1 comments/ 7677 views/ 11 favorites A Real Dom's Chronicle Ch. 01 By: tactilemax My Dirty, Dirty Little Slut: A True Dom's Chronicle (Chapter 1) Introduction This is a true story - a story that charts the erotic relationship between me, a 42 year old professor, and "D" a 19 year old university student. I teach at a University, though not at the same institution D attends. That would be a professional no-go zone for me. I like teaching. I love it in fact. I also have a very high sex drive, which centres on the need to give rather than take. I look boyish for my age. My physique is normal, I guess. I'm slim, not gym-trained, 5'11, 140 pounds, and well-endowed with an 8" uncut cock. I live on my own in a beautiful 2 bedroom apartment in a leafy suburb where, at least from the perspective of outsiders, I lead a fairly unremarkable middleclass life. D came to this country from the Philippines to study psychology. Her father is European, and the confluence of Filipino and European backgrounds accounts to some extent for her beautiful features: almond-shaped and unusually big eyes, a small pouting mouth, high cheekbones, soft skin. Deep black hair reaches below her waist. She stands at 5"2' and has a full figure with pert breasts as befits a barely 19 year old girl. We met online. The title of D's profile is, "Make me anything you want me to be!" and it contains statements such as, "I have too much passion, fire and energy in me that I want to share", and "I can't brag about my "skills" as opposed to my 'more experienced' counterparts, although I am very open minded and willing to try pretty much anything. You'll be surprised." I paid little attention to her self-description - I was very much taken by her photos - but I was soon to find out that it was accurate, although her concerns about her "skills" turned out to be entirely unfounded. Since my mid-thirties I'd been interested in sexual mentorship and coaching. That interest probably developed during a long-term relationship with a woman who had predilections for being tied up and used. Gagging on my cock and anal penetration became de rigueur. On holidays in New York we visited a dungeon where, disappointed at the lack of action, we ended up having sex in front of strangers, some of whom had permission to fondle my partner's breasts and cunt. Gradually, I became fascinated with the psychological and emotional aspects of sub/dom relationships. I devoured Pauline Reage's "Story of O" several times. I loved O's total giving over of herself to another and I pondered my own stance toward power. In no part of my life am I particularly prone to exerting influence over others. Teaching, rather than the impositions of my will, is me. And than there is that always underestimated capacity a dom must acquire: empathy; to listen to your sub's body, not just her moans; to react to the slightest change in the texture of her skin, inside and out; to fathom the fine line between pleasure and pain so that the two may merge in ecstasy; to devise scripts so that in interaction thoughts can be kept at a minimum while being open enough to leave space for spontaneity, subtle reactions to bodily signals and the tempest of desire. This burgeoning interest of mine was underpinned by another: young girls who wanted to learn to find their pleasure. With D my desires converge perfectly, and then converge perfectly with hers, as it turns out. Chapter 1: Discovery We met at a local café. I was delighted when I saw D. As arranged, she wore a red tartan miniskirt and a black, low-cut blouse. Her long hair was tidied up with bangs that covered here eyebrows and almost hid her eyes. Cute dimples, lovely cupid's lips and a smile that just made me want to embrace her, all covered in a blush that exuded both excitement and embarrassment, greeted me. "You look young", D said with what seemed to be some relief. "And you are beautiful", I replied eliciting for the first time that shy, sweet giggle I came to love so much. We made small talk. Spoke about my work and her studies. We discovered our mutual interest in Freudian psychology, in reading and music, over a cappuccino. We had previously agreed that we would go to my place if D would feel comfortable to do so. I broached the subject, and in order to help establish trust I give her my ID, including my address and phone number, which she verified by texting, and asked her to send my details to one of her friends who already knew about D's plans. Granted there is no such things as guaranteed safety when meeting a stranger, this did go some way toward making her feel comfortable enough to come to my apartment. I had cleaned my place the night before and made sure a set of fresh linen and towels were ready for the next day. It's part of my preparation ritual, which helps me while away hours that would otherwise be filled only by a maddening anticipation, a listless stupor quelled at intervals by watching porn and masturbating. I cleaned some of my toys and accessories, waxed my already twitching cock and balls and now and then shoved a finger up my ass to massage my prostate in order to be in a heightened state of preparedness should the following day turn out in the desired way, something I repeated the next morning. We drove to my place, about 15 minutes from the café. We chatted about the kinds of novels we liked: Philip Roth for me, Kresley Cole for her. Fitting considering the age difference, I thought. We were both being very chaste. There was no hint of what was to follow. There was some nervousness on both our parts, yes, but we liked each other's company already. When we entered the apartment D took off her shoes and asked for the bathroom. While she went about her business I took a deep breath. My cock was stirring. Excitement was building. "Relax", I thought. "Take your time. Don't rush. Just discover her, slowly. Forget your cock for now." After D re-emerged I showed her my rooms to reassure her there was no-one else around. I even opened my built-ins. "No cameras, no lurking voyeurs, just us." She just smiled and giggled. So here I was. This sweet little girl walking around my place barefoot in her tartan skirt, blushing, a little lost for words. It was time to act. I took D by her hand and took her to my living room, to the dead centre of it. "Just stand here and close your eyes", I said. D obliged. She just stood there. I gently brushed her bangs from her eyes. I needed to see them. I took in her radiant youth, feasted on her seeming innocence. (The moment is burnt into my memory. My brushing of her hair repeats itself in slow-motion now and then. The difference between eroticism and sexuality, is like the difference between eternity and the mundane. Not quite what Paz writes in The Double Flame, but that's just what it felt like for me.) I tap the inside of her right leg to motion her to widen her stance. She steps to the right. Again. More. Good. I walk around her in circles. Slowly. Grazing the folds of her skirt, nonchalantly touching her hair, the side of her bare arms. Then, just looking, watching: her pulse barely visible on the side of her neck; her half-parted lip-stick coated lips; her décolleté; her skin. I walk behind her. Wait. With my left hand I move her thick hair to one side. I smell that nape of her neck. Then behind her ear. The scent of shampoo seems to mingle with the scent of innocence. Smelling turns to more deliberate sniffing. A faint sigh, a sign of things to come. Sniffing. Recorded. A slow, hesitant kiss to her neck. A high-pitched, staccato "Mmh". Recorded. More little kisses just there. Behind the ear. On the side of her neck, my lips feeling her carotid pulse. I walk to her front, place my hand on her cheek. "You are beautiful. Repeat it after me. 