He is still smiling, delighted at finding you like this, you see his eyes take you in kneeling by the chair, the bucket of ice with his drink in it. You have greeted him like this before, many times.
Normally, he’d sit before you in silence and you would serve him his drink first. Normally, when you greet him like this, as his good little woman, as his sexy house wife slave, you are to be a thing. You are there to comfort him after his day. To relieve his stress. To be of service. Talking isn’t needed.
Today, he speaks and says two words that you really didn’t need to hear, two words you had assumed. Had spent the last few hours mentally preparing to follow. “Slave mode,” he says, and your eyes snap down to the floor. You don’t need to hear them, but still, the command, his tone, what it implies for the night, makes you shiver in anticipating. You feel your body reacting in kind.
In your day to day life with him, especially during sexual play, you are always fairly close to slave mode. You already can’t orgasm without his permission. You already have to call him Sir, even in public unless it would out you. You already prefer thinking about his needs over your own. But he wants a partner, not a true slave. He likes your sass. He likes your playful banter. He likes to be with you and talk to you. So you are always fairly close to being his slave. Fairly close, but with an openness to your interaction. A leniency he often shows, even sometimes when you would prefer he didn’t.
In slave mode, there is no question. All the normal rules apply, but now, the punishments are much stricter. He might like it normally when you occasionally brat around or cum without permission so that you can have fun sexy punishment time, but not now. In Slave mode, such an infractions wouldn’t be “cute” or “sassy,” it would be a slap to his face. Infractions require severe punishments to make sure you understand your place.
Luckily though, you are his good girl. His little woman. You so rarely make those mistakes and never on purpose. Not in slave mode. You enjoy this too much. Giving him such total control over you. Letting you sink into a deeper and deeper submissive mindset where you can finally, totally, shut your brain off and just live for pleasure. Live for obedience. Live to serve him. He doesn’t put you into slave mode often, but when he does, it is always worth it. Always a pleasure.
You think through the rules quickly, as you feels his eyes still taking you in. You aren’t to speak to him, technically anyone, without his direct permission and only if asked a question. Of course, you have the exception of needing to safe or caution word, but other than that, you will stay silent. You will only answer a question asked, you will not supply any additional information unless you think the dominant speaking to you needs to hear it.
You are to keep your eyes downward, not to look him, technically anyone, in the eye, not even the other subversives you have played with on rare occasions while in slave mode.
At all times, in slave mode, unless ordered otherwise, you are to ensure that he is feeling pleasure. If you can reach his cock to stroke it. You will. If you can get your mouth to his cock, to suck it, you will. Whatever body part is within range of yours. Even if is to merely rub his large hands, you will do it.
And you aren’t allowed to say no. Not to anything, other than to safe word. Not that it will happen. In slave mode, and the one you hate the most, punishment mode, he might push to the edge of your limits. He might even skate along that line, threatening and teasing to go past it. But he never does, not without permission. He wouldn’t.
That’s part of what you love about him. What you respect about him. It’s that he loves you. He respects you. He wants to give you what you want. He is a dom. Your dom. He is a sadist. Your sadist. But he understands its a game, understands that this is for both of you. You both might pretend that its his way or the highway. That you are a thing. But its pretend and he knows it. You know it.
Before him, if you had to safe word it made you feel awful. Like you had failed your dom. And with him, you still feel that way a little, you are a sub of course, you enjoy being of service. But what makes him special, what makes any good dominant special, is that if he pushes you to the point of safe word, if he takes you outside your limits without permission, then he thinks that he has failed. Failed you and himself.
“Stand,” he commands, his voice happy and light, but the sternness in it, the hours you have spent sinking yourself into the slave mindset, has you on your feet so quickly that your head spins for a moment from kneeling for so long. Commands are to be followed as swiftly as possible. “I want to see this lovely new outfit of yours, present and give me a slow turn.”
You are already standing straight with your breasts pushed out. In your slave mindset, taking such positions to be pleasurable to his eye are instinct. But for the present command, you shift your feet a few inches further apart and hold your arms out. With your eyes still downcast, you turn slowly. When he whistles in appreciation, its hard to not feel that delight spreading through you. The knowledge that you have pleased your master.
