Lost

Ritual
I want to write about kneeling. About the time I was in a small, extra bedroom, upstairs, tucked away, in my own world, wearing ear buds and connected to my phone. About when a voice in my ear told me to shut the door, take off my clothes, and kneel at the foot of the big, stuffed chair that was in this room.

The air touched my skin as I disrobed. My top. My bottoms. Bra. Panties. Folding each one and setting in a pile.

I am not a woman who goes around the house naked. I don’t even sleep naked. I think I can count on one hand the times I walked from the from my bedroom to the laundry room, naked, because the clothes I wanted were in the dryer.

Exposed skin feels vulnerable to me. Nude photos of my breasts, my ass, my cunt, feel taboo, salacious, and graphically immoral. I don’t like taking them. I don’t like anyone seeing them. But I have sent them…in the thill of a command and the shame of obedience, I have sent them.

Because of his voice in my ear.

I remove my clothes and do what he says because we crossed a line weeks ago with my agreement. Although I wrestled with that line in sobs and shaking. It was a line of full surrender and it was terrifying.

Either I wanted to move forward or I didn’t, but to do so, I had to comply with his rules and expectations, things we had spent days discussing. I couldn’t waffle. I had to consent. I don’t know if he understood that I don’t give consent in inches, but instead use wide swaths and bold sweeps of everything-I-am and everything-I-have.

Maybe, in hindsight, that isn’t how a dominant is supposed to work. I don’t know, that is how he worked. And I liked the directness of it because without that, I would waver and over-analyze and never make a choice. Which, he knew.

When he tells me to disrobe, I do it, thankful, that he reminded me to close the door to the room first.

“Go and kneel at the chair. Imagine me sitting there,” he says.

I do. We aren’t on video. It’s his voice on the phone, directing me.

“Open your legs, hands behind your back. Legs wider. Chest out.” Every word is slow and deliberate, as if he is watching me follow each meticulous direction. The energy of his presence wraps around me in the small room.

“Good. Now take a deep breath. Watch me. Your eyes on mine.”

I breathe in and out.

“Fucking keep your eyes on mine.” His voice sharpens like a knifes edge and I shiver all over.

He always knows the moment my attention wanders. From a million miles away and in a different time zone, he knows.

“Look at you. You are wet already, aren’t you. That’s okay. We will get to that. For now, Breathe. You can feel me. My hand in your hair. Gentle. Sliding from the scalp, back. Keep your back arched, pet. Breasts up. Let me—let me just touch you.”

As he speaks, his voice touches me. All the details become real. He’s right, I am wet, I can feel the slide of the lips of my sex, the way the cool in the room hits that opening. The world passes away. All my troubles begin to slide off of my shoulders, my arms, my back, out of my belly, down my legs, dripping to the floor like rain off of a roof.

“Another breath. That’s right. So good. Perfect. I slide my hand through your hair. Down your neck. You know I have big hands. I wrap my palm around your throat. Cup your neck. My finger on your vein. I could just press, right there, and you would let me.” There is a burr in his tone, a rough, sandpaper scrape that touches me in slow, steady strokes.

He is such a powerful wall. Steady. Resilient. I feel him there with me, a will of hot, volcanic stone.

Trust

I am not a woman who leans. I am not a woman who depends. And to be honest, I am not a woman who trusts. Instead, I consciously blind myself by putting consequences into boxes where I don’t have to look at them and then I rush forward, as fast as I can, into whatever unknown thing lay ahead.

In this place that he created for us all my defenses melt away. I have no recourse. I trust fully and completely in ways I never thought I could or would. My consent granted him access past all my inhibitions with the truth of my whole self. Access he claimed. In this place where he rules, I have become Puppet. And he holds all the strings.

But it feels like bliss. Like holy. Like I’m dunked in the sweet, perfect ambrosia of what should be between masculine and feminine.

