He is my Master

He is my Master. Just like I chose him, he chose me. There was always something primal and brutal about him that I couldn't get over, that the woman in me yearned to be close to. He never went out of his way to protect me; then again, I've never been in any real danger. However, I want to belong to him and only him.

My thoughts stray from him sometimes -- fantasies of taboo idols -- but my reality tells me over and over again that he owns me, and always will.

When I visit him, My Prince, I always hope he has a little stubble -- not enough to form a hillbilly's beard, but enough to display his masculine side -- to enhance the danger that always hangs in the air around him. There are rumors he comes from a family of gangsters, that he walks the path of a man free from society's pressures and never does anything unless it please him. Perhaps I frequent his presence in hopes that some of his attitude will rub off on me.

"Lock the door," he commands, and I obey. I'm not the kind of girl to mindlessly submit, but when I decide to, I do it fully.

"Come here."

When I approach him, descending the stairs, he looks ever the straight-laced business man. Dark, unruly hair makes my hands ache to run through it. If eyes can be dark and pale at the same time, they are his -- blue, yet not quite. Button down shirt, complete with breast pocket, khaki-colored Dockers, a belt, and barefoot -- he is the picture of primal elegance. For once, he is not chewing on the wood tip of a Black and Mild, but observing me with his full attention.

He stands, cupping my face in his hand, threading his fingers through my hair, and pulling me within a breath of his mouth. Closing my eyes, I feel him tease my cheeks with a brush of his lips, feel him grinning against my jaw as he nips my earlobe just hard enough to elicit a shudder of pleasure from me. Pulling away, untangling himself, he unzips his trousers, pulling his hard-on out almost ceremoniously. "Kneel."

Immediately, eagerly, I do as I'm told.

"Kiss it."

He grips the base, making it quiver at the tip, the faintest bit of precum starting to form. My tongue laps it up in several varying strokes, enjoying the taste of him. Looking up at him, I smile, "Mmm, salty."

"Good girl," he cups my face again, briefly, turning to sit back in his chair. "Stand up."

As if breaking the spell, he reaches for the pocket knife tucked just out of sight, flipping the blade up, idly cleaning his pipe. "Take off your clothes."

Usually, when we play, we are not in full view of his door. Anyone walking by could peek in and see us -- and he has company coming in and out all the time. Sucking his cock is one thing, I'm not the one who's naked, plus he can easily tuck himself away in seconds, whereas I might have time to decide pants or shirt?

My hesitation annoys him: "Take off your clothes, or I'll beat you."

Maybe it was the tone in his voice, or the way he looked at me for two seconds before beginning to pack his pipe full of his indulgence of choice, but I knew that click of the knife closing was his way of saying, Now. I pulled my shirt over my head, and dropped it to the floor. As I reached behind me to undo my bra, he corrected himself. "Leave your underwear on, for now. Take off your pants."

Unbuttoning my jeans, I slipped them over my pants. I hear the crackle and smell the smoke as he takes a rip. Admiring my mismatched attire, he comments, "I like those." He hands the pipe to me, and I inhale, holding the smoke while I pass it back to him. He takes another couple of puffs, closing the pipe and letting it snuff out, so as not to waste what's left.

"Come here."

I bend down to him, his hand tangling in my hair again, pulling me roughly to him. We kiss, but I stay distant, intent on being his perfect little whore. There is a part of me that, whenever I expose it to him -- my masculinity, my eagerness -- he recoils. Now, he pursues me, kissing me more deeply and with more emotion than I can ever recall him using. I want to meet him, indulge myself in this beautiful moment, but I know the second I do, it will be over.

Again and again, his lips try to conjure me from the depths, the press of his lips going from desperate to teasing to desperation again. My vantage point is almost an out-of-body experience, watching myself hold back and feeling him going wild against my corporeal form. Finally, he has had enough, and stands up, pointing to the couch.

I lay against it, my back to the cushions, but he corrects me with a turn of his finger. Next thing I know, he is see-sawing my panties into the cleft of my womanhood, biting my back, and making me arch against him, his teeth nipping at my neck.

His hand connects to my backside, a crack audible to the neighbors upstairs. Out of habit, one I have not had time to make with him, I hear myself saying, "Thank you." There is no 'Sir', for I do not know what he would like me to call him when submitting to him.

Again, he strikes, again, I say "Thank you." He begins to hit me harder, no doubt to deter my appreciation for his sadism. Too bad -- I've reached subspace, and I intend to stay there for as long as possible. Then, the strokes get softer -- faster. I cannot keep up, and without turning around, I feel his pride at outwitting me, once again. He works my thong off my hips, turning me around to face him, parting my thighs with one of his knees, then the other.

Dripping wet, he slides into me easily. The sound he makes drives me wild with the pleasure of knowing my body pleases the man who makes me lose my senses. I let him take me, concentrating all of my energy, all of my soul, into my pussy, becoming a vessel for his cock, my entire being's purpose only for his pleasure.

He takes my hand and, wordlessly, guides it to my clit. I know what he wants me to do, but it is only out of politeness he suggests such a thing. I'm not here for my pleasure, only for his. In this moment, I am a cunt, and that's all I want to be, squeezing my box tighter to increase his enjoyment.

Again, more insistent, he takes my stray hand and sets it on my mound. "Cum," he demands. I open my eyes, and see the hunger there, him wanting to watch me writhing in pleasure only he can make me feel. "Cum or I'll beat you."

I begin to rub myself, wetting my fingers in my mouth for added lubrication. He groans appreciatively at the sight of my oral fixation, as well as me playing with myself, doing whatever he wants me to do. Silent curse words fall from my lips as my hips begin to meet his thrusts. Without my toy, I could be here for hours, and I can already feel his desperation as he approaches the edge of reason. "Cum, or I'll beat you to it," he jokes. I always took pride in the fact that my Master was willing to get off so much more quickly than when we first began to fuck.

Sucking my fingers like another cock, he begins to moan, losing himself in the sensations, the sights of my body. He wraps himself around me, my hand no longer in-between us, his body taut with the pursuit of pleasure, his mind somewhere I couldn't comprehend even if I wanted to. Then, suddenly, gloriously, the line is crossed, and he loses himself, his cock twitching and spurting inside of me, head buried in my shoulder.

I smile, holding him in my arms, knowing I did what I was put on this earth to do, once again.