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I Am Yours

Envy And Samson - Flick Switch

You’re in me, you’re on me, and your hand is at my throat. We are discussing fantasies, and I am making admissions. You’re forcing them out of me. You’ve already discovered how I enjoy the weight of your body on top of me, how I like my wrists held down rigid above my head, how much I get off on being told exactly what to do for you. Your hand on my throat is new tonight, but somehow you knew what it would mean to me.

“I want you in every way,” you murmur into my ear.

“Yes,” is all I can manage. I’m gasping.

“How should I have you?”

Images flash through my mind. Various positions; being taken from behind or tied up. On my knees looking up at you with wild childlike eyes. And something else, something I’ve never told anyone before. I say nothing, but I know you felt me shudder.

“You’re awfully wet all of a sudden.” Your voice is sly, accusing.

I’m still silent. You continue fucking me perfectly, but I know I won’t be able to hide.

“Tell me,” you say. Your hand is still at my throat.

“I want… my neck…”

“Yes?”

“I want to wear a collar for you,” I confess in a whisper.

My eyes are still closed but I can hear the devious smile on your face. “Oh really?” you say.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“That’s all.”

“Liar.”

Fuck. You know. But I’m not telling. I concentrate on your hand, your weight, your cock.

“Tell me… exactly what you want…”

I can’t.

No! You stop suddenly, withdraw almost completely, hold perfectly still. My pussy grasps frantically at nothing, deprived. I feel like someone’s dumped a bucket of ice water on my body. My eyes fly open in alarm.

“No!”

“Well?” you ask.

“Not fair!”

But you don’t give it to me. You’re waiting.

“Start talking.”

I close my eyes and swallow.

“I want to wear a collar for you,” I begin.

You enter me, begin moving slowly. Yes. Thank God.

“And I want you to have me on a leash,” I continue. My voice is tiny. I’ve never told anyone about this before. You’re moving in me deeper now. I’m pressing my hips up against you, trying to get all of you again, but you won’t give it to me yet. Not yet. You know there’s more.

“…and tell me what to do,” I finish in a whisper.

Oh! You pushed all the way in that time! But just once!

“More! Please!”

“Louder. Full sentences.”

I open my eyes and stare directly into your face.

“I want you to put a collar on me, and put me on a leash, and order me to do whatever you want, all night,” I say in a calm, flat voice.

There. I did it. I finally told you.

There’s an extended moment of vacuum, one of those moments when what’s just happened isn’t quite real yet. And then you pound into me, rewarding me, pressing so hard that your hip bones bruise my thighs. I let out some sort of wail I’ve never heard myself make before. You resume your exquisite rhythm, and the tension is broken. I feel empty, revealed, cleansed. I feel good. I love how you can make me feel that way.

“We’ll do that,” is all you say.

You keep fucking me. Your hand is still at my throat, and your fingers massage the cords of my neck contemplatively as you think about it. My eyes are closed again but I know you’re staring at me with a sexy little smile.

My orgasm begins to build.

After a while you say, “We’ll just have to take you out then.”

What?

“I’ll put you on a leash. And we’ll dress you up. And we’ll go out.”

That’s not what I said! But I have no breath to contest you. Everything is tight, tingling.

“I want to show you off,” you say. “I want everyone to see what I have.”

No! Or, wait– but your hand is tighter now. I’m squeezing you back, inside. My whole body is tense and contracted.

“So we’ll dress you up, and I’ll take you out…”

No! That’s not that what I meant! Is it?

“…on a leash, in public…”

There’s a roar in my ears. I can’t breathe!

“…and you will do whatever I want…”

It’s starting—

“…all night.”

—and your words collapse

—and I’m gone.

“…there’s always the safeword,” you’re saying as you adjust my garters. We’re in you’re apartment, getting dressed. The collar isn’t on yet. Once it goes on, I’m yours. That’s the agreement. But right now we’re just talking.

I’m terribly nervous. This is my last chance to back out gracefully. You are buttoning up my silky shirt now. You finish, stand up straight, put your hands on my shoulders, and look directly into my face. You can see the uncertainty in my eyes.

