Previous Part: They Went Wild
This time, she had reached ‘there’ first and waited in the bedroom.
He arrived a while later and found the place very quiet. But he knew what he had to do. Still looking around as if taking in the surroundings, he began undressing at a perfect pace. Not so fast as to betray excitement and not so slow as to betray nervousness.
Off came his shoes, his T-shirt, his belt, and his jeans, carefully folded and piled on the chair. The undressing continued until he was in his tight, black trunks, underwear, and socks. He proceeded with perfectly paced steps towards the bedroom. He opened the door, and a stunning sight met his eyes.
She was in a glittering gown that made her look like an empress. Her make-up was not overdone, and so only enhanced her fairness. The gown perfectly fit her hourglass figure, adding to her seductiveness. He found himself awestruck. He could not help the tumescence that was developing in his underwear.
She was no less excited at his allure. He was, after all, so young. Nineteen years old, athletic, with nothing but his underwear to cover it. But she was not about to forget her role. “Just in time, slave!”
He snapped out of his enchantment and knelt before her on one knee. “At your service, my empress!” His gaze was directed at the floor.
She moved towards him with deliberate steps and raised his clean-shaven chin to have his eyes meet hers. She was finding it more and more difficult to control herself. Not every day, a youthful, well-built boy knelt before her in his underwear. “A fine, youthful specimen. You will serve me well.”
“I will do whatever you ask of me, my queen,” he found himself saying unrehearsed, almost involuntarily.
“Rise!” she commanded.
He stood and kept his eyes glued to the ground.
“Why are you not looking into my eyes?” she asked sternly.
He kept his gaze focused on the ground and said, “Your radiance is too brilliant to behold, my empress! And I am but your slave. I dare not presume to be your equal.”
She glanced at his underwear and saw movement. “You are full of energy, slave, just as I want you,” her tone was regal, though not stern. “Look at me!” she commanded.
He directed his gaze at her. His hands started involuntarily moving to touch his underwear in an attempt to calm his bulge.
She saw the movement. “Hands up!” she ordered sternly, “and keep staring ahead until I tell you otherwise.”
She began circling him. He badly wanted to touch his tumescence and calm it. But he did his best to stare forward and keep his hands above his head. She resisted her temptation to touch his behind as she reached behind him.
“Now, begin touching and feeling yourself the way you long to touch me!” she commanded.
“My empress…,” he tried to feign surprise.
“I see through you, slave! You are full of thirst. And today, give in to it with abandon. But first, do as I say!”
He wrapped his arms around himself and began feeling himself. Soon, he closed his eyes and slightly raised his head upwards.
That little head movement by him nearly made her mad, and she wanted to push him onto the bed and ride him immediately. But she restrained herself. “Name everything you feel,” she instructed.
“My arms!” he said softly, entranced, his eyes still closed.
“Go on!”
“My chest!”
“Go on!”
“My stomach!”
“Go on!”
“My underwear!”
“Go on!”
“Inside my underwear; my nuts!”
“How do you feel?”
“It feels good, but your cool fingers would make it feel heavenly!” the words came out involuntarily.
“Repeat this until I say otherwise, and keep your eyes closed!” she said and stole out of the bedroom.
“Yes, my empress!” his voice was soft, as if in hypnosis, and he continued feeling himself. His joy slowly bordered on the surreal, as if time and space no longer mattered. But he was soon snapped out of his reverie as he felt something cold drop inside his underwear and grind against his erection.
He let out an involuntary gasp and opened his eyes, “Fuck!”
She smiled mischievously at him, “These ice cubes will provide good company.”
Then her smile faded, “Do not touch your underwear. Let them stay undisturbed.” That was a clear order.
“As you wish, my empress!”
She looked into his eyes as she walked back to the bed and fell on it. But her gaze did not waver.
“Now,” she spoke in a seductive voice. “Come and do with me what you please, but stay in. your underwear.”
