blistered lips

Gerry never thought of his dick as anything but average. Maybe a little small, when compared to porn, but he thought it was alright. No one had really complained, after all, not really, at least not to his face. He remembered when Sally’s smile had dropped just a bit, but he’d told himself it was because he hadn’t man-scaped well enough.

But tonight, with Grace in the other room as he looked at it, he felt ashamed, inadequate. He’d bragged to her at the club, not thinking their flirting would go anywhere. But she’d invited him home and he’d agreed, and now, getting ready, he knew he’d lied. Worse, he knew she would know he’d lied. How do you correct that, he thought? How do you explain that seven is really five. Girls say it doesn’t matter, but how could it not?

He could turn off the lights. Pretend to be shy. Make foreplay all about her — that’s what they say they want, right? Just focus on her, and pray that by the time she was ready, she wouldn’t be paying as much attention. That could work.

“Is everything OK?” Grace called from the other room. “I’m ready when you are.”

He took a deep breath, looked down again, then walked out of the bathroom into her bedroom. She wore a blue camisole, and was kneeling on the bed. He looked in her direction, and actually did say a little prayer to Ishtar. Then he caught her eyes. She motioned for him to come forward, and he did, grateful for her understanding and mercy.

… well, a lot of things.

maybe that you fear me
that my erotic sway brings you to your knees
or my voice is all you hear
above the din, beyond the clamor
of what you once mistook for life

that you despair, yet crave all that i am
(you know that i am)
my sharp words
exigent carriage
cavalier inclinations
callous requisitions

that you love me with desperation
(your senseless desperation)
… despite
my cold disdain
contemptuous breadth
my reserved contempt

that you would kneel before me
give to me
sacrifice for me
venerate, cherish, celeberate me
suffer for me
cry, beg, whine, snivel, squirm
humble your undistinguished self
at my feet

or whatever

because i will say
that you are irrelevant
and i am disinterested
that i disdain
your impotent efforts and puny ambitions
that you are
inconsequential, even despicable
that you are …
a paltry wretch
a lacking vassal
a lamed fuck
a stumbling picador
a shadow man

or whatever

Why he is here, he couldn’t tell you. Even later, the memory will be fuzzy at best: a business trip, an unfamiliar town, a rented car, trouble sleeping.

The bar is nice, the music not too loud, the regulars behaving themselves. He sits nursing his scotch, listening to the three women next to him, catching occasional glimpses of their animated faces in the mirror behind well-stocked shelves. He thinks the one next to him, the brunette, has met his reflected gaze once or twice. Her shoulder has brushed his no less than three times, which isn’t a surprise, given their close proximity. The last time, she’d even turned to smile at him, which he took as a quiet “excuse me.”

He orders his second drink just as the brunette’s two friends move out to the small dance floor. Watching the way their bodies move together, seeing the way they look only at each other, he wonders if they might be lesbians. A slight smile creases his face as his mind conjures an ongoing array of possibilities.

“No, they’re not.”

Lost in the fantasy of two blondes getting it on, he hasn’t noticed her moving closer, but here she is. He smiles, nods, lifts his glass and takes a drink before answering.

“So besides being beautiful, you can read minds too?”

He is surprised, caught a little off guard, when she doesn’t smile back. Instead, she sits back down on the bar stool and lights a cigarette. She stares at him, inhaling deeply. “I can read your mind,” she says through a plume of exhaled smoke. “And it’s a very messy place. Quite undisciplined, in fact.” She reaches into her Dooney & Bourke purse. “But I can fix you right up in no time, make everything all better.”

Her eyes holding his, her hand moves from her purse to place something between them on the bar. He looks down to see a leather collar, its stainless steel studs reflecting the sparkling lights hanging from the overhead above them.

He doesn’t say anything, just shapes his mouth into what he hopes passes for a wry grin, tips his glass, downing the rest of his drink.

“If you need to get drunk to get kinky, you’re not doing it right.”

