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 tests the cuffs, tugging and shifting her hands.
The steel is cold and hard. The link connecting the two makes a click.
She is bound.
The next move is his.
She expected him to try to fuck her.
She dressed the part — black satin minidress, stockings, wicked black stilettos, stab of red lipstick. And she was ready to perform her role, the helpless naïf seduced by the bigger, stronger, richer, more powerful man.
She was ready for him, or so she thought.
But she was not ready for this.
His stubble rubbed agonizingly against her bare thighs. His hands gripped her waist. And his tongue —
She gasped anew and clenched her ass to push up against his face but he moved expertly and torturously away. Then back, his mouth hot and wet and everywhere and nowhere.
Now she had no idea where this was going. Now she no longer cared.
If it seems too good to be true — well, you know what they say.
She flattens her tongue, nice and broad, and licks the precum off the tip of my cock. It’s in this moment, me looking down at her, looking up at me, when I first notice that the blue of her eyes is much too intense to be real. She is wearing colored contact lenses. I find myself wondering why.
She notices my distraction and wraps her lips around me and sucks hard. I don’t know and I decide, as she starts stroking and sucking, stroking and sucking, ever watchful, that I don’t care.
I should have cared. But warning signs seldom appear in their true form.
She had other secrets, this beautiful girl on her hands and knees, other secrets I would discover soon enough.
The spotlight is harsh.
The room is warm from bodies that sit in suits in the darkness and watch.
A hand reaches out from beside her and pulls roughly on the knot holding the two halves of her dress together. The sides fall away and her breasts are bared. Looking down she can see the first sparkle of perspiration forming between them, from the spotlight, from the air, hot with sex, from her own humiliation.
Voices call out from the darkness, coarse and loud.
She wants to run, to be anywhere but here, to make a distance memory of the impulse in her that agreed to come here in the first place.
But her body doesn’t lie. Her nipples are hard and red against her pale skin. She is wet down each thigh with waiting.
She wants to leave but not as much as she wants to stay.
It wasn’t part of her original plan, letting him cum.
But after what he just went through, and thinking of everything he (under duress) agreed to, she found herself taking pity on him.
She’ll have to work on that.
She leaves me notes, this friend of my girlfriend Max.
In the dark, curtained corner of a subterranean bar somewhere, just into the start of the third smoky cocktail, the pen will come out. She’ll just leave it on the table at first, her opening gambit, signaling her intentions.
They smile at each other, close enough to taste the liquor on each other’s breath. It’s always like the first time, slow and uncertain, taking nothing for granted, savoring everything, stretching every moment into torment. Her hand on Max’s bare knee and nothing more, for an eternity. Then inch by inch, sliding slowly up her flesh, to the hem of her skirt, then pushing under the leather, gently, accepting every indulgence as the gift it is.
From both of us.
They decide together where it will go, her initials surrounded by a heart, her mark, claiming Max for her own, for the night.
I twist the evening away at home, in my own spectacular agony, until I finally succumb to a fitful sleep.
Max tries to be silent, as she slips into bed beside me. But every tendon and muscle has been loosened from her release. She is a puddle of satisfaction and breathing heavily, aslumber, moments after laying down.
I wait until the first light to begin my search.
She has had a long week at work.
She is a powerful woman, with dozens doing her bidding and multiple deadlines on which to keep a handle.
She works very hard not to bring work home with her most of the days of the week.
On Friday, I give her a hand.
As long as he keeps pumping, so will she.
If he can make it to 100 he can even cum.
He hasn’t made it yet.
She ached for him, for his touch, any touch.
The sharp sting of his switch across her flesh was like the softest kiss to her, tenderly given, and earnestly meant.
When I first meet her she’s standing over me while I organize my gym bag.
She’s changed for our match, into her uniform, a snug one-piece of glossy rubber. Nothing to grip onto, nothing to grab.
She stands over me and waits until I look up to shift her weight from one leg to the other. Her uniform creases between her thighs, showing the cleft of her pussy.
Later, after she’s beaten me and forced me to tap out she will refuse to shake the hand I extended to her. In the exact same pose as before she waits for me to look up, into her eyes, before separating a single finger from where they dangle to point at the floor.
The booties are new.
They arrived on her desk around lunch, while she was out. No markings — he delivered them himself.
She slides them on, squeezes her thighs together for the sheet sexiness of them
She wears them home.
He’s not there — still at work.
She adjusts her outfit to suit her mood, accessorizes with her favorite whip, also a gift from him.
She waits, flicks the whip absentmindedly, wrapping it first one way then the other around her bare thigh.
She will demonstrate her appreciation as soon as he gets home, reward pleasure with pain.
Just ten steps further, he thinks to himself.
