Strictly Susan
The Sixth Collection
Smashwords Edition
Susan Strict
Copyright
2007 Susan Strict
Strict Publishing International
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Cover artwork by Brendan M Baker
The Television Man
She was watching him as he installed the new television, and a germ of an idea was beginning to form in the back of her mind.
It had been years since she had done it. Too many other things had happened in her life for her to miss it or even to really consider it, but as she stared at him kneeling in the corner connecting the cables, all the old feelings came flooding back to her.
No one had ever refused her, yet now she was older and heavier she was not so sure of herself. He was young, very much younger than she was. He probably had a girlfriend or even a wife although he wore no ring on his finger. There was nothing to suggest that he would be in the least interested in an older woman or, more to the point, that he would let her do what she wanted to do with him.
“It’s all finished.”
His voice cut across her train of thought, startling her a little. She had almost forgotten he was there, staring at him as she might have stared at someone on the television, lost in her private daydreams.
“Oh, good. Would you like... would you like a cup of coffee before you go?”
It was feeble, and the words came out in a rush. She felt herself blushing, and inwardly cursed herself for behaving like some stupid schoolgirl. Perhaps he would not notice, but already she saw he was shaking his head.
“No thanks,” he said. “I’ve three more installations to do this afternoon, but it’s very kind of you to offer.”
He stood up, and it was only then that she realised how close to him she had been standing. His arm brushed against her breasts lightly as he rose. She stepped back, only half a pace, but enough to give him space.
“Sorry,” he said at once as though it was his fault. “I’ll collect my tools and then I’ll be on my way.”
“If you’re sure you haven’t time for a coffee...?”
He smiled. It was a beautiful smile that made something deep inside her stir with desire.
“I’d love one,” he assured her, “But really, I don’t have time this afternoon.”
He turned and gestured at the television. “If you have any trouble at all with it then do call me. I'm in the shop most mornings.”
Did he mean...? Was he saying he would like to come back to see her again? Or was he just being helpful? After all, she had spent a great deal of money on the top-of-the-range television system.
“Thanks,” she said vaguely, quite certain that the television was highly unlikely to produce any faults at all.
She watched him picking up his tools and stowing them away into his toolbox. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she was certain that he kept looking in her direction; not at her face so there was a risk of catching her eye, just at her legs and feet in quick sideways glances that might have been no more than quick repeated checks of the floor around him to make sure he had not left anything.
“Bye,” he said cheerily as she followed him to the front door. “I hope you’re happy with it. It’s one of our best.”
“Oh yes...” she started to say, when he stopped suddenly in front of her. She bumped into him hard, and her breasts pressed resiliently against his back. He turned towards her as she staggered and nearly fell, her legs suddenly becoming weak, and their bodies were pressed firmly against each other for a few seconds.
“Sorry. Steady!” He put his arms up to steady her. She shivered as he hands held her shoulders for a brief moment until she found her footing.
“I was going to say,” he went on as if nothing had happened. “I need to give you this. The television won’t be much good without it.”
He produced a remote control unit from his pocket and handed it to her.
“Oh. Thank you. Of course.”
“Well I’ll be off then.”
As he reached for the handle of the front door, her eyes were drawn irresistibly to the front of his trousers. She was sure that in that moment she had pressed against him she had felt... and yes, she was sure there was a definite bulge that must be more than just the normal hang of his trousers...
She closed the door as he was getting into his van and, for the first time in many months, she rushed into her bedroom to find her vibrator.
As he drove away up the rough track that led from her house to the main road, the noisy diesel engine drowned out the ecstatic scream coming from the partially open window of the room where she lay on her back, plunging the vibrating toy into her over and over again.
*
He was in her dreams every night for the next week. Even during the day when she was busy doing other things she found her thoughts straying suddenly and unexpectedly. One minute she was in the middle of one of her usual chores and the next minute she had completely forgotten what she was supposed to be doing.
She had to buy four new sets of batteries for her vibrator.
Finally, she knew she had to do something about it. She knew that what she wanted might be unattainable, but even so she needed to find out. If she did not try, she would never know. She thought it out carefully.
The telephone call was easy enough. “Oh yes it’s working fine, but I need a portable as well and I want to be able to connect it in other rooms. Can you do that?”
