I’d slid easily into Megan, standing behind her, while she was still bent over the bench. I occasionally struck her flanks, the side of her buttocks and her upper thighs, while I rode her ass. I still held the belt, firmly in my hand. Whipping her was my duty, and my pleasure, and mine. 

When Megan submitted, she gave me continuous guidance about what she wanted.

For example, I knew that she could come within seconds if I told her to, but that otherwise she’d wait until I gave her permission.

I knew that I should delay that permission, because she didn’t want to be allowed release till she’d begged and reached an agony of tension.

She hadn’t said a word of that to me,  and I don’t how she’d let me know these fine and intricate things. But she had told me, somehow.

We fucked, still slowly, knowing we could stay slow for much longer, and I strapped her right side six times with my belt. In answer Magan made a harsh, sex noise: “Harrgh, harr, harrrgh…” Because my cock was no longer obstructing her mouth. 

I smiled, for simple happiness, and then applied the belt, just as hard on the left side, while she pushed back at me, possessing and riding my cock, and sang that low, harsh pleasure song again. Only then could I speed up. And though she wanted me to, she wouldn’t until I’d set the new pace. 

It had been a long time since I’d engaged with these complexities, and I loved returning to them. The intuitive link between dominants and submissives, the way we know each other, was where a part of me was most alive. The same would be true of her. We made happiness, if not love.

Megan lifted her legs off the ground, to hold me while I fucked her, and pressed her feet just below my buttocks, moving together with me, her temporary master, her cock and pain-giver. She sighed, and tightened the pressure on my buttocks. 

She said things (“fuck me fuck me sir please come in me”, and so on) that I won’t quote too closely here because they’d seem silly, while in that context they didn’t seem silly at all. She wanted my come, even in a condom; it meant so much. 

I smiled at her, since she couldn’t see me. Megan liked to beg. I said, as if grudgingly, “That’s better.”

And it was. Our carefully passionate meetings weren’t everything I wanted. We kept a certain kind of emotional distance because of the ban on falling in love, and that never quite felt right to me. But having this in my life was better. It truly was.

The previous episode is here.

I put my hand in her hair and Megan made a low, harsh sound of appreciation, so I tangled more hair in my fingers and pulled, hard. I moved a little faster, and stepped up the pace of her strapping. Megan tried to say something, but my cock obstructed her.

I paused. “What was that?” 

“Harggr.” 

Oh. I knew what she’d said, but I said, “You’ll have to be clearer than that.”  I swung the belt down again, hard, across her back and buttocks. She jerked forward.

There was a brief wet second in which she had almost all of my cock. Then she had to draw back again.

Megan said, with what should have been extreme clarity, “Har-weh. Deh! Deh.” There was urgency in that voice. I was charmed by her enunciation, given that I blocked her tongue and mouth. I decided I should get a gag for her, so long as it was only partly effective.

“Oh, do you mean, ‘harder’?”   

“Ess. Ess ease. Puh. Puh ease.”

“Good girl.” I strapped her harder, six times, while her cries rose in pitch and she sounded very close to coming. I withdrew entirely from her mouth and walked round the table. I touched the soft skin just below her left buttock.

Megan trembled, but the tension was not fear. I asked, as if I was offering a glass of milk, “Megan, would you like to be fucked now?”

I put on a condom, and then grasped her hips tight, fingers pressing as hard as I could. She said, in sexual rage, “Yes! Yes please.” 

“That’s right.” I stood behind her, between her feet, and leaned forward, cock disappearing into her. Megan was wet, and her bottom warm from the belt.

Megan, who’d written to me, was pretty, clever and real. So I contacted her back. She insisted on a picture of me with my shirt off. I starved myself for a couple of days, which made no difference, and managed my own phone camera and bathroom mirror picture. It took nearly forty pictures to get one in which I wasn’t too obviously sucking my stomach in. But it passed.

She called me and made a speech she’d probably made before: she didn’t want a relationship; she wanted hard bdsm sex. In her bedroom, she wanted a man to take what he wanted from her and do what he wanted to her. But I wasn’t to think that I had rights over her when I wasn’t in her bedroom. Okay?

I said all that was fine with me. “By the way, you don’t like Dobermans, do you? I mean, romantically?”

“Dobermans?” I’d made her laugh. “You’ve been on this site, and now you ask all your girls if they’re into dobermans? Like that’s something you have to be wary of? You’ve had a time!”

“I could a tale unfold…”

She, fortunately, didn’t want to hear it. “Anyway I hate dogs. Do you want to, um, stick pins in me?” I said something crass about things I did want to stick in her, but not pins, and so she agreed to meet me in what was becoming my favorite bar.

Megan looked as good as her photos, and I looked no worse than mine. I knew I wanted her once she’d walked through the door. She took longer to decide about me, I think, because she was much prettier than me. But I clinched my case when she knocked our table, spilling wine, and I promised to leather the front of her thighs for that.

If I’d said “thighs”, or “the back of your thighs”, I might not have won her. But “the front of your thighs” showed ambition and attention to detail. She considered that, and said we had a date.

The date was for Friday night, at her apartment. Some time that night Megan was tied to a table, face down, with her knees spread and drawn up like a frog’s. I’d roped her knees to the tops of the table legs. Her thighs blushed front and back, since I’d over-delivered on my promise.

We were in a classic dominant-submissive configuration, Megan naked, bound and bent, and I standing clothed before her, my cock in her mouth. She suckled, slowly nodding, while I drew back and pushed forward, unhurried, as if absent-mindedly.   

About twice a minute, I would swing my belt down her back so the end cracked and curled around her bottom and the insides of her thighs. Megan rewarded each stroke by taking my cock deeper for a second or two. She’d said it was safe to strap her hard because she never bit when she was strapped. Her mouth always opened, in response to pain.

I was impressed: it’s not something that most people know about themselves. She was more experienced and skilled than me. She was a technician of pleasure. She was also quite wise and cheerfully sensible, and though we were nearly strangers I liked her.

We’d never be lovers. But we gave each other truth. Accepting Megans measured submission let me expand to fill more of myself. It was like re-opening the disused wing of a house. 

The next episode is here.

Note

I don’t have time to write another instalment of the Maires, Stephanie and me story. I’m writing a non-erotic novel, and dealing with crazed bureaucrats. So this is a story I prepared earlier.