Choices

My slave is waiting for a punishment.

I gave him a nearly impossible decision last night. It was diabolical, really. Cum, and be punished. Don’t cum, and don’t be punished. (But I’m not promising you’ll have even the chance to cum again anytime soon. Think carefully.)

What would you do, slave readers? I’ll give you some context so you can make your choice….

My slave and I cuddled on the couch a bit last night. As usual, I lounged in some comfortable pajamas while he sat naked except for his two-inch-thick black leather collar, which for the last few weeks he has been commanded to wear whenever at home.

I was very engrossed in rereading Anne Rice’s Vampire Chronicles, and I wasn’t sure I was much interested in sex that evening. But, naturally, with my slave’s warm body cuddled up beside me, my free hand did wander over to stroke now and then. My slave shaves himself, as I’ve mentioned before, and while I read I simply started sliding my fingers along that bare skin more and more. I wasn’t paying attention to it, really. Just petting. Enjoying the smooth skin over his pelvis. Scooping his balls into my palm and lightly squeezing. Trailing my fingertips up his slightly hardening shaft, feeling it jerk and twitch. Encircling the head tightly with my index finger and thumb, stroking down as the cock lengthened between my fingers. Slapping and tapping at it as it rose and bobbed higher into the air.

I didn’t look at it much. I didn’t look at him much. He sat there trembling, occasionally gasping a bit, his eyes focused on the floor or on my hand. He didn’t presume to try to attract my attention. He knew that I was focused elsewhere. My slave does not impose upon me when I’m enjoying myself.

Around the time my slave started whimpering, I came to the end of a pivotal chapter. I knew it was time to pause in my reading, but I wasn’t quite ready for sleep. My body had enjoyed the slow, gentle arousal of sitting next to my naked slave, registering his incredible horniness in a distant part of my mind. My pussy was soft and a little moist; my nipples were getting tight against my soft cotton shirt. I smiled the cat-that-ate-the-canary smile that always frightens and excites my slave, and I said, “Meet me in the bedroom, slave. And bring me a glass of water.”

A whimper escaped him, and he stood up immediately, his head down, responding, “Yes, Mistress,” in that hushed tone he uses when feeling submissive.

By the time he reached the bedroom, I lay naked against our satiny golden sheets, my hand between my thighs spreading the dampness around, circling my clit, testing the waters.

“Bring me the vibrator and come lie next to me. Play with my nipples,” I commanded simply. He placed the vibrator within easy reach and lay down alongside me, careful not touch me in any way I had not requested.

My slave knew how I liked my nipples touched. I had taught him myself, very clearly. I did not worry about insulting him or hurting his feelings by insinuating that he didn’t do it well enough himself. He wants to please me, and I want maximum pleasure. When I explicitly teach him what pleases me, we both win.

I continued touching myself, dipping into the moisture welling from my pussy, slicking it up to my sensitive clit, while he began to play. He brought the soft, cool sheet over my chest and brushed both my nipples with his fingers at the same time, the sensation drawing a gasp from me as a surge of pleasure shot through my clit. He stroked my breasts through the cloth for a few moments, and then, as I drew out the vibrator, he removed it so I could feel his hands against my bare skin.

I delved between my lips with the vibrator, quickly ramping up the setting since I was already highly aroused and ready for stimulation. My slave’s cock was probably hard; his hips were rhythmically grinding against the air. I cannot say exactly what he was doing or thinking. I wasn’t paying attention. I was getting so close.

His fingers circled my breasts until my body was reaching toward him, begging for that touch. The vibrator was in the perfect spot, my clit about to ignite, my every muscle tensing in anticipation. I heard myself begin whimpering too, small noises deep in my throat, aching, pleading noises. Finally, when I was about to command it, when I was poised to explode, his fingers pinched my nipples, hard but perfect, and I came hard, screaming, moaning, my body arching off the bed, the vibrator still pressed against my clit.

Slowly the tremors slowed, contentment spread throughout my body, and my awareness grew. My slave’s hands stroked away from my nipples, down my abdomen, pressing against me lightly but hopefully. I sighed in satisfaction and turned my face toward him, nuzzling his chest below the collar, biting his nipple gently. I noticed his whimpering, his grinding, his eyes moving back and forth between my face to my cunny.

“Mmm,” I sighed again. “Not tonight, slave. I’m so content.”

He whined loudly in protest, his hips thrusting hard in disappointed reaction.

“Not at all?”

“No.”

“But Mistress, when may slave cum again?”

I took a moment to consider. We have ventured only so far into orgasm denial territory yet, and I didn’t want to press him too hard. But neither did I want to give in simply because he was horny. I was pleased with the night’s work.

