What you want

​I know what you like, what you want. I know that, while you’re mine, you want to turn yourself over to me, completely. You want not to think, not to decide, not, even, to want, beyond the most fundamental desire you have to give me what I want, to serve as my toy, as my plaything.

I will give you what you want. And more.

From the moment you arrive in the bar until the moment you feel the cold air on your face, sticky with my cum, you need do nothing other than execute my very detailed instructions.

I will, to begin with, tell you what you’re drinking. (A glass of sauvignon blanc.)

I will tell you where to sit. Where to face. How to arrange your body. (Next to me. Facing forward. Hands on the table, palms up, except when reaching for a sip – which I will tell you when to do. Legs uncrossed, apart. Back straight. Straighter. Straighter. I want to see how high you can lift your head above your spine, even as you show me your breasts, pushing them forward, against the camisole I’ve asked you to wear, against the translucent silk blouse I’ve selected.)

At a certain point, I’ll instruct you to go to our room. I’ll give you a key, and tell you how I will want to find you. Nude? Clothed? Partly undressed? Standing, kneeling, lying? Hands on, in your cunt? On your breasts? Above your head? Behind your back?

Some time later – one? ten? thirty? – minutes later, I will arrive, and, being my good girl, you will be waiting for me precisely as I’ve asked to find you.

“Good girl,” I will say in my deep, mellow voice. “Good girl.”

I will trace my fingers lightly over your body, gently, caressing, almost tickling. But gradually, gradually, I will increase the pressure of my fingers on your flesh. I’ll grip your thighs, your ass, your throat. I’ll press you hard, down into the floor or bed, back into the wall. I’ll bend you over my knees and spank your ass, gently, softly, but with mounting intensity. I’ll touch between your thighs to feel whether your cunt is responding to my instructions, to my touch, to your giving yourself completely to me.

I’ll feed you my cock, and tell you how to kick it, how to suck it. When to lick my balls, the underside of my shaft, my ass, my head. And when to close your lips around me, sliding down, taking me into your mouth, into your throat.

I’ll tell you with words what to do, how to position yourself, how to please me. And with my hands, on the back of your head, in your hair, pushing you down on me, pulling you back, holding you still, driving you up and down, back and forth, quickly, slowly, using you to please me.

Perhaps there will be more. Perhaps I’ll splay you on the bed, devouring your cunt, your ass. Perhaps I’ll restrain you, your wrists and arms, your ankles and legs. Maybe I’ll blindfold you, maybe even gag you.

And maybe, your legs open, I’ll pound my hard cock into you, or gently guide it into you. Or tease you with it, rubbing it along the outside of your pussy, pressing or gently against your asshole.

Who knows?

All you have to do is show up.

I’ll take care of the rest.

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E-mail excerpts

From time to time, I will post here an excerpt from an e-mail I’ve sent. This is the first:

She wrote: “What are your feelings about spanking my ass?”

I replied: “[Yesterday, I was thinking] about how you liked me to spank you, and how I had done it a bit, but the time I’d been most… effective… had been the time I was most angry with you, when you had someone else exerting a claim on you, and you were imposing that claim on me – and presenting it not as your need, but as his.

I was musing about that, about how, in fact, I feel anger kinda generally, and/but how it feels, generally, important to me to protect myself – and the women with whom I interact in just about any way – from that anger. To my, and their, sexual detriment.
… [A]ll I have to say about your ass prospectively is that I expect you will need to be ready for what awaits should you ever decide you want to grant me access to it again. Perhaps I’ll write more about that.”