It’s still strange, in this pretty white lingerie, that covers so much, but leaves you bare at the same time. Your nipples uncovered. Your pussy and asshole uncovered. While you still feel the cloth on your legs. Your things. Your stomach. Your breasts. Somehow it makes you feel more exposed to be like this, as if the missing cloth is placing a magnifying glass over your bare parts. You feel his eyes on you.
“You look lovely,” he says, the commanding tone temporarily absent, “I’m almost disappointed that I have other plans for you now.” He steps towards you as you take the presenting position again. He lifts his hands. His finger tips caressing your cheek and slowly trailing down your neck to your collar bone. It slides out to your shoulders, his finger nail digging in just enough to that a small moan, the tiniest mix of pleasure and pain, slips from your mouth.
Fortunately, moaning is normally allowed.
Then his finger is sliding down, passing across the cloth of the lingerie, over your covered breast, to your bared nipple, poking out from the hole in the cloth. Exposed. His finger tip circles across it for a moment before he pinches. Not hard. Just hard enough to make you moan again before he lets up. Part of you glad he didn’t pinch harder. Part of you sad.
His finger slides down across your under breast, down your stomach and you feel your whole body tensing. Preparing for his touch on your most sensitive of places. Will he just go for it? Will he just slide his finger tip against you, let you feel pleasure? Will he tease you, touching everywhere BUT there? Will he hurt you, pinches mixed with touches of pleasure.
But none of those ideas come true as he speaks again, the commanding tone clear, “Kneel and resume.”
You are back on your knees, eyes on the chair, waiting, and reaching one hand to the ice bucket. For his drink, to serve him. You can feel the tingles between your legs. The frustration of not getting what you had hoped for mixing with the excitement of being denied.
As he sits, the commanding tone running strong through his voice, making you tingle even more, “you will wear that again for me soon. I’ll fuck you hard the moment I walk in, fill you up like a whore, and then have you put on something slutty over it and take you out somewhere, freshly fucked. To show you off.”
You hand him his drink and say meekly, “Yes, Master.” And feel a bit disappointed as well. Imagining him simply bending you over without foreplay. TAKING you. Or just pushing you onto your back on the rug and only taking the time to unzip before taking you. OWNING you. Not letting you cum, then making you go out feeling wet and loose and slutty while out in public, before, knowing him, he teases and plays with you until you orgasm at the bar or on the dance floor or against a wall on the walk back to the car.
But your curiosity is spiking, what else might he have planned then? If not making use of your aching body?
Either way, you are seeing to your duties as he takes the glass and sips it with a sigh. He is still in his suit and needs to be undressed. First, his work shoes need to be taken off. His socks as well. His feet look red and raw. So you take a moment to rub each foot. Each large foot, so much bigger than your hands. You don’t spend long, but you put your full effort into it. Taking time to rub the stress out of each one. To flex his toes and rub the joints. Your job is to relax him and he groans in approval. The content noise he makes fills your mind with pleasure. When he says, “good girl” you almost moan. You are a good girl. His little woman.
You start to reach for his belt now. Normally that is what comes next. You would take his pants off and rub each of his legs until you reach his crotch. Then you would skip his boxers to start the long task of unbuttoning his shirt. He enjoys the tease of waiting for you to get to his cock normally.
Today he stops your hand and says, “we don’t have time for that.” The ice in the glass clinks as he pauses to sip, “just unzip me and let me feel your hands, both of them, for a bit.”
You say nothing, though you burn to ask. Not enough time? Your hands slide, finger tips gliding on the cloth of his pants, to his zipper. Unzipping it with one hand while the other holds the cloth in place. Then unbuttoning his boxers and pulling his half hard cock free. He is a grower and its so nice to feel it hardening and expanding in your hands. You start with finger tips, both hands, finger tips sliding around his cock, your thumbs brushing its head.
You feel content here, fingers rubbing against him, squeezing him lightly, as he grows harder in your hands. As you feel his response to you. He’s hard fairly soon. You’ve done such a good job getting him hard. And you begin to alternate between stroking it and letting your finger tips brush across it. You make sure to stroke, to touch, every inch, every vein, every crevice, every nerve. He’s got such a lovely cock. It feels so right to hold it. To stroke it. To love it. To worship it. And you make it your focal point. You try to push everything from your mind other than your hands and his cock.
