“You’re the boss, honey.” He said it — and not for the first time. But right now it’s different. Usually, we’ll share a look that tells me he’s not joking, even if the friends we’re hanging out with think it’s hilarious. If only they knew, huh? This time, however, the joke appears to be on me.
I roll my eyes, smile, and reply, “Yes, honey, I am.” More laughter. If anybody else notices the side-eye I give him, they don’t say. But he sees it.
We stay another couple of hours, and then take a cab home. In total silence. As he pays the driver, I walk up to our front door, head inside. When he reaches it, he finds it shut. I wait a few minutes. As expected, I find him on his knees on the front porch, head bowed. I wait another minute. …
I have a sweet tooth and a dirty mind, and when I’m in the mood, I just love to combine the two. Take the lollipop, an innocent candy, sweet and sticky. In my hands, it becomes a devilish temptation, impossible to resist.
I’ve had boyfriends and girlfriends that I have teased with my candy loving. They all think I only do it for them, that I use it as a way to turn them on. …
She has always been a tease, always got her kicks from leading me on. She likes the power it gives her, the way it makes her feel.
I like it too. I like to watch.
Today she came to me with a request. I was to lie down on the floor and wait for her. Whatever happened, I was to remain where I was. I could not touch, I should not speak. I should watch and enjoy.
How could I refuse?
She made sure I was comfortable, and then left the room. I lay there amused and excited, waiting.
I heard her before I saw her, heels clicking on the hard wooden floor. She was wearing a short, sexy dress. She stopped in the doorway, holding my gaze. Then she crossed the room, her footsteps slow and deliberate. …
Flowers, chocolates, perfume — so cliché. So he doesn’t buy those for me; he knows the quickest way to my heart, and other places, is a ripe, juicy strawberry. Farmers market strawberries — seasonally grown, flavorful. Expensive. For so long, I kept them to myself, a secret indulgence I didn’t want to share.
That first time he gets them for me, I feel unsure. I may be impressed by the gesture, by his thoughtfulness; but, even as my mouth waters at the sight and sweet scent of them, am I ready for my thing to become our thing?
There’s no fanfare, he just serves them to me for breakfast. The dish is vintage crystal, not the simple white china that’s a part of my own ritual, and while I’d usually take it slow, tiny nibbles on each fruit, prolonging the pleasure, he begins feeding them to me, his…
I am a slave to my man’s every whim. That’s not a metaphor, a silly complaint to my girlfriends at the coffee shop; it’s a simple statement of fact. I have chosen to live this way. I chose to be a slave, to be at my Master’s beck and call. It is what I was meant for.
My body is his. It belongs to him completely. I am to do with it whatever he wishes. If he wishes me to refrain from touching it when he is not present, then I do not touch it. …
My ex loved to watch me smoke. It made him so hard. I think about his big, thick cock often, just about every time I light up.
I put my cigarette up to my lips and I can taste his dick. I light it and inhale and I am reminded of the way he would push his cock between my lips. Sometimes he liked to wait until I was inhaling, and then try to chase the smoke down my throat with his prick.
At home, alone, when I’m in the right mood, I smoke just to turn myself on. Licking my lips, I place a cigarette between them and let it hang there. …
I walk in and you are there, waiting for me. Watching me. Your eyes command me to sit opposite you.
I take my seat and bring my feet up onto the coffee table. You admire my shoes — long spiked metal heels, shiny PVC uppers. I let my knees fall open. I am wearing nothing but knee high black stockings and a long gown that is wide open. Nothing is hidden from your gaze.
Your eyes jump from my heels to my pussy. I know what you want. I reach down for my foot, bend my leg in until my shoe presses against my pussy, my lips almost as dark as my heels. The PVC rubs against my clit. I am already wet. I want what you want. My thoughts are your thoughts. …
Under the duvet which covers them both, he moves over to caress her succulent naked breasts with his right hand. In an instant, her engorged nipple responds to his large soft palm.
‘Weren’t you supposed to be sleeping?’ Ademola says to his wife.
‘And you are doing a good job of ensuring I am not.’
He removes the duvet from his side of the bed, exposing himself to the coldness of the air-conditioned room, and tugs at it in order to expose his naked wife. She holds it firmly.
‘Ehnehn, Demola. It’s cold. I will not be having a bout of cold tomorrow, just because one Demola wants to have sex...’ …
As she steps closer
His chest rises and falls
The anticipation that floods his mouth
Hypnotic and low
Binding him to her
A deep, shuddering inhale
As her nails lightly drag
Down the front of his throat
As they journey to his chest
The force intensifies
And red trails are left in their wake
A muted gasp
As twin metal clamps
Sink into tender nipple flesh
The chain between them
Of his status in her world
The only world that matters
Spine and cock stiffening
As her fingers glide downward
He widens his stance in response
To her light slap on his inner…