“Do you trust me?”

You’re smiling, looking deep into my eyes like it’s no big deal, like you understand how frightening this is for me.

Like you understand how excited I am.

“Yes,” I say evenly, “I trust you.” With that, you turn around the retrieve the collar. It’s a narrow strip of black leather with a single gleaming steel ring set into the buckle. You lift it to my neck, your eyes never leaving mine. Just before you close the strap, you smile sweetly and dart suddenly forward to give me a sheepish little kiss on the mouth. I could swear I saw you begin to blush, and I suddenly realize that this isn’t all about me.

But the collar closes around my neck, your nimble hands manipulate the buckle for a second, and your smile is gone. That’s it. I’m yours now. You can do anything you want with me tonight, and I have to comply. We stare at each other, expressionless, for a long time.

Your first action as master is to grab me by the collar and pull me hard toward you for a savage kiss. Your other hand grabs the meat of my ass and squeezes, kneads, gropes me while your tongue forces its way down my throat. This is what every teenage boy secretly wanted to do with the slutty girl who always wore dark eyeliner to French class, if he only had the guts. This is pure instinctual lust and the rush of deep desires coming to the surface. This is you taking out your fantasies on me. You’re so involved in molesting me, you don’t notice me smiling as I kiss you back.

But a sudden vicious slap on the ass brings me back to reality. I am the one with the collar on, and one buttock is stinging hard. You pull back and I bow my head slightly, look up at you demurely. My opinions don’t count tonight.

“Let’s go,” you say. And you lead me down the hall and help me into my long jacket, the one that will cover my indecent condition to and from the car.

We drive in silence and I consider my situation.

Underneath my full-length coat I am wearing a black silk blouse with no bra, unbuttoned generously to show off the smooth inner curves of my breasts. Below that I am wearing a leather mini-skirt in a deep forest green which complements my skin nicely, underneath which is a pair of French-cut panties, lacy, widening over my pubic mound and angling to each side in a way that accentuates my hipbones. My plain black stockings are held up by a garter belt. Below my long legs are a pair of knee-high black boots. Despite the three-inch heels, they look somewhat delicate and pretty on my small feet. My face is subtly made-up to bring out the pale tones of my skin, and give an almost imperceptible shine to my lips. My short hair is neatly brushed, styled very plainly, almost severely. And there is the collar. I am continually aware of it pressing into my neck as we drive. When I swallow involuntarily, I feel the leather cut into my skin.

“You’re excited.” It’s a statement, the only thing you’ve said so far. I don’t even have to reply. I stare straight ahead, not looking at you, as the streetlights drift by. You’ve told me only that you’re taking me to a private party, and I trust your good taste as to the company. We’ll just walk around, have a few drinks, and everyone can gawk at the woman on the leash. You’ll have me twirl around to show off your prize. We’ll both get off on it, then go home and fuck all night in our big bed. It will be fine. No big deal.

Then why am I so nervous?

And why am I so wet?

You park, open my door, and offer me your hand like a gentleman. Walking down the street on your arm, my slave’s outfit covered by a long plain coat, we might appear to be heading out to a perfectly ordinary evening. A sudden gust of wind blows and finds its way up under the coat, under my skirt, and chills my bare inner thighs, reminding me that this is not the case. We arrive shortly at an unmarked gray metal door among a row of two-story storefronts. You ring a bell at the side. There’s no sound or motion on the street for a long moment, then the door swings open. A broad-shouldered man in a dark shirt nods at you as if he knows you, then looks at me and smiles a welcome. He leads us up a flight of steps, and we emerge suddenly into a hubbub of voices.

It’s a cocktail party in a large room with no windows. And the crowd is dressed for it. The women are in evening dresses with slits to their hips, or backless gowns that cling to every curve; or lingerie, or leather, or miniskirts. The men are in suits of all descriptions, stylish leather pants, a few elegant silk kimonos. There’s skin everywhere: the curves of full breasts, white thighs, muscled backs and biceps. People are milling around with glasses in their hand, talking and obviously flirting. Someone removes my jacket and I stand for the first time in my proper outfit. I fit in perfectly. A rush of relief washes over me.

