The Art of Submission
The date had been circled on my calendar for weeks. Distance is often said to be the death of romance, but for us, it was the fuel. She understood her role perfectly, and I took pride in the education I had provided her. She was my possession, a woman who found her liberation in total surrender.
I found her waiting at the hotel, a refurbished convent where luxury met a stark, monastic sobriety. The tension between us was immediate. Before I had even left for work that Saturday morning, we had shared a frantic, hungry encounter that left her skin glistening. But that had been merely the appetizer.
Once inside her room, I noticed the careful arrangement of her things. A leather kit lay open on the table, revealing the tools of our shared passion. She had even left her anal plug visible, a silent invitation that spoke volumes of her readiness. I didn’t speak; I didn’t need to. I gripped her hips, lifted her skirt, and guided her onto the bed on all fours.
I stripped her quickly, admiring the firm peaks of her nipples. I began with the wooden clamps, applying them to her breasts and labia with a firm hand. She didn’t flinch; instead, her eyes burned with a desperate need for more. I reached for the Magic Wand, pressing the vibrating head against her drenched center. I whispered a strict command: no climax. The struggle to obey me while her body screamed for release brought a flush to her cheeks and a tremor to her limbs.
When I finally entered her, the friction was intense. In my eagerness to claim her, I felt a sharp sting—a small tear in my frenulum. I retreated to the bathroom to stem the bleeding, but the interruption only heightened the electricity in the room. While I tended to myself, I used a weighted dildo to tease her, sliding it partially inside her, rotating it to drive her to the brink of madness.
Once the bleeding stopped, I returned to her with a renewed hunger. I drove into her from behind, my hands locking onto her waist, pulling her back against me with every hard, rhythmic thrust. The sound of our bodies colliding filled the quiet room, a primal percussion of desire. I flipped her over, lifting one leg high to open her further, watching as I filled and emptied her in a relentless cycle.
“I’m going to finish inside you,” I groaned, increasing the pace. Only then did I give her permission to let go. As she shattered into a climax, I followed, feeling every surge of my release deep within her. We lay there for a moment, breathless and spent, before she knelt before me, using her tongue to meticulously clean every last drop of my essence from her skin.
I left for work with a smile, knowing that when I returned, she would be waiting. She was always ready, and I was always hers to command.