The Tryst

I love summer and at times I struggle with balancing out parties, barbeques, weddings and reunions with down time, and due to my busy schedule and a few other things it seems that my sex life has lagged.

While I’ve had my eye on a woman that has caught my attention (another story for another time), there is a man that can almost immediately cure my need for play and sex.

I call him. There is no pretext of getting together for dinner, or drinks or a movie. He answers the phone; we chat a minute or two and exchange a laugh or two. At some point I say “I’d like to get together, and soon”. He tells me he’s available and ready for “anything” but he needs a few hours to finish some project he’s in the midst of, and he’ll clean up and be over. Well of course he’ll be over; he’s a man after all and I’m offering sex without commitment. He is good to me, and asks for nothing but to be thoroughly used when the time is right. This is a very good exchange for me.

The buzzer sounds, and I let him into the security door downstairs and I can hear the elevator whirring. He knocks, and of course I look at him through the peep hole. Lovely I think as he stands there holding a bottle of wine. He has this way of dressing that looks casual without looking like he’s going to mow the yard or play baseball. When I see him in the community in which we both live I watch him while he isn’t aware that I can see him and I marvel at how he has achieved this look. He also, by some miracle looks incredible in a suit, though I know that he’s not a suit person, he wears them only when he has to. He's a professional man with a nice disposable income. He's not married, and once in a while at a theatre or a restaurant I see him with various lovely young women. He's married to his work which devours him upon occasion.

I open the door and stand there, blocking his way, smiling at him. During the summer I sport a tan, and love to wear dresses. I’m a girlie girl, however underneath that dress is exactly no underwear, it's rather tartish and I like myself that way. He smiles back, his lovely brown eyes twinkling. “Good Evening Ma’am”, “I hear you need assistance with some problem you have”. I laugh, and he enters. He steps in to not block the door, and I shut the door and turn to him. I take the wine bottle from his hand, and he puts down his keys and sunglasses on the table, strips and kneels down. I stand there smiling down at him, and I ruffle his hair. I totally enjoy this man as he likes being exactly what he is – he’s a slut and while he won’t run through the boulevards spreading the word of how much of slut he is, behind closed doors there is very little he won’t do. His appeal is his need for control and use without having to prove it to everyone.

He kneels until I tell him to stand and he immediately rises when I tell him to.

“May I get you a glass of wine Ma’am”? He asks. “Yes, and when you have done that come and sit with me a moment.” I reply

He pours wine for me and joins me on the chesterfield.

I ask very simple questions as a double check.

“What can I have?” I ask

“Anything and everything” is his answer

“Any recent health problems of note”?

“None”

“Who have you been fucking?”

“My right hand Ma’am, I’ve been at my Mum’s since we last saw each other going slowly, painfully insane. She knows no one under the age of 80 and is in poor health and needs more attention than a two year old in nappies.”

“Kneel then”, I say to him. My need is rapacious and I’m fighting to not lose my self control and to keep this a drawn out occasion, to drag out everything I can from him and from myself.

He kneels quickly and I part my thighs slightly and he interprets the cue correctly and moves in closer.

My bare toes find his thigh and he picks up my foot, kissing, massaging, lightly nibbling on my feet. I sip my wine, lean my head back, close my eyes and sigh. I find a certain touch, or caress of my feet to be very erotic. When I have pedicures I need to be careful in choosing who does them only because I don’t want to have to fight with my erotic thoughts. As I tingle in all the right places he teases me, and I move to bliss. I’m quite ticklish and I squirm and I want to burst out laughing, but I know if I do, this scene that I’ve fantasized about all day will not occur. I want him to stop and yet I want it to never end and quickly before this moves out of control I withdraw my foot.

He smiles at me, and slowly I rise, for some mysterious reason his smile fades. Now rather than looking at me, his gaze is down at the floor as he contemplates what may be coming his way.