Click. You’ve snapped the black leash onto the collar. I jolt back to reality. No one else here is on a leash! But you just smile grandly, look around the room as if greeting an old friend, and proclaim, “let’s get a drink!” whereupon you lead me by the leash – not by the hand – toward the bar. You walk through the crowd without looking back, holding the leash carelessly in one hand. I have to watch your movements, I have to anticipate your direction slightly in order to avoid being pulled embarrassingly by the neck. You simply expect that your girl will be right there with you.

At the bar, you order two glasses of wine. We stand waiting like any ordinary couple, but I am an conscious of the collar. I steal glances out of the corner of my eye, and realize that men and women alike are eyeing me, appreciatively. You’re right! You’re showing me off! I am your toy to display. I feel a warm flush through my body at the thought, and lower my head to avoid the gaze of the onlookers.

The wine has arrived, in two glasses on the bar. I reach for one.

“No,” you say, not unkindly. “Tonight you do nothing until I tell you to. In fact, I don’t even want you to speak unless spoken to. Do you understand?” The expression on your face is warm, intimate, paternal.

“Yes,” I say quietly.

“Good. Now, take off your underwear.”

What? Here! But surely—and you can see it on my face, and your disappointment stings me.

“If you’ve had enough of this we can go home and rent a video,” you say mildly, “or you can take off your underwear.” Your smile turns suddenly cold. “Now,” you add.

I stare at you for a moment. You’re serious. What the hell, I’m wearing the miniskirt anyway. Without further hesitation I reach under the skirt and hook my hands under the waistband. I bend over slowly and slip the flimsy things down my thighs and over my boots. I am almost doubled over by the time I step out of them. Suddenly it occurs to me – this miniskirt is very short! What did that look like to everyone else? Sure enough, as I stand up I look over my shoulder to catch a glimpse of a well dressed but slightly portly middle-aged man smiling appreciatively in my direction – but not at me. He’s smiling at you, and he gives you a little nod, as if to say, “nice piece of ass you’ve got there,” which you return with a wave of your glass.

You pocket my underwear, put your arm around my waist, and pull me close. The warmth of your body is reassuring. “Good girl,” you purr into my ear. “You’ve made everyone very pleased. Especially me.” A strange flood of relief washes over me. I can do this! “And you enjoyed it, didn’t you?” There’s a wicked smile on your face.

Oh god.

You’re right.

You hand me my glass of wine, and walk off without looking back. I find it a little awkward to follow while holding the glass, but I begin to get the hang of it, and in no time at all I am accustomed to being right at your side, the silent, beautiful girl on the leash. The girl who belongs to you. You stop every now and then to introduce me to a friend. Each person looks me over, eyes me from top to bottom appreciatively, and seems to like what they find from the bemused smiles or smirks or outright leers they give me – or rather, that they give you, not me. Tonight I am an object. It gives me a strange light feeling in the pit of my stomach to know that I am a sexual status symbol. You make small talk and flirt a little and do whatever it is people do at cocktail parties. I tune out the words. I feel only the emotions. From the men I always feel desire. From the women I sometimes see desire, sometimes just an encouraging little smirk or wink, and sometimes outright envy. Those women want to be me tonight! I suddenly understand, and it thrills me.

The party is progressing, I notice. Shirts are buttoned lower, or have been removed entirely on both sexes. More than a few women are wearing only lingerie now. There are bare breasts, open robes. Couples are in the corner or on couches making out passionately. And there! That man has his hand discreetly up her skirt. Something is rustling there; her eyes are closed in ecstasy. I’m suddenly jealous, and very horny, and turn to you to pout, silently.

