Message-ID: <15673eli$9809280849@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/Year98/15673.txt>
From: "Sasha Stephens" <november919@hotmail.com>
Subject: ST: Domination of Trent [2/n], m/f femdom anal
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
Content-Type: text/plain
Path: qz!not-for-mail
Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam
Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Original-Message-ID: <19980928022152.19150.qmail@hotmail.com>

The rest of November's stories are available at
November's Erotica, a free site:
www.geocities.com/SunsetStrip/Underground/3193
_______________________

Domination of Trent (2/N) by November Tuesday


I realize that I have been staring at his lips. For some reason it 
surprises me that
they are soft and smooth. I raise my hand as if to touch them, then stop 
just short.
He doesn't move. 

I shrug and then contemplate my accoutrements. Nothing that I have seems 
right.
I have learned to trust myself in these matters. It is an art in which 
one must
channel their impulses. I leave the room and look in the freezer for the
implement I want - the one that is like a riding crop with small silvery 
chains
instead of leather strands. I shake it out and bits of frost fly off. 
The links tinkle like
tiny bells. I swing it, and then walk back to the chair. 

I stand for a long moment before moving. He lies waiting, not cringing 
in
anticipation, just waiting. 

I snap the crop down on to his upper thigh. It gives a strange metallic 
thwack and
he jolts in the chair. I am rewarded by a cry. It sounds startlingly 
like the sound on
the beginning of The Downward Spiral . There is no effect on his 
throbbing cock.

I swing the crop over his prone body, knowing he can feel the swish of 
cool air
around the chains. He jolts when I gently dip it over his skin allowing 
the freezing
metal to pour over his torso and thighs, then give him two smart snaps 
of the
crop, one on each hard pink nipple.

His moans hopelessly and his head droops to the side. An expanse of 
neck. I have
tortured him a little, and only now will I permit myself to counter that 
with warm
flesh.

I lean toward him. Lift the black hair from his neck. I lean in, and 
gently, gently
kiss there. Where it is warm. Soft skin, and vague smell of sweat and 
shampoo.
His whole body bristles. He moans again, this time with desperation. I 
am surging
with wetness. I can't control myself. I gently bite his neck, nip his 
earlobe, suck it,
before tearing myself away.

I sense immense loneliness. I remember an interview, him saying "I was 
really
just super-fucking-lonely." Poor child. I kiss him again, one finger 
tracing the
outline of his shoulder. He moans. God, I wish I'd set up a recorder. I 
could get off
listening to this wonderous symphony. 

Once again I take the icy metal and hold it over him. Then, I lower it 
to his cock;
the chains pour over it like water. He bucks up in the seat and is held 
cruelly back
by the leather. Impudent. I silently reach for the leather crop, then 
flog his ass
along the thigh.

He is breathing fast and deep but he is struggling to be quiet. His 
chest, gorgeous
chest I am dying to lay my head on, is rises and falls roughly. It is 
intimate, to see
this cage that holds his breath, shaking. 

My instinct...I hook my thumb under the blindfold and peel it back. 
There are tears
pooling on his skin beneath his eyes. He looks, shamed and miserable, up 
at me,
for that second the contact is so much, too much, and the brown of his 
eyes is so
human under the tiny membrane of tears. 

"Close your eyes," I order. 

Look at you, so broken and fucked up that you have to come here for your
pleasure, you talented and beautiful man, who should have a love, a 
wife, a lover,
coming to me so that I can make you hard when I hit you and soft when I 
show
you tenderness.

And look at me, invested so heavily in the psyche of my client.

We're a sad bunch, you and I, Trent. 

"Close your eyes", I repeat softly, although he already has. 

I bend down to kiss his his lips, a soft kiss, and he moans in shock. 
Same catch of
breath as induced by the lashes of the crop. Maybe the same kind of 
torture. This is
not part of the rules. It's not done. I press my fingertip under his 
eye. I pull
downward, drying his skin. I do this to the other side. My fingers 
become wet. He
lies obediently, eyes closed, mouth open, not moving. I toss the 
blindfold aside. 

I put down the icy metal crop that is now sweating as it warms. I select 
a piece of
fur, and then mother his body with it slowly, over damp cheeks, over his 
lips,
down over nipples that rise and harden under the barely discernable 
touch. Down,
and now he is hard again.