He will go on to say and do many things…

But this isn’t about those things. It is about the air moving over my skin, in and out of my lungs. It is about the world, that has evaporated. It is about his heavy hand, touching me, holding me, peeling me open layer by layer and laying his pointer finger on the very center of my soul until I am twitching and trembling all over.

This is what it is to kneel. 

All definitions are drawn from his exercize. 

Obedience is following orders or commands.

It is a conscious choice of my will, something I do to follow laws or imposed rules. It is done with or without the heart. Obedience is a response to a will, action, or desire something that comes from outside of me. 

Obedience is the change of my actions to comply with a demand by an authority figure.

There is an Old Testament verse that states “Obedience is better than sacrifice.” Relating to Saul, the first King, offering a sacrifice (a gift) to God that He did not request, in place of doing the thing fully with his heart that God did request.

Sacrifice is a gift, but it can be altruistic or self-seeking.

Compliance occurs when I publicly agree with the greater will or the group but I have changed nothing internally.

To comply is to yield assent; to accord; agree, or acquiesce; to adapt one's self;to consent or conform. It is a sour thing to me, an outward obedience done without a single piece of the heart. It is done against my will. Compliance is all show and fully situational to another person or groups will compelled or imposed upon mine and I do it only until it is no longer necessary.

Conformity is one effect of the influence of another’s will.

Acceptance happens when the greater will crushes mine, when I internalize the belief or attitude or action that has been imposed on me. My will has fully conformed and been transformed into another’s. I’ve given in, usually without pleasure or joy. It is a ceasing of my will with a desire to stop fighting.

Submission is yielding to power or authority.

The difference between the submission and everything else {obedience, sacrifice, compliance, acceptance} is in my heart and my will.

To surrender is to give up into the power, control, or possession of my will,  while obey is to do as ordered, to act of my will in accordance to another’s.

To obey, I exert my conscious will to follow a command.

To conform, I submerge my will and play-act obedience.

To accept, my will has given up, there is no fight left.

To submit, I surrender my will, fully (my heart, my trust, my body, my possessions) to one who commands.

The delicate brush of his thumb over her bottom lip - like the softest rasp of a predator’s feather, a tease and a wish that coaxed forth her tongue. He chuckled as his finger plunged in, dipping dark over wet, imitation of other dark places, making her muscles clench.

One finger becomes two, thick and heavy. She closes her lips on them. Tasting him in a primal-vulnerable ritual of eyes-wide. Sucking at him with the damp dark of teeth & tongue. Licking a pulse beat repetition. Through her body, echoes chime, shifting into bright-alive.

The luxurious softness of her tongue, warm gentle suckling, those very same fingers probe her deepest need, tender, firm, luxuriating, a manner conveying exactly a savoring of simple moments, every liquid motion, a reminder, her many talents and pleasures beyond the now. Regaining composure, his dark eyes return from a rolled back state, consuming hers, her own widen and soften, feigned innocence knowingly enflaming lust. Carnal involuntary hardening, pressing against her as if desire migrates directly via intensity of pressure, his own familiar moistening, a clear sweet treat she craves, coaxed readily from his hardness. He growls, a simple soft purr returned, she knows, the mighty predator becomes prey, her prey

It is so easy to melt, in a rich, opulent cascade of feeling, around the hard of his demand. The promise in his hand, becomes a full-on taking, an asserting of control. He gives her short, sharp growls of dominant instruction and she obeys. Her skin is alive, quivering-desires.

Electricity palpable, a haunting tingle of pleasure and pain, indistinguishable. Desire, certainly a component, yet this moment of moment offers but no choice. Need, yes need, wantonly devours all power of the will. Flame, smoke, cause, effect, each without will of its own but mere byproducts of forces ethereal. Intertwined, coalesced a vortex of reaction no less than chemical.

She consumes and is consumed. Devouring in rapture. Surrendered to his maneuvers. He positions her how he wants her, feeding her full in all her empty entrances. Only he satisfies. Her need for him, the essence of his entirety, is boundless - and she yields, begging him to take.

