The Beauty of a Boy's Submission

Wrapped in red, rope dual lines of blood across his chest, arms bound behind his back, long hair wound into the rope that grips his chest, he kneels with his head held back, ready to receive.

There in the bath, hard ceramic under his knees, his legs are likewise bound in slashes of red, double rows, taut and tensioned.

Steam fills the room as she stands with the warm water against her back, while he shivers, spattered only with the occasional warm droplet. His nipples are pebble-hard, his eyes wide, his cock aching and neglected.

He trembles with pent up need, already denied for hours, fingers wrapped around his flesh bringing him to the brink, again and again, only to leave him sobbing with hunger, questioning his own desire to be tortured this way.

Now, he waits on his knees and she stands before him, an eyebrow raised, asking if he's ready to accept her precious gift. He nods, tries to swallow, but the gag tied behind his head makes it hard.

She loosens the gag and removes the spit-wadded cloth from his mouth, and instead offers her fingers. His lips close around them, dutifully sucking, knowing this image pleases her.

She gives him a small smile and nudges his balls with her bare toes. The look she gives him makes him clench and release around the jewelled plug lodged in his ass. He would do anything if she would just touch him now. Anything. And he's about to.

She places a hand under his chin, giving him one last opportunity to shake his head, blink twice, tap out.

But he wants this, needs it, needs to submit to her desire to use his mouth. He will receive her gift and does, sealing his lips around her hard flesh as he greedily gulps it down. He barely tastes the liquid gold, tastes only his submission, and her satisfaction.

"So eager," she murmurs, one hand cradling her cock as he drinks, the other resting on the crown of his head, a warm weight of ownership that fills his head with cotton-wool compliance.

He drinks in silence, ensuring he takes it all, until the stream becomes a trickle, and is done.

"Such a good boy," she says softly, and his head swims with pleasure as he laps the last droplets from the end of her silicone penis.

He's kept the rope clean, not a drop spilled; unless you count the clear droplets sliding down the underside of his cock to tickle his balls.

She grips his hair and releases the knot that holds it to his chest harness. Held this way, he's paralysed, like a kitten held by its scruff, his eyes staring, his mouth open, soft lips parted, head filled with delicious float.

She teases his bobbing cock with one manicured toe, rubbing the tip sensually before tapping at him hard enough to make it sway.

"Look at you!" So much sadistic glee. "Who'd have thought that'd make you so hard?"

He can't deny it, and flushes with shame at the way his organ bobs between his spread legs.

"Now, would you like to rinse your mouth?" she asks.

He nods, accepting of any offer she might put to him rather than expressing a desire to remove the taste of her.

She steps under the shower stream and gathers a mouthful of water for him, swallowing some of it herself to mock him, then returns to him with sealed lips, a smile in her eyes.

He knows what to do and opens wide, and she leans over his upturned face and trickles warm liquid into his mouth.

On her instruction, he uses it to cleanse his palate, then dribbles it slowly onto his cock. The sensation is pleasant, and he wonders what it might feel like if it were something else.

"Hmmm."

He lifts his head from contemplation of his dripping penis, and she puts a hand to his throat, guiding his gaze higher.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

She can read his mind... or, perhaps she simply put the idea there in the first place. She sinks into a crouch before him, her hand still gripping his throat, and shakes him before letting him go.

"Turn around."

He does as directed, and she releases his legs from their bondage, leaving his arms bound behind his back.

"Up and out."

He wobbles to his feet and steps onto the bathmat. He's barely wet, so she towels off first then dabs at him, more to torment him than anything.

Once they're both dry, she prompts him in the direction of the bedroom by spinning him around and giving his ass a slap. He happily walks ahead of her, at least headed in the right direction, and kneels before the bed when told.

She takes a seat on the bed, legs spread either side of him, and leans back on her elbows. Lounging and naked, her pale thighs frame his next task. She is sans penis in this moment, and he has free reign to do what he does best. Eyes locked to hers, he shuffles in until he can easily taste her.

Feeling generous, she sits forward momentarily and gathers his hair back behind his head, ensuring he has unfettered access to her watermelon freshness. He slides his tongue up the length of her glistening sex, and soon her moans fill the room.

Satisfied with his attentions, she releases his hair to lie back on the bed, her thighs trembling as his tongue glides in circles then explores inside, teasing in long lines, lapping at her wetness.

He edges her, as he knows she likes to take her time, applying the flat of his tongue to the whole of her, then taking her flesh into his mouth, kissing then nuzzling, exploring every inch of her sex, including the place further back that's so sensitive to his ministrations.

He can tell when she's played enough, as her hips buck aggressively, her breathing harsh. One hands seeks a rough hold on his head, urging him to finish his work. In answer to her urgency, he teases his tongue against the place that needs his efforts, and she comes, a fist wrapped in his hair, her thighs squeezing around him, holding him in place.

Barely able to breathe, he brings her again and again to shuddering climax, until finally her quaking quiets, and her breathing slows.

They're both dewed with sweat, the scent of sex filling their air, and he is so very horny. Now, and only now that she's come, does he dare harbour hope for his own release.

"Come here," she commands.

He obediently finds his way onto the bed and lies alongside her, face to face, still bound, unable to touch her, but wrapped in her taste, in the scent of her.

