Dominatrix Next Door

I really wanted to call this It’s Always Polite To Fuck The Host.

Actually I really wanted to write about my weekend, but it’s no good sharing hot stories if that could prevent a second chapter. That’s later still.

I rarely post about clients, except in the most general terms: I respect their privacy. None of them read (I don’t think) and I don’t write it for them — but still. That would be a betrayal of trust. It’s hard enough to do this submissive stuff, even the stuff that isn’t really submissive.

This goes a hundred times so for my friends, whose favors can’t be bought with money. Sluts, some of them, but not whores like me.

So, instead: a story a few months old, from the first of those orgies I attended. Everyone there loves being written about. Right, Jefferson?

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“You. Come.”

Amused, I threaded through the tangle of bodies to approach him in the armchair.

He patted the arm. “Sit here.”

What do you do when you’re ordered to sit in the lap of someone you’ve been eyeing all night? I felt I ought to argue to save face. I sat.

“Water?” I said, pointing at his glass.

He shook his head and said something I couldn’t make out. I took a sip. It tasted like the Manhattans I used to drink, sweet and sharp, and did not suffer for the lack of cherry.

He kissed my arm; then my breast. This seemed like a good idea, so I fed him the other. The lips worked up to my neck. Then lips met mine. He was a careful kisser, allowing me to set the pace.

He let me creep down to the floor, a long journey for what is really an unambiguous ambition. When my knees struck floor, his cock was in front of me, the shaft of it velvet-smooth and heavy and lickable. I decided if he didn’t want his cock sucked, he’d had time to tell me.

After a minute or two, he pulled my mouth off his cock. “Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked.

“Yes, very much!”

His fingers crept into my cunt, which distracted me entirely from the job at hand. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

“Yeah.” I had for some time — although not enough time to form a graceful acceptance. “Please,” I added. Miss Manners never covered orgies.

He stood. “Can we get some space on the bed?”

I slid back on the bed and realized I was tilted back onto an inviting thigh. There were smiles all around. “We’ve provided pillows,” he quipped, picking up my ankles. I squealed.

For a minute or two, we tried to fuck, but he was soft. “I’m not really hard,” he said, letting me sit up. “I can’t get it up for the pretty ones.” So deadpan, and the room so dark.

“Maybe I look better from this angle, then.” Stick with what works, right? And if pretty girls are intimidating — or distant, as I can sometimes seem — then let him mess me up.

I put him on the corner of the bed and put the cock back into my mouth. For a few moments, it was soft; then it started to harden, proving a challenge as it pushed at the back of my throat. I inhaled it, trying to remember to breathe. He made a groan of pleasure as it slid in and out of my throat. His hands clamped down and suddenly he was fucking my throat from an unaccustomed angle. I fought the gagging. He seemed to like the noises, and disregard my struggling: the sloppy gurgle, the spit, the little involuntary chokes as he thrust. Thick ropy spit spilled down my chin and coated the hand I was using on his cock for self defense.

The need to breathe and the gagging was real and urgent. But when he stopped I was, as always, the tiniest bit disappointed.

“Can we have the corner?” he said, and space appeared. He grabbed a condom, then my hips, and worked his cock back into me.

“Pull out for a second.”

“What?” But he did.

I crawled forward and sucked it back into my mouth, still full of that thick spit from the throatfucking. When my lips popped off it a string of it clung to my chin. I wiped with the back of my hand — no time for table manners — and smiled. “There, I’ve got it wet for you.”

“How thoughtful.”

This was the fucking I’d been waiting for: deep, vicious thrusts, pounding me back onto the bed. Someone took my ankles, bending me double. Hands were on my nipples, mauling my breasts, pulling my hair. Then there was a hand on my clit grinding it. I think the neighbors could hear me.

“Hurt me,” I pleaded. He was slapping the upturned thighs, the ass; punches landed on my chest, my breasts. And then there were more punches, this time in my stomach; hard, abrupt blows halfway between pain and nausea. He wasn’t pulling them much — or at least it didn’t feel like it — and the thrill of that alone was heady.

One of the boys was kneeling beside us, jerking off. “Can I come on her tits?” he said. I realized, to my amazement, he wasn’t asking me for permission. The presumptuousness of it sent a jolt through me.

“Yeah, go ahead,” he said, fueling me. “She’s not going anywhere.”

He struck me a couple more times, and that was it. Under all the hurting hands I growled like a wild thing and came and came and came.

Posted in cocksucking, orgy, sex party