Mistress' Dirty Slut

Mistress sits, contemplating. There is a sparkle in her eyes, and the barest hint of a smile skirting her lips. She is a gorgeous creature, confident and sexy. She is what sensuality looks like. When she moves, it is with a touch of feline grace, and she is completely at ease in her skin.

She sits, legs crossed, arms spread wide across the back of the couch, owning the space around her. In this moment she seems to be caught up in an idea, one that is slowly uncurling in her mind, like a creature waking from slumber.

After a time, she feels compelled to move, almost imperceptibly, as if the idea is manifesting into her body. Her thighs press together very gently, and her hips shift position. These movements are very subtle, because while they signal the beginning of her body's sexual response, she needs no grand gesture to herald what is to come. Only someone who knows her well would have any inkling of the mischief that is taking shape in her mind's eye.

Reaching some sort of conclusion, she cocks her head, and calls out.

"My perfect slut?"

Her words echo down the hall. From the doorway she is joined by a man. He seems delighted to be addressed this way, and smiles warmly at her as he enters. She smiles back, and they share a moment of mutual adoration.

"Yes Mistress?"

"Tell me what you are," she asks.

He blushes, and looks down. She delights in this, how her words have such an instant impact on him, how her words immediately tap him into his submissive space.

"I am a dirty slut, Mistress," he says quietly.

"Eyes up. Say it again, clearer," she replies.

He looks at her, holding her gaze, the mischief in her eyes matched by a twinkle in his. He is not a simpering, cowed submissive. It is not in his nature, nor would it be something she desired. He is proud of what he is, and she loves him for it.

"I am a dirty slut." He says it clearly, calmly and with confidence.

"And who's dirty slut are you?" she asks.

"I am, with every fibre of my being, your dirty slut Mistress," he says, smiling at her, chin and eyes lifted, pride mixing with his blush.

His words thrill her, as much as speaking them thrills him.

She hold him there with her gaze.

"You're blushing," she reflects. This causes him to blush more deeply, though he smiles and looks down.

"You're looking down and away, as though what I've said is scandalous," she smiles. She knows that this technique, this 'attention placement' is having an instant impact on him. She has become better and better at it, and he has become more and more receptable to it. He drops into thrall of her effortlessly.

"But your heart is beating faster," she observes. "You're shuffling, and the smile is disappearing, replaced by that needy, slutty look that I adore so."

He is shifting his weight from foot to foot gently, and she can see his chest rising and falling.

"Your mouth is dry, and you can feel a need growing," she says.

"Yes Mistress," he whispers, earnest deference creasing his features.

"You desire. You want. You need." There are no questions, there is no argument, there is only the simple truths that she utters for them both.

"Your body is starting to betray what a needy slut you are. Your cock is getting hard, you're starting to sweat."

A small groan escapes his lips, but he dare not move, not until she wills it.

"Such a good boy," she whispers, and he groans again, louder this time.

"A good, slutty boy. Horny and needy and desperate for your Mistress."

The blush is now high on his cheeks and burning scarlet. It has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with her words.

"Come here slut," she purrs.

He covers the distance between them and as he leans in to kiss her, she reaches, grasping his throat. She pivots his body in this way so that he sits heavily on the couch, held tight in her hand. She straddles him, pushing upwards so his head is tilted back, throat exposed to her. Some ancient genetic coding bypasses any rational or higher brain response, immediately establishing the alpha and beta in this interaction.

He gasps as she runs her tongue along the line of his jaw towards his ear, trapping the lobe between her teeth and biting gently. She applies pressure around his neck and his movement stills. She releases his flesh, but her mouth remains microns away from him.

"I fucking adore you, my perfect slut," she growls. "I am in a mood."

He moans softly as she moves her fingers from his throat to his lips, pushing a finger into his mouth. She quickly adds a second finger, pushing in, then working in and out like his mouth is a cunt. She grinds herself against him, and she can feel him already hard.

"Listen carefully slut," her voice barely a whisper. "First, you'll create a space in the bedroom. One that befits your Mistress' pleasure."

