Entering BDSM PART 3

He walks back around to my front and drops to his knees. My breath hitches as I take in the sight of this dominating man on his knees, which is a traditionally submissive posture. Unless he’s doing it. He is as commanding as ever, even kneeling down in front of me. He hooks his fingers and unhooks the button from my pants, then unzips them tortuously slowly. He pulls them to the floor and I step out of them before he tosses them over to the side.

He leans his forehead against my abdomen, and inhales loudly through his nose. I feel self-conscious knowing he’s inhaling my scent. “God, Emmae, you smell intoxicating.” Bernard’s voice is graveled and makes my head spin.

He wraps his hands behind my knees, then applies firm pressure as his hands travel slowly but steadily up my thighs, then cups my round ass, squeezing while he pulls my body against his forehead. He uses his nose to push the hem of my shirt up while his hands continue their path upwards under my shirt, fingers and palms pressing firmly against the skin of my back. He leans his forehead down against my pubic bone, then his palms travel around my ribcage and he wraps his hands around my sides. I feel small. It’s not like he can wrap his hands around all the way around my torso and have his fingers meet. I’m not stick thin. I take care of myself, but I don’t starve. But his hands on me make me feel protected.

He lifts his forehead then moves his lips to the skin underneath my shirt. He runs his teeth along the skin of my stomach and jerk away from him.

“Ticklish, Princess?”

I shake my head, “No. It’s just… leave my stretch marks alone. I don’t want to be reminded that they’re there. I hate them.”

He frowns and shakes his head. “I don’t. They’re like battle scars. You got them doing something awesome.”

“I haven’t thought of them that way.”

He nips at them again, “Well, that’s how I see them. They’re part of you. If it makes you feel any better, you can barely see them. I didn’t really take notice of them before you said something.”

I tangle my fingers in his dark hair so I can see his eyes. I nod my head, “Okay.”

He kisses my stomach, then looks up at me again, “You’re beautiful, Emmae.”

I smile down at him and lean my head to the side, “You make me feel that way.”

He nods, “Good.”

Bernard returns to his ministrations. His thumbs graze across my nipples over the fabric of my bra. Although the material is thick, I can see my erect nipples through both my bra and t-shirt covering it. He smirks at the surprised look on my face when I let out a sudden moan. I don’t even realize he unhooked my bra until my breasts feel like they’re springing free.

He rises to his feet effortlessly, pulling up my shirt and bra, exposing my breasts.  I immediately cover them up, but he gently pulls my arms apart and up so that he can pull my shirt the rest of the way off. 

Bernard gives me the “look” that tells me that my body is his to use right now. Intellectually, the idea of being used seemed totally against my feminist ideals. But in practice, I find relief in giving him this control over my body; my pleasure is solely his jurisdiction. He does a fucking amazing job of making sure the experience is mind-blowing. I trust him not to violate my trust, not to do anything that will genuinely harm me. I trust him to respect my safe word, slow down when I ask him to. I trust him not to judge me for things I want, to help me explore new ideas, and expose me to them safely. Submission gives me freedom to just feel, to let go of my inhibitions and truly experience levels of pleasure I didn’t know were possible.

Submitting to Bernard, relinquishing control to him, it means that he commands all of my body movements and positioning. He gives me the “look” to signal that we are in “scene.” He narrows his darkened eyes, tightens his facial features, straightens his spine. His body language translates to control. It’s like he oozes authority. We enter his domain, and I’m just along for the ride, and I absolutely love it. In the future, he will guide me in finding gratification in other sensations, but he was clear that we won’t take it to the next level until I’m ready. Tonight, he’s going to tie me for the first time. I should probably feel nervous about it, but I’m downright excited. I want to get to it already, but I know better than to interrupt his plans. He knows what he’s doing, he knows what I need, and I have to trust him to give it to me.

So, once I see “the look,” I let him do it all. My hands are up in the air after he peeled my shirt and bra off, and that’s where they’ll stay until he says (or moves me) otherwise. He steps back and looks me over approvingly. “You can lower your arms.” I do so quickly, making my breasts bounce on impact. It’s my turn to smirk when he locks his gaze on them and groans.  

“Need a moment?” He gives me a glare, but there’s no hiding the raw desire in his eyes. I see his erection through his jeans and decide to count it as a win.

He steps back into me and fondles my breasts, raking his fingernails along the curves, cupping them in his hands and squeezing them. He groans again, but before I can make another snarky comment about it he gives me a level look and justifies himself, “They’re fucking magnificent. I’ll worship them if I want to.” That shuts me right up and I can’t hide the flattered smile that spreads over my face. He kisses my nose and catches my eyes, “You’re fucking magnificent.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, since if I try to actually speak at this point, it will probably just come out as an embarrassing moan.

“Thank you what?” He asks in a warning voice.

“Thank you, Sir,” I quickly correct myself.

He wraps an arm around my lower back and pulls me into him. His erection is hard against my abdomen, and I feel a rush of wetness in my throbbing heat. With his hand cupping my head, he pulls me into a searing kiss. Although my arms remain obediently limp by my side, I reciprocate eagerly with the rest of my body, relaxing into his pull, opening my mouth obediently when his tongue demands entrance.

“Good girl,” he says when he finally pulls back.

I close my eyes and the gratification my brain feels must be evident on my face.

“You like it when I tell you what a good girl you are, don’t you?” He dips a hand into my panties but doesn’t move his fingers into my folds, which I’m sure is just the beginning of his merciless teasing.

I moan in response, and as if he knows my body better than I do (which is quite possible), he holds my hips still with his other hand before I can thrust forward to try and make his hands go where I want them. He sees the frustration on my face and smirks, shaking his head. “Patience…” He whispers in my ear, causing goosebumps to erupt all over my body.

“Since you’ve been such a good girl, you get to taste my cock tonight.” He dips a finger between my folds as he talks, and starts stroking through them slowly.

I shiver. Never in my life have I wanted to give a blow job until Bernard. Maybe it’s the chance to control his pleasure for once, maybe it’s the challenge of making him feel as good as he makes me feel. Either way, I am fucking craving it, and he knows it.

“Have you ever given head?” His strokes get just a little closer to my clit,

I roll my eyes, “A few times.” I’m finding it difficult to concentrate with his fingers teasing me. He isn’t touching my clit. He’s caressing everything but, and it’s maddening. He knows this, of course. It’s part of his plan.

“If I recall, you weren’t a fan of giving head,” he leans close to me and asks in a low voice, “So why do you want it so bad now?” He already knows the answer, but I’m happy to stroke his ego right now, despite the fact that he’s teasing me like a fucker with his own strokes between his legs.

“You know why. Everything is different with you. I just want to.”