The Beginning of Belonging

From the very beginning, I had an inkling that men—any men, all men—owed me a certain respect. A certain . . . worship. This manifested in my childhood disdain, in my treatment of boys in high school, and burgeoned when I discovered power play at university. But now, after years of exploring the psychology of the weaker sex—you know I don't mean women, don't you?—I am sure. In every interaction, with every exchange between me and the male of the species, it's proved true. 

 

It's something about the way their eyes shift when they look at me—out of the corners of their eyes, before we're acquainted. Or once in thrall, eyes gazing up from a face tilted down, worshipful; eyes rolled back with a gasp as he's overcome, before he recovers himself and begs my forgiveness.

 

Yes, beg my forgiveness. Boyfriends are for girls, but supplicants are for goddesses. Which one am I? I'll let you guess.

 

~

 

He knew what he was in for when he knocked.

 

Was that your knuckles knocking, or your knees? I tease demurely as I let him in. His lips start to move in response as he sets the bags he's carrying near the door, but he's already run out of words. As I click the door shut behind him and draw the lock, I add quietly: Speaking of your knees . . .

 

He falls to them in front of me.

 

His eyes start at my toes, my henna-flowered calves, and slowly, painstakingly, move upward over the curve of my long left thigh, my hips, my breasts—partially veiled by the line of blue silk sarong draped across them. The fabric is gossamer thin and very soft. The tasseled edge hangs tantalizingly open, just enough for him to be aware that something as light as a breath or a draft of air might push it aside and reveal more. Finally his searching eyes meet mine: his face open, placating, and mine calm, focused, my gaze probing and penetrating him, my cheekbones framed gently by the loose red waves that fall around my face and across my smooth, uncovered shoulders. He lets out a slow breath. Is it relief, to be within my walls again?

 

Why are you here? I ask him.

 

"To worship you, Goddess," he responds—grateful to have suddenly recovered his tongue.

 

Worship me, then, I tell him. And I smile.

 

~

 

A flicker of my eyes is all he needs to be on his feet and carrying his bags into the kitchen, hustling to unload them quietly and prepare the succulents he's brought me. Fruit and honey, sweet goat's milk, fresh plum tomatoes from his garden. Only the most perfect, the choicest and most unadulterated morsels for his Lady. He piles berries into bowls, pours milk and honey, arranges them all, and brings them to a low table near the fireplace. I am standing there watching him silently, my toes curling into the luxurious rug—deep, white alpaca—as I consider the signs. He is breathing quickly still, his relief punctuated by a sweet anxiety. Will I approve? Will I grant him his desires? Or will I find his offerings wanting—will I find him wanting—as I have done before?

 

I haven't decided yet. I'm feeling whimsical this evening.

 

~

 

I catch him leaning over the sink to clean a drop of honey from the smooth stone countertop, and the cloth in his hand stops mid-air. The pulse in his throat flutters twice before I slip my hands around his hips. He is frozen, waiting.

 

You're far too tall, I say teasingly, and the quality of his frozenness takes on a new uncertainty. The hand holding the cloth starts to drift down toward the honey—he's thinking perhaps that I've overlooked it, or won't admonish him this time. No, I say, and he freezes again. The smallest of smiles tickles the corner of my mouth. Your mouth, I suggest.

 

His pulse flutters again, and he leans forward over the counter. I am behind him, the curves of my stomach and breasts against him, my hands still resting near his belt, the tips of my fingers brushing the skin above his waistline. His mouth presses against the cool stone where the drop of honey has fallen, and he sucks at the surface, licks with his tongue, laps at the countertop carefully. As he leans forward, I lean forward as well, pinning him, and my hands slowly begin to undo his belt. The zipper slides down. His pants slide down, too, and I feel his warm muscled thighs on my hands as they go.

 

You can't be done already, I comment archly when he pauses. Once again he begins to lick and suck the countertop where the honey had been. I touch his belly and lower with the tips of my fingers, tracing the edge of his briefs. His hair tickles my hands. I brush his pubis and then his penis with the edge of my thumb. I hear his breath hitch, and I stop for a moment—but he is continuing his ministrations to the stone countertop, a good and respectful boy, a very smart boy. I begin to peel the briefs away, pushing them down to the floor.

 

He's standing naked in my kitchen, my body pressed along the side of his, and the only thing that separates us is a thin blue layer of silk.

 

He didn't expect to be so close to me so quickly, and his pulse comes faster. He never looks up from his task. I think perhaps he's wearing a hollow in the stone, his mouth moves so diligently upon it. The honey is long gone, but I haven't told him to stop. He knows that it is only my desire, my wish, my whim that impels him.

 

I move the palm of my hand over his naked ass. You were careless with the honey, I say.

 

"Yes, Goddess," he breathes.

 

The first smack has a deep, sharp sting—and though I hear his gasp, he remains perfectly still. Yes, a very smart boy. The flat of my palm strikes his bottom again, and my other hand slips in front of him, just barely grazing, just barely stroking my fingertips across the flesh of his inner thigh, the hollow of his hip, the flat of his lower belly. Pet, stroke, soothe, smack. He's hard now, and my mouth is watering. In many ways, this boy, this body, is simply another delicacy brought for my enjoyment. What would he never expect? What will terrify him? What portion of him shall I employ to worship and adore me? Another smack, and I caress the soft skin at the root of his cock.

 

He breathes and moans and squirms, just a little. Just enough.