She begs to be taken, yet he, deaf to her pleas, takes what his wants despite supplication of her need. His inscrutable insensitivity repels her not, but rather, heightens pleasures untold. She, used without mercy, yet completed, he purposefully disengaged from her rapture, magnifies it. Symbiotic, ironic magic.

He takes. Fingers deep, hands controlling as if he's given himself over to lust and pleasure and she is only a tool. He uses. She whimpers, wanting. She is fed. But left insatiable. He tells her what to do and what not to do. Fills the empty yet leaves the heat of her wanting. And she turns her head. Kisses skin. Tears in her eyes. Reddened by agony. And tells him, thank you.

Pausing, seeing her tears of distraction, commands attention with a lightning deft grasp, a pinkened engorged nipple in his primal clutch. Returning to his reality, gasping, mouth agape, speechless, breathless, he, unconcerned. Mere time powerless over this moment. Gazing as his wrath of passion washes across her face and seizes her immortal soul, ruinously hardens again. Without will, she lowers to her knees, in his worship.

(written by two people)

I am looking for a  person that understands the ritual and circle of kneeling. I would like to explore training and meditation through deep mental submission and subspace with a teacher that understands that biofeedback, energy, mental clarity, and mental pleasure goes beyond the physical to incorporate mind and spirit.

This gentleman will have excellent vocal control and a genuinely mature and masculine voice. He has an even temperament, having lived a life that has enabled him to find his own deep well of peace. He fully accepts himself, and is very confident, a man who understands his capability for good and kindness as well as for evil and damage.

He will respect the temptation of limits even when he is in a place where there are no limits.

I know this kind of connection is possible because I had it and now I don’t, as I face life changes, I long for this again.

It is the frustration of denial
The longing for the impossible
For that life I can't have -
For possibilities unraveled
Into hundred what ifs
- cast out like
Handfuls of seed
None of them finding fertile ground.

Seed that is full to capacity
With fever dreams.
With night explorations
Damp fingers
And swollen lips

You are temptation because
You smiled
You said hello
At a moment when all my seams
had grown tight,
overwrought, overfilled, long ignored
You looked back
When you should not have -

And the tight bound bag of seed
I'd been carrying and adding to my life
Day after day
of invisible
Had sprung a leak -
I was trying so hard.
Every day I patch it up
And every night it leaks

Anew.

Years of seed - packed with every forbidden desire,
Every adventure not lived
With forest dew on my bare chest
and desert sand in my hair
All the my bound up control not released.

Every no I ever got - became seed
Every rebuff
Years of silence and
Waiting for a yes.

But you,
You can give me no yes
Your ground is owned
By other masters
Your goals are claimed by other vows

I am far away and nothing to you.
While in a moment, you became every
Secret wish I ever had

Poor man - all you did was look back and glimpse me.
Trip over my baggage

See the woman standing there.

It is good
That you are far away
That your land has already been deeply tilled
That there is no place to
Take root - to let any of this
Mad, insane, wild seed grow.

This was written by request and may or may not include my personal kinks. It is fictional erotic fantasy. 

The first watcher.

My desk top pinged with a message, the only notification I have that is set to allow.

-Progress?

Yes Sir. I finished the chapter.-

-Did I see you go back and edit?

I hesitate. I really don’t want to answer that.

Yes.-

-What have we discussed?

Write first, edit later.-

-What did you tell me you wanted?

I’ve told him a lot of things. But when he gets direct like this and I can practically hear him growl with each typed word of his text, my thoughts start to fizz, filled with effervescing bubbles of anxious anticipation.

Sir?-

-What did you tell me you wanted to accomplish with your writing?

He spells the question for me. That he has to do this will not be good for me. I know it and squirm in my seat like a scolded, naughty child who is sure dire punishment is coming.

Write faster.-

I type out the answer as my hands start to tremble.

-And how do we do that? What does the research suggest?

Write first edit later-

-And what did you do?

Stopped to edit.-

-Take off your clothes and kneel on the rug in the center of the room, now. Await my instructions.