You understand immediately, and laugh. “Come here,” you say with a great big smile on your face. And I obey, I must obey you, and slip immediately into your arms. You pull my face to yours with the collar and lean down to kiss me deeply. Your body is pressed against mine and it’s one of those great, deep, soft, hot kisses that shake your whole body. Then your hand is under my skirt, fondling my ass again and you have pulled the leather skirt up. Now the whole room can see you playing with my ass. Abruptly you reach down and I feel one finger tracing the soft lips of my pussy – whoa! I start, but you jerk me back with the collar to remind me of my place. Oh! You’ve opened me! You’ve pulled the slick petals apart and exposed me. All I can think is,they’re watching! Now there’s a finger inside me, and God it feels good, I’ve needed to be penetrated for hours and hours now, but – everyone is looking at me! My back is to the crowd but I know they are! There’s got to be some couple behind us, the man getting hard as he watches you penetrate me with your finger, the woman licking her lips and fondling his hard-on through his pants.

“You like this, don’t you?”

I can only moan with lust.

“You like to have people watching as I play with you in public.” Not a question.

“And you’re so wet.”

Yes. Because you are— because you can—

You push me away suddenly. “Open your shirt. Then turn around and show these nice people your beautiful breasts.”

I stare into your eyes and swallow. But you know me too well. I don’t want to do it. I want to do it. I do it; I feel my fingers unbuttoning the soft fabric as I stare into your eyes, and your smile widens. The sides of the blouse fall apart and I feel the air on my skin. No longer will I look down in embarrassment. I set my face, look straight ahead, and turn around.

A handsome man standing six feet away nods at me, at you. Was he watching me, before?

“She has nice breasts, doesn’t she?” you say from behind me.

“They’re beautiful,” he answers, and I blush warmly.

“Would you like to play with them?”

What? The warmth turns to chill.

But it’s just a man touching me. Nothing that hasn’t happened before, I tell myself. Out loud, I say nothing.

The man says, “yes.” He says, “that would be lovely, thank you.” He steps forward and lifts up one hand, then pauses for a moment with a serious look on his face, considering. He reaches forward and gingerly strokes the outer curve of my right breast with two fingers. The sensation sends shivers through me. He strokes the inner curve of my right breast, then my left. You come up behind me, still holding my leash, and grip my hipbones to hold me steady – hold me down – as this stranger touches me.

He’s got his whole hand on my breast now, feeling its weight, its softness, its warmth. He takes a nipple between thumb and forefinger – finally – and pinches gently. I tilt my head back, laying it on your shoulder, and open my mouth, moaning soundlessly. Yes. He’s using both hands now. Both hands on my breasts, stroking, caressing, feeling. Pinching, more intense now. He’s enjoying this. You’re enjoying this. I’m enjoying this. A stranger is groping me, because you told him to, and I let you, because I’m yours. The collar proves it. The way you’re holding on to me, pressing your erection into my back, digging your fingers into the front of my hips as you keep me from even thinking of escaping – I’m shivering now.

“Thank you,” you say to the man.

He withdraws his hands slowly, giving me a last soft caress. “My pleasure,” he beams, and gives a polite little nod before disappearing back into the crowd. If he’d had a hat he would have tipped it.

“Take off your skirt,” you say.

I don’t even hesitate this time. Again I feel the little rush that tells me I’m being pushed, being forced, being— opened in some way. I feel it, savor it, and reach behind myself to unzip the skirt. I step back and look you straight in the eye as I push it over my hips. Something deep inside me screams, but I ignore it. The skirt falls around my feet with a faint rustle, and I stand erect, proud, staring you down. I am not the same woman I was a moment ago.

You’ve pushed me past myself in some way—and I am grateful.

Your eyes dart over my body. My glistening lips are set, my dark eyes are staring straight ahead. My blouse is hanging open, the soft material just brushing the sides of my breasts. My nipples are very erect now, from the cold and the fondling and the shame; you can see the tiny crinkles and dots of my contracted areola. I am standing on stylish black boots which accentuate my calves, above which are soft dark stockings which end suddenly at mid-thigh, exposing a glorious swath of pale skin between garter and stocking. The garters are a frame for my hips, the curve of my lower belly, and my protrusion of small reddish curls. Below that, I am bare, wet, and still open. And around my neck, the collar, and the leash in your hand. All of this – all of me – in your hand.

