Authors: Tara Crescent
Patrick:
I retrieved a new gag from the drawer; I couldn’t be bothered to take the time to clean the one we’d used earlier.
She watched me, turning her head as much as she was able. When I brought the gag to her, her eyes were bright with anticipation and heavy with heat; and she opened her mouth willingly for me to gag her.
She was so delightful to play with; there was such an active element to her submission; with every single action, she was choosing to accede to my will; to let me dictate the terms of her pleasure. But she wasn’t passive; she participated fully in her pleasure; she gave in openly to the needs of her body.
I didn’t know what to make of her; I only knew I wanted her very, very badly.
I unzipped my fly; took out my cock. I’d been ready for what seemed like hours and I needed relief desperately; I was probably going to last thirty seconds in her throat.
She should have been panicked as I pushed my cock down her throat; after all, her mouth was held open with a gag. But no, not Lisa. There was a smile in her eyes; and she was openly letting me know she wanted this as well; perhaps as badly as I did.
So very unexpected.
I pushed into her throat; and closed my eyes as the feeling of her overwhelmed me. I thrust, I reached to her breasts and pinched her nipples; I tried as best as I could not to explode in her mouth the instant I felt her tongue on my dick.
Her throat vibrated around my cock as she moaned; I pulled out to make sure she could breathe, but again, the look in her eyes was enjoyment, not fear. And so I took her throat, pushing in and taking my pleasure, and she was right there with me, every step of the way; she was an active participant in her throat fucking.
I was close, I’d been close for a long time, and when she moaned again with my dick in her mouth, I came hard with a shout, semen shooting down her throat.
She held her tongue out to catch every last drop I fed her. I reached for her gag; removed it. She licked her lips.
“Thirsty?” I asked her.
She nodded. “Yes, Dr. Anderson,” she said, meekly, staying in the scene.
I looked at her. She was beautiful, this woman, sweat glistening on her skin; her curls cascading all over the place. Playing with her had been surprisingly fun. I grinned. I had one final thing to do to her; I
picked up the speculum off the floor; the one that had been in her vagina. “Lick it clean,” I instructed her.
She laughed; a sound of utter enjoyment. “Yes, Dr. Anderson,” she said, meeting my eyes, as she stuck the tip of her tongue out, lapped the stainless steel of the speculum; cleaning it as I’d instructed.
***
Lisa:
When we were done, he removed the speculum in my ass; freed me from my bindings; handed me the long-forgotten hospital robe with a twinkle in his eye.
“My office will call you to schedule a follow-up, Miss Preston,” he said.
I looked at him, laughing a little. “You take such good care of me, Dr. Anderson,” I murmured. Every inch of my body felt energized. He pulled me into a hug for a moment; I leaned against him with my eyes closed. Finally, he pulled away.
“Get changed, Miss Preston, I’ll see you downstairs.” He smiled at me, as he closed the door, leaving me alone to change.
***
Something was wrong. Once the waves of arousal had passed; my mind had latched in on a thought; something didn’t add up.
I dressed, with my mind turning around in circles; trying to tease out what was wrong. And finally, I had it. The bit that didn’t add up.
Patrick had mentioned spanking women before; but he’d said he wasn’t particularly dominant. But here, today, in this room; there had been too much control; too much calm assurance. He had definitely done this before; perhaps not this particular scene, but he had definitely played before.
His movement had been sure; he’d watched me the right way; the way a Dom watches a sub during a scene, with focused attention; he’d hit my pussy with the precise amount of force for it to be pleasurable; everything he’d done today demonstrated a practised control that only came with experience.
What was Dr. Patrick Anderson not telling me?
I made my way downstairs.
I was going to find out.
Lisa:
There is an eight month period in my life that I do not permit myself to think about. The eight months of my life when I was Nick O’Malley’s sexual submissive.
I was twenty-three, not a virgin, but with a psyche scarred by years of acne and high-school cruelty, and barely any sexual experience worth talking about. Nick was my friend Mandy’s boss; he was thirty-eight, an investment banker with all the outward trappings of success, the hand-made suits, the fancy sports car, and the expensive vacations in paradise-filled beach resorts.
I had no idea how to play in his world, no idea how to resist him when he decided he wanted me and chased me with a determination that scared and excited me. He was my first and only dominant, and I was his twenty-three year old trophy submissive.
Eight months of the best sex I’d ever had. Eight months of spankings and nipple clamps, eight months of floggers and whips, eight months of swiftly escalating obedience and submission.
In the beginning, the dominance stayed in the bedroom, and I loved it. I creamed when he ordered me to part my legs; when he spanked my thighs, when he cropped my breasts, when he bound my hands behind my head, and took me hard and fast, and only for his pleasure.