He moans and nods, and she rewards him with a third finger, their bodies now moving together as the tension begins to gather pace.

"Next, I want you to make yourself my pretty whore. You are to be shaved clean, you are to apply scent, you are to choose underwear and stockings that would delight your Mistress. You are to have a toy in your pretty arsehole in case I decide that using your hole is something that will please me later. Last, you will bring me my cock and harness, lipstick, white shirt, and your aftershave. The last part you will do once the previous conditions have been met. Understood?"

She removes her fingers and he gasps, chest heaving.

"Perfectly Mistress," he replies, breathless. "Thank you Mistress."

She shifts again swinging aside to let him up. As he rises however, she catches him again, kissing deeply. She releases him a second time, but provides a sharp smack across his bottom as he leaves. He sighs contentedly but does not turn again. He has work to do.

This is something they are exploring, together. Its not always perfect and they don't nail it every time, but it's fun and it's hot, and the more they try it out the more she finds a deep connection to something that had been missing.

Degradation, meanness, cruelty. It's not for them. What they both seem to have discovered, in different ways, is the other side of gender. His yin and her yang. Like trying on a new coat or playing a character in a play. She is discovering what her yang energy gives her, how it feels, how it sounds. She finds that wielding it is a turn on. Even if the act she's engaging in is not directly something she's into, it's the process of sitting in a more masculine place that sends the ripples of electricity up her spine.

Their exploration has also given her something that she's never had before; safety. She is safe to express her desires, explore parts hidden, safe to not be perfect.

She was always afraid of connecting with this masculine energy in case it awoke in her something she did not wish to be, cruel or demanding or worse. She always feared she'd find herself beyond her boundaries with no way of knowing it, and no way to get back.

But they'd found ways to make it safe. As she spanked him and instantly worried that she had gone too far, he'd moaned.

"Thank you Mistress!" he'd told her, his eyes bliss-filled and distant. She'd smacked harder, the same portent of fear sparking.

"Thank you, ohhhh, thank you Mistress," he'd moaned, louder and more confidently.

In this way she gained a clear understanding of where his boundaries were without having to stop and check in each time. Each moaned 'thank you Mistress' helped to steer her course.

So she sits, picturing what comes next as she hears some soft music coming from the bedroom. She closes her eyes and lets her mind begin to create scenes and stories, things she's done or seen, things she wants to try. She breathes deeply, allowing herself the space to disconnect from the day and connect more deeply with the sensual side of herself. A toggle, she's come to know it as.

Before long she hears footsteps, and she opens her eyes. He is wearing delicate black lace underwear with thigh high stockings and suspenders. His cock is already hard, straining to remain contained under the sheer lace that is not designed to hold that much flesh. He is flushed too, the colour on his cheeks high and dark, and echoed across his chest. He smells divine.

"Almost perfect," she says. "I want you in mesh or fishnet rather than sheer. The underwear is perfect."

He carries the accoutrements she's asked for and he deposits some on the coffee table as she tilts her head back. He applies some of his own aftershave between her clavicles, the warm, dark scent a good foil for the soft, feminine one that he wears. Then he turns without a word and disappears to make the adjustments she requires.

There was a time when her words of displeasure would have impacted him. A disproportionate amount. He would have felt judged, or like he had failed her. Like so any aspects of what they have discovered, he now delights in her direction. When she gives it, he knows it is because there is something that will delight her more than what is before her. His experience now tells him that there is no need to react with shame or fault. He has only to follow her whim and she will be more prone to drop into a pleasure space, and this is all he wants for her.

He returns sometime later, stepping into the room confidently. He has replaced the sheer stockings from earlier, and is now presented in the same slutty panties, open at the back and barely containing his cock, but now in fine fishnet stockings, clipped into a suspender. He looks distinctly sluttier and it appeals to her. She smiles at him.

"Better," she tells him. "Much better."

"Turn around slut, feet apart and spread your arse for me," she orders, and he complies immediately. She can see beneath the lace the end of a metal toy that she knows is applying gentle but persistent pressure on his prostate.

