“What are you doing?”
“Eating breakfast.” I had been. I was walking upstairs to my bedroom to talk to him.
I laughed, cleared my throat, and said, “Uh, yes, Sir.” I believe eggs and bacon are healthy. The fewer carbs I eat I maintain my weight and continue to lose slowly. I had toast with breakfast this morning. But that’s a post for another time.
“What are you wearing?”
“Of course, you’d ask me today,” I said, a Sunday, leisure day. “Sweatpants and sweatshirt.”
“Pull up your shirt and rub your left nipple.”
“That wasn’t a complaint, Sir, that you’re using me on a Sunday.” He didn’t comment.
“After lunch, you’ll put on a dress for me.”
He asked me a few more questions. Right now I cannot recall. Those who know me, understand that’s unusual. Read on. You’ll understand why soon.
“Get that demon dick.”
I retrieved it from the closet. “Yes, Sir. I have it.”
“Rub your pussy.”
He knew I was wet. I’d gotten on the chatline Friday night, worked for Sir for an hour, pumping that thick dildo in and out, listening to eight men come. More men left me messages wanting to chat while I’d been talking with other men. I answered Sir’s questions as I recalled Friday night in detail.
“Push the dick in an inch. Get on your knees. Rock your hips. Take another inch.”
He asks so many questions. I believe it’s just to hear me say, yes, Sir. He makes me repeat certain phrases. I love my black Master, I’m just fuckmeat, pussy. On and on.
I added inch after inch of that demon dick.
“Add another, another, another,” Sir commanded. I fucked that dick in between in each command. My pussy throbbed. I needed to come. I didn’t ask. Sir had decided to deny me orgasms this month. I clenched down on the need.
“Get the big black dildo.” His command pulled me from the brink of coming.
“I have it, Sir.” Once I had it in my hand.
“Get on your knees and press the head inside. Just the head.”
He’d repeat with this dildo what we’d done just moments ago. I lubed it up and slid it in. Almost half of it went in. I pulled it back to just the head.
“You love black cock, don’t you?”
“I love black cock.”
The orgasm continued to build. My clit hit the mattress. I almost came but held it at bay.
“You like it when young black men want to fuck you, don’t you?”
“Yes, Sir.” I hovered on the edge of subspace. I was wrapped in a blanket of his voice and commands.
I pushed down on the cock. My clit throbbed.
“What do you like about being fucked by young black men?”
“That even with our age differences, they desire me.”
“Get it half in. Stretch that pussy. Feels good, being stretched.”
“Yes, Sir. Oh…” I lost my breath for a few seconds, then breathed through the ache and need to come.
“Rock your hips, fuck yourself, another inch, get it halfway in, take more.” He had me slap my left breast, the feeling went straight to my pussy. He called me something, had me repeat them back to him. I’d already lost all coherent thought. No thought, only feeling, his property doing his bidding. An orgasm hovered. I still had enough presence of mind not to come.
“Shove it to your cervix.”
I tried. The head is huge, and it wouldn’t budge.
I stopped rocking my hips and didn’t move or breathe.
“Grip the dildo.
“Oh…” My body shook. My hard nipples scraped against the sheets, sending shockwaves to my pussy. I made the mistake of obeying Sir and flexed my pussy, squeezing the dildo. I relaxed the walls of my cunt and took long slow breaths.
“Have you got it in?”
“What did you say?”
“About to come.”
“I can’t understand you.”
After a minute, I finally responded. “I stopped. I’m going to come.”
“You’re not allowed to come, bitch.”
“Yes, Sir. That’s why I stopped.”
Roll over on your back. Take both hands and rub your nipples. Pinch them.”
After five to ten minutes of working my breasts, he said, “Give me another half inch.”
I was surprised it slid in.
“Get on the chatline. Keep fucking yourself with the dildo. Tell the men you’re black-owned and that you’ll be in Memphis later this year. Give out your number in your greeting. You are not allowed to come. One hour, bitch.”
He hung up.
I got to work.
He texted me halfway through and then right at the end.
“It was a slow day,” I texted. Sir texted back, “ok.”
The last orgasm Sir let me have was Christmas Eve. I came down with Omicron right after Christmas. I was only severely sick for a week. Sir decided the second week of January that since I wasn’t feeling well, it would be a great time to deny me orgasms. I was fine with it because I had no sex drive.
Then it returned. And Sir started edging me. This past week it’s been every single day. Sometimes more than once.
No orgasms, being edged, and having a high sex drive again, I got peeved at his “okay.” I shot back a bratty comment.
“Get that demon dick, get on your knees, shove it in your cunt to the balls, and edge yourself for the next twenty minutes.” A minute later he asked, “Will it hit your cervix?”
My pussy was still throbbing. I did as commanded. “Just short of it,” I answered.
“Bump it on each stroke.”
My whole body was shaking. My pussy hurt. Though it was in all the way, it wouldn’t hit my cervix.
“Faster. Bitch is not allowed to come,” Sir texted.
I knew what he wanted. I rolled over and sat on the side of the bed. I planted my feet on the floor and sat down on that demon cock. Pain lanced through me as I maneuvered around so the front of the cock would go in deeper. I lifted and lowered over and over again until it slid in another inch, hitting my cervix every time slid down that cock.
I almost came but kept it up. I wanted the need and pain to stop, but at the same time, I fucked myself up and down, up and down, seeking both feelings.
I was on the verge of losing control. “Master, may I stop? It’s been twenty minutes.”
Three minutes went by and he didn’t answer. “Please, Sir.” More minutes with no answer. “Please, please, please!!!” I texted.
A minute later, he texted, “Keep it up. Sit on it. Ride it.”
I was. I didn’t want the feeling to stop. I wanted that cock in me the rest of the day, humping it being under Sir’s constant sexual control.
At thirty minutes, Sir texted, “Get it inside your cervix…if you want to cum.”
Did I want to come? Yes, but… “I want to wait till Feb,” I texted, wanting to hold off because he said I wasn’t allowed any orgasms in January.
“You have to do better.” His text came through just as I sent mine. “Until Valentine’s Day?” came his next text.
“Sooner.” I was still rocking my hips, rotating them, hitting my cervix and that sweet spot, edging myself to almost coming and backing off.
I scooted up in the bed and lay on my back. Another text came through as I got the dildo all the way out.
“Put your plug in right now.”
Sir edged me for forty-five minutes this morning. I continued the edging during an hour of phone sex, for thirty minutes around noon, and as I write this the plug is in my ass and has been for the last hour and a half.
I’m wearing a dress just like Sir commanded. I’m rocking my hips, fucking myself on the plug. I’m strung out on needing that feeling, needing to be full, used, just pussy. I’m a fucking mess, and I love it.
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