“We’re very busy.”
There was a tightness in her chest. He really did not want to come out to her house again. He was making excuses.
“I could do it outside normal hours, I suppose. Would you be around on Sunday morning, say ten o’clock?”
“I’d be very grateful.” She tried to keep her voice calm and level, although she was sure he must have been able to hear the excitement in it
She was ready for him an hour before he was due.
“Do come in,” she held the front door wide.
“Uh, thanks.”
“A coffee before we start?”
“That would be nice. Thank you.”
He’ll think I’m obsessed with coffee.
“How do you take it?”
“White, with sugar, please.”
“I have it dark and strong.”
Shut up you silly woman. He doesn't want to know that. What will he think of you? You’re probably imagining it anyway. How could a young man like that find you attractive? It’s all in your mind.
They sat in the kitchen sipping the hot coffee. She crossed her legs, squeezing her thighs together hard and hoping he would not notice how flushed she was sure she was. She dared not look in a mirror to check. He was bound to notice that.
“So...” he said at last. “You want some extra aerial points for a portable television?”
“Yes, please,” she nodded. “I’d like one... in the bedroom.”
“No problem. Just show me where, and I’ll get it sorted.”
She put down her coffee mug with a crash, spilling a little of what remained in it. It took all her willpower to compose herself as she stood up and led the way to the bedroom. Either this would work, or it would be the end of it. When he saw it he simply could not ignore it. No one could.
“In there.” She held the door open for him.
“Ah yes. Oh...”
She waited for nearly a whole minute. She saw him freeze as he went into the room and his eyes fell on the bed. She wished she knew what he was thinking.
“Oops. Sorry,” she said, trying to sound careless. “I forgot to put it away.”
“Right...” he was clearly at a loss for words. She would have to say more.
“You see,” she told him, deliberately not looking at him, “I do like a man tied to my bed.”
“I can see that,” he stuttered, his eyes riveted to the leather cuffs attached to each corner of the bed by the tough leather straps.
“I’m so embarrassed,” she lied.
There was silence for several minutes. He tried to joke, "Just as well you didn’t forget to release him too. That might have been even more embarrassing!”
He dragged his gaze away from the bed and looked at her with a curious expression, but still she could not read what he was thinking.
“I...” she stared past him at the bed, choosing her words very carefully. “I haven’t had anyone there recently. It’s been a long time.”
“Then why...?”
Their eyes met. “You’re a man,” she said.
“I am,” he agreed.
“So...”
“So...?”
“Well?”
“Where do you want the television point?”
“We could talk about that later.”
“We could.”
“Do you...?”
She knew she did not need to ask. The rapidly increasing bulge in the front of his trousers told her all she needed to know.
“Take your shirt off.”
“You’re going to tie me to the bed.” It was not a question.
“Of course.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
He seemed to shake himself out of a sort of trance that had come over him from the moment he saw her bed.
“I mean,” he said slowly, “Why do you want to tie me to the bed? I don’t need to be tied. I can do more if I’m not tied. I can... you know what I mean. I can do anything you want me to do.”
She was already unbuttoning his shirt. “You’ll find it exciting,” she promised.
“I don’t doubt that! You’re an exciting woman.”
She stopped, startled. “Am I?” Although his arousal was obvious, it surprised her to hear him say it. Somehow she did not think of herself as ‘exciting’.
“I like men to be tied up,” she told him decisively. “That’s what I find exciting.”
He did not object as she finished removing his shirt and pushed him backwards onto the bed. She knelt astride him and buckled the leather cuffs securely around his wrists before removing his trousers and underpants, and securing his ankles.
He wriggled uncomfortably, testing the strength of the restraints and feeling very exposed and vulnerable.
She stopped to look at him. Now she had him where she wanted him, she was unsure exactly what she wanted to do with him next. All those years ago she would not have hesitated, but now, somehow, it was different. She was no longer the young, wild girl she had been then, and although her desires and passions were just as deep, they had matured and changed.
He moaned softly, thrusting his hips up a little in an effort, almost subconscious, to tell her to hurry up.