She sits forward and after adjusting the angle, gives him a sharp opened hand spank across lace and flesh. His breath hisses between his teeth.

"Turn," she orders and he does, his cock... Her cock, she corrects herself. Her cock is even harder now, and she slips it from the bonds of the hardworking underwear. She grips it firmly around the base, his hands instinctively moving behind his back.

"Whose cock is this?" she asks.

"Yours Mistress," his reply not much more than a breath.

"Stroke it slut. Show your Mistress what a good whore you are, make her cock feel good."

There's something in the words, she knows. The space to speak so profanely, to find the power in the sort of words that have been used with such callousness against her gender for so many lifetimes. There is only adoration for he that stands before her, but there are untold generations who have heard these words spoken in hate and oppression.

He begins to stroke her cock, close to her face in this position. Its beautiful, and he is beautiful as he pleasures it, his strokes gliding easily up and down its length. She revels in the shape, the changing hue, the strained skin.

"Faster and harder" she says.

He groans but obeys, pumping harder and faster. She can smell his arousal mixing with her perfume, but while she knows the pressure that is already building inside him, he would not dare to orgasm without her consent. The toy will be pressing ever more firmly as his body shifts and adjusts to his body's response. He is rock hard, cock straining and purple.

"Release," she commands, and he does, her cock twitching and throbbing before her.

She lets him stand there, cock shifting gently as though stirred by a wafting breeze.

"Child's pose, on the rug, now," she instructs and he complies immediately, pressing himself onto the rug, knees wide and hands stretched before him. They have come to recognise and love this space as it comes on. She connects with the truth that she can require anything of him, and unless it is something that crosses a boundary for him - in which case he will be clear and honest with stating this - she can say and do what she wants.

Freedom. That's what it is. Freedom. From her past. From expectation and requirement. From being a performer, a toy for someone else's pleasure. This is her space.

She stands over him, basking in his submission. She takes her time. He is limited in what he can see to the periphery. She knows how much this turns him on, the anticipation, the waiting. His dirty mind will be conjuring all manner of arousing scenarios.

She takes her time attiring herself. She applies lipstick, crimson and bold. Her hair she piles on her head and secures with two long pins. She buttons the shirt carefully, deliberately. As she does she uses her words to keep his arousal simmering, though barely a nudge and it would boil, she knows.

"Look at my gorgeous whore, spread before me. Such a dirty slut. Such needy whore, so eager to please. You'll stay perfectly still, but Mistress knows that if she wanted she can order you to devour her cunt, and that would be the most wonderful prize."

He moans, hands outstretched on the material of the rug. He has indeed prepared himself immaculately, closely shaven and smooth.

She steps into the soft leather of the harness. The harness is a new part of the experience for her. No, not new. She has had for some time, but it always stirred in her a sense of obligation. It was not for her, it was for someone else, and therefore a requirement.

She has been fascinated with the masculine energy that she is learning about, but until now there has been no need or desire for something so overt as a physical prop. But she has listened to a podcast that talked about the physical feeling of an appendage, foreign and alien to her, and how it could change the way her physical space felt. So, she decides to try it out, not as implement for his pleasure, but to create a different experience for her.

The material feels luxurious against her skin, fitting and moulding to her curves as she pulls the straps taught. She lightly touches the glass cock. It is a work of art. If she could conceive her perfect girl-cock, this would be it. It is the perfect length and thickness, but it is the way that it is crafted that makes it so exquisite.

She stands and admires her girl-cock. She moves, testing and delighting in how it feels. She experiments with how it swings back and forth as she moves. She connects with her masculine. She feels the power that comes from the blunt instrument that swings between her legs. She laughs at the absurdity of it at the same time as celebrating the power it sends through her frame.

"What a thick, hard girl-cock I have," she says proudly, grasping it at the base, just beyond the metal ring that holds it in place. She allows herself to indulge in a side of her soul forever withheld, until now.

"Such a hard, sexy girl-cock. So powerful and beautiful."

