tagBDSMHunter's Confession

Hunter's Confession


She is worthy of my attention so I worship her. She is worthy of my devotion so I crown her my goddess. What is the motivation? Why do I subjugate myself to her, allowing her to demean and humiliate me? In truth it is because these actions of submission give me a kind of power. Another's Mistress (a coach), an actualized and enlightened female with considerable insight, shared with me that submission is the highest form of ego. The act of surrender ensures that you receive exactly what you seek most. My own Mistress -- when frustrated with my behavior -- refers to it as "topping from the bottom." So, I intuitively sought one who in getting what she wants and needs gives me what I need... unmitigated and sustained sensation, with a touch of self-seeking subjugation.

Some readers will know what I mean and agree, some will not. In itself that will be the distinction between those who are truly submissive and those who toy with the proposition out of curiosity rather than from knowing themselves. The true submissive creates their own gratification from their own psychological framing of the physical experience elicited from their Master or Mistress. The merely curious completely give themselves up, hoping the Dominate will create a gratifying experience for them. Sadly, in this case the Dominate can never do enough to satisfy.

At this point, my observations will resonate with you or they do not. If you understand, read on. If this sounds like so much bunk, my description of life with Mistress Melanie will not prove exciting and, ultimately, satisfying.

My work environment is one where I am in complete control. Men and women depend upon my decisions and my judgments. I am expected to provide insights, solutions, and to adjudicate disputes to the satisfaction of all involved. Truthfully, I enjoy this role and the status it provides me. People see me as powerful and decisive. I am acknowledged as being the leader in almost every situation I am in. But this status and has its drawbacks. Being in-charge can be tiring and it can deplete your energy. Relinquishing power can actually be invigorating and rejuvenating.

So, I walk in the door -- after a day of being in-charge -- and Mistress Melanie greets me at the door with a command like, "Strip naked and stand before me as my servant and Face Slave." I know that I do not have to think. Soon I will be smothered by a wet pussy, gasping for breath as succulent juices flow pass my lips, into my mouth, and down my throat. This is what I want and I can not stop it from occurring. I do not have to resist or deny myself the passive pleasure. To the extent I struggle, it is only to heighten my own pleasure and delight. If my Mistress -- my pleasure-giver -- finds her own enjoyment in the process, since I do love her beyond imagination, all the better. When, with her cunt firmly planted upon my face, my air supply is gone and I struggle against moist flesh to draw in air that is almost unavailable, my heart races and I an thrown into excited desperation. I am the primary beneficiary; my commanding and dominant Mistress depends upon my tongue on her clit, stabbing at that pleasure spot, to reach heights of personal ecstasy. I am already there; my pleasure journey began when her thighs first caressed the sides of my face; when I felt her soft wet flesh on my nose and lips, when I first smelled her private scent.

When, as she is astride my face, pee dribbles from her urethra to excite the taste buds buried in my tongue and I gulp in excitement, who is pleasured more: the Mistress or the Slave? I relish the taste and the erotic notion that I am the recipient of the fluids of her most basic and private bodily function. When I so slowly work the tip of my tongue into her urethra, she squirms and I know I will soon enjoy her passionate squirt, the female ejaculation, it is my pleasure that causes clear, pre-cum to ooze from my own urethra. My submission to her body weight and wet flesh is my price for personal erotic release from the demands of the day. In giving to her, I get what I want, what I need, "Pee on me, Mistress."

To be sure Melanie gets what she wants, what turns her on. She has shared, in those brief, post-coital moments when she becomes the satisfied woman, in whom the thought and action of pissing powerfully into my mouth produces an almost spontaneous orgasm that is, no less for her, all about power. For her it is the vulgar, the nasty, that has its appeal. The excitement for her comes from "the spread," in feeling my nose, my lips, my teeth buried within her tender inner flesh. But, I have my own power in play in these moments, because I know the intense pleasure-irritation my tongue or fingertip produces in her urethra. I push either in deeper, roll them wider, or draw slowly away, as I look up from between her legs to see her belly bowl round in a spasm of contraction. Her intensity so great asshole blooms and she grunts, "Motherfucker," in such an atavistic, erotic manner my cock dances. At these moments I, the total submissive, have power. I know that stabbing my free "fuckfinger" -- a hard middle digit -- into that engorged, puckered asshole will cause my Mistress great pleasure. Nasty, dirty pleasure for both of us.

When I am suspended from chains or ropes from strategically placed hooks and eyelets in the ceiling of my Mistresses' bedroom, who wins and who loses? When I enter her domain, soft or light rock music -- often Noah Jones or Fergie -- playing from embedded speakers, I am commanded to strip naked. I always do, almost cumming in anticipation of my desires being fulfilled. She approaches me and binds my wrists above my head. Always, she does so with some infliction of that pain that so closely approximates pure pleasure. The leads are attached to pulleys and I know that means I will be stretched. Hopefully, the very tips of my toes will brush soft carpet providing just enough contact to move the balance of tension in my armpits continuously between pain and pleasure. As she applies the cuffs, she'll bite my nipples in a grinding motion that really hurts; that causes my cock to dance. She'll say, "You fucking pussy, aren't you strong enough to be my man?" I'll think of the Cheryl Crow song, I always do, and I'll take whatever she gives. But, I know that I really want is what is coming and I'll do whatever she commands to get it.

