submission, episode two


He’s still fully dressed as he pulls my nude body down to join his on the bed. My mind is still singing with the relief of having pleased him as he guides me onto my back and moves over me.
His tongue plunders my mouth, short, hard kisses that make me want to grab him and just hold on for dear life. I can’t get enough. My hungry mouth searches out his again and again, wanting more of the taste of him. Wanting more of the feel of him.
Ever in control, he pulls back and lays on his side. His hands, wonderful, approving, run over my skin. Not just breasts and genitals, his touch runs over every inch of my body. I nearly purr in response, arching and rubbing against his hand like a cat.

It should feel strange and vulnerable, lying here completely naked. Particularly when he still wears every stitch of his clothing. Yet it doesn’t. It feels calm and secure and natural.
Every touch of his hand over my skin, like a trainer stroking a thoroughbred. His fingers slip up to my breasts, nipples standing high and hard from my chest. A small sound escapes from my throat. Without warning, his lips close over my left nipple, and I’m taken inside the heat and wetness of his mouth.
God. His tongue is expert. I nearly cry out with the delicious torment. I try to imagine his mouth on all the other parts of my body. I can’t. It’s too intense.
He lifts his head as his palm smoothes over my thighs. He nudges them apart with his hand. I feel myself growing wetter. My heat is like a pulse between my thighs. He slides a hand in between, moving higher.
His lips move down to mine again. He kisses me once, harshly, and begins to speak.
“I have only one rule.”
I’m trying to concentrate on his words, I really am, but the touch of his hand travelling further up my thighs is a distraction. I look at him and wait for him to continue.
“That your thighs are always open, at least a little, when you’re with me.”
His words shoot an arrow through me, making me want to buck up against his hand. I think I nod against him, but I’m not sure. His words and his hands are twin tidal waves, slamming against me from both sides.
He slides a single finger inside me, meeting no resistance. The imp in my head pipes up again to tease me that I’m so wet that he could nearly slide his whole hand in there without resistance.
He murmurs approval of my heat and wetness. Now, inexorable proof that all this has turned me on greatly. I can’t deny it now.
As quickly as a blink, he removes his finger. I can feel my pussy spasm at the sudden retreat, wanting more of him. Begging to be filled again.
He sits me up on the edge of the bed, beside him. His arm goes around my shoulders. I slide my thighs apart a little, trying to remember, trying to obey. He looks at me. I’ve never been looked at so thoroughly, so often. It’s unnerving.
And arousing.
“Go to the dresser and open the third drawer down.” he orders.
More aware of my body than ever, naked before him, I rise and take the few steps to the dresser. I slide open the drawer – it’s light, there can’t be much there – and look down to see a small but dizzying array of leather and metal. Some items I recognize – the nipple clamps are easily identifiable, though they make me clench with a mixture of fear and excitement. But a number of items make me wonder just what they’re used for.
I feel him move behind me and to my right, looking over my shoulder. He begins pointing to items, pulling them from the drawer and showing them to me. Ankle cuffs (so wide – I’d never seen anything so wide, I hadn’t recognized them), wrist cuffs, all high quality leather with padded edges so as not to cut into the skin.
He reaches in and pulls out another toy I hadn’t recognized. It’s made up of two strips of leather, medium width, with a couple of metal rings at the end. I thought it was maybe a light slapper. But he moves behind me and tells me to move my hands behind my back.
Its purpose becomes clear soon enough; they were for tying wrists together. He is gentle and careful, binding my wrists securely but not too tightly. I wasn’t prepared for how it would make me feel to have my wrists tied behind my back.
Most of my bondage fantasies involve me spread-eagled on a bed or standing against a wall. But this is different, still able to move about. It feels exciting. My body and my mind respond with another spurt of arousal, dampening my pussy even more.
He reaches inside the drawer again and draws out the nipple clamps. I notice with relief the black rubber tips. I’d been so afraid they’d be alligator clamps, the type with teeth that just dig in and hurt and hurt and hurt. Or so I’ve always imagined.
He holds them in front of me and explains that they are adjustable; they could be put on as lightly or as firmly as he wishes.
And he moves to place the clamps on me.
I am scared. Will they hurt? My nipples, in nervous reaction to the swirling thoughts in my brain, soften. He places the clamps on anyway, very lightly, first my right nipple, then my left.
When he removes his hands, I take an experimental breath. No pain, though I’m sure the clamps are more than capable of delivering it, if fastened more tightly. They are a slight weight, making me more aware of my breasts than I’d ever been before.
He moves and sits on the edge of the bed, looking at me, beckons me over. He reaches out and grips the chain that hangs and bounces between my breasts lightly, tugging me towards him. I follow, helpless to do anything else. I can feel my nipples get harder from the light pressure. When he looks at my breasts, I find myself wishing he would stroke the tips just visible between the rubber clamps.
But he doesn’t. I nearly whimper as he removes the clamps. This was just my first taste.
He guides me to his closet. More toys to look at. I can feel my thighs actually tremble at the virtual cornucopia of sensual and sadistic pleasures and toys he has. I want him to share them with me. I want to experience all of them. The heat between my thighs becomes a demanding pulse.
Collar. I’ve heard about this, of course, and dismissed it as something silly. Demeaning, perhaps, but ultimately silly.
He reaches up, lifts my hair, and places it around my neck.
I’m unprepared for how it makes me feel. Secure. Submissive. Content. The leather edges rub against the skin of my neck. It reminds me that he is in charge, and that I am here to please him. I can’t believe this is turning me on, but my pussy juices cannot lie.
The show continues.
Ankle spreader bars. Cuffs lined with some kind of fake fur. Will he use these on me tonight? I can’t even imagine.
Riding crop. So this is what one looks like, not the toys you see in novelty shops, a real riding crop like the kind you’d use on a horse. The leather tongue is soft, but the rod looks like it could be incredibly painful.
He is very patient while I ask my questions, trying to learn more about each of these toys. One day he may ask me to choose. I want to be able to make an informed decision. I’m endlessly curious, which ones will bring the most pleasure, which will sting and be more as punishment.
Flogger. This one intrigues me the most, and he knows it. Leather strips, shorter than I’d expected, hang from a strong handle. They look buttery soft. He explains that the flogger is strong enough to be used on my ass, but gentle enough to use against my breasts. He flicks the ends against my breasts, just once, dragging the soft leather tips against my nipples. My breath catches.
I want him to do everything to me. Part of me wants to scream, “Let’s just dump all these on the bed and play!”
But he is in control. Not me. Not me.
I am so grateful for what I have learned so far. I want him to know how grateful I am, how turned on all this has made me, how wonderful he has been with me.
He kisses me and I can feel him hard against my hip. Harder than I expected, and I squeeze my pussy muscles against a wave of arousal when I realize that all this has turned him on as well.
I kiss his chest, still covered in clothing. I cannot remove it; my hands are still securely tied behind my back.
I slide to my knees before him, making sure my thighs are slightly parted as he has ordered. Clothes or no, I want to touch him in the only way I can; with my mouth.
Read part three »

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Vikki McKay
By Vikki McKay

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