“You are so beautiful,” you breathe.

You step back, just watching me for a while. I continue standing proudly. Strangers are staring.

“They want you,” you say quietly, looking directly into my eyes with a slight smile. “Do you know that? You’re turning people on, just standing here. They’re looking at your body, your curves, your open pussy, and they want you.”

I feel a rush of power. They all want me. You want me too. You wanted me so much you tied me up to take me. You’re so proud of me you took me out to show me off. Look at me. Look at me! Hah! You may own me but I am the prize.

You take the leash and lead me further through the party. No one can ignore us now, the master and his concubine on display. We stroll, and the crowd parts for us. The glances have been replaced by outright stares; everyone looks or smiles or leers with barely contained lust as we walk by. We pass through a doorway into another room, somewhat darker. There sound is different here too, lower, deeper, the usual hubbub of voices interspersed with whispers and moans. There are soft couches, and a low bed in one corner. There’s a lot more nudity in this room; I fit right in. Couples are locked together standing up, running their hands over each others bodies or kissing or playing with something under a skirt or pulled out of a pair of pants; others have retreated into the corners and are moving, moaning. And everyone, every single one of them, stares openly as we pass. They take us in, draw energy from the sight of us. They are getting off on us. There is a current here, an electricity in the air, a storm, and we are the center of it.

All I can think is, please tell me to fuck you. I’m jealous of all these other people. I want to be part of it. You could have me right here. I would drop to my knees and suck you off for everyone to see, if you just asked. Or just put me on the floor and fuck me, here, in public.

Some little part of me, some part of me from before this night, says no!

But that’s not what I really want. I realize that I want to feel their eyes on me as you take me. I want to feel that, feel that rush of fear as you’re pushing me, owning me. I want you to make me do something I’m scared of. Please. I stare at you, begging with my eyes. But of course there’s nothing I can say. I may be the center of attention, but this isn’t about me.

A young man is standing a few paces away, eyeing me. You summon him over.

“She’s nice, isn’t she?” you ask.

He simply nods his head, then shakes it as if in disbelief. He runs his gaze up my legs, teases me for moment between them, then draws it slowly up my stomach, over my nipples. He wraps his stare around my neck for moment, trails it across my lips, and finally pours it into my eyes. He follows the leash to your hand, and looks up at you questioningly.

“I think you should pet her,” you say.

He reaches out slowly and strokes the side of my neck with the back of his hand. He follows my flank down to one hip, then down over my outer thigh. He repeats this on the other side my body, then pulls his fingers back up the inside of my leg. I shiver as he traces the crease of my leg, and as his hand slides up over my breast. His fingers feel good. This time, I want this. He looks at you for approval, and you nod slightly; he begins playing with my breasts, mashing them, watching my face as he twists the nipples. This time you’re just standing to the side with the leash limply in your hand. You don’t have to hold me any more. You know I’ll stay. You know I’ll do this. He’s really feeling me up now. People are watching.

“Do you like this?” you whisper in my ear.

“Yes,” I hiss back.

“Does it turn you on?”

“Yes.” Of course it does, you fool!

“I think we need more, then.” And you say to the man, “would you like to feel her pussy?”

Oh. Hmm. Wait a sec—

But the man nods with a faint smile, and suddenly there’s a finger tracing my lips. I shudder slightly at the touch, but catch a warning look in your eye. There’s a gleam in the man’s face, and he’s looking slyly into my eyes as his fingers contact my wetness. There! He’s sliding one finger along the crevasse between my labia now. I almost lose my balance as his finger brushes my clit. You’re behind me now, your hands caressing my shoulders, reassuring me – or possessing me—

“She’s so wet!” he says.

“Go inside,” you tell him.