“Good girl” he murmurs and takes another drink. “I love seeing my little woman so content on her knees.”
You smile more broadly at that, taking the pleasure in his praise. Praise that you deserve. You are content. Your mind is relaxed. You feel so deeply in the submissive space. So focused on being perfect for him. You have worked so hard to be ready for him. To please him. You deserve the praise for it.
“But,” he says, the regret in his voice turning towards excitement as he speaks, “we don’t have any more time for this, make me presentable.”
The command is clear, but its harder to follow. He is large. Not giant, but large, and quite erect. Getting him back into his boxers is tricky. He doesn’t move an inch to help. You know that if you looked up, looked him in the eyes, he’d be smiling at your struggle. Amused. And that amuses you. If he didn’t make things hard for you, you might get lazy on him.
You manage to carefully get him put back away though and zipped back up. Of course, you are close enough to give him pleasure, so you leave your hand on his bulging suit crotch and continue to stroke him through the cloth. This is your role. This is your purpose. At all times you will find ways to give him pleasure.
“My sweet little slut,” he says, with clear warmth in his voice. “I really hope you enjoy the surprise tonight. It’s something a bit new. Something we have never done.” He sounds eager and a bit nervous. You know him. Whatever he has planned, he won’t be happy if you end up not liking it. He will blame himself.
It wasn’t a question, what he said, but close enough that you are allowed to answer. He wants assurance after all, so you say, “I will enjoy it if you do, Sir.” And its true. You know him. He won’t violate a limit. Even if you end up not liking whatever it is he has planned, you are going to enjoy his enjoyment. That will be enough for you, that he is enjoying it.
But he also knows you so well. Almost every time in your relationship, when he has pushed on some new scene, some new act, some new toy, you have almost always ended up loving it. You keep sliding your hand up and down his bulge. You doubt tonight will be any different.
You technically, technically, shouldn’t say more. You are already on thin ice answering a question that wasn’t actually asked. But your job is to please him. Your job is to make him happy. You know that if nothing else, you will enjoy a new experience, and he sounds so eager, that he will clearly enjoy it, which is enough.
So you speak again, and as you do, from the corner of your eye, you see him readying his hand for a slap, but you don’t stop. This is your job and if you need to be punished for it, so be it. “I trust you sir and if you think I will enjoy it, I probably will.” His hand moves quickly towards your face, but no slap comes, just a gentle caress, and he leans over and kisses the top of your head. You push your hand harder against his cock as he does, applying more pressure and you hear him groan lightly.
“Good girl,” he says, his voice kind, “I don’t think you will hate it. It’s more that I’ve worked hard to plan this one and I’m really hoping you love it. My sweet little slave.”
He kisses you once more on the top of your head and then stands. You keep your hand against his cock, through his pants, continue to rub it lightly as its still close enough to touch. He doesn’t seem to notice, he’s looking at his phone.
“Ok,” he says with the command coming back into his voice. “Get your head phones and meet me in the sitting room.” He starts to walk off and snaps his finger, turning back around. “Also, this is your chance to use the bathroom, you won’t have a chance for a bit. Oh and a towel, so you don’t make a mess on the chair.”
You stand quickly with a “yes sir” and go to his tasks. What could he be planning? When you are done and you walk into the sitting room, he has pulled the kink chair our from where it normally sites against the wall, and turned it to face a corner.
The kink chair was a lovely find at a flea market just last year. Made of iron and dark wood, with just enough padding to be comfortable for a long sit. It’s best trait though, and why he bought it, was that it was made to look like woven chains with plenty of open spots for anchors and rope. Today, he has simple cloth straps woven into the front legs and arm rests. You stand at the edge of the room. Waiting patiently.
“Put your head phones in, then take the arm and bend over” he says and you see that he’s lubing up the wireless toy. It was a very expensive toy and you shiver because he almost always uses it to tease you. To edge you. He can control it from the little app on your phone. Connect it to other things. Whatever he has planned tonight, you are likely in for a frustratingly long, but pleasurable tease.
