The Restless Libido
By day I'm a mild-mannered reporter for a major metropolitan newspaper who pays his taxes and helps his landlady carry out her trash. This blog covers the rest of the time.
It takes some effort to put on, her new costume.
She is in a play, and the director has made the edgy choice to cast her character, written as a librarian, as a dominatrix.
The costume arrived today, and after 20 minutes of work, she emerges from the bathroom, poured into it, every curve of her body shining and smoothed into place.
There is a zipper in back she will need help with, she’s telling me, both closing and opening. She will have to find someone to zip that for her.
She does a twirl, then wraps herself in her jacket and grabs her purse.
The director is excited to see, she tells me.
He struggles and squirms but it’s no use.
He pushes with his legs she rides up on his body. He twists his hips, one way, then the other she swivels her own, grinding her pussy against his face.
She has him pinned, hopelessly.
All he can taste is her pussy. She is right wet through the spandex. He runs his tongue up and down and he can feel the familiar shape of her sex. What he would do if only he could get himself free…
But he can’t. She has him, dead to rights, and the only thing left for him to do is concede, to yield, to submit to her and accept the consequences.
The conversation, a week ago, in bed. The challenge he issued, that he could pin her three times without breaking a sweat. Her face in the darkness as she listened quietly. Finally she broached the idea of a prize.
Why are we wrestling? she asked. There’s got to be a prize.
If he won, he starts. Of course. Always thinking of himself. Ever-confident. Cocky, so to speak. Wants her to blow him in the bathroom of the local wing joint.
And me? she asked. What if I win?
If you pin me three times, he said, I’ll lock up my cock and give you the key.
They shook hands, awkwardly, while laying next to one another in bed.
She made him order the cock cage at the same time as he ordered the uniforms.
She looks down at him. She will suck him off, one last time, swallow the load that’s quaking inside him, while he imagines he’s won the lottery and all’s forgotten.
She will lube him up and slide him in, red and softening, then hand him the lock to close.
Only fitting, after all.
She is completely silent.
As well she would be.
She saw what happened to the other one.
From there he can’t see her at all, really.
She’s there, of course. She’s laying on top of him, her breasts swinging against his abdomen, her breath hot on his cock, although her mouth is open and far away.
It’s not even his cock he’s focused on, from his view at the bottom, as the other pushes it inside her then pulls it back out, her pussy tight around it like a pair of sucking lips.
Rather, it’s his balls, swaying heavy behind, contacting her wetness with an audible slap as he pumps her. They are full of his heat, of his scent, his mark, and when he can hold it back no more they empty inside her, to fill her, to claim her, to make her his.
She readies herself, adjusting straps and ties, tugging and smoothing, until everything lays as it should.
She won’t have time to consider such things after they begin.
There are just too many of them.
They are quiet and quick and efficient. Her hands, her mouth, her shirt, her skirt, her legs, until she his held down, naked, in preparation for his arrival.
He sent them.
He will have her.
The tendril of cum dangles from the end of his cock to her mouth.
She looks up at him with gratitude.
It might as well be a chain around her neck.
Her suit is shiny and smooth. She had it specially tailored to fit, to hug her body but not be constrictive. It was very expensive.
Their ropes are cheap and crude and coarse. They are tied tightly, to bind her, to immobilize and keep her fast long enough for the collar, heavy and cold and precisely machined, around her neck.
Once that’s locked in place, all of the rest is irrelevant,
She feels it, the tap of her belly piercing against her belly as he fucks her.
His cock is large and he pushes deep inside her. And yet that tap of the tiny jewel is what she feels most of all.
She will think of him later, when she’s alone, of his cock, of his commanding hand around her neck, of how owned he made her feel.
She will associate that piercing with his ownership of her.
She will touch it and think of him.
His cock is so hard. It stretches up, toward her pussy, toward her ass, toward her mouth.
But it is too far away.
His voice is tiny and high and his words shake as he speaks them.
She chuckles and shakes her head.
No you may not, she says, but do keep asking.
Tap tap tap, the charm dangling from her collar.
His finger, pointing
you you you
She pulls on the cord until she can feel it stretching in her hands, until it digs red channels into his flesh.
He strains and squirms underneath her, struggling to breathe, not to have the consciousness forced from his body, not to grab onto the glistening boots planted so firmly to either side of him and cum hopelessly on the floor.
