Silver is, among many things, my muse. Lurid and vivid sexual creativity was one of the gifts the fae left for my birth, and love makes me into a better artist.
Every Sunday, minus when he was road tripping to family, or those weekends we managed an in person park picnic, we have Sunday Worship, aka furious mutual masturbation over webcam, aided by teledildonics via the good people at Lovense, and the quieter cooperation of the manufacturers of the Pavlok.
This particular weekend, a Hush was buried in his ass and the app hooked to my phone so he could experience vibrations entirely under my control. I was squeezed into a blue latex number that didn’t just hit him in the fetishes, but punched the target through the wall. It also appealed to me on two axises of desire: my long standing teasing kink (Mercy Maria uses pro-domme work to get herself a reverse harem, I seriously consider stripping as a sexual outlet), and my newly discovered interest in the medium of rubber clothing, itself.
And regardless of the props or where I decide we go this time, my mouth is always spinning out filth: alluring, lewd and descriptive. I’m privately very self critical of my abilities as a hypnosis mistress, but I do have a gift for the erotic gab, and Silver was enraptured at my crooning and storytelling.
The fantasy I almost made Silver hands free cum to last Sunday was telling him about sharing him out to my domme friends. It wasn’t the detail of hands touching, the excess or the cruelties. It was describing him earnestly looking to me, to be sure he was serving them properly, like I wanted.
It’s that “you endure what they, do but you know it’s all about your Miss” that gets him so bad.
Ultimately Silver is a romantic, in that he doesn’t want to serve any random domme, regardless of having certain aesthetic fetishes. He wants that connection to one person. I don’t think I can fully express how sweet that is.
When he is screaming in mixture of lust and distress because he thinks he is about to cum without permission, well… that’s really gilding the lily.
I am also very big on the intimacy of a singular “person”. I fail at “proper” poly, although I can do some group activities just fine, but the idealized network of loves and separations of relationships in one’s sexuality just… does not work for me. I fall in love and that person is writ large in the sky.
Silver. Silver. Silver. I actually slipped into love more gently than with anyone so far. I am lucky about his amiable patience with my slower roll to “commitment”, but in turn it was not quite the same 2 by 4 to the face that some of the past experiences were, and yet… I prefer coming to love him slowly. I prefer the crush kindled as a certain warm affection that grew and grew until the hearth of my heart was lit bright and hot.
My friends note I noticed him before I consciously planned more than admiration. When I complimented him I didn’t have any data to know he was kinky, that came later, and for me that was philosophically as much about my commitment to praise men the way they so rarely get.
But as my interest further piqued it was a gentle wake up, and I know I responded well to his relentless willingness to come to my call. I have always, every step of the way given him choice. I rarely ever give direct orders. “Red cup or blue cup?” is usually as strict as it gets.
During our jokingly named “Sunday Worship” I watched that contained shiver as I built out another love-dominance escalation. Enthralled by the squeezing uplift of my pale breasts in shiny latex?
This was just the beginning.
I told him it was my fetish too, to be used, not as he implied to indulge him, but to please me. That next year it would be the same but closer. Then, after that, five years from now he could/would be in the kitchen innocently cooking and feel the second skin of warm, tight rubber press against his back as I wrapped my arms around him.
More daringly I told him, comprehend the yawning potential in front of him. Silver is in his early 40s, that’s a possible forty more years, his lifespan over again, to be enslaved by my body and my desires.
Poor man, as that time span slipped out of my lips he gave a pure, vulnerable look of fear and want. His head took a completely submissive cant as the numbers of what we could have seemed, for a moment, like an infinite immersion into the strictures of my intense interest in him.
It was a particularly “deep” session this time, mostly denying him his customary edging by hand. I knew he was never less than a few pumps of his cock in a row from releasing almost a month of frustrated cum.
But, at his begging, I let him earn a stroke at a time, watching as his hand tried to linger, drawing out the sensation.
Denying him the right to touch at will is one of his other hot buttons. It’s enough that previously he tried to assert it wasn’t his cock, but my cock, but… I am particular. His cock, a whole part of the package he gave to me, my will over his mind, that in turn offers what pleasures I permit him to me.
In his state of squirming, cock not just straight up to the sky but so hard as to curve gently back towards his belly, it was a special kind of cruelty for me to ask him to make me offerings of his own will to earn strokes.
I know he doesn’t find that is as natural. When he is that lust drunk, his larger thoughts are drifting out of reach and all he can easily do is the most direct order in front of him.
If I had told him, that moment, to walk to Vancouver, a couple of days from now border guards would be bemusedly turning away a guy in just pants and shoes with an obvious erection. But I am not that nice.
I remind him I own specifically him and he must struggle to empathize to please. Each stroke, about five in total, is earned by playing a game more cruel than if I simply denied him, having to find the kernel of competent personhood that can think holistically of the best way to please me.
Write me a love letter. Offer stress positions. Practice music for me. Service. All for one pump from a man who would do all of those without even that reward.
We finish with a final activity, ordered to rough fuck himself with a beaded toy (I know it to be his favourite for sensation), the Tantus Ripple Large. In and out, struggling for position to best show my the “rough punishing (self) fuck” I ordered until he ended up legs splayed, violently shoving the rather cruelly textured toy to the hilt in and out of him.
The bonus was the best view of his sock garters (a conceit for me that flatters his calves beautifully) as well as a full look at his lust and exertion strained face.
Ah. Fuck, even remembering that sprawl of vulnerable need makes me turned on again.
Although the technical command was “until tired” as I watched a relentlessly cruel performance eventually, knowing that for him too tired was going to be literal weak collapsed exhaustion on the floor not sore muscles and out of breath, I let him stop.
Greedy boy that he is, although he was definitely at the enough point, he still wanted a bit more and gave the toy a final hilt, sitting and letting himself feel it’s full length in him before raising and lowering his hips on it.
Was it a bit naughty? Yes, being used hard, his mind wreck between singsong hypnosis, hold-your-breath games and the swollen ache of his well filled ass, I enjoyed and understood his desperation to make it last a bit longer.
Even in our ostensible aftercare he got hard again and begged to edge. Poor little slut. I adore how horny he is. Our secret, and, dear reader, though you would never know it if you met staid, reserved him in vanilla passing, now a little peek into just why I love him so.