You follow the command quickly, saying “yes sir” as you put the ear buds in and power them on, then you lean over the chair as instructed. He takes a moment to squeeze your ass before you feel the lubed toy sliding easily inside you. It’s a good thing you choose the crotchless lingerie. He hasn’t told you what to do next and as he ordered you to take the arm rest and bend over, you don’t move or reach for his cock. From behind you, he starts to move your hair.
Normally you wear the pretty gold chain that he gave you. It’s a symbolic collar. It doesn’t work for real sexy play, but you can wear it in public without anyone looking twice. He takes it off of you and you feel something larger taking its place, from its size and rigidity you know instantly that it is the posture collar.
Leather and metal that forces your head up, to extend your neck, and makes it hard to turn and look to the sides. If its the one you think it is, it has a little metal ringlet in front, back, and to the sides. Perfect tie points. You hear the small metal click of one of the little padlocks he loves so much, locking it into place.
From the edge of your vision, still keeping your eyes down even if your head is up straight, you see him take the towel and place it onto the seat of the chair. He snaps his finger, pointing at the seat. You say, “yes sir” to the unspoken command and move quickly to sit. You settle on the chair easily, setting your wrists onto the arms of the chair directly over the wrist straps.
“Good girl,” he says with a small laugh and you feel the toy inside you buzz for a moment, a ripple of pleasure spreading through your body before it turns off. He can control it manually, but since he had you get your head phones, you think his plan is to use its other mode. The one where he can sink the buzzing to the audio.
Then he is attaching the cloth straps. Your ankles. Your wrists. And even, from behind you, you feel him thread something behind your neck, as he ties your posture collar to the back of the chair. You are sitting, totally immobile, you cant even turn your head more than a quarter of an inch.
You are trapped. You are helpless. You are totally at his mercy. You are so turned on. So aroused that you are glad he got the towel.
And from the way he surveys you, from the grin on his face as surveys his work, he can tell. He slides a finger down your belly again, towards your sex. Teasing for a moment, his finger diverting to your left thigh and inching closer, then jumping to the right thigh. Before he actually touches your most sacred of places. Before he gives you, for less than a minute, the honor of being pleasured by his hand.
Then it is over and he picks your phone up off the table where you left it as you moved to comply with his orders. He unlocks it. You have no privacy from him. No password he doesn’t know. You have no place he cannot open. And after a moment the audio starts.
It’s the dirty play list. The extreme playlist. The filthiest songs that get you hot. Most of them song by throaty women. Songs about being bound. About being a slave. About being raped and hating how much you like it. About being beat. About fucking. Audio files of women begging, cumming and fucking. Audio files of you begging, cumming and fucking. Audio files of both of you talking, explaining rules, explaining dynamics, explaining your place, or reading stories, poems, and mantra’s.
The song starts and skips as he switches to a specific file. You can hear your own voice begging with light industrial techno playing behind it. A hard beating rythym of synthetic beats while you hear yourself moaning loudly and begging, begging, *please may I cum, please may I cum, oh god oh god, please master, please, I am so close* and on and on. You remember this night. He had been fucking you so hard while ordering you to masturbate as hard as you could. He had finally forced you to orgasm without permission and punished you for it.
He messes with the volume raising it a little and you hear him speaking, but can’t hear what he says. The volume drops a bit as you can hear him in your ears saying, *bad cunt* while you scream and cry in orgasmic bliss. Then you hear him, the real him, behind you, say, “Can you hear me love.”
“Yes sir,” you respond and the music gets slightly louder.
The audio file switches to one you made him as a gift during a week he was on a work trip and you weren’t allowed to cum while he was gone. It’s almost 30 minutes of you making statements about your role while you masturbated. It’s set over an instrumental play list of heavy rock songs played by a string quartet. Each time you speak in the recording, your voice is thick with arousal, catching with soft moans and whines.
Your own voice *My place is at your feet* a moan *I am happiest when your cock is in my mouth* The schlicking sound of your fingers in your cunt.
His voice from behind, inaudible, then he speaks louder, near shouting, “Say yes sir when you can understand me and no sir if you can hear me, but not understand me.”