'I'm beautiful'". "I'm beautiful", she whispered almost inaudibly. "Say it loud and clear." "I'm beautiful." "Good. Remember this: I don't make compliments. It's simply a statement of fact. This is how I feel. And the word is inadequate. It's the best I can do." I take my black silk tie and place it over D's eyes. She holds the material firmly to her face while I tie the knot. Now I walk around to her front again. I watch her lips. They are moist. She hadn't closed them in a while and saliva is beginning to coat them. I gently placed mine on hers. I expect no response, even a turn of the head. But instead, the first turning point: D presses her lips against mine, and with a sigh darts her tongue into my mouth, a yearning tongue, yearning lips, a hungry mouth. I returned her desire but only for a split second. It was not for her to call the game. And against my own will I withdrew. I had to. These things are decisive in order to set the balance of power correctly from the beginning. Calibration. Mind over desire, mind over cock, mind over the need for intimacy, over the need to be wanted, over the need to be needed. I step back. D is panting a little. Hungry for closeness. Recorded. I return to her neck. Kiss it, then lick it with the tip of my tongue, holding close watch over her reactions: little shivers, little moans, little breaks in the rhythm of her breathing. I know already, with certainty, that her kitty is wet. It cannot be otherwise. Standing behind her I unbutton her blouse and slide it off her shoulders. I undo her bra and expose her breasts. I reach around and cup them. They are wonderful. More than a handful, but not much more. Pink aureoles - the color a nod to the European part of her Eurasian self - and small nipples. A hint of goose pimples covers her breast. I touch their sides with my fingertips ever so lightly, circle her nipples. My mind wanders. I want to see her kitty, lick it, fuck it. I bring myself back, step to her front, lower my mouth to her right breast, kiss it all over, gently, suck a little, flick my tongue, kiss lightly, take as much in my mouth as I can, step back, use my hands, stroke, cup, squeeze lightly. I pinch both nipples between thumbs and forefingers, suddenly, while I push my tongue far into her mouth. Quickly, forcefully, but briefly, 3 seconds at most. I step back. Look at her. Her breath has quickened considerably. She has become needy. It feels like I can smell it on her. I walk away from her. I want her to "miss" my touch, my kiss, just a little. It's simple, really: once trust is established, the need for intimacy grows commensurate with its intermittent withdrawal. I open my box of goodies and find the clothespin with the flat prongs. I grab her left breast and without warning pinch her nipple with the small implement. D draw as quick breath. At odd intervals I flick the pin with my fingers. I suck on the other breast. A little harder this time. She likes it. Recorded. "How does your kitty feel?" "Good ..." "What do you mean by 'good'? I don't understand." "Like it wants to be touched." "Good. Close your legs." I unzip her skirt. It falls to the floor. She steps out of it. With one quick move I pull her panties down to her knees. Finally D is naked. "Open your legs again. Now take your hair in your hands and expose your neck." I come around to her front to inspect D's nakedness. Raised arms, exposed breasts, and a very small, closely trimmed triangle of black pubic hair barely covering her vulva, the rest of her kitty shaven. Lovely. I like her body. It's full, but not fat, taught, youthful but womanly. I slip my left hand - I'm left handed - between her legs and gently cup her kitty as if to protect her. My middle finger exerts the tiniest bit of pressure upwards. Nothing else. I watch her face. She is flushed, but somehow serene. Getting comfortable with me; trust building, body responding, mind settling, aroused. I flick the clothespin on her nipple to snap her out of whatever zone she is in, and begin to stroke her slit. Very lightly. Barely touching skin. The other hand explores the rest of what it can reach: her face, her lips, my thumb goading her to suck; the back of her neck, her throat and shoulders; her breasts. I free her nipple, discard the pin. I want her sensations to focus on her kitty, desist from touching her any place else. "You seem to like it when I stroke your kitty." "Yes. I do." "Then what do you say?" "Sorry?" "What do you say?", I repeat. "Thank you." I apply a little more pressure now and part her lips. Her wetness surprises me. Grateful kitty. Slowly I slide my finger back and forth through her slit, from her clit to her perineum and back again. Steadily. Don't hurry. D moans. I like her little moans. I kiss her. Again she wants more, again I withdraw. And I learn. I'm learning that D likes to be lead. Her need to be lead trumps her need for trust. Be lead first and let trust emerge. This seems to be it. How far will I be able to go with this one? I place my right hand on D's throat and with one rapid thrust plunge my middle finger inside of her as far as it goes. As fast as I push in I pull out again. I walk away. I want her to contemplate her condition. What's the 'definition of the situation'? How are we both defining, constructing, giving meaning to it? We lead each other into roles that begin to congeal like this: D's passivity is not inactive; it merely seems that way. D's passivity permits, is active in the sense that she permits me to test, probe, discover. That interaction - the engagement of two active parties - makes, slowly but steadily, our relationship, clarifies our being, acting, desiring together. I lead, she follows; she permits my leadership, plays at following and inexorably walks toward her pleasure. But that is my interpretation. It is also a hope. Over time I will find out whether it matches D's reality. With heavy footsteps, I quickly walk up towards her, face her side-on, place my right hand on her breast bone and, as hard as I can, smack her ass. It takes D's breath away. She did not expect anything like this. The color of the mark on her cheek matches the color of her face. D is panting heavily. "When I finger fucked you this once, did it feel good?" "Yes ... it did." "So why didn't you thank me?" "I'm ... sorry." Oh my god, how I love that little voice. The hint of desperation in it, the desperation that comes with thinking she has disappointed me. She wants to please me. Recorded. I kiss her mouth gently. "I like you." I kiss her mouth gently and circle one, then two, finger around and over her clit. Patiently, unceasingly. "I like you, D." I continue to kiss her and touch her clit and only once respond to her passionate mouth's hunger with like passion but for no more than perhaps 15 seconds. I insert a finger into her young, fresh kitty, find that spongy area inside, those little bumps and begin to circle and beckon and circle and push. Don't you love those wet noises somewhere between slurping and sucking? Don't you love