Oh shit. I did as he said. Stripping off my clothes, folding them, and kneeling on the soft, fluffy rug.

There were three cameras on me. When I agreed to this arrangement with Chris, he was just a friend I’d met on social media who shared similar interests. He was a reader, and I was a writer. We could talk for hours about story ideas. To my great delight and benefit, I discovered he had a lot of experience in marketing, and since I published and marketed all my own stuff, I bugged him for ideas to reach new audiences.

While we were becoming friends, my favorite aunt passed away, followed by her husband. Then I heard my best friend from college was killed with her youngest child in a car crash.

I hadn’t talked to any of them for years after moving away—but the deaths invaded my head. I couldn’t escape the should-have-dones while trapped in a world of I-can’t-afford.

The grief was so heavy and hitting me with a refreshed sense of isolation. I had no friends, no life, no future.

The CCTV was his idea, but I’d loved it from the beginning.

Then, when I fell behind on my rent because depression kills creativity, he helped me get a job as a ghostwriter. It paid steadily and well, but there was a word count quota, and I’d struggled to meet it.

As our use for CCTV cameras evolved over time, I could always feel the intensity of Chris’s gaze. He was always there when I needed him, in ways I hadn’t known that I wanted.

We’d grown closer until I started calling him Sir—that was my idea. We set down rules. That was his idea. We did a lot of talking and reading.

Eventually, I said, “I don’t know what I like, but it’s exciting when I don’t know what you are going to do. I like trusting you with everything, even choices I’d never make for myself.”

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes, very sure.”

“We will go down some very dark places.”

“You know how alive I feel in the dark,” I told him.

He was more than happy to push and explore just how close we could grow. He drew his fingertips over the edges of my mind, finding all the secret and sensitive places, charting maps for all my erogenous zones. He asked questions, and I answered, while he tickled at my self-doubts, my lack of confidence, my outright fears—gently rubbing at their peak with his fingertip.

Building something in me that ached with a messy, carnal hunger until the point I always felt aroused, and his commands, rules, and punishments made everything more intense.

I waited with my head bowed, not knowing if he watched or if he didn’t. Not knowing if he was looking at the way my nipples hardened or if he could see the discomfort cross my features as my knees began to broadcast discomfort. I was just about to signal that it was too much when his decadent voice slipped into the room.

“Change position. On your back, legs spread, facing me.”

He always timed it perfectly. I did as he said, muscles jumping in my legs, my core clenching at the tone of his voice.

There was something in the rigid sound of it. Something so dangerous, full of a cutting fury. As long as we had been doing this, he’d never hurt me, never taken me to a dark place where I felt I could be hurt, but the threat of it in his cold voice was always right there, waiting to be unleashed.

Fuck. I wanted that.

I wanted him unleashed on me. I was a grown woman. The more he held back, the more I wanted it, became obsessed with having his special kind of ice on my skin, touching my most intimate places, thrusting inside.

“Spread your labia so I can see all that pretty pink.”

“Yes, Sir.”

I did it. No hesitation. The first time I’d cried, humiliated at the exposure. This time, I was liberated, basking in his desire. He wouldn’t ask to see it if he didn’t want it, if my pussy didn’t arouse him.

“Are you wet?”

I reached down to test. I felt wet, but he meant wet enough to see. I rubbed over my clit, down to my hole, dipped in, reached deeper to the place where my cum waited.

“Show me that fuckin’ honey, woman.”

My belly quivered in reaction; I plunged in again, came out very wet. “Yes, Sir. I’m wet.”

“Taste it.”

I winced.

“You don’t like that, do you, pet? Not at all. I said taste it, two fingers, to the back of your throat; I’d better hear you gagging.”

Everything in me clenched at the cool, darkling control of his order. I put my hand in my mouth until I gagged, one of my legs kicking as if to offset the surge of need he caused.

I’d had mixed feelings about him making me do things I didn’t like; I’d told him before as we cooled off from heated moments. Sometimes I hated this—what he made me do—but I couldn’t bear him to stop, not when it felt like he was taking something from me.