It occurs to me that at this point I usually gag my clients. I have 
never gagged
Trent. I could never deprive myself of his lovely moans and gasps and 
cries.

I drag the fur up his leg, down to tickle toes of the other foot, 
stifling a giggle as his
toes curl up, ticklish. Then up again, and I drag the looped strip under 
his balls,
hefting them, making him shift and groan. I pull it up, so that the soft 
loop of fur
caresses his hard cock. I wind it around slowly, with enough slack so 
that it moves
gently over his skin. His arms clench into fists, rattling the chains 
that hold him.
There is a dewlike drop at the tip of his hard cock.

Instinct, I lie to myself, as I break my own rule swirl my tongue in it.

His thighs clench and buck, muscles like a rearing horse as the leather 
creaks, but
holds fast. I watch in wide-eyed delight as more precum trickles from 
the tip of his
cock.

I want to wrap my hand around his cock and jerk him silly, jerk him 
until he
cums and bucks and screams, and then ask him to tell me, explicitly, how 
it feels.

I want to lie on my back and order him to fuck me, relentless, until we 
are
screaming and my heels are dug hard into the cheeks of his ass so that 
he may fuck
me marder, relentless.

I want to leap up onto the chair and impale myself on him and manically,
feverishly, ride him until he begs me to stop. Back to the refrigerator, 
his head
turned toward me, but still obediently blind, eyes dutifully closed. I 
take the cream
out and return. Silently I open the jar and scoop some out. It is cool 
and delicious
on my fingers, silky.

His cock is red and warm. I can feel its warmth. Quickly so that he 
doesn't sense
the cold. I envelope him with it, in one slick motion, returning for 
another scoop,
and then coating his balls. 

He seems to be attempting to shrink away from the stimulation. I smile. 
I have
clients who beg me for this stuff.

I find two nipple clamps. Nothing more than clothespins with strips of 
soft fur on
the clasps. I open them, then abruptly affix them to his nipples 
simultaneously. It's
not the toys, it's the presentation. The performance. Slow builds and 
surprise
assaults.

I stand back again and wetten a bit at the sight of him. Something, 
though, is
missing.

I spread the legs of the chair as far as it will go and then slide under 
his ass a little
wire tool that I made myself. It is held by his weight, like a bookend, 
and has
adjustible wires that come around and spread his ass cheeks. The 
puckered hole
seems to quiver a bit at the prospect of invasion.

Trent whimpers softly. He knows he is open, and vulnerable. 

I can take advantage of this and this alone, so I stand there, quiet as 
a mouse,
watching his chest rise and fall as he wonders what I will do there 
next. 

I have a tiny probe that is made of soft plastic with a smooth rounded 
end. It is like
a syringe. I suck some of the cold lotion into it, then dip the probe 
into it, then
smoothly push it three or four inches inside his ass before it can 
contract with
surprise, discharge the plunger, and pull out, all in one smooth motion. 
He
whimpers softly. I can feel his ass muscles open and close over the 
strange
sensation of the cool cream. In a minute or so it should start getting 
warm, and his
now-cool cock and asshole will start to tingle. 

I stand back again. Clothespins protrude from his nipples. His cock and 
balls are
slathered in coldness. His ass is spread and ready for invasion, and is 
full of the
cool white goo, a bit of which is trickling out.

Still, something is missing. My eyes keep returning to his cock, which 
is now in a
state of semi-erection. I grin, then get a leather cock ring and secure 
it under his
bulging testicles, then thread his cock through. I tighten it just 
enough so that it is
snug, then leave the room. 

When I return, his cock is straining and hard. The white lotion at the 
top is
thinned by the precum has trickled down the head, diluting the stuff.

His balls are tight and under the thinning cream I can see that the head 
of his cock
is purple.

"Trent," I asked softly, "would you like to cum?" 

He moans, tosses his head to the side. "Please." He says. It is just one 
word, and
very quiet. 

_______________________
The rest of November's stories are available at
November's Erotica, a free site:
www.geocities.com/SunsetStrip/Underground/3193



-- 
+----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+
| <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> | <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> |
| Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ |
<http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/>----<http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/faq.html>