He pleads familiar words to her, baby and lover, honey and sweetheart.
But she is none of those right now, not to him or anyone.
The one she is now listens coldly and tallies the transgressions, the liberties taken, the punishment due.
She gives them to him, her face and its expressions, her mouth and lips and tongue, her pussy, so wet and hot, her breasts with their nipples so hard.
The other has claimed everything else.
Her instructions were clear if ambiguous: An address and time, and the expectation to be occupied for the rest of the evening.
He complied, curious at what she was after, but expecting little. These were busy days and everyone had a lot on their minds. Dinner, perhaps, or just a cocktail somewhere nice.
The address was an apartment in a tony part of town they seldom frequented. The door clicked after he pushed the buzzer without comment the door was open when he tried it.
Inside, curtained darkness and the smell of fresh linen, perfume, leather.
Her voice, from the shadows, telling him to undress down to his briefs and stand against the wall.
The click of unfamiliar heels on the wood, the narrowing stretch of fine leather tightened between hands.
A little gift for herself, for no reason at all, really, just for the want of it, for finding something lacy with trim that matched the handle, for being alive in every way.
It fits snugly and tight.
There is not a single extra stitch, nor an unintended wrinkle.
They were thorough with their measuring tape, exploring and charting her form in all of its observable aspects.
Numbers in a tiny book, written in a careful, deliberate hand.
Practiced hands, selecting the skins from those on offer, smoothing each out, keen eyes watchful for imperfections.
Tiny, wicked scissors that cut true.
It dangles heavy from the hanger when she is introduced, filling the air with its scent. The same hands guide her inside, coax the zipper closed, sealing her in, making her whole.
She stands in the mirror and lets her eyes follow the lines defined, as they shape her, as they reveal her true self.
Yes, she thinks, this will do just fine.
She has him in the perfect spot, where his cock is red with desperation, his balls tight up underneath.
She can keep this going indefinitely, keeping him warm between her hands, working him gently and steadily.
What he would do to her.
The terrible things he would inflict upon her, to wipe that cruel smirk off her face.
If only he could.
She’s trying to decide what to do with him, when she sees the first little bead of white at the tip of his cock.
She pulls on the ropes tighter, sinking them into his cheeks.
She knows now.
It’s heavy around her neck and cold.
There is the slightest click as he fastens it in place.
She lifts her head, looks at herself in the mirror. The satin dress pours over her body. The stones glimmer at her throat.
She will do whatever he wants her to. She knows that now.
We lay here together, naked, as instructed.
I am nervous but I play it cool. I can feel you are nervous too, by the warmth of your hand in mine, but when I turn my head and smile at you, you smile back.
He will be here soon.
I can see it in her eyes, the fear of what I might do with her.
I’ve promised her that I will only do what she wants me to.
This is what she’s afraid of.
She is only just beginning to come around when the pump clicks on and the latex tightens against her body.
By the time she’s fully conscious she can’t even wiggle her toes.
A pair of men in matching uniforms enter the room, lift her off the padding platform, and carry her into the darkness of the hallway.
The air gets warmer the closer they get, heated by breath and bodies and blood rushing hot through skin.
I will take her from you, if she wants me to, lead her away by the hand, gently but firmly, to a room nearby, near enough for you to hear but nothing else.
I will guide her hands to buttons and zipper and belt, encourage her to pull from me everything, until I am naked before her, hardening in her hand. I will press myself to her lips and within, push myself into her mouth, make her suck me, slowly, the way I want it, if she wants me to.
I will be forceful or persuasive, overpower her or trick her with guile, ensnare her with clever traps or just my own flesh and blood. I will have her, if that’s what she truly wants.
That you enjoy it is, at best, irrelevant.
His cock is hard, his hips are thrusting, his mouth open moaning, his eyes are clenched shut.
But in this moment it’s her lips that are more important, smeared with his excitement, red with blood, and hot.
I didn’t hire her because she looks good in a minidress.
I hired her because she’s bright and funny, cunning and charming, because she’s the best person for the job than anyone else, by an order of magnitude.
She’s also more than a little dangerous, this one.
And that is why she wears the minidress.
What? she asks innocently. They’re just boots.
But she knows that’s not true. They’re not just boots, not to you, and, as a result, not for her.