“Again. Stuff that pussy, then put your fingers down your throat,” he snapped.

I did it. Fingers deep between my legs, then to the back of my throat until I coughed from the pressure.

“What’s that? I didn’t hear what you said. Did you say, yes, Sir?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“How does it taste?”

I couldn’t taste anything. I could only smell the musky salt of my womanhood and the soap I used in the shower. Hoping to appease him, I said, “Salty.”

“What a beauty you are. Obeying your Sir. That’s what you are doing now, like a needy slut, aren’t you, pet? But you weren’t before, were you?”

My stomach dropped with the lowered tone. I pulled my hand out again so I could answer. Saliva dripped down my chin to my exposed chest. “No, Sir.”

“Touch that pretty little clit again for me. Go slow. It’s so wet and swollen already, and we have barely started. You don’t get to come yet, pet. We aren’t close. This is punishment, after all. Tell me who asked for discipline?”

“I did,” I moaned.

The cameras were powerful, god-like eyes for the disembodied voice that sees all, knows all. Heat rose to my face; my muscles were coiling, while at the same time my insides became soft, wet, and open. I was red all over.

Red was the color of my desire. The color of my consent. The color of my fall from self-control into his total control.

“You did. Who asked for help?”

“I did.”

“Who asked for my time? My insights? My energy?”

“I did.” I wanted to hide from myself, but this man had already told me he would never allow that.

“Who has a deadline to meet and rent to pay?” he pressed.

“I do.”

“How does that pussy feel under your fingers?”

“Wet.”

“Pet.”

One word. That’s not what he wanted, but I was struggling to breathe, to think, to do more than follow his instructions. His presence changed this solitary act into something gloriously shared. He had slipped into the room, into my head.

I writhed under the attention of a god, and this was my prayer.

I drew the tip of my finger back and forth over wet flesh, back and forth over soft, slick, plush, and hungry. His breathing had increased just enough for me to know how much he liked what he saw. That he meant it when he said I was pretty, that he meant it when he said he liked watching me.

“It feels soft. Wet. The peak is so sen-si-tivvve.” I could hardly speak what he wanted.

“And?”

“It feels like I displeased you?”

“And that makes you wet?” he growled the question as if I was very close to dangerous territory.

My breath caught in my chest, just at the edge, and my nerve endings pinged with electricity. I had to fish for the scripted answer he wanted.

“You’re going to teach me a lesson. Correct the behavior. I like that. It means I’m not alone.”

“I am going to do that. And I’m going to watch. I’m going to watch as you keep touching that little clit for the next forty minutes. You won’t cum. No matter how close you get, how badly you want it.” He gave me the instructions, and they hit like a blow.

I’d been ready to come on command the moment I’d kneeled on this carpet. Forty-five minutes seemed like agony.

I touched myself, working my clit the way I liked while he watched. I panted, mewled, made noises, hoping he would see how badly I needed this.

I heard his chair move. I heard breathing.

I tightened the muscles in my ass, kicked out my legs, pointed my toes, and the pressure built inside of me.

“You’re almost there, pet. What a good girl you are being for me. You didn’t ask once, and you haven’t broken. I love watching you play with yourself. You are a show, just for me, doing everything I want. And you perform so well. I love how you tease and stroke that dainty spot of flesh for me. I can almost smell how slutty you are for me.”

I squeaked and had to lift my finger away for a second. He was almost purring his filthy praise, and I loved it. I soaked it up into me like the lines of some kind of holy book on submission and womanhood. This is how I wanted to be. How I wanted to look. How I should serve.

“I want to get a mirror put in your place. I want you to be able to see how the red starts to crawl down your cheeks, your neck to your beautiful fat tits. Even your pussy changes color as you become ripe for your Sir. Would you like that?”

“Sir?” I knew there was a question. But I didn’t know what he wanted me to answer.