Fuck! My knees go weak and you have to steady me. There’s a stranger’s finger in me now, penetrating me— I feel vague little protests rise up in my throat; a tiny part of me wonders how the hell I got into this. Just this morning, I got up, took a shower, and put on clean cotton underwear. I drove to work; I’m a big girl and I have important responsibilities— and here I am taking no responsibility at all, just doing exactly what you tell me to do— oh my! Actually this man is pretty good! He’s hitting my g-spot now, stroking it with his finger, and my juice is all over his hand. My protests finally escape me, but come out only as low moans.

“She’s nice and tight, isn’t she?” you croon at him like I’m not even there. Somehow that makes me even hotter.

He’s leering now. He pulls his hand out and grabs my cunt, all the swollen flesh of it, grabs the whole thing in one hand and squeezes, rubs, molests me. You’re behind me, kissing the back of my neck. The hairs on my arms are standing up. He begins rubbing, sliding his middle finger over my clit every time his hand goes through the mess of wetness at my crotch. I’m shaking for real now. You’re biting the back of my neck. I have to start biting my lip. My god, why is this so good?

When you say “stop,” I’m disappointed. The man pulls his hand away, waits.

“On your knees,” you command.

I kneel. My face is at the level of the man’s crotch. He’s got a huge angry bulge there.

“Would you like her to rub you cock?” you ask him. Him, not me.

He nods, of course.

Again, that feeling of something tearing inside. Fear. Excitement. I give in to it. I reach out and feel his cock through his dark pants. It’s hard, and I can feel the heat. That’s for me, I understand suddenly. I did that to him. I think I actually lick my lips as I being rubbing. The man has a bemused smile on his face. And—there! He’s brought his hand to his face, he’s subtly smelling his fingers, smelling me on them. You’re stroking my back now, encouraging me. People are starting to watch in earnest, to gather from a respectful distance. I look up and you’re standing there, smiling. My eyes are shining. I am doing this all for you, lover. The beautiful girl on the leash is yours not because you tied her up, but because she wants to be tied up by you. You hold my gaze for a long time.

“Good,” you say, and smile. I smile back. There’s a small crowd getting off on this display, but it’s just the two of us in that look. I’m smiling, I’m glowing up at you as I stroke the man like a perfect little whorelet.

“Now suck his cock.”

No.No!

Yes?

I could use the safeword. There’s no shame in that. I don’t actually have to do anything I don’t want to. We could go home. I need to be fucked anyway.

What do I want?

You saw me start. You see me hesitate. You begin to frown.

I want you to tell me exactly what to do. My own words echo in my head.

I am trembling.

I am very, very aroused.

“Now,” you say gently.

There is a long pause. You are watching me. Everyone is watching us. I see you subconsciously tighten your grip on the leash; you reach down and pull a loop of the slack into your hand. It’s a threat.

I feel like I’m about to cry. I feel like I’m about to come.

For the first time in my life, I am consciously aware of just how good it feels to be overpowered.

“Yes,” I whisper, looking directly into your eyes. “Yes.” No one else can hear it. No one needs to.

I am dazed. I unzip his fly, reach inside, draw out his penis. It’s warm, almost hot to the touch, and very hard but soft at the same time in that wonderful way that only a cock can be. He’s circumcised, straight, of perhaps slightly larger than average size. I place my hand around it experimentally, squeeze slightly. The man closes his eyes in delight. It’s a beautiful cock.

I look straight up at you as I reach out my tongue. There seems to be a long distance between my mouth and the swollen head. And—there! I am slowly tonguing the head of a stranger’s penis. Because you ordered me to.

“Inside,” you say, and I do it without hesitation this time. I lunge forward and my shining lips engulf his cock. I can feel him hit the back of my throat, feel that familiar lust that comes from sucking cock. It’s not yours; the shape and weight and texture are different, but it doesn’t matter now. Slowly, I withdraw, then take him back in. I can feel you watching me. I’m going to make this good. I take him back in, then out. I am pistoning on this foreign cock, gripping it with my hand, rubbing the central ridge with each thrust. I am going to suck this cock for all it is worth. When I look up, you are smiling.