She straightens the comforter, puttering and tidying, glancing over her shoulder occasionally to catch your eyes. You are watching. How could you possibly not? She controls you in this moment, completely.
This makes her smile. This makes them not just boots to her.
She ticks her tongue against her teeth.
Are you sure about that? she says.
She tilts her head ever so slightly to one side, invoking a comment I made once, about women doing that to diminish themselves, to adopt a submissive posture.
Her nipples are as hard as I’ve ever known them to be. And I swear it’s the act of doing so, of setting herself in that pose, in this context, that has made them that way.
It’s all stretch lace, the outfit they’ve given her to wear, a gauzy curtain to obscure her body, to hype and tease it to the captive audience, not protect it or hide it away.
She demonstrates how it stretches, yielding the flesh captive beneath with little more than the modest tug of a finger.
She straddles one of them, her skirt rolling itself accommodatingly up over her hips with the motion.
What can I do? Nothing.
There’s nothing I can do that will counter what she can do.
She is too skilled, knows me too well, wants it more. The game is over long before it starts.
I resist her. I have to, out of pride, honor, respect. She responds in kind, a swift mercy that leaves no doubt in either of our minds.
She pulls them on for him, the tiny, shiny hotpants, the snug sports bra that holds her close.
She dresses for him, then takes a step back to look at herself the mirror, transformed by his hand.
Her skin is smooth and tanned, cut into segments by the glistening fabric stretched glossy and tight. Not a wrinkle or fold.
She would never wear this herself, ordinarily, voluntarily. It’s not her style, too flashy and bold. She wears it for him because she wants to be the woman he thinks she is, to live up to her.
She dresses the part and feels herself grow into it more with each passing moment.
This is who I’m going to be, she thinks, turning around to look at the mirror over her shoulder. This is who I am.
She lays beside him and worships, whispering mysterious secrets too soft to hear, not daring to take him in her mouth, humble, devoted.
He feels like a stranger, a voyeur, an outside observer permitted to bear witness to the intimacy between two lovers, between a supplicant and her God.
The rules are in place and we both understand them.
She readies herself, adjusting the modest uniform she’s chosen, and considers her plan of attack.
I am distracted by how the afternoon light shadows the contours of her body, the deceptive softness of her flesh, the loose semi-smile she wears on her face. In her mind, she’s already won.
She’s not wrong.
She put up an impressive struggle, landing one good kick and a couple of slaps, making him fight and pay for everything he’s gained so far but she knows there’s no recovering from this point.
His ropes are snug around her, holding her fast, biting into her flesh as she tries to fill her lungs. She feels it growing within her, the weakening of her resolve to continue resisting him, the warming desire to serve…
When she sees the gag in his hand she knows that the fight is over, that he’s conquered her, that she will give herself to him as his prize, that when he moves his hand away her mouth will be open.
She’s cute but shy and a little mousy. She scarcely speaks when I say hello to her in the hallway, which I do out of politeness as opposed to any ulterior motive.
Okay, so that’s not quite true.
I have a gift. I can see inside people, past the shell they put up, the façade, the public image. I can see them for who they really are, once you get to know them, when they are free to be themselves.
The next time I see her I mention a Halloween party. I suggest she should come. I tell her I’d like to see her there.
She blushes crimson. It’ll be fun, I tell her. Lots of people from the office are going. Well, the fun ones anyway.
How should I dress? she asks. I think for a moment.
Imagine that instead of dressing up for Halloween, I say, what you wear every day is the costume.
It is late in the evening when I step out into the courtyard for a breath of air and see her. She arches one eyebrow and says nothing.
She unwraps her gift.
He is a wall of man, rippled with muscles, thick, dark hairs down his forearms. A bull. A buck.
His cock is bright red with blood, his balls big beneath it. She takes him delicately between the fingers of one hand, cupping his ass with the other. Her nipples are hard. I can smell how wet she is from where I lie.
Do you like your birthday present? I ask her.
She smiles, blushing, and nods.
I fit the collar around her neck, adjust the buckle, and close the lock. She’s forced to bend over, as the chain is not long enough for her to sit up.
We sit there, have a glass of wine, as she gets used to it, as she decides if she wants to stop her or continue.
We both know what she’s going to say but I’m in no rush.
I refill her glass as she stares at her feel, in heels, leather cuff dark against her skin.