I stand close enough to him to place my hands on his shoulders to steady myself. In his kneeling position, his ass is resting on his calves, and his thighs are parted. My feet find his balls and his growing cock. He rests his head on my thigh and my toes whisper along his balls. Occasionally my toes clutch his cock. He sighs, and moans softly. As soon as I feel the slightest trace of pre-cum on my foot I know he’s ready, and that there isn’t a need for more warming up. I can keep him hard like this for as long as I want him that way and I don’t hesitate to keep him this way. I’m damp with desire, but I’m in no hurry at all, I have all night and I’ll cum when I want to and rest when I need to. I love sex to the point of exhaustion. Gently I step down, my bare foot capturing his cock between his balls, separating them. I grasp the hair on his head, and force his head up so that he is looking at me and I listen closely to his breathing, his struggle. I look down upon him and watch a thin line of sweat form above his left brow line. I ease up, and step back down repeatedly.

In time, when I’ve had enough, I relent. I step away, release his hair, and sit down. He is shaking slightly, though reasonably composed and he rests back on his calves. In time he lifts his head and smiles at me. I rise and move to the bedroom stripping out of my dress and leaving it in a heap on the floor. “Come here, I’ve just begun with you”, I say and he is quick to his feet and follows behind me, picking up my dress, entering my closet and placing the dress on a hanger.

My boudoir, it’s my nicest room, my most spectacular of spaces. It's a much largest room in my home and that's by design. My queen sized bed is perfect for me. It has only quality linens and a lovely thick mattress pad on top of the mattress. My bathroom is huge with a stand alone shower and a soaker tub. I have a stereo system which is linked to both the bedroom and the bathroom. The lighting is minimal, though enough to see as I’m not a cave dweller. The drapes, when drawn create a very dark room, however if opened the large window overlooks a park below and light flooding the room can make it seem airy and open. I have a four poster bed. Along one lengthy wall under the window is a bench that is padded with pillows scattered here and there. At varying points along the bench, a lid raises and inside is where all my favorite toys lay.

Along another wall is a raised dais. The dais is tiled and those tiles cost a fortune and were exported from Italy. I saw the tiles on line, and saved for three years for them. While I had to sell my right arm for the tiles, a former girlfriends husband is a craftsman and he built the dais and tiled it for me. It’s very easy to keep clean – well, it is for me as I don’t exactly do the cleaning, but I’ve heard it’s easy to clean.

The room is cool year round. It serves me well in the summer months, and during the winter, I place a down comforter on the bed. I sleep much better in a cool room.

In any case, he is commanded to lie down and of course he does. His erection bobs and waits hopefully, almost begging for attention and his nipples are erect.

I move to my bench and I gather items I’d like.

He is so very simple, his needs so very base. He is quite submissive, but only sexually. He knows me so very well, and with him, I can let my guard down. My commands with him are simple. Like a person that hates a spoiled surprise, he complies when I say close your eyes. He doesn’t need a mask, it’s much harder to keep your eyes shut.

My nails tease along his jaw line, zigging and zagging, lingering here and there along the bone line ever so lightly. My fingers trail down his throat and I press along either side of his throat. I don’t linger there, but I greatly enjoy letting him know that I could, and would exert pressure if it made me happy. We’ve been there and done that and will likely do breath play again, but not tonight. I have other ideas.

I flick my sharp nails over his nipples and his head shifts gently from side to side and he moans slightly. I pull his left nipple and put on clover clamps and he jumps slightly and is better prepared once I apply the clamps to the right nipple.

In my hand I hold a favorite toy. It’s a dildo that is perhaps 8 inches long, black, and has a diameter of perhaps 6 inches. It’s attached on its opposite side to a smaller version of a penis which is used as a gag. There’s a strap that has a buckle on the end for placing the device around the head.

I tell him to lift his head, and I lean in to tell him that I have a special surprise for him, a tasty sucker for him. His tongue flickers out and I giggle at him. He is momentarily embarrassed, but that passes quickly as I slip the small penis into his mouth and buckle it into place. Obscenely, the large penis is jutting out of his mouth. He is so slutty looking, the penis in his mouth huge, yet vying for attention is his cock, huge, slippery with pre-cum.

I tease the clover clamps on his nipples and tug the chain between them. My other hand slips to his penis and my nails tease his cock head. He goes nearly crazy, not with pain, but with desire as he struggles and writhes without moving away.

I move onto the bed, my bum facing his head, and my legs straddle his head. I mount the cock he has in his mouth. I take my time, inserting the head slowly, adjusting, sliding up and down and slipping into pleasure. I tell him not to move his head and to remind him of the control I have over him, I take the chain between the clamps into my hand and tug gently. Behind the small penis in his mouth, I hear his moaning. My body finds the base of the dildo buried inside me. I move slowly, occasionally tugging on the chain.

