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.
She asked for this.
She chose the hardware, the color of the stitching, everything.
She needs this.
Her job — All-consuming, fraught, days and nights filled with rapid-fire decisions, pressure, consequences that are hers alone to bear.
She needs relief. Quiet. Peace.
Her clothes lay shed in another room. She walks, naked to him, the tall soul with the calm eyes, and brings herself to her knees in front of him, the bridle held out and up, an offering, a plea.
He takes it, circles behind her.
It is silent and still in this place, scented with burning incense. He guides the hair out of her face, his fingers gentle across her skin. The leather straps fit snugly down on the top of her head, a perfect fit. She made sure of that.
His fingers on her lips. She opens her mouth to him. The bar is cold and ticks on her teeth as he slides it into place and fastens the buckle.
She is muzzled now, mute, a beast of burden, good for labor and pleasure, whatever he desires. He flips the blinders around, narrowing her field of view to the floor in front of her. His hand at her back and she leans forward, her own hands on the floor.
She is wet with gratitude, open and hot and ready to be used.
Everything’s fine, he says.
His darling sweetheart, prim and proper, fixes him with a particular look. Is it? Really?
Something’s up, he can tell. His cock is a distraction, swollen against the interior of the plastic cage. He will deal with that later, after they’ve had a pleasant dinner and he’s walked her, gentleman that he is, back to her doorstep. He’d only just managed to shower off the smell of the other one, her perfume and glitter, before throwing on a set of clothing and heading back out the door. She’d left no visible marks, he’d made sure to confirm, before dressing. Nothing except for the cage…
She raises a hand and opens it. Between her fingers a thin chain, at the end of which dangles a very familiar key. His mind reels. How did she…?!
I received the strangest phone call on my way over here, she says. They knew about our plans to meet and were rather insistent I meet them first.
Do you know what this is? she asks. He nods. This is a good thing, he reasons.
Oh thank God, he says, warming to his theme as he speaks. It’s the strangest set of circumstances that you’ll hear all day. Here, give it to me and I’ll tell you what happened —
But she lifts the key aside and sits back.
No, she says and she crosses her arms. I think I’d like to hear the story first.
All he can think about is how cold the concrete is underneath his knees.
Until he hears the quiet peck of her heels as she emerges from the shadows.
Hyla breaks horses.
just imagine what she could do to you.
He begs her to spare him the humiliation of her phallus, of being penetrated, violated, owned.
He pleads, piteously, tells her he doesn’t want this, hates being on his knees before her, her cock bluntly looming over him.
She silences him by reaching down between his legs, where his own cock stands stiff, erect, dripping.
She turns around and sits down on the couch, confused.
She performed her entire repertoire of tricks, from the slow strippery sway of her hips to tweaking her ass and grabbing her breasts. And yet, nothing. I stand, unmoved, watching.
She doesn’t know what to do. Usually all she needs to do is drop her dress and the man takes over.
I am not the usual man. She will learn this, among other things, shortly.
She doesn’t understand the damage she can cause.
For her it’s all fun and games, dares and impulses running free, fueled by pills and hormones and the narcotic whiff of power.
It is her lips that will ensnare me, sucking me to distraction, her friends coiling loops of rope around my hands to hold me fast. Her trap sprung she will straddle me, and, pulling her panties to one side, mount me, my cock swallowed helplessly into her slick wet pussy.
My hands strain at the ropes but I am bound.
She unbuttons my shirt, and pinches one of my nipples between her fingers to harden it. When the needle appears, seemingly out of nowhere, I open my mouth to scream but fabric is jammed inside and tape is wound around to hold it in place.
She presses the needle to my nipple slowly, watching my face, feeling me cum inside her.
Now you belong to me, she says, wicked, evil little bitch that she is. I have no choice but to agree.
It’s just a bikini, she thinks to herself as she walks to the bathroom.
The satchel is light in her hands, inconsequential. She reminds herself of this as she steps inside and closes the door behind her. Inconsequential.
The lights are low. She strips off everything, placing it carefully on a hanger she finds behind the door. She realizes she’s stalling. She blushes self-consciously.
