Sa’afia was at my feet, naked where I was clothed, though it was only her mouth that covered my cock. Her buttocks and hips burned a little, I hoped, from the smacks I’d given her with the rod. Her bottom still wore two raised welts, and waggled slightly while she worked on my cock. I was happy, but never mind me: I knew beyond any doubt that she was supremely happy.
She wasn’t allowed to speak, but she broke that rule whenever she felt like it. The threat of getting a smack across her arse wasn’t exactly terrifying her. She’d discovered that even quite a hard impact was a strong and sexy thing, and she was pleased to provoke me into giving her more. But when bdsm works you don’t need speech. There’s a kind of body-reading that comes close to mind-reading, and we knew what we felt, without words.
There’s a joke about a starlet who goes to a Hollywood agent and begs for a bit part in Flying Crocodiles of New York III. He says, “cherrypie, the script has only three girls in it who run around with their tits out and get chomped by the crocs. And those parts have been filled.”
She says, “then I could just run around with my tits out anyway, sort of in the background.”
“And by the way my tits are very nice, and if you put me in the movie then you could come between my tits or in my mouth. In fact, put me in the movie and I’ll suck your cock right now.”
The agent looks puzzled. “Yeah, but what’s in it for me?”
I mention that because when Sa’afia was sucking and licking my cock, I felt something pretty close to that ludicrous arrogance. I loved the sight of her, and I loved the soft paradise she’d taken my cock into, but above all, I felt proud that I’d put Sa’afia in a place she liked, that she’d wanted to be in and not found before.
She loved her submissive position, the fact that her ass burned, and that she was pleasuring the man who’d welted her. I watched her and watched over her, and thought about ways to increase her feeling of submission. She served my cock, just then, but I was at her service.