I bend down, my body draped over his and I remove the clamps. He is no longer moaning, he is screaming. His screams are muffled by the penis. I pinch his nipples, rake my nipples over them.

I rise and ride the dildo faster now, my fingers playing with my clit and alternately pinching my own nipples. Next to me on the bed is a small flogger and as I ride and use him in this humiliating way, I use the flogger on his cock. Soon his moaning returns and he’s forgotten the pain in his nipples – now just a memory.

My orgasm builds and explodes and I’m sure I have at least one more in me. I slow down my movements and glide easily up and down. My strokes with the little flogger become steadier and harsher.

I tell him to begin moving his head in a circular manner, and he does. I’m done working for the moment, just letting pleasure consume me, take me. He moves his head from side to side and then in a circle. I ride my wave until I cum hard.

We both pause and I lift myself off the dildo and unbuckle the strap. He thanks me profusely, and I lay next to him panting. He holds my hand and eventually moves to his side and holds me close. We don’t speak – there really isn’t much to say.

Once I’ve recovered I go and clean myself and return to the bedroom. I slip on a silk robe I have that is beautiful, comfortable and even has the ability to make me look good.

I hover next to him as he dozes on the bed, not touching him. I feel like a little laughing – at least on my part – is in order. My lips are near his ear and I shout “GET UP, WE’RE NOT DONE.” He levitates and I cannot help but laugh. At first he isn’t laughing but then as he stands he starts to laugh and apologizes.

I lead him by holding onto and pulling his cock and thus him to the dais. On the dais is my chair. It’s a grand piece, made of cherry, roomy, comfortable, a high back, precisely placed arm rests, the seat covered in soft green velvet.

I release his cock, and he waits for me to sit and get comfortable on my chair. My robe falls open and he kneels in front of me. I spread my legs, guide his head, and he buries his face into me, his tongue lapping and licking. His hands reach for my nipples. I lay back, totally basking in pleasure. I feel my ecstasy build quickly and it’s not long before I push him away. He thanks me for letting him please me.

He backs up carefully, and rests back on his calves. His cock is still huge, dripping pre-cum. He smiles up at me, his brown eyes twinkling. He is relaxed, ready for anything, but not demanding in the slightest. He knows I hate pushiness and do-me players.

Right next to my hand is an umbrella stand, and rather than holding umbrellas it holds a wide variety of crops and canes.

I choose a cane. I love the cane. I love the way it whistles or hums in the air just before it stings the flesh. I love the welts I cause. I love scraping a nail or dragging a knife into those marks. I’m fine with bleeders though I’m not always striving for that. Tonight there is some demon inside me that needs exorcising, and this man can take what I deliver. Trust me when I say I can be gentler.

I tease him, telling him that I’ll aim for his thighs, but it may hurt a bit if I hit his balls. He squirms slightly. “yes Ma’am, that would hurt terribly” he says. “However”, I say “your cock is fair game”. He relaxes immediately, and is apparently relieved as he lets a big breath out and spreads his legs.

I start gently tapping his thighs quickly. People that play with me know that they have nothing to worry about when the cane or a crop moves quickly. It’s when I slow down that I’m deadly, mean, and hell bent on causing discomfort. My cane taps away, and I get in a few good strokes on his cock. He actually loves a cock beating. Early in my days I welted his cock completely via stupidity on my part and he’s been an inadvertent addict since. As he says of his current cock welting experiences, “that hurt lasts for days, rendering my cock useless except to pee, the last thing I want is an erection”. I’ve been known to send him pornography and leave very detailed intimate phone messages to try to incite an erection.

I digress I fear.

I change canes to a thinner one, reed-like. It’s nasty, it’s harsh and it will hurt him.

“Arms up” I command. His arms go behind his head.

“Spread more” I say, and he does.

“Close your eyes now.” He does

The cane whistles and strikes him across both thighs.

He winces and out of his mouth comes a very long stream of obscenities. I’m used to this and in the course of sex or play, any words work for me, though he knows he may never call me names. He can curse as much as he likes and I’m not offended.

