“I want you, Shae, to suck my cock.”
“Oh!” It comes out as a soft yelp. I’m genuinely surprised. There’s a moment, a beat, and I quickly add, “Yes, sir.” Obey first, think later.
I was just getting my bearings with him, figuring he was going to walk me through each of my daily chores today, starting with skimming the pool, then the others. I assumed today would be a simulation for the rest of the week. I thought we’d have more talk time and more notes and more time for me to study him before it became sexual.
But, of course, he is intentionally shaking things up. He is intending to keep me tipsy. It started with this linen suit, this professional look, and placing me poolside with a pole and a net. This is his plan, I now recalculate — that is, not to have a plan, or at least not one I can anticipate and comfort in.
Or else he just wants to feel my mouth around his cock.
As lifestyle slaves, since we control so little, we tend to obsess over the few things we can control. For me, that has to do with anticipating my dom’s strategy, plans, schedules. It’s not that I am a stickler for particulars — I know everything changes somewhat — but a general agenda each day gives me a sense of what’s expected of me, and a schedule, even a loose one, provides me a guide to when and where I show up. I am once again the student who wants to ace the test. I feel it helps me get straight A’s in “Master Z 101” if I kind of know what his course curriculum is going to be.
But here, he’s tossed his lesson plans out the window. This test now is happening too soon — a mid-term on the first day. I hadn’t figured him to go here with me until evening at the soonest, maybe tomorrow or later. He is intentionally discombobulating me, keeping me off-kilter. It’s clever and ingenious, if not also a touch diabolical. So this is his strategy…
Or else he just wants to feel my mouth around his cock.
Giving a blowjob is actually rather awkward and klunky in the setup. Do I kneel between his legs or do him from the side? Do I take his pants off completely or just open his fly? Will he slide forward enough in his chair to give me free access? How do I get around or through his underwear? Other sex is less cumbersome. For one thing, you can tell me to lift my skirt, and easily you’re in, so to speak. But a so-called “simple” blowjob can be a fumbling mess to get into.
Yes, again, I think too much, but this is my reality as I stand there in the wake of his command.
Note to submissives: let yourself be uncertain, awkward, fumbling — your dom enjoys your vulnerability in it. Note to Shae: doing it perfectly, getting straight A’s, is actually not the best experience for him. Watching me off-kilter and klutzy while doing him is his real pleasure.
Well, I do not have to artificially manufacture klutz — I am naturally blessed with it. I walk closer to him, but my heel catches in a crack of the deck flooring. I stumble but steady myself, yet in stooping lose my balance and list to one side, thudding onto my left thigh. It doesn’t hurt, just feels embarrassing. I look up at him: “I sometimes have trouble with, well, physical movement.”
He represses a laugh but can’t help smile as he sips his tonic water.
“Stand again,” he orders, “if that’s not too dangerous for you.”
“Nice,” I reply.
“And take off your coat.”
I stand and slip out of my suit jacket. The linen is wrinkled by now, but I fold it and walk over to the deck chair in the corner, laying it on the seat. I walk back to him, now fully topless, my breasts softly jouncing.
In the meantime he has slipped out of his khaki shorts and is now sitting in the deck chair, naked from bottom down.
I grab a seat cushion from a neighboring deck chair and place it in front of him. I kneel onto it, descending this time gracefully, and settle myself between his legs.
Just like that, I’m in.
A dominant wants always to see your violation but not your hesitation. He wants to experience taking you against your will but with your obedient consent. He wants to watch you as he shocks your sensibilities and makes you vulnerable.
My problem is that I love cock so much. There is nothing about this that shocks me, nor anything against my will. The snarky comment that came to my mind when he said, “I want you to suck my cock,” was “I thought you would never ask.” Although this was too soon in my sensibility of my sojourn with him, it wasn’t a violation of it.
He probably knows this, my craving for cock, perhaps well briefed by Amanda, who does a super job (I say sarcastically) of providing a dom-stranger a complete profile of me and all my submissive predilections, while keeping me in the pitch dark about him.
His cock is long, hanging down gloriously, and his balls descend behind in wrinkled sacs. I sigh. Master Z sees the lust in my eyes and makes me wait. “You want this, don’t you,” he says.
I bite my lip and nod, trying to repress my eagerness.
“How many cocks have you sucked?” he asks.
My eyes squint slightly, and I look confused.
He repeats himself, which he should never have to do: “How many cocks have you sucked?”
“You mean today?” I somehow say. It’s appropriately self-deprecating, but I realize it’s sassy. I can’t decide if he is serious or teasing or perhaps just humiliating me. I can’t find the right tone with him. This just comes out.
He gives me more rope, smiles, plays on my words: “I expect you’re always up early roaming the streets for cocks to service, but I meant in your lifetime. Or is that too many to count?”
I blush at his clever way of referring to me as a slut. He is matching my sarcasm, engaging with me in repartee.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Honestly, I don’t know. Do you mean how many different men? Or how many times? Because, I really haven’t been with so many different men. Maybe seven or eight. Maybe a few more, but I’d have to think about it, review my life, and all that. But I wasn’t, well, all that active before entering the lifestyle…” I am suddenly saying too many words, suddenly a bit nervous, and suddenly a stream-of-thought writer in need of an editor.
“Both,” he says. “How many men and how many times.”
Well, I immediately think of Kevin, who during my months of slavery to him and Amanda had me this way almost every morning under the breakfast table. With him alone, the number of times is at least a hundred. His cum is practically infused with my DNA by now, a fact which I’m sure he delights in.
Master Z sees that I am at sea in calculating this off the top of my head, and he makes it an assignment. “Review your cock-sucking life,” he says derisively, “and give me your report in the morning. And tell me how you got to the numbers you settle on.”
I don’t know how I can possibly remember each and every time, but again the exercise is the point, not the A-for-accuracy on the test.
“Yes, sir,” I say.
“And now,” he says, leaning back, “it seems I need servicing.”