So what would she have done all those years ago? Straddled his face and forced him to lick her, then rode his face and climaxed explosively on top of him, not caring whether she broke his nose or whether he was able to breathe as she pounded back and forth on him. She would have laughed as he begged her to release him, squeezed his balls until he howled and then, if her squeezing had not destroyed that erection, would have thrust down onto him and ridden him until they both reached a climax.
Sometimes that would have been enough for her, and sometimes that would be an end of it. But more often than not she had the urge to hurt, to cause pain, and to see him cry. She would gag him then, because invariably they would be somewhere someone might hear his cries if he became too loud. She always liked those muffled shrieks and the twisting and squirming of his body as she slapped his genitals, squeezed, bit, scratched or used one of her implements on him. She had many implements then, and she still had most of them now. There was a variety of whips, crops and floggers. There were clamps for nipples or for almost any part of his body, clamps that could be tightened as far as she wanted to tighten them, to squeeze and to bite into his flesh. There were chains and wires to attach to the clamps and then to other clamps on other parts of his body, causing him absolute agony if he moved a fraction as she inflicted pain to yet another part of him. There were electrical devices, and vibrating, thrusting gadgets just right for inserting into an appropriate, or inappropriate, orifice.
Always it was quick. It was intense, satisfying, but always it was quick. She left him then, rarely releasing him. It was never in her own house or anywhere she could be easily recognised and traced. He never knew her real name or where she came from, and in those days the restraints holding him to the bed were invariably basic and cheap. She could afford to leave them, although she took great care to collect up her more expensive gadgetry and to take it with her. Someone would find him sooner or later, crying, in pain, and still spread-eagled, gagged and naked on the bed in the hotel room or even in his own house. She never knew what happened afterwards, and she never cared. All she knew was that not one of them ever found her afterwards, and perhaps not one of them ever wanted to find her.
But now? This was different, and for the first time in her life she was baffled. She undressed slowly and then stood naked with her hands on her hips, staring down at him.
He was ready for her, erect and throbbing, pulsing slightly as he looked up at her wide-eyed in anticipation. She knew only too well that her body was nowhere near as firm as it had been the last time she had a man tied to a bed. She was much heavier, and the smoothness of her youthful skin in those days had long since gone. Yet this young man was no less aroused as he looked at her now than any of those men had been then.
She considered herself for a moment, glancing across at the mirror in the corner of the room where her reflection stood mature and powerful. Yes, she decided. She still made a fine figure, and although the years had rounded and enlarged somewhat, there was no sagging or excess fat at all. If anything, she was more impressive now than she had ever been, and evidently she was quite as desirable.
Should she leap on him now and start by riding his face as she had so often done before? She ached to feel his tongue and lips on her almost as much as she ached to feel that hardness of his inside her, and yet she hesitated. The memory of how it had felt was a powerful one, but if she did now what she had done then, the result might be very different. Her extra weight, her wider hips, her thicker thighs and her decidedly heavy backside grinding down onto his face as she used to do would without any doubt cause damage in a matter of seconds. No, this had to be different, and a quiver of added excitement went through her as she began to decide just how different this was going to be.
*
It was nearly six hours before she was satisfied.
When she untied him and let him dress, he could hardly stand let alone walk. She helped him on with his clothes, and half carried him towards his van.
She was nervous then; far more nervous than she had been when she started. This was no anonymous stranger in a room rented under a false name. This was real, immediate, and frighteningly personal. If he complained, reported her to the police for her treatment of him or for keeping him restrained on that bed long after he had asked her to release him, then she was in serious trouble.
Was it worth it? Had it been worth the risk? And would she still think it worth it when the police were knocking on her door?
For a moment, a crazy, insane moment, she considered whether she should let him go at all. It was not too late. He was nowhere near strong enough to resist her if she turned round and pulled him back towards the house. She could keep him. She could make him her permanent prisoner and unable to contact anyone for help. She could use him whenever she wanted, like that sex toy of hers except that he would not even need new batteries. She could keep him and use him until…
Until what?
Until he died?
She shuddered. That was not at all what she wanted.
She looked at the exhausted, bruised man she was half-carrying. How long would he survive if she used him like this whenever she felt like it? Not long, she was sure, and she was equally sure that if he were her permanent prisoner then she would not be able to resist using him again and again - far more frequently than his body, any body, could possibly endure.