Ten steps further, to the bedroom, where he’s been trying to get them for the past hour.
She been teasing him, shedding her clothing piece by piece, first her jeans, then her shirt, then her bra, an hour between each reveal, as though on a timer.
With only her panties and that ridiculous sky hat still one, she asked him if he wanted to see the upstairs.
Maybe, he said and she smiled. Finally, he thought.
Ten more feet and the last act would start.
Ten more feet and he would find out what she really had planned.
It was not what he was expecting.
The door is open so I show myself in.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight to the curtained room. And after that moment is the first time I see her.
I’ve seen her before, more times than I can count. But this is the first time I’ve seen her, this way, the way she really is, looking on the outside the way she feels on the inside.
She is clothed, her body a cascade of curves within a sleek, shiny shell, but in so dressing she has made herself naked to me.
She turns to face me, the ends of her dress fluttering with the movement.
I freeze where I stand. My mouth hangs open she has stolen all of my words, commanded my complete attention with a simple look.
This is the reaction she was hoping for.
He pulses with desperation in her hand.
He’s trying very hard to keep still but his breathing is shallow and quick and she can feel his rapid heartbeat beating in the flesh underneath her.
It is a narcotic, this control, this ability to generate a response in another.
She never wants it to stop.
She never wants to let it go.
All she has to do is say the word and she’ll stop.
All she has to do is want her to stop.
She lets the robe drop and the moment I see her necklace I know he has sent her for me.
She is a gift, an offering, an inducement to talk.
She will fuck me, or suck me off or let me do anything I want to her. Please him, she has been instructed, before being brought out of her trance and provided my address. She wants to fuck me, desperately, or so she’s been instructed to think. And as long as she wears that necklace she will continue thinking it and wanting me inside her.
If I yield to her, I have accepted his offer to speak. And that last person who sat down at a table with him was — her.
I know there is a necklace of my very own, waiting for me.
She stood in front of the clothing rack, her hand gliding down the glistening fabric.
A skirt. A miniskirt, to be proper. Way, way, waaaaay shorter than what she usually wore and made of glossy black vinyl. But she was newly single and heading to a costume party later that night and she’d decided she was looking for a little positive reinforcement, a little attention.
The shop girl walked by behind her. It’s a cute skirt, she said over her shoulder. You should try it on.
I should, she thought. Why not.
In the dressing room she’d just slid off her jeans when she heard the shop girl on the other side of the door.
Date or party?
Party, she said.
Meeting somebody there?
Hopefully, she said. I’d like to. Probably not.
The sound of the shop girl’s heels faded under the music, then returned a moment later. There was a swish of fabric and a halter top made of the same inky vinyl appeared over the dressing room door.
Trust me, she said.
- - -
There was certainly no shortage of attention. No one even asked what she was dressed as. Lots of looks, a few of the more enterprising types even worked up the nerve to make a feeble attempt to chat her up. The right kind of attention, she thought. Next time I’ll be more specific.
And that’s the moment when she saw him. He was tall, dark-eyed, and handsome in a way that she felt in the pit of her belly. He was dressed entirely in black, right down to a pair of black leather gloves. His eyes were on hers and suddenly no one else at the party mattered.
He towered over her. She felt a little light-headed looking up and she wobbled in her heels. He caught her arm and steadied her. His hand was large and strong, his grip on her completely sure. The breath froze in her chest.
Your costume appears to be missing something, he said.
Oh? she managed, trying to be coy. He produced a pair of bracelets in soft lambskin leather, with buckles that shone in the low light.
May I? he asked. She extended her hands in front of her without even looking, without her eyes leaving his, without a moment’s hesitation.
The leather was achingly soft against her skin. He buckled first one, then then the other tightly around her wrists. She tried to keep her hands from shaking. When he had finished he gently clasped in a hand the link that locked her wrists together and pulled her close enough to him for her to smell his skin.
Shall we? he asked.
When finally he yields and unclenches his jaws, when he parts his lips and she pulls the ballgag firmly into his mouth, she looks at him and he can see it.
The change is there, in her eyes. She’s still her but she’s also now someone else completely. Her lids are low with lust and power, he lips full and red. She breathes slowly, inhaling, as though his helplessness had a scent.
Always let me do this, she whispers, her eyes closed. She brings her forehead to rest on his own and for a moment he thinks that’s the end of it.
He swallows, as best as he can.
And then her hands are quick on the back of his head, cinching the buckle tightly into place.
She sits up, straddling him, his cock hard underneath her.
Now, she says. Let’s get started.
The next time I see her she’s been fitted with a uniform of glossy black rubber and there’s silver collar locked close around her throat.
She stands in a line with the other offerings, one among the selection. She is silent, her face blank, and she keeps her eyes fixed at a point on the distant horizon.
