A Present To Myself

Man's naked chest.

I can’t stop myself from playing with them – not, I admit, that I’ve tried very hard.

It was a joke, the first time I suggested it. He had been browsing the internet in bed, choosing pictures of women for me to quietly ogle – I liked to see his tastes, liked to know what got him hard – and I was looking over his shoulder. One of them caught my eye, even before he sent it. I tapped the screen of his laptop gently, playfully, just at the girl’s nipple. ‘One day,’ I said, ‘I’m going to do that to you. And won’t you look pretty when I do?’

He hadn’t said anything after that, but that might have had more to do with the fact that I started gently nibbling at his neck, replacing any answer he might have given with moans and whimpers. He always did have a soft spot for having his neck teased.

But the idea seemed to take hold. The pictures continued, but now almost all the girls seemed to have pierced nipples: some bars, some rings; some simple steel and others more ornate. Just a coincidence, I was sure he’d say if I ever asked him about it – but I didn’t. What would be the point? After two years, I could read him like a book.

I made the appointment for him six weeks before my birthday. The way he blushed when I told him what I wanted from him made it clear to me that it was the right decision – that it wasn’t something forced or coerced, but something he wanted just as much as I did.

Poor boy, so ashamed to admit what he wanted – and why.

I gave him the option to tell me to cancel the appointment, but he never did. Some days I could tell that he came close – when the reality of it crashed up against the fantasy, when the thought of the momentary pain overwhelmed the promise of pleasure – but he kept his resolve. He knew what it meant for me. He knew what it meant for him.

Six weeks to heal, they had told me – not even him. Keep them clean. Use an antiseptic if need be. Keep his hands off them as far as possible.

It wasn’t easy to go without my favourite toy for so long, but I had timed it for a reason. When he was healed, when he was back to where I needed him to be, I’d have him just the way I wanted him. What better way to celebrate my birthday than that?

He got me other gifts, of course, even though I told him not to. Nothing big, nothing flashy – a book I’d been putting off buying, a small bottle of the perfume I had been wearing on our first date (so thoughtful…) – but he knew what my main present was. He had been teasing me without knowing it for weeks now. Every time he had slept in the nude, his firm torso pressed against my naked back as we spooned; every time I had seen him slip on a shirt before work… all of it, promising something that was tantalisingly close and yet just out of reach. I had found my mind drifting away during the day, distracted in the knowledge that he was out there somewhere, dressed in the immaculate suit and clean-pressed shirt that I had seen him wearing when he left – and that under that pristine, businesslike exterior, two small steel bars marked him out as mine. It was our little secret, safe in my imagination and the moans he no doubt had to suppress when the cotton rubbed against them.

Six weeks, I told myself. A birthday surprise. A treat for yourself. You can wait that long, surely?

I had surprised myself by finding that, in fact, I could – but now it was time to collect.

‘Hands up,’ I said. ‘Don’t move until I tell you to.’

He nodded, and did as he was told. It wasn’t a position he was unused to; his fingers wrapped around the metal loops and whorls of the headboard, finding that familiar, comfortable spot. He knew instinctively that he’d be there for a while; no need for ropes or cuffs when he was this eager to please.

I leaned down and kissed his neck, tracing a delicate pathway along his collarbone. I felt him shift beneath me, my tiny weight nowhere near enough to hold him down if he decided otherwise – but he never did. He wasn’t fighting against me. He was only fighting against his own desires. When I sat back up, he had his eyes closed, and his lips were trembling as though in some silent prayer.

‘Eyes open,’ I said. ‘I want you to look at me.’

I want your undivided attention – and I know just how to get it.

He kept his gaze on me as I lowered my head to his chest, planting soft little butterfly kisses along his skin. I flicked out a tongue and watched his body shiver with delight.

‘Sensitive?’ I said without stopping, without looking up.

‘Fuck.’ The word came out almost by itself: a long, slow drag on a cigarette. ‘Fuck.’

‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

He nodded. ‘Extremely.’

‘Good.’

He always did love having his chest played with. He had been embarrassed about that too, in the early days – how sensitive the small pink buds of his nipples could be, how easy it was to bring him to full hardness with nothing more than a gentle stroke, a teasing lick, a just-over-the-line-of-painful bite that would make him forget the rest of the world even exists.

I felt his cock stiffen beneath me as I straddled him, suddenly firm against my thigh.

All that, from one little lick…

‘You look beautiful like this, you know,’ I said, tracing a fingernail across the taught muscles of his chest; he worked out, and the work wasn’t in vain. ‘Decorated. All for me.’

The blush that crossed his face just made me want to eat him up.

‘And it is all for me, isn’t it? All because you want to be pretty for me.’

‘Y… yes,’ he stammered.

‘Say it.’

