the ways he does me

It’s 7:20 this morning, I am standing bearing the coffee tray. The house is silent, and neither of them are up yet. This time gives me some mental space, a chance to compose some thoughts in my head.

I expect Master K will be late this morning. He awoke last night around 3:00, fetched me from my bedroom, took me into the bondage room, and had me for sex.

There are these early morning times. It’s clear to me these occasions are prompted by his biological need, a wake-up urge from his male physiology in the middle of the night. This to him is not so much about his sexual pleasure, I’m rather sure, but more about his sexual release. I think of this, call this, as him “having me for sex.”

Last night, he kept the bondage room lights low, his common practice for these middle-night occasions, not for any romantic purpose but so he doesn’t fully waken and can go right back to sleep after. He tied me down on my back. He entered my pussy and eventually emptied himself inside me. He “had me for sex.” Done with me, he goes to the bathroom to clean himself up, and only then returns to untie me. He returns to bed and sleep. I return to bed. Sleep is harder.

There is a modest sexual pleasure in it for me, although it doesn’t last long enough sometimes for my fuller enjoyment. It’s not about me, though. My joy is knowing that Master K could satisfy himself without getting out of bed and instead fetches me because he wants to be inside me for his release. This satisfies my submissive heart in a special way, even though his purpose is purely physiological.

It almost makes up for the feeling of being dead tired while standing bearing a coffee tray at 7:20 am.

Another way he does me is in what I’ve written about a number of times — evening sessions. Usually around eight pm or so, he will take me into the bondage room. The session lasts hours.

I have come to realize that this is a sort of hobby for him, maybe a kind of art. The bondage room is his studio (workshop?) in which he makes something, creates an experience. Using me. This is a blend of various bondages and sex and endurances. Some of his interest is, no doubt, in the mechanical devices he has and the connectors of metal and leather to the flesh of a body. To him it’s calming and creative and releasing to experiment and play with me like this. To him all of it is sex, for him a three-hour orgasm.

For me, I have a sense he is implanting himself, impregnating me with his alpha male dominance. (Although knock on wood, I should be careful with the word “impregnate.”)

As I’ve written before, the length of time and the bondage endurances put me in a subspace. It’s a mental claiming of me as much as it is sexual. Through those hours, he will penetrate me in four places — three being my body’s orifices, the fourth being my mind. It’s a total fucking.

Sometimes if Amanda is out for an evening and comes in late, she will ask how my evening was, and I will answer, “I got a fucking.” And she then knows exactly what it was.

Then the other way he does me are the fellatios. Impromptu, helter-skelter, unscheduled, these are his “Maura” commands, at which times I drop into a squat, open his pants, and take his cock into my mouth. I enjoy these times more than is fashionable to say, but they are also subjugating and degrading. Or maybe that’s why I enjoy them so much. Sometimes I am under a table and he never sees my face, only feels my lips and tongue around his cock.

I don’t have a good phrase for referring to the fellatios. I’m no prude, as you well know, but I don’t like so many of the slang and vulgar terms for it. I think of it as sensual not dirty. I often call this just “fellatio,” although that sometimes is too clinical. With Amanda I just say “he had me for a mouth cum.” And she knows.

I can’t deny feeling a desire for him sometime to do me another way: to just take me into his bed, not the bondage room, for us to truly “make love” together. That would be the other phrase I would use, but I doubt that’s likely to happen. If it did, it wouldn’t be that I would have expectation from it, any assumption of love or romance, nor would it change these other uses of me for sex and fucking and mouth cum. It’s just that sometimes you want to wrap your arms around somebody, and that’s hard to do when you’re chained to stainless steel furniture.

Yet in all the ways he does me, I feel a kind of intimacy nonetheless. I am tightly bound to his physical and sexual cycles. He takes me in any of these ways when he has the need and desire. There is a sexual ebb and flow to him, a kind of rocking back and forth offshore from his stressful business life.

He keeps pulling me into his boat. I like that.

without hands

He ties my one good hand behind my back. My other is in the sling in front.

He stands in the middle of the front atrium. I am on my knees before him.

I am topless. He reaches down to my breasts for a fondle and squeeze.

He unzips his pants and pulls out his member. It’s firming but still drooping. I know my purpose. I lean my head under and collect his tip into my mouth. Capturing it out of the air, I straighten, lift it up with my mouth, and manage to slide down on it. More of it slips inside along my tongue.

This is new for me, being without hands, and it frustrates me. I want to hold him and guide him in and out of my mouth. I want to reach under and hold his balls in my palm. I want to stroke him, that elastic sheath of skin along his shaft.

I can’t do any of that. I have to make love to it with just my lips and tongue.

He grows harder as he feels the love of my mouth and cheeks.

Without hands, I am more aware of him in other ways: his taste, spicy and earthy; his cock head hitting the back of my throat; his soft exterior folds and veins skidding across my lips.

He is now rock hard. He pulls himself out and has fun slapping my cheeks with his erection. I close my eyes and receive this face-whipping.

He now pushes himself into me again, my mouth, wet and warm, receiving him a second time, bathing him with tongue love.

He is on the verge and takes to long strokes in and out, pelvic thrusts that leave him sometimes slipping completely out of my mouth. I know this is intentional. I know what will happen.

His ejaculation ripples forth. Grunting, he slides his cock out of my mouth as he comes. Inches away, it splashes onto my face like heavy cream, spraying my cheeks and nose and left eye. He pushes into my mouth for a second spurt, and coats my tongue with his jizz. A third spasm leaves dollops on my chin.

I look up. He nods his approval. I swallow what’s on my tongue.

He points to the floor where a droplet of cum has spilled. I lean over and quickly lap it up, careful not to allow the cum on my face to drip off and create a further mess.

He gives me his cock for cleaning. I do, mustering the saliva necessary to wash it.

He unties my good hand, and walks away.

I tuck my legs under me, and just sit on the floor, used.

Now, I am dictating this post, still wearing his cum on my face.