Simply Billy

© 2009 Akasha

Note: The Five Hundred Dollars in this story is me paying the man.

**

Five crisp one hundred dollar bills rest on the faded brown surface of the hotel bedside table.

**

It’s always the same with Billy. A little over an hour, and few, if any, words are spoken. It’s sixteen steps from the elevator to the room, room 214, his favorite room because he’s superstitious like that.

He leaves the deadbolt open so the door doesn’t shut all the way, and I walk in casually and drop my large leather duffle on the floor. The room is disorganized, disheveled, typical of a bachelor; you’d think he lived there, but this tornado was only left behind during a one-night stay.

It’s just an Ayres Inn not like the Ritz that I am used to, hell, not even like the Renaissance I use for travel. It’s a simple, messy Ayres room and he’s a simple, messy boy anyway – so I ignore it all, and get to what I have come for.

Billy is already kneeling, and he’s already naked. I can’t tell you how many habits I have trained and untrained from him, over and over again, until his meticulous habits become less annoying and more stimulating to me. I used to hate his need for protocol and rules and structure. God knows how such a slob could be so strung out on rules, but that’s Billy – a walking contradiction.

Or crawling. Billy crawls to me obediently and on time, greets me with a kiss to the top of my boot. Just another silly ritual that I find kind of needless but it helps in the cock-rock department, so I let it slide. And it gives me time to admire the shape of his back, the tone of his flesh, the outline of the muscles that frame his body.

No words with Billy this time. Not that we have anything to say, anyway. Billy’s eyes do most of the talking, or the signals that come with the shakiness of his breath. His fingers curl into the cheap carpet of the Ayres Inn as I bring out the first flogger, then the paddle. If I were not in boots I could feel his breath coming in ragged pants across the tops of my toes.

Instead, I just keep beating him, and watching what seems like a gloss appear over the top of the black patent leather. His body is shaking and he starts to collapse, just a little, his shoulders slouching as he tries to find the strength to stay upright for the continued necessary beatings.

I don’t beat Billy because I like beating. I beat Billy because I like what it does to Billy.

By the time I am finished with the flogger, and the paddle, his body is covered with a thin film of sweat and his cheeks have turned a beautiful sweet shade of pink. His ass cheeks. Without a moment of hesitation, though, I take him by the chin and haul him up to look at his face, to confirm that the cheeks of his face are equally flushed, and indeed they are.

It’s one of the finer mysterious of life. How come after the aerobic workout of a ruthless eleven minute beating, he is more out of breath than I am. And clearly he is in better shape than I am, as evidenced by the definition in his arms. He’s the one shaking on ragged breath, his face covered in sweat, and his lips nearly quivering, but not quite enough.

“Bitch,” I say, and it ends up being the only word I speak to Billy that day.

“Yes,” he agrees, obediently, and of course, that’s the only word he says that day.

I slap him, once, across the face, and he stumbles from his knees to the floor, probably more melodramatic than anything. I didn’t hit him that hard, after all. I never do. I just find myself needing to take a swing at him after calling him a bitch. It reminds him of his place.

Billy holds still, naked, in his pile on the Ayres floor, as I investigate the contents of my leather duffle bag. It’s always fairly random, what I toss in the bag. Billy never knows, and never is told anyway. I see the clock in the corner of the room, but damn me, I forgot to look at it when I came in, so I have no idea how much time we have left.

I take longer than I need to. In my bag. Because Billy’s just softly, sweetly, barely whimpering there, and he’s doing it for my benefit, I think. I hate to use the word “whimper” because Billy doesn’t really whimper – he just makes a sweet sound when he exhales, if he’s in pain, a sound that makes me so incredibly wet. It’s one of the few sounds made by man that makes my pussy literally ache; with every exhale, with every soft trace of the sound, I feel a pounding inside my crotch that makes me want to drop everything in that moment and merely wrestle his head between my legs and order him to use his tongue.

Clearly, that’s not part of our agreement.

I quiet the aching between my legs by letting my fingers wrap around the familiar, rigid form of the large latex cock. My fingers trace it as I listen to Billy’s breathing settle, and when I peer over at him to see what he’s up to, I realize he’s kneeling forward, close to the ground, his hands behind his head and his face pressed into the carpet.

For my benefit, he’s intertwined his fingers. Luckily, Billy remembers these important details.

Observing him in this vulnerable pose makes strapping into the harness an even more enjoyable process. Sometimes I make him watch, but this time, I take some pleasure in knowing that he can hear me and must know what is going on, while his face is pressed hard down on the floor. He doesn’t dare look; the beating put him into the perfect frame of mind, the one that curbs his otherwise uppity attitude and strips every last shed of false confidence from his core.

I take my time with the buckles and stand close enough so that they jingle where he can hear them. I pull the harness straps tight, deliberate, and see his body tense and flinch at all the right times. Once again, his breathing starts to shake, and I even see the hint of a tremble in his otherwise steady, talented hands.

For a moment, it’s very easy to discard the knowledge that he’s quite strong, quite capable and quite desirable to so many women. For the moment, he’s merely a bitch for my amusement, and the aching in my pussy demands that I push him to completion. To my completion.

This time, I won’t make him suck my dick, or beg for lubricant. As much as I long to see his eyes water, his cheeks turn even more read as he gags on it, I fear that time has been lost and I really am behind schedule. All I can do is use my boot to kick apart his legs, give him a nudge with the toe of my boot to force him to raise his ass for me, and coat the head of the dildo with the moisture from my pussy and nothing else.