Would he tell anyone? What would he say? "I let this woman tie me to the bed and she had kinky sex with me and wouldn't let me go"? No, more likely it would be more along the lines of "She kept me prisoner and tortured me."
Why on earth had she done it, after all those year when she had been perfectly content to forget what she had done in the past? Why now? Why did she suddenly feel the need to start it all again, and how could she be so careless as to do it in her own house to someone who could and would readily identify her?
Why? Her thoughts turned to what had happened over the last six hours. At first he had been so enthusiastic and had hardly complained at all. His tongue and his lips on her when she knelt over his face had been both responsive and obedient, licking and sucking exactly where she wanted, reacting without question to every move she made and even anticipating her moves as she became more and more aroused and her first climax approached. Even when she pressed down on him in those last seconds of her orgasm, when she covered his face smothering, suffocating, squeezing with all the force of her thighs as she gasped and shuddered, even then he had done just what she wanted. She could have sat on him for many minutes, leaving him in near airlessness underneath her, and not once then, when she wanted him still and quiet beneath her, not once did he try to move. His gasp when, after perhaps not much more than a minute, she raised herself from him, told her how badly he had needed to breathe, and yet he had not struggled.
Of course she had ignored his gentle suggestion that it was time to release him after she had had her initial climax. She toyed with him then, as she had always toyed with her men. It was nothing. It was insignificant. It was no more than something to play with while she caught her breath and recovered herself. Perhaps it took longer than it had done all those years ago, or perhaps she spent longer doing it because she enjoyed it more than she had done then. Whatever the reason, it was pleasant to lie, half on him, and do nothing much more than fiddle with those bits between his legs and to hear and feel his reactions to the pressure of her fingers.
A squeeze; a flick; a scratch; and each produced a different response. A clasp with the palm of her hand and her fingers wrapped right around, and it was a sigh of pleasure. A movement up and down, and it was a gasp of pleasure. A fingernail slowly, ever so slowly, all around the end, pressing hard on the most sensitive flesh while the other hand squeezed so tight, and it was a continuous squealing of torment.
Great heavens! An hour. A whole hour had gone, and still she had felt comfortable to do no more than lie right there, fiddling. That would never have happened all those years ago. All too quickly she would have wanted, demanded, another climax.
Heavily she rose and straddled him once more. It was definitely time for another climax. She knew she should need another climax by now, and that just one had never been enough for her. It did not seem urgent. She sat on his chest for a while, her knees on either side of him while she played with his nipples and ran her fingers around his face and lips. It was pleasant, she thought, and she had an inexplicable sense of deep satisfaction each time she allowed him to suck briefly on the tips of her fingers.
When finally she moved forward and demanded wordlessly to be licked once more, she had a feeling that he was being less than fully enthusiastic about it. Perhaps it was only that most of her weight was on him, whereas the first time she had held herself above him with only the lightest touch on his face until her approaching climax demanded a heavier pressure. Perhaps he was a little tired, or perhaps he really wanted more attention down between his legs. It did not matter. To use his face without his co-operation was quite as satisfying as to have him actively and enthusiastically lick and suck at her. Maybe it was more satisfying, because as her rhythmical grinding and thrusting back and forth on top of him took her towards her second climax, the shuddering ecstasy within her reached levels far beyond those of her first orgasm.
His face appeared to be a little bruised. He had not opened his mouth to complain, not once. Yet as well as the redness from lack of air and from the sheer power of the friction of her body on top of him, there were the definite signs of bruising.
She tried to decide whether she needed to do it again. She wanted to do it again, although the pressing need she had had when she was younger to do it over and over was not there. Neither did she particularly want to fiddle for a while until the desire returned. Already she was finding that boring.
She lowered herself onto his face, positioning herself gently and carefully. She squeezed the sides of his head with her thighs, not particularly because it gave her any special pleasure but purely to keep him from moving.
She looked down at him, and adjusted her position until she was sure he could breathe: just. It might have been the very first time she had worried about such niceties, content usually in the knowledge that even if he lost consciousness from lack of air underneath her, she was unlikely to stay in one position long enough for anything worse to happen.
He could breathe. He could breathe a little air filtered, if that was the right word, through the wet stickiness of her flesh that clung and partially smothered.
