Couples Counseling Pt. 04

The intercom app on my phone is tethered to the noise-cancelling Bluetooth headphones Tosh wears, and controlled by tiny buttons on my earpiece. For him, this is a new level of submission. More than the nudity, kneeling, slave-collar, puppy-glove restraints, or even the craving-and-denial I left surging desperately in his loins. This is his next step, downward, into his complete capitulation to my will: rendered blind and deaf by my contraptions, and mute by my fiat, he answers only to the resonant, disembodied female voice that feels to him like it comes from inside his head.

The voice that commands him, "Picture me."

I stand in front of him, his face cunt-high to me, a hand's breadth separating us. "But first, an update. I'm dressed as before, only without my skirt and panties. Same Domina couture, except butt-naked, cunt bared. Got it? ... Oh yes, I fill your mind's eye, don't I?"

Behind me, Paige wails incoherently as the Bull manhandles and slaps her around; but there's an external sound filter in my earpiece that isolates Tosh from that. "And your ears, too. The only thing I permit you to hear is your owner's voice."

"Now feel this ..." I move closer and curl one finger into the ring of his slave-collar. "The warmth on your face, engaging your sense of touch? That's the heat of desire from your owner's sex, from the Domme-cunt you so desperately crave to please. The smell, I don't have to explain. That leaves, which sense? Oh right, taste."

Gently, I tug in on the collar ring. "Kiss."

Tenderly, he obeys.

"Ah, just so. Now, pet ... one little lap."

I let out a heaving sigh, "Taste." That sigh is always my reaction to first contact, especially when it's heavily charged with the power I take from dictating the pussy-slave's preliminary self-restraint.

"There, now. As promised, slave, your Goddess fills your senses. Take my advice, and make this a religious experience. "

Moaning, he tips back his head and inhales, taking in the overpowering scent of my control. Reinforcing that, I hook the collar ring and tug him back to me. Delightfully, I see his neck relax into smooth grip of the leather. I would give anything to be inside that sub-space darkness just now; how his subservience to my faceless voice feels to him, his breathless anticipation of how I will use him ...

How he can please me. I give him what he needs. "Open wide, tongue out, keep perfectly still."

Panting softly, my pussy-slave parts his lips, extends his tongue, and holds it rigid.

"Just ... so," I breathe. Rocking my hips, I brush my tingling labia up and down his tongue, basting it with my juices. For variation, I add the barest wiggle to my pussy-dance, spreading the pleasures to my outer lips.

"Now," I coo, "worship me."

His tongue softens and uncurls, joining with his lips ... to plunder mine.

"Huh-ahhh," my breath heaves.

Overeager of course, he starts out too forcefully; no surprise there, but not what I want. One hand gripping his hair, I ease him back, urge him to slow down, take his time. The hand tells him, If you want to impress me, pet, do it with a delicacy to your appetite for fine pussy, not a gluttony for it.

Like a good pet, he whimpers at my displeasure; with my hands, though, I'm going to make him responsive to my appreciation. I steer his mouth away from my clitoris, though; that flavor is going to be a reward for him later. My hands will let him know when he's earned it.

"Yes, my sweeeet pussy-slave, yesss," I moan.

Gently, I press on his head and slide his nose down between my slithery lips and back up. I manipulate his hair, like it's the reins on a stallion in training, and with a finger tap, coax him to re-engage his tongue. Instantly, he gets it.

Oh yes, he gets it, I admit breathlessly. For the untrained slave, my hands can only guide so much. But with Tosh, the rest, he knows. I've had playthings I trained for months in this woman-pleasing art who are less sensitive to my guiding hands than my novice Tosh. Then perhaps, he isn't so much a novice, as a natural. But I'd already guessed that.

"Oh, I know you, pet," I speak into his head. "Throughout your love life, you've always taken great pride in pleasing the girls you fuck, learning from the experience, then fucking the next one better. Fucking and sucking, I should say, and whatever else turns her crank."

Without me telling him, his mouth remains diligent, undistracted from its labours while I speak. "No judgment from me, by the way; to be quite clear, I don't think that makes you submissive. I think it makes you a great guy," I giggle.

From his appreciative lapping, I get further proof that he's learning his lesson: that praise should be met with gratitude, and gratitude with more ardent service. Yes, he's coming along nicely.