“Yes sir,” you say as in your ears you say *I will not say not to you, I am yours to play with*
You hear his voice, but can’t understand him and say, “No sir.”
In your ear, *I will cook and clean for you. I will bend and spread for you.*
This goes on for another few moments as he seems to be trying to adjust your audio to make it just loud enough to hear him, but too loud to actually hear what he is saying.
*His will, is my will* you say into your own ear. *His pleasure is my pleasure*
Then he comes back around and leans in to kiss you. A long, sweet lingering kiss. His lips. His tongue. So lovely. So perfect. Sometimes just kissing him is better than sex.
*My mouth is his, I will use it as he pleases. My tongue is his. I will lick what he pleases. My eyes are his. I will look where he pleases.*
You don’t believe in hypnosis of course. Not really. But his mouth combined with your words, the beat of music running behind them, you feel yourself sinking deeper into submission. Feel your compliance. Your acceptance of whatever he has planned.
*My skin is his, I will feel what he wants. My breasts are his. To do with as he wills. My nipples are his, for his pleasure, or pain.*
Then he is gone and you have only the lingering feel of his lips, that last moment of pain when he gently bit your lip, and the music and voices he is choosing for you to hear.
The audio switches to something you don’t recognize. It’s simple music, light trance music, but with audio from well . . . You. A recording of some session where, from the sounds of it, he was edging and denying you. Rhythmic relaxing music while in the background you can hear your own voice begging for orgasm.
That alone would be bad. But as the music plays, as your cries sound in your own ears, the vibrator inside you begins to buzz in rhythm. It’s synced to the high end audio and the base. Every thump of the electronic drums cussing a buzz inside you. Ever prolonged moment of begging, or crying, causing the buzzing inside you, at a lighter setting, to thrum and hold that thrumming until the you in your ears is silent.
He’s linked your past torment, to your current pleasure. And now you have no choice but to endure it. No choice but to listen and feel and look at the blank corner of the room. No choice but to accept it and let the total lack of control push you deeper. And wait. Wait while your past torment, torments you with teasing pleasure.
For how long, its hard to say. The audio seems to go on and on and on. You never cry or beg long enough to really push you towards orgasm and its hard to say if that is a good or bad thing. You find yourself in a constant mix of want and fear. Want of longer or more intense bursts of pleasure. Fear that if he turns that thing to its highest setting, which he could, you’d be forced to orgasm without permission. Which in slave mode, would be very bad.
Minutes definitely, 15? 45? It’s hard to tell as you drift mindlessly in pleasure, in need.
Then the doorbell. Unmistakably the doorbell. Ringing over the sound of your own begging.
The audio switches suddenly back to music with words. 90’s grunge, a woman singing about being drugged and knocked down by a man, but she likes it. Small moans of pleasure added in, a man’s though, maybe his? Is it a recording of him fucking you set to the music? The vibrator inside you has shifted as well and as the audio in this song is thicker, with a deeper base, it thrums harder inside you.
You drift out of the stupor, your curiosity overwhelming the lowest depths of it. Though you don’t shift. You don’t try to turn. You are still deep enough to wait. Deep enough to accept your place in the corner. Where he put you. Where he wants you to be. You, the good house wife, the good little lady, will do what you are told. And really, despite the curiosity, you feel pride in yourself. For being so good. For waiting so patiently. Clearly this is what he wants. You will please him by accepting it
In a lull of the music, you clearly hear a feminine voice laugh. The song enters a softer part, just the instruments playing while the singer softly moans whoa-ooo. And during that soft part, you clearly hear a woman say, “That chair is amazing, I can’t believe she’s sitting so” but then the singer starts to sing the chorus again and everything except the high edge of unheard words is drowned out. The vibrator inside you pulsing hard along with it.
So the surprise is a woman? That doesn’t track. He said something new. You’ve included women at least a dozen times over the last few years. You’ve been tied to a chair and forced to watch. He’s sat in a chair and watched a dominatrix beat and fuck you. You’ve kneeled next to other subs, equals, below him, pleasuring him. You’ve worn the big strap-on in the closet and fucked women at his order. You’ve been fucked at his order. Double penetrated by his cock and the faux-cock worn by some lover that you or he picked.