She settled down, closing her eyes and enjoying the silence and the unmoving contours of the man's face pressed against her and into her. It was pleasant; it was peaceful; it, whatever it was, and she were in perfect balance with each other and with everything around them. Her thoughts wandered, drifting dreamily to exotic far-off places and exotic people. And it was an hour and a half later that she awoke.
Her first thoughts were to wonder where she was and what she was doing. Her second were of annoyance at herself for wasting so much time and at the man underneath her for not waking her.
"Why didn't you move?" she asked angrily as she raised herself from him.
"I… I…" he stuttered. "I couldn't…"
"You might have suffocated under there," she told him.
He made no reply. She was still annoyed, and probably more annoyed at herself than at him. It seemed to her to be a good moment to indulge herself in some of her other particular pleasures.
The clamp on his testicles made him squeal continuously when she tightened it. Instead of releasing the pressure as his cries became louder and louder, she left it squeezing painfully while she found a small whip and began to thrash him all over with it. As soon as her arm began to ache, she exchanged the whip for a long riding crop, sat in reverse on his face and aimed blow after blow at his aching, still-erect manhood, pressing her ample buttocks down firmly to stifle his shouts of pain each time her stroke with the crop found its mark.
There was no doubt of his pain and discomfort by the time she clambered from him and released the clamp from his testicles. Real tears welled up in his eyes and spilled out onto the bed, leaving a wet patch on either side of his head. He was breathing heavily, panting and wheezing, although she had only stopped his breathing briefly, if regularly, to muffle the noises he was making.
She threw the crop and the clamp into the corner of the room.
"I'm going to fuck you," she said nastily, grasping his now-limp manhood in one hand. "Get it hard right now, or you'll regret it."
"I can't…" he moaned.
"You can," she insisted. "And you will."
She worked at him with her fingers for a few minutes and, feeling the beginnings of a response, she lowered her head to him and took him into her mouth.
She had great difficulty in resisting the temptation to bite. Somehow it seemed far more natural to her to be causing him discomfort and pain than to be giving him pleasure, but she managed it. The action of her tongue, the sucking of her mouth, and the gentlest of touches from her teeth achieved just what she wanted. His member was hard, rigid and throbbing with arousal.
"See?" she said defiantly. "I knew you could."
She did not wait for a reply. She leapt onto him with surprising agility, grasped his hardness in one hand and guided it into her, pushing down hard and fast enough to make him gasp at the pressure on him.
"Ready for this?" she asked wildly as she sat with both hands resting flat on his chest.
There was no slow build up, no pushing backward and forward, no steady increase of speed to a climactic crescendo. Pressing down with her hands on his chest to steady herself, she pumped up and down on him at high speed like a piston in a cylinder or, rather, like a cylinder around a piston without slowing or relenting for a moment. It was a matter of seconds before his muscles tensed, his eyes opened wide and with a soundless shriek of orgasm his climax came.
"Stop! Stop!" he begged.
She ignored him, not even changing her rapid rhythm as she felt his hardness wilt until eventually it slipped from her. Even then she did not stop, bouncing on him as he moaned and yelped each time the weight of her slapped down onto him. She kept it up until she was exhausted.
"Did you enjoy that?" she asked breathlessly.
She seemed a little put out by his lack of response to her question and, too tired to use a crop or a whip on him, she decided to use some of her electrical toys on him until she eventually lost interest and made the decision that it was time to release him.
So now there she was, helping him back to his van without a single word more exchanged between them.
Would he tell anyone what she had done to him? Surely any man in his right mind would? Perhaps, she thought, as she was not willing to hold him prisoner and prevent him from telling anyone, she would have to leave rapidly and go far away, abroad maybe, somewhere no one was likely to bother to make the effort to track her down.
She deposited him in the driver's seat of his van, found his keys for him, and helped him insert the key into the ignition as his fingers fumbled with it shakily and uncertainly.
"Drive carefully," she advised him dryly.
He started the engine, over-revving it with a cloud of black smoke from the exhaust pipe. He leaned out of the window as she walked back to her door.
"Just a moment," he called.
She turned and went back to him.
"Yes?" she asked, expecting some sort of threat from him.