"Fast forward to your marriage. I see you in the vanilla bed you share with your wife -- before all this ruckus between you about power and control -- where you are a sensitive and selfless, knowing and giving lover. I'm guessing Paige is, ooh!" I shudder at what his mouth just did, "is a big fan of the way you give head. And you take pride in pleasing her all the way to climax, don't you?"

Tosh answers with his tongue, and the answer is yes.

"Right now, you have taken that 'pleasing' impulse of yours, and transferred it effortlessly to me, hmm? Well, not quite 'effortlessly;' I grant this is more, ooh-uhh! -- complex between you and me. I'm your neighbor, not your, ahh!, wife, for one thing. Not to mention your lingering resentment at me for being a subversively Dominant influence on Paige.

"And for another thing, you're performing under a nagging fear that if you don't please me, you'll be punished. Which you will, by the way, and harshly, but let's not get ahead of ourselves ...

"Wait, on second thought," I growl, "do hold onto the fear. Welcome it into the exotic cocktail mix of your arousal. I know I will ...

"But I'm saying, I can feel, ooh, umm -- feel how you are so, so desperate to please me to climax. I may let you, I may not, that's up to me. The point is, since you have submitted your mouth to my Domme-cunt for use, that 'pleasing' thing of yours ... that now belongs to me. Think of that, my pet, ohh! ... relax into it, surrender to that.

"And take it a step further: I not only own your 'need to please,' I own your 'pride in performance.' Think of that, too: I own your pride.

"That's right, ahhh, your pride is a gift you laid at my feet long ago. If you try and take it back, use it to reassert your willfulness, your resistance, I'll punish you, huh!, for your bad faith, you Indian-giver. And then reclaim what's mine. Think of that, slave ... and show me you understand."

I take away my hand to give free expression to his reply. He gives me an upward curl that finds my G-spot -- ohhh!, then up around the curve of my pelvic bone, dangerously close to my pulsing love-button. But with a finger to his forehead, he gets my message, and takes his devotion down lower.

Good boy.

Exhaling, resettling, I go on, "Remember I told you before, your true erotic epiphany, your 'moment of Zen,' will arrive once you surrender completely to my will. Then I'll know what you truly are; and you will too. Imagine that, pet, we'll discover it together. Doesn't that sound amazing?"

Moment of truth. Fingertips grazing his cheek, my hand tells him, Now. Take the taste you so badly crave. My waiting clit. Now.

And, ooooh, he gets that message. I have to firm up my stance, tense my hips and buttocks hard, to fight back the swoon of bliss. One hand returns to control of his head. The other slips inside my blouse and bra, kneading my ample tit, sharply tweaking my nipple.

Next, a moment of weakness. Feeling an intoxicated thrill of fondness for my pussy-slave, I let slip the most powerful secret I have to offer him: "Pet, if you can find the strength inside yourself to submit completely, you can find the strength in the exact same place," I say, panting, "to dominate fearlessly."

He grunts with an emergent understanding. Then, curling and stiffening his tongue into my G-spot with his upper lip pursed around my swollen clit, he understands.

"UHHHHH!"

I am about to go off. But before I do, I have the presence of mind to reach up to my earpiece and cut the audio feed into Tosh's head, I close my eyes, and ...

. . . .

... And suddenly, I am with my slave inside that silent, ecstatic void. Together, our senses collapse into just two: touch, and BLISS. As my juices flood out over him, I feel his pride, devotion and surrender flowing back in. All of his beautiful submission, and all of my ravenous power and control, compress into this intersection of slave-mouth and Domme-cunt. There, we are joined in a single nexus of disembodied rapture ...

. . . .

... And, feeling my hips quake and my pussy gushing into his face, my belly boils over and erupts in climax. "OHHHHHHHH--!"

The hand I hold on his head trembles, my knees buckle, my breathe heaves out and in, and my orgasm comes in waves. I let go of his head and grab both my breasts, kneading them excitedly, leaving his lips and tongue to do their work uncoerced. And they do, oh, they do ...

Riding his mouth, my pussy surfs the mounting waves of orgasm -- cresting, cresting again, and again, and again -- I can't tell if this cluster of belly spasms is a new orgasm, or the first, sustained -- hearing my own unabashed and continuous moaning start to quaver in my ears, ululating in time with my tremoring, shuddering buttocks and hips.

I push his face away.