It’s just a bathing suit, she thinks and she opens the satchel, quickly, to see what she’s obligated herself to wear. There’s little to it, just a couple of triangles cut from some sort of stretchy faux leather, with string ties. No sizing. One size. Just tie it on, she thinks.
His face, the moment after he first floated his proposal. Access to his private beach all day, for her and her friends, all the champagne they wanted, on him — a total bachelorette party coup.
With one small condition.
Small being the operative word, she thought as she held it up. Small, alright. Tiny. Microscopic. The things I do, she thought, and she stepped into the bottoms, tugged them tight up between her thighs.
Your friends can stay and party as long as they want, he said. As long as you’re wearing this. Into her hands, the satchel.
She finished tying the top in place. It was actually kind of cute, she thought, way skimpier than she would usually wear but these were hardly usual times.
One last item in the bag, a simple chain necklace with a monogrammed tag in the center. She fastened it around her neck, then looked at herself in the mirror. Fit to be displayed. Property of.
She took a deep breath and stepped out of the dressing room.
They devour her, hungry mouths and fingers and hands, stiff slick cocks probing and finding her wetness. She is handled, moved to suit their urges, their stubble sharp against her soft skin.
Her mouth hangs open in surprise, in on-going surprise at this turn of events, at this gift she’s received and keeps receiving.
Thank you she mouths to me, before they break through her defenses and overrun her, before her breath becomes sharp and purpose-driven, before her ability to communicate is cut off and she’s consumed.
She keeps her eyes fixed on the throbbing light.
This and the mask on her face and the pearls around her neck hold her in thrall as another mounts her and thrusts out his aggressions.
She will endure, for as long as she needs to. She will draw out their confusion, the white filth that they uselessly pump into her, that drains back out of her and runs down her legs. She will tame them, one after the other, suffer their groping hands and artless urges, silencing their grunts and threats and boasts without reply, reduce them from raging bucks to slope-shouldered slaves.
She will do this until the last of them are in chains, their muscles loose and feeble and contained, until the throbbing light at last is extinguished, until her duty is done.
She’s chosen to lay over his knee. She knows why. She’s not there to explain or defend.
She’s there to atone.
It’s his job to make sure she pays, properly, not too much and definitely not too little.
Her face is hidden from him, from everyone, by her hair, by the direction in which she’s laying. He knows this is important.
The whip reddens her flesh. She cries out, a strangled thank you with each blow, the occasional i’m sorry slipping in.
He knows this too is important.
He can have anything he wants, now. Anything he still can have.
Now that she has what she wants.
It’s new to both of them, whatever this moment is.
Both are excited by it, by the strangeness and yet familiarity, as though it’s a long-forgotten habit they are practicing out of pure instinct.
Without a word exchanged they both decide to explore it further as soon as propriety permits.
Yes, it turns her on. That’s all you need to know.
She is so wet, wetter than you’ve ever know her to get, soaking through her panties and into the sheets below. She’s that wet without even touching herself, only touching you, stoking you slowly, steadily, precisely the way she wants.
It’s not the cock that’s got her this way. It’s the control.
You’ve been a good boy. You’ve abstained for the entire week, without any cheating. Even in the shower, you were all business down there, soaping and rinsing without any extra contact. You’re pent up, to the point that you’re hard the moment she shimmies out of her skirt, that she unbuttons her blouse and lets it fall from her shoulders.
She has you lie down, your cock rigid, ready, your balls full and heavy.
She strokes you but only to feel it, what denying you has done, how eager, how desperate. Your breath is tight in your chest and that’s doing it too, the rapid tap of your pulse everywhere.
When she finally touches herself she cums almost immediately, then warms up for another. You aren’t sure how this is going to end for you.
Neither is she.
He’s at my apartment early in the morning on a Sunday, after his date with one of my exes. His face is pale, his expression drawn.
He drops his pants and cups his clamped balls, as much to demonstrate his predicament as to relieve the weight.
I warned him, I really did. Not a lot I can do for him now.
He holds her pinned as he coaxes it out of her, the words he wants to hear, that he wants me to hear, the betrayal, the subversion of all we have.
She is putty in his hands. In the next breath after she has sold me she begs to be fucked, to be rewarded with his cock, to be allowed to feel his cum inside her.
For an entire week the components had hung in her closet and waited for her.
