Fidelis Oralis

I liked -- no, that is far too gentle a term: I was consumed with how she looked, consuming me. My fingers laced in her hair, gripping her scalp tight. Her wrists in leather, cuffed behind her back. Gods, how I loved seeing her in leather. On her knees before me, the precarious balance, straining to lean into, onto my cock; straining not to fall over, crash into my thighs, impale herself too deep and choke. Her beautiful body. Her mouth stretched around my erection. Wetness: her juices glistening in the soft light, on my cock, on her lips, between her legs. Running down her thigh...

Before I explode, I should start at the beginning.

It has always been a dance between us, even when we were still just correspondents. It was a good thing we both loved music -- how we met, actually: trading song lyrics on the same folkie site. A casual meeting at a session at the pub -- bit of a drive for both of us, but it turned out worth it. The craic was grand. And she was glorious. I couldn't sleep that night, for thinking of her. My hand kept drifting to my cock, lightly stroking myself, seeing her face in my mind, the feel of her hair in my hand as we hugged goodbye. Her heat.

It was a dance. Wee gods and fishies -- she is a semi-pro singer, has a degree, is a teacher. What did she see in me? An old, balding, perverted bugger. No collage. Bluest of collars.

Ok, aye -- the kilt helped. And the fact I was also a professional musician. And tall, blue eyed, thin. Shaped by work, working out and running. Mensan, engaging smile. Smelled good. Gave great hugs. And, she later told me, projected lust: a lust for life, a lust for learning. A lust for her.

Also, the term is 'kinky', it seems, now a days. Well, bugger that -- I'm old (hey, don't laugh! 43 is old -- my six year old niece told me so, so it must be true...), and us old buggers get to use the terms we grew up with. I'm a perv, luv.

The gods know how we got into talk of sex. She was just so easy to talk to, in letters or at the pub for pints & pies. Somewhere along the way, I was too tired or drunk and was indiscrete enough to confess my lust for her. Some confession: she knew from day one. Just was gently waiting for me to catch up to her. We went to bed that night. It was glorious. No, I'll not tell you -- this is about *this* night, now. And our first night would take a whole separate story.

But suffice to say, it also involved inventive bondage, spanking and cuddling.

Tonight, she came over to my apartment. We probably should just move in together, but I'm old -- I move at a slower pace. Still the waltz, not yet the tango. And I am the dance-master.

"Wear a skirt and a buttoned blouse tonight, love. No pantyhose, I hate those. And bring a belt, love. Leather. Choose well -- I'll be using it on you tonight. Something worn-in will be.... gentler."

I can hear her sometimes.

"Oh shit," she thinks, and "oh god does that turn me on." Both thoughts jumbling together in her voice as she says "Yes sir." I laugh and say good-bye.

I have a belt I could use, or a cane for that matter. My hands do a fine job of spanking, and they are always with me. A flogger is on the list of projects -- they are easy enough to make, for a starter. But it amuses me to make her pick her own instrument. Maybe I'll have her make her own flogger.

When she arrives, I spend suspended time just looking at her. Time is often suspended when we are together. Flowing slowly, racing by, stopped for an eon of a second, measured in pounding heartbeats and soft, sleepy breathing.

She is beautiful. And hot. Comes just to my lips when we hug, a tight body, naturally fit but also well taken care of. Nut-brown hair, with streaks of gray. Warm skin of cream and sun, classically refined face. A smile of promise, that lights up her whole body.

My fingers are already fiddling with the buttons of her embroidered blouse before I am conscious I moved. Her eyes captivate me -- sometimes I have to stare at her tits just to avoid potentially embarrassing her in public with the naked lust in my gaze.

And she has gorgeous tits. Not huge wobbly masses, but inviting hills, beckoning me to climb them, and rest at the peak. Far too gorgeous to be trapped in a bra. I laugh with delight as the buttons come apart: she thought the same thing. Soft, lovely flesh exposed to my sight, my fingers.

"No, just stand still, my love. Have I ever told you how much fun I get out of undressing you?" I slip the blouse off her shoulders and it falls to the floor.

She laughed. "Yes, dear. About a dozen times."

"Only dozen? I'm slipping."

"That's just this week, Sir. My younger kids are doing fractions, so I'm keeping simple counts. Ahhh...oohh....yes, slip there, Sir."