cunts telling you that they like what you do to them, really, really like what you do? "Don't stop, I think I'm ...", she utters. I stop immediately. "Don't you dare cum without permission." I begin again. Circle ... push ... beckon ... fuck ... circle ... push ... beckon ... fuck and kiss her until I once again feel those sweet contractions. "May I come? I think I'm going to ... can I? "Ok. Cum." And gripping my finger spasmodically her kitty convulses amid D's sob-like moans. Her knees buckle, I have to hold her up, then steady her. "Are you ok?", I ask. "Thank you, yes, thanks." Without warning I plunge two fingers into her and begin to fingerfuck her very wet hole vigorously. The palm of my left hand smacks against her clit and pubic bone. I hold D by her throat to lend her balance and continue to fuck her as hard as I can. "Oh my god ... Oh my god", she repeats over and over again. Then, "Can I cum?" I keep quiet. More urgently, "Can I cum, please?" "Cum!" Contractions, waves of them, shaking knees, those sobbing noises and a puddle of kitty's honeydew in my hand signal that D has walked into her pleasure like a sleepwalker into an oncoming train. I walk away. I sit down on the couch opposite her and just look at her. I also need to rest. To refocus. To rethink what I've learnt in these first 30 minutes or so. I know she is hungry. I can tell by her need to kiss deeply. She will delight in taking my cock in her mouth. What else? She is very orgasmic, and surprisingly so. At her age, few girls have the confidence and trust in their bodies - let alone like their bodies enough - to let go, and especially with a stranger. I've learnt that the "passion, fire and energy" she promised in her profile are real, and that all I have to do is enable their realization, be their conduit. I've learnt that D likes to be told what to do, and that there will be few limits to what can be done. I've learnt that 'punishment' needs to be followed by expression of that which I am already beginning to feel for her: care. The more she will feel cared for and protected, the further she will go. Trust begets courage. "Kneel down." I unbutton my jeans, take them off, get naked. I open my box of goodies and wrap my studded leather cockring around the shaft and underneath my balls to add some extra girth and sensitivity. My cock is very rigid, its many veins protruding distinctly, its head a deep purple. I like it like that. I bring my cock up to D's face. "Smell it." D begins to smell around the base of my tool. I take a fistful of her hair and guide her nose to that part of the base that is on the side of my stomach, to the small, severely trimmed patch of hair. I know it smells like musky caramel there. "Do you like how it smells?" "Yes." I guide her nose to my balls, then all the way up to the tip of my 8 inches. D opens her mouth. I pull her back. "No." I make her travel all the way back down to my balls, then underneath them. I can hear her cute little sniffing noises. I know that if she likes my smell she'll be even more open to me. There is nothing quite like the dislike of someone's smell to destroy any possibility of eroticism and of sexual unbridling. I can tell she likes mine. She really likes it. She is sniffing like a puppy. I let go of her hair to give her the freedom to move, and to see where she will take herself. Immediately, she takes my cock into her right hand and guides it to her mouth. But instead of the usual - mouth-fucking cock with a bobbing head - she lowers her mouth as far as she can and at her first gagging reflex stops to hold my cock just there on the border between feeling filled and puking. Just there. Then there is a gagging cough, a tear rolling down one cheek, and a long string of saliva dangling from her lips as she moves back and releases my meat. Only now does she go into 'headjob' mode. Remember how her profile says, "I can't brag about my "skills" as opposed to my 'more experienced' counterparts"? Clearly D is unaware of her capacities. What she does to me feels amazing. And it's quite difficult to say why. Maybe it's just the combination of a perfect fit of mouth cavity, tongue, throat and cock, and her little moans of pleasure as she seeks to still her hunger, and the prettiness of her face. I don't know. It just feels so, so good. I kiss her mouth, and say, "How do you feel, doing that? How would you describe yourself?" "I don't know." "Think about it. You go home with a stranger, let him touch and kiss and fingerfuck you. Then you get on your knees and gag on his cock. How does it make you feel?" "Hmmm ... like a slut?" "Yep, that sounds right. A slut. A little slut. A dirty slut." "I'm a dirty little slut", D whispers. "You are a dirty little slut. A dirty, dirty little slut. ... What are you again?" "A dirty, dirty little slut." "And you know what? You are allowed to be. Here with me you can be a dirty, dirty little slut. It's not a bad thing. It's good. I'm proud of you. I'm proud that you can be like that when you're with me. And you should be proud of yourself too. You are not only beautiful, you are also slutty. Now get back to my cock." A Real Dom's Chronicle Ch. 01 And with redoubled effort D gagged herself, licked and sucked and interspersed her dedicated licking and sucking with the cutest little moans and gagging sounds, and spread her saliva all over my cock and balls. Clearly, it was time to fuck. There was no pomp and circumstance about our first fuck. I simply asked her to get on all fours, to arch her back and to present her kitty to me. She did. I stood over her looking down, stroking my cockringed meat. I spat on it a couple of times. I was mesmerised by her perfect and most likely untouched asshole and the glistening entrance just below it. I lowered my self until the head of my cock was right at her kitty and then, just as I had done with my fingers earlier, plunged into her full length, balls-deep. You know the usual description of fucking, don't you? The same pertains here: slippery tightness, sweaty exertion, the mingling of precum and cunt dew and saliva. But what was so unusual here - and continues to be unusual - was D's cumming. Every 30 seconds or so she asked me for permission to cum. I had to tell her to stop asking, told her to just come. And she did. Over and over again. I finally collapsed next to her on the floor and we both laughed almost uncontrollably. We couldn't say much beyond, "that was really good", because there really wasn't much to say at all, and we did it only to fill what would otherwise have been an as yet unfamiliar silence. Later I took her to my "cave", my bedroom. It became the place of more or less straight forward, but totally uninhibited, vanilla play: fucking in different positions, mutual licking and sucking, for here in the cave power is equally distributed. D finally wanted me to cum. She licked my balls slowly and eagerly devoured my cock and stroked and sucked and stroked again. "I want to drink you", she said just before I came into her mouth. And the feeling when, after I had cum, she pressed a flat hand against my cock just underneath my balls and slowly slid it up to the tip of my tool and so made any remaining juice leak from my pee-hole, was so beautiful and relaxing. After all was said and done I spooned her (she didn't know what that was until I showed her) and told her I liked her. I knew she liked me