‘I want to be pretty for you.’ I could feel the catch in his breath, but there was no hesitation.

I smiled. ‘Good boy. Such a good boy. And good boys get rewarded.’

I brought my fingers in, achingly close to the bars, and then stopped. He must have known how desperate I was to touch him and feel him writhe beneath me, but it wouldn’t do to let him think that he had any sway – not today, of all days. Sometimes I craved the fight, the back-and-forth of a lovers’ duel, but not now. Now, that was the last thing I wanted.

I watched him lying there, perfectly still, his eyes never leaving mine. I watched him bite his lip as I stroked my finger gently across the top of his nipple, watched it give way into a low, soft whimper as I gripped and pulled – a whole new sensation for him, familiar and yet strange, everything ramped up to eleven.

‘You like that, don’t you?’

‘Y… yes.’

‘Do you want more?’

He nodded, an eager puppy. ‘Please. Always. Please.’

I had denied him long enough, denied myself even longer; the hardness at my thigh was more than I could stand. I lifted myself off his hips just for a moment, and then he was inside me.

‘Don’t move,’ I said. ‘Don’t you dare move. Not an inch, OK? You’re here for me. All mine.’ He nodded, and I gave him a playful tap on the cheek; not quite a slap, not quite a tease. ‘What did I just say? Not. An. Inch.’

He learned.

I enjoyed the sensation of fullness, the thickness of his cock as it twitched inside me. The way I could tell the difference between his reaction to the gentle tease and the painful pinch. I bit my lip as I watched him struggle to keep his calm.

I love you.

The way he whimpered and moaned as I rose him. The way he let me mark him as mine. The way, when we were done, I would rest my head in his chest and state at those fresh adornments and know absolutely that with every beat of his heart there was nowhere he’d rather be.

This beautiful boy.

This beautiful toy.

Marked, and mine.

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Reflecting

Innocent Girl

He held me in place on my knees, not facing towards him as usual but facing away from him, out into the room.

‘Watch,’ he said, directing my gaze forward.

The hands of the girl on her knees in front of me were behind her head, fingers intertwined; her lips were red with lipstick he had already smeared. I could see the look of desire on her face, even as she found it hard to meet my gaze. This is turning you on, I thought. Isn’t it?

Dirty little thing.

I could practically see her cunt dripping with excitement – and why shouldn’t it? He had been teasing her all day. He had been doing everything he could to make sure that when the moment finally came to play, she would be ready. He had promised her the world in soft kisses and stinging slaps, and she had agreed willingly, knowing there was nowhere she would rather be.

The girl’s body was marked for him, by him: a subtle pinkness on her skin that would blossom into a rich purple given the passage of time. A collar around her neck made it clear that she was owned and wanted, but those bruises were what kept my eye. His love for her was written on her body, a love delivered wordlessly and saved for enjoyment later, if she ever any doubt. She could

‘Don’t you think my little slut is pretty?’ he asked, a low growl in my ear.

I nodded, and I felt his fingers digging into my arm. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Say it.’

‘I think your little slut is pretty.’

He knew how hard that was for me to say, how resistant my body was to admitting that I agreed with him. How much time I spent running away from it, no matter how he pushed the issue.

‘Again, pet.’

‘I think your little slut is pretty.’

‘Again.

‘I think your little slut is pretty.’

‘Look up. Say it properly.’

I lifted my head – I hadn’t even realised I was looking at the floor; it was just easier that way – and the girl raised her gaze to greet mine.

‘I think your little slut is pretty.’

‘Again.’

‘I think your little slut is pretty.’

I could see the girl blushing, unfamiliar with the compliment – especially from me. Oh, he had told her a thousand times. He would never let her forget it, but hearing it from my lips, in my voice? That was something different entirely. That was almost more than she could stand, and he knew it.

‘Again.’

I felt the words catch in my throat, and watched her look away from me. ‘I…’

‘Say it, pet.’ His grip tightened; firm, not painful, keeping me in place.

‘I think your little slut is pretty.’ That satisfied him, and that satisfied me. He leaned forward and kissed me gently on the forehead. ‘Good girl,’ he said, and for the first time I was able to meet the gaze of my reflection proudly, without shame.

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In the Wild

Woman with corset and black nails.

It was him, definitely; she would have bet the farm on that.

The last time she had seen him he had been shirtless, his torso coated in a thin sheen of sweat both from exertion and the oppressive heat of the club itself; here, he looked neat and respectable – almost bored, in fact – in a business suit that lost some of its composition since leaving the office. His jacket was folded over one arm, his tie was loose at his neck, his sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows.

He carried a basket filled with a few basic staples: a pint of milk, a half-load of bread, a couple of frozen meals-for-one. The last time, he had been holding a fierce-looking cane and the attention of the room.