My fingers are on her nipples and she leans into the contact. I can't help but smile, she looks so happy. Content, wanting, wonton, enjoying the sensations. Her hands drift up, and start caressing my hips, working at my belt. That reminds me.

I grip her nipples,and pull her in for a quick kiss, then step back, disengaging.

"So, love. Lets see your choice." There is a smile in my voice and my eyes. She says it is a cruel smile, but her eyes glaze as she says that.

Sometimes I fear I am moving too fast. Much of this is new to her, something she has only thought of in fantasies. Me, I've been playing such games for years. Then I hear the lust in her cries as I spank her, feel the quivering eagerness in her body as I buckle on the cuffs, or lay her over my lap. I see the look in her eyes -- and she stills all my insecurities and fears. They say a Dom should be confident, sure, in control of himself as much as any partner he might have. My outer shell projects that. When I am with her, my inner self reflects that as well. But she knows the truth -- I am human and fallible. Mayhaps this is why it works so well between us. Why she is the best playmate, sparing partner, dance partner -- the best lover -- I've ever had.

She reached down to her purse -- she must have dropped it when she came in the door, I never noticed: her tits really are distracting in such a wonderful way -- and pulled out a belt. She presented it to me, coiled on her palms, her eyes cast down, a blush on her face. She's so cute like that, when she is slightly embarrassed at her desires, but oh so obviously aroused by them. It is a bog standard black leather belt, inch and a quarter wide, bevelled edges, solid leather. The inner face is smooth, the outer has a woven pattern stamped into it. It is well worn, but equally well taken care of. It has her scent, and her aura.

"My husband gave it to me," she says, with a slightly wistful voice. "I don't think he ever would have thought of using it like this." She laughed. "I don't think *I* would have ever thought of using it like this, when he was still alive."

"Oh, I dunno. You'll probably have come to it eventually," I reply, taking the belt into my hands. "It is lovely. Just right. It feels of you." Then it's my turn to laugh. "And you, my dear toy, shall feel of it."

She says my laugh is cruel in these times too -- and she says that with the same glazed look and quickening of breath. No, I don't have to worry if she truly likes our games.

As I run the belt through my hands, I tell her: "Strip, love."

She quickly complies. Some would say the 'scene' started then, or the game began when I ordered her to bring a belt, or that she entered subspace when entering my apartment. It is not like that, really. It is an ongoing dance, with the steps and tempos evolving, flowing from one to the other. A relationship, in fullness.

But now, now it is fully engaged in erotic, kinky play.

I double the belt up and lightly smack my palm to test it. She shivers at the sound, and I smile. I let the end fall free, holding the buckle in my hand. Yes, the distance is just about right... I flick the end up, around her waist, and grab it with my free hand as it wraps around her, then jerk her hard against me. She is caught off guard, stumbles and slams into my body. I give her no time to recover, but trap her tighter against me with the belt, pulling with main strength.

"Look up." I command.

She does, and I kiss her savagely. She grips me just as hard with her arms, and returns the kiss just as greedily. I can not take but what she gives freely. Nor can she give, but what I take, with need and lust and greed and desire. With love. A strange love, mayhaps, to her mundane world and life, yet it is our world and we can have both.

I release her from the leather embrace.

"Go fetch the cuffs."

She looks around, then looks at me, with a raised eyebrow. I laugh, and say, "Bedroom. Thought I'd use them there -- but I'm too impatient, love. I want you here, right here, right now. Oh, and a pillow."

As she is getting her leather cuffs and the pillow, I strip. Dress shirt, jeans-no-underwear, bare feet -- I hate wearing shoes in the house. She is back before I finish, watching me greedily. I smile. She does such great things for my ego. Ok, aye, I probably am a handsome man, 186cm, 75 kilos (that's 6'2 and 165 for you old buggers like me), a runners build, a trimmed crown of hair, shaved smooth on top. I shave around my nipples too; I like to have her play with them. Dappled hair, a feathered mix of dark, light blond, and now some white. I think it looks stupid, but others tell me it is striking. And I'm too bloody minded to dye it. I also think my hip bones stick out, but she loves the 'snatch-points' as she calls them. "So I can snatch you closer into me, when you enter my snatch. It'snatch'-urally a place to hold on to for the ride." Another reason we get along -- we laugh at each other's warped sense of humour.