too. She still does. But it had all only just begun. There was a long path to walk. A path down the road to the greatest of all pleasures: freedom. A Real Dom's Chronicle Ch. 02 Chapter 2: Atonement and Purification I The first afternoon's engagement left us exhausted. D giggled at how wobbly her legs felt on the way to the car. Here, outside our playground, there was no evidence of her slutty persona. Her sweetness, the hint of shyness, is endearing. Her self-presentation - post-emo with a penchant for plaid skirts, reminiscent of a Manga character - is suggestive merely of a student freshly out of high-school who has recently discarded her mandatory school uniform but has not yet fully left her institutional identity behind (I should add here, dear reader and co-fucker, that only this morning D confessed she was born at the end of 1996, which makes her still 18, not 19 as she initially told me). And here, then, precisely lies the nub of the erotic tension I feel whenever I think of D, a tension that is almost maddening, makes me obsess about her: she embodies innocence and yet I have had her swallowing my meat hungrily and with great dedication. I have seen her asshole twitch through orgasm after orgasm. She has begged me to fuck her, begged me to let her cum. And I have, since that first engagement, pushed her boundaries considerably, as you will find out in due course. How is this confluence of selves - the sweet, lovely girl and the dirty little slut - possible? How does she reconcile the two halves? On this first trip back to the railway station near the café where I first met her, D gave me enough of an insight into her psychology to enable me to make some sense of her. She has since elaborated on these first divulgences, and so I'm able to sketch a picture that I hope will help you journey with me into the more delicious recesses of D's mind and, alas, her body. D was raised in a strict Catholic Filipino family and went to a Catholic private school in Manila. Sex was a taboo subject in both institutions. D was supposed to marry her first sexual partner and view sex as nuptial duty only. Her sex education was very basic, birth control was out of the question as a topic and to this day is an issue conjuring some anxiety in her. I know that she was introduced to masturbation by a girlfriend of hers who showed her how to stimulate her clit. I don't know how this took place exactly, and D is not inclined to flesh out the details of that encounter, although I will very soon instruct her to recount the experience in all its nuances. The friendship with her instructress fell apart soon after, possibly due to D's unwillingness to return her friend's romantic feelings. What D did gain from that encounter, however, is the capacity to read her body's longings and to pleasure herself. Later, at age 17, she met a boy and had sex for the first time. Again, I'm sorry to say I don't have any details. I only know that I am her second lover. What is more important, though, than the details of what most likely was a series of fairly standard teen making out and fucking sessions, is that D developed serious feelings of shame and guilt at having lost her virginity at that age vis-à-vis her family, but also vis-à-vis what George H. Mead called "the generalized other those moralizing others - whether known to us or not - that orient what we do, how we think and how we feel. Add to that her preference for older men, for her teachers rather than classmates. For example, D had a crush on her physical education teacher who one day, when she was about 12, gave her a little slap on her bottom. Later, during the time of her sexual awakening, that incident became a central source of pleasure, pleasure that increasingly turned on the need to be dominated by a "powerful" - i.e. older - male. D also loves literature, especially stories that revolve around vampires, werewolves and other monstrous creatures of the night. At 17 she discovered Kelsey Cole and her erotically charged, fantastic novels. Thus, guilt and shame around what she views as promiscuous behavior, especially when cast against the background of family expectations, her need to be sexually controlled, her need to let herself tumble into unreal, fantastic darkness and there to be taken congeal in a psychological base that makes D an ideal submissive. But not all of that was known to me before our second meeting. I knew about her need to express and explore her "dirty, dirty little slut" persona. With that knowledge came a searing focusing of my sexual desire into a single objective: to mentor and lead D towards her pleasure, and in so doing set her free and help make her life beautiful. The feeling of omnipotence that comes with one's increasing sense of control over another is checked only by my awareness of her youth and my respect for her as a person in her own right. But time and time again I have had to admonish myself not to break her. Not to hurt her beyond the limits of the pleasure-pain she desired and was mine to give. And to be aware also of my own need for intimacy and the great possibility of a kind of falling in love that would make me - her possessor - the possessed. I was about to enter that fraught zone where the heart was asserting its power over the mind, where the mind asserted itself with rational actions the soul could barely brook. That part of the process began in earnest on May 12, 2015, the day of our second meeting. II Before we enter the apartment I turn to D and ask her if she is ready. She nods and utters a soft, "Yes." I turn the key, let her enter first. She takes off her shoes and goes to the bathroom. (This is the last time she will do so without permission.) I take a quick glance around the playground to make sure everything is in good order. My Noguchi coffee table holds the tools required for today's proceedings: a large, red, thick penis-shaped dildo, a rubber gag, a cigar case about one and a half times the size of my middle finger, a pair of padded leather handcuffs, lube. A stool holds my laptop, its screen showing a document. D enters the room. Her face is flushed, her eyes bespeak anticipation, she is awaiting instructions. I take her by the hand and lead her to the stool, ask her to kneel down and to read the following: atonement |əˈtōnmənt| noun reparation for a wrong or injury: she wanted to make atonement for her husband's behavior. • (in religious contexts) reparation or expiation for sin: an annual ceremony of confession and atonement for sin. purify |ˈpyo͝orəˌfī| verb ( purifies, purifying, purified ) [ with obj. ] remove contaminants from: the filtration plant is able to purify 70 tons of water a day | a group of 19th-century German painters who set out to purify art | (as adj. purified) : purified linseed oil. • make ceremonially clean: a ritual bath to purify the soul. • (purify something from) extract something from: genomic DNA was purified from whole blood. D's voice trembles slightly. That tremble is contagious. It finds iteration in my tingling spine, spreads to my heart and cock. I then ask her to face the coffee table. "I want you to contemplate some of the tools I've prepared for you." Her eyes wander from the imposing rubber dildo to the gag to the handcuffs and back again. I pace up and down the room, the heels of my Fratelli Rossetti clearly audible as I walk the parquetry floor. I take my