“Good girl,” you say, and resume stroking my back. I almost purr with pleasure, with excitement. The fear is gone now; or it’s been transmuted into something else. I don’t have to worry about anything at all. All I need to do is what you say, all I need to do is give in to my lust in the manner that you have ordered. I want to suck this cock for you; I want to suck this cock, full stop. I have no choice, no guilt, no shame. Is that it? Is that what all the sluts in high school knew that I didn’t? I’m not supposed to want this. I’m not supposed to like this. I am a powerful, liberated woman. I don’t take orders from anybody, much less men. Then why am I so fucking wet when I think about getting down on my knees in front of a stranger for you?

And what about you? I look up again. You are more than smiling now. You are aroused. You are watching your pretty little girl on her knees, sucking someone’s cock. You’re watching my pretty lips parted around a big hard cock, taking it deep into my throat just because you ordered me to. My ass juts out invitingly; my soaking cunt is open obscenely and exposed to the room, and they are watching. You are gripped with lust, I can see that. And also pride, and a strange sort of relief. What is the part of you that needs this? How did you even know that it was in me to give it to you?

“Look at me,” you say.

I lock my eyes on yours. One of yours hands is still stroking my back. The other takes my chin, stops me for a moment with my delicate lips stretched obscenely around his penis.

“You’re so pretty,” you say, and let go.

I watch you as I continue. I can feel the man stiffening now, I can feel the initial convulsions of an approaching orgasm. I speed up; I grip him tighter, never taking my soft eyes off you. We’re staring at each other. There is something stretched taut between us. I don’t know any more who is in charge. All I know is that I am going to tear you apart when we get home. I am going to fuck you like no woman has ever fucked a man. I am going to be the prodigal whore that every king dreamed of. I am going to come apart in your arms, I am going to cry and I am going to beg to swallow every drop of you, just as I am going to—

Yes. You don’t even have to ask me. I know what you want of me. I can feel the man’s testicles tightening. He’s going to come, and I am going to swallow it all. For you.

You nod. You know.

The room is quieter than before. People are watching, openly, but from a respectful distance. There is a crescendo coming. Other couples are off in the shadows doing things to each other, but all eyes are on us. On the pale girl on the leash with the big cock between her lips, working for her master, savoring every moment. Again I feel a sputter of shame run through my body. I shouldn’t be doing this! But I know how to use it this time; I know how to take the energy of “I shouldn’t” and enfold it, tighten myself around it, feel it as a convulsion deep in my gut, and in my cunt. My empty pussy is gripping the air now, tightening hard around nothing at all. I’m left wanting. You’re so fucked when we get home. I shouldn’t be doing this, but you told me to, and I want to because I am yours, and I want to be yours completely. I want. I want—

—and he’s coming. The whole room can see that. You can see that, as I stare into your eyes.

He’s groaning. So are others in the room, I think.

One big spurt. I’m holding tight to his cock with my hand, directing his come down my throat.

Two.

You can see me swallowing.

Three. The familiar bitter taste, but not yours. The expression on your face is unreadable.

Four—

—and you grip my hair suddenly yank my head back. The cock pops out of my mouth, and I close my eyes reflexively just as he shoots a last hot stream at my face.

I open my eyes.

Everything is very still now.

I can see myself reflected in your gaze. I am on my knees, nearly nude. My head is tilted back, my wet lips parted, my face slack. On one cheek there is a streak of semen, a perfect white teardrop of come. Somehow, everything is contained in that one image, that one moment.

I stand up, shaking. You smile. You reach up gently and wipe the white tear off my cheek. You drop the leash and hold me, just hold me. I rest my head on your shoulder, your warmth, your smell. I feel empty. I feel like I’m about to cry. I feel beautiful.

“Let’s go home,” you say, still holding me tightly.

You’re in me, you’re on me, and your hand is at my throat. You’re making me admit things again. I never would have found the words myself, but the feelings were there, and you’re forcing me to own up to them, giving me the language to admit to you – and to myself – what I really want.

“I’m yours,” I finally manage to say through gasps, through closed eyes. “I’m completely yours. I’ll do anything you want.” And although you had to force me to say it, you know for a fact that it’s true. And oh god oh god oh god, it feels good.


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