It doesn’t go very easily.

There’s a fine line between stifled, painful humiliation of an ass that’s simple too tight, and real terror or danger of physical harm, and I know Billy can walk that line. Hurting him, for real, simply isn’t an option, but if at any time in our relationship he felt the fear of potentially being hurt, it is now. To say he is tight would be a huge understatement. But with the help of a lubricated condom, my cock finds its way.

Fucking Billy from that point is fairly inconsequential, except for the fact that it drives me close to orgasm three times from the mere thrusting, only because I watch him clench his own fingers in his thick hair and try to muffle his cries by biting into the carpet, using all his physical strength to keep his hips positioned and ass elevated, knowing that collapsing on the floor would have serious consequences.

He knows I want to ride until I am done.

Without my clock as a guide, with no real concept of time, I ride him dangerously close to our cut off time. I visualize the crisp one hundred dollar bills on the brown nightstand table of the Ayres hotel and something inside me aches, a different kind of ache. An ache of sadness, of longing. An ache for closeness.

I imagine deep, romantic and sensual kisses that I know will never happen; I imagine the feel of his thick, almost curled locks of hair between the flesh of my finger tips. I imagine the scent of his cologne, closer, as I curl against him in the Ayres bed and listen to his breathing when he sleeps.

Such closure is simply not possible. I push those thoughts out of my mind as I feel my emotional release peaking as much as it possibly could, as I look down at him and hear the kind of honest, vulnerable sounds I need to hear to know he’s been pushed as far as he is going. At least for today.

I leave him to clean up himself, and listen to the sounds of his ragged breathing as I put my things back in my bag. Billy doesn’t help; we both know that after the act, he needs emotional and social distance even more than I do. I never confess to him my fantasies of curling up in the bed next to him and holding him, allowing him to comfort me as I reconcile my sadistic thoughts and process the token guilt.

On the nightstand, next to the ashtray, he’s left a torn page of a calendar with a date for next month circled. I take the paper and fold it in half, sliding it into my pocket; we’ll never talk about it, we just both know what it means.

Since this time there’s no words, I say nothing to him before I exit his room at the Ayres Inn. I quietly remove the crisp one hundred dollar bills from my purse and place them next to the ashtray as usual, and force myself not to steal one last glance before I go.

A Femdom’s Reflections on Strapon Play

© Akasha

When I was a teenager, I used to roleplay fucking a man in the ass.

At that time, I never really thought I would feel the sensation for real, but I found the mere suggestion of it very empowering. I would have my boyfriend lay face down on the bed, and I'd straddle his back.

Kneeing his thighs apart, holding his face down with one hand to the back of his head, I would position my hips in the right place, sneering at him, rubbing my crotch suggestively over his ass.

I'd growl, pull his hair, thrust my hips toward him in a rhythmic motion, gaining momentum (and enjoying the pressure and stimulation) until I was slamming into him as if I were the man and he were the woman.

The power rush was sensational. Having him face down, holding his face down, hearing the muffled protests. I wondered how good it would feel to be able to have that ability for real -- to really *fuck* a man, to be a penetrator, not a penetratee.

I didn't actually think I would know one day. But then again, I was only 16 - I also didn't think I'd develop an interest in leashes and gagging men with my panties.

***

I remember the first time I wore my strapon. I modeled in front of the mirror and felt somewhat silly, but very sexy. It has a lot of leather straps and buckles, and can be tightened to fit snug enough to provide great stimulation to the pelvic bone. As a teen, I used to be able to orgasm from a good make out session while rubbing my jeans up against the hardness in my boyfriend's pants -- so you can imagine how stimulating it was to have that added bonus to my upcoming strapon play.

I can't say how many times I have modeled my strap on alone or in front of my victims, looking in the mirror, admiring the length and thickness of my new dick, sliding my hand up and down it. Simulating masturbation (I often wonder what that feels like for men -- really feels like).

There is nothing like the visual impact of it -- how it protrudes almost lifelike from my body if the lights are dimmed just right, or the room is only illuminated with candlelight. I catch reflections in the mirror and feel like the cock is really part of me.

Just strapping it on gets me wet. It's like a sign of what is about to come -- the power, the total ownership of my victim, the ability to be plunging into his most delicate of areas, controlling every sensation.

****

A strapon was definitely not the first thing I shoved into a man's ass. I had experimented lightly with sticking lubricated fingers into my victim's ass during anal-exam fantasies, or just to make them feel violated.

I had inserted plugs and various dildos, simulated some fucking sensations. But as I sat there, ramming the dildo in his ass with rhythm, my mind drifted to the more practical, more erotic, more stimulating *for me* option -- having the cock connected to me. Fucking him -- literally.

****

There is a difference between the mindframe and objectives when it comes to dildo and plug play vs. strapon play. I can have my victim tied down, his legs up and apart, ass cheeks open to me -- and very carefully and invadingly violate his ass by inserting a dildo or a plug. I can talk to him, tease him, stop and get up and look at him, stop and play with other toys while he has to hold the toy inside of him, testing the durability of his muscles.

Using the strapon is an entirely different sensation and mentality -- it is about taking him, using him, and penetrating him with a lust and passion that is not matched by hand-inserting a dildo into his ass.