time. I want her to feel the approach of the immediate future, the future of her pleasure. And suddenly that future arrives. It arrives with a fistful of hair in my left. "Stand up!", I command as I lift her from the ground. Now I work swiftly. I place the satin eye mask on her face, tie the silk tie to ensure utter darkness. I undo the black dress and, to my delight, discover D is wearing a beautifully embroidered black corset. I take off her bra and panties but leave in place a pair of fishnets. I smile at D's efforts to package herself as pleasingly as possible for her Sir. She opens her legs about shoulder width without me having to ask. Corset, stockings, closely trimmed triangle and shaven cunt, pert young breasts, flowing black hair, a cupid's mouth, flushed cheeks. Just here. Just here right in front of me, for me to enjoy, to have. What would you do? Think about it for little while. What would you do? I can tell you what I want to do: caress her and kiss her and whisper to her that I like her just as I did the first time around, show her that I am actually developing a major crush on her. That's the heart. The care is the soul. But I know better. I need to pull back, and I need that distancing of the heart to be clarified and distilled in action, with a kind of defilement. "How many fuckholes do you have?" "One ... I think". "What do you mean by 'I think'?" " I don't know." I shove two fingers in her mouth. And slowly move them to the back of her tongue until D rewards me with her gag reflex. "That's Fuckhole number 1", I say. "Now, spread your ass cheeks." D reaches back, grabs a good handful of her ass in each hand and spreads it. I walk behind her and reach for the tub of Vaseline I keep on the bookshelf somewhere between Philip Roth and Toni Morrison and dip my finger to retrieve about a hazelnut sized glob of jelly. I place my right hand on her throat, my left hand on her anus and, backed by the sounds of her little sweet moans, slide my finger inside her ass as far as it will go. D gasps. "That's Fuckhole 3. Clearly, I don't need to ask you where Fuckhole 2 is located, or do I?" "No, Sir. It's my kitty", says D confident that she got something right. Leaving my finger in its tight, warm place I say, "You are only half right, my dirty little slut. You got the location right. But here in this place the other term for Fuckhole 2 is 'cunt'. Let me ask you again. How many fuckholes do you have?" "Three Sir. I have three fuckholes, Sir." "Good. But we have another problem", I retort. "The problem is that Fuckhole 1 and 2 have already lived up to their names. Fuckhole 3 hasn't. So let's get the nomenclature right. Until further progress is made, you will refer to your mouth either as 'mouth' or 'Fuckhole 1'; to your cunt as 'cunt' or 'Fuckhole 2'; your asshole is really just your 'asshole' until such time when I will redefine it. Do you understand?" "Yes, Sir." I slide my finger from D's asshole and turn her face towards me. I gently place my lips on hers and let mine read and respond to the quivers of hers. Her tongue darts. She cannot control her hunger. I give her space to nourish herself and push my own tongue into her mouth, let it dance with hers, suck, nibble her lower lip, kiss her again, push my face hard against hers, listen to her delightful whimpering - and drop to my knees. I've always loved eating cunt. In addition to a fully developed oral obsession, a professional career as a woodwind musician, which I've long left behind, has afforded me excellent control over my tongue. Staccato on the clit. First on the little hood. Then, hood pulled back with my right thumb, underneath the pleasure button. Only later, sometimes much later, staccato directly on the clit, but with the tongue touching only very softly. Alternate with rapid flicking of the tip of the muscle. Sometimes rolling the clit - if fully flushed - like an olive, gently. All that for eons. All that just part of the repertoire. I don't tire. And yet, I know dear reader - as must you - that it always takes two. I cannot simply say I have mastered the art of cunnilingus. Every going down is a diving into the unknown. I will never tire from eating cunt. And so I work D's delicious slit. "Push your cunt towards me", I instruct her. She obeys. Now D has very little experience being licked. Her previous 'relationship' had no room for her pleasures. But D has also spent much time thinking about what it might be like to be licked, sucked, eaten, and during masturbation such thoughts have always brought her the desired results. Now she moans. Now she bucks her hips towards me. Now she trembles. Now she asks, "May I come?" I don't answer. I continue flicking her clit and run my finger through her wet slit. I don't push inside. I just slide my finger back and forth from asshole to Fuckhole 2. Sometimes I push upwards, sometime I don't. I might speed up a little, but inevitably slow down again. "Please, Sir, let me come." I do not respond. And soon her moans give away her approaching climax. Her begging unanswered, her anus begins to contract and relax and then pulse and then it is all over. D has not yet learned to give her orgasms over to me; to let me control their onset, intensity and end. During the trembling aftermath D apologizes. She says she is sorry. She is sorry for coming. But in between her apologies, probably because her climax has curtailed her reasoning faculties allowing intuitive reactions to bubble to the surface, allowing her joy at coming to be expressed, she giggles. She giggles! She giggles because she is grateful. She giggles because some tension has been released. In the world of vanilla sex the post-orgasm female giggle may be viewed as proof of the fulfillment not of the 'pleasure principle', but of that which orients so much of our practices, our interactions: the achievement principle. It allows us to boast: I made her come so hard she giggled! Or, I came so hard it made me giggle! But here, in this space, the space I share with many of you readers and co-fuckers, the submissive's giggle can only draw the master's or mistress's ire, and draw their ire especially when it tops and tails an unrequested orgasm! "How dare you?" "What? ... I mean, sorry Sir." "How could you disappointment me like that?" "I didn't mean to ...", D pleads with a hint of panic in her voice. Silently I step away. And for a long 5 minutes I wait. I wait and let D contemplate her predicament. She looks a little distressed, lost. Of course, I want to console her. Of course, I want to embrace and kiss her and tell her all's alright. Instead, I must use the opportunity to slowly make her mine, move toward ownership. I step behind D and place the gag collar around her neck, the gag in her mouth. "It's time to give you your safe word. When your boundaries are crossed, some barrier - physical or emotional - is transgressed and you are not ready for it, you can use it. In time you will not need it any longer. But here it is for now: puppy. Say it. "Puppy", D whispers. The heavy leather cuffs go on her wrists and are connected with a steel carbine. I take her by her long hair and lead her towards the sofa. I sit down, ask her to find my thighs and to lay herself across my lap. It is exceedingly awkward for her to move in this way, but D manages. I love what I see. Her round orbs right here in front of me. Easily spread I can view her