Mr. Bear Ch. 3

Mr. Bear lay panting under me, each of his breaths puffing against my pleasure-dampened crotch. My own orgasm had been fairly intense, but not as much as his, I was pretty sure. Glancing down at his chest, I noted the ropes and puddles of creamy white semen staining his chest. Some of it had been rubbed raggedly over his nearly hairless chest, from where I'd coated the anal probe in his own juices.

With one finger, I traced my way through the cooling liquid, then brought it up to my mouth, giving an experimental sniff. Sea-tangy. A cautious lick made me think of Japanese seaweed wraps, the kind used to make sushi rolls, only with an underlying muskiness, and the faintest hint of sweet. It made me wonder if he drank a lot of pineapple juice at his chain of health clubs, since that was rumored to make a man's semen taste less disgusting to the majority of the female population.

One more scoop and lick confirmed the fact that, while strongly sea-tangy, his semen actually wasn't that bad. Twisting, I fished my notebook out of the picnic basket, replacing the doeskin flogger. As soon as the notebook was in my hands, I unclipped the pen tucked into the spiral spine, and started making notes right where I was, kneeling over his face.

[Subject: Mr. Bear (MB). Agreement: submissive, with monogamous sexual interaction.]

[Day Zero, October 31st: Initial interaction was a punishment for catching a very drunk MB peeing all over the ladies' room floor in a public location, and especially for deliberately urinating on my boots; punishment assigned was fifty lashes with a quirt. Forty were administered before MB climaxed precipitously, accidentally in front of a card; he said he enjoyed all of it, though he was still quite drunk. I gave him my card, and told him to call back in two days. Subject resisted temptation for three weeks. My vanilla friends who witnessed our meeting have had mixed reactions.]

[Day One, November 19th: MB finally made contact, made his interest in D/s scenes firmly known; I reminded him I still owed him ten lashes for the drunken urination problem, and when I guessed he was touching himself, ordered him to stop, and listed another ten lashes when he shortly thereafter failed to obey…]

Mr. Bear had finally started to recover. He didn't protest in the slightest that I was still half-smothering his face with my cunt. Indeed, his hands caressed whatever he could reach of my thighs and calves, while he started licking me again. His tongue flicked and darted throug the soft, slick folds of my labia and mons, digging through the folds in search of my slippery juices. As I continued to write down the bare bones of our current encounter, he used the tip of his tongue to circle around the pointed little hood of flesh guarding my clitoris, then rimmed the opening of my vagina. Strong but gentle hands wedged under my thighs, pulling my flesh wide for each damp, teasing taste.

Since I was still tender and sensitized from my orgasm, I twitched now and again as his efforts re-aroused my desire. By the time I was finished writing, I was shuddering with desire, and had to wonder if the last few sentences were legible. Not that I cared all that much, given how good he was making me feel—damn, but this man loved to eat hairpie! Two orgasms, though, and I'd be putty in his hands with sated exhaustion; he'd be able to try intercourse, and if he got away with that our very first night, my control of our relationship would be seriously undermined.

It's a curious thing about men, but if you give in to them easily once, they'll assume you'll give in to them easily every time, and then when you say 'no', they get all pissy about it. Especially if you give in right away. If you train 'em right, however, firmly establishing your dominancy over them, then they'll understand at the bone-deep level that being allowed to fuck a woman is a privilege, not a right. Something to be treasured dearly, not taken for granted.

So before I could orgasm—though I was uncomfortably close—I shoved quickly to my feet and moved away from his too-talented face. He groaned and clutched at my calves and ankles, wanting me back, but I pulled free determinedly. I didn't dare sit down, not with my pussy so swollen with interrupted passion, so I walked over to the long counter with the two sinks, and set my notebook down. Checking my writing, I made a few corrections where the words had grown illegible, then fetched a washcloth and ran it under the sink, on the coldest setting the single-knob faucet could produce. Since it was late November, that was pretty cold. Wringing it out only just enough to keep it from dripping all over the place, I carried it back to my brand-new sub.

He had twisted over onto his side, propping himself up with his left elbow, while his right hand gingerly touched the end of the anal probe I'd inserted during the heat of his climax. "You shoved something up my butt!"

"I told you you'd have to give me a lot more than you initially thought, if you wanted me to be sexually monogamous," I drawled. "Leave it in there."