"Hold out your wrists, love." I buckle on the cuffs. She looks down. Not in submission, or wonton embarrassment -- but because my cock is starting to bob about with my movements and it captivates her. I can feel her tugging restlessly as I am playing with the buckles, wanting to grip my shaft, stroke it, feel it slide in her fingers, play with my testes, twine her fingers in my pubic hair. I used to shave, but she likes the hair -- it's fun to play with, she says, and holds my scent. I don't think she is even conscious of trying to pull away and reach between my legs. I grin to myself. We can't have that.

With the belt draped over my shoulder, I draw her in for a hug and lingering kiss. Gently pushing her hands behind her back as I do so, and clipping the cuffs together. She just sighs and snuggles into me, feeling safe in my arms as I continue to kiss and nibble her neck, her ears, continue to stroke her arms and back. When I break the hug and set her back, she just then realizes I've clipped her hands behind her back. Her mouth opens, as if to say something. Shuts. Opens again. She jerks at the cuffs, a delightful clinking sound as her arm muscles jump when she pulls at the bindings. She looks directly at my hard cock, then up at me, in lust-driven outrage.

"No Fair!" she howls. Clink, Clink. She looks down at my cock again, her favourite toy. "Want!" She pouts, and I laugh. "Please?" she pleads. Clink, clink.

"Put the pillow down in front of me." I tell her. She looks confused for a moment, reflexively twisting her wrists in their cuffs, a musical sound. "Figure it out, love."

She hesitates.

"Now!" I command.

"Yes Sir!" She tries bending over, then moving it with her foot. Then she gives up trying to be clever, and figures it out. She drops to her knees, with a bit of wobble, and a bit of a hard landing. I want to lunge forward and catch her, steady her. But I am in the zone as much as she, and remain aloof, the image of sternness, of command. Such little illusions are what the scenes are made of. Illusion and reality blend and merge, with fantasy and suspension of belief, so that -- to both of us -- I really *am* stern, aloof and dominating right now. But still at my core, caring and wanting to shield her from all harm. Likewise, she is submissive and maybe even a little afraid of what I might do -- the belt remains draped over my shoulder, black against my pale skin -- but strong, independent and trusting at her core.

On her knees, she grips the pillow with her teeth, and drags it over in front of my feet. I wait patiently, stony as she manoeuvres it around with her mouth, glancing up at me every so often to see if I am satisfied with the placement. I am satisfied, and smile at her.

"Kneel up on the pillow. Spread your legs as far as you can, and stay padded. I don't want you to get rug burns," I say, ignoring the fact that she probably already has rug burns from crawling around without her hands available as she moved the pillow. Oh well -- the thought worked better when I was planning this before she arrived.

"Felia ... fell-i-at- ... feeli...fuck," I cuss, embarrassed. I can't pronounce the word "fellate" to command her to "fellate me." She doesn't laugh at me, as I take a moment to recover. She just softly emanates love, and allows me to get my strength back.

"Hell, I can't pronounce the word, luv," I confess, growling in disgust at myself. "I'm going to fuck your mouth. Now, Open."

Now she laughs, but it is a delighted laugh -- proud of me for being able to confess a weakness; enchanted by the raw, coarse term I use instead; and above all, eager, lusty.

"Yes Sir!" she say, with a lascivious smile, and a tantalizing lick of her lips. She leans forward and takes me hungrily into her mouth before I can even raise my hands to her head.

I rather wonder, for a very brief second, if I am fucking her mouth, or if her mouth is fucking my cock.

Then I stop wondering, as my fingers slide into her hair and her mouth slides down on my erection. I groan -- fuck that feels good -- lost in the sensations as she slides back up, holding me ever so gently with her teeth just below my corona, and plays her tongue over the head of my penis.

The initial overpowering wave of sensations pass, and I regain some of my control. Gripping her head tightly, fingers woven in her hair, I move back just slightly, keeping her mouth on my cock. Not that she would give up her prize right now. In a moment, she might realise that she is just slightly off-balance, dependant on me for control; speed, depth, release. Then again, she might not. Even now, she tries to lean further in against my grip, trying to take more of my cock into her mouth, into her throat.

I let her, guiding her head forward, slowly, as she stretches her neck and breaths relaxation. I can feel her teeth barely scraping my shaft, her tongue pressing against the ridge on the underside of my cock, her warm, moist mouth engulfing me. The slight gripping pressure as I enter her throat. She gags, and I slide back out, pushing her fully off my glistening cock, giving her time to pant hard breaths. Before I think she has recovered, she is again straining to take me into her mouth, straining against my fingers in her hair. I chuckle, but my own breathing is not very steady. I can't pull her back onto my cock -- one can't 'pull' something pushing to go forward, all I can do is allow her to engulf me once again.

