I stick my fingers in his mouth. One. Then two. Then three. Wearing gloves. Black latex gloves. Simply satisfied to watch him fight to keep up with me. Violating his lips unceremoniously. No rhyme or reason. His eyes shut tight as if there were mirrors there (there aren’t).
He’s on his knees again.
Sometimes, I just don’t know what to do. Really. I’ve simply lost my mind again. It’s the ache. I want to curl up into a tiny ball and stay that way and simply exist at this moment and make my life so basic again.
Why can’t it just be that way?
Ten fingers in long thick hair. I’ll wear the gloves again. It will only hurt a little. When he gasps in pain, it will be real. Real, because he’s shocked at my ability to hurt with just ten fingers. He looks at me, and the look isn’t really pain; it’s a look of startle.
He’s startled that I did it.
That’s the first expression I remember ever feeling from him. Really feeling. That he was startled I would actually hurt him.
No. That he was startled that I would actually hurt him, and then smile after I hurt him.
It was ten fingers in his hair, and then him wincing, and then me smiling.
And then the ache.
He’s on his knees again. And it hurts. Everywhere.
**
He never tells me that he’s tired of being in a kneeling position, but I know he is. So many men tell me they are sick of being on their knees; “It hurts.”
“Can I get up now?”
“My legs are getting tired.”
“My feet went to sleep.”
“Do you want me to get up now?”
He’s always moving, shifting, anyway. I don’t mind that the other men need to move after being on their knees. Honestly. I’m not complaining. He stays on his knees because he’s probably thinking about the ten fingers in his hair, and how much they hurt, and what comes next.
I use all ten, with him, because there’s simply so much of it. I can hurt him better that way. I wrench his head back, he winces, and when his eyes are screwed shut tight I can imagine this is what he must look like when the shaft of my cock is pressed firmly against his lips the first time he’s prepared to resist. As if he had a choice.
“Does it hurt?” I always ask the stupid questions.
He doesn’t answer right away, because he thinks hard to make sure he’s going to offer up the best possible answer. To help with the ache.
“You’re hurting me.”
He always does it. The best. Possible. Answer.
I stick my fingers in his mouth. One. Then two. Then three. Wearing gloves. Black latex gloves. Simply satisfied to watch him fight to keep up with me. Violating his lips unceremoniously. No rhyme or reason. His eyes shut tight as if there were mirrors there (there aren’t).
“Keep up.” My instructions are simple. I could just as easily be stuffing panties into his mouth. One. Then two. Then three. He knows about my oral “fascinations.” He knows this is more than just a whimsical game. He knows this is extremely, intensely important to me.
In fact, he knows my other hand is actually between my thighs. He knows that my other hands is, indeed, just as wet as the one being shoved relentlessly into his mouth, prying around ridiculously. Finally, ending, by taking him by the chin, tilting it up, and placing my lips so close to his.
“You want to taste my other fingers?”
“Yes.” Oh, it’s all he can say. The first simple words of self indulgence. The first words he has ever said to me. Ever. Ever in his life. The first words that had any kind of request that hinted at wanting anything from me sexually, sensually, or otherwise.
“Eyes shut.” My demand is pretty clear, but I still love how he takes everything so seriously; he doesn’t just close them so I can admire his long, beautiful dark eyelashes. He ratchets them shut so tight I swear those long lashes make indentations on his cheeks. As if he doesn’t want to spoil his chances by blowing the command.
I peel off my other creamy wet glove slowly and deliberately and order him to open wide and he complies. Then I shove it into his mouth. It’s a nice thick glove. It fits. Like a glove. He takes it, with an appropriate groan of pleasure and displeasure, and I use my hand behind his head to tighten a fist in his hair (painfully, very painfully) to inspire a muffled yelp, reminding him that the displeasure is much more to my liking.
“Don’t get greedy,” I remind him. “Whore.”
**
Duct tape.
**
He’s on his knees again.
Bent over. With his hands, this time, over the back of his head, fingers intertwined so I can see them, behind his hair. This time, though, I’m making him wear gloves. Black latex. Or rubber. I can’t remember.
And handcuffs. Just so I can look at them. It’s not like I expect him to go anywhere.
“Happy birthday to me,” I say, lubing up the shaft of my favorite, long, thick black strap-on cock.
“Happy, happy birthday indeed.”
There are no sounds from him. Just his fingers. Moving. A little.
“I would have you sing it. But. Well. You know.”
There’s duct tape over his mouth. My glove. So wet. In his mouth, I’m sure the juices are quite nice. And distracting. Just as his ass – presenting itself to me. His legs are spread. He is holding very still now. I can see his breathing in his back. I can watch his hands in the gloves.
What I am wearing is inconsequential to the story. But it makes me feel very sexy. I feel amazing. I did put on other gloves, however. Tight ones. Because I like to masturbate in them. I like how they feel on my nipples. I like how they feel on the shaft of my cock with the lube. I like how they feel on his hips and over his ass. The mixture of the lubricant, the cock, and his skin.
I take my time.
I take my time because I like every sound he attempts to make, fruitlessly, when my gloved, lubricated fingers touch his body. Sliding down the crack of his ass. Circling his asshole. When I spread his ass cheeks, and then bend over and press my hard nipples onto his back.
When I move my gloved hands down his frame, over his hipbones, and under his body and belly, pulling him up, and then reach down and take the shaft of my cock, and start to slide it up his thigh. Just to watch his breathing change. Seeing that his cock is actually, honestly, starting to drip.
“I would make you beg,” I say to him, “If you could speak.”
There’s no sound from him.
“Instead, you’ll have to beg with your body,” I mock him. “And don’t think I am not capable of getting up and walking away from you right now. And leaving you here. In a pathetic puddle. Not before making you lick it up. Of course.”
Watching his body tense in despair is delightful enough, almost. For a moment I consider going around and making him suck my cock for a while, just as a diversion. But that would require undoing all the work with the duct tape. His hips, meanwhile, move so hungrily, I do believe the sincerity in his body.
He is, indeed, hungry to be violated. And his movements make me ache.
But will the penetration be enough?
**
My birthday “present” is delivered with promise; he surrenders entirely, albeit with some expected (and exquisite) tightness at the start. Like his mouth, I resort to a violation with my fingers at first. One, then two, then three, then the head of my shaft. It would seem so large at first until his muffled, desperate groans dissipate.
In the end, though, what makes me cum are his two fists clenched in his own hair periodically, alternating between one another and occasionally outstretching a finger or two or straining in the cuffs, pulling at the chain links, or prying at the shackles. I don’t even think it is for my benefit; I think he is honestly struggling. I feel my own orgasm build at the moment that he gave up, I think, resigned to accept his own penetration, his hands shaking a bit.
I reach over to grab him with one hand by the hair, in my fist, clenching it tightly. If he could speak, at that moment, I would make him tell me “Happy birthday.”
Instead, I have to settle, simply whispering, “You belong to me.’
(c) akasha@akashaweb.com, 2018/2022
