AnAttentiveDom

A work of non-fiction

"How many was that?"
It's a common question I ask her, while she lies there panting. Her mascara is running from her watering eyes, as she looks down her naked body at me and tries to think. Her mind, normally sharp as a steel trap, full of important information, years of schooling, and an intelligence that accentuates her sophistication, is mush. She blissfully struggles to form words into coherent sentences. "Twelve or thirteen?" She asks. We had only just begun, and I hadn't even pulled the wand out yet.

"Are you asking or telling me," I inquire and remind her it's her job to keep track of her orgasms. "But Sir, it's hard when they roll one into the next," she says quietly.

I smile.

I know she can't keep track of them when things start rolling, and the waves crash one after the next. "We'll just have to keep practicing," I say with a grin.

We take a break and enjoy the meal I cooked. I enjoy cooking. Perhaps its the mastery over something so many can only do passingly, that fills me with such satisfaction. It seems to be a pattern in my life. Mastery. Control. Domination. Winning. All similar, yet different.

After dinner we play chess. She's a beginner and eager to play. I smile once more. Her eagerness and joy just to play is refreshing. We play two games and I'm never in any danger of losing either one. I make quick work of both games, thinking deeply on how to most effectively secure the win as to not prolong things unnecessarily - I only inflict pain that is desired. And frankly, she deserves my best, she's been a good girl all day.

As we put the pieces away, she asks if we can play some more. As mentioned, she has been a good girl all day, so I tell her of course.

She has a burning need to be restrained and spanked. I build her anticipation with teasing kisses and deliberately take my time applying the cuffs to her wrists and ankles. I get her into position on the bed and attach the spreader bar to the ankle cuffs, and connect the wrist restraints behind her back.

Her beautiful ass now high in the air, her blindfolded head resting on the soft blanketed surface of the bed, I begin administering what she desperately wants and needs.

The orgasms begin anew when I use the wand on her clit. Sometimes they crash while my fingers apply pressure to her G-spot, sometimes while I paddle her ass. Unable to close her legs, or reach down to push the wand away, she accepts the orgasms as they well up inside her. Each forced orgasm melts her brain a little more.

She's responsive on a primal level - coos and grunts - and has stopped making coherent sounds like words. Her body, mostly limp, is exhausted as it stiffens with her latest orgasm and then relaxes.

I ask if she is ready to finish, and she nods slowly. The wand is put away and she counts her final 10 swats, thanking me and asking for another after each.

When it's over, we cuddle. I'm still fully clothed and quite content. I tell her what a good girl she was, and how proud of her I am. She thanks me and nuzzles her sweaty form into my embrace.

I smile and contemplate.

Is she insatiable? She will want more again soon. Thoughts and memories of what I do to her, and how much she desperately craves it, invade her mind and linger while we are apart.

Am I insatiable? The sights and sounds of her orgasms are some of my favorite things. I find that want her to experience longer and more intense releases, and for her to know it was at my hands.

Perhaps, the truth is we're both insatiable.