Then an evil laugh. But I am still in control, and I cruelly pull her off her plaything just a moment later. She whimpers, thrashes with her cuffs, and looks up at me, pleading. I relax my grip, and give her her head. Yes, that is a pun. She would be....oh fuck...oh..gods....she is nibbling down my shaft, breathing me in, licking my testicles. I groan again, my legs tremble a bit, then steady. As I was saying, she would be amused at the pun.

I arch back in pleasure, and the belt over my shoulder taps against my chest. Ah, yes.

She has nibbled back up the side of my shaft again, and is playing with just the head of my cock -- my hard, throbbing, exquisitely sensitive cock; so hot and silky in her mouth cock; my cock that I swear can feel every taste bud on her tongue right now. And she is thrashing with her cuffs, desperately wanting to use her hands as well. And probably so fixated, she can't figure out why her hands are trapped, just thrashing and clinking.

Releasing her wrists would suit both of our needs right now. I grip her again, and push her back upright. She moans in frustration, trying hard to lean back in, to continue her meal.

"Be still a second." She isn't really 'still', but I forgive that right now. The restless movements, rubbing her thighs together, still unconsciously tugging and twisting her wrists in the leather. I lean forward to un-clip the cuffs, and she gleefully buries her face in my crotch at the chance. Greedy slut -- I so love her. She nuzzles my balls and shaft, whipping her hands up as soon as I release them to cradle my testes, then stroke my thighs. Was she even aware her wrists were uncoupled, or just aware of the sudden freedom?

But I needed her hands away from her back, and not blocking her ass. I put my left hand on the top of her head, at the back. No longer to control her fellatio, but to protect her from leaning back at the wrong time.

The sensations are even more intense now, fingers on my skin, lips on my glans. Someone is moaning, it may be me.

I do pull her mouth away from my cock now. She is panting heavily, building to an orgasm. That turns me on even more. Some part of me -- the proper, social, kind-to-children-and-animals part is appalled at what I am planning. But the other parts of me -- the parts we are revelling in Right Now, is smiling a cruel, gleeful smile of his own.

I take the belt off my shoulder, and let the free end slither and fall down to slap along down her back. For a briefest second, she freezes -- she had forgotten the belt. There is some part of her as well that is appalled -- the part that bakes cookies for PTA meetings, that dresses romantically, rather than blatantly sexual, the part that had been told what "good girls do." But that is not the woman on her knees before me -- rather, that is only one part, one tiny mask. A mask set aside, joyously, wilfully, in wonder and trust. Free. The submissive to my Dominance, the playmate, the partner in our dance. My lover. My love. I embrace all of her, each in the time it needs.

Now is the time for the Belt.

She buries her face in my crotch, her nose at the junction of my thigh, nuzzling me, tasting me, breathing me in. Waiting. I slide the length of the belt up and down her back, and she arches into it, moaning slightly against my skin.

"Tell me," I say, gently. Gently, but uncompromising. I will brook no evasion, no wriggling and just hoping. She hesitates. I give her time, stroking her back with the smooth leather of her own belt.

"I.... Belt me. Sir," her voice is muffled in my pubic hair. But I can hear her, even when it drops to a whisper on the finial word, "please?"

I know the boundaries she pushes, how I take her out of her comfort zone and allow her to grow into more. Does she know how much that feeds me as well? How much I am lifted and enlarged by knowing her?

Being hit with a belt is an odd sort of reward. There is no doubt that it is a reward here, though. I can smell her arousal, feel her trembling against my leg. The jumble again -- the eagerness, the fear, the arousal -- raw and raging hot -- and the love and trust.

"Grip me hard, love. So." There is a pause, as I roll the belt up into my hand, holding onto the buckle end.

I slap the belt down her back, unrolling it along her skin, well to the side of her spine. When the belt's tail reaches her tail, it packs quite a sting. She grips me, burying her face deeper into my pelvis, blindly nuzzling the side of my hard cock with her cheek, as if to take comfort from it. I place my hand on the back of her head again, and concentrate on spanking her ass with the end of the belt.

I have to step back with one leg, and pull her completely off balance and leaning against my forward leg to give myself the proper angle. "Stick your arse out more, dear."