Hall of Mirrors

“It’s funny how clothes set the mood,” my Owner has mused, and he’s right: When I am dressed according to his specifications, I feel more like my true self, his property, his “living fuck doll,” as he once said to fluster me. He always instructs me in how to dress for him, but this time I was given a choice. I was to meet him wearing either fishnet pantyhose to be ripped open as soon as we are alone or my Valentine’s present to my Owner, if it arrived in time for his visit. If that was the case, he’d instructed me to keep it a surprise by wearing fishnet stockings so he wouldn’t know what I had on under my dress until exploring me in the back of the taxi.

It’s 9:30 and the station is locked. I stand outside and shiver, looking for the half moon the calendar had indicated above my own scrawl of the name I never speak, complete with a little childish heart… I worry that my Owner will be upset I’m not dressed warmly enough because I’ve been so sick it had looked like we may have to cancel this visit, but at the same time I’m grateful for the cold because it will keep me from sweating while I wait or blushing when I look in his eyes. When his bus arrives, I look down until I sense him approach. My heart races; it’s been too long since I was with my Owner. It’s his clothes I see before his face, as my gaze is lowered. I recognize him by his stride, which reminds me of the way the young doctors carry themselves: Unusually confident and purposeful. I have joked to him before he would make a good doctor, but that had more to do with his hands than his walk. He wears a white shirt and black tie, which he knows I find very sexy; it does have a certain dignity and shows he means business. His tie pin is a large safety pin, lest someone mistake him for normal.

We kiss before speaking, as always, though there is extra pent up lust in this greeting. It’s the longest we’ve been apart since he first came to claim me as his Possessed. I steal the warmth from his body, tilt my head back to receive his tongue. He kisses like he steps to claim me, pressing forward with speed and energy. The elegant motions of his tongue elicit my sloppy, adoring kisses and when we pull apart I reach up to his mouth to wipe off my spit and red lipstick. We walk to a taxi, me holding his hand tight like he might decide to give me my freedom.

In the backseat he covers my lap with his overcoat and seeks his present with his hands. “You gave it away by wearing your latex gloves to match,” he teases. He already knew I was wearing the black latex panties I knew he’d like. We lick each other’s tongues the rest of the way home.

When we get in the door, he places his coat and suit jacket over the sofa where the belt of my dress has also landed. I know I should offer to hang his clothes properly, but also that there are more pressing ways I should be serving my Owner at the moment. I request he close the glass door to contain the sounds and to please unplug my phone so there will be no unwanted sounds of other voices.

He unbuttons my dress down to the safety pin I wear for practical reasons rather than personal style. “The buttons stop above my crotch and it could leave me exposed,” I explain. My Owner corrects me: It’s His, not mine, but that I am right to make sure no one else could get a glimpse. The dress falls, still fastened. He bends me over the dining table by the door where I’ve placed his riding crop for him, which he trails down my spine. I squirm and when he makes the same trail with his tongue, I feel the moisture begin to pool in the latex..

My Owner admires the image of me bent at the waist and tells me to raise my arse higher. I brace myself in my high heels, knowing I’ll be spanked and then cropped. That delicious much-missed sting soon has me moaning and I know that in a moment he’ll want to feel the effect his skill has on me.

“Sit in my lap now. I think I should make you cum for me before you crawl to your bedroom.”

I don’t hesitate, but sit carefully to try and keep from staining his trousers.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall,” he assures me as he opens my legs to stroke my latex-covered cunt. The panties don’t contain the flow of my arousal and he notices my thighs getting wet. My Owner is consistently surprised by how quickly I’m ready for him. He asks if the feel of the latex against my skin turned me on, got me so wet while I waited for him to arrive, did I like the feel of being his latex whore… I answer, “Yes, Sir.” I did like the feel, but mostly it was being under his control again and now in his lap that had me slipping against his fingers. I’m waiting for him to stretch the crotch of the underwear to the side and touch my bare cunt and when he finally does I hold tighter around his neck, afraid I’ll go weak. My Owner reassures me that I can let myself cum for him and he’ll hold onto me.