With the strapon, my dick becomes an extension of me, and every thrust of my hips (sexual in nature) equates to a violation of his ass (domination). I can watch the look on his face if I have him on his back, or I can revert back to my schoolgirl position having him face down, gripping the bed sheets or shackles, depending on whether or not I have him locked down.

*****

Another thing, terribly overlooked in some erotic contexts, is the power of using the strapon for things other than ass fucking.

I like masturbating in front of my slave when he is not allowed to. Tying him down and having him watch me alternate between jerking myself off and massaging my pussy, until I cum in an orgasm that simulates his.

And he can do nothing.

I like making him watch me strap it on, locking the leather straps tight around my hips and thighs, staring into his eyes. Making him watch me lubricate it slowly, moving my hand up and down the long shaft with precision, making it shine with lubricant. Saying, "You know what I am going to do with this, don't you?"

But, I suppose, the second best thing to the actual ass-fucking with it is making my victim get down on his knees, crawl to me, and worship my latex cock.

Making him open his mouth so I can slide the tip of it between his parted lips, hands on my hips at first, moving just slightly back and forth. Telling him what a nasty cocksucking whore he is. Making him stick his tongue out and lick -- lick the tip, then to lick down the sides.

Finally opening his mouth to accept the full length of me -- all 8 or 9 inches, holding him by the head now, sliding my cock out of his lips slowly. It's glistening now, and I can feel the resistance as my hips move back and forth slowly.

It is then that I can reach over with my other hand, feeling down under me, feel the wetness, rub my pussy, soak my fingers while I give myself additional pleasure. Taking those wet fingers and rubbing them on the tip of my latex cock as a little treat for my nasty slave, making him lick it off eagerly to taste how excited he has made me.

Fucking a slave in the mouth can be extremely exciting -- especially if I control the deepness, the timing of the thrusts. Holding his head still, holding his chin down to keep his mouth open.

*****

For those thinking about strapon play, both from the giving and receiving end, I do have some practical suggestions -- based on experience, but limited to my own personal experience. So please take it for what it is worth.

I strongly suggest for women considering strapon play, or men encouraging their reluctant partners to consider it, that roleplaying be used first. It is important to establish the position and nature of the act as highly erotic and sexy.

When I was 16, I was fucking men in the ass in my head. I didn't know it then, but that's what it was. I can easily determine now why using a strapon is so erotic for me -- because at 16, exploring my sexuality, I was mimicking the posture and motions of it while highly turned on, and while stimulating my sexual areas through pressure and gyration -- it became a very pleasurable concept in my head from a young age.

Roleplaying allows both people to enjoy the concept of the penetration without the hang-ups, inevitable snags that pop up, and logistics of dealing with objects in extremely delicate human orifices.

If both are comfortable with the erotic roleplaying concept, then perhaps it is time to move to the next level, but I strongly suggest not jumping right to strapon play. The woman, especially if she has limited experience with the motions involved in being the *penetrator* (by nature this is not how we are built), attempting it right off could result in problems due to a variety of factors -- going too fast, too slow, at the wrong angle, with the wrong tempo. Moving in ways that she might not have as much control over her thrusts.

In order to make it more pleasurable and controlled, she should start with hand-inserting objects into her subject's ass, so she can understand the level of resistance, his tolerance for size and deepness, and the general limitations of the anatomy.

Only when she is totally comfortable with that do I suggest she move on -- otherwise, the first strapon experience could be a disaster, and destroy any established eroticism associated with the act.

The logistics of this kind of play are covered very well in many other sources. Using a lot of lubricant the first time, going very slow, communicating very seriously during the first trial runs. Do not expect to fuck or be fucked violently and passionately the *first time*. Until a woman is aware of your anatomy, it is not feasible that she become the ravaging Mistress-from-hell with the nasty dick, ready to take you.

It makes sense, to me, that the first time with a new partner should be a non-headspace event. That is, there are no roles, you are simply two people becoming comfortable with a new position. Talk about it the whole time, discuss feelings and sensations.

Then, the next time, the domina can buckle on the strapon cock with confidence, already comfortable with the positions, the tempo, the measurement and level of the thrusts. That way, it won't interfere with her headspace (sometimes nagging worries can really mess with a woman's control buttons -- there should be little or no doubt that what she is doing is good, is erotic, and is empowering -- not wondering, "oh no, is this too hard? is this too fast?")

There are plenty of times later where the domina can surprise the victim and take him as if it were the first time. I personally enjoy telling the sub that some day it will happen, and he knows he is to resist passionately, desperately, and will be taken ruthlessly against his will.

And because I love the act, because it is so erotic and nasty to me, I can strap him down, hold his face down, and thrust my 8 inch cock into his ass with no worries, no wondering, and no hesitation. I can violate him with deep, penetrating thrusts, until his ass is sore and he has smeared the pillow with sweat and tears.

The only way that is possible is because of my lust for the act -- and my understanding of the sensations, and patience to do it right.

Using his mouth

He said to me, in all of his beautiful innocence, "I want to please you."

I stared. He was delicate.

My hand felt so good against his cheek. He closed his eyes, leaning into my touch. Lips parting slightly, as if to accept some unwarranted caress.

Leaning forward, I shut my eyes and whispered what I was feeling.

"I do want you to please me."