The song switches to a 90’s pop diva singing about wanting men to do bad things to her. Set over the audio, there is still the man’s voice moaning in pleasure. It’s too quiet to pick up if its him or not, but the man is clearly moaning in pleasure. Above this male. Noise though, you hear another voice . . . A male voice, but not HIS voice, and its saying, “Vodka, yes.”
The music cuts the rest off, a loud rapid thumping playing in your ears that makes the vibrator inside you go wild. The shock, the implications of that voice lifting you up out of the sub mind for a moment into mild shock. The pleasure combining with that shock, that mild terror, that excitement. Another man? The sudden shift, the surprise, it pushes you so close to the edge that you almost, you almost cum.
But you sink your willpower into pushing it away. You will NOT come like this. Like some sloppy slut that can’t control herself. You are a refined, sexy, woman, even if you are a whore. Your body is his and you have orders. Rules that your body must follow. You manage to slow your breathing. To concentrate. To fight until the buzzing slows.
He has told you, more than once, that he would never share you with another man. He had said “I like my women, like I like my coffee, without someone else’s cock in it.”
The first time you had pointed out the implication of such a statement, was that he put his own penis into his own coffee, and started to laugh at him. He had laughed too, but later, strapped you down and paddled you for your insolence. Though, he’d smiled the entire time and made you cum, A LOT, when he was done. He does enjoy a good joke. And you do enjoy a good paddling.
Was that the surprise? Had he changed his mind and was going to let another man fuck you? It was at least a man and a woman. Where they a couple? Or only the first guests to arrive? Is he planning to share you with swingers or does he have some sort of show planned.
Your mind races as the music thrums, as the vibrator thrums inside you, but you pause to breathe. You pause to think. Pause to keep control over your naughty, aching, sex.
No matter what he has planned. You will do it. You will accept it. You will please your master. Be it pleasure, pain, or humiliation. You will be his good girl. His little woman. His will is yours. You exist for his pleasure. So deep you are into slave mode, your mind doesn’t even contradict this idea.
The music rises in volume slightly and you can hear the blurred sounds of conversation behind you. He and these people are just sitting behind you talking? It lasts through almost 10 songs. Through constantly teasing buzzing inside you. Your discipline is too strong to get to that point again though, where you came close enough to disaster, to punishment.
Then you realize that the talking seems to have quieted and the audio shifts again. Behind it, you can hear soft moans of pleasure. Wet kissing noises.
It’s instrumental music that starts now, pop songs, but now its his voice in your ear. Speaking clearly while you hear the sound of what could easily be him or the other couple making out. Is he touching her breasts? Is he touching himself watching them? Wouldn’t he be happier watching if you were on your knees before him?
*You will be my good girl* his recorded voice says. *A woman’s place it to keep a man’s home tidy. A woman’s place is to please her man.*
But behind his words that make you shiver, deep within yourself. Words that would normally make you snicker slightly at their absurdity, but within the submissive mind make total sense, behind it all, you hear the sound of metal clinking on the ground. A sound that you think is the sound of a belt, a man’s belt, hit belt, hitting the floor. The sound of a zipper. Then two. Then three.
His recorded voice continues to speak in your ear, the vibrator thrilling in rhythm with his voice. *Your body is mine. Your flesh is mine. Your holes are mine. Your pleasure is mine. Your pain is mine. Your mind, is mine.*
You feel your breathing slowing, calming, you hadn’t realized what the sound, the implication, of his belt coming off, if that even was what it was, had done to you. The sound of zippers. His? The other man’s? The woman’s outfit? A purse?
*Your body was made to serve me, to serve my cock. Your hands were made to serve me, to serve my cock. Your mouth was made to serve me, to serve my cock. Your breasts were made to serve me, to serve my cock. Your ass was made to serve me, to serve my cock. Your cunt was made to serve me, to serve my cock.*
An idea occurs to you and you shiver in fear and pleasure. What if this another master with his own submissive little lady? Maybe he won’t share you, but the two men will make you and the other woman do vile things to each other. Hurt each other. Humiliate each other.