I relax my grip and sink into him, trust his arms around me, with only my mouth not passive as I can never take enough of his görükle escort kisses. Orgasm finds me so fast it startles me, as it always does at the beginning of our visits; I’m eager to please him and also, selfishly, more ready than I know to release the frustration of having a long distance BDSM relationship. Even though he’s instructed me to dedicate an orgasm to him each day of this year, it can never be the same as in his arms.

He tells me to stand up. I manage it and lift my ponytail for him to put the collar around my neck. I’d set it by the front door along with the chain lead, as he’d instructed.

“I really should get you a tighter fitting collar, but this one has sentimental value, doesn’t it?” I nod as he looks in my eyes and attaches the lead. “Get down on your knees.”

I crawl to the bedroom, pacing myself to appear graceful and relaxed, the exhibitionist in me wanting to show off the motions of my ass under the latex I’d polished to a shine. Not that I don’t feel pleasantly afraid and ashamed of my sluttiness. He doesn’t see the point of my shame, but I don’t discard it because it intensifies the satisfaction of punishment. In my room, he tugs the lead and tells me to stand and undress him. To help me, he loosens his tie, a gesture I like almost as much as the look of him wearing it, and my tightly gloved little fingers have no trouble with his buttons. I like the look of them working against the white shirt: My hands are not my own. I move to his belt and he directs me to his shoes. Of course, how stupid, but I’m not thinking…

I kneel in stockings, heels, and my latex attire before my naked Owner. The impression he makes undressed is really no different from that of the beautiful man moving to kiss me beneath the streetlight. “Head down,” he commands.

I feel weight on the back of my head and reach up to confirm that it is his bare foot pressing my forehead into the floor. Thank you, Sir. It was something I’d told him a long time ago that I wanted. He doesn’t forget any perverse desire I share: He demands and collects them to Own me more completely. I sense him drawing back then feel the strike of the crop, first on my raised butt, then on the bare stretch of thigh. He’s going easy on me to start out, and I’m grateful; he knows I’ve been ill and is looking after me. To an outsider it might not look that way at all, but I know it to be true.

He gets down to my level (only physically) without taking his foot from my head and pulls my panties aside to penetrate me with his fingers. He finger fucks me with his thumb in my anus. My natural lubrication has trickled all over to make it painless, but when he asks does it hurt, I hesitate. It hurts my heart, in a sweet way, to be helpless and degraded by something that I enjoy because it makes me feel disturbed. I would tell him if I didn’t want it, it’s just something I feel confused that I want. So, I answer, “Yes. A little, Sir. Don’t stop.”

“Lie down on the bed. I want to feel you against me. I think I should make you cum for me again.” In my haste to get up I catch my face on his toenail and scrape my forehead. We laugh through his apology and my assurance I’m fine, that’s it’s no fun without a few minor injuries. (“Yes, but I like to inflict them intentionally.”) When he’s sure nobody’s yet lost an eye we get in bed and go straight for each other’s lips, continuing the evolving pattern of our tongues. I think of how long kisses have been in the past, monotonously moving in the same mind-wandering stalemate. My Owner kisses as clever as he writes, like a series of challenging questions I’m eager to answer, and he tastes so very sweet, like I’m meant to drink him in and I just get thirstier with each fresh swallow of his spit. He speaks gently as he kisses me, his lips brushing mine, punctuating the perversity with enticing flicks of the tongue before falling silent to give me his open mouth to explore, or a smile to tug at in frustrated adoration. He holds back for a second every so often to see how I’ll go after him with swelled lips and tongue. I’m very predictable in my greed, “insatiable,” he says, and can’t say I mind when he smiles and the tip of my tongue meets his sharp teeth. We enjoy our play and can’t keep from smiling sometimes, smug we found each other after too many years not knowing the other was there, not even so far away… Considering that there is one person who could Own me, he has been relatively close. ‘How much different my life would have been if I’d found him sooner,’ I think to myself. Such thoughts inspire a fresh onslaught of my sloppy kisses, like I’m making up for lost time.

He separates from me to hold me down, removing his Valentine’s present with a little mock-reluctant sigh. At my request, he frees my arms from my gloves. They used to be too tight, but after a month or so of illness, they come off more easily. He notices my wrists are smaller, too, when he takes his leather cuffs of to transfer them to me, a practice görükle escort bayan that’s felt right since the first time, so it’s now another custom. In a recent email, after he’d joked about showing up his white coat, he assured me he doesn’t fetishize me being sick or weak—he wants his slave healthy and ready to serve. As for me, I think I enjoyed the weakness on top of the substate delirium. It made me appreciate being in my Owner’s care all the more.