"Yes..." his breath came out with one word.

"And how do you want to please me, my little victim?" The word -- alone -- said it all. But he did not hear it.

"Let me please you," he responded, eyes moving up to look at me. Under short little spikey bangs. I could even see him swallow. "With my mouth."

I smiled. Finger moving to his lips. "And so it is."

He kissed it. The tip of my finger. Gracious. Eager.

I almost felt sorry for what I was about to do.

Almost.

*****

With his mouth.

And so, it shall be. He reclined on my bed. On his back. Vulnerable. His wrists strapped down, spread far from his body. His ankles, still in those boots I find so irresistible, spread equally, locked down.

A tight black t-shirt. Black jeans. A belt -- hanging open a little, the buckle silver.

And a tight black velvet blindfold.

His eyes protested when I brought it out. But I said, softly, "All you need is your mouth."

And he nodded. Swallowed. Closed those innocent eyes.

And was gone.

****

Spikey little bangs hanging over black velvet. I paced, watching his body growing accustomed to the restraints.

I watched, because that is what I like to do.

I watched, like a stalking beast, looking over what I would soon have. My fingers moved over his chest once. His head moved in response. To the side, in short-- timed -- jerks.

I imagined dripping water over his body. Or hot wax. I imagined him naked, vulnerable. I imagined giving him oral sex that would make him cringe, plead and beg.

I imagined making him suck off each of my fingers. One. At. A. Time.

Each time, longer than before. Hissing orders into his ear. Faster. Deeper. Wetter.

Masturbating as I did. Sucking my own fingers clean. Tasting it.

Instead, I watched.

When I saw his hips move -- just slightly --- I knew it was time.

***

He could hear the buckles of the device.

His head turned toward me as I sat next to him on the bed, moving the device around in my hands to determine which end was which. Unfastening the buckles, I listened to his breathing. Felt him moving on the bed.

His lips were parted, eagerly.

My eyes peered over, my hands moving through latex buckles. "Open a little wider for me, baby. Let me see that tongue of yours."

He parted his lips, opening wider, let his tongue find its way out. Licking. Teasing.

I was watching him now, not watching the evil contraption in my hands. Not feeling, anymore, the long black cock. The smooth, cock-shaped rubber. How it was attached to a strip of latex that would soon cover his mouth, riding tightly all the way up under his nose.

The other side of it. Nearly eight inches of cock itself, more durable, rigid. Standing straight up. The side I would mount. Fuck.

Right on top of his face.

And he knew nothing.

"You want to please me with your mouth?" I asked him.

"Yes," his response came at once. Eager. So innocent.

"Then open wide," I ordered.

And he did.

*****

Even though he was blindfolded, I could almost see it behind the velvet. Eyes shut tight, wincing, wondering, gasping, choking. He shook his head instinctively when the rubber cock-shaped device invaded him.

"Shhh..." I said, hoping he would hear me above his own choking, whimpering, betrayed gasps.

"Trust me," I whispered, leaning to his ear to breathe to him, distracting him as I locked the straps tightly.

Buckling the cock securely into his mouth.

And only if you could see me, now, I thought, straddling his chest and hiking up my skirt.

I wasted no time.

*****

My hands were in his hair. Both of them. I looked down at him like he was some -- some 20th century fuck toy. A device, in himself.

That hair, hanging down, now damp with a little sweat. The gag locked tightly in his mouth. A nice, 7-inch cock extending up from his gagged mouth, glistening now as I stroked it, slowly, with lubrication.

Maybe he smelled the scent of it. Maybe he felt the way my hips were moving suggestively on his chest.

"I'm about to fuck you," I said. Hissing, I imagine, because I was aching with desire. My pussy grinding, already, against the fabric of his t-shirt. I knew he could feel how wet I was. How hot I was.

"You..." I hissed. "You have this big, thick cock sticking up from your face. I am going to sit on you. Sit on your face, do you understand? I am going to fuck you. I am going to cum on your face. You will feel it. You will feel it, because the harder I plunge myself down onto you, the deeper that cock will get shoved into your mouth."

He whimpered. It was a priceless, audible whimper.

"I am masturbating, right now, on your chest. Getting myself ready." My words, breathless, distracted him. I could tell. As I moved my fingers under my panties I saw him squirming, more now, and I studied him. Studied my prey.

I eased my panties down. I eyed that cock I would soon mount. I though how helpless he must feel, unable to speak, to see. Knowing he was about to be fucked like an object.

"You wanted me to use your mouth," I hissed, leaning over, brushing my lips over his ear. "And I am."

*****

To torture him, more, I moved my wet fingers under his nose. I held him still with my other hand, a fistful of hair, and made him inhale my scent. His whimpers sounded like half-sobs of frustration.

"You want to be licking me, don't you?" I asked. He did not respond, so I tightened my grip and growled, "DON'T YOU?"

He nodded, nodded and whimpered a little.

"Maybe you will get lucky, " I said to him. "Maybe a trickle of me will find its way down under that latex, into that gag. And you will see how good I taste."

He was turning his head a little, disoriented, desperate.

I used both hands to hold his head still. "Don't move. I am ready now."

A slight whimper. I raised myself up. Opened my thighs above his head. Only if he could see me, I thought.

And felt it -- the tip of that cock, sticking straight up and waiting for me. I teased my lips with it for just a moment, eyes closed, holding the headboard now for leverage.