The bidding is fierce and quickly out of my range.
They always come in the same way, the big bucks, all swagger and bravado, swinging their large cocks and flexing their muscles. They see her and figure they will fuck her into submission, until she’s crying, until she’s pleading with them to stop, to never to stop.
She says nothing.
It’s over the first moment they sink their cocks inside her. They pound and thrust and pump, brows furrowed and beaded with sweat, breathing hard, straining, trying to last but the cum is close from the start, too close.
It’s all over in a moment.
They dash themselves against her and break.
Another fallen God, she thinks as she fits the cage in place and clicks closed the lock.
She talks a lot before, eager to please him, to hide her inexperience.
But it is large, much larger than anything she’s ever taken in her ass before. And cold too. She feels this the second it touches her body. It is cold and heavy, polished chrome, unyielding, unavoidable.
Her face betrays her nerves as she gives an initial push. It is too large for her, it will never fit. He will be disappointed. All of this in a flash of shame.
Relax, he says, in his deep voice. You’re doing fine.
And with that, it’s inside her. She belongs to him now, as she realizes she always did.
This didn’t start as a fantasy of hers.
She only wanted to fuck you and you alone. But you wanted more.
You wanted to see it, to see the strange cock penetrate her, the strange violating the familiar and marking it, with cum, with base-level urgency.
You put that man’s cock in her mouth.
That she enjoys it now, thanks to you, is your burden to bear.
The ink will wash away. But the stain is permanent.
Your cock is not a weapon.
Your cock is weakness, manifested.
She sucks the strength right out of you.
And you do nothing to stop her.
They kiss long and slow, just the way she likes it.
The wet tip of his cock pushes up against her, soaking through his pants until she can feel it on her thighs.
He wants to fuck her, desperately.
But every time he runs his hand over the curve of her ass he is reminded that this is not to be. He feels the thin strap of her pink panties, the panties she received by messenger earlier that day, that she stepped into and pulled into place herself, sealing herself away, saving herself for another.
The hundred dollar bills enclosed with them were so crisp and new the panties smelled slightly like money, something that surprised her with how much it turned her on.
He pleads, in his softest, most vulnerable voice.
Please, baby, he whispers. He will never know.
That’s true, she says back and strokes his face. But I will.
She wants it out of him.
She wants him tame and calm and relaxed so she cavorts for his pleasure, her flimsy clothing falling off of her until his cock is hard. She pulls away his pants and frees it, takes it into her mouth, sucks and pumps and sucks and pumps.
He wants this part to last so he resists, thinking of hiking, taxes, anything except the perfumed body squirming on top of him.
She can feel him resisting so she sucks harder, strokes faster. She is exorcising him and the ghost is close, she can tell.
The tape holding her temporary identifier comes loose on one side.
She finds herself pressing it back into place.
This is how she knows she is broken, that she belongs to them now.
She turns back to the closet and continues looking for something to wear.
I try to slow my breathing enough to chase away the vagueness creeping in around the edges. I work my hands against the rope, feeling the knots, but they are strong and sure and yield nothing.
My instructions were very clear. Or so I thought.
They are clear now.
The flash from the camera is an unpleasant reminder that they are not alone, that they are not doing this for themselves.
The terms were clear.
The game was fair.
Her joy at winning — at me losing — is genuine.
Tug all you want, pretty thing.
If you were happy with freedom you wouldn’t know my name.
She straddles him and leans in, gliding expertly up and down his cock. She is wet, I can tell, from the slickness of his shaft, from the ease with which he slides inside her, the raggedness of his moans.
She angles her hips as she mounts him and I can see his balls tightening up underneath her, preparing to come, to pump his sperm hot and deep inside.
Except she slows, slower, slower, until she stops completely. He’s half-in and half-out. He struggles, pushes up into her with her hips but she tightens her legs and rides out his writhing without yielding an inch. This is when she starts to speak.
Beg me to stop, she hisses. He sputters in confusion.
Beg me to let you pull out without coming.
B-But I want to cum.
Do what I ask and I’ll let you.
He tries thrusting into her again and, again, is denied.
Please, Master, he says.
Please what? she asks, then slides down onto him. He gasps.
Please let me pull out without cumming.
She smiles. Granted, she says and lifts herself off of him.
He opens his eyes. There are tears in them.
The bikini is new, she is telling me, a little something I saw that made me think of you.
She strokes her hand over her hip and tugs the seam at her hip flat.
It’s not my usual style, she is saying. Not a lot of coverage and what it covers it totally shows off, don’t you think?
She rolls onto her belly and looks back at me, over her ass.
But I was feeling daring and impetuous and I thought what the hell. Let’s see if he likes it.