And then, things started escalating in a way that I was powerless to resist. Little things that weren’t troubling in themselves; but all added up to a pattern where I was being moulded into Nick’s vision of who I should be. The rules came, fast and swift and overwhelming. I needed to call him every day at precisely noon, no matter what my work schedule was. I needed to be in his apartment, naked and waiting, kneeling on his floor with my legs parted open every single Wednesday and Friday at 6.30pm, irrespective of what else I had going on in my life. My friend Monica’s birthday? I had to miss it; it was on a Friday evening. I was only allowed to wear skirts, no matter how cold the weather, because my pussy always needed to be accessible to Nick.
There’s an old Tom Hanks movie; one he made in the early part of his career. About how a group of students become dangerously preoccupied with a Dungeons and Dragons game, and how it slowly took over their lives until they couldn’t tell what was real, and what wasn’t. That was me. I couldn’t tell what was reasonable for Nick to ask me; what was not. In the absence of any ability to distinguish, I let him do everything to me. I was in the throes of lust and longing and something that approached love, captivated by the sex; dangerously high on the adrenaline of surrendering control, of submitting to my dominant; I willingly let him take over my life; I didn’t fight for myself one little bit. My needs were immaterial to Nick. My hopes and dreams were not of consequence; he wasn’t interested in them. I was his to mould into whatever he desired.
Until that last day.
I’d been working a shitty retail job after graduation; sending out endless resumes to design firms to try and land a coveted internship; something that would allow me to work in the field of my choice. One day at eleven forty five on a Wednesday morning, I received a call from one of them, wanting to talk about my resume.
“Can you talk now?” the HR person on the other end of the line asked. If I’d said no, she would have rescheduled, but she would have talked in the meanwhile to many other young hopefuls who would do whatever it took to advance their careers.
I took a worried look at the time. I had fifteen minutes. The rules were clear; I had to call Nick at noon.
“Yes,” I said, making a swift decision. Surely Nick would understand why; this could be my big break.
I spoke to her, doing my best to sound put-together and focused and bright; the kind of person you’d want as an intern in your firm. We talked for forty-five minutes; at the end, she invited me in for an interview the next day. I was jubilant until I hung up.
And then, trepidation filled me. It was 12.30; I had not called Nick.
“I’m sorry,” I started, as soon as he picked up. “I had an interview.”
He didn’t listen; he wasn’t interested in the why. “I want you in my apartment,” he said, his voice icy. “Naked. Ready. Waiting for me. Now. You are going to get punished for this, Lisa.”
I got punished that day, but I’d taken punishments before. It wasn’t the pain of the punishment that hurt; it was the realization that he didn’t care at all about my interview the next day. To him, I was a puppet; I had no intrinsic worth on my own; I was there to be arranged into whatever position and shape Nick O’Malley wanted.
And the part that terrifies me to this day is that I had been a willing participant in my own destruction. I had wanted to please Nick; I had craved his approval and his warmth; I had cringed before his anger and disappointment. I would have done anything to keep Nick O’Malley happy, no matter what the cost to me.
I did something that day that took unbelievable strength. I let go of my need for him to control me; I let go of the addictive, nerve-shattering sex; I made myself forgot the meaning of love because I clearly didn’t have the ability to distinguish between it and dangerous control, and I walked out of there, and never saw him again.
***
I recognised the look in Patrick’s eyes today because I’d seen it before. I’d seen the same look in Nick’s eyes for eight months – a certain focused intensity and a calm control, before he began to steadily strip apart every little bit of who I was, every little spark of personality, to create a sweet, willing submissive instead.
When I finally summoned the courage to break my terrible addiction, I made a promise to myself. No more. I’d play my spanking games, and I’d play at submission. But I could sense dominance in men, and I avoided it; I had determined that I was not strong enough to survive again.
The look in Patrick’s eyes took me back to that dark time. And I was adamant I wouldn’t go there again.
Lisa:
The moment I came downstairs, the moment I saw Patrick sitting in his living room, clad in a pair of faded jeans and nothing else, drinking a glass of wine, I felt my insides clench with need again.
“He’s keeping something from you,” I told myself, but I wasn’t listening to good sense. Lust was awakening again, as I looked at his hard abs, and the perfect sprinkling of chest hair that trailed down and disappeared into the waistband of his jeans. I wanted to kiss each and every bit of that chest; I wanted to trail my mouth down his hard stomach, slide his jeans off his body and worship his beautiful cock in my mouth.
He saw the heat rise in my eyes and smiled. An answering heat in his own eyes.
“You were going to ask him about the dominance,” I tried helplessly to remind myself. But all common sense had fled, and my pussy had once again become a molten puddle of need.
“Sore?” The low growl of his voice sent tremors shooting through my body.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, looking at him. The speculums had stretched me out; my pussy and ass ached; my nipples were chafed and tender.
“Strip.” He didn’t even pretend it wasn’t an order. I removed my clothes so fast, with such instant obedience that I might have set an Olympic record for speed.
“Sit,” he pointed to an armchair. “Spread your legs open.”
I obeyed. The tendrils of lust had taken over, and every move I made seemed as if I moved underwater; a slowing of everything till nothing but sensation was left.