Stretched out on my back, I naturally throw back my arms toward the headboard. My Owner takes a length of rope from the dresser where all we need has been laid out neatly since yesterday. I love to look up at him while he ties me and love how quickly he does it. Tedious shibari is pretty for someone else’s art photos, but not part of this relationship at all, thank God. The hasty knots he makes are not strong, but my pleasure in struggling while bound has receded in correlation to my deepening sense of being Owned. He pauses half a second to take in my position, then is back by my side, the heat coming off his body adding to the secure feeling of being restrained.

“Should I tie your legs apart, too?” He wonders aloud, knowing I’m beyond the point where I can answer questions. He’s up again—that energy I love—and before I know it, my legs are tied down to the bed frame. He spits harshly—such a welcome sound—on my tits to make them wet as he likes and rubs my nipple as he would my clit, whispering in my ear that he had once had a girlfriend who could cum from that. I feel like I could, too, but the orgasm is building deep in my breast and my cunt is aching for attention. I’m confused and heading deeper into substate. All I can think to say is, “You’re such a good lover, Sir.” He laughs and says that he’s had years to practice. My Owner was eighteen when I was born. He seems troubled by that sometimes, but I think it’s sexy. When he first admitted he was older than I’d thought, it turned me on considerably. I’ve always dated older men, but on accident. With this man, it’s become a fetish. Maybe because he has the Dom qualities I expect, and isn’t just another child who acts superior because he’s a man and I was born later. He doesn’t allow me to describe him as superior, but I’ll take the punishment.

He strokes my cunt that feels raw outside from obsessive shaving and painful within from desire to cum for my Owner again. The way he possesses my with his hand says You are mine, in the way he closes every communication. I feel his breath and bites on my nipples, on my neck, and while his begins the motion that will bring me to orgasm again, he asks me a question to ease to ease the lust-strain in my face and bring a smile to my lips, make me open my eyes to meet his mischievous gaze.

“My little virgin sister. Are you going to cum for your brother, let him make you his slave?”

Neither of us wanted age play, but when I confessed my incest fantasy, that I’d always wanted an older brother to fuck, it turned out he enjoyed that idea and assured me that if we’d grown up together as siblings, he’d have been the one to give me my sex education. I was shocked when he told me that after I’d made this desire known, it made its way into his late night masturbation fantasies, which he’s written to me in tantalizing synopses. Once I was wondering if Ownership could be real. Now I’m his virgin younger sister and that has a kind of reality that defies the ordinary reality of time and place. That I’ve seen pictures of the pretty punk boy, younger than I am now, lets me hold in mind who I’d desire if the universe had gotten it perfect and offered me to him years ago as his shy little slut sister.

“Yes, Sir,” I breathe out as he continues to stroke my wet clit and whisper how he’d sneak into my room at night, snuggle up to me under the covers, pull down my panties, make me orgasm for the first time.

“Would you want me to stop?” No, Sir. Please don’t stop.

Just before this last visit, I’d told him I did remember my first orgasm at my own hand and he’d pressed for details. I told him about being fourteen and masturbating one night to the point I was scared—some kind of release of this terrible pleasure had to happen—but I’d never before felt it, so feared I could be trapped in this awful, ‘moment before’ kind of ache. Then it happened, and I’d described it to him as “life-changing.” Tied down now, in my adult bed, my Owner tells me to go back into that experience, but this time it’s my big brother causing those sensations. I begin to sweat. My hair sticks to my face and I feel flushed and parched. My Owner cools me somewhat by spitting on my breasts again, giving me wet kisses in between filthy directions to imagine… Just like the first time, it seems to go on forever, surpassing layer after layer of aroused desperation.

When I reach climax it’s the kind of display that leaves us both shaken. Maybe the neighbors, as well. I usually cum holding him tight, even if I’m only bursa escort free to do so with a hard sucking kiss, but this time, at his nearly hypnotic suggestions, I’m so far gone into my own experience I just let my Owner manipulate my body. When he asks if I’m alright, the first time he’d needed to check on my well-being after pure pleasure, I can’t even open my eyes or speak.