 

~

 

I tell him to open the window so that I can hear the rain . . . and my neighbors can hear his cries. I disappear into another room as he hurries to obey. The fire, I call to him, and I can hear his movements as he builds it up, the crackle as it grows. I return just as the room begins to fill with heat—heat from the fire is added to the heat from my body and the heat from his fear and longing.

 

I part my sarong with a finger, tracing the long line of blue silk, teasingly exposing one full breast . . . the creamy perfection of my toned stomach . . . and finally, the dark blue silicone cock I have just donned. The leather straps cling snugly to my hips. His breath comes faster. His hands shake imperceptibly, but I know. Control yourself, I tell him sternly, and he closes his eyes, swallows, attempts to slow his racing heart.

  

Over my lap, I say, and he crawls toward me.

 

~

 

We're on the floor, on the soft, deep rug, and my slicked fingers are inside him. Shifting across my lap slowly so as not to disturb or upset me, he takes my cock in his mouth—carefully, tentatively, as if I might deny him this pleasure at any moment—and yes, I might, but perhaps not yet. I watch his lips move down the dark blue silicone to the base as he presses the head into the opening of his throat, straining to please me. His eyes gaze up at my face, worshiping silently. I drill into his ass with my fingers, and his moans vibrate my pubis. He begins to suck along the length of me. Lick me, I tell him, and he doesn't wait to hear it twice; he didn't expect to hear it at all, and he is dying for a taste of me, far sweeter than the honey so carelessly spilt. His cheek slides along my cock; his tongue finds the harness's black leather strap around my upper thigh and then, behind it, a soft lip, my inner labia, the warmth and wetness of Her whom he worships.

 

I close my thighs to his face, confusing him, and he stammers. "Please," he says. "Please," he repeats, and his hands shake slightly as he raises them with palms bared and eyes cast upward. My fingers press more deeply, cruelly, inside him. His breath hitches again. Is he near tears? I gaze piercingly into his face.

 

Why? I ask him.

 

"Because I am your slave," he cries softly, "because I need to worship you, because you are beautiful, because being in your presence takes me apart. I can't get you out of my head. Please, please, let me please you."

 

This was previously a powerful man, I think to myself. A man of pride and privilege, commanding the world’s respect—and now, here, he is reduced to a pitiful thing, a pleading servant. He is worthless and weak in my presence, stripped to his most basic emotions. He has surrendered control. He knows that the only one who can give him what he wants . . . what he needs . . . is me.

 

And so

 

I open my thighs.

 

He buries his face in my wetness, grasping my hips with his hands, devouring deeper. With my folds and juices in his mouth, he gasps and shudders.

 

We spend timeless ages there as he worships. I move slowly and deliberately, letting my head fall backward, my hips undulating, my pelvis grinding rhythmically against his face. I drive another finger into him, three now, slick with lubrication, and he cries out into my cunt. The vibration of his dismay thrills me.

 

More, I demand, purring, luxuriating. My fingers thrust. He doubles and triples his efforts, licking, sucking, abasing himself, feeding my lust for this pleasure.

 

It is not much longer before I come hard, writhing ecstatically—and as my movements slow, he rests his face against the satin skin of my thigh. Warm, slick, delicious. His tongue moves over me again gently, over my sensitive clit, my engorged inner lips, the entrance to my core—cherishing the taste of me, whimpering softly, praying that he might stay close. I breathe and thrum and smile, my eyelids fluttering in pleasure, my fingers still wedged deep in his ass. Another smile lights on my lips, and his further trembling tells me that he knows what comes next.

 

~

 

I rock and drive and pound into him in the firelight. My fingernails dig painful grooves in his shoulders; my fingers slip through his hair and pull his head back sharply. You belong to me? I ask, ever the coquette.

 

"I belong to you," he groans. My cock is buried to the root—he is filled to brimming, and his willpower has deserted him; he cannot hold still; he squirms and shivers.

 

I push into him more deeply, leaning forward, my breasts firm against his back. I whisper into his ear, and my teeth brush the side of his neck. He tenses and squirms closer. We are soaked in sweat, and I am moving hard now behind him, my teeth and nails leaving marks on his neck, his ribs, his thighs. This body is mine, the marks say. This soul is mine, too.

 

He wants me endlessly and doesn't know how to cope with it. He would say that he loves me, if he dared. He's never felt more real and honest than he does while he's with me, and I don't blame him; how can he help it?

 

You belong to me, I repeat, and this time there is no coy question. He reacts physically to those words, his body moving with a new energy and relief as I fuck deeply into him. We are grinding together, melting together, and for this brief moment, he is connected. He is safe in surrender, in worship. He will do anything to maintain my pleasure, anything to please me, and I know the truth of it.

 

~

 

I dared to covet your warmth as you moved on top of me, inside of me, he writes to me later. I drowned in your resonance, in your smell, in your skin. The feelings are indescribable: I feel overfull, brimming, spilling. Every time you move away from me, I reflexively want to move closer, as if I can somehow keep us from parting. I feel safe in your presence, and somehow, when I leave you, I am safer still—no matter where I am, in your thrall, in your power, I know peace. I crave your closeness . . . but away from you, I am somehow closer. Because I am yours.

 

Please allow me to hear your voice again, he pleads, his handwriting becoming slightly erratic. Please let my unworthy fingertips touch words you have written. I will lick and kiss the page you've blessed, if only to better remember the taste you've given me.

 

I know he will bear the distance well, as I read his letter. And if occasionally I may pen him a brief note, or let him hear my sweet voice for a moment on the telephone, what of it? It is more than he deserves, but oh, his begging pleases me . . .

 




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