Sweetest Mistress (Fem Dom 1)

Fucking score.

“Yes. Let’s,” I said quickly, decisively, so she couldn’t change her mind. “Where’s the bedroom?”

She glanced toward the hallway, and already I had grabbed her hand and dragged her inside. But then we were there, standing beside a bed with the door closed. She’d agreed to sex with me – no, she’d asked for sex with me, basically. And I had to calm down. Because if I didn’t calm down, I would screw this up.

I took deep breaths.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Fine.”

I had to do something. Don’t screw this up.

I pulled her in close and placed a light kiss on her lips. Her lips slipped open, and I deepened the kiss. She tasted like wine and smelled like woman.

But still, I wasn’t quite catching my breath. The kissing wasn’t helping.

“I want to do this right,” I said. “Just tell me what I need to do this right.”

“Are you asking what I like?”

“Yes,” I breathed. It was a scary proposition. A girl like her, practically slumming with me. It could be something bad. That would explain why she’d wanted me. I’d be desperate enough to do it. But I had a suspicion that if she wanted me to shove food in her orifices while chanting satanic rituals, I’d ask if she preferred bananas or zucchini. That’s how much I wanted to fuck her.

“I want you to tell me what to do,” she said, her voice impossibly lower. “I like it when you…do what you like with me. I want to please you.”

Ah, fuck. This was worse than I’d hoped.

It wasn’t just that this wasn’t my thing. I mean, it wasn’t, but what did that matter so long as I got to fuck her? And my dick was on board, telling me to bend her over and just do it. Take her at her word.

But that wasn’t what she was really asking me. When a woman said she wanted you to take control, that she wanted you to tell her what to do, it meant she wanted you to figure out what she liked and tell her to do that.

It also likely meant she’d be passive, lying there like a lump of warm pillows, which wasn’t that hot to me. Though I wasn’t worried about that with her. She could actually lie there and still do it for me.

But I wanted this to end with some semblance of success – a faked orgasm didn’t count – and even more, I wanted to be able to do it again. That meant I had to get this right.

“Take off your dress,” I said.

She reached down to the buckle of her shoes, those high-heeled, black patent, fuck her shoes.

“Leave them on,” I said.

She straightened and lifted the hem of her dress. Up and up she lifted the slinky fabric, exposing creamy thighs, slashing lines of thin black panties, a long stomach, full breasts. And finally it was up and off, leaving her hair a tousled, sultry mess of perfection.

I took a long look, adjusted myself, then circled her slowly. I feigned an aura of control, of mastery, as if I were surveying what was mine, deciding what horribly sensuous torture to apply next. What I was really doing was memorizing every curve, every shadow, every mole, for every wank session for the rest of my life. I was also methodically rejecting every suggestion I came up with.

Nothing I wanted to do to her was something she wanted me to do to her. That was the hell of control, it was all backward, with the girl wanting to be dominated, but only exactly how she wanted it. She had all the control, really, at least the way it played out in the bedrooms I’d been in.

I didn’t mind the subservience of it, that I was the one submitting to her needs. That part was actually hot as hell. I minded the uncertainty. If a woman could just tell a man what she wanted, what she really wanted him to do, this all would be so much simpler.

Her breathing was coming faster, I noticed. Being watched turned her on. That I could work with.

“Touch yourself,” I said. “Over your bra.”

Her fingers skated up her stomach to cup her lace-covered breasts. She stroked herself, ran her fingers up to the top slopes and then around the curve underneath. Her nipples pebbled visibly into the lace, begging for more attention.

“Your nipples. Pinch them.”

She enclosed each nipple between her thumb and forefinger and squeezed. A slight catch in her breath and a subtle jerk of her hips rewarded me. I wanted more.