"But it—"

"Arguing with me will gain you a punishment. A different punishment," I added, as my naughty blond bear's eyes took on a speculative look. He studied me for several silent, contemplative seconds…and then pulled the anal probe out in one jerk, gasping slightly from the sensations it made as the slightly bulbous tip stretched his rectal muscles. It was almost the same look he had on his face when he'd peed on my boots the second, deliberate time at our initial meeting, streaked with satisfaction at his own brilliant cunning. When I glanced at his groin, his penis was once again rampant, almost fully erect. No doubt he thought he'd enjoy whatever else I'd do to him.

Perhaps he would, indeed.

"I'm being naughty, Mistress. A very naughty bear," he rumbled, rolling onto his back again, dropping the probe and grasping his penis instead. That large, strong hand started stroking his meat firmly but slowly, contravening my earlier orders to not allow him to touch himself.

"Take your hand off my penis, Mr. Naughty Bear," I ordered him. He complied, if a little slowly, moving his hand up his chest to rub at the semen coating his skin. "I take it you *want* to be punished?"

He grinned at me. "Yes, Mistress."

"Why?" I asked, the cold-damp washcloth threatening to drip between my fingers.

He cocked his head, eyed me, then shrugged. "I've always liked my sex a little rough around the edges, but…damn, I've never felt anything that intense. I thought it was the booze, last time, but it wasn't, was it?"

My mouth threatened to twitch up. His comment reminded me of that 'Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear' rhyme I'd learned back as a child. I let it curve up on one side. "Welcome to my world. For protesting against the anal probe, five demerits—I'll go easy on you because it's your first time; hereafter, it'll be ten demerits per protest. For removing it against my strict orders, twenty demerits. For fondling my penis in my presence without my permission, ten demerits."

"Are you going to whip me thirty-five more times, Mistress?" he asked, pushing himself up onto his knees before settling back on his heels and tucking his hands behind his head. "Shall I assume the position, then, Mistress?"

"You may assume the position…but do not assume that I will whip you," I corrected him gently. "You do seem to like that a lot, so we must seek out other ways of punishing you. Otherwise it wouldn't be a punishment, now would it?"

Disappointment clouded those light green eyes, then he shook his head slightly. "No, Mistress. What…what sort of punishment do you think would be suitable?"

I smiled, crossed the last few feet between us, and shook out the crumpled washcloth. Aiming it with a gentle swing, I dropped it with a wet splat around his outthrust cock. He gasped and almost doubled over in shock as the icy-wet square wrapped itself around his cock, slapping gently onto his balls.

"Oh, god, oh god…!"

I was pleased to note that, though his hands came out from behind his head at the initial shock, he forced them back behind his neck again, lacing them together tightly as he hunched protectively over his groin. While he breathed heavily, his cock wilting at such sudden coldness, I moved around him to the picnic basket, my heels clicking smartly over the white-and-blue tiles. Crouching, I pulled out the next toy I intended to use, and swivelled on my heels so that I faced his back.

"You are a very naughty bear, Mr. Bear. You lack discipline. Self-control. I will teach you what you clearly need to know. Now, take your hands down from your head, and put them behind your back."

As he complied, I heard the washcloth splat softly onto the floor; apparently he was no longer erect enough to keep it up—literally and figuratively. Smiling in amusement at the mental pun, I took his wrists when he presented them, and clicked them into a pair of handcuffs. I could only click them once, but that was enough to hold them in place

"You can't be ser—uh, I mean, are those handcuffs, Mistress?" he asked, carefully changing his accusation to a clarification.

"Yes, they are, Mr. Bear," I agreed mildly, making sure they were snug but not tight around his proportionately large wrists. No need to cut off the circulation to his hands.

"May I ask why you've put handcuffs on me, Mistress?"

Was I in an indulgent enough mood to answer him? "Since you're new to this, you might not realize why I've done so, Mr. Bear," I reminded him as I turned back to the picnic basket. "Perhaps, if you give it some thought, you can earn a few merit points, and reduce your demerits a little."

He mulled that one over, then asked, "Is there a reason why I would *want* to reduce my merits, Mistress? I mean, I kind of like what we've done so far. And you seem to be enjoying it, too, which is important, right?"

