She made him stand in the middle of the living room, looking him up and down. He was slightly taller than her, lanky of frame, with his neck bent to watch what she was doing, until she took his chin and fixed his gaze straight ahead at the muted brown drapes on the other side of the room.
“You’re nothing but a toy. Be a toy,” her voice was stern, but with the slightest hint of mischievous lust, something husky and playful under the strict edge.
Her hand brushed his shoulder, feeling the comfortable knit of his light blue t-shirt, thin fabric over warm. spare flesh. Outside, the midday weekend sun poured through the gap in the curtain. Her other hand held a warm mug of milky tea, bitter and soothing as her fingers spidered down his back until she grabbed a handful of shirt hem, tugging it up, so she exposed his stomach. She saw the slight ripple as his abs contracted and then relaxed, reacting to the proximity of her hand.
His belly had a light covering of hair that she caressed and then down, over the bronze buckle of his belt and the front fastening of his jeans. He shifted just enough to hint he noticed what she was doing, but kept his gaze fixed where she’d put him, while the seam and tuck of his jeans encouraged her to stroke her hand over his crotch, and then, spurred by her own desire, to continue to rub and touch. She knew how the fabric felt against his cock, defusing but transmitting the pressure. His reaction was the start of a swelling, and an almost imperceptible rock forwards, seeking more teasing. Sadistically, that made her stop, keeping control as she set her tea aside.
Reaching up, the tips of her fingers touched his lips. He had a full mouth, sensual and often pulled into a vulnerable pout. Now, the tips of two of her fingers slid inside, where his breath was warm and the skin was wet, past his teeth. His eyes blinked slowly, forcing himself to keep containing his reaction as she penetrated him.
“That’s a good toy. You do only what you’re posed to do. You’re just here for me to enjoy.”
And so he stayed, standing with his legs slightly apart and his arms relaxed. She began to strip him further, properly now, peeling off his t-shirt and then prying at the belt. Half limp, he let her haul his arms up with the passage of the shirt until she finished removing it, and his arms fell back into position. His chest was like his belly, male furred, but not a dark thicket, nipples a temporary distraction for her fingers before she returned to undoing his pants.
The cotton knit of his underpants was black, fitted but cut longer in the leg. The fabric had stretched where his half erect cock was outlined, poking up and towards the right. She let his pants slide down to his ankles and then tucked her fingers into the wide elastic band that held his boxer-briefs up, making the reveal slow, first the root of his cock, and then, inch by inch, everything else until they were on the floor in a pool of fabric with his pants. He had slender, straight legs, long boned, balanced with a swell of lean muscle at the thigh and calf, narrow hipped and waisted.
His bare flesh asked for her nails, fingers hooking and dragging, leaving red streaks pulled in sets like plow marks. She reached for him pulling him so she held a handful of his hair and kissed his lips, a slight twitch as he instinctively sought to return the contact and checked himself.
“No, you’re a toy. Nothing but a fuck doll for me to play with.” She pinched him, just because she could, to remind him he was helpless, and went back to exploring his body. One hand wrapped the shaft of his cock, jerking, the other reaching around to cup his butt. Square and firm, small. Her fingers found the split, digging in, seeking and making him wonder if he’d have to submit to another kind of penetration, but then her attention moved elsewhere and she pushed him, to pose him over the coffee table.
A hairbrush was the first thing her gaze lighted on. He was propped on the wood, stiff like a ken doll, but aware of what was coming, when first her palm smacked into his ass and then the flat back of the wooden brush.
He made a noise and her hand circled his cock again. “Shhhhh…”
She didn’t make it a prolonged spanking, but she coloured him, pink, blushing almost red, angling for a reaction. He made a few noises and she saw him twitch, but never fully flinch. She smiled, wide, although he could not see, and began to massage her handiwork, before setting him upright again.
He played along with lurching steps when she pushed him towards the couch, but was unable to contain a groan as her teasing resumed, gentle fast friction just taking him to the edge, with the harsh admission, “Don’t you dare come.”
She giggled at his disappointment, rubbing her clothed body against the warm smoothness of his nudity. He felt the rasp of her sweater and the softness underneath, wishing that he could simply slide his hands up under her skirt and make her want to squirm just as much as he was feeling.
But, instead, she straddled his lap, grinding against him. “That’s a good fuck-doll.”
Everything felt better and more sensitized when she craved sex. She knew it showwed on her, just as it was writ onto his face in the way his lips were just slightly parted and his eyes half lidded. She did not undress, except to slide her panties down under her skirt, kicking the black little scrap of lace and elastic somewhere off to the side before she mounted him.
He felt the sheath of her, enveloping him, hot and wet. It was almost too much, but she was experienced enough to know to wait, hilted on him, for those important seconds it took him to scramble for self control.
“You know I come better with something inside me,” the skirt was hiked up, her hands going to her clit. “Just like fucking a dildo only better. But… don’t you dare break until I’ve come.”
When she masturbated, he could feel the reactions in her body, on top of him and engulfing him. She took her time, teasing herself as well by riding him for a few strokes, just until he was edged again and had to break character to beg her to stop.
“Uh-uh, you should control yourself better.” The same mischief that drove most of her sadistic impulses made her curl the muscles inside herself in two pulses.
“If you do that, Miss, I don’t…”
“You want to be my good toy?”
“Yes, Miss,” he whimpered. “But Miss…”
“Shhhhh…” Her fingers went back to her clit, pressing as her breath caught in her throat. Her eyes closed, just as she caught a glance of desperate anticipation from beneath her.
“Nnnngh!” The orgasm was a body jolt, roughly reached, like a vessel finally overfilling or something under pressure finally giving way. She gave three raggedy gasps before she could focus again, and saw his look of desperation.
“Well, I’m done, time to clean up my toy and put him away.” She grinned, face blushed with afterglow. “Right?”
I wanted to try to capture some of the feelings of power of playing with a male body that’s entirely at your mercy, and make sure I kept at the erotica writing. “She Strips her Toy” is very much drawn from life, although it does not touch on a specific session and you can decide what is (auto)biographical and what is embellishment.