She struggles with self-confidence and worries that some other girl is going to bat her lashes at him and off he’ll go.
She’s not being unreasonable. His eyes do wander. He does want to fuck just about everything that moves. Including her, he thinks to himself as he sits in his boxers on the edge of the bed.
In her hand is the cage. When she is older she will learn she doesn’t need to rely on such things, that firm instructions, communicated clearly and with confidence, are much more powerful than any cage, but that won’t be for a few years yet. For now she wants some tangible sense of control, of power, of calm in this situation.
He takes it from her and dutifully slides himself inside the cold metal. He’s unclear on why she wants this so badly but he stopped questioning things the moment she emerged from the bathroom wearing nothing but a sheer slip dress and stockings. He thinks this will lead to sex somehow and that’s all he really cares about.
She hands him the lock. She thought about locking it herself but she decided that it would mean more to both of them if he did it himself. He fits the lock into the cage and she stops him right before he clicks it shut.
By doing this you are giving your cock to me, she says. You’re entrusting me with the power to decide when you fuck, and who. You know that, right?
He nods, not really understanding any of it, getting mildly impatient for the sex part. He closes the lock with a click, tugs on it to make sure it’s secure. Now what? he asks.
She looks confused. What do you mean?
When do we fuck? he asks. And how?
She smiles, cuddles herself to him, one hand around his captive cock.
Oh baby, no, she says. We don’t.
She is on her phone, typing away, not even distracted by my familiarity.
She is wet through her panties so I know she’s paying attention.
The sliver of silver covers the curve of her pussy and shimmers over the shadow of her ass.
Her cheeks are tight but she pulls them apart regardless. It’s important to her that I see all of it, the bikini I just selected and that she’s trying on.
She turns around and presents the front, the silver smooth down between her thighs, interrupted only where it adopts the cleft of her pussy beneath.
I concede it fits her perfectly.
She slips on her sandals and walks out of the dressing room, right out of the store, across the walkway and down onto the beach, leaving me to collect her clothing and hastily pay. By the time I get there, she’s already made a few friends.
The rain is coming down hard on the car rooftop. She tugs at the handcuff but there is nothing to be done.
He will be back soon, to retrieve her, to do with her what she dared not even imagine.
She would find out, soon enough.
Big strong man, she says. Well, look at you now. She twists his cock harshly and he bares his teeth in pain.
Open your fucking mouth, she says. He pulls his lips back but his jaw remains clamped down. She releases his cock, adjusts her hand around the base of his balls, then tightens again. Did you not hear what I said?
She grips his chin with her hand, pressing in on his cheeks, just like when the dog had something in its mouth it shouldn’t. Gradually his teeth parted, her fingers having pressed them into crimson inside his mouth.
Good, she said. Now open your eyes.
He complied, right as the white glob rounded at her lips and dropped. He hand cinched up on his balls.
She’s already milked him once tonight, teasing him into a hard fucking in the middle of the living room.
But she’s trying for a baby. She doesn’t want to take chances. She needs another dose.
So she cooks him a steak, rare, and flirts with him from across the table. When he’s finished, when he’s wiping the last of the shallots and juices from his plate, she slips under the table and gets him hard in her mouth.
Give it to me again, she whispers up at him. Give everything you have to me.
I can see myself doing it.
I know how I got here, can trace the steps, one to the next, from that first innocent email that appeared unbidden on my girlfriend’s phone.
His hand is on my shoulder as I wet his cock with my mouth. I know all of these things and yet…and yet I do nothing.
I watch from inside, as he wraps his hand around my girlfriend’s head and pulls her to his mouth, as he guides his cock to my mouth. My mouth opens. I don’t know why — it doesn’t seem like me doing it — and yet.
She’s moaning now, my girlfriend. She begging him to fuck her. Not yet, he says and the words he speaks seem to have lines of color around them. I want him to speak again, to say anything, to me, to tell me how to please him.
His hand burns on my shoulder. He slides it over to my neck, touches my ear fondly and my cock is hard. Why? I don’t know. I know. I don’t want to know. I know.
A simple email, a challenge, a video to watch. She loves these things, challenges from strangers, so she does it without thinking, waits until it’s quiet, gets herself comfortable, puts on good headphones and presses play.