I smiled, and let it show in my voice as I purred, "I'm glad you're beginning to understand that my pleasure is paramount, Mr. Bear. For that, you will have three merits, reducing your demerits to thirty-two. As for *why* it's a good thing to want to reduce your demerits…"

Squeak. Squeeeaaaakk. Squeak-squik-squeeak. Squik! I played with the pair of clothspins in my hands, withdrawn from the gingham-lined interior of my portable toybox. These were old clothespins, the kind with the slightly rusty springs that made such wonderful noises when opened and closed. He craned his head, trying to look over his shoulder.

"What's that noise, Mistress?"

It was tempting to put a blindfold on him, leave him guessing. But no, I wanted him to *know* what sorts of toys were available in a relationship like ours. Standing up, I moved around him, then bent over, allowing my royal blue merry widow to all but spill my generous breasts in his face. Since he was so much taller than me, I didn't have to bend far to give him an eyeful. Now that the icy-cold washcloth wasn't touching his genitals anymore, his penis twitched and started thickening at the view, just as I wanted. Behind my back, where my fingerless white lace elbow gloves disappeared, I squeak-squikked the clothespins again. "Wouldn't you like to know? Try guessing, Mr. Bear. Guess what I have in my hands."

He frowned softly, as I flexed the springs again, pinching and relaxing my grip on the wooden strips. "It sounds like…it almost sounds like clothespins, Mistress."

"Congratulations; you've just earned two merits for guessing right! You're a very good bear!" I praised him, and brought them around so that he could see. Straightening up, I sashayed around behind him, crouched, and carefully applied each one to his pinkie fingers. "Be very careful and do not remove them, Mr. Bear, unless I say they can, for it will be ten demerits for each one lost."

Fishing out another two, I applied each one to his index fingers, then used another two to catch the soft flesh on the inside of his thumb, between the pad and the base. That was a sensitive spot, one full of nerves that, when squeezed by a clothespin, I had learned enhanced sexual stimulation. So were the soft folds of flesh at the base of his middle and ring fingers, when I pinched those as well with yet more clothespins. That made for a total of ten clasped to the flesh of his hands. Taking one more out of the picnic basket, I moved around in front of him, looking down at him from my position of power and control.

"I've started with your hands, Mr. Bear, because they are accustomed to being squeezed and pinched, and can endure feeling pain," I enlightened him. "Using the clothespins on your hands first and foremost will also help distract you from what is coming next. You see, I'm not going to keep using the lash-strokes method, not when the merit-demerit system is a lot more flexible. Sometimes I'll count out your demerits in a whipping, but not always, and probably not repetetively. Variety is the spice of life, after all."

Kneeling slowly, gracefully, knees daintly together in my lace-trimmed dominatrix outfit, I held up the last clothespin, opening and closing the jaws. Squeaeeaeeakkk…squik-squik-squeeeek. Squik-a-squik-a-squik-squik squeeeeaaaak. Squik-squeak. God, I loved that sound. It made me wet just from hearing it. How long had it been since I'd been in his position, bound and helpless, hearing the squeak of spring against wood? Years, for sure. A truly good Domina doesn't just know how to use her tools; she has tasted their pleasures for herself, as someone else's sub. I much preferred being in control these days; the charge I get from having power and wielding it over my subs is exhilarating, so different from the everyday, obedient drudgery of my job…but the squeak of a clothespin can bring it all back, the sublimation of pain into desire, the submerging of free will into obedience and slavish servitude.

I wanted to give that pleasure to Mr. Bear. I wanted him to know how powerful it feels to lose all sense of power, how liberating it is to lose one's freedom. What a relief it is to know that someone else is in control. I wanted him to know that I, too, knew what he was feeling right this moment, so I opened the jaws wide, and held up my hand, then clamped it along the outer edge of my palm, catching a good amount of my flesh in its wooden grip.

"As you can see, I am not a green or selfish Domina who has no idea what she is inflicting upon her subjects." The tips of my fingers on that hand ghosted over the bared curves of my breasts, dragging the clothespin as well. "I want you to know that I know what you are going through right now. That is how much control I have over you, that I have experienced what you yourself are going through." A pause, and I tipped my head with a little smile, looking down at his semi-erect shaft. "Barring gender differences, of course…"

"My hands are beginning to hurt, Mistress," he told me, licking his lips. "I'm, uh, I'm not complaining; I just thought you might want to know."

