It was cold in Ft. Worth. Cold and wet. Rain clung to the 10th floor windows like sweat on a summer Sunday. She lowered the thermostat to 65– she didn’t want him to overheat.
Turning, she studied him. What a gorgeous sight he was — his sweet body taut with anticipation, with trepidation.
Silently, she stepped toward him. His blindfold was askew, the edge rolled up atop his cheekbone. She adjusted it, smiling as he jumped.
“It’s alright, pet,” she whispered. “Only me. Don’t speak.”
He smiled, lips trembling. She’d chosen not to gag him, for fear it would be too much.
For the first time…
She kissed his forehead, then his smile, her fingers trailing along his collarbone, her tongue flicking at the corner of his mouth.
“What do you want, pet?” she mouthed against his lips.
He was silent. She was proud.
“You may speak,” she said.
“You,” he said, his lips quivering against her own, his voice cracking. “You…Mistress.”
She smiled again, kissed him lightly, and stepped away.
“Are you cold, pet?” she asked from across the room.
“No,” he said, with a slight shake of his head.
He swallowed, licked his lips. “No…Mistress.”
She smiled. “Good boy,” and sat in the wingback chair, watching.
Deeper, she willed silently.
He did – his chest rising and falling in time with her own.
The silk scarves that bound him to the chair were soft, breathable; there would be no pain unless he struggled against them. He didn’t. There was pain enough from the leather-strapped Gates of Hell that bound his cock. Even from her chair, she could see it straining, the veins throbbing, the testicles purpling as his desire grew. She smiled, watching.
He was beautiful. Not in a “usual” way. In fact, it was easy for her to see why women his own age had overlooked him. He wasn’t tall – not short, really, but not tall – and he was slight – a footballer’s body; real football, known in the states as “soccer”—lithe from the waist up, with the calves and thighs… oh, those thighs… built from years of running and passing up and down the pitch, and a stamina that she intended to test tonight.
“Pet?” she asked.
His blindfolded eyes turned towards her, his muscles clenching just a bit against their bonds, answering her silently.
“Who do you love?” she asked.
He smiled, breathing a bit deeper before he answered.
“You… Mistress…. Only you.”
She stood up. The tiny whip in her hand was cold, as was she, and she could see the gooseflesh rising on his exquisite thighs.
Good, she thought, walking towards him.
Pfffffffffftttttttttttttttttttttttttttt ttt! went the purple thongs across his thighs. Pffffffffttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt!
He winced, but didn’t speak, didn’t move.
Pfffffffffffttttttttttttttttttttttttttt ttttt! Pffffffffffffffffffftttttt! Two quick lashes on either side of his bound cock.
He caught his breath and perhaps a cry in his teeth, but still neither spoke nor moved. She was proud almost to tears.
Sliding the palm of her lace-gloved hand around his cock, she stroked it; her body close enough for him to smell but not to feel, stroking it to strain even harder against the leather gates. Then, bending at the waist, she flicked her tongue across the shiny wet head, scooping up a taste of his sweetness.
“My good boy,” she cooed as she painted his lips with her tongue, allowing him to taste himself through her.
The chair creaked. She looked down. His pale arms strained against the silk, veins beating blue just below the skin.
“What do you want now, pet?” she asked, taking two steps back.
He groaned. “Mistress…” he panted.
Turning to the table, she lay down the tiny whip and picked up her largest flogger, the black doeskin with the pearl handle – her favourite toy.
“Not yet, pet,” she smiled, turning back to him. “Lots to do before the New Year yet…”