He nodded. He made his way towards her, ever looking into her eyes, and slowly got on top of her. He looked into her eyes and involuntarily ran his left hand on her cheek, forehead, and hair. Running his eyes over them all as though they formed part of a tender painting and locked his lips with hers.
After a few seconds of frenzied kissing, he made his way to kissing her jawline and neck and gently pulled her earlobes with his lips. She felt her senses overloaded. Why the fuck was he so good at this? She ran her fingers on his back and heard him moan the faintest of moans.
The ice had started to melt, and his tumid shaft hardened further as he felt her fingers on his back. He kept kissing her, but his breathing became laboured. He began undressing her. In a matter of seconds, the bright sunlight entering through the window could paint her déshabillé.
He knew he was playing the part of a slave, but he was determined to make her beg for his tool. He would ignore the pain his hardness was causing him. He would suffer that his thirsty tool was trapped in his underwear, making her beg.
She felt his cold underwear rub her clit as he resumed kissing. She treated him as her escort, but he excelled at making her feel like his. A part of her knew she was losing her senses because she was beginning to want him beside her forever. Not as a life partner — not yet anyway — but as her playboy.
She could feel him pressing as if he wanted to penetrate her while still in his underwear. And every press became a cool rub, and her yearning for him increased. Kissing was all he could do to give his energy an alternate vent, which had become loud.
He had begun fingering her. First one, then two, and then three fingers of his left hand caused her to moan and add to his lust. He felt anger swell within him. He wanted as much to pound her then and there in all furious primitiveness to make her thirsty enough to beg.
His right hand, cradling her head to support his kissing, began pulling at her hair. Her moans became soft cries of pain, his smooching noisier and more frenzied. He began pressing on her clit harder, attempting to thrust, his wood caged by his underwear, and his heavy breathing changed into soft snarls.
She could bear no longer. “Fuck! Me! Now!” she managed to gasp between three kisses. But he could not make out her words and continued smooching. Driven to near madness, she slapped him. He withdrew a bit, staring at her in shock and anger.
“Fuck me now, you fornicator!”
He snarled and so hurriedly pulled down his underwear that he scratched himself. But he paid no heed. Before his underwear could even reach his knees, he thrust his throbbing instrument. She let out a yell. Gripping her hair, he kept thrusting, grunting, paying no mind to her yells.
He growled, “You made me suffer, bitch! Now pay!” His anger burst forth. His grunts and her yells mingled with the noises of the creaking bed. She saw in him the monster she had set free.
He heaved as though he were jumping, and he occasionally slapped her. His teeth were clenched, and he growled with every heave. His instrument ably massaged her inner walls that itched with lust, and the pain that shot through her was pleasurable.
He felt her juices flow, and their warmth sent a pleasing sensation through his body.
“I’m fucking going to cum,” he rasped a few minutes later, nearly out of breath.
She caught his head in her hands, and even as he heaved, she locked her gaze with his. “Inside me,” she panted.
“Aah!” he gave a short but genuine yell as spooge shot out, and he collapsed on her. The volume he discharged and the overpowering exhaustion was creeping through him. It made him feel a fleeting but strong sense of dread.
Deferring to an indescribable impulse, he reached out to his underwear that covered his knees and pulled it up. His breathing was laboured as he got off her and lay beside her, a sense of sleep enveloping him.
It took her a while to feel normal. Such had been his pounding. She looked at him. She found herself unable to withdraw her gaze from his body as it moved with his breathing, bare, except for his underwear, through which she saw his tumescence ebb.
A pertinent question occurred to her: What was it that led him to harbour such deep anger?
The two of them had led individually stressful lives and had only fortuitously happened to cross paths. They both found sex a useful medium to release their pent-up frustration. They were both inclined to aggression and loved alike, giving and receiving it.
But he seemed that day, frustrated even by her assessment. His anger had seemed genuine when he declared that she’d pay for making him suffer. It was not hate, she knew, but it was great anger all the same. It must have erupted from the very depths. What was it that he had suffered?