The long patent-leather trench coat, the halter-top leotard thong. The long, leather boots, with brass buckles at the knee and toe.
She’d had the jacket for a full season, buying it on impulse last fall. The moment she saw it in a store window, the gray sky and wet streets reflected in the shiny leather, she had to have it. It gave her ideas.
Idea, actually. Just one. This one.
She spent from then until a week ago figuring out what went with it in this vision of hers. There were other possibilities — miniskirts and sweaters and shoes of varying heights — but it wasn’t until she found the leotard that it all clicked into place.
The leotard, matte black, thong back, halter top. A zip from the base of her spine to the back of her neck. Keyhole closure. Perfection.
Then it was just the boots. And they found her, really. Eye-searingly expensive but there was no hesitation or second thought as she stood at the counter, credit card in hand.
Ponytail, stark makeup, patent gloves to protect against the rain. No money, no phone, no ID. The outfit would provide all.
She stepped out into the cool fall air, the wind tugging at the trench buttons. Incredibly warm, given how little she was wearing. Armor, fit to raise an army. She looked left to right and waited for the world to tell her which way to go.
She links her hands behind my neck and presses her breasts against my bare chest.
The towel around her waist is all that remains of our previous relationship, professional propriety and mutual respect.
There’s no need for it now.
The entire outfit arrives at the venue locked in a garment bag, borne by a man and woman wearing identically-cut sharp black suits.
Black jeans and matching corset in stretch satin, zip-up bootie flats, a motorcycle jacket with gold zips. Sizes were supplied in advance as part of the arrangement and everything was made by hand so it all fits perfectly.
Out of a separate case, the jewelry: A collar connected with a strap to a belt, all in thick black leather, with the designer’s name spelled out along each in tall gold letters. A pair of cuffs, one for each wrist.
She goes to put it on herself but they demur. Allow us, one says. Designer’s request, adds the other so she relents.
The woman fastens the collar around her neck. The man loops the belt around her waist and buckles it. Both are tight, the collar and belt, and the strap connecting them is stretched taut when she stands up.
Can you loosen them a little? she asks.
There’s only one buckle hole, the man says. This is how the designer wants them to fit, the woman adds.
She watches as each lifts an arm, pushes up the jacket sleeve, and fits a cuff to her wrist.
I feel like Wonder Woman, she jokes. She’s nervous but isn’t sure why.
You look great, the woman says.
It’s only then that she notices a tiny hasp locking each buckle. She tries to loosen the cuff on her wrist but finds she cannot.
For security, the man says.
The woman produces a camera and readies to take a picture. For the designer, she says.
She puts a practiced smile on her face but can’t shake the feeling of being trapped.
Don’t look so worried, the woman says. It’s only fashion.
I am almost done with you, he grunts into the back of her neck.
His body is so much larger than hers. He pins her to the mattress with his weight, piercing her with his enormous, swollen cock. Her body has long since yielded to him, lubricating to accommodate, to welcome his intrusion.
His hand is large and smells of cologne and cigars. He holds her mouth closed so tightly she can only gasp through her nostrils to breathe. At first it was just air pressure, forced out with each thrust, but now she realizes she’s moaning too, that if his hand fell away her mouth open and a thousand pleas would tumble out, for him to fuck her, to cum inside her.
She can’t help herself. She wants to resist, to lay there in silent protest but he’s just too big, he’s pumping too hard, and her body decided early on she’s his now, whether she likes it or not.
She feels the orgasm flaring up from within her, the final act of betrayal. She clenches her eyes shut to block it out, to remove herself in what little way she can from what’s about to happen.
He knows what turns me on.
Tiny tight shiny little shorts, snug across her ass and over her hips. I bought them for her myself, for that express purpose, to enslave me, to make me hers to command.
But because it’s his collar around her throat she’s not the one in charge. Nor am I.
We are both his playthings now so he instructs her instead to pull on a pair of plain black shorts for this session, to mark the start of my re-education.
I will see them again. He will make sure of that.
Her whip will fall silent. Cautiously, I will open my clenched eyes and look up at her. From her extended hand will hang a modest clutch of glossy fabric, immediately familiar to me, my cock hardening instinctively.
He will make me destroy them, so I will know that this isn’t just a game, that every promise has consequences, that when suffering and loss are promised they should be expected.
