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Yours, sir . . .  

tbone40502 53M
0 posts
12/15/2019 8:25 am
Yours, sir . . .


He’s standing close to her, half whispering in his deep voice. Soothingly, hypnotically.

“After all that we’ve shared together . . . “

"After all of the words of affection,

the romantic gestures,
the little ,
the silly cards,
the hugs and cuddles,
the kisses . . . soft and lingering, forceful and urgent,
the hours spent lying together, limbs draped across each other,”

“After all of this . . . you know how I feel for you. You know that I care about you and respect you. You know that I think you are smart, and charming, and funny, and fun to be around, and absolutely beautiful, desirable, and sexy.”

“You know that I love you . . . unreasonably, unconditionally, and unceasingly.”

“But for the here and now . . .

for the next few hours . . . “

“You are my ‘little one,’ and I am your ‘daddy-dom.’”

“You are my ‘sub,’ and I am your ‘sir.’”

“Do you understand?” he asked.

“mmmhmmm,” you murmur.

SMACK. He slaps your cheek. Not very hard, but startlingly, a sharp, stinging blow. He’s never slapped your face before. Somehow, it tells you that he means business, today.

“Not quite enough, Little One,” he said, “try again.”

“Yes sir,” you respond meekly.

SMACK. A softer slap this time, across your other cheek.

“We must play the rules, here, Little One,” he continues. “You will answer my questions completely, repeating back my exact words to me, so that I know you’ve heard and understood me. Now, do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand, sir,” you reply immediately.

“Very good, Little One.” He caresses the cheeks that he just slapped. “Now, take of your clothes. Everything. Show me what you’ve brought me to play with. I want you standing naked and exposed in front of me in one minute or less. Strip for daddy.”

You rush to obey, slipping out of your shoes, pulling your socks off. You quickly pull your shirt up over your head, and then unbutton your tight jeans and shimmy out of them. You hesitate for a second and glance up at him. He looks at his watch and raises one eyebrow. You quickly reach around and unhook your pretty, pink, lacy bra and shrug it off your shoulders. Finally, you hook your thumbs in the sides of your matching panties and slide them down around your ankles, then step out of them.

Something about standing there, completely naked, while he is still fully clothed in his well-tailored charcoal suit embarrasses you. You cover your breasts with one arm and put the hand modestly over your crotch.

He slaps your arm, hard. “Hands to your sides,” he growls. “You don’t hide your body from me when I ask to see it, ever.”

You stand, shivering, with you hands at your sides. Looking at the floor. You can’t say, for sure, whether your nipples are achingly hard from the chilly air in the room, or from his appraising stare.

“Now,” he says, calmly, “whose body is this today?”

“Yours, sir.” Damn, you realize as soon as you speak that you got it wrong, again!

He slaps your face again. Not very hard, though.

“This is your body, today, sir.”

“Very good, Little One.”

You still wonder why, after all this time, you feel so good and proud and aroused when he praises you for following his instructions correctly. But you do.

“And this body,” he continues, as he circles around you, “is mine to play with, however I want, correct?”

Yes, sir, this body is yours to play with . . . however you want.” You hesitate a bit, here. You realize that you are giving him carte blanche to use you for the next few hours for whatever depraved acts he imagines. And he can be quite imaginative.

He comes up close, now, behind you. Presses his clothed body against your naked one. “Very good,” he whispers in your ear, “very good, indeed.”
He comes around you again to stand in front of you. You reach up to hug him, but he grabs your arms roughly and forces them back to your sides.

“Tell me, whose arms are these, Little One?”

“Your arms, sir.”

“Then don’t move them until I tell you to do so.”

“Yes, sir.”

Frustrating. You want to hold him. Draw him towards you. You want to feel the silky material of his suit pressing against your chest. He reads your mind and comes closer. Now pressing his body hard against yours. His hands roam up and down your back. They settle on your butt and grab your cheeks roughly, squeezing, pinching, massaging. You grind your crotch against his thigh, loving the feel of material pressing against you.

He steps back.

You whimper in frustration, and do what you hope is a cute little foot stamping movement.

“Look at me,” he commands.

You stare into one another’s eyes for what seems like a long time. His a clear gray-blue that lean towards greenish sometimes, depending on the colors he wears . . . yours, a deep, dark brown. He’s told you that in can lost in your eyes, they’re so deep. You tell him that he’s cheesy, sometimes. But you love it.

“Whose eyes are these, Little One?”

“Your eyes, sir.”

He leans forward and you close your eyes as he kisses them each in turn.
“Keep them closed, then. You won’t be needing them for a little while.”

He blindfolds you then. A sleep mask is secured tightly around your head. You are in total darkness, with only his voice to guide you.

He steps around you, behind you. He gathers your long, thick, dark hair in one hand.

“Whose hair is this, Little One?”

“Your hair, Sir.”

His grip tightens. He pulls it . . . hard enough to let you know that he’s serious, now . . . pulls your head back. You feel his warm breath on the nape of your neck. His other hand caresses your neck, encircles it proprietarily.

“Whose neck is this, Little One.”

You shiver, a bit. He knows your phobia about choking, but you trust him, completely.

“Your neck, sir.”

His hands drop away for a second, and then you feel him place something around your neck, gently moving your hair out of the way. You think that it is a collar of some sort, or perhaps a necklace?

He walks back around you. “Beautiful,” he murmurs. You think it must be a necklace, something pretty and sparkly and special because it is from him.
You feel his palms, flat, one pressing gently against each of your breasts, petting your hard nipples.