This time when he looks at her she is smiling. And so he smiles back. “Who said I wanted to get kinky,” he answers, waving to the bartender, this time pointing to both their drinks. “I’m just here for a couple of drinks, a chance to unwind. That’s all, Miss.” She cocks here head, the smile having reached her twinkling eyes. Dark blue eyes, the color of cobalt, he notices.

“Mistress.”

“Pardon me?”

“What I mean is don’t call me Miss, call me Mistress. Mistress Paige.”

The bartender is serving their drinks, taking away the empty glasses. If he notices the collar, he doesn’t let on. “Don’t worry about the bartender,” she says, “he’s not in this. You and me are in this. Only you and me.” She reaches out, touching his arm, right above the bend of his elbow. She slowly squeezes, until her hand is a fist, bundling his shirt sleeve and flesh into a hard knot. “I’m going to do this to your balls,” she whispers in his ear. Then she flicks the edge of his ear with her tongue. “Mmmm … you taste good.”

He looks into the mirror again, seeing that the blondes are now back, both eyeing him in its metallic reflection. The one on the far right, the one in the cashmere sweater dress, moves her lips, mouthing, “Do it.”

Although “Mistress Paige” is turned towards him and cannot see her friends, she tells him, “Take her advice. Put the collar on. It will better than any fucking sex you’ve ever imagined in your wildest, pedestrian fantasies.”

And he doesn’t know why, but he does. He picks up the collar, turns to Mistress Paige and puts it around his neck. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees both of the blonde’s reflected, knowing smiles and wonders if they will be a part of this. A part of what will happen next.

“No, they aren’t coming with us.”

He is starting to think that she really can reads minds, when Mistress Paige takes a leash from her purse and attaches it to the collar. He opens his mouth, maybe to protest, to tell her she is going to far. He really doesn’t even know what words want to come out of his empty, dry mouth. But she stops him with a finger across his lips, shushing him.

“Don’t think. Just obey.”

“Yes.”

She pats him on the head, runs her fingernails down the side of his neck, then curls her fingers under the edge of the collar. He feel her knuckles against his Adam’s apple as she pulls him close. “Now your getting it,” she whispers, looking straight into his eyes. He believes she is right. His world is changing, becoming transparent and shimmering. The blondes, the bartender, even the leather bar stools and flickering bar lights are fading ghosts.

“Don’t think. Just obey,” Mistress Paige repeats herself. He knows what to say, what she expects of him. “Yes, Mistress.”

“Good boy. Now…” she relaxes her grip on the collar, “get down on you knees.” She repeats herself again, “Don’t think. Just obey.”

Don’t think. Just obey. He hears the words inside of his brain, echoing in his bones like a mantra as he lowers himself to the wooden floor. Staring straight ahead through a sea of legs he hears the noise of the bar — the jukebox, the jumbled drunken voices — as if from behind a wall of leaded glass. Don’t think. Just obey.

“Begin crawling towards the door. Do as your told. Now!”

He does what he must. He crawls.

Tagged BDSM · femdom · discipline · domination · fem fatale

it’s the bitch in her
that keeps you on her dotted line
signed, sealed, delivered
your signature, her hand
done deal

used up and faded blue
the new you
(after all)

after all:
buckled down and tied up
your twisted tongue and caught breath
searching for sonnets

searching for sonnets
on hobbled limbs
and always archiform knees
to sing, to plead, to offer alms
to your silent siren
who never listens, never speaks
who only hears her own measure

it’s the bitch in her
that keeps you here and keeps you hers:
her cheap fetish
her pygmy romeo
her corrupt fuck

it’s the bitch in her
that’s taken you down
rubbed you raw
cut you clean
wiped you out
bled you, bled you, bled you

it’s the bitch in her
that fucks with you
fucks you up
fucks you over
and doesn’t give
a flying fuck about any of it

it’s the bitch in her
that has your attention
your cock, your devotion, your heart

it’s the bitch in her
that makes you her bitch

“Never underestimate the power of your cunt,” Martin had said to Addison not so many years ago.   And he’d meant it.  From the bottom of his heart.