She rolls back, sliding her legs to the side to sit demurely and face me. There is a crease in the shiny black as it plunges between her legs that precisely mirrors the cleft beneath.
So, she says. What do you think?
Two strokes or three, just enough to keep him hard.
She won’t let him touch her, nor himself, so he tries to find something to do with his hands.
She opens her hand, lets him go, then presses her breasts into his back and keeps whispering.
The next time she closes her hand around him she feels the drip that’s emerged from the top of his cock and dribbled down.
Only one stroke this time.
They are being playful, trying to get a rise out of me.
The one in white gives the one in black a playful slap on the ass. The one in black pulls a pout. The one in white gives her a hug but it’s not enough. Kiss it and make it better, says the one in black.
The one in white drops to her knees, closes her eyes, and presses her lips delicately against the smooth coffee skin of the one in black.
The one in black wiggles in appreciation.
They both look at me.
Not there yet, but getting warmer.
I am hard the moment her dress falls off her shoulders.
She pushes me backward gently until I feel the bed at the back of my knees. She lays me down and straddles me, her thighs sliding smoothly over mine. I press up underneath her, denied her wetness by the thin layer of mesh. She reaches down between her legs until my cock is in her hand. She guides me back, then closes her thighs around me.
We kiss like this for what seems like hours, her hips steady in their motion, until I lose my mind, lose all will to resist, until I am hers to command, completely, utterly.
I put the conversation out of my mind the next morning, slightly embarrassed, as I always am, after I’ve shared one of my dirty little desires with another person.
She, as I’m learning, is not just another person.
I expect her to act on what I’ve told her, to try it out immediately like it’s a new trick she’s learned but the day passes just like any other, as though the conversation never took place.
Nothing happens the next day or the day after that. Time passes to the point where I begin to wonder if I did indeed tell her or if it was all just a dream.
And then I forget it entirely.
The very next day, my phone buzzes.
There is nothing that could come from her mouth that he would not swallow, willingly, eagerly, gratefully.
The hand at her neck is gentle but firm.
The calmness and inevitability it invokes opens her mouth and wets between her legs. She finds herself wishing she could take him inside her, everywhere, at the same.
As his cock fills her throat she whispers around it thank you thank you thank you
In the middle of the street, just because she tells you to. Not a moment of hesitation.
Or so you tell yourself, as arrangements are discussed and explored and refined, before being finally locked in place.
And it’s true, absolutely, in those dark moments alone while you sweat and think of her and strangle the fantasies out of yourself.
But the first time it happens, it’s not dark and it’s not your bedroom and it’s not quite the way you imagine.
She’s wearing a simple white dress, short but plain and flowing, with an innocent lace trim. She’s wearing shoes she bought for herself, sparkly and girly and fun, not at all the wicked strict boots you’d imagined. And she doesn’t demand it. She asks, sweetly, as though she’s asking you to open a jar for her.
She permits you the moment you need to swallow dryly and consider your options. She knows it’s up to you now. This was your fantasy, after all.
You both know that, unless her request is met, immediately, with compliance and gratitude, it won’t be made again. Not a moment later. Not ever again.
But you both also know that if you yield, if you kneel, there, in the middle of the street, for everyone to see, that it will come again, worse the next time, more and more humiliating, her probing to find your limits.
You swallow again.
Her corset gleams, polished with a shaking, grateful hand.
The level of attention paid to this task demonstrates its importance to the one who performed it. He inspected every stitch, every seam, every glossy stretch of patent leather intimately, checking and rechecking, gentle but persistent with his patch of soft cloth.
She will find fault with it somewhere.
The pretty thing struggles and writhes about.
The basque around her waist is metal and heavy and it cuts into the pretty thing’s skin where it flows over her hip bones.
She self-dishevels in her efforts to be free but she knows this appeals to those who watch unblinking from the shadows.
She tugs her wrists against the velvet band encircling them and arches her hips and tosses her hair over her shoulder and pouts, all for their pleasure.
He is so happy and grateful.
Until he feels the cold metal locking around his balls.
But by then it’s too late.
She leans back against the railing, sliding one leg up along the other and my head swims with the sound of her flesh, of the rubber stretching across her body.
She enjoys the look of helpless lust on my face.
Too late now, she says.
He wraps an arm around her and picks her up off her feet.
He spreads her legs with his free arm, sweeping in under and hooking behind a knee, then the other arm, pressing her back against the wall.
His cock is swollen and ready. He lowers her, slowly, down, onto him, her own weight pushing him inside her, slick and warm.
I watch all of this, lost to both of them, as silent as a lamp standing in a corner.
I find my eyes drawn to her hands, how they clutch at his muscles, how they touch his flesh.