“I want you to take control. Use ME,” I said. “I’m tired. All this bossing you around has tired me out.”
“You’re sure?” she asks tentatively.
“Then let’s switch places,” she nearly whispers as she unbuckles the collar around her neck. She stands, and gently removes the leash handle from my palm as she lightly takes my hand and guides me first to standing, from my chair, and then as I turn and kneel before her. She tenderly places the collar around my neck, and gives the leash the softest of tugs, just to be sure.
She ties the leash to a steam pipe behind the chair and cinches it tight. My range of motion is limited. She walks behind me, bends down, and traces my lips with her tongue. She takes my wrists, places one atop the other behind my back, and wraps them lovingly in a silk scarf, which she ties tightly. I feel the fabric cut into my skin just a little.
She leaves the room. I hear rustling as, I imagine, she is getting dressed. Then, silence. And after another moment I hear her heels clicking toward me on the floor. My chest tightens, my breaths grow quicker. The footsteps stop just behind me, and I can hear her breathing, slow and sure. I see her come around me – she’s in a cocktail dress, with stockings, and black pumps. Her hair has been pulled back severely. She sits before me, and spreads her legs. She lets me see the black silk boyshorts that guard her cunt from me, just inches from my face. She strokes my bald head. And she pulls it into her crotch, telling me to smell her cunt, to smell and feel how wet she (still? now?) is.
Abruptly, she pushes me back. She stands, and commands me to remove her boyshorts using only my teeth.
“That’s impossible,” I say.
“Bullshit. Do it.”
And I do. (She cooperates, to be fair….)
She sits once more, spreads her legs once more. “Make me cum,” she commands.
My hands behind me, my knees on the floor, my thighs burning, my hamstrings aching, I devote myself to devouring her.
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