Cast Iron

Note: The first evening described at the beginning of this vignette is described more fully about halfway through Introductions and Exposures, the beginning of my series about these two characters.

She had thought she'd ended the evening by refusing to strip for him. As much as she wanted to be owned, the shift from kissing on the couch to standing in front of him being ordered to undress was too much for her. Maybe she couldn't do this? But now he was cooking the dinner he'd promised her, and the silence as he worked was surprisingly easy.

She sat on the kitchen stool watching his back as her worked. When she crossed her legs she could feel that the small scrap of fabric between her legs was soaking wet. She hadn't been ready to do it, but his order was still reverberating in her head and her pussy. To distract herself, she stood to look at his pot rack. Among the expensive Calpholon cookware were several cast iron pans that looked very old.

"Nice Griswolds," she said, recognizing the logo and the numbers on the dark iron.

"The newer ones just don't feel the same," he said, without turning.

She stroked the silky, slightly oily surface. These were well-seasoned and she could see a few grains of salt from their most recent cleaning. "There's nothing better than cast iron," she said.

"Indeed," he said. "Not for cooking and not for restraints."

Her head snapped around. He was still looking at the stove.

"Seriously?" she said. He hadn't seemed like the dungeon type.

"No," he said chuckling. "It's too heavy and it rusts quickly. Especially if you get sweat and tears all over it."

She didn't say anything, thinking that she could put a new finish on these pans right now. She wanted to ask what he preferred, but perhaps this wasn't the time. She stroked the iron. Heavy might be nice, she thought, imagining the weight of it around her wrists, the way the iron would make marks on her clavicles. And being made to clean her sweat and tears -- and juices -- from them afterwards.

She wondered what would he do if he turned around and saw her naked. But that might be presumptuous, she thought. Better to wait, to be told what to do. That felt right, and felt comforting. But she wanted to be ordered very badly.

"Dinner's ready," he said. She realized he'd been cooking in another cast iron pan, a twelve-inch skillet with a longer handle, not a Griswold. It was hot, still smoking, greasy.

--

"Remember that first night?" she asked. "The cast iron?"

"Oh yes," he said, smiling. "After you defied me. For the first time."

She laughed, putting away the last dish. She was naked except for her collar and a jeweled plug in her ass; it had been a long time since she'd hesitated even slightly when ordered to undress.

She held her arm up, turning it so the polished titanium locked around her wrist flashed in the light.

"These are so beautiful," she said. "The idea of being put in irons turned me on, but custom-made cuffs like this? I love them, Master."

"I'm glad," he said. "You wouldn't be able to wear iron all the time. It's heavy." He handed her the pan he'd just cleaned, a few grains of salt still clinging to the interior. It was the twelve-inch skillet with the long handle.

She took it from him and hefted it, feeling the weight and the length of the handle. She looked him in the eye and opened her mouth. He looked at her with a half smile. Holding his gaze, she raised the pan, holding it by the rim with both hands, and put the handle between her lips. He watched as she maneuvered it into her mouth, struggling a little with the weight and the angle. She took her eyes off him as she tilted her head back, successfully taking it in until her lips were pressed against the flare where the handle met the rim.

She felt his hand encircle her throat. The bitter taste of metal filled her mouth. It felt and tasted very different from the polished steel plugs, like the one in her ass, that he'd put into her mouth later after he removed it.

He held the pan and she dropped her hands, putting them behind her back. He pushed it in, turned it in her throat, making her gag. She felt spit run down her cheeks. She extended her tongue to lick the side of the pan, more drool running out of her mouth.

"Good girl," he said, withdrawing the handle, dripping, from her mouth.

"Thank you, Master," she said, then grunted as his hand in her hair turned her and bent her over the breakfast bar. His fingers stroked her smooth wet pussy lips and pushed into her. She was soaked. And then she felt the iron, first at her entrance, turning without pressure, sliding up between her lips, a faint noise as it rubbed against the ring in her clit. She lifted her hips and moaned, while the cold metal slid up and down between her lips, getting warmer and wetter.

But it was still a shock when it entered her. It was cold, and hard, but it curved in the same way her owner's cock did. She felt its pressure along the top of her vagina, shivering when it touched that special spot, then gasped as it went deeper. He turned it sideways, slowly, and she felt the body of the pan between her legs, pressing against her labia, and the handle was at her cervix. She gasped at the hard, almost painful pressure. He held it there, watching her face, knowing it hurt, then slowly withdrew it.

She opened her mouth, and waited, wondering whether she'd feel the handle at her lips, or his fingers around her plug. He played with her, touching the plug, pushing it. She tensed thinking of that hard metal in her anus, but instead, he brought it to her lips. She reached for it greedily, though his hand in her hair held her still. She reached her tongue out to lick it, tasting herself, and then he slowly pushed it into her mouth, still gripping her hair.

She tried to turn her head to get the angle right but he wasn't looking to push it down her throat. He moved her head back and forth, the handle distending her mouth. She kept licking, feeling a puddle of spit under her cheek. His fingers pushed in alongside the handle, pushing her mouth open wider. Then he entered her, hard and fast, pounding her against the breakfast bar. She realized he'd put his fingers in her mouth not just to enjoy her as he often did, but to protect her teeth against the iron as he fucked her, as hard as he ever had.

She could no longer say he was as hard as iron; she knew the difference now. But he was hard enough, and thicker, and pulsing, and hit her cervix in a soft painful thud that increased her excitement. His fingers and the iron handle made it impossible for her to speak comprehensibly, but he understood her wail as the request for an orgasm it was.

"Come for me," he said, fucking her faster and harder. Her beautiful custom-made cuffs scraped against the marble where she was holding the other side of the bar for purchase, and she screamed around the iron in her mouth, bucking her hips, then feeling his orgasm fill her.

He withdrew as he softened, and his fingers wiped the insides of her legs, then brought his cum to her mouth. One hand went deep into her as the other lifted her off the counter by the hair, the pan clanking as the handle left her mouth. It was soon replaced by his other hand, three and then four messy fingers shoved between her lips while his other hand twisted her hair and pushed. Was he going to fist her mouth? But before she could make a safety gesture he stopped, his knuckles at her lips, his fingers pushing and prodding and making her choke and gag. Snot and the cum he'd just fed her came out of her nose and then his fingers were gone and she was gasping as he wiped them on her cheek and her hair.

He kissed the back of her head, stroked her messy cheek, put her head back down on the counter.

"Clean the pan," he said. "And the counter. Then wash your face and come to me."

"Yes, Master," she said once she could form words again. Still breathing hard, she lay on the counter, her face in her own mess, tasting metal and cum and herself. Nothing like cast iron.