“Take that free hand of yours, put it on your breast, grab your nipple, hard, and pull up for me. Don’t stop rubbing that clit,” he commanded.

I let out a long, uninhibited moan as I complied. This was something else I didn’t like. My breasts were heavy, my nipples sensitive. Pinching them made my ass cheeks clench; pulling it up away from my body made me arch.

“Gorgeous, gorgeous girl. You don’t know how beautiful you are. You keep telling me that I’m the only one who thinks you are pretty. So today it’s time for two lessons. First, shake that tit for me. Show me how good a hold you’ve got; imagine my big hands on you, rough with you.”

“Want that,” I burst out as I did as instructed.

“Soon, pet. Do it. Show me. Both breasts. Show off your pretty breasts for me.”

“Yes, Sir.” Piece by piece, I bared everything for him, my voice a raw blend of agony and yearning.

“Oh, my pet. Your voice is my music,” he purred.

The second watcher

Suddenly, the doorbell chimed. I froze, heart pounding.

No one ever visited my tiny studio apartment. I was a ghost in this city. Invisible. I picked up my mail from a P.O. box and hadn’t been able to afford deliveries for six months. The last soul to cross this threshold was the technician who installed the cameras.

“Answer it,” Chris commanded, his voice a velvet authority.

“Sir?” I stammered, caught between fear and obedience.

“Just like you are. Answer. The. Door.”

My mind whirled. Was he going to make me do this?

“Do I need to repeat myself?”

His voice was an icy tether. I rolled to my belly, my fingers still a mess with my own juices, and reached for my clothes.

“Did I say dress?”

“Oh, wait. I can’t.” I whined the words as shame flooded my entire body. One would think it would wash away the arousal, but it didn’t. Instead, the opposite happened. Fresh liquid dripped out of me, sliding down my thighs.

“Fucking choose. I’m not going to wait around all day. You have all the words you need, pet. You’re a writer. One who isn’t following the basic directions you set for yourself. One who seems to have forgotten what you have been asking me for for months. Choose now.”

I understood what he expected from me, yet I hesitated, wrestling with the seductive haze clouding my mind as I made my way to the door and opened it slightly.

“Delivery for you,” announced the courier, the same man who had set up the cameras.

“Bring them inside,” Chris instructed through the microphone from behind me.

I held back tears, though the urge to let them flow was strong, and I stepped aside, allowing the man to enter my space, torn between resistance and obedience.

My jaw quivered, and I couldn’t look at him. I couldn’t look at anything. His presence was like a physical force, pulling at me, pulling my breath from my body and my dignity from my soul.

“Right on the table next to the desk,” Chris directed.

The courier set the packages down, just a few feet from where I stood.

“See how easy this is?” Chris’s voice was a mix of approval and something darker. “Take them to your place, kneel again, and open them.”

I scooped them up. One was just in a paper bag, the other in a box. I dropped to my knees on the carpet and opened it. My heart was still racing; I was a swirl of humiliation and lust, the mixture intoxicating and maddening.

Inside the first package was a six-inch spiral lollipop on a wooden stick. In the second was a bright pink adult toy.

“Unwrap that candy and suck on it, pet. I know you like sweets.” Like he was directing a show, Chris told me what to do.

Some of the ugly conflict in my head dissipated, knowing that he was here, that this was what he wanted, and that as long as I stayed within the dark frame of his voice, I’d give him pleasure.

The rainbow candy smelled of fruit and tasted of cherries, grape, and lime, as if each swirl had its own flavor. The expensive kind. Solid and heavy, it filled my mouth with obscene connotations. I tried not to eye the stranger in my apartment who was watching everything I did.

The dark-haired man wasn’t unattractive. But he wasn’t extremely attractive either. Everything about him read comfortable working-class and average, from his build to his height. The outside world invaded my space with him—it had been raining—along with the faint scent of cigarettes.

“Now lay down again, pet. Legs up, spread them. Show off that pussy before you open up the next box.”