*You will only be happy when I am happy. Every ounce of pleasure I feel, is a joy for you to be thankful of, even if that pleasure comes from your pain. Your degradation. Your will thank me for allowing you to be the vessel of my pleasure.*
Just enough sound is getting through that you can hear moaning. A woman’s. Pleasure, not pain. Just the lightest sound of wet skin on skin. Not fucking, you don’t think at least. But fingers sliding inside a pussy? A mouth on skin? Is he pleasuring some woman while you have to listen? Or is he watching some woman get pleasured?
You can hear it off and on as his recorded voice speaks in your ears. As the vibrator inside you pulses.
*You will keep my home. You will clean my clothes. You will eagerly bend over for me. You will thank me for the honor of dropping to your knees. Of taking my seed onto your face. Submission is pleasure. Submission is right. Submission makes you happy.*
This becomes a mantra. Him repeating it over and over in your ears while the vibration pulses along with it. Pulsing with his words. Pulsing while you hear the sounds of making out, of heavy petting, behind you. Time passes. It is hard to say how much. Your world is just the wall that fills your view. The sound of his words telling you that submission is right. The sound of skin on skin. Moans of pleasure, a woman’s, and a man’s. Most likely his. It doesn’t matter. Submission makes you happy. Submission is right.
The audio finally changes and in the pause, you hear the clear and obvious sounds of a blow job. The soft murmers of approval from a man, you cant tell if its him, along with the wet sucking noises. The gasps for breath. Is she sucking his dick or is he watching her suck another man’s dick?
The buzzing inside you doesn’t care. It is relentless. The knowledge that you can’t see the show should bother you. The knowledge that you can’t see your own lover’s cock get sucked should bother you. But you are so deep. So deep. You live for his pleasure.
He’s clearly picking the audio on purpose, because you hear a recording that you made for a website. You had written a story about the first time he cuckolded you and read it, recording, while you had edged and masturbated. You had published it under a dirty screen name and get a lot of internet points on the website.
*The hardest part* you say in your own ears *was worrying if she would be better than me at sucking his cock. I work so hard to improve my technique. I work so hard to pleasure him. What if this other woman was just better than me? I can’t do anything about how my pussy or ass feels. But as his slave, my only goal is his pleasure. What if all my practice wasn’t as good as this other slut’s mouth? Wouldn’t that make me a failure as his slave?* You can clearly hear the sound of a vibrator on the recording. Hear yourself making soft moans in between words.
But behind you, the sounds of the blow job continue. And he moans. Clearly. HE. Moans. A swirl of . . . not jealousy, but envy, rises to the surface. Envy that you can’t watch. Envy that it isn’t your mouth. But you know this is right. That he is getting pleasure. That he knows you are here listening and that likely gives him pleasure too. Listening. Feeling horny and frustrated as the toy buzzes inside you, that is giving him pleasure. You are being his good girl.
An image appears in your head. Your master, your love, is sitting in a chair while some submissive woman is kneeling before him, sucking his cock, while her dom fucks her hard. And you can’t see if with your own eyes. Then it reverses. Now some woman is on her knees while your love slides his cock into her ass and she loudly sucks her own master’s dick.
Is this the surprise? Is he teasing you by making you listen to the sound of a submissive woman getting double teamed? Giving this random woman the sexual fantasy he has denied you?
His large cock in her mouth as her dom, who will allow another penis in one of his toys, takes her hard from behind? The buzzing inside you, which really hasn’t changed that much, seems so much stronger as the humiliation settles in. The idea that this woman, this unknown woman, is getting more than he will give you.
*As I watched him thrusting into her* you say in your own ear *I felt jealous of her, but proud to be part of his pleasure. Even if I wasn’t physically pleasuring her, I knew that my pain was arousing him, making it better for him, hotter for him. My humiliation was a pleasure that I could give him. So I focused on it. Sunk into it. Hated it. And loved it.*
The vibe pulses as you emphasize each word. Filling you with pleasure. Again, you felt the edge of orgasm start to push in, between the buzzing pleasure and the humiliation sinking deeper. The images filling your mind of all the ways the three of them could be fucking. You are getting close again, the ideas in your mind. Maybe you should just let it happen? Maybe if he punishes you, you will get to watch.