I moaned, softly. I could hear the jingling of straps as he pulled at his wrists and ankles, knowing better than to move his head even an inch. I felt the cock filling me, slowly, and I opened my mouth and let out a gasp.

Sliding. Deeper. I moaned. And then I felt his hair tickling the insides of my thighs.

***

A blur. Mostly.

I fucked him that way, slowly at first. Then gaining momentum, holding the bed for leverage, plunging myself down onto his face -- as it was -- feeling the latex of the cock filling me again and again.

Dripping, soaking. My pussy coated it, and soon the wetness dripped down, slowly, almost reaching his lips. And when I looked down at him, momentarily, I almost felt sympathy for him, so used.

Reaching under with my fingers, I felt the aching wetness of my sex. I tasted it myself, and I told him how good it tasted.

I told him to hold still for me. To remain as he was -- my fucktoy.

And I came.

I came right on top of him, grinding my hips in a slow, circular motion. Fully penetrated by the cock that extended from his face.

Came so hard that my juices coated his nose, his hair was sticky now.

Holding his hair between my fingers, breathing hard. Leaning against the headboard to keep me up.

And I could hear his breathing. Feel it brushing against my thighs.

And even though I had just cum, I longed to feel it between my legs. Against my pussy. His tongue, deep inside me.

Breathing hard, I slowly slid off of the large latex cock that filled me. I lowered my body onto him. I could feel his chest heaving. He felt so alive.

My fingers found way to his hair. My eyes were still closed.

I wondered, then, if he had the energy to do it again.

This time, though, with his tongue.

Looking at him, trapped in his darkness, unable to speak. I knew.

And as I unlocked the strap that held the gag in place, I was already wanting it again.

And he would have no chance to even speak once the cock was pulled from his mouth.

His abduction had been planned for a month.

When I finally had him there before me, cowering, there was nothing that would stop me. I knew what I wanted, no matter how ruthless and degrading. I knew I had to do something to him to truly prove to him what he was to me.

Perhaps he was trying to make me feel sorry for him. I felt nothing, though, because I had planned for that. I had planned for those big, innocent eyes and the careful, calculated shifting of his shoulders.

This time, I used my new black straitjacket - an item that delighted me because of its sinister simplicity and complete functionality. Only four simple buckles made him so helpless.

The black hood, this time, didn't render me so completely distracted. I had taken time to get used to it prior to his abduction. I had done so by sitting, quietly, in my dimly lit bedroom while holding it between my fingers.

I had masturbated with it, the first time cumming quickly, the second time with a little more precision. Desensitizing myself to its ominous essence.

It smelled wonderful.

I wondered, as I paced around him, if he could still smell my scent on the inside.

*

I had him sprawled there on concrete ground. We were in a parking garage. He was in the black straitjacket and black hood, and so there were no weapons. I had disarmed him.

He tried. There is no doubt he tried. First by the way he tilted his head, trying to place it against my thigh for mercy. Then, how he breathed - purposely, deliberately. Loudly.

"Are you hyperventilating?" I observed. Casual. There was no sympathy from me this time.

"You're getting into the trunk of my car," I told him.

This, I assure you, he was not ready for.

*

It had taken some research and investigation, but I certainly enjoy planning a kidnapping. Only a few models of cars had a trunk that could safely be used for transporting a human being. I knew how much air he had.

And, remarkably, he cooperated. He did not want to upset me, I think, because he had seen a glimpse of the high heels. The painful spiked pumps. He had seen the black leather gloves. He knew I had removed all of my rings, deliberately, and that meant that slapping him, hard, was not going to be difficult for me.

Maybe it was my scent surrounding him, comforting him, that led him to step willingly into that dark place.

Or maybe he was already accustomed to the darkness.

*

The drive was about ten minutes long. I'm sure it felt much longer to him. When I lifted the trunk and eyed him there, I was surprised and pleased that I still felt no guilt, no fear, and no hesitation about what I had planned to do to him.

He had his knees tucked up close to his chest, his head down. Still covered with the black hood (which was so beautifully designed), I was not faced with pleading eyes, dampening of the lips or a clever announcement to distract me from my plans.

I wrapped leather around his neck. It wasn't a collar, really, as I never really pictured him as the type to wear a collar. I suppose because I never really imagined him as a slave, or even a submissive. He was simply someone I longed to dominate.

The leather around his neck was functional. Its purpose was so that I could yank him up, out of the trunk, to the floor, and direct him up the porch. It made it just difficult enough for him to breathe to keep him alert.

And he stumbled, just a little, trying to shake it off.

I imagine all he heard as we moved up the walkway was the sound of my heels and a slight hint of the wind in trees.

He still had no idea what was in store for him.

*

As part of my own little ritual, I took time watching him before I even began to remove the restraints.

I will admit, I enjoyed seeing him there, on the floor, straitjacketed and hooded. I knew he must look even better underneath all of that; his hair stuck to his face from sweat and tears, his eyelashes slightly wet.

I enjoyed watching him try, just once more, to see if he could find a way to make the straitjacket budge. I knew it frustrated him because he had found it, originally, not to be entirely too threatening.

After all, it was not white canvas. It was not real. Nor was it leather, covered with buckles, the metal jingling off of it ominously.