I did as I was told. Of course, I did. Squeezing my eyes shut. Shame rode my conscience. I didn’t want to see this, didn’t want to know this about myself or see myself in this man’s eyes. Although I had a word to stop everything, I wouldn’t use it. My desire overwhelmed all of my second thoughts. I wanted to please Chris. I wanted to give him something I knew he wanted.

“Fuck. You’re right, Chris. That is a pretty pussy. Look at this girl. She’s so fucking white and soft. I love those big tits. What a nice sight,” the stranger said.

I shook all over at his comment. This was really happening. I was letting it, inviting it.

“Easy, pet. Take a breath. Are you with me still?” Chris saw everything. Commanded everything.

“Yes.”

“Do you need a break?” he asked.

“No.”

I think he waited for me to change my answer. But I knew he wouldn’t try to dig and second-guess me. Words had power. I had to use them to communicate my wants and boundaries; he wouldn’t assume he knew everything in my head.

His pause only made me aware of how naked I was. One man was watching from a distance, the other right there.

I’d had sex. But this? This was not the same. I sucked on the candy, wondering what was next.

“Good. Open the box. Insert the toy. It’s all ready for you.” Chris finally filled the quiet with a new command.

It was one of those pink things that curved like a C, with a bulb bottom that reminded me of some golf clubs and an antenna.

“Put it in.”

“Fuck,” the courier breathed out the word. It sounded like awe. At the same time, I heard him undo his belt buckle and the top button of his pants.

The flush of my arousal spread through me, even to my toes, which twitched with anticipation. Candy in my mouth, I flexed and squirmed, inserting the toy into my pussy, twisting my hips to get it seated correctly.

“Tell me how it feels,” Chris asked.

“Full. Tight. I can’t—” I took a breath, eyes still closed, not wanting to see who I was for the stranger. “I can’t believe you are making me do this.”

“Oh, you believe it. You know this is what you’ve wanted. Be honest, pet. You’re going to love every fucking minute of it, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Oh yes.”

He turned it on.

The vibration started at a low hum, buzzing deep in my core. I moaned around the spiral candy and arched my back.

“That’s right. Suck on that candy like you would my cock, pet. Show me how much you want to pleasure me. Show our guest how good you are.”

I sucked, working the long candy in my mouth, looking at the ceiling, keeping my eyes away from what the delivery man was doing. I could hear him and Chris, both, their breaths heavy.

The guy kept muttering to himself. His words were broken, disjointed, and I wondered if Chris had already told him what he could and couldn’t say. “So beautiful. Look at her. Fucking look at this. Those fucking fine tits. Ahhh.”

The vibration was a frantic thrum inside me, dancing over flesh I didn’t know I had, that I’d never managed to find.

I sucked at the candy like my life depended on it, my hips bucking, losing myself, only tethered to this earth by Chris’s voice.

“You’re a fucking masterpiece. And you’re almost there, aren’t you?”

Mouthful, I tried to give my answer, nodding my head, unwilling to stop sucking.

“Look at that. You are making a mess on your rug. Are you going to take what you need from that toy?”

“Look at her, look at her” the man moaned.

“Are you going to cum?” Chris growled, his voice the only thing in the world that could give me permission.

I don’t know what level he had the toy on, but it was pure madness—a demon in my cunt and in my head.

I’d once told him I couldn’t cum without my clit being gently touched just so; I’d been wrong. I hadn’t touched it since the packages had come, and I was right there, right on the verge of a climax that felt like the giant filament of a bubble stretched to its limit.

I pushed my hips into the air, crossed them at the ankles, and moaned. Sticky, sugared saliva drooled from my mouth into my hair. I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything but what my Sir wanted me to do next. “Please Sir?”

“Yes pet. You may come.”

“Yes. Yes. Oh, Sir! Yes. I’m cumming.”

It was like nothing I’d ever felt before. It was like everything I’d ever wanted, the vibrations like a thousand tiny fingers stroking every part of me. The pressure inside me built and built until I was sure I’d explode. I couldn’t stop the wave, even if I’d wanted to. It broke over me, and I was a universe of bliss.