"You've been so good," she says, fingers teasing his nipples, pinching then stroking, never letting him rest in any one sensation. "So good."

She squeezes both nipples painfully, drawing a gasp, and she smiles.

As if coming to a decision, her eyes narrow. She sits up and pushes him onto his belly. With deft fingers, she unties his arms, then rolls him onto his back, folds his arms against his chest, and binds them in place once more.

"Shift up the bed."

He moves eagerly to give her room, and she positions herself between his legs, running her hands up his sensitive thighs, spreading them wide.

He feels so vulnerable, spread like this, but yearns to feel her inside him, to slide out the plug and press her own hard flesh into his tightest hole. To own his body, make it hers. But her mood right now is not to penetrate him.

Instead, she takes him in hand and strokes him, while simultaneously teasing at the plug in his ass. Her fingers graze the sensitive skin between his ass cheeks, leaving him imagining her fingers thrusting inside him instead of the silicone toy.

Still, despite his disappointment, he feels his orgasm build, his body alive and electric, tensed in anticipation of finally releasing the agony of pressure in his tightening balls.

But before the surge begins, she stops, hands off, and his cock throbs, hot and desperate, blindly seeking out her touch. Through heavy-lidded eyes he focuses on her face and finds her smiling that smile. Christ, let that not be her mood. He's done so well, he's pleased her, hasn't he?

She runs a finger up the length of his cock to tease the crown, then grips him firmly, running her palm over his swollen head, gathering his stickiness and slicking it along his shaft.

He's terrified now, terrified this will be another long day locked away, another long day following at her heels, desperate to touch himself, to be touched, hard and aching in his pants for everyone who knows to see.

But sometimes, his reward is denial.

Sometimes, he thinks he likes it that way.

Something flickers in her face as she sees him give to her will, and she moves up his body, sensuous and brimming with evil intent. His eyes widen, hope filling him, his cock dripping and twitching as he hopes against hope.

And yes!, she's of a mind to use his cock for her own pleasure.

"Don't come," she cautions, head cocked to make her point, and he nods in tortured acquiescence.

He could weep with despair, but he does his best to please her, as she positions herself to take him inside her. As she squeezes around him, wet and warm, his submission is the best lubrication.

He's learned, through repeated effort, to stave off his own release, and as she pleases herself with his body, mounting him like a wild creature, taking him completely, he moves with her, reading her body, knowing not to thrust too hard, lest he drive himself too deep and hurt her.

This is, after all, for Her pleasure, not his.

Taking him while he trembles in need is more important to her than another climax, but his willingness to obey is a powerful aphrodisiac, and another begins to build.

He's grateful, for the sake of his fading resolve, as her eyes close and she drops her head, losing herself in the pleasure his thick length provides. The fingers of one hand tease between her legs, enhancing the sensation of using her boy like a purchased plaything.

She grinds against her palm and the base of his cock, and suddenly, in waves, her heat convulses around him. Shuddering and breathing hard, small whimpers of pleasure are drawn from her throat; desperate whimpers of self-control tested to its limit driven from his.

She seems to come endlessly, or so it seems to the man who must hold back a brimming dam of his own lust, but finally she quietens. Sweaty and flushed she lays against him, and he imagines he can feel her heartbeat throbbing against his own fevered skin.

Once she's regained herself, she brings herself to hands and knees, and wraps her fingers around his throat.

"You want to come, don't you? You need to come, or you might die?" Her tone mocks him and he hates it. Loves it. Hates it.

Loves it.

He nods. He really does want to this time, and knows she has to hear it.

"Please." He's parched, his voice a rasp. He needs to come so badly. "Please?"

Luckily, she's in the mood to let him.

She pushes two fingers into his mouth to simulate a cock, and he sucks them eagerly, his eyes closed as she grips his flesh and strokes. It doesn't take long, he's so close to the edge, though his fear she might stop at any moment almost prevents him from allowing himself his release.

Finally, his ass lifts up off the bed, his legs spasming as he comes, a grunt forced from his throat as a hot fountain spurts against his belly. A shower of gratitude. He's so thankful the pressure's been released, his eyes blur with unshed tears.

But before he can settle into the sea of endorphins that floods his brain, she scoops the still-warm goo from his body and brings it to his lips.

"Open up."

It's not his favourite thing, honestly, but the fact he's bound and helpless and that she wills it so, helps him fall another inch deeper into subspace. He licks and sucks her fingers clean, and she disappears momentarily, returning to finish the job of cleaning him with a cloth fetched from the bathroom.

He floats.

Gone.

Warm.

Gone.

Once he's clean, she rolls him towards the wall and wraps her arms around him, breathing with him in contented silence as he drifts into that deeper place.

"Such a good boy," she murmurs against his ear, squeezing him tightly.

He sighs happily and presses back against her, his arms still held against his chest, still bound in her blood-red rope.

Later, with the noon sun heating the golden darkness of the room, she unbinds him and rolls him back to face her, smoothing his tangled hair back from his face. Her eyes full of warmth as she presses her lips to his, and he kisses her back.

Through a haze of contentment, he can just make out her whispered words, "I think I'll keep you.", and wants nothing else.