"Please…" he said, and stopped.
"What?"
"Please…" he said again.
He shook his head as though trying to clear his thoughts.
"Please," he said carefully. "Would you consider…? I mean, would you be kind enough…? That's to say, do you think…?"
He took a deep breath and tried again.
"Please may I see you again?" he said.
***
Execution by Facesitting
The guards threw him into the room, his hands cuffed behind and his ankles hobbled. He heard the key turn in the lock behind him. He waited, terrified.
She appeared from the far end of the room, an imposing figure in black. She was no youngster, he saw that at once, and she was certainly not a small woman. Her hips were wide and her bosom swelled in front of her, pushing out her tight, black blouse in two mountainous, impressive bulges.
She was not alone. Behind her were two other women, tall and strong and wearing the uniform of prison officers. All three of them walked towards him as he stood trembling.
She stopped, less than three feet from him and produced a document bearing the official stamp of the Crown Court.
“You have been sentenced to death by suffocation for crimes against the State,” she read. “Sentence to be carried out within the walls of the Tower at the discretion of Her Worship The High Executioner.”
She lowered the document a little and looked at him over the top of it. “That’s me,” she explained, “Her Worship The High Executioner. It took me a long time to have those additional few words approved: ‘at the discretion of’. It was such a nuisance having to stick to times and places dictated by the Courts. Now I can pick a time and place of my own choosing.”
“Please...” he stammered. “Please...”
“Oh don’t be such a wimp,” she told him angrily. “Before I took this appointment men would beg to be smothered under my buttocks. You have no idea how many of them actually asked me to smother them to death, and I never once did it. You should be grateful.”
“I don’t want to die,” he whimpered.
“No,” she agreed thoughtfully. “Not many people really do, and I do quite like the look of you. In fact, I’m going to make a deal with you. I have to carry out the sentence, of course. That’s my job. However, with the new clause in the sentencing I have complete flexibility over when I carry out the sentence. So, I’m going to keep you here for a while, and as long as you continue to amuse me I will not complete the sentence. You will not be put to death. Do you understand?”
“Oh yes. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” He fell to his knees, looking up at her gratefully.
“You may not be so happy after a few days,” she warned him. “My requirements are quite extreme, I can assure you. There’s nothing I like better than to sit on a man, and I shall certainly be sitting on you. Twice a day you will be tied to the execution table, and twice a day I shall sit on you until you lose consciousness. You will never know for certain whether it will be the final smothering. You will wonder each time, as you pass out from lack of air, whether this will be the time you never wake up.”
He stared up in disbelief.
She nodded. “Oh yes,” she said, “And that’s not all. I have other tasks for you; many, many other tasks and I expect each one of them to be performed properly and to my complete satisfaction. After all, you don’t want me to be in a bad mood when we start the smothering, do you? You can start right now. It has been a week or so since I felt a man’s tongue on my body, so you can start by licking me all over and I do mean all over.”
She turned to the two female prison officers. “Strip him,” she ordered. “Male prisoners should remain naked in here.”
“Now start licking,” she ordered as soon as all his clothes had been removed. “And make it good...”
***
Story for Ron
A
letter to an admirer
So, Ron, you want me to write
for you? You have the audacity to expect me to spend my time writing
something for you?
No, Ron, I am not writing for you. I am writing for me. I am writing to give myself pleasure, because I enjoy expressing my joys and feelings in writing. I am not writing to give you pleasure.
As it happens, I will write about you. I will write about you because I choose to write about you, and not because you asked for it. I will write a fantasy about you. That is what it is, you know. It is nothing but a fantasy. I am nothing but a fantasy, in your head, not real.
What's that? I am real? I must be real or I wouldn't be writing this? No, Ron. I'm a composite, a character created by a woman with dominant tendencies feeding on the fantasies of all those men with a penchant for dominant women. I'm "real", but I'm not real. That is why I'm in your head, Ron. I'll always be in your head because, in part at least, you and those like you created me. You couldn't get rid of me if you tried, because I'm part of you that has always been there.
You think you would enjoy it if it were real; but would you really? It is a turn-on to read about it, to imagine it was you. Just think a little harder: if you actually experienced it, would it really be so enjoyable?
