Visit Three

Visit Three

For some reason I arrive well before 9:30 a.m. again, this time departing early in some orgastic anticipation of stepping down the half flight of stairs to the basement playroom.

Having to wait in my car for the electronic door, my mind mulls last week’s visit, the sole verbal communication being those three words... the only speech exchanged.

In the interim there have been email messages, the first brief in inquiring ‘did you like my taste?’.

Yes, in ending the session, the double dildo withdrew, the boots tapped to the front of the low platform and there came again the sound of slippery moist flesh, this time a plop. Then, while pinching closed my nose, as I drew a breath the bulbous lump of blue rubber was returned to my mouth.

Wet, warm, fragrant with feminine essence, I replied to the email, deciding on a simple ‘yes’ to veil my libidinous zeal.

As instructed in the many messages exchanged I thereafter patiently remained kneeling... buttocks high, knees parted to the extreme, head low... as I again heard the rustle of clothing, the boots going to the stairs. After the kitchen door closed I arose, removed the latex hood, tidied up, dressed and departed, knowing to press the red button for release.

A second email chided me, knees to be further parted, back further arched to better present my sphincter for anal penetration.

‘You will find the pose to not only be demeaning but to better open yourself to me, your balls hang so freely. Plus in stretching and straining the various muscles and ligaments your sense of acquiescence and submission will be enhanced.’   

Yes, the woman enjoys rituals, and as she stated, most importantly I will learn to enjoy yielding to her rituals.

A final email admonished me to tidy things up... rinsing the latex hood, and scrubbing the bench and platform of all bodily fluids. I had done so but apparently not with adequate attention.

‘Future sessions there will be no words, Mr. Long,’ the missive ended. ‘You will come for me with my hand signal, the slap to your buttocks.’

Why do such words bring excitement?

My cell phone indicates it is 9:29. I know to exit my car, forcing myself to take my time, that haste will result in unwanted delay, the electronic lock precisely set for 9:30.

So I look for traffic, saunter across the street, and leisurely traverse the driveway. I cannot help thinking how I am subordinating myself to a device.

Timing perfected, I hear the lock, pull open and descend, the lights clicking on in mid flight.

The room is the same, nothing moved, nothing changed. The bench on the low platform awaiting, the Feeldoe lies at the front end, no post it note, no instructions required.

So I disperse the fee, strip, grab the hood, position myself, slip the tight latex over my head... hands feeling about to take the dildo. In pressing to my mouth I lower my head, part my knees to the maximum. And indeed in sensing the self imposed strain and tension, there does come a curious sense of capitulation, augmented as I arch my back and feel my gluteal cleft yawn open to offer a demanding woman her pleasure.

I am to be taken.

Impossible to delineate time, it seems there is an eternity in wait. I assume it’s because of the stress. Yet I dare not move, dare not relax from the requisite pose. It is a ritual... her ritual... one which I must learn to enjoy in order to please.

Alas, the distant kitchen door opens. Boots tap. The scent of Jean Nate comes... strong... stronger. With the rustle of clothing, I feel my penis twitch. Then the boots tap to my front, the dildo is jostled and I know to release.

More taps, the slight sound of moist flesh yielding to wet rubber. Fingers again lubricate. This time one finger then two fully penetrate. It feels good, the touch welcomed, the twitches bringing firmness. 

The fingers withdraw. A hand cups my testicles, swaying about obscenely I am sure. The tip of the dildo slowly abrades a well greased crevice. Then the gripping hand simultaneously pulls as the dildo plunges... firmly... forcefully. She takes me. There is no hesitation. There is strength. There is determination as despite the tightness, the tip plunges deeply.

I gasp. More embarrassing, I squeal. This brings muffled laughter. Then the fucking begins and I am chagrined to find my penis is untouched... and remains untouched... thrust after thrust.

I need attention. Need to feel the woman’s controlling grip. Yet as the Feeldoe plunges away my erection merely bobs about untended.

Finally I learn of the woman’s intuition. She knows... is aware of the male psyche... the cycle. A single finger of her free hand finds the tip of my turgid erection, hooks at the top and slowly bends downward just as I begin to pull on my oscillating pubo coccygeus muscles, desperate for eruption.

Needing to ejaculate, I cannot. She knows. In place of ecstatic relief, she merely fucks onward... thrusting and thrusting, my sphincter set aflame.   

Drat! Yet this is what I’ve asked for... many weeks of exchanging thoughts. Such frustration... yet such demented thrill.

There comes a soft gasp. The thrusting slows. The hooking finger withdraws. My erection snaps upwards as there comes a slap to my buttocks. It signifies permission. Incredibly I spend, on cue, spurting onto the platform what I must assume to be gobs of white seed.

The dildo withdraws, the boots tap, my nose is pinched and the bulbous lump of blue returns to my mouth. It is hot with friction and I so much welcome the taste.

A tender pat to my hooded head... master to dog... is my reward.

I have pleased.