"Good. The pain in your hands will be a comforting distraction, this first time." Picking up the washcloth, I made sure it was still cool, and deliberately wrapped it around his shaft. He sucked in a sharp breath, wilting a little once more. Pleased, I removed the cloth, unpinched the clothespin on my hand, and held its jaws open between us, letting him see the promise inherent in its gaping stance. Its potential to compress and inflict. "This is what will happen. I will apply this to your skin. You will count properly, "Thank you, Mistress, that is one; thank you, Mistress, that is two,' until you reach thirty. Then it will be removed.

"If you ask me to remove it any point before you reach ten, I will add thirty more demerits to your tally score. If you ask me to remove it at any point before you reach twenty, I will add twenty, and if you ask for it to be removed before you reach thirty, you will receive an additional ten demerits. As this is your first punishment in this form, I will be kind and remove it immediately, insted of only once you reach the next tens-mark of whatever set you are enduring; your demerits will then be racked up against you according to what you failed to complete, and shall await another form of punishment.

"It is my hope that you will be able to endure your punishment like a man, but this will be a very intense session. So, to make up for the intensity, I give you permission to call out the count as fast as you can, provided that the numbers themselves are still understandable, however garbled the rest of it may become. Do try to remain coherent," I cautioned him. "Even though you are being punished for your disobedience, you must always keep in mind that your role is to please me, in any way I ask that you can. Are you ready?"

Wide green eyes stared at the clothespin, then at me. He opened his mouth, drawing in a breath--probably so he could question me as to where the little device was going to be applied--but then subsided and nodded, sealing his lips tight against his curiosity.

"Very well. As soon as I take my hands away, you may begin the count."

Looking down, I found his penis had engorged itself to near-erectness once again. Sighing, I applied the washcloth one more time, this time directly to his balls, so that he softened quickly. When he was quite soft, I grasped his foreskin on the upper side of his shaft—he was wonderfully uncut, giving me far more options than a circumcised man would have provided—and pinched the clothespin to the loosened skin. He immediately bit out a swearword as the springs clamped down on the tender flesh. Teeth clenched, he snarled out several more in pain, hunching over.

"Start the count!" I ordered him loudly. "Start it, or earn another ten demerits which will be applied to this punishment!"

"--Thank you, Mistress, that is one! Thank you, Mistress, that is two— ThankyouMistressthatisthree, thankyouMistressthatis*four*, thankyouMistressthatisfuckingpainful*five*!" he half-shouted, rattling out the count as fast and hard as he could. With each count, he started rocking back and forth, trying to contain the pain. Gasping out each number, he made it to twelve before swearing briefly again, then to seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, with each one his voice rising into falsetto pain range—he was rocking so hard now, he stopped counting, clenching his teeth, his jaw, his whole head and shoulders, everything all the way down to his stomach. It made me wonder for a moment if I'd gone too far.

Forcing a gasp of air, he resumed the count at twenty, half-barking the numbers, the rest a drooling jumble of words. When he got to thirty, I reached in and grasped his very shrivelled shaft, stilling him as he gasped and whimpered at my touch. With my other hand, I released the pinch slowly, gently. He gasped again, choked, and started crying as blood came back to his foreskin, sobbing with the lingering agony and its release.

I wasn't unmoved by his tears. Moving around behind him, I gently removed each and every set of clothespins from his hands, replacing them back in the picnic basket. Moving around in front of him again, I guided him down onto his side on the towels, then onto his back, helping him stretch out his legs. He didn't want to do that; he wanted to huddle around his assaulted member, still sobbing from the extreme, intense punishment, but I managed to get his knees apart and down. Kneeling between his legs, I bent low over his thighs, licked my lips, and said, "I am very proud of you, Mr. Bear. Not once did you beg for me to remove the clothespin from you. Not once did you demand that I end your punishment. I'm not too happy about the excessive swearing, but I can understand that. Your bravery and fortitude pleases me very much, and for that, I will reward you now."

With that, I picked up the half-forgotten washcloth, and squeezed some of its cold water onto his penis. He jumped at the touch of chilly wetness, whimpering deep in his throat as he lay there panting. When his shrunken shaft was wet enough, I tossed the washcloth aside, dipped my head the last few inches...and sucked his penis into my warm, wet mouth. He shouted an oath again, but this time, in shock from the sudden pleasure of all but being swallowed whole.