No, it was simple. It was so simple that he allowed himself to be put it in, much like the first time he playfully agreed to let me tie his wrists behind his back. After all, he probably thought, I could easily get out of it.

He couldn't.

And he couldn't now, either. No matter how much he twisted his shoulders, no matter how deeply he drew in his breath and held it.

But I certainly enjoyed watching him try. I enjoyed a single glass of wine, reclining in a big leather chair. I had my legs swung over the side, letting a single heel dangle from my toe. I sipped, tilted my head, and sighed softly to myself.

*

I snapped out of my pleasant daydream and decided it was time to get busy. When he heard my heels approaching he cowered a little, crouching down low, close to my feet.

Using the toe of my shoe, I pushed him, by the shoulder, so that he fell back onto his side, then eventually his back. Then, just for amusement, I placed that same heel right at the base of his neck, pushing through the hood.

"I could end your life right now," I commented.

The reason I said this, I still don't know. I wasn't really considering it, after all. I think I just wanted him to know that such sheer cruelty was even capable of entering my mind.

He tried to ease backward, and I could see the black fabric tightening over his chest with ever labored breath he took. Goddamn, I thought to myself, I love that fucking straitjacket.

"You probably want to know why I brought you here," I said to him.

He nodded. Carefully, gently. Cautiously.

"I brought you here," I told him. "Because I am going to rape you. Three times."

I don't know which affected him most. The tone of my voice on the word "rape" or the clarification that it wasn't going to just be one time. Or maybe it was that same heel, now angled right into his crotch.

"Three very different ways."

That definitely got his attention. And he tried to get away. He actually tried to get away. My boy sat up, fast enough to push my heel aside, and tried to get to his feet. I prevented him with ease and ended up sitting on his lap on the ground, my legs wrapped around his hips.

I felt his breath, even through the hood. It was tainted with the scent of my own pussy. I had no idea I'd soaked it so thoroughly. I imagine, for him, it was like being locked in a room with a pair of my wet panties duct taped right over his head. An idea for later, I pondered.

I nuzzled my face against the black fabric, closing my eyes, imagining where his mouth must be. It didn't matter, really, because he was wearing a black latex ball gag. I felt the dampness, though, and for a moment just enjoyed the pounding of his breath, through his nose, as it hit my face through the material.

"Do you want to see?" I asked him. "Do you want to see what I have brought to rape you with?"

Remarkably, he nodded. But it wasn't an encouraging nod, or a nod of excitement. It was a nod of trepidation, fear and hopelessness. It was a nod because he knew, based on how well he knew me, that anything other than a nod would get him beaten, beaten until he begged for the privilege of being able to nod.

He was, indeed, a very good boy.

*

I had the tools - the harness, the dildos (in several sizes), the leather contraption, all spread out on a small table in front of him. When the hood was removed, he actually didn't look at them.

Instead, he looked at me. I was surprised to see that he hadn't been crying; the wetness was from sweat. He was strong. Nervous enough to be visibly shaking, but only a little.

He looked at me, and I easily crouched down to give him eye contact. "It won't work," I told him. "I'm completely in a different place. You can save your strength. Do yourself a favor."

Then his attention turned to the tools, and he looked at them only briefly before closing his eyes and swallowing.

"Three times I'm going to rape you," I told him. I was walking to the tools, unzipping my skirt. I stripped down to lingerie and my heels only. I intended to be comfortable.

"Would you like a glass of wine, first?" I asked him. Just one glass, I added.

To my surprise, and disappointment, he declined.

*

I explained to him that the gag would be removed under the condition that he did not speak. The only words I allowed him to say were "yes" and "no." Even so, I warned him not to use them too much.

"Do you understand?" I asked as I unbuckled and removed the gag.

"Yes," he said. In a different state of mind, I'm certain he would have been a smart ass, and used his only other word instead.

Before starting with my project, I crouched down and applied some lotion to the corners of his mouth. He backed off, eying me suspiciously, confused by my demeanor.

I was watching my own fingertips. "Your skin. It's chaffed from the leather straps of the gag. I had it on too tight."

"Yes," he said, looking at me, now holding still.

But then I put the lotion away, and I picked up a leather harness. I said to him, "Which way shall I rape you first?"

*

I'm sure he knew I wasn't asking for his opinion. After all, with only having "yes" and "no" in his vocabulary, there wasn't really an appropriate response.

"No," he said. He said it when my back was turned to him, when I was picking up a bottle of clear lubricant and pondering it.

When I moved to him, he flinched and cowered, expecting to be slapped. Instead, I took him by the chin, lifted his head, and stared into his eyes.

"I think I'll start with your mouth."

*

Raping his mouth was a longer process than I'm sure he expected. Because I wasn't just shoving my strap-on dick into his mouth; that was merely the warm-up.

The raping of his mouth as I stood, making him kneel to accept it, was merely the warm up for what I really intended to do with his mouth.

But he accepted the first part a lot better than I had expected. At first, understandably, he gagged and pulled away, shook his head, and used one of his two words. He said it many times, even as I grabbed him by the head and turned him back to face the latex cock that sprung out from between my legs.

"You know you like it,"

He said it again, his second word. "No," he shook his head.

"That's enough with the words," I hissed. Then I pried his mouth open with my leather clad fingers, held his jaw that way, and pressed the entire length of my cock into his mouth.

