I greet Sir at the door. I hang his coat. I remove his shoes. I hand him a glass of water. I follow him to the kitchen, listening as he tells me about his day. He sets his briefcase down, opens his arms wide, and calls me to him for a big hug. He asks after my day.
Then we check for infractions of house rules. Are there dishes in the sink? Did I do my daily tasks? If I haven’t, is there a reason and/or a plan to finish in a timely way? Have I thanked him for every masturbation session, in that day’s form?
I love the structure of it. I feel safe.
Sundays are Doin’ It fer Jeebus; free range sessions to completion as long as he is watching.
Last Sunday, after I’d massaged his back and legs, and sucked his cock while using a vibrator on myself, he told me to masturbate. I asked permission to change toys, got it, and ran to get my current favourites. I asked permission to get back on the bed, got it, and knelt facing him.
I pressed a more powerful vibe against my clit, and slid my njoy pure/fun into me. As I got more into it, Sir ran his hands over my marks from earlier. He pinched my skin, ran his fingernails over the sensitized areas, then dragged his fingers across with the lightest of touches. I hear a noise and realize that I am moaning in tandem with the rhythm I’m pushing the njoy into me. Then I notice that Sir is controlling my rhythm with the slightest of pressure against my bruised ass. Knowing that makes this almost too much. I feel orchestrated. I feel controlled. I feel powerful. Beautiful.
“Please, Sir, may I come?” I gasp.
“Yes,” he growls. I pitch myself over the edge into transformation, into joy, into love, and life.