The poison is out of him, warm across her body but cooling rapidly.
He lays where he collapsed afterward, across her ankles, his cock oozing still but small.
Now that it’s out of him he’ll be easy to control. He’ll do what he’s told gladly, willingly, happily.
And when his body has produced nearly enough of it to make him strong-willed again, once more she will ply her wiles and drain it from him with her mouth and hands and hips.
She will force it from him, filling the void left behind with quiet obedience and calm.
There’s a flurry of silver and she finds herself in a disorganized heap on the couch, cuffs on her ankles and wrists, chained, a gag tied tightly between her teeth, her sheer dress up over her hips.
The tiny patch of mesh between her legs perfectly frames the careful grooming job she’d performed earlier that day. It was all meant for him, the shiny boots and thigh stockings, hard nipples distinct beneath a slinky dress, to tempt and torture him, to break his concentration and distract him.
She’d planned on denying him and then laughing at his discomfort, at the awkward bulge in his pants she’d put there.
She’d not expected there to be three of them nor for them to be quite so ready for her.
The chain was cold between her thighs as she covered herself and struggled to think of what next to do.
So sad for them, these men crowding around her.
The chance for sex is there, they know it. She’s said as much. She’s willing and able to entertain them, Individually or all at the same time. They just need to talk her into it.
It’s so close they can practically smell it and with each moment, each flirtation, each beer the pounding of blood running hot through their veins gets louder and louder.
Unfortunately it drowns out the very thing they need the most in this moment. Wit, intellect, humor are all lost in a swirl of animal urges and testosterone.
Too bad for them. But good for me.
She doesn’t dare breathe or make a sound, so desperate she is not to disturb the scene in front of her.
The room is silent except for the quiet lapping of the water against the sides of the pool and sucking sounds, wet mouth on hard cock, rhythm of the flesh, muffled moans.
She watches transfixed, until she’s too wet, until her fingers circling make their own sound but by then the possibility of interrupting has passed.
We’re kitties, they tell me. They pose on the stairs, their knees squeaking together as they touch.
All the idea of the mysterious new drama coach with the distractingly blue eyes and sonorous voice.
It’s just an exercise, they insist but I am far from assured. They break their pose and gather their things, heading off to rehearsal.
It is a practiced hand that sized these garments to their bodies, a mind that knew precisely what it wanted.
The squeaking sound, shiny leggings kneeling on polished floors, eager young mouths complying with instructions, seeking praise.
It’s one big pleathery pile on the bed in front of her, the outfit she’s to wear. She stands, bathed, bare except for a belly stud, and tries to make sense of it. A bra and shorts, knee boots and a shrug, various belts and bracelets in silver studs.
She will dress, as she is expected to, and do her hair and makeup as the outfit suits.
And when she emerges from the dressing room, she will be whoever they have chosen to conjure tonight, in body and personality both.
She will be transformed.
He thinks for sure it’s going to happen.
She’s naked save for a tiny white wisp of a thong. Her nipples are hard and he can smell how hot and wet she is.
He thinks that the drought is finally over, that she’s tired of her game, of toying with him, of the torment.
He’s wrong, of course.
He’s smarter than her, by an order of magnitude. She knows she’s no idiot so there’s a special shame in knowing, honestly, she’s no match for him.
He’s been ahead of her at every turn, toying with her expectations, gently guiding her into the traps he’s laid out for her, breaking down her defenses one by one, until she’s on her back, her clothing scattered on the floor where she herself tossed it, her legs spread to him, her pussy hot and wet under his firm hand.
She is broken, stripped of all will to resist. She will obey him now, do whatever he asks of her in that deep voice of his, without question, without hesitation.
They are both surprised, the effect the rubber has on him.
They are hers, the pants. So strong is his reaction when she wears them that she uses them to control him, to reward him.
They are hanging over a chair in the bedroom when the thought first occurs to her. Where does the appeal start and where does it end? she finds herself thinking. On impulse she decides to act.
He doesn’t think they’ll fit. They are snug on her slim frame and he is larger, muscular. She smiles knowingly. Lube and gentle tugs and they slide into place, as though made specifically for him.