And Addison, being smart and a bit on the wicked side, took his words to heart. It was easy to put two and two together–his words and his ongoing fascination with her pussy. The attention he directed to the V at the top of her thighs was different from what she’d experienced with other guys. They liked it, they liked it a lot. But Martin was absolutely obsessed. And it was this obsession that was his downfall. It made him stupid and weak, and easily manipulated.

So it didn’t take long–a matter of weeks perhaps–until Addison had Martin exactly where she wanted him: On his knees, cum-denied and at her service. It wasn’t the relationship she’d envisioned as a little girl dreaming of prince charming. It was, in fact much better in that she was most certainly a princess. A spoiled princess. Martin’s princess.

Tonight Addison was conducting a scent training session. Martin knelt before her, naked and eager, an obedient puppy moaning and mewling every time she tugged on his cock leash. “What do you want Puppy Martin? What do you want from Princess Addison?” Giving Martin’s cockleash two quick tugs, she widened the gap of her already spread legs, feeling the rose-print panties stretching tight into the slit of her cunt.

“Ooooh! Those panties feel so good against my clit, Martin. I may have to have you lick me tonight instead of just smelling.”

“Yes. Yes, please Princess Addison. I will lick your cunt. I will lick you cunt and make you cum so good. Please Princess. Please let me.”

“Don’t think for a minute that if I DO let you lick this cunt that I will let you cum. You get lazy and inattentive once you cum and I am not in the mood for such silliness. Do you understand, Puppy Martin?”

“Yes, Princess.” I will be good.. I promise to be soooo good for Princess.”

Addison giggled. During their entire exchange, Martins eyes had been ogling her panty-covered cunt, while at the same time his cock was jerking and twitching and a long, pearly string of precum was now dangling from its head.

“Oh, Martin. You are just too cute. I don’t dare let you lick my Princess cunt. You just might lose control. But we will continue with the scent training. Would you like that?”

She tugged on his cock leash three times and saw the gooseflesh rising all over his naked flesh as he whimpered. “Crawl over here between my legs. That’s it. Now rest your head against this thigh and watch as I pull these panties into my slit and get them all wet with Princess juices.”

Sliding her tailbone to the edge of the chair and spreading her legs even wider, Addison grinded her clit and vulva into the panty crotch, feeling the wetness there spread. Martin groaned and she could actually see his nostrils flaring.

“Can you smell it, Martin? Can you smell your Princess’s cunt?”

Martin groaned again, this time louder and longer.

“Let’s proceed with the training then.”

With that, Addison put her hands and the back of Martin’s head, pulling his face into her crotch.

“Smell, Puppy Martin. Smell my Princess Cunt until I tell you to stop.”

Wrapping her left leg around his neck, Addison picked up the book from the chairside table and began reading.

Martin began his breathing lesson with gusto.

She never knew. You wanted her to. At least sometimes you thought you did.

You were her friend, her buddy, her “best buddy,” she always said. And you always agreed. Grinned your simple grin and kept your secrets.

You liked it when she called you that. Best buddy, bosom buddy. The buddy left alone when she was out with Karl or Jacob or Michael, or one of so many others. It’s not that you ever loved her; she never broke your heart after all. You knew even then that you can’t break a heart that doesn’t love. It was always that simple and that fucked up.

You never fooled yourself, not even at first. Because it was never love–not even lust or reverence. It was deification. Yes, you fantasized about her, masturbated thinking about her. Thinking about her with them–all of them. You thought about her face, her dewy flesh, her gray-green eyes, her auburn hair–long and always freshly shampooed. But it wasn’t her beauty that caught you’re imagination. It was her cunt. It was the thought of her cunt that got you crazy-hot. You wanted to worship the cunt that all of that beauty implied. To be the rutting pig, the filthy whore-boy, the degenerate cunt-slut. To be a slave to the magnificent snatch that the Karls and Jacobs and Michaels–loved and ate and fingered and fucked.

