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 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.
He can feel it, the envy between them, the gentle competition for his attention, his cock, his cum.
They push at each other with their lips and tongues, subtle in their desperation, hungry, persistent.
They will fuck later, after he, drained, falls asleep. They will bring the fight to their own bodies, pressing for an advantage, until one finally submits and is mastered.
Tomorrow morning, it will be clear that something’s changed, although what and how will be a mystery to him.
He begs for freedom from her bonds but his words are lies.
His cock is hard and dripping. It makes a liar out of him.
She is not afraid of her body.
She knows what it can do.
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