If he does all those juicy things with his body just because he wants my dick, so be it. I’ll shove the cock in his mouth, I’ll choke him with it, I’ll wrap my fingers in his hair and wrench it back until his open mouth wail actually begs to be silenced with a shaft.
Admiring the head of the thick, black shaft.
It’s shining. Just from the lubricant. Menacing. I can sit here all day, just massaging the tip between my legs. I’m not admiring how well it looks as my new appendage, I’m admiring the immediate impact that it has on you. So subtle over there in the corner.
Cowering.
I sense your body when it shakes. I can feel your breathing as if it’s touching my skin when that’s absolutely impossible. I stroke the head of this shaft as if I am teasing it when this really cannot possibly have no physical impact on me, but I know it makes you ache inside with something.
Is that fear? Desperation? Desire? Shame?
Curled up in a ball. Are you trying to hide? It’s as if you are in a tiny jail cell pushed into the farthest corner trying to disappear into the cool concrete yet there is nowhere to go. And I am just sitting here. Stroking and caressing. I can hear the distinct sound of the lubricant oozing into the cockhead. I almost wish it would seep into the actual thick black shaft, be absorbed so that I could ejaculate it into one glorious degrading orgasm all over your face.
“Get over here.”
It really just takes one demand, doesn’t it?
You know better than to lift up beyond kneeling level. As low to the ground as possible. Trained so well. Moving the way I like it, with shoulder blades alternating in time, your back exposed, wearing nothing but something tight, latex and uncomfortable over what is left of your male parts. Parts that I could give two shits about. Really, all I care about is your mouth, your eyes, and the parts of your body I can dig fingers into and create gasps of pain, wincing, desperate moans.
Your eyes. I just watch them. It’s all I want to do. The anticipation wells in me like my own orgasm building. Will he watch the glistening shaft of my strap on, or will he look up woefully into my eyes, or will he keep his eyes to the floor, bottom lip quivering? This is an exciting game for me. Which will it be? It’s a lottery. I always win. I always win.
The breathing shows in his back. Heaving. With the movement, and with the fear. Who am I kidding though? The heaving is because he wants his mouth around my dick. I learned that when I was 21 years old. Oh, so, I wished he ached and breathed hard and gasped and moaned for the desire to surrender to me and suffer for me; ok, so in reality, he does all that for cock. Loves the cock. Needs the cock. Addicted to cock.
That’s ok. I will take it. Besides, I like to wear the dick. I like the shaft. It feels good between my legs. Heavy. A nice extension. The harness presses my pussy in all the right places. I can pump my hips a little and watch it bounce and it makes him so uncomfortable. It all does. If he does all those juicy things with his body just because he wants my dick, so be it. I’ll shove the cock in his mouth, I’ll choke him with it, I’ll wrap my fingers in his hair and wrench it back until his open mouth wail actually begs to be silenced with a shaft.
I will do – whatever it takes – to get my needs met.
“My property,” I say. “I need complete obedience. Attention. Surrender. Suffering.” Will he pass this test?
Is it – “blah blah blah Mistress oh yes Mistress blah blah Mistress your cock Mistress blah blah” – or, is it just a look, those eyes, lips slightly parted, a nod, and a quiet, “Of course, my lady,” or, even better, god forbid my name! Remarkable! To discard this notion of using an ‘honorific” that gets tossed around and means nothing at this point or is attached to a name to basically demean it. And instead, just – simply – my name. And not just the name, but the eye contact, the pause, the breath, the fists clenched.
And there it is. Ache. It starts in my belly. Right at the base of my rib cage actually. Resonates down, down, until it circles my belly and goes down to my crotch, my pussy. The tingle, at the same time, hits the back of my neck and curls my toes. At the same time, my vision blurs for just a split second and I can almost hear a “ZZT” sound but that must be in my head.
Then it’s in my clitoris. All of it. Pound. Pound. Pound. Ache. Ache. Moisture, warmth. This must be what men feel. And it’s not that I want to “cum.” I could give a fuck about an orgasm – Give me my rabbit and I will take care of that shit in 3 minutes.
I don’t want to climax. I want to take. I want to take you. I want to own you. I want to fuck your mouth until you cry. I want to degrade you until I feel so guilty I must stop and hold your face in my hands and rebuild your ego. I want to make you beg me NOT to do something, and then see how fast I can make you beg me TO do it.
All the while, my hands never leave your body. At all. Physical contact is a must. Because even as your mouth is wrapped around my shaft, I can’t feel the sucking, but when my hand is on your chest I can feel your breathing sucking it in, and it makes me so hot. When my hand is in your hair, I can feel your head moving. I can force your head down harder and faster. When I put my grip around your neck to playfully choke you, I can see innocence in your eyes.
I want to chain your wrists behind your back, put a collar and leash around your neck, use nipple clamps to provide motivation, and then make you bob your head up and down on my shaft as I pursue your ultimate surrender. Until your eyes water, you choke, and you end up looking at me with tears and desperation.
And then, when I am satisfied, I want to insert an inflatable penis gag into your mouth, pump it up slowly, lock it into place and hogtie you. Leaving you at my feet. I’ll have you on the floor while I’m in my chair, still wearing the black shaft in my strap-on harness, now glistening with your spit. Stroking it while watching you. Hair disheveled and wet with sweat. Just watching what is left of you.
This is when I cum. I will touch myself, making you watch. Or making you close your eyes. Using my foot, of all things, to put pressure on your neck. To stop your breathing. It’s the final exam, really. Do you know how to use your eyes, your breathing, your body, to give me a “show” that will make me cum?
So many say they can do it.
So few actually can.
(c) Akasha 2021
All Rights Reserved