asshole at my leisure. Circle it with my fingers, poke it a little, pet her cunt. I softly trace her skin with my fingers. Softly. Slowly. Tell her how beautiful my little slut is. How I expect her to learn, to learn about her pleasures, to learn that there is freedom in the transmutation of pain into pleasure, that process she has instinctively known to be the very centre of her. But there is no pain. None given. Just butterflies wandering her skin. Fox tails dragging along her spine. Velvet encasing her skin. Then whack! Hard. As hard as I can with my bare left hand. A moan. And whack! And fingertips wander the nooks, the crannies, the folds, the undulations and holes and whack, whack, whack, and more moans, and more slaps, always out of time, no rhythm allowed to congeal, unpredictability being the right hand of pleasure-pain. She moans. I take the gag from D's mouth. Whack! "What do you say?" "Thank you." Whack, whack! "What do you say?" "Thank you, Sir." And on it goes. Marks and streaks appear. D's ass is pink and purple, bruised. Every "thank you" seems to edge closer to tears until finally a sob becomes audible. No safeword. Whack! Whack! Whack! Crying. Grateful crying. Body shaking. I reach for the big dildo and the lube. I veritably drown the big fucker in lube. "Raise your hips some more and open your legs as far as you can. Tell me you are my dirty, dirty little slut." "I'm your dirty, dirty little slut." "Keep on saying it, and say it nicely so I can understand you clearly." "I'm your dirty, dirty little slut." I place my dildo against her cunt lips. She doesn't know what's coming. 9 inches, girth unmanageable by my hand. I push in half its head. That much she can take for now. "I'm your dirty, dirty little slut." Well uttered, clearly stated. Good. In goes the head. A gasp. A pleasurable gasp. "I'm your dirty, dirty little slut." A little breathless, but well done. I begin to fuck her with the dildo's head only. Soon the moans that interrupt D's invocations signal the build up of pleasure. "Don't you dare, my dirty slut." "I'm your dirty, dirty little slut." "Don't you dare come." And I push in further. 5 inches of fat, veiny, silicon meat. And I find my pace and fuck and fuck, and D's diction is broken. It is broken my the onset of the inevitable. Whack! "Thank you ... Sir". Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! And fuck. Fuck. Fuck. "I'm your dirty ... slut. Please ... please ... can I?" "What?" "Can I come?" "You may." And gripping the dildo with her cunt, making it almost impossible to move, D let's go, walks into her pleasure and melts, sobs through pleasure-pain made manifest for the first time by her Sir. III Unfastened, D stands with her arms dangling, legs slight apart, still blindfolded. I put the dildo in her hand as a reminder as to why her cunt is aching. Her arousal is at optimal level. The orgasm she gave to me did not curtail her excitement, the emotional and physical impact of her first spanking and her first cunt stretching too overwhelming for a climax to return D to some kind of state of equilibrium. It will be easy to make her come, and to make her come over and over. I kiss her. Tell her I'm proud of her. That she seems cleansed, for now. And that I like her. That she will always be a dirty, dirty little slut, and that, for as long as she is mine, she will be whole; whole, because I will fuck her whole. While I speak to her I let the tip of my fingers circle her swollen clit. Just so. Just like that. Neither speeding up nor slowing down. I whisper to her and kiss her neck, then her nipples, suck on them, pinch them lightly, and tell her again and again how proud I am of her, how much I like her, how dirty she is. Soft "thank yous" escapes her lips. I circle and circle and do not push. "You can come whenever you like", I say. And she does. My plaything. "My Sir?" "Yes?" "Would you please fuck me?" "You know, my dirty little slut, you've been quite obedient today. You haven't used your safe word. Why don't you just get down on the floor. Get on your back and push your knees back towards your face as far as you can." Nothing quite like a well presented cunt. Open, strawberry-hued from prior dildo fucking. I insert two fingers, start that beckoning, come-hither movement that, ever since the discovery or promotion of the so-called G-spot has become standard fare for the modern man seeking to please his woman. I can never get away from my self-consciousness about the standardization of 'female arousal', the routinization of the erotic, its reduction to scripts and formulas. So I'm thinking about changing what I do, but D seems to like it so I persist. I persist until she comes. "Yes, my little slut, that's it. Just relax. Open your legs and just fuck." I add a finger and proceed to finger fuck her as hard as I can. D comes. Only now do I undress. I take my time, put my clothes away and adorn my cock and balls with my favourite leather cockring. "On all fours. Now." D obliges. I spit on her asshole, then on her cunt. Placing my cock at the entry to Fuckhole 2, I put my left thumb on her anus. And as I slide my cock inside so does my thumb. I love D's whimpering. A Real Dom's Chronicle Ch. 02 "With each stroke say 'fuckmeat', and say it loud and clear." I fuck and finger D with abandon and revel in her moan-riven, "fuckmeat ... fuckmeat ... fuckmeat." When she finally asks me for permission to come I stop, pull out, bring my cock to her mouth, which she willingly opens, and gush my juice down her throat. "Thank you, Sir", D whispers, and takes my cock back between her lips and like a suckling nibbles, licks and sucks my slowly softening manhood. Her kiss is full of gratitude. We are ready to change place, to withdraw to my Cave to simply fuck. But before we do, I moisten a finger, ask D to stand, bend over and touch the ground. Slowly I slide a finger into her asshole. "You have two weeks", I say, "to contemplate an emerging fact: this hole will be mine. Then you will be mine." I take her by the hand and take her to the bedroom. Have you noticed, my dear reader and co-fucker, the banality that creeps into accounts of fucking, of cock in cunt fucking, even - or perhaps especially - in my account? There could be several explanations for this, such as the pornographisation of the culture, for example. But there is another one for me, an explanation that was handed to me by one of my readers who, having read Chapter 1 of this story, called D my Muse. That reader, a self-identified masochist, no doubt owing to her own position in a 2 year relationship and the experiences she has gathered, understands something I, as D's keeper must never forget: that it is she who leads me towards being another kind of man. My Muse. Soon I will own you completely so that you may possess me. A Real Dom's Chronicle Ch. 03 Chapter 3: Transgression and Respect: Towards Full Ownership I I know, reader, you are likely to just jump to the first play scene. But I think you are better off reading what comes before. It'll enable you to understand the fucking and licking and spanking and tears that are to follow. If you must jump ahead, however, don't judge; you are in no position to do so justifiably. There is a misperception about BDSM that we might call the "50 Shades Syndrome", and that everyone who has deep experience in the lifestyle knows and comes up against: that it's about