I have said before that my writings are part fact and part fiction; part fantasy.
I allowed my man to read some of them this evening. I made him remove all his clothes and kneel in front of my laptop computer. I made him read all my postings on an Internet forum out loud. When he finished, he looked at me with fear in his eyes.
“Would you really do that to me?” he asked.
“I might,” I told him as I tapped him playfully with my riding crop. “I might if I feel like it. I might if I think I would enjoy it. I might if you deserve it.”
He has been very attentive since then. He still remembers the kaolin poultice - that one was not fiction, and when I restrained him and wrapped it around his genitals his greatest fear as it became hotter and hotter was just how hot it would become. He had no idea I had tested it earlier, and I knew exactly what would happen. He did not know just how intense the heat and the pain was going to get.
I did. I knew.
And I knew it would hurt him most terribly but that it would do no lasting damage.
Probably.
He had no clue.
Anyway, back to you, Ron. I wonder whether you would really enjoy it? Here you are now, naked and tied spread-eagled to my bed. An old theme for me and not very inventive, is it? You allowed me to do this, of course. You wanted me to tie you, and you wanted me to sit on your face.
That is right. It is what you asked for? You have imagined it over and over again. It is one of your favourite fantasies, so you tell me.
But now it is no longer a fantasy. It is a reality. You cannot escape, and I wonder if it is quite what you expected...
Look at me, Ron. Look at me. I am not old, nor fat, but neither am I young and slim. There is more than enough of me to cover you if I choose, and enough weight to drive your head deep into that mattress if I push downward with my full weight onto you. It feels as if your bones will crack, doesn’t it? They won’t. I know exactly where and how to press down to give you maximum discomfort with minimum damage.
To tell the truth, I am less interested in your discomfort right now than in my pleasure. First and foremost I use your face for my pleasure. I rub and push; press and grind. It takes me a while but you know when that moment arrives, that shuddering, gripping, muscle spasm when my thighs grip the sides of your face as if trying to crush your skull and you are pulled deeply into me as though I were trying to suck you up forever.
You think I have finished with you when I sit upright and lift myself slightly. No. I have had my pleasure for the moment. Now I am going to concentrate on your punishment.
Why should I punish you? Do you deserve it?
Probably, but that is not the point. I will punish you because I want to punish you, and for no other reason.
I position myself carefully on you. Your mouth is completely covered in my flesh - you cannot possibly breathe through it when I sit upright like this. You nose - ah, your nose. Your nose is inside me. You can breath, just. I can feel you breathing. I can feel the slight whisper of air sucked in and out of me. You are trying to suck the air in harder through your half-covered nostrils. I can feel the flesh inside me being sucked against them as you struggle for breath. You can breathe, but you are not really getting enough air, are you? It is all very uncomfortable for you.
I know too that if I change my position slightly I could block your nose completely. I shall not do that; not for the moment. I am not going to move my position one millimetre. Instead (and you will really like this) I am going to use my muscles. That’s right, those muscles inside me that I so love to use. I’m quite strong, you see. I’m strong all over because I exercise regularly, and I make sure I exercise all my muscles, particularly those.
So now I tighten those muscles, and immediately I can feel the effect. I press your nostrils closed, completely closed so that not one whiff of air can pass through them.
Still your mouth is covered.
Surely, you may think, I cannot do this to you for very long?
Can’t I?
I do not know how long I can do it. I have never timed it and I am not timing it now. Instead, I am watching your eyes. I am watching the growing panic in them as the seconds tick away. You are trying to wriggle, but your bonds and my weight are holding you motionless.
Funny, isn’t it? After a while the feeling of panic subsides, and you start to feel rather light-headed about it all. Then the panic returns as your arms and legs feel oddly heavy even though they are tied tightly. Now, as you continue to look up at me, I appear blurry to you. You know you must breathe. You MUST breathe. You no longer have the strength even to try and wriggle.
And then I release you. For a second you cannot even take that deep breath you so badly need. Then you take it - and pant frantically at the cool, fresh air.
You are so thankful to be able to breathe. So thankful it is over - and yet it was a wonderful experience, the most wonderful experience you have ever had.
“Thank you, Mistress,” you say quietly. “That was wonderful.”