His voice, lines of color around the words, compelling her. But I have a boyfriend, she says, her eyes spirals in the webcam feed on his laptop.
I know, he says in response, calmly, evenly, never missing a beat, all-powerful, all-knowing. You want to introduce him to me, don’t you. You want to show him the amazing video I made for you, don’t you. Don’t you.
She does, suddenly, desperately.
And that’s how I wound up in that same chair, with the same headphones on my head, the same spirals in my eyes in the webcam window on his laptop. There’s no point in trying to resist, is there, he’s saying to me, and there isn’t. There just isn’t, ever, anywhere.
He sends another, just for me. I feel a strange tickle of pleasure in the attention from one so powerful, so mysterious and strong.
But I’ll need both of your help, his voice echoes in my mind. So easy to just do what he says, like following a recipe. Just do what I say. I’ll tell you what to do.
And now her lips are on me. I look down, a thousand miles away and she is at my feet, my cock in her mouth, white earbuds in her ears, connected to her phone, with a number I seem to remember watching myself dial. She strokes and sucks no cumming until i say so his voice in both our heads now press play and i do
Longer this time, longer and overpowering. His voice, a thousand images a second or so it seems, hidden messages, then less so, then obvious but undeniable. And her lips on me, compelling me, forcing me to agree. He was strong enough but the two of them are impossible to resist, to ignore, to fight off.
His hand is at the back of my head now. His cock is pulsing, his balls cinch up underneath him. He is close now. She is so wet, she wants in inside her body like he’s inside her mind.
Show me who wants it more he says.
They are all dressed the same, in a uniform of shiny hot pants and thigh socks, knotted tight t-shirts bearing the club’s logo and neon pink sweatbands, Chuck Taylors in the same glistening magenta lamé, hair jet black in bangs low over their charcoal eyes.
They are secreted into the building through a side door, ushered into through crimson curtains to a dressing room ringed with lighted mirrors. There they shed their selves, strip to bare, oiled skin, and transform. There they are made uniform. There they become a pleasure girl, like all the rest.
No rings, no boyfriends, no thoughts of outside inside. It all is taken off and hung in a locker, along with jackets and shoes and purses.
I am one of the things that is left behind. I am one of the things she takes off, that she removes from herself and locks away. She woke up in my bed this morning, where she spent the night. She slides inside smelling of my skin, of sex in sunlit sheet and coffee brewed slowly.
No matter. All they know is that even though she smells like another man, she’s with them now.
She wears these to get a reaction from me, to get my attention and keep it, for as long as she wants.
She wears these to control me.
And it works. There’s no use in denying it. I can hear her pulling them on, the swish of the leather sliding up her freshly-shaven legs, the modest sound of the zipper sealing her in.
I am in my office, concentrating on something obscure, when the steady click of heels comes down the hallway, the hushing of her legs as they scythe together.
My pulse taps at my temples. I close my eyes and imagine her ass, the torturous folds that appear and vanish with each step.
She walks past my closed door, not stopping. She leaves it to me to discover how she’s dressed. She enjoys that too, the idea of setting a trap and waiting.
She has the patience of a hunter.
She watches him as he warms up, stretching and bending, his face focused, his mind occupied with the match ahead.
He is tall and lean, sharp, intense. She imagines him sinking inside her, seeing that focus waiver as he feels how hot she is for him, how wet he’s made her, how ready and yielding and willing she’s become.
He stands on his mark, tugs at his swimsuit. She flushes and looks away. Her own suit rubs between her thighs distractingly. She shifts in her seat, clenches her thighs together.
He would start slowly, slow where every man before has been fast, achingly slow, agonizingly, torturously, cruelly slow. He would fuck her, where all those before had merely masturbated with their bodies together.
The sound of stretching neoprene, his fingers pulling her suit aside as he pushed his down, his cock hardening fast. He would dig his fingers in under her suit to pull it aside and brush her pussy with his knuckles, accidentally, unintentionally. He would swear to himself, then pull, hard.
He would lift her, she thought, pick me up off the floor and pin me to the wall with his cock. She bit her lip and groaned under her breath.
The starting whistle blew and the air was loud with cheering and splashing water.
They play with me, ignoring me entirely.
I can’t tell if it’s all an act for my benefit or if I have faded into the shadows in their eyes, my role to put the two of them together before vanishing.