the imposition of authority, will and power. I will not bore you now with an excursion into the territory of consent, or an explanation of how power, allegedly invested in the dominant, really lies with the "submissive". What I do want you to know is this: that all the practices D and I engage in flow from her desires; it's her desires, her needs, that are the background against which my actions are calibrated. I don't care one bit whether you, the reader, believes this. Neither do - or can - I care about whether or not you believe in the veracity of my account. Nor do I need to, because D and I know that whatever we do, and whatever the words we use to describe what we do, describe her or myself - our relationship personifies that most precious human capacity: respect. Words. You may think they don't matter. They do. Here, for example, is a list of terms that in one way or another are significant to us. These are words I have instructed D to read aloud to herself and to contemplate. She is then to check how her body reacts to each. Asshole, Atonement, Bitch, Cock, Cockminx, Cunt, Dirty little slut, Fuckangel, Fuckdoll, Fuckholes, Fuckmeat, Kitty, Liebling, Mine, Plaything, Pleasure-dove, Pleasure-pain, Punishment, Purification, Schlampe, Self-adoration, Sir, Sweetheart, Whore, Yours. Inevitably D ends up masturbating after a few minutes of the exercise. She then writes an account of her self-pleasuring. These are some of the most delicious, erotic passages I've ever read, though I'm not at liberty to publish them without D's explicit consent. Let me just pick on one word and explain its function to you: self-adoration. At least in my experience, a woman's capacity to experience pleasure, real, deep pleasure, stands in direct correlation to her physical self-image, all things being equal (that is, absent psychological trauma connected to sexual abuse, misadventure, etc.). D is full-figured. She is lovely. Her body does not match the child-like physical ideal dished up to us at every turn, the ideal women are enjoined to live up to but can rarely if ever meet after age 18 or so, and men are enjoined to desire. Luckily, D's self-knowledge regarding her pleasure-body is highly developed for someone in their late teens. I want that self-knowledge to merge with a real sense of self-appreciation. I mentor D through that process. I set D a series of daily tasks. One of them is for her to undress and to gently caress her body; her hair and face, her neck, shoulders and arms; her breasts; her sweet mound and cunt, her legs and feet, and to whisper, "I'm beautiful. My Sir knows this, and I know it to be true." This has become a pre and post masturbation ritual for D. I've instructed her also to "walk tall and show the light of your eyes to the world", and in an email asked her to "treat your body and mind like the most delicious garden, a garden that is mine to till, to plough and sow so that you, all of you, may grow and flourish. In this I need your help. Spend a little time everyday and think, 'how can I care for my Sir's garden today? What would please him?'" So let there be no mistake: as far as I'm concerned, a d/s relationship is a relationship of trust in the context of respect and care. It's a truly intimate relationship. Read everything I write and have written about D and I with those things in mind. You will then be better able to understand what occurred during our third meeting on 28 May, 2015. II As soon as we enter the apartment D falls to her knees. That action repeats itself in my mind over and over again to this day, in slow motion: the movement of her flowing hair, the straightening of her spine, the prim positioning of her hands on her thighs, the dutiful closing of her eyes and downward nod. I'm filled with pride. Not a word needed to be said. D is beginning to truly embody her submissive little slut self, that part of her that has been aching for reconciliation, for self-acceptance. I take a deep breath, slow myself down, control my desire to simply push her onto all fours and slide my cock inside of her. I walk around her in slow circles, contemplate D, how she might feel, check her sped-up breathing, her heaving chest, flushed cheeks, guess at the wetness of her anticipating, young cunt. I lower my mouth to her ear and whisper, "Today, my dirty little slut, is the day we will turn your asshole into a fuckhole. What do you say?" "Ah ... yes, ok Sir." "What's your safeword?" "Puppy." "Make sure to use it if you have to. If you don't, I'll assume you want the things I'll do to you to happen. Ok?" "Yes, Sir." I ask D to get up and follow me to the couch. She knows to lay herself across my lap. Slowly, I stroke her hair and tell her how beautiful she is; how I care for her; and how all of this is for her own good, for her own flourishing. D thanks me. Her gratitude is sincere, authentic as the slight quiver in her voice attests. I expose her panty-clad ass. I adore her ass. I adore how D made the effort to wear lingerie: her fishnets, and red, silken panties rather than thongs. I adore her fullness, her taught, pale skin ready to be reddened. She trembles slightly with anticipation. I slide the red cloth just down below her cheeks. Whack! Whack! "Thank you Sir! Caress her skin as softly as I can. Lovingly. With the other hand I grab a fistful of D's long, black hair and pull until her head lifts up high. Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! "Thank you Sir, thank you!", D whimpers. Blushed cheeks. Blushed like a little girl's face vis-à-vis her first crush. I spread them with both hands and admire her asshole. So virginal. Unopened. Unstretched. Unfucked. I drool a little saliva on it and begin to circle its puckered, rosy limits. Now and then a little dip below, a little attention to kitty. Moist, good little kitty. Moaning D. Lovely D. I grab the bottle of water-based lube and let some of its contents run down D's ass-crack, scoop a good portion towards the little hole and slowly insert my right middle finger. What tightness! Am I really going to be able to fuck this? Surely not. With my left hand I begin to caress fuckhole 2, sliding my fingers up and down her slit with the odd circling motion around her clit. D likes it, likes it indisputably. Those whimpering moans. If you could only hear them! Sweet and wanton, wanting, at the same time, urging me on irresistibly. My finger in her asshole moves a little. Round and round rather than in and out. "Try to relax your asshole. Try to learn how to." "Yes, Sir." Sweetly uncoordinated pulsating follows. "Tighten up. Good ... Let go. That's it. ... And again. Good. Very good." "Thank you Sir." A little more relaxed, my finger finds a smidgeon more room to play. Slowly I withdraw. A few more blows on her ass shake D out of her ass-focused state. (Never let her settle in completely.) "You dirty, dirty little slut." "Thank you Sir!", D responds to her favorite tag. More lube. This time my thumb. It slips in easily, and just behind its first knuckle is held in place by D's anus. And again. Slow circular movements. Nothing hasty. Steady. Steady while the other hand administers the odd, unpredictable blow to D's swelling ass. I barely hear the moans, the thank you's. My mind is following hers, into her asshole trying to fathom its elasticity, its limits, its give, when a few millimeters of backwards motion is greeted by a little