*When he was done and he untied me,* you say into your ear, the voice cracking with emotion, *I couldn’t believe how good it felt to clean his cum out of her. How good it tasted to clean her. To make her neat. That is the roll of the house wife isn’t it? To clean? To clean up after her man? I savored the taste and how it felt. To be useful to him.*
No. You can’t think that way. You have an order and that is what he wants. For you to be his good little woman. To follow his commands. Through your own will or the lack of your words hitting the right buzzing cadence, you manage to hold it back. You wait. For the first time, you allow yourself to moan in frustration. In pleasure. In hopes that he will hear and take pitty.
Almost as in response, your hard kinky music starts to play again. Vile dirty songs that can’t even be played on the radio. Your body pulses to it as the vibe responds inside you.
Over the music you hear the woman talking, but not a word of what she says. The tone is stern though.
Suddenly the music stops, all of the audio stops. Then he moves around the chair so you can see him. He’s naked and his cock is rigid and . . . . You think wet. Saliva still on it? He is smiling though. It’s a loving smile, but the edges are twisting up in a way that tells you that he has something mean in mind. Something dirty.
Your eyes, even without him before you, had stayed downward, where they stay still. Following the rules. The buzzing inside you has stopped. It’s hard to say if that is good or bad. It is just you and him in the quiet. You don’t hear the other two.
“I’m so proud of you my sweet,” he says, “I’ve been watching you closely. You haven’t even tried to look behind you.” It’s a statement, not a question, but he has complimented you, so you are allowed a short response.
“Thank you, sir,” you say, meekly.
He leans in to kiss you and you accept it greedily, smelling the cunt on his lips, on his breath. The other woman’s pussy. He is so good at that dirty act and never shies to give it to you, kneeling between your legs to tease or treat you. Some doms shy away from it, but not him. This woman was lucky and damn if she doesn’t taste good on him.
“You get a choice, between knowledge and pleasure” he says, and his face looks amused and horny, but serious as well, curious. He doesn’t know how you will respond to the offer. “I am sure you have heard enough to have some guesses as to what has been going on behind you. I am sure you are very curious.”
He pauses and your slave mind has you responding before you realize it. It’s true, what he says. Even if it wasn’t, your answer would be the same. In slave mode, your will is what he tells you it is. If he says you are curious, then you are. “Yes, sir,” you say, and nothing else.
He smirks. “So. Option 1 is that I untie you and you get to see everything and then you even get to take part. Be used in the ways I allow. Be of service in the ways I allow. To be clear, you will not be the focus of the evening. You will be a sex toy that gets used during the play. The price for satisfying your curiosity. The price for this knowledge, is pleasure. The loss of it. No orgasms until tomorrow. Do you understand?”
You think for a moment and only one question really seems worth asking. Only one that is important. “I understand sir,” you say, “if I choose option 1, will I be fucked by another man?”
It is an exciting idea, but also somewhat vulgar. It’s a fantasy of yours sure, but really, your not sure you want it. You like being his and only his.
He laughs, sweetly, at your question and says, “you know how I feel about that. No. You are right that there is another man here, if you want to call him that, here. But he won’t be fucking you.”
“Yes Sir,” you say. What did he mean by that? Your mind is so deep down. So eager to please. Your sure the answer would come to you otherwise.
He nods and kisses you again and you smell her again. “Option 2 is that I untie your hand and turn the vibrator on high. The music will stay on, but much lower volume, so you will be able to hear more of what’s happening. You can masturbate, and orgasm, as many times as you want. For the rest of the night. Even afterward our guests leave. Unlimited orgasms for one evening. Any questions?”
“No sir,” you say quickly, because option 2 seems quite clear. But then one does occur. The RIGHT one to ask. The only question that really matters. “Sir,” you ask, “which do you want me to pick?”
He grins and kisses you again.
“My sweet thing,” he says, “my little woman. You have no idea how much you please me. Normally, you would be right. Tonight, though, nothing would make me happier, than hearing which option you want. I’m very curious to see how you will respond.”
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/pey8ij/his_little_woman_part_2