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 waits until the perfect moment.
We are taking a leisurely stroll around the park. It’s beautiful and sunny, and the park is crowded with people.
I’ve already rested my hand on her bare thigh at a park-side café, her skirt short enough so the chair left a red mark on the back of her legs. That much I knew.
The boots and white socks are a nice touch. She can see that her choice in outfits has prompted a reaction in me, which she enjoys immensely. But it’s the tourists, who stop me to ask directions in their native tongue, who give her the idea.
They recognized one of their own from my features and so ask, effortlessly polite, if I might help them on their way.
She takes a few steps away, then bends at the waist, to adjust the buckle on her boot.
When she bends upright again she is smiling.
I smile too. Coarse rope, woven of hemp, with a wide knot at a particularly inopportune location. A lesson to be learned, soon enough.
He squirms on the cold table.
His cock is hard and oozing beneath him so he can’t lay flat. He rolls first to one side then the other, trying to get it to angle.
She watches, silent, from the shadowed corner.
She will help him with his problem.
She will take his erection from him soon enough.
She is sloppy because she is hurrying.
She doesn’t have much time.
She gets him ready and keeps him there, right on the edge, red and straining, the veins tapping in his throat.
When they arrive, there must be no delay at all.
She’s not yours to give away.
She’s not yours at all.
She’s her own person, with her own will and desires.
She’s smarter than you give her credit for, much, much smarter.
She stands there, in the ill-fitting knicker set you bought for her, to make her feel cheap and tawdry, and lets you show her off.
However she feels, it is because she wills it. If she puts on the cheap panties and bra it is because she wants to.
Perhaps she wants you to treat her carelessly to make it easier for her to see what else is out there. That idea, floating around in your mind, of sharing her? Perhaps she’s the reason it’s there.
Perhaps all of this — the panties, the pose, the time and place and person, the terms of her “sentence” — perhaps everything is her idea and you, as opposed to her, are the one playing a role.
Or had you thought of that?
She and I exchange a smile, of pre-familiarity. Doesn’t matter now anyway.
It’s been a long time for him.
She saw to that. Sneaking into the shower to suck him hard, then slipping out, turning down the hot water, to let him shiver back into flaccidness.
Her fingers running over his sleeping form, hardening him into semi-consciousness, then rolling over and leaving him alone, with her ass pressed against him, her instructions staying his shaking hands.
She really enjoyed watching him squirm, she thinks, as his breathing speeds up and she pleads for her to slow down, that he’s going to cum, only a few moments after she started.
When he does cum, it is in volume. It has been a while, after all.
She swallows, as much as she can.
She is going for a ride on his motorcycle.
The bike is sleek and fast and Italian, matte black and chrome. It rumbles low outside when he arrives. She opens the door for him and welcomes him in.
The helmet is new, gleaming and black, purchased specifically for her. It matches the bike, he says.
This she was expecting. When she accepted his offer she said he would need to provide her one.
She goes to put it on, finds something inside.
The catsuit is glossy spandex, with a single zipper that runs from between her thighs to the base of her throat. It too is new. It too matches the bike, with its shiny curves. It too he bought specifically for her.
This she was not expecting. Nor was I. And yet here we are.
She turns from him to me, for the first time since he arrived, and locks me in her gaze. Fingers find buttons and buckles, thumbs in and under, until all of it, everything she was wearing, is in a pile on the floor.
She steps out of it. The significance of this is lost on no one.
First one foot, then the next, then she tugs and shimmies the fabric tight up over her hips. One arm, then the other, then the zipper, long and low all the way up.
Might as well write “mine” on her, he says, addressing me for the first time since he arrived.
When she returns the next day, she makes sure it’s my hand on the zipper, so I can see, in black, across her belly, that he has.
He does it without thinking, without prompting, without the slightest movement from her.
He does it not knowing how she’s react. He doesn’t even consider this.
She walks into the room and stops, her pose precise, her attire intentional and yet not leading.
She does this to test him, to see what he’s made of.
Now she knows.
It’s not sexual, he tells himself. He forces the dildo inside her, roughly, hatefully, staring at her face as it contorts in discomfort, in humiliation and agony.
It’s revenge, he thinks. For all the times she ignored him, spurned his advances, denied him, chose another when he was clearly the superior man.
She winces and the mousetraps that he fastened to her perfect pink nipples hop once against her chest. She winces and clenches her eyes shut.
Have you learned your lesson? he asks her, his lips a tongue-touch from her ear. The dildo goes in, hard and deep, and out, then in again. She clenches her eyes anew, bites her lip, and nods.
Are you mine, now and forever? he asks. She nods again, faster this time, desperate. The blood is pooling in her feet and she’s lost feeling in them to a wash of pin pricks.
He can feel that she is slick with excitement. He doesn’t quite know what that means.
Say it, he says. Say that you’re mine forever.
And when she opens her mouth to do so, she opens her eyes as well, and for the first time he can see that she means it, that she’s his, to do with whatever he wants, that if he is cruel she will endure it and thank him and ask for more.
The buzzing is relentless. He struggles to ignore it, then to subvert it, then just not to be consumed by it. But it continues, regardless of the mental squirming he does.
He can feel it a long way off, his cock stiffening, his balls tightening up underneath. He can feel that it’s only a matter of time before he cums, and not long at that. He tried to slow his breathing but the plastic is wound tightly around his abdomen, so that he can’t catch his breath enough to calm himself. His breathing is ragged and fast. She has thought of everything.
And with that he yields, to her, to her cruel designs and intellect. He screams theatrically, in frustration, as he submits to its relentlessness, as he feels it draining the cum from his balls.
His sperm sprays up onto his belly, hot and quick, rolling off to either side, where she has placed a basin to catch it.
Good boy, she says, through glossy red lips, pursed as she freshens her eyeshadow. I saw you fighting and there’s really no need.
He can feel it starting again, the buzzing insistent, unceasing.
Only nine more times, she says, staring into her pocket mirror, and we’ll have enough to get started.
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.