Wet.

Red.

Open.

I was taken apart, scattered. All my perceptions flung across the room for these two men to see and enjoy. I was shamed, exposed. Dirty.

And yet I glowed like I’d just spent an hour basking on the beach under a perfect sun. I wanted to giggle with it, laugh with it. I was drunk with it.

In the aftermath, I lay still, stunned. My head lolled to the side where I saw the stranger watching me. All his attention, still, intensely, focused on me.

He had two hands on his cock, stroking like it pained him. He might be an average man, but his cock was not. It was long and thick in his fists, unreal in its size. Where I couldn’t look at him before, now I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

“Look at this, look at what you fucking made me do,” he groaned, his body flexed with the effort to pleasure himself.

“Pet, take out the toy and put that sucker inside yourself. Fuck yourself with it,” Chris said.

I heard his voice, and I didn’t think. I just obeyed. Ready, eager. My eyes were on a man I’d only met once, a stranger, who was standing in my apartment, jerking off because of me.

My candy-coated hand slid the lollipop stick between my legs. It was sticky and sweet and hard. I shivered at the new sensation. Mousy, weak sounds escaped me.

I could tell my watcher was close, the end of his cock had darkened to a deep plumb that made me lick my lips as I moved the stick of candy in and out like a dildo.

“Oh God. Look at this girl. Look at what she’s doing. What a fucking sight, I’m gonna, I’m gonna—” he said.

And he did.

He groaned and exploded, white jets splattering out of him onto the carpet. He kept going, and going, his body shaking until the last drop fell. I could see how wet it was, a big patch on the carpet, where he’d come, where he’d made a mess of himself.

I pushed the candy into my soaked pussy, stroked it in and out, the sugar rushing through me, my senses heightened, my body still quaking. I couldn’t help it, I was being taken over.

“Sir?”

“Now, pet. You know what you need. Take it,” he answered.

“Sir. Sir. I’m cumming again. Oh fuck, I’m cumming!”

I was amazed at how fast it came on me, how easy it was with two men watching me. My back arched, and I was lost again, the sugary spiral slick and wet with my cum.

The courier had his eyes on me, not missing a moment as I writhed and bucked.

Chris’s voice was full of a glittering, righteous pride. “What a good girl you are. I’m so impressed with your obedience. You really are my precious slut pet. You make me want to keep you forever.”

I could do nothing but hum and smile. Yes. That. I wanted that. Forever.

“Give him the candy as a reward, pet.”

I did. What was left of it.

The man took it, grinned, and put it in his mouth. “Delicious.”

With a wink in my direction, he let himself out the door.

I fell back onto the carpet.

“You’re a fucking goddess. I love you like this. I love seeing you like this. You can’t know how much I love to watch you.”

“Yes, Sir,” I panted, feeling flushed and alive and full of pleasure.

I stayed on the floor, thighs and belly and breasts sticky with my juices and the stranger’s awe. I stayed on the floor, on my back, with the toy forgotten. I stayed on the floor with my eyes closed until Chris’s voice came back to me.

“You still there, pet?”

“Uh-huh,” I sighed, the sound more pleased than I expected.

“Good girl. I thought I might have broken you. I was worried I’d have to send him back to mop you up.”

I giggled at the idea of the stranger being the one to wipe me down. “No. Still here.”

“Who does this for you?”

“You do.”

“Who do you trust with this side of yourself?” Chris asked.

“You, Sir. Only you.”

I couldn’t move. Didn’t want to move. If he didn’t make me, I had every intention of falling asleep right there.

“You have fifteen minutes. Clean yourself up. Wash and douche.” The horrid man commanded.

“What?”

“We will talk. You will tell me the truth but first, wash, get water and a cup of juice.”

“I can’t.”

“You can and you will. We need to talk about what happened and finish another conversation. If you can’t make yourself stop editing, I have another idea to help you. But it involves a shock collar.”

I moaned.