The cane rises and falls making streaks and welts. Upon occasion he sobs, but he never loses control. He thanks me when I pause and begs for more. Over an hour I’m very harsh, there is nothing soft, no caresses and no mercy and I decide to quit when he begins to bleed and his tears fall.

All is quiet now, except for I am aware of the power of his emotions. His tears fall, and I set down the cane and tell him that I am done hurting him. His hands move from behind his head, and he covers his face and sobs until I reach for him. He lays his head in my lap and I tell him how proud I am of him, and of how fulfilling this was for me. He calms down soon enough. He sits back again, his head bowed. He needs a moment or two and lifts his head indicating that he is fine. He is too proud to show this side of himself for long. I don’t need him to cry, but nor do I care if he does cry – I know that’s some people’s fantasy, but if he needs to cry, he surely will and in my heart I believe this provides some sort of purge for him. I don’t think less of him, nor do I feel he’s less of a man.

I lift my cane from the floor and prod his now limp cock back into action. I don’t welt it or hurt it; I just thump it a few times to remind it that I’m not necessarily done. A smile reaches his lips. Men are so easy I think.

“Let’s play a game” I say, very enthusiastically. He makes a tiny face and I laugh. When he hears me laugh, he looks at me and laughs too and says “bugger me now why don’t you?” which makes me laugh harder. He loses at all games – that’s the point of course.

“To your feet” I command him. He rises and stretches.

I disappear for a minute and return with a small cup, a childs cup and I place it about 8 centimeters away from him at his feet. I sit down and smile at him.

“Stroke yourself” I tell him.

At a very young age I appreciated masturbation. I was sexual with myself at about age 11 or 12. When I had the chance I’d watch myself in a mirror and when I orgasmed I loved watching my pussy throb. I don’t watch myself anymore, but I love to watch men masturbate. There is something quite powerful in a man holding his – or another man’s – stiff dick and moving it such a way that the cock twitches and explodes. I find it very hot.

He teases himself for a bit and I’m happy to let him take his time as I sit and sip wine. He eventually picks up the pace and I watch him stroke himself and I focus on how pleasurable masturbation is and how great it is to watch him do this.

He is very focused on the job and I encourage him, but I also, stand up and circle around him, bending over to nibble on his ear to distract him. I even crack a joke, and he just laughs at it, but it doesn’t slow him a bit.

I move the cup and as I move the cup he tries to slide his knees and change his position to keep the cup in front of him. He isn’t laughing now, he’s hell bent and I’m very much amused at this game.

Finally he explodes, desperately trying to spurt into the cup, and of course he misses. I laugh at him, push his head to the floor in front of him, take my foot and lift his midsection so that he knows to present his ass.

My cane whistles upon his ass. There is no slow movement to let him assimilate the pain, the blows rain down upon him, the welts rising very fast.

He curses again and again and he says no so many times I lose count, but he doesn’t move, and when I’m done he says thank you.

I sit back down, take up my glass and wait for him to gather his composure again. This time he isn’t crying, he’s simply worn out. He lies prone on the floor in front of me, face up. He turns his head and looks at me. We smile a bit and I ask him if he thinks he’ll survive and he claims he will.

I thank him, and we make small talk while we review and relax. In time he sits up, and asks me if I’m hungry. I tell him yes, but I have no energy to go out, that he can order Chinese take away and either go and get it or have it delivered. He asks after what I want, and he orders. He puts on a pair of shorts and we meet in the living room. Music comes on and we discuss the latest play we’d like to see and upcoming concerts we’d like to go to, but we make no dates. We don’t date. Upon occasion we see each other in the community in which we live, we smile and wave, but we don’t know each other socially at all and we’re both good with that.

In time the Chinese food arrives and we feast. Afterwards I can only think of how tired I am and that I want a bath and really he’s served his purpose. It’s time for him to leave, and thankfully he doesn’t have to be asked to go.

He does inquire if I need anything; he’s such a generous soul. I ask him to draw a bath for me and to get me a lemon ice water and fresh towels. He does so, thanks me profusely and he leaves.

The next day, there are 2 dozen roses delivered with a card that has no signature, just one word on it that says ‘Cheers’.

I can be reached @ Isabelle@sagacitygroup.net