“You look like a person who needs a cigarette.” He doesn’t even like my smoking, so it’s a sweet thing to do, bringing me my cigarettes and a glass of juice. I’m soon able to talk and giggle and swear again. I get up to fix my ruined make up as best I can without wasting too much time on vanity. I look in the bathroom mirror and it’s worse than I imagined. While I work on wiping the black eyeliner from under my eyes, my Owner comes up behind me to embrace me. He comments something to the effect that I should see how we look together, the pair we make, but I don’t allow my eyes to see it in focus, just work on the make up mess: I love to look at him, be with him, even catch other people staring at the picture we make during our brief moments in public on the way to or from the sanctuary of my apartment, but I don’t want an image of us together. For some reason, it’s the rare sort of thing to make me melancholy that he’s married to somebody else. I am his slave, his pet, his Owned personal whore, his virgin sister—all of this is real, but seeing us together in the same frame doesn’t make sense. Our first meeting, I saw us naked in the full-length mirror of a hotel room. I was struck by how perfectly we fit each other visually and that one time was right and enough. I quickly finish up and return to the bedroom, recline on the bed to wait for his next desire.

“I saw your pregnancy test in the bathroom.” I try to keep everything tidy so there won’t be any distractions from my life during our play, but I’d left the drawer open. There were two in the box, so I saved the unused one… It’s kind of embarrassing to leave such an obvious hint exposed: I’d told him I’d worried that us both playing with my cunt with his semen on my hands had perhaps impregnated me during his last visit. Also that I was disappointed, in a way, that the result was negative.

Another fantasy I’d confessed, perhaps stronger than being his sister, is to be his pregnant slave. Not for the baby, but as a state of belonging to him. When my breasts ache for his hands, I like to imagine them full of milk, to feed him as part of my service. My Owner liked the thought: Forced milking like my forced orgasm, another fluid to leak from my body and coat me. He’d wanted me to imagine myself heavily pregnant and still crawling on hands and knees to serve him, to watch another woman suck at my full tits while he disciplined me. He never fails to bring my amorphous longings into sharp focus.

Ignoring my embarrassment, he tells me he was just thinking how attractive my nipples would look enlarged if I were lactating, and they do enlarge slightly, under his imagining gaze. I feel my tits contract in goose bumps and shiver, the fine hair that covers my body standing on end. His palms are warm and rough. I cover his hands with my own to press them harder into my breasts, wrap his fingers tighter around their little curve.

I get my present. The bondage equipment I appreciate is the kind that has the elegance of hardware, form following function. The clothes pins to my nipples were obviously too much for me, much as I hate to admit I have limits. I hadn’t needed to say no—my Owner could tell and if I’m in pain without pleasure there is no pleasure for him. He uses his teeth and tongue in preparation to tighten the screws, which he does so quickly I gasp before I’m really in pain. My nipples are now caught in pretty silver vices, the connecting chain cold weight against the flat of my sternum. He pulls it while he licks the exposed tips of my obscene pregnancy fantasy. He finger fucks me until my own hand slithers to my clit. I’m beyond shyness at this moment and my Owner sits up to watch me masturbating to orgasm at a frantic pace, encouraging me with his voice, making sure I know I’m his whore and he expects to see me act like one for his enjoyment. He teases my clamped breasts while the words pour from is lips to that final command that I am to cum now for my Owner: You’re mine, my whore, fuck yourself for me, cum hard for me, I Own you…He does. Since that became real, each time I approach orgasm it’s like I’ve been deprived for years even if I was just satisfied to mindless exhaustion moments ago. I can’t even say I lose control because I don’t have any. That’s already been relinquished entirely to him.

“And now I think it’s time to read that story.”

Oh, God. I knew this was coming and had left the computer on as part of my sub preparations. He’d encouraged me to post my story of our first meeting on Literotica and I admit that I was proud that he liked the story enough he wanted other people to read it. But he’d refrained from looking at the final version posted, telling me he’d wait until he was in the chair where I wrote it, his slave girl kneeling under the desk, sucking his cock. He said that I’d be able to judge my writing ability by the twitching of his erection in my mouth.

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