain. Yes, Sir, you can use me.

Our kisses are passionate and hard, I bite and lick chest, neck, penis through his jeans, blowing my hot breath across the growing hardness. He holds me tight with one arm and shoves his hand into my jeans, finding the thong completely soaked through and makes a pleased noise. Fingers on my clit, deep in my pussy, in and out and around. If I could cum that way, I would, for him, but all I can do is let the pressure build and build. He returns his attention to my breasts; he loves to torture my nipples, pulling, twisting, pinching as if he is trying to see if the swollen tissue will rupture. He has a new trick, he flicks my sore nipples with his forefingers, one after another, back and forth. It hurts, it hurts so much, sharp, stabbing, I hate it, I hate it and I don't want him to stop, stop, please stop, I never say the words, oh how much it hurts, I strain and scream and he stops to kiss me and plunge his fingers into my cunt again. In the books this is where the heroine cums, submitting to her tormentor, but I don't, I can't, I can only pant and moan and twist, thrusting desperately against him.

He speaks very little when we scene, usually preferring brute force to get me to obey, but when he does speak his words are always chosen for maximum impact. "Your husband needs to go on a two week trip so that you can have time to heal. I have a black belt waiting for you," he tells me. Oh Goddess, he wants to beat me again, oh, that, I have no words for that. If I could get any wetter, I would. Cruel words, cruel taunting. I want that. I can't have it. I am afraid to even look at his belt because of the horrible desire to ignore my husband's strict orders. My ass remembers the feeling, the burn and sting, the waves of agony that gather in my pussy, that makes me smile through my tears, that sends pulses of adrenalin and endorphins through my body making me high, higher than pot or alcohol could ever take me, higher out of myself, deeper into myself. A high that lasts for days, bruises that last for weeks. A validation that my needs are real, and normal for me and that there is someone who wants to explore those needs with me, not deny them or ignore them or fear them and by doing so, rejecting part of what makes me, me.

But not tonight, tonight is for more of the divine torture that I love. There are no props in our scenes, no ropes, no clamps, no floggers, only his hands and cock to hurt me, only his tongue and stroking hands to soothe me. The suggestion to go upstairs is hindered by my inability to stand by myself and do complex functions like close down the computer. "How much longer do I have to wait?" he asks, impatient and hard, so hard, as he thrusts against my ass bent over the desk I want him to take me there and then, and I fumble with the mouse, my vision blurred, where is that damned X? But I finally accomplish my task. After a short break that allows me to get my breath and mind back on track, I get to the bedroom. He is already on the bed, naked, hard-on in his fist, so sexy seeing him stroke it, smoothing the shining pre-cum down the long length of it. I waste no time undressing to the thong and kiss the head of his penis reverently, but that is not what he is ready for. It is frightening how much he likes to torture my breasts and I can't keep my balance as I kneel above him, trying not to fall as he pinches and twists then throws me unresisting onto my back and returns his attention to my dripping cunt. It is more than apparent how much he likes how I react to his fingers in me, twisting, grinding, wriggling, forcing. Stretching me open with his long fingers, one, two, four, nearly over the knuckles, hard, painful, horrible, exquisite. I take it as long as I can, reveling in the pain, moaning at the stretching pleasure of it, the sensations too strong for orgasm, until the real pain starts to overwhelm me. "No more!" I cry out our safeword and snatch his hand from my burning, swollen cunt, immediately sucking his fingers into my mouth and cleaning the lube and juices from them, sucking hard and hearing myself moan, gods how I love the taste of myself.

There is a rustling noise, he is moving, doing something, ah, condom, thong gone, oh filling me! Legs over his shoulders, deep and hard and fast and oh gods how good you feel in me and I need you so much oh yes fuck me, scream of pain, wrong angle, too deep, too big! his look so malevolent, he loves my pain, I can't look at him, it's too much, too frightening, my throat is raw, my fingers on my clit the way I like it, aching for orgasm, stretching, "Oh I'm going to cum!" I can't wait for permission, it's a pronouncement, a warning, overwhelming, so much, over the edge, brain reeling, no thought, pulsing, thrusting, throbbing, more and deep and more...

And he keeps going, shifting the position of my legs, the angle of his thrusts, my pleasure so intense that sometimes I can't move, I don't even make a sound, I don't want to break the mindless connection to ecstasy. I don't know how long he fucked me, how long until passion ebbed, breathing returned closer to normal, until he lowered himself to the bed beside me spent, but not sated. A request for water is obeyed on shaking legs. We rest for a bit, regaining ourselves, my brain is working normally again, and I am half dreading that he wants to fuck me again, my poor swollen, tortured pussy. But I will do it because it is what Sir requires.

As I am contemplating, I can't help but watch his soft cock, still in it's latex wrapper, and I want to kiss it, so I do. I don't mind the chemical taste of the condom, sharp and sweet with the taste of lube, but it's not what I want, I want his skin, the taste of his pre-cum, salty and musky, so I remove the barrier and take the whole of him in my mouth. When he is soft it is the only time I can get my lips to touch his pubic hair. I love to give him head, love to have my mouth filled, the length pressing down my throat until I gag. Sir is so responsive, more than any lover I have known. He hisses and moans when I lick him, jerks and thrusts when I suck, speaks words of lust and encouragement. When he hardens I wrap one hand around the base to squeeze and stroke him, aware that his hand is in my cunt again, but I don't care, my oral duties have separated my mind from my desires, and the pleasure is a distant ache compared to the joy I find in pleasing him in this way. I am aware that it feels very good, but a few half-hearted flicks to my clit prove to me that I'd much rather be concentrating on his reactions, his pleasure, his orgasm.

"Oh God, if you keep doing that I'm going to cum," he warns, so I keep doing it, up and down, sucking, tongue rotating in quick circles against the underside of the glans. I don't stop, I don't want to. I am in my zone, pulling pleasure from him through his cock, feeling his energy, eating his energy, sucking his energy, taking it for my own to turn into satiation for myself, starving for the connection, turning the omnipotent master into a squirming human, a man helpless in the face of his own pleasure, "Oh God I'm going to cum," he says again, then does, with a wild scream of release, torso twisting and bucking hips held down by my weight, a long time he comes, my mouth full of semen and saliva, my mind filled with joy and tender triumph.

And the sweetness of simply lying there afterward as his cock softens in my mouth, and he hisses "oh, sensitive, sensitive," when I move my tongue or try to swallow the last of the fluids still coating my tongue. Eventually I allow his cock to slip from my lips, but I stay motionless, arms wrapped around his thigh, face pressed against his soft cock, inhaling the essence of him, content, so content, floating on a wave of satiation. My skin is alive, sensitive to every stroke of his hand, slowly and soothingly at first, but I am still electrified, wound up with his essence and my body shakes and shudders under his touch. His strokes become more aggressive, nails across the sensitive skin on the side of my breast, rolling my nipple, alternating gentleness with firm squeezes and when he snaps his fingers against my nipple a shot of agonizing pleasure connects my breast to my clit and I arch, stiffen, writhe and moan, but I hold my place against his groin, possessed and protected, clinging to the grounding force of him. I don't know what will happen if I let go, I don't trust myself to keep my boundaries intact, so I hang on for my sanity. In this moment, he owns my soul. I want to cum again, but I can't, my clit is too sensitive for my fingers, and I am too contented to ask for his tongue, I don't want to move from my sweet nesting place, curled around him. Finally his teasing hand stops, lying heavily and possessively on my hip and we lay that way for a long, long, time. Wordless.