"Huhhhh," I hear my hollowed-out groan. My hands fall, dropping numbly to my sides. It shocks me at first, realizing I can't ride his surfboard of bliss any farther, despite the multiple orgasms I think are still pulsing in my belly. But honestly I know, the intensity of the power exchanged between my Domme-cunt and his slave-mouth had become overwhelming to my senses.

All of them. That's right, like my own domination in reverse, I allowed his tongue to fill my whole world ... and conquer it. I think it's fair to say -- although I won't say it to him -- Tosh's tongue dominated my cunt, and fearlessly.

In that sense, I admit defeat. Just not out loud.

In the afterglow of my sustained sensual implosion, I am panting so heavily, I probably couldn't speak coherently if I wanted to. My puppy-slave's frothy mouth is panting just as hard. But we are breathless for different reasons. For me, it's in recovery from a seismic-grade climax. In his case, it's a desperate need for one of his own.

This realization galvanizes me into action.

#-#

I have a time-sensitive task before me, and I need to strike while the iron is hot. I drop to one knee, place a firm hand on Tosh's pelvis to still the anxious, craving motion of his hips. Instantly, he obeys. This in turn reminds me to re-enable the audio feed in his headphones. I stroke his cheek affectionately. "There, there, my sweet pet, my plaything, my delicious pussy-slave, there..."

He hears the comfort and praise in my voice, the breathlessness too; and I think he has an idea what he just did for me. I'm not going to tell him his performance was fucking breathtaking, of course, because that could relinquish my grip on that willful pride of his. I need him 'prideless' a little longer; I need him just the way he is, which is enslaved to me, and utterly submissive.

"There's a good deal more you need to learn about pleasing Domme-cunt, slave. But all in all I find you ... trainable." Hah, that should do the trick; subordination by faint praise.

I reach into my vulva and gather a generous slathering of his triumph. "Open wide, tongue out."

Dragging in his collar ring, my fingers feed the juices deep into his mouth and I let his tongue clean off my palm. Moaning softly as he laps and swallows, my pet shows once more his aptitude for my lessons in submissive gratitude. My pussy pings at the sight of this; high up on my list of visual turn-ons is that of a blindfolded boy-sub being force-fed sexual fluids he wasn't expecting.

Ugh, I can't help myself: I lean in for a ravenous kiss. I engulf his lips with mine, and, with my invading tongue, lap back some of my own pussy juices. And next, with my mouth intertwined with his, I blurt out something else I can't help: I love you, Tosh!

Really?

I think my unguarded words are lost in the gooey, gushy mess of our kiss and, hopefully, reach his ears as an incomprehensible mumbling. As times for true confessions go, this would be an especially awkward one. Just the same, I said it, and in my head and heart and hoohah, I meant it.

What exactly I meant by it, well, we can sort that out later.

Now, back on task: I take hold of Tosh's erection with one hand, his balls with the other. Quickly, I get a feel for the state of his arousal, the volatility of his member, and proceed from there. What I do next is business-like, but effective. Long story sort, very soon Tosh is a struggling, whimpering, desperately shivering wreck of a slave-boy; his manhood helpless in my expert hands, he can neither stifle or satisfy his lust, or escape it.

"Slave, if I give you release, you mustn't think of it as a reward." I massage his balls, "All the hot, bubbling semen you have stored up up in here -- I made that, and it belongs to me. If I coax it out, it will be because it pleases me to claim my due. So you need to realize, if you cum, it won't be out of your need, but mine. Hmm, are you getting your head around that?"

Tosh's face bobs earnestly.

"And it will please me, slave, to see you gush and spurt and cry out in agonized delight. It will please me, too, when I scold you for the mess you've made on my carpet, and put your tongue to work again cleaning it up. Ooh, that will please me a lot. Put yourself properly in that state of mind, slave, and you maaay get your release ..."

Tosh is chewing on his lip, whimpering, desperately confused and struggling with my instruction. As always, I know how to help him. "I free your voice, slave. Speak."

"Huhhh, thank you, Goddess."

"Do you think you pleased me before, with your mouth on my sex?"

"I think -- uhh, this slave wishes he did, he can only, ooh!, hope so."

"Well, you did. And that only leaves me hungry for more of the pleasures my slave has to offer. Do you think it will please me to make you cum?"

"Ahhh! This slave thinks Mistress just told him that."

"Cheeky," I giggle, "and correct. How badly do you want to please me?"