I fucked him that way, actually making him look at me. Look right up at me as he knelt, arms still trussed over his chest in the beautiful black straitjacket. I imagine he was confused and bewildered, his mouth still sore from the gag, because he had no idea how long I might let this go.

My right hand alternated between holding his head still (or by the hair) or reaching to the base of my dick, and my left hand wandered between my legs from behind. I slid my fingers under my panties and massaged myself, still forcing him to keep looking right at me.

It was, for me, a very beautiful, nasty moment. Watching him struggle to accommodate all 7 inches of my cock, making him strain to stay upright.

When I pulled my dick out of his mouth I heard him let out his breath in relief. He thought it was over; the first rape, that is.

But that was just the warm up.

*

I locked the same dildo on one side of a leather gag harness. This time he tried to pull away again, shaking his head from side to side.

I had to grab him by the hair with one hand, growl at him to look at me, then slap him hard across the face. When I made him look at me again he shut his eyes hard, flinching in pain.

This time, when I pried his mouth open, I'm sure he tasted the wetness on my fingers. Maybe that helped him to cooperate even more. Once I had the cock in his mouth I locked the leather harness over his head, then mounted a red, jelly dildo on the other end, facing out.

"This is your first rape," I told him.

And when I mounted him, spread out on the ground what he could in a straitjacket, I heard nothing but a quiet, painful whimper.

*

Raping him that way felt better than I thought it would. It felt better because I could feel him trying to hold still, but trying to breathe at the same time. The cock in his mouth prevented him from breathing at all that way, and I found that when I lowered myself completely onto the dildo it prevented him from breathing through his nose.

Convenient, I pondered, taking longer, more luxurious thrusts. I would lounge, momentarily, feeling the fullness of the dick inside of me, feel the slight twisting of his body as the desire to breathe started to consume him.

When I had received my fill of his tortured inability to breathe between thrusts, I dismounted and reclined back, opening my legs and holding them by the ankles.

"Come here," I ordered. "And make me cum. You have sixty seconds. Then we start adding pain to the equation."

He inched toward me, off balance, and I imagine that he would have been able to do a much better job if he had the use of his hands - even if to just balance himself on all fours.

It gagged him, painfully, every time he pushed forward to try to get that dildo deep into me. I made it hard for him, on purpose, by shifting slightly enough to make him have to move his head.

He was remarkably unsloppy.

But, alas, I did not cum.

And even though he didn't have a clock in front of him, he knew when his time was up. And he knew when I pushed him away, pinning him back down on his back, he had failed.

And even though he had a huge cock in his mouth, I could make out the word.

"No," he was trying to say.

And I picked up my riding crop.

*

Sitting on his face again, full with the wonderful feel of the jelly cock, I enjoyed the bare, tender skin at the insides of his thighs. I'd removed his pants and re-tightened the straps at the bottom of the straitjacket, and while sitting on his face he could do nothing to get away from the sting of that crop.

It did not take long to cum this time. I came mostly because of the whimpers he tried to get out when my ass and pussy didn't prevent all sounds. His face, I noticed when peering over my shoulder, was coated, literally soaked, with a mixture of sweat and my juices.

And I think he was on the verge of tears when I straddled his lap to face him again, this time sliding my tongue up the side of his face just so I could have a taste.

*

I could tell he was exhausted.

"But we haven't even gotten to the second way, yet," I said to him, picking up my strap on harness again. He knew, even with the slightest glance, what the second way would be.

I used my heel to nudge him, standing over him as he cowered. "You're going to take it either on your knees, shoulders to the ground and ass in the air, or you're going to take it on your back with your legs up. I'll be kind enough to give you that small choice."

The decision, of course, only tortured him more. He had no idea which would be worse. He knew it would be painful and degrading no matter how the cock ended up in his tender ass. He was shaking his head now, close but not quite saying, "No." He bit his lips. He was afraid to say it again.

I just stood there, hands on my hips, briefly reaching out and lubricating my 8 inch dick a little bit. I enjoyed watching it bob in response. I saw him regard it for a moment, then roll over onto his stomach, pulling his knees up a little and trying to position himself comfortably with his face to the ground.

Using my feet to pry his legs apart more, I placed both hands on his ass cheeks. "This should make you feel like the whore you are," I told him. "And I know you've been wanting this a long, long time."

He used the other word. He said to me, softly, "Yes."

And when my cock pressed into him, he screamed the other word. He screamed it loudly.

*

Perhaps he never took the word "take" seriously. An act of cruel penetration, a thrusting, merciless, opening him up and filling him completely.

"You love my dick," I said to him. "Say it," I ordered.

And I honestly expected him to fuck up (maybe I wanted a reason to hurt him).

But he just said, "Yes."

I said, "Say IT."

He said, "Yes!", and he was gasping.

"I give you permission to say the entire sentence," I hissed, watching all 8 inches disappearing into his soft flesh.

He said it, painfully. He said it once, then I thrust harder and told him to say it again.

The next time, when he said it, his voice cracked. I felt I could cum from this penetration. I felt I could cum from his violation. I shut my eyes, and I concentrated on the feel of my dick inside of him. It felt a part of me. The pressure against my pelvis was driving me insane. I wanted to cum, but had no desire to cut his rapture so painfully short.

"Do you want me to cum?" I asked him.

"Yes," he gasped, and I imagined if he had his hands free, he would be clutching - grasping for anything to hold onto. The pressure of my body pounding into his made him shake.

