Whispers of Submission

The rain hammered against the panoramic windows of the penthouse suite, mirroring the frantic drumming of my own pulse. He was a masterpiece of controlled chaos, a man sculpted from arrogance and pleasure, and I was hopelessly, deliciously addicted to both. We’d been circling each other for weeks, a silent dance of unspoken desires, fueled by stolen glances and the tantalizing scent of his expensive cologne. Tonight, the tension had finally snapped, and the words, like venomous butterflies, had escaped my lips. “I want to call you something.”

His response had been measured, cool, a deliberate withholding that only amplified my own nervousness. “What?” he’d asked, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the plush velvet of the bed beneath me. The air crackled with an electricity that made my skin tingle. It was a game, a twisted challenge, and I was determined to win.

“Call you something…like a name…there’s something I want to call you when we are together like this.” Shoot. Why did I start this? I should change the subject. But the words were already out, hanging in the air like a dark omen. “What is it?” he pressed, his gaze unwavering, piercing through my carefully constructed facade.

“I don’t want to tell you.” Way to go changing the subject, I thought to myself, a bitter taste rising in my throat. Nothing like getting his curiosity up to ensure ultimate transparency. “Why not?” he demanded, his fingers tracing slow circles on my bare shoulder. The contact sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure through me, making my breath catch in my chest.

“I’m afraid it will freak you out.” Yup. Gonna have to tell him. “What? Why?” he urged, pulling me closer until our bodies were pressed together, the heat radiating from his skin a tangible force. “You’ll think I’m messed up.” Hmmmm, yeah…he probably does. Hadn’t thought of that. Okay. Might as well get it over with. Not gonna get out of this one.

“Fine. … Master.” I whispered it, the syllables tasting like forbidden fruit. “I want to call you Master.” I choked on the words, a tremor running through my body. NEVER should have started this conversation. He was silent for a minute, a long, agonizing minute filled with the relentless rain and the pounding of my heart. I felt like the floor had disappeared under me, and I was falling, spiraling into a vortex of uncertainty and fear.

Finally, “Master? Hmmm, that’s interesting.” His voice held a strange inflection, a subtle shift in tone that sent shivers down my spine. Oh, goodness. He thinks I’m awful. He hates anything that hints of patriarchy. There isn’t much else that gets him going like cultures and religions that don’t honor women. Oh, and Christians that he doesn’t think honor women?! Those rants can be epic. Yeah. This was a really, really, really bad idea. What is wrong with me? How am I so stupid?! How do I get out of this?

“Yeah, interesting,” he continued, a slow smile spreading across his face. What on earth did that mean??? Why is he stalling like this? Why doesn’t he just say what he thinks and get it over with? But then, finally… “You know, there’s something I’ve kinda been wanting to call you too.”

“Um…oh? Really?” I was confused. What is he talking about? Maybe we could watch a movie or something tonight…something to take my mind off of this awful conversation. “Slave.”

“Www..what???!” My breath hitched in my throat, a wave of heat rising from my core. Did he really just say that??? I grinned…and got a little wet. And suddenly all that fear melted into heat… “Slave, huh? Well, I could get used to that…as long as I can call you Master.”

“Fine, Slave. Now suck my cock.” The command hung in the air, heavy with unspoken desires, and I didn’t hesitate. I leaned forward, my lips brushing against his skin, tasting the subtle scent of his arousal. My fingers tightened around his erect member, pulling him closer, drawing him into my embrace. The rain continued its relentless assault against the windows, but it was the heat between us that drowned out all other sounds.

I began to move my hips, slowly at first, then with increasing urgency, drawing him deeper and deeper into my rhythm. The pleasure was exquisite, raw, and primal, a torrent of sensation that overwhelmed my senses. He groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through my body, as he responded to my touch with a frantic, desperate need. My hands explored every inch of his body, finding hidden crevices and sensitive spots that sent shivers of delight through me.

He was losing control, surrendering to the intoxicating power of the moment. His muscles tensed and flexed, his breathing grew ragged, and his eyes rolled back in his head. I continued to ride him, pushing him to the brink of ecstasy, until finally, he collapsed against me, gasping for air, his body slick with sweat.

“More,” he managed to choke out, his voice hoarse.

I didn’t need any encouragement. I dug my nails into his flesh, deepening the pleasure, while he writhed in my arms, lost in the depths of sensation. We remained like that for what felt like an eternity, locked in a passionate embrace, the rain a constant reminder of the storm raging within us.

Later, when we were done, we cuddled and we laughed. And we decided that yes, maybe we were a bit messed up, but it was just us, and we liked it. So it was all good, and we fell asleep, and a new chapter had begun. The penthouse suite, once a symbol of wealth and isolation, now felt like a sanctuary, a place where we could lose ourselves in each other, free from judgment and expectation. The rain continued to fall, washing away the remnants of the night, leaving behind only the lingering scent of desire and the promise of more to come. We were master and slave, captor and captive, bound together by an invisible chain of pleasure and power, and in that moment, there was no one else in the world that we would rather be with.

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Whispers of Submission

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