He is harder than she’s even seen him. His cock is vivid beneath the latex. His eyes are distant and she can tell he’s not far from yielding. He sinks to his knees in preparation, a resigned supplicant.
No, she says, pulling his eyes back into focus. Not until we get back.
I walk carefully, deliberately, her words of instruction loud in my mind.
She sees the wobble of inexperience in my stride. The whip bites at my flesh to indicate her displeasure.
The glass is cold against her face.
He presses her against it as he pumps, lifting her up off her feet at his deepest before bringing her back down onto the bottom of the tub.
The water runs down over both of them as he fucks her, as she struggles to keep her knees from folding.
His fingers find a nipple and squeeze, harder than is pleasurable, right as he clenches and empties himself inside her. She winces and endures, moaning into the cold glass.
She’s not stupid. Even though she doesn’t tell any of her friends, she knows how to get what she wants. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach but the way to his brain is through his cock.
A crispy white blouse, pink lace panties (a favorite of his), and a bottle of moisturizer is all she needs to make him pliable enough to command.
She reinforces this access by taming and instructing him a few times a week.
He’s not stupid either.
He wanted it so he paid for it.
She tells herself this as she tightens her thighs around his neck. His tongue comes out and waggles around and for a moment she’s unsure if he’s really in trouble or he’s just trying to get a taste of the shiny thin strap rippling tight between her legs.
He is fully erect. His cock strains against the white jockey shorts he insisted on wearing. He thinks he’s going to fuck her later, to pay her back for this humiliation.
She guides his mouth with its eager, exploring tongue to her pussy and she gasps for the appreciative effort he makes. She will make him cum right on her belly, on the shiny rubber, and force him to lick it off, all of it, every last smear and drop.
This is the first step.
They don’t know it but this is a test, to see how far they’ll go, to confirm that they’re willing to go far enough and beyond.
They showed up when instructed, both wearing matching outfits of a black miniskirt and white blouse, black flats and black hose.
Their bras were different but that’s normal.
The last question concerns panties. The instructions were clear: None. If they’ve both complied, then they’ve proven themselves, initially at least. Then it’s time to finish with the grand reveal and move onto the second phase.
He watches them carefully, as they shift on their stocking feet and try to find something convincing to do with their hands. He imagines them with matching silver collars around their necks, the keys to which jingle in his pocket.
He can wait no longer. It’s time to know.
She watches my eyes.
She’s put a lot on display, all in an effort to catch my gaze.
She is not disappointed. She seldom is.
The thin leather collar is enough, to keep her compliant, to ensure her obedience, to get her and keep her on her knees. ready and willing and available.
She doesn’t like it, of course. But she doesn’t have to like it.
He selects it for her to wear.
It’s shiny and tight, not at all her usual style but that’s kind of the point.
He’s her Bull. She likes when he makes decisions like this, obliges her to do something she wouldn’t ordinarily. Like shave herself bare. Like permit herself to be dressed to serve his pleasure. She slides her body into it, tugging the stretchy fabric snugly into place between her legs, because he tells her to, because she knows he will like it, because thinking about it makes her wet.
She slides the straps over her shoulders and instinctively her mouth opens. Wearing it makes her want his cock in her mouth, makes her wet at the thought of him taking her.
He is our Bull. I can’t deny it. I let him into our lives and he made himself at home, pressing his cock into her mouth so often her body hungers for it now, for the taste, the size, for the cum in her stomach. I let him in, once, and now he’s here. She’s made him a copy of the keys and shaved her pussy and waits, in her stretchy little suit, for him to arrive and have his way with her.
The moment he penetrates her, my cock falls out of her open mouth and her eyes close.
She’s lost to me now, her breasts shifting in time with his thrusts, her hair falling in front of her face, her hands going still, bracing, pushing back against him.
She tilts her head back, just enough for the light to catch the collar around her neck, low and gleaming, a reminder of what is clear to me now, that she is his.
When she’s returned to me, she’s transformed.
She wears their uniform, a plain cotton tank tucked into a tight pleather miniskirt, and low booties. Gray and black, soft and shiny, plain but sexy. Immediately identifiable. I’ve always said, one can’t knock them on style.
But it’s more that this. Her arm is etched with a machine pattern of lines connecting circles. It runs from the vein on one arm all the way up to the base of her skull.