"Do you want me to cum with my dick in your ass?" I asked him.

He didn't reply. So I thrust harder, this time holding his hips for leverage. It was painfully deep, and he gasped, and he hissed "Fuck!"

And he immediately knew he had spoken an inappropriate word.

So when I gagged him, tightly, giving his ass only a few moments to rest, he did not resist and didn't try to beg desperately with his eyes. He took the second half of his fucking without the ability to even cry out.

And when I came, his entire body was trembling.

*

I let him rest, but not for very long.

Taking off the harness, I watched him shivering there, breathing hard, his eyes shut tightly. I'd removed the gag when I was finished with his ass, and I saw him catch himself before saying, out of habit, "thank you.".

"Now, what about the third way?" I pondered out loud.

I could see he was spent. His mouth - so precious, because his skin was so soft - was bruised from the various things I had shoved inside. The straitjacket, remarkably, seemed to almost be soaked through in some areas with sweat. He'd been in it for so long, it did not surprise me.

As I went through my box of toys, I noticed that he was unable to see around the lid. He could not tell what I was getting. I'm sure he could not guess what the third way would be, because the first two had been so ruthless.

*

I enjoyed talking to him cryptically about the third way as I reclined, legs open and my favorite vibrator placed lightly at my thigh.

"The third way," I told him, so casual that one would not know I was nearly naked with the tip of a vibrator inches from my pussy, "Is the most meaningful. The most painful. The most unnatural for you."

I saw such pain and exhaustion in his eyes. I know he wondered to himself what could be more intense than having his mouth used like a dildo and his ass violated with a dick 8 inches long.

And I saw longing in his eyes, too. Longing to kiss me right where I'd placed the tip of the vibrator. Longing to be held and comforted, and to be taken away and freed from the straitjacket that undoubtedly seemed like part of him now.

I saw recollection in his eyes. I saw behind them what he was thinking; he was expecting me to harness a latex cock around his hips and fuck him that way. Because I never let his cock inside of me; he knew that was off limits. He knew his cock wouldn't be in my pussy, for one, because he had not submitted completely in my eyes, yet. And secondly, because I told him, in fits of cruelty, that his dick just was not adequate.

This, of course, was a simple act of cruelty just like any other toy I used to torture him with, but he always took it quite literally. In the heights of passion, when I made him lay on top of me and fuck me with an 8 inch latex dick while his own throbbed helplessly and painfully fastened away, I could see the pain in his eyes. Unfortunately, he never quite understood the insincerity in my observation, and that his dick, in reality, was more than sufficient.

So as I watched him, I noticed that he was concentrating on something else. Probably trying to lose the erection because the device I made him wear during those sessions was excruciatingly painful if he was hard.

He was still looking to the side, solemn, lashes slightly damp, concentrating, when I crouched down and lifted the black hood back over his head.

Even though he didn't resist, I knew he did not want to be back beneath it. It was bad enough he was about to be used in what he considered the most painful, degrading way. Now, I was making sure it would be completely dehumanizing.

Just the sight of him that way, again, did wonders for readying me for another orgasm. I felt cruel and heartless as I prepared my tools. "You look so hot in black," I said to him. Black straitjacket. Black hood. Black and blue.

Almost inhuman, now, he was there before me on his back, naked except for the straitjacket and hood. When I straddled his lap I leaned down to tighten the laces on the hood, making sure he would not be tossing it off. I wanted to look at him the entire time when I violated him the third way.

He whimpered when I took his cock into my hand. He whimpered because he knew how cruel I was, and he knew I wanted him hard before I locked on the harness that would push his painfully hard dick aside and support a stiff, 8 inch piece of latex, complete with balls.

I used lubricant to make sure it felt even better, and smiled, approvingly, when he stiffened in my grasp. I saw him squirm to try to get away. I saw him breathing, painfully, under the hood.

And he gasped, lifting his head, the hood pressed tightly against his face when he felt what I did next. I mounted him, slowly, letting out my breath when his cock entered me. I wondered, eyes closed momentarily, if he would cum from the mere shock of being inside my tight, warm pussy.

But I knew him better than that. And he knew not to disappoint me after giving him this gift. Still, it was to be a violation, and for me, that meant making him endure the entire time.

So I held his head tightly by a fistful of hair, right through the hood, and I fucked him like he was nothing more than a mounted dildo for my use. All covered in black, he could not even move. He squirmed beneath me but I did not let him move more than a few inches.

"Don't cum," I hissed.

He whimpered.

"Don't cum, or I'll hurt you."

I felt his body tense, I felt him pull all of his strength together. I enjoyed the feel of his cock inside of me, leaning down, gasping against his neck as I tightened around him.

I came, for the third time. I came without letting him cum at all; I came as he squirmed beneath me, covered in black.

Afterward, I collapsed on top of him, arms wrapped around his neck. Exhausted. "Did you like the third way?" I asked him.

"Yes," he let out his breath. I could hear him, somewhere, behind the black hood.

"Did you expect that?" I asked him.

"No," he replied, still breathing shakily.

I fingered the material of the straitjacket, staring at his throbbing cock, at the bit of precum that had formed on the tip. "None of them are quite as intense," I told him, "As the third way."

"Yes," he agreed. And we remained that way for a long time.

(c) Copyright 1998. All rights reserved.