sucking sensation. Good. D is relaxing. Mind back to her moaning, trembling. Don't forget her clit now. One thumb in her ass, a finger circling her pleasure-button until, as is now almost inevitable, a soft "may I cum, Sir?" trickles over D's lips. "Under no circumstance are you to cum," elicits a frustrated, "Ok, Sir." I stop working D's cunt. More lube. I ask D to reach back with both hands and spread her ass. Two fingers, left and middle, left hand. Slowly. Carefully. This is no time for pain. Pleasure must win out first. Both fingers are inside now, first knuckles deep. Now a slow stead slide inside, full fingers deep. Moaning. Whimpering. Slide back. Slowly. Don't hurry. All the way. And back again. Always the same speed, at snail's pace. More moaning. Pleasurable moaning. More finger fucking. More lube. More. More of everything. Stop. I move D's hands from her ass, place them on either sides of her body. A few more well-meted-out smacks, a few more thank you's, and I reach for the medium sized silicon butt plug, the kind that doesn't taper too radically at the base end, and so doesn't allow the first ring of muscles to contract too far, keeping the ass reasonably open when fully inside. I insert the plug with small, slow back-and-forth fucking motions, taking care not to push prematurely. I take my time. Every 15 strokes or so I move 2-3 millimeters. Lovely D. Lovely asshole. You are learning to fuck. We have time. Lots of it. A gasp, a grasp, a sucking grasp and in it goes! Delightful. D plugged. Now, give her a little while to get used to her new guest. Massage her cheeks, firmly. Whack! Elicit some gratitude. Whack! Whack! My dirty little slut. Slowly I pull on the plug. A little more, and pop it goes! And back in. Slowly, but without stopping. In it goes. And again. Repeat the procedure until we approximate fucking, fucking in slow motion to be sure, until there is a real sense D's ass can cope. Then let it rest inside. I tell D to get up. She knows to keep her eyes shut. I place the mask on her eyes, undress her completely, admire her. Her she is: naked, blindfolded, and butt plugged. Blushed, beautiful, breathing heavily, aroused. I kiss her. And how she kisses back, my hungry, hungry little slut. And how wet her slit is. So silky wet. "Do I still need to tell you to spread your legs?" "Sorry Sir." I reach for the Magic Wand. My dirty little slut is about to lose her vibrator cherry. And without warning, running on medium high, I press the vibrating knob against D's cunt, steadying her body with a hand on her throat. After not more than 30 seconds, the familiar plea: "Please Sir, can I come?" "Come." And as a shuddering wave grazes her body, and a moaning sob escapes her lips, the butt plug falls to the ground, D's knees buckle, and for a second before she regains secure footing she seems to be held up by only my grip around her throat. She comes to. Steadies. "Thank you Sir ... oh my God." "Sit down." I sit down opposite D and watch her closely, admire her. I've said this before and don't tire saying it: the tension between her sweetness, her innocence so apparent in her features, her youth and her desire to be slutted, defiled, broken down and put together again, is intoxicating, consuming. Then I remember. "I have a little present for you. Get on the couch on all fours, facing the wall." I leave the room and return with a newly-bought fox tail. A real fox tail. A real fox tail with a medium sized, steel butt plug at the end of it. I thought of buying it because D once told me that when she began reading Kelsey Cole as a young teen, she would often dream of being a wolf. I thought it might please her to be a little wolf-like and to combine the realization of that fantasy with some ass training. The reader may appreciate that wolf tails are much harder to come by than fox tails, but here it's really more about the fantasy-driving Gestalt than anything else, don't you agree? I run the tail along D's spine. She shivers. "What do you think this is?" "I don't know." Whack! "I don't know, Sir. Sorry Sir." "Touch it." "Oh ... it's furry. It's like a furry tail." "That's right, my little slut. It's a tail. I'm going to make you my little bitch." Now I apply some lube to D's asshole, and with slow ins and outs drill the steel plug into her. And how snuggly it fits! "You look very cute, D." "Thank you Sir." "Touch it." D giggles, "It feels nice, thank you!" I open my trousers, slide them down my legs, step out of them, spit in my hand, moisten my cock more out of habit than need, and slide myself in D's kitty. I can feel the plug graze my head through a thin layer of skin as I slide all the way in, all eight inches of fat girth. Sobbing. D's cute sobbing. "How do you like being fucked with a butt plug up your ass?" "Please!" D is not hearing the question. I repeat: "How do you like being fucked with a butt plug up your ass?" Instead of an answer, D's sobbing is getting louder and is now interspersed with the odd, "please!", then "may I come?" "What?" "May I come?" "Come you fucking dirty bitch." She does. As always. And pride rises in my chest as the tail twitches along with D's twitching asshole, and - like the slightly smaller plug before, and assisted by my fucking - falls out of her hole. I'm proud of her. I'm proud of her capacity to let go, to experience and then embody pleasure. My little slut. III Since the steel plug left D's asshole of its own accord, so to speak, I mused about her readiness to take cock. I decided I'd give it a try. I asked D to turn around, lie on her back, and to raise her spread knees toward her face, exposing her asshole. "I'm going to put my cock in your ass", I said. "Ok", D responded a little hesitantly. "Use your safe word if you need to." "Ok." I lubed my cock, poured a little on two fingers and slide them into D's pre-plugged hole. Heavy breathing and a relaxed face signaled pleasure. I backed out my fingers and immediately replaced them with the tip of my cock. "Take a deep breath ... breath out ... and relax your hole." D obliged. "Do it again." This time I gently pushed until my head disappeared into D's asshole. She gasped. No safe word. I let it rest. "Touch your clit." D obliged. D moaned. My pleasure-dove, how orgasmic you are! And slowly I drove in. Deep breathing. Clit circling. I rested. I waited. I listened. And, some more. More. A guttural "Uhmmmm" from deep inside. When I was about half way in I began to fuck, and to fuck slowly. I loved the tightness on my fuckmeat. I loved this new episode on the path to ownership. Now D was rubbing her clit very fast. Then crying. Real crying. A tear rolled down D's cheek from underneath the mask, then another one. No safe word. "Uhmmm ... oh my God." Sobbing. I continued to fuck. Only half way. I placed my hand behind D's neck, put my forehead against hers and whispered, "Now your asshole is Fuckhole 3." Sobbing. Kissing. Grateful kissing as I empty myself into D. I stayed there until my cock went limp and, pushed by her twitching muscles, slid out of her newly baptized third fuckhole. And then there was nothing but gratitude. Gratitude for the first deep experience of pleasure-pain. Gratitude for being taken control of. Gratitude for helping her breach a once firmly believed in boundary. Gratitude for transgression born from respect for D's barely articulated but strongly felt and intuited desires.