A tattoo, I think initially.
Not so, I learn later.
Her suit keeps her flesh, soft and pale, safely away from their touching hands.
The shine has long since been dulled by the sweat, by the fingerprints they leave on her, as they seek out her wet secrets.
The heel of her boot makes a delicate click as she uncrosses her legs and sets her feet flat on the floor. She spreads her legs to him, the rubber shiny, and gestures to the floor in front of her.
She has been dulled but he will fix that. He will kneel and open his mouth and wipe away all of their filth and lust and greasy, desperate marks. He will take them from her, to keep inside of him, leaving her clean, unblemished, glossy.
It never fails, she thinks as she takes a puff of her cigarette.
She waits for the brief moment of relative quiet between songs to recross her legs, so the scything sound of thighs in leather sliding across one another is not lost in the din.
I struggle, helpless, in her web. She takes her time, savoring everything.
Ready to go? she asks, as she appears in the doorway.
The jacket comes off and she does a twirl for me.
I can still see the red marks of my nails down her back through her gauzy white blouse.
She tucks her phone into the back pocket of her tiny leather shorts but it’s too tall and sticks up over the top.
She knows she has a little while before I’ve recovered. She plans on taking us far away from the apartment the moment we’re outside, to buy herself as much time as possible, to make it as hard for me as she can.
You’ll have to hold this for me, she says.
She feels like a cliché, moaning and panting and pleading for more.
But he’s so much more than she was expecting. His cock is hot inside her, solid and large, and he lifts her, bodily, up and down, as he penetrates her.
Her hips click into an automatic rhythm, like she was programmed to fuck him, rolling and pressing in time with his thrusts like she never has before.
She wants to ask him what have you done to me? but all that comes out is a grunt that ends in a ragged breath.
She keeps her mouth closed, her lips a thin line in her face.
But there’s a moment of eye contact and the hardness of her nipples is hard to miss.
Down on one knee, leather creaking, a hand between her legs.
She pulls away so the whip comes down, once, hard, across her back.
She spreads her legs. Wet between.
Good girl. Keep up the fight as long as you can.
It was a very nice tie.
But the blade was silver and sharp and the opportunity too rare and sweet.
He’s on his way.
She arrived earlier that morning, carrying only her purse and a discreet cardboard parcel.
She checked in under an assumed name, making sure they had the correct room for her, the one she’d selected months ago, the one that was just so, and suited her purposes perfectly.
She got to work the moment the door closed behind her.
Her phone buzzes. A photo of him from the neck down, wearing a suit, seated in the back of a town car. He’s loosened his tie and unfastened the top two buttons of his shirt.
Not yet, she replied. When I want your tie off I’ll take it off myself.
She ran her hands over her body, glistening and slick. There was not a wrinkle or fold out of place. Expensive but worth it. She adjusted the zipper in the mirror, until it was right where she wanted it.
Phone in her hand, mirror. What the hell, she thought, as she sent the photo.
Enough playing. Time to get ready.
Now now, she says, eyeing me over her shoulder. You remember our agreement.
With that, she turns back to the mirror and the eyelash brush in her hand.
I force myself to breathe, in and out, slowly. I am lightheaded, dizzy, off-balance from the past couple of weeks, the agonizing, sleepless nights, the blemishless, smooth flesh of her hips and waist and ass, displayed so nonchalantly before me.
It’s for your own good, she says through a frozen mouth, her head held still while she darkens her lashes.
We both know I’m no good.
Doesn’t matter whether I mean to be or not. It only matters that it’s true.
I am no good. For you, for me, for anyone.
I need to suffer for what I am, for what I do, what what I make other people feel.
I deserve cruelty myself, punishment for all I’ve done and not done.
Perhaps you are that punishment.
Perhaps you are that richly-deserved cruelty.
I never knew this side of her.
Why would I? She wasn’t mine to explore.
Somehow she found out my little secret. Her little secret too.
The arrangements were modest, the excuse minor enough not to cause even a second’s concern. The game was over the moment I closed the door behind me.
Her hand, soft and smelling of polish, gently pushing my jaw shut.
She waits until I am inside her to claim me, loosening the silver collar from around her throat and locking it in place around my own.