"Desperately!" he yelps; truer words were never spoke. "Will it please Mistress to hear me beg?"

"It will," I purr, doing that thing where I use his balls to caress the base of his undershaft.

"Ohhh please, Mistress! Let me, ughh, make me --" he yammers, struggling with the proper slavespeak, "Huhhh, your slave begs you to take anything that pleases her, aa-aa-anything -- Goddess, ugh, please, take everything from your slave!"

"Wow, that's a pretty good beg. You must really want to please me."

"Yes, Goddess! Ughh!"

"You'd do anything, you say," I purr, winding up the trap. "Then if I told you something that would please me even more than seeing you cum, you'd want that for me."

There's a note of hesitation and suspicion in his voice, but he says it. "Yes, uhhh, Goddess."

"Your permission."

"Permission --" he whimpers with confusion. But then I think he begins to remember.

Quoting myself, "'Nothing would please me more.' I'm offering you a choice. Please me well," I say, "or please me magnificently."

At first, he just groans and bites his lip. My hands had dialed back the edging while I let it sink in, but now they resume their torments. I want to make his choice ... difficult.

He knows this. How easy would it be to give in to that primal, burning compulsion overpowering his loins, and enjoy a glorious release? Compared to giving me something he dreads? A no-brainer, you'd think, but that's backwards; in making this choice, I want him to ignore his dick and listen to his head. Or better put, listen to the headspace that's in thrall to me.

"Do you know what will please me most of all? In a way, more than the other choices I've given you? It will be seeing you pass my test..."

To make the dilemma even more stark and urgent, I lean down and give his cockhead a little kiss, then a quick twirl of my tongue. "My test of your submission."

Moaning, then quieting himself, Tosh sets his jaw, grits his teeth, and gives me what I want ... most of all. But softly, "Fuck her. I beg you, Mistress, fuck my wife."

I release his cock. Tosh gasps, anguished at his loss, and sobs.

Then he stops. He lifts his chin and calms his trembling lips. And holds dutifully still.

Submitting.

#-#

In one swoop, I strip away the blindfold and headphones and step aside, showing him his wife has already been rigged for the fucking. I think this impresses on his submissive mind that this outcome was foreordained. That once again, he's been owned.

"Ugh, 'leeth, 'O-sshee'o," Paige's ring-gagged mouth mewls, "uh, 'leeeeth."

I'm puzzled by this. Is my kitten pleading with her husband to 'rescue' her? I can't have heard that right. Maybe it was more along the lines of, 'Toshiro, please let them fuck me.' Makes me wonder if she hadn't heard him say that already.

Which is a good point. This part of the slave-breaking protocol requires clarity, even a touch of formality.

Speaking of that, I find my skirt (consider, then discard, my thong) and fasten the black velvet wrap back onto my hips; presenting a more authoritative image.

"Uppy-uppy, pretty puppy," I giggle. Slave-meat in hand, I straighten Tosh up off his haunches. Settling him there, I place a hand on his shoulder.

"I'll need the broken slave-husband to say that again louder," I say, "so we all can hear."

Wife and husband's faces are a couple meters apart now, if that. Paige is strapped to a barstool-type bondage stand that's set on the tiles of the suspension station, directly under the pulley; Tosh kneels on the carpet just outside the tiles; she is looking down on him.

Our bound fuck-doll's trim, rangy legs are strictly bound to the rear leg of the stand with straps at her ankles, knees, lower and upper thighs. Her hands are behind her, laced up inside a black leather armbinder, and she is bent forward in strappado; a cable runs from the binder diagonally up to the pulley, lifting her arms behind her; and coming back down, it connects with a rawhide-thong knot at the base of her ponytail, which tips up her face. The vinyl cushion of the stool supports her pelvis, but above the waist, her torso is stretched up and back by the tension of the strappado. Her abs and tits look super-yummy stretched taut like that, slicked with her sweat ... and of course, striped with fresh, scarlet whiplashes.

And her mouth, of course, is tortuously ring-gagged. She looks at me. "'Ooo, aa, 'Iss-esstth?"

"Hush, kitten-slave," I admonish her. "Best to stay on my good side, given your position."

Rounding out her bondage-and-torment ensemble, a shiny pair of clover-clamps grips and distends her nipples downward, the slender chains ending in a pair of weighted bells. Those, along with whatever comes out of her hobbled mouth, are going to be the soundtrack of her taming-fuck.