He answered the door wearing his collar, like I’d told him to. A muffled clink gave away the secret beneath his clothes. He’d been wearing the cage around his cock since early that morning, after admitting he touched himself when he woke up. It was now 7.30pm.
I sidestepped around his welcome kiss and put my bag on the floor of his bedroom. The handle of a leather riding crop poked out suggesting its contents were not the makings of a friendly overnight visit. Tonight, I was his mistress and he my pathetic sissy slave, desperate to please me.
Except I was quietly shitting myself. The roles we had assumed had been playing out over text since the previous evening. Our talk had resumed this morning with even more urgency, and I was starting to doubt my ability to pull this off.
I walked into the living room and stood warming myself in front of the fire. He was clearly on edge, but I didn’t want to start the pretence straight away. We hadn’t seen each other for a week. I wanted to sit down and enjoy the dinner he’d cooked us, talk about his day, his weekend, have a drink, relax. He stood close to me, waiting for my consent to touch me. I leaned into his body and kissed him, long and lingering. It was intimate, and comfortable, one of those kisses you don’t want to end. It was almost a shame to pull away to ask what food the amazing smell was wafting from.
Seated side by side, we ate dinner together at his dining table and I told him about the epic failure of a date I’d gone on that weekend. Actually, I’m not even sure I’d call it a date. We were comically unsuited. So, why did I tell him? Maybe part of me wanted to see how he reacted (he did well) and partly because it was the truth. I didn’t want to start this, whatever this was, off on a lie. We hadn’t yet had “the talk” so I was under no obligation to divulge anything, but it’s never been the way I dated. I guess part of me thought he might also reveal something about his feelings.
I had deliberately dressed provocatively but covered. My tights were black with something like an embossed animal print, a filmy white t-shirt, a denim jacket. A necklace hung between my breasts, pulling the shirt tight to show my cleavage. If he’d been expecting me to arrive dressed as a dominatrix then I was a disappointment. At least my hair was fresh; it was the whole reason I was as late as I was. After three months of social isolation (thanks Covid) I was not giving up a hair appointment for whips or pleasure.
While we were chatting, I tried to drill down into the psyche behind his kinks, when he first wanted to try, when he finally got to try, and what it was about being a submissive that turned him on. The first two answers were given up readily but the why I don’t think even he knows. Then, I’m not sure I know why I love it either and here I was about to torment and punish someone who I quite liked who had cooked me dinner. I struggled with the wrongness of that. It seemed impolite if nothing else.
I brought up the list I had used with a couple of previous partners, something I’d found on the internet with more sex paraphernalia, positions and fetishes than I knew existed in the world. More drinks and we sat on the lounge in front of the fire and trawled through the items, sharing stories about things we’d used or seen or done.
I reached out to feel the metal cage that enveloped his cock beneath his shorts. He’d told me he’d been leaking pre-cum all day, from the moment it went on. I’d already admitted they were new to me, so I was fascinated by how it worked. I wasn’t yet ready to start making demands, but I did ask him to undress so I could look at it. That’s when I saw he’d also obeyed my instruction to wear something he thought I’d like. A black g-string with a dual waist band held his caged cock and it was hugely arousing. I wish I had the confidence he had because when I put on my “costume” I did not feel half the energy he was radiating. If anything, seeing him like this made me more nervous about fucking this all up. Improv was my absolute worst subject when I studied drama at school and university. I could present to a room full of businesspeople and CEOs but put a whip in my hand and ask me to “punish” someone and I become all bumbling repetition. I start sentences that I realise are wrong midway and desperately try to self-correct and end up saying shit like “yeah you like the feel of my, I mean, dildo, this dildo ah dick, this um, yeah pounding you like a dirty slut man boy, ah fuck”.
The thing is I’m great at dirty talk. Love it. Can’t shut me up. I have put off some men in my history when I’ve thrown out lines asking them to call me their dirty little whore, their filthy slut, and to pound me like a dozen men are watching. Yep, it’s not for everyone. But for me, the louder, the dirtier, the better.
Except it seems when I’m in charge. So, there we are: him, naked but for a collar, a g-string and a cock cage, and me still dressed like I’m headed out to brunch with a bag full of toys waiting. The restraints were already arranged on the bed. There was only one thing left to do and that was for me to bite the fucking bullet full of butterflies and get my sexy on.
I do sexy badly. Not accidental sexy, apparently, I’m a champ at that, but deliberate sexy. I feel like such a poser and being it was the first day of winter, I felt decidedly less sexy with my pale legs just beginning to get their hibernation scales. I had brought a few outfits to choose from based on my level of sobriety and the lighting in his bedroom. None seemed right. I also hadn’t worn heels since I quite my office job, so my calves started screaming the moment I pulled those five-inch platforms onto my home pedicure (another iso-fail). Did I mention I’d read in my crammed research the night before that confidence is everything in this kind of sex-nario?
I ended up wearing a black bodysuit with cutaways through the cleavage and sides, my too tall heels, and a vegan leather (like that matters) harness with a six-inch purple vibrating dildo designed for his and her pleasure. I also held in my hand the suggestive riding crop (not vegan) that I swished through the air like I knew exactly what I was doing.
It was time to assume the role of mistress, and he my little man slut.
Stay tuned for part 2.