“Whose tits are these, Little One?” he asks.

You don’t want to say that. “Yours, sir,” you reply, in almost a whisper.
SMACK. He slaps your right breast, very hard, and you groan in pain and pleasure.

“Try again?” he offers.

You shake your head. SMACK, a stinging slap on your left breast, to match the right. If anything, a bit harder. You bite your lower lips and whimper.
He takes your nipples between thumbs and forefingers, and begins to pull, pinch, and twist. He pulls them out away from your body until it feels as if he will pull them right off.

“Whose tits are these, Little One?”

“Your tits, sir,” you gasp.

He releases your<b> sore </font></b>nipples, only to replace his fingers with his lips. His tongue swirls around them, and the pain is forgotten as you feel little electric pulses racing from your nipples downward, between your legs. He adores your breasts. Kissing, licking, sucking, nibbling, then biting, harder. He gets up from the chair he’d taken before you.

“Stay still,” he warns. And he walks away. You can’t see where. You hear him put something down on the table next to you. You hear something clinking.
Suddenly, you feel something extremely cold rubbed against your right nipple . . . an ice cube. The cold shocks you at first, and then makes you shiver and shake. He takes another ice cube in his left hand and applies it to your other nipple.

“Stay still,” he warns again. But it is so hard. So hard not to shiver, to dance away from the cold touch. You feel the ice melting, dripping down your torso. He pulls them away and you hear him take something else up. He’s taking a drink, you think.

Now, just as suddenly, you feel a his lips back on your right nipple, but this time, it burns. He’s filled his mouth with very hot water . . . made to feel even hotter in contrast to the numbing cold of the ice. He repeats this treatment on your other breast.

“unnggh,” is all you can manage. You’re panting. Your breasts are on fire, every nerve alive with pain and pleasure.

“Whose tits are these, Little One?” he asks again.

And now you don’t hesitate. “Your tits, sir,” you reply immediately.

He kisses them some more. He opens his mouth as wide as possible and sucks as much of each tit into his mouth as he can. He sucks hard, and you know that your tits will be red and swollen now. You moan. He knows how wet this gets you.

“Please, sir . . .” you say. He knows what this does to you. Knows how stimulating your breasts, roughly, affects your desire.

“Shhh,” he says, “we’re just getting started, Little One.”

You whimper in frustration.

He takes your hands in his, almost tenderly.

“Whose hands are these, Little One?” he asks.

“Your hands, sir.”

You feel him wrapping a silken tie around your wrists, binding them together. He walks around behind you and gently guides you forward, until you bump into the table. He pushes against your shoulders and you lean forward. You feel him walk back in front of you and stretch your bound hands to the other edge of the table. He secures them in place with another tie. Probably tied to the table’s legs, but you can’t be quite sure. It makes no difference. You won’t move, and he knows it.

He walks around behind you. You feel him bend down. Oh god, you can feel his warm breathe on your cheeks, your thighs.

“Whose legs are these, Little One?” he asks, as he runs his hands up and down your inner thighs, never quite touching you where you need him to touch you.

“Your legs, sir,” you reply.

“Then spread them apart for daddy,” he orders, “wide.”

You spread your ankles apart, wide, just until you can feel the stretch in your muscles. He stands up. Places a hand possessively on one cheek. You feel so open, so exposed. Particularly because he is still fully clothed.

“Now then, whose ass is this, Little One?”

“Yours, sir,” you say, forgetting, quite on purpose this time. Spanking is your favorite thing.

“Oh, now, you know that won’t do, don’t you, Little One?”

“Yours, sir,” you say again, defiantly.

And so, he spanks you. Not little love pats. He really lays into your poor butt. He varies the tempo and the hardness of his slaps. He interrupts them to caress your cheeks in between. You can feel them heating up, reddening under his touch. You moan, and moan, and whimper, and moan some more.

He pauses for a moment and you both catch your breathe.

“Whose ass is this, Little One?” he demands.

“Yours, sir,” you reply, wanting more.

He comes up to where your head lays on the table, and pushes your blindfold up. Even the dim candlelight blinds you for just a second, until your pupils adjust. He bends down so he is looking into your eyes, and reaches back to grab your hot ass cheek, pinching.

“Whose ass is this, Little One?” he demands, again, offering you another chance.

“Yours, sir,” you reply.

“Tsk, stubborn girl.”

He straightens up, and you watch as he removes his belt slowly from his suit pants. You can’t but notice the bulge in his pants, the darker spot where his pre- has leaked through his boxers and pants both. But now you focus on that belt, as he loops it over. You’re suddenly quite nervous.
He pulls the blindfold back down. Dammit! You hear him take up a position behind you. Then he pauses, teasingly. He rubs the belt gently over your red cheeks.

!!!

You nearly jump out of your skin when he makes the belt sharply against itself. Not striking you, but letting you know the sound that will accompany what is to come. He pauses again.

When you finally feel the sting of the belt against your bottom, it is almost a relief. You moan. He strikes you with it again. You can’t but say “ow” and “stop” and “please, sir” but he keeps hitting you, raising welts, you’re sure. He pauses again, changes his angle, and then lands one final blow with the belt, this time between your legs, right between your legs. You cry out.

“Whose ass is this, Little One?” he asks, again.

“Your ass, sir,” you cry, “Your ass.”

“My ass . . . to do with as I please?” he asks.

“Your ass to do with as you please, sir,” you reply hurriedly.

And now the spanking is done. He caresses your aching butt. He kisses your red cheeks gently. His breath now feels so cool against your hot skin. You’re head is spinning with the sensations.

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