Thursday, February 12, 2009


My girlfriend is a dominatrix. Not a pro, not even that experienced. But a dominatrix, nonetheless.
I wasn’t aware of her need to put her hands around my neck and choke me, or force my mouth onto the slippery, stiletto heel of her patent thigh boots when we first started seeing each other a few short months ago. But then, neither was she.

Where are we now? It’s a club buried in the after-hours basement of a New York City Chinese restaurant. My beautiful, butter-wouldn’t-melt 23-year-old baby is whipping the shit out of me. She’s taking me right to the edge. Maybe beyond. I could pass out here. I don’t think I could stand now if she released me. I don’t want her to release me. I don’t want her to stop.
I’m tethered to a giant, wooden St Andrews cross that dominates the centre room of this Far Eastern-style torture chamber. My arms are manacled over my head. The black rubber ball gag is straining in my drooling mouth while her oh so gentle fingers are easing their way, two at a time into the slippery, greasy hole that is my butt.
Her other hand is working my cock. Stiff, distended, pumped full and oozing glistening pre-cum, my dick has been wet all night from the red latex thong I’m strapped inside.
I want my latex-smothered dick in her mouth. I want my gasping mouth on her cunt. I want her stream of hot wet piss to fill my face, my nose, my eyes.
But then, when did it ever matter what I want …?

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