“You have a choice to make, slave. After I go to sleep, you will stroke yourself to the edge. You can then either cum or not cum. If you cum, you will be punished. I will tie you face down to the bed, your legs spread wide, your ass in the air, completely vulnerable to me. I will crop you, hard, fifty times. And then you will lie there and wonder whether I am going to get the vibrator and use it to fuck your ass.”

He lay there groaning, his hand already fastened to the hard cock, moving up and down.

“If you don’t cum,” I continued, “you will not be punished. But I don’t know when you’ll cum again. And you may still incur punishment for something else in the next few days. Who knows?”

“But Mistress, this is an impossible decision!”

“You have your orders, slave.”

With that, I turned off the lamp, curled up on my side, and drifted off to sleep.

As I said, my slave is waiting for a punishment today. I guess you know what he chose. Can you blame him?

Mistress K

The Day My Slave Shaved

Things changed when I made my slave shave his pubic hair.

My husband and I don’t always live as Mistress and slave. Before we married we mostly played at D/s. Since moving in together, we’ve had more chance to explore long-term chastity and servitude, and we tend to have a few weeks at a time of serious Mistress/slave play before taking a break. J has made it clear to me that he wants to be my slave all the time, but he’s afraid. Maybe to some Mistresses that wouldn’t matter, and they would know how to simply take command and demand their due at all times. However, I am growing into my role as Mistress because my husband wants it. I find it more and more attractive as time goes on, and I’m certainly not doing something I don’t want to do…but I did not read BDSM erotica throughout my teen years as my husband did. I don’t always know how it’s supposed to work. The idea that he wants to be controlled or hurt or humiliated started out pretty foreign to me, and I’ve had to get used to it, moving slowly to be sure I’m not crossing his real boundaries. This is a theme you will see often in my stories.

Three weeks ago, quite unexpectedly, my husband suddenly became very submissive (not unusual, certainly; it happens periodically) and suggested that Mistress might want him to shave himself. Does slave want to shave himself? I asked, needing more explicit guidance, as I often do. Slave wishes to please Mistress, he answered predictably. If Mistress wants him to shave, he will.

I understood this to mean that, yes, this was part of some fantasy of his, that I wouldn’t truly be hurting him by making him shave, and that he wanted to be commanded to do it. At the time, I didn’t fully understand why. I thought it might make giving head a little easier, but I wasn’t sure I’d like it—what if he didn’t seem as manly without the hair?

If you are more experienced than I was, you may have already realized: That was the point.

I came home from work that night and found him naked and waiting for my examination.

I looked at his bald pelvic area for a long while. I fondled his bare cock and balls, feeling the smoothness left by body lotion and the small prickly patches that weren’t fully clear of hair. Did I like it? I still wasn’t sure, but I did know that my eyes kept returning to it. As we stood in the kitchen or sat talking on the sofa, I stared. My gaze would move up to his magnificent, broad, hairy chest, and then back down to that nude little penis, and my hand would idly reach over to stroke lightly all around it, enjoying a texture I had never felt on a man before.

Eventually the truth crystallized in my mind. I was hesitant to say it at first, because it sounded selfish, almost vindictive, and perhaps humiliating to him. Yet something inside me hinted that maybe this was his goal…so I said it aloud.

It’s bare like a woman’s pussy. I like it…because you had to do what I have to do all the time. You had to feel the irritation of the razor, you had to spend extra time in the shower, you had to painstakingly move a blade across your most sensitive areas, and you had to do it just so that your sex would appeal to the sexual, objectifying gaze of your lover. You had to do what society automatically demands from a woman. And I made you do it. I like it.

I had read similar sentiments before in books about being a Mistress—books my husband gave me to read in hopes they would help me internalize the fully dominant mindset. Women are superior, they suggested. Make your man do the things society demands of you. Make him do chores, make him indulge your sexual desires before his own, make him cater to your demands out of bed as he should by right. I agreed with these suggestions to some extent, but I had not quite taken them to heart. After all, I am the woman. As liberated as America has become, most of the people around me—in-laws, friends, even my own parents—truly would have these latent expectations of me as the woman. Of course I needed to cook and clean up for my husband if he was going through a troublesome time and had little time at home. Of course I should provide him the comfort of sexual release and sexual intimacy when he’d had a hard day. Surely that was my job, not as a woman but as a lover. Yet those other mistresses whose books I’d read said otherwise. And my husband—my slave—wanted me to think otherwise.

This is a complex issue I will undoubtedly turn over and over in my head over the years. Later, I will tell you how this simple command to shave quickly turned into our first clear encounter with sissification, how it led to my slave wearing pink satin panties under his clothing right now, and how we’re learning to incorporate this into our usual chastity and bondage play.

For now, it is enough simply to state: I like my husband’s shaven pubis, and I will demand that it stay that way.

Except, next time, I think I’ll make him wax.

Mistress K