I know he’ll be alone, with anyone else nearby already asleep; I feel alone, too, here, surrounded by people all going about their business(read more…)
Tag: internet sex
Dear Diary, I’ve been in hotel rooms before, so what’s wrong with this one? Maybe it’s the room number. I mean, who would knowingly give(read more…)
“All right. Were you only going to fuck me because he says so, this creep, whoever he is? Tell me who he is, Charlotte.”
I can’t. I can’t tell him. It’d break his heart. He’s never forgiven him for the way it was before. “I’d never make love to you on someone else’s say-so. Mike, I wanted to. I want to. I—oh, what a fucking mess.” I struggle to even look up at him.
“Make love? Is that what we were going to do? You know how I feel about you. I’d have been making love. But you, you’d have been performing for Mr Creepy, wouldn’t you? This was never about me. You and me. Was it?”
“You should never have come, Mike. I told you on the phone that you shouldn’t.” I know I’m lashing out. There’s no way I should apportion blame to him. If he’d only listened. If only he wasn’t so lovely…
Just his voice sets me gasping. My juices are beginning to tickle the top of my backside. Everything throbs. “I can’t believe you’re here.” The words seep through my lips. “Can I see you? Let me see you.”
“Keep your eyes closed.” His words are like silk. They wrap around my body, over my face, forming a veil of desire over my words. “I want you to do exactly as I tell you.”
“Yes.” My affirmation is nothing more than a whisper. My body feels incapable of articulating anything more coherent right now.
“Suck your fingers. One by one. Slowly. I want to see them wet.”
I do as he asks, drawing saliva up onto my tongue with difficulty, trying to keep my breathing even—how do I make my mouth sexy for him? I can barely breathe at all. But I manage, sucking each finger until they’re drenched for him.
“Good girl. Show me your wrist. Show me. Twist in that chain for me. I want to know you are properly tied to that bed.”
A photo comes through. The blood rushes to my ears, my heartbeat drowning out every other noise, and an unexpected pang between my thighs, at the sight of a pair of handcuffs. I massage the throb into submission as I read the message: “Do you have any of these?”
What does he think I am? I reply: “No.”
Bing: “Heeheehee! I didn’t think you would. I have had SUCH fun with this pair.”
There’s that pang again, this time shooting through my middle, lodging between my legs and throbbing there, uncomfortably. He wants me to ask, doesn’t he—who has he had fun with? How many women; what has he done with those cuffs? My hand roams to the inside of my thigh, an image of some unknown six foot, flaxen haired stunner with her hands over her head, chained to the bed while he pushes open her knees, lifting her feet onto his shoulders while he grins at her and says, “I’m going to take you.
I eat cake, and I have more, and as she’s telling me about the knitting group there’s a noise in my bag.
Bing: “Little love slave, I wish you were climbing on top of me and guiding me inside you. For some reason, I really like the idea of you climbing on top of me and feeding me into you… Those soft, beautiful breasts bouncing in front of my lips…”
My chest hurts; I struggle to control my breath. I can’t believe it. Not a command, a demand—just… I can feel the sweat breaking out in cold shivery patches all over my skin. Without really being conscious of what it might look like, I tongue the cream in the massive piece of cake, as Mrs Barnett pours me more tea. And try to ignore the image I have of me feeding his cock inside me. The client is talking, and I’m trying to concentrate. Why? Why didn’t he let it drop when I didn’t send him the picture? Why today? Why now? Why at all? An image of my naked body sitting astride him dominates my h
I can’t believe I’m doing this—my fingers move slowly to the very top of his inner thigh, brushing his crotch, and I feel him jerk under my fingertips. Again I brush against his erect cock which is lining a matter of several inches down the top of his trouser leg now. Surprising myself, I let out a gasp, and stare straight at him. He holds my gaze for a few seconds, then turns back to paper shuffling, his entire face the colour of the juicy inside of a watermelon. Maybe there’s juice at the end of his cock now, there, under my flexing fingertips? Oh, fuck! What if there is?
Buzz: “I’m waiting. Do you want me to end the punishment? Altogether? You know what I mean by that.”
My rather empty stomach curdles as the words scorch themselves into my consciousness. Immediately I reply: “It’s coming” and wish I hadn’t.
Buzz: “The photo, or his cock that you’re teasing so naughtily? You’re a BAD girl. Now be a good little love slave and SEND THE FUCKING PHOTO!”
I’m totally wired now; the looks that Mike keeps giving me, the knowledge that his cock is rock hard under the table because of the way I’ve touched him; the shot of fear I get every single time my phone vibrates. There has to be a way of doing this.
There’s Mike, already at the restaurant as I suspected he would be, pacing up and down in front of the bar. I wave through the window and he waves back and goes to sit down at a table against the wall. I am just about to push open the door, when my phone makes that sound:
“You realise you haven’t sent me a picture of your little vibrator. I will have to punish you if you don’t send it NOW.”
Crap, I forgot about it. It’s still on the bed. There’s nothing I can do except tell the truth. Well, most of it:
“I can’t send it now. I’m in a meeting with a client.”
Immediately there’s a reply: “Oh dear, my little love slave. Then you will be punished.” And then—nothing. I breathe in deeply, watching Mike, smiling and flapping his hand to hurry me in. I drag a smile from the depths of my professionalism, put my phone away, and wave back.
I get my two-cheeked kiss, as always. And, as always, the second one lingers just a little longer, his lips brushing my cheek a little closer than strictly necessary to my mouth as he pulls away.
Apparently, I read, people should trust their instincts. They should do this, the article says, because instinct tells us what we desire. And desire takes(read more…)
Why’s he sending me kisses? This is a game, surely, this Master-slave idea about us that he’s got in his head. Do all would-be Masters send kisses to their would-be subs, or slaves, or—I don’t even know what the hell I’m talking about, do I? What are they called? How should I know what they do? And kisses. He remembers, doesn’t he, what they used to do to me? I feel it now—that throb between my legs, the tingling on my skin, the way my insides tumbled over. I remember, even if he doesn’t, the touch of his lips on mine. The way they butterflied down my neck and over my shoulder. How on that one single morning he opened my dressing gown, damp and sticking to my freshly showered nakedness, and laid it open on the bed as his lips journeyed down my body until my moans met his kisses.