She caught his eye, trying not to stare, but also eager to check her first instincts. Was it him? Could it be?

He looked back at her. Oh, it was him alright. Without a doubt.

She smiled in the manner of a casual acquaintance, just someone trying to get by with her weekly shop. He smiled back, then went back to deciding between two competing packages of ravioli, trying to figure out if today was a spinach and ricotta day, or if he was in more of a mind to push the boat out and go for the black-packeted prosciutto and goat’s cheese.

He doesn’t have the faintest clue who I am.

Then again, how could he? The theme of the party was Venetian Masquerade – or at least, Venetian Masquerade with a little twist of kink; the great Enrico Dandolo might have gone blind all over again had he seen the outfits (or lack thereof) they had chosen to go along with their masks. At the start of the evening, she had been dressed in a corset over delicate lace panties, but they hadn’t lasted; the corset was new, and a little too restrictive to be entirely fun, but the panties had been sacrificed to a greater goal. She had felt him shimmy them down her legs as he bent her over the leather bench, displaying her ass to everyone assembled. She had watched him take a deep sniff of them – to the playful laughter of the crowd – before wadding them up and stuffing them into his pocket, safe and sound. Her face had burned with embarrassment – but of course, the flush of blood to her cheeks was nothing compared to the feeling of his cane against her flesh.

She still bore the slim, streaked bruises across her buttocks, even four days later.

She wondered if he had kept the panties. She hoped he had. It would have been nice for him to have a souvenir to match her own – something that he would find a day or two after the fact, when the memory of the brief, anonymous connection they had had begun to fade like a dream in the morning. Something he could raise to his nose again in the quiet stillness of the night and use as a way to transport himself back to the club, back to the noise and the sweat and the bustle of it all.

Something to remember her by.

 She had wondered in the past what it would feel like to run into one of her partners outside of the club, out in the real world – whether it would be like seeing a tiger in the wild, as opposed to safely behind glass at the zoo. She had wondered if she’d get the same thrill from seeing one of them in a business suit rather than leather pants, or seeing one of her fellow subs walking around in a summer dress rather than being led by collar and leash into one of the club’s back rooms. Now it had happened, she wished it hadn’t. He wasn’t the tiger in the wild here. This wasn’t his natural environment. It was in the dark, sweaty embrace of the club that he seemed most at home, a predator stalking his prey. She had yielded to him in an instant there, with the trappings of their mutual desire all around them. She couldn’t imagine him doing anything like that here. If he reached across from his basket to take a handful of her hair, pulling her head back to expose her throat to him in a way that had been so hot, so fucking hot at the weekend, it would have been horrific, not sexy; if he had barked that same order that she could call him Sir, that she should thank him properly for the strokes of the cane he planted with expert precision across the meat of her ass, she might very well have laughed in his pretty little face.

Same man. Different world. It mattered, somehow.

Then again, had she not benefited from that too? There was a strange thrill to not being recognised. Less than half a week ago, he – anonymous he, nameless he; a perfect stranger in every sense – had had her strung up like a puppet for his amusement. She had watched him lose himself in her, giving himself over to her as she gave herself over to him. Outside of the club, would he have even paid her the slightest attention? She doubted it, somehow; not a man like him. A little too young, a little too handsome, a little too cool. She had sensed it even at the club, but that was a different world; the normal rules didn’t apply, the limitations of the Great Wide Out-There seemed petty and small. She was in her forties now, on an inevitable downhill slalom to the big Five-O, and she had accepted that. In the world, in the wild, she didn’t draw attention. She looked respectable. She looked responsible. She looked mature – and that was she looked like much of anything at all; a first glance was rare on the outside, and a second glance rarer still.

But behind the mask, she could bare herself. In the dark of the club, all eyes were on her. The sag, the wrinkles, the tiger-stripe stretchmarks that covered her thighs and belly (stomach, she chided herself; be kind to yourself, even if it isn’t strictly true)… none of it mattered. All that people cared about was her willingness to present herself freely, unashamed – even temporarily – about the impact of the years on her body. All they cared about were the moans as a finger or a strap-on or a cock slid inside her, or the whimpered moans as she debased herself happily for their entertainment.

Yes, it might not have been much – but it was hers.

And for a little while, for a few brief moments, he had been hers. It had been her body that had driven him to the edge, had made him positively insensible with pleasure as he had thrusted himself to an orgasm inside of her. Still got it, she thought. Maybe it was rarer now, but she could still perform when needed. Maybe she wouldn’t draw a stare in a supermarket aisle (Oh, for another swing at her twenties…), but what did that matter?

The bruises ached behind her, and she smiled as she passed him. He didn’t turn to see, but that was OK.

Perhaps the club was her natural habitat too.

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