Meeting Sir

Lost in the depths of his eyes, I didn't even know what the question was anymore, but I knew he wanted me to say yes. I looked at him, hiding none of the adulation I was feeling, and answered as desired. "Yes, Sir."

John let a small smile play across his face as he stood. He wiped his dick across my cheek, spreading my saliva and his pre-cum across it. He walked behind me, trailing his fingers lazily, lightly across my back and tender ass. He notched his cock in my warm wet opening and slammed in deep.

Reflexively, I cried out, "Oh, god!"

Everything about that moment was perfect: the cock that filled and stretched me, the force and passion of the fucking, the torturous build-up, Sir himself. I was on the verge of coming at any moment. I asked, "Can I come Sir?"

Incredibly, John seemed to fuck me even harder after hearing my request and yet he denied it. "Not yet," he said. "Don't come yet."

He continued fucking me furiously. I was nearly delirious with my need to come. I begged him, "Soon, please?"

My body made little squeaking noises as it was slammed an inch or so back and forth across the surface of the desk I was laying on. My hips were crushed into the desk edge but I never noticed. Not until much later. I had a death grip on the desk's legs, trying not to come too soon.

Finally, I heard what I had been waiting for. "Come now, pet!"

I did.

I cried out with each rhythmic tightening of my body, my pussy clinching hard on John's cock as he continued to pump into me, until the pulsing, grasping, squeezing of my cunt sent him over the edge, and he, too, cried out his release.

He rested atop me for just a moment, breathing heavily, then reached over me and unfastened the wrist restraints.

I found myself repeating "My god" as I tried to recover from the force of my orgasm. John took his weight off me, but caressed my shoulders and back. He murmured, "Good girl. Good pet."

He unfastened my ankle restraints and sat in the nearby chair, half pulling, half carrying me off the table and onto his lap. I settled on his lap and wrapped my arms about his neck. He kissed me, sweetly, until I thoroughly relaxed into him.

I said, "Thank you, Sir," on a sigh.

Another kiss and then, "I always know just what you need."

I smiled against his chest and nodded my agreement. "Yes," I said, "you do. I have never come that hard."

He combed his fingers through my hair, and smiled into my eyes. He touched me all over then held my breasts, playing with them gently. He said, "I love watching you come."

I replied, "I love coming for you."

Images of the fuck ran through my mind and I was suddenly embarrassed at the things I'd said. I apologized to John, "I'm sorry for calling you a fucker. I don't know what came over me. I never use those words."

John chuckled lightly. He accepted my apology with "You were impassioned."

We snuggled silently after that. I may have dozed. After awhile, though, John announced it was time to get ready for the real world again. I groaned, of course. Who would want to leave this torrid yet sweet little world we had created? But I had no choice. I, at least, had to go back to my husband, ready with plausible stories of my day and of any marks I might have due to our passion.

So, I stood and walked gingerly towards the shower. I turned the water on as hot as I could stand it. I stood there, melting under the jets from the shower head. John joined me. He lathered me, front and back, then washed himself. I stepped out of the shower and he was there to dry me, too. I must have sighed happily a dozen times.

I blew dry my hair then went for my clothes. John was already re-dressed by then. He watched me ardently as I put my clothes on. I laughed at him, "None of that, now, or we'll never get out of here!"

He laughed with me.

We gathered up our things and stuffed them into our little bags. I felt my face falling as we moved, slowly but inexorably towards the door. The moment was here: how would I survive it?

John put his bag down and grabbed me up in a fierce embrace. He kissed me, as desperately as I was feeling. But he pulled away, sliding his hands along my arms until he held my hands in his. He lifted our hands together.

"You go on first, so you don't have to watch me leave." I was so grateful for his suggestion. Perhaps I could live through walking away from him, whereas I was sure I couldn't live through watching him walk away from me. It was a silly distinction, but vital nonetheless.

He leaned to kiss each of my hands in an achingly tender gesture. I watched my hands as he kissed them, so that when he moved his lips away, I was able to see what I had not seen before: a white line at the base of his ring finger.

I picked up my bag and walked out.