Even now you don’t remember the first time. The first time you had to have more. The first time you stole her panties, sniffed them, jerked off in them. And finally wore them: Her cum and their cum, all those men’s cum, wet against your cock, spunk-soaked satin and lace. A dirty betrayal. A profane gesture. You knew it, but you did it anyway, time and again–even your guilt a twisted aphrodisiac that you fed upon.

That was long ago, back then, back there. You both moved on. She–to three states, two marriages and, now, two divorces. You–just to a different apartment, one town over. Always single, always remembering.

But she’s found you in the here and now.

Sitting on your sofa, drinking single malt whiskey instead of iced tea, wearing stilettos instead of sandals, smoking a cigarette instead of chewing gum–she is staring at you. Silence. Taking a drag off of her cigarette, exhaling slowly, never losing eye contact. Finally she butts the cigarette on the dish you’ve brought her in lieu of an ashtray.

“It’s going to be different this time.”

“What?”

“You know what. You know exactly what I mean. And this time you’re going to do it my way.”

She slowly uncrosses her long, silky legs and lights another cigarette. You attempt the silly grin, your old standby. But you’re out of practice. Nervous. Your lips tremble. And you don’t quite pull it off; know you look timid, stupid, probably even frightened. Because that is exactly how you feel.

She takes another drag of the cigarette, this time a long, deep one. Stands up. Begins walking toward you, her heels digging into the drab, grey linoleum. Standing in front of you she lets the cigarette hang from the corner of her over-glossed lips and starts slowly pulling up the sides of her dress.

“I was a busy girl before I got here tonight. You remember those days, the old days?  When I was a busy girl? A very busy girl all the time?” Her dress is sliding over the tops of her stockings. You push your back into your chair, gripping its arms.

“Funny thing is…I never had to clean a pair of panties. No matter how many men, how many cocks, how many fucks. No panties to wash. In fact, no panties–period. No panties at all. All of those nasty, dirty panties–gone, poof, nowhere to be found.”

Her dress is at her waist now, and she is reaching out with one hand, pulling you by the neck, pulling your face between her legs. With her other hand she runs her fingers through your hair, enamel nails lightly scratching your scalp.

“We’re going to get it right this time,” she says, pushing your cheeks against the inside of her thighs. The hem of her skirt catches at your brow as she presses your face against her crotch. Inhaling the scent, remembering the scent, you open your mouth and press your tongue into the soaked, pungent, satiny crevices. As she starts to grind her pelvis, you hear her murmuring above you.

“I knew. I always knew.”

So, I’m looking at him.

Handsome, with smile crinkles at the corners of his eyes, like thirty-something men tend to sport. Always makes a man, a confident man, look even sexier. Of course, he knows that. What he doesn’t know is that I am thinking about how long it will take to break him. Because that is what I do, after all.  He doesn’t know that yet. But he will.

He’s sent the waitress over with a martini and now sits at the bar awaiting my invitation. A smile in his direction would be his cue to saunter over, then do his little mating ritual. Be charming, sweep this little damsel off her feet, bed her, fuck her. That is how it usually goes for him and so he expects it.

Instead, I push aside the martini and have the waitress bring me what he is drinking. His eyebrow lifts as he watches her place the gibson in front of me. He thinks it flirtatious and cute, his cocked grin says.

I move my chair out a bit, turning towards him. He watches as I open my legs slightly and slide my hand up under the hem of my black dress. The look on his face says that, while this isn’t in his well-worn playbook, he likes it. He likes it a lot.

I let my legs fall open and slide my hand under my panties. I watch him watching me as I begin masturbating. Even from this distance I can see his prick pressing against the fly of his gabardine trousers. I can see his adam’s apple move as he swallows, the slight flair of his nostrils. He thinks he imagines my scent. But it is real, because I want it to be.

I take the gibson and bring it down to my crotch. He watches intently as I glide my fingers out from under my panties and hold them over the drink. Milky dew slips from my fingertips and into the gin and vermouth mixture, causing the two pearl onions to slightly shift.

He is mine. The rules have changed. He knows it. I always knew it. This is a new script and I am the one writing it.