She's trying this energy on, seeing how it feels, dropping into it and letting it flow through her. It does feel interesting, and she swaggers around the room, laughing like flowing water at the sensation and absurdity of it. But she also feels something else. She gets a sense of the power the podcast had talked about, being alpha, the man, the one in charge.

"You have done such a wonderful job of presenting yourself slut. Your Mistress is pleased by how tempting you look. Stand up, get on the couch."

He does, his breath coming quickly and his cheeks flushed. His eyes widen for a moment as he drinks her in, then he grins a wicked grin. He sits, and she straddles him, grabbing his throat and kissing him passionately. Her lipstick smears across his lips, another thing she knows he loves.

Her arousal is amping now, building and coiling in her belly. Once, early on, this feeling confronted her. She could feel the animal inside coming to life, but it frightened her; she was afraid of losing control. Now, she knows she can indulge her desires and he will communicate clearly if she's pushing too far. So far, she has been surprised with what he is comfortable to allow, and where she worries that he will tell her to stop, he moans and thanks her instead.

She slaps his face, once, twice, a third time. The third is hard, a crack expertly executed across his cheek. His eyes turn glassy and he moans a thank you. He has already starting to enter sub-space she can see, and it urges her on.

She's panting, grinding, feeling wetness starting to gather inside her. Her girl-cock is cool glass and rubs between them, the straps applying unexpected pressure to her crurer.

She looks down and sees his nipples, an area of his body that she's discovered he takes particular pleasure from. She starts to massage them while continuing to kiss him. Then she sits back and lets her fingernails trace the flesh of his chest.

She smiles with a knowing glint at his reactions, and takes each nipple between her fingers. She pinches, hard. Far harder than she would be comfortable with, but he reacts by thrusting his hips upwards, as though he feels the sensation in two places. She pushes further, pulling the nipples away from his chest. He is swearing and moaning almost incoherently.

"My beautiful slut," she whispers. "I do so love making you a mess like this. Such a needy slut, such a lucky slut having a Mistress who knows just how to make you moan and beg."

His reply is babbling but affirmative. She pulls the nipples again, harder this time, and twists as well. She does this with confidence, which only drives his arousal higher. She's learned that too; the more she's become comfortable in her power, the more turned on he allows himself to get. She enjoys the power of it. She pinches again, and leans in and traps an earlobe tween her teeth and he cries out in delight.

He's in some sort of ecstatic state now, willing and ready. She turns him around so he's kneeling towards the back of the couch. She pushes his head forward, and parts his knees. She takes the paddle from the coffee table and spanks him, hard. He moans and thanks her. She gives him three more on each flank, the material and lace absorbing some of the blow.

She reaches between his legs, grasps his cock and strokes it five or six times. Then she spanks him again, 6 times in quick succession. Again, she reaches between his legs and strokes him, longer this time. She begins to alternate this pattern, spending more time each rotation either stroking or spanking. His flesh is a satisfying red, and she knows that he will be driven to distraction with the sensation of it.

He described it to her after the first time as being a complete blurring of sensation, which heightens both. It also means she can completely control his arousal without ever letting him climax unless she wishes it. More and more he is relishing the denial. He loves the way he becomes so desperate to please, as though her release is all he will get, making him crave and worship her all the more.

He moans and squirms, his hips thrusting forward. That's quite enough, she thinks.

"Bedroom," she pants, jumping off him standing. He takes her hand, lays the most delicate kiss on the back of it, grins at her and pulls her down the hallway. She laughs as she feels the glass cock bobbing along with her.

The bedroom is just what her sensual side desires. The sheets are as tight as a drum across the bed. Candles cast a soft and subtle light throughout and the music is gentle and provides a sound scape rather than something to listen to directly. The room is warm but not hot.

She reclines onto the bed her like a cat in sunshine and spreads her legs. As she does the air touches the wetness there and it is her turn to gasp. She knows that her cunt will be flushed and opening like a beautiful flower by now.

She grasps the glass firmly, instinct urging her hand up and down its shaft. Each upward pull places delicious pressure below, and the down presses indirectly against her hardening clitoris.