She stretches me and calls me names of the vilest nature: Cunt, Pussy, Sissy, Face Slave, Toilet, and "Her Toy." All of these terms of endearment tell me she will take and, in the process, give me the unique pleasure I seek. She will spit upon me or pee on my cock, scrotum, and legs from two feet away, past spread labia pulled wide by her own fingers. The mere distance will be a statement of erotica that the uninitiated could never understand. But most of all, to my pleasure, I know she will tease me. She will blindfold me so that I can not see or anticipated her actions. Then she will make obscene promises, "I am going to fuck you in the ass with the dildo I used on Cici last night, still coated with her cunt juices, dried flakes of her jism will fill your rectum." Then, I'll wait suspended for hours while she goes about other business. But, what do I get out of it? Often hours pass in silence where only my thoughts toy with my senses as I endure the growing pain of suspension, physically and mentally. Without sight, every sound is intensified. I hear her on the phone in the outer room and imagine that she is describing my predicament to her friends. My cock grows harder and harder and the clear pre-cum flows to the floor in an uninterrupted stream. Once, after she'd left me suspended for more that three hours, I was surprised to see a bowl of clear fluid between my tip-toes containing more than a half-cup of my own pre-orgasmic fluid. Mistress Melanie at one point command that I take it into my mouth and pass it to her slave Cici. The act was humiliating and wonderful.

As I hang suspended, I know -- in some measure -- that she will come to me and I will be pleasured. It is always worth the wait. First, I will hear her in the room. She will move around me in ceremony, sometimes speaking, sometime not. Always there will be a consequence. I wait, I await. Will she bite, twist, slap, penetrate, stroke, or even caress? Will she give me what I most want: will she smother me with her flesh and choke me with her intimate juices? Having heard her enter the room after minutes or hours of neglect, I am a mass of nerve ending ready to fire, my synapses already bridged. Please, Mistress, bring your nails, your birch, your flogger, your dildo, your tongue to bear. I can hardly suffer the anticipation. If she strikes my back with a crop, I want a finger in my ass. Should she aggressively drive that finger past my anal sphincter, I wish that she had dripped hot wax on the head of my cock or that she'd squeezed my balls with the intensity of a vise. So, she gives and I take, never enough, who wins?

The symbiotic relationship of the Dominant and the Submissive is ultimately reflected in the question of who fucks whom. I am only occasionally allowed to fuck Mistress Melanie. Do I suffer for this? Hardly. The fucks are great, but the alternatives are markedly better. A cum in a hot pussy is delightful. But, can it compare to the erotica of jerking off on the freshly painted toe-nail of one's Mistress? The honest answer to the question is made more complex when one add the probability of being commanded to lick those toes clean and to pass the seeds of your subservient passion into the awaiting mouth of a female subservient who will gladly swallow to meet the expectations of the same Mistress you enjoy. As I push my own semen, licked from Mistress Melanie's foot, into Cici's mouth, I feel her shudder. My passions rise from the question, "Is her physical reaction the result of my fingers in her moist pussy or the resulting effect of Mistress Melanie's fist buried in her ass. As Cici swallows my offering and moans, "Oh Mistress," it doesn't matter a lot to me. I am getting off on the shared relationship.

I can honestly say that I am not really being abused when I hang for hours from the eye-hook buried deep in the ceiling beam in her bedroom. Surely my muscles stretch and strain, from armpit to elbow as my extended toes barely brush the deep pile carpet. When, after leaving me alone for what seems like hours, she enters the room picks up the violet wand lying on her bed and approaches me with a menacing smile I look down at my cock since that appears to be the focus of her gaze. An abused man doesn't have a raging hard-on with a viscous stream of clear pre-cum extending from its tip to a saucer-size puddle soaking into the carpet between my legs. A puddle of this size, produced without a touch, is the product of hours of mental, if not physical, pleasure. But, then she does touch me, with her wand. A direct application of velvet electricity to my scrotum: my nuts immediately contract upward and my cock jerks so violently that the string of pre-cum breaks, sending three beads of the fluid across the open space between us to land on her flat belly. "You love the pain, don't you my Baby? Tell Mama what you love Hunter." She looks into my eyes, holds them, as she moves the wand to the wet tip of my cock. The current flows across the thick conductive fluid and jolts my prostate. I moan in pleasure. The only pain that in intolerable comes from knowing that I can't break free to bury my face in her cunt to taste the combination of female juices and pee that always accumulate when she abuses me. I suffer from her keen awareness of what I am thinking, of what I am wanting. She knows what I love, so she gives me something close, she ceases her administration of the wand and crosses naked to the adjacent bathroom to sit, legs spread on the commode to pee, loudly enough for me to hear. "Your Mistress is pissing for you," she growls. "Do you want to clean me up, my Face Slave?" She knows just how to turn her "abuse" to pleasure.

She rises without wiping, comes back to me, and releases the shackles at my wrists. I crumble to the floor before I can place my feet squarely beneath me. She uses one foot to roll me onto my back. Before I can move or speak, before I can catch a breath, she forcefully squats on my face and lays her full weight upon me. I drive my tongue past my lips into her pussy, stabbing at her pee-hole. I can not breathe, but I don't stop. Instead I reach between her legs from behind to softly force my middle finger into her asshole. Her moans of pleasure and abusive comments about my value as a man, make me "Her" man and I am happy to be under her control. Yet, I can help but think that I have just gotten what I want and need; how it always seems I do. I think, "I am so much better off in that regard than Cici." But what happens between My Mistress, that useless bitch (I love her too) Cici, and me is the stuff of my next story. There will always be another story, I Must Confess.

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