He was on his knees in front of me, clasping my ankles, spreading my legs impossibly wide, and draping them over the arms of the chair. I sat there, leaning back, hair cascading all down my shoulders, while he watched me, and the colour rose in my skin till I was flushed all over.
He put his fingers on my pussy lips, spreading me open so gently, lowering his mouth on me like I was something immensely precious. His tongue lapped the edges of me softly, tracing the cleft between my inner and outer pussy lips, kissing my clitoris with the softest of touches.
“Patrick,” I groaned. I didn’t care that I was sore; I needed his cock in me with a desperation that shocked me.
He got to his feet in an easy, unhurried motion that was a vivid contrast to the fire in his eyes. He unbuttoned the top button of his jeans, pulled the zipper down and stepped out of them quickly. His eyes never left mine. There was need in his eyes; heat blazed in them, and a corresponding smoulder glowed in mine. He grabbed his jeans to pull a condom wrapper out of the pocket, tore it open; rolled it on his perfect cock while I watched greedily.
I wanted him to plunge his length into me and take me hard, but he had different ideas. He pulled my hips towards him, playing a different game with me; he just held his cock in his hands; lazily rubbing it up and down my slit. “Patrick,” I moaned again. “Please, stop teasing…”
He just grinned at me. “Patience is a virtue, Lisa…” he said, his eyes warm. There was a trace of amusement in his voice, but it was balanced by a deep underlying need. He wanted to be in my pussy just as much as I wanted him to be in it. This delay was to enhance both of our pleasure.
He bent his mouth down on my nipples, not biting, not sucking hard; just gently lapping them with his tongue. I hissed a little; my nipples were sore from our play earlier, and his tongue brought sharp needles of pain, but as the pain heightened, so did the pleasure. I sighed, surrendering myself to him, and my pussy instantly drenched some more, as my submissiveness to him turned me on even more.
He finally moved his cock to the entrance of my pussy, slid into me with excruciating slowness. I moved my hands to try to grab his hips, to pull him into me faster, but he just smiled and shook his head.
“Patrick,” I protested. I’d lost the ability to form words; I could just moan his name.
He moved in me, gentle and slow and sweet, and it soothed the soreness in my body, and stroked my heart. He pulled my head in to kiss me, his mouth found mine, and his tongue danced with mine, and tremors of warmth and pleasure ran through my body, entwined with lust and longing.
This was only the second time he’d pushed his dick in me. There had been very little tenderness the first time; it had been hard and fast and deep, and I had screamed his name as his dick hit the back of my pussy in a way that brought equal measures of clenching pleasure and pain. This time though, he wasn’t fucking me, we were making love, and his tenderness was exactly what I needed in this moment.
I closed my eyes; I just let myself feel. His teeth, nibbling my lower lip; his fingers stroking my nipples; his dick pushing into me with infinite gentleness. Slow sparks were beginning to build all through my body; and I ached to touch him; to rub my body against his; to feel the full weight of him on me, crushing me into sweet submission.
“I want to touch you,” I begged.
“Touch me then, Lisa,” he whispered.
I pulled his body closer so I could feel the weight of his body on mine. My hands ran up his sides, taking in the firmness of his body, the taut, clenched muscles of his arms. I wrapped my legs around his hips, drawing him deeper into me, clenching as the soreness in my pussy was replaced with pleasure as the hard feeling of him drove me to the edge, and I could feel my pussy swell and gush still further, my clitoris engorged and pulsing.
“Touch yourself,” he said, pulling back a little. “I want to watch you make yourself come…”
He stroked harder; my fingers reached down to find that swollen mass of need, rubbing it in rigid circles that got harder, tighter as I got closer and closer to an orgasm. A sheen of sweat covered me as I shivered in need. I looked into his eyes; mine were wide and staring as I approached the edge. “Please, please, please,” I begged mindlessly, but I had no idea what I was begging for.
“Come for me, Lisa,” he said, his voice so calm, so controlled that I shattered on command, my nails digging into his biceps as my pussy muscles clenched and contracted; as the last strands of need wound their way out of me.
He was still in me, and as my body relaxed post-orgasm, he stroked harder, faster, rekindling the flames once more in me. My entire body was a bundle of tingling nerves and clenching sensation; I could hear the squishing of my pussy as he thrust in and out of me, and he moved, faster, harder, deeper until I exploded once again, and this time, he exploded with me with a muted growl, and we collapsed into each other.
We lay still for a minute, but the position – legs spread wide, half on the chair, half on the floor was not comfortable. Patrick moved first with a groan, removed the condom, tied it off and went away for an instant to the washroom. I slid up the armchair, but stayed where I was, too blissed out to move.
I could hear the water running, then turned off, and Patrick came out, wiping his hands on a towel. He looked at me, half-slumped in the chair, and smiled.
“Food? Drink? Can I tempt you with either?” he asked.
I nodded. “I’ll get up in a minute,” I muttered. “Too much amazing sex. Can’t move.”
His lips twitched. “I’m flattered.” He strode next to me, and kissed me gently on my head. “Come into the kitchen, I’ll scrounge around for some food.”