He’s bent over the table, the largely featureless black dildo well engulfed into his mouth, base steadied with one hand while the other edges himself at my command. Around his waist, straps further anchor an inflatable plug, sitting with a ring set such around the root of his cock and behind his balls that both are delivered up invitingly.
Silver is American and lives somewhere in awkward, but plausible visit distance from my own base in Vancouver. This was perfectly ok for a weekend long visit, until Covid19 happened.
The border has sealed itself to non-essential travel and it is thus months before we can expect to satisfy our mutual yearnings. A global pandemic doesn’t care for young love, much less the kind that stubbornly won’t call him my boyfriend but uses the L word, and professes to own him.
Pretty much from the word go, or honestly beforehand hand, based on his behaviour, he handed control of his orgasms to me. For Silver this has a distinct psychological effect, taking him from a dry sort of delivery of witticisms and reserved fiestiness to a more open and needy state. Both versions blush easy, but Priapus doesn’t have anything on the eager, thick erections a week or two of nothing but edging gives him.
Covid19 nailed both of us at about the same time, despite being apart long enough to have gotten it from separate sources, and what had supposed to be a little interlude ending in an orgasm at the end of March hit a hiccup where lust wasn’t really something either of us was inclined to feel. Now it has passed through and so a game I had started in mid-March got an extension.
He has dutifully banged out over 10k words in the last short span, the price to be set for consideration for an orgasm. I am happy with him.
I told him that regardless of completion of the goal, on Sunday he would be filled up at both ends and edging – I prefer tasks like this, that help improve my property but also aren’t a chance to fail as much as a chance to succeed. In the meantime, after we cleared our respective cases of Covid19 he has been locked in a cycle of getting turned on by me and edging himself silly.
I test him with sadistic talk, asking what if I didn’t let him come until quarantine was lifted? We don’t know when that is, and the border prevents even the least contact until then, so we are already luridly imagining that intense moment. Until then I am using technology to social distance, amused by my governments explicit suggestions that you can still be together, even apart through video chat.
My remote control ravaging of his body is the patriotic thing to do.
The same time as he got himself rigged and belted up, I had slithered into stretchy, shiny black, a tight and sculpted number so well intersected with his fetishes that the preview of a few photos made him declare himself lucky property indeed.
I am pretty, and primp and dress such that it is easy to call me beautiful- you can without photographs, take my word for it, a dark haired, pale skinned woman with high contrast curves and long limbs. I have big compelling golden brown eyes, and I know how to emphasize my features for film so I look radiant and otherworldly.
When he saw me on camera there was no hiding he was undone. Words kept leaving him, whether his gaze was transfixed on my lips, painted dark in a red-pink that the manufacturer sensibly named “Starstruck”, my eyes or watching my hands slide over my body.
The rig he locked himself into was already twice pumped and at my command he felt the rather lengthy plug expand still further. The view was spectacular.
Each stress or stretch was a shift though his whole body, an adjustment that would show in a change of stance, the contractions of his abs, and the curl and shift of his fingers. He was already forcing himself into putting on the best poised and posed display he could to please me and this only heightened the extreme vulnerability of his position.
Very soon, alternating edges and increases in size, he was getting rather desperate. My voice was his constant companion, winding around him. The begging did not take long.
I asked him if he’d rather spend more time with me, or come. He looked deeply saddened, solemnly affirming more time. He was so sad I feel a little twinge of guilt, and I laugh and reassure him he is going to get to come for me.
Just not yet.
I command him to suck and he confesses that he imagines the stout, featureless and smooth dildo is not seated on a glass desk top but nestled into a harness on my body. Each time he performs (very admirably!) his poor throat gets quite raw from taking every bit of a rather stiff and unyielding silicone toy.
Were I gifted all the resources in the world his lovely mouth would wrap around something nicer, but this does the trick and my sadism lets me enjoy the roughness of gives his voice, intoning, in my instruction:
“A good slut swallows everything he is given.”
Such words are a part of how I reach him. Vulgar and coarse: fuck-slut, whore, but never anything indicating revulsion. Perverse, desperate, needy- all these, yes, but beloved and cherished.
Finally, stuffed full and performing for me, I order him to come. For a moment it’s hard to tell if he has the ability to comply- I have been ordering him to stroke his cock for me faster and faster, but he’s been dutifully trying to multitask for me. Just when I wonder if I need to change the command a bit, there is a rear back at the end where he jerks his head away and takes a big gasp of air, and I can tell this has taken him to a rather intense place of release.
Then I watch him get an instant awareness that his is extremely intimately stretched to the point of quite a bit of pressure, and I order him to make himself comfortable. Last time we did this, for the half hour of face to face chatting he didn’t dislodge the plug he was using, unbeknownst to me, which I find cute and funny in hindsight.
This time the finest in custom made belt and ring (etsy, not just for needle point!) gets dismantled and I find the sight of his still three quarters erect cock and testicles being fed back out through the ring they were encircled by an unusual moment of real life erotic, those moments porn doesn’t bother to share, but stick with you when you actually set out to have sex.
Naked and in a collar, he is flushed and still a little vulnerable, and we talk about this and that, and he loses his words again as he watches me find my clit and enjoy the fruits of his struggles on me behalf.
He’s intoxicated by the sight of my very real, very hungry desire for him. It’s a paradox- try to rule me through that desire and I will drift out of your grasp, but put yourself at my mercy and you will find me wet and wrapped about you, tighter than ever.
Silver has a pattern, pulling back into himself, after he comes. You can see the sass return to his face in less than a minute or two, the whole way those small muscles of expression shift changing.
Still, he’s in a relaxed haze and blushing, and still possible to arouse. But I like both versions of him: the paradoxically assertive, horny, slut him who takes risks and exposes himself, pushing the limits of where he feels safe; and the more reserved, quip dropping regular him who speaks from a careful, safer place.
He is still getting used to that, the idea that he is in totality, what someone could find most desirable. Every time we have these “sessions” he thanks me profusely, a bit of a flailing etiquette for me, as I both find it hopelessly charming and romantic and don’t want him to stop, but also want to assert and insist the pleasure is as much mine.
Afterwards, flashes of vivid memory from moments of this will catch in my brain and make me instantly aroused enough to ache in my breasts.
If my writing seems a bit choppy, less in media res than rewinding randomly about the memory, that is how my mind works in the afters. During, the whole process is an experience from start to finish, after…
I could just play in my mind’s eye, for example, noticing how each time the plug got another pump you could see his fingers curl and uncurl and as the intensity inside built the instinctive way he began to make little hip rocking jerks.
At the time I teased him about his programming, instinctive ability to please and he let those urges have more play, surrendering to the itch to buck forward and back, straining for an invisible source of release.
Now that’s an archived set of sensations, more bits and pieces to see me through this long, externally imposed distance.
I cannot control the unlucky timing of a pandemic, but I can control him, as exactingly and deeply as if I were there. And, if we trade pictures of our wistful yearning, I can be content in my situation to know he is there, faithful and restrained, for that moment when all outside of us gives us the opportunity to next meet.
1 thought on “My Property Fills and Sucks At My Command”
I haven’t read something of such deliciously stark description, intense allure, raw honest connection for a long while.