What She Wanted
Part 2 of 8
I stood there waiting, my knees locked to keep me upright. My whole world vibrated, and I could barely keep from reaching out to steady myself on the white wooden columns that adorned the cozy little front porch. I’d texted my arrival, as instructed, and the response was a curt order to wait on the porch until she was ready. I did as asked, weekend bag in hand, wearing the sundress and strappy heels I’d picked out for this moment.
How long did I wait? I couldn’t tell. All I knew was what I could feel - a nervous energy, terror for having actually shown up, an innate desire to please her, and weeks-long desperation that had my cunt buzzing. It’d been so long since my pussy had been fucked, since I’d felt more than a whisper of his fingers, his tongue, his breath on my clit, my husband complicit in my predicament and enjoying every second of it - almost as much as I had. He’d never fucked me so relentlessly since we’d start this whatever it was, this unexpected trip down the rabbit hole. I was in my own version of Wonderland, where I’d somehow found myself on my knees draining his cock of cum night and day, where I’d forsaken my own orgasms and my hungry, now ravenous pussy. Every ounce of sexual energy was now attuned to his orgasms, I begged for his cock every chance I got, only for it to end up deep in my ass, his hand around my throat, his voice in my ear telling me what a good girl I was and how pleased she would be with me if I’d ever become her pretty pink princess.
It was a game at first, a sexual dare, a fantasy to weave into our lives, or that’s how I saw it at first. Not once had I ever thought to reach out to her, to reveal myself and my fantasies, to sink to my knees as I stroked the keys of my laptop and ached for her to stroke the single, throbbing key between my legs…or to ignore it completely and send me diving into the depths of her needs.
Completely unexpectedly I’d publicly gushed over one of her stories one day, my fading rational mind trying to override my horny lack of decorum and driving the need to tell her how much I wished the pretty princess in her stories was me, and how much I wished I was being punished like that lucky young woman. Every stroke of her crop on Princess’ pussy sent me over the moon, my head swimming, my cunt clenching on empty air as I sat at my desk at night, legs spread, head in the clouds, needing her to see me undone.
My husband watched our correspondence, my fingers traipsing across the keys, my eyes scanning the words or drifting to some fantasy world I’d envisioned while he leaned over me. His fingers trailed along my pouting pussy lips, slipping between the folds and dipping into my slick cunt, eliciting a moan only a desperate whore could make. I typed; he teased. He avoided my clit, had me grinding my ass into the chair, my breathing heavy and labored as my entire body quaked under his teasing. Typos and twisted words, each of them met by a painful twist of my nipples as he demanded I focus and follow through with my fantasy.
When we said goodnight, I swallowed, unsure of what I’d done, but we both knew, and with his words low and quiet in my ear, both of us gazed down as he spread my pussy apart. We watched my swollen nub dance, my cunt trying to clutch his fingers, to entice them inside again, if only for a brief moment. But he would enforce the rule that I’d begged for, the rule she’d granted me — no touching until she touched me, no orgasms until she allowed them. Just the punishment I craved, the punishment I deserved.
Then a hard slap, his open palm once, twice, three times on my throbbing pussy. I jolted in my chair, crying in anguish, pain and pleasure, nodding and crying and answering in stilted sobs how much I wanted her to punish my pussy just like that, that I’d wanted for so long to tell her as much, tell her how I’d seen myself as the pink princess and how I longed for the princess to suffer at her hands over orders she couldn't follow, rules she couldn’t help but break until all resistance was gone, and she - I - was little more than a quivering, obedient mess at her feet.
It was that night, his fingers driving me to desperation, that we’d sealed the deal, that we would meet so I could get on my knees and beg, so I could offer myself to her in-person and do whatever she required, if only she would accept and let me become the pretty pink princess of her stories.
Whether through my husband’s own desire to see me surrender myself to her, or my own desire to transform my life, all the feelings that reading her stories had trained me to associate with arousal had come to the fore. Feelings of desire for her, feelings of submission, of weakness, of joy in helplessness. Mantras of obedience echoing around my head, settling on the tip of my tongue. It didn't matter if I said them out loud or not, I could still hear them in my mind. I could still hear his words, harsh sometimes but full of love, too. And her words coming through the screen, her dominance speaking to both me and the pretty pink princess, but for her agreement not yet one and the same.
And so I accepted her restrictions. No more orgasms until the day we met, and then she would decide. My ass and mouth belonged to my husband, but my pussy and my orgasms to her. We all knew that this was a fragile arrangement, until she claimed what I wanted her to own.
I understood. If I kept going, if I had an orgasm, I knew that’d be it. My control over me was always strongest just after orgasm, and all I wanted was to lose control. But her rules in my mind were unbreakable. And my husband was happy to go along, to use me as his fuckdoll and to tease and torment me until that fateful meeting so far away. He was happy to help her install new behaviors and triggers. They’d chosen to work together to make her control stronger, the rules stricter, my mind weaker. Making sure it stayed that way, until she placed her hand on my cunt and owned it.
Somehow I’d managed to stop touching myself on my own, never assuming I even could or would want to before her, but when the rules were set down, and she had control, it got even harder. I was so wired, infinitely more horny, more distracted, weaker-willed and more compliant. If it hadn’t been for the constant reinforcement from my husband and the rules and the mantras she gave me to memorize and recite, playing on a loop in my head, I wouldn’t have been able to hold on.
It seemed inconceivable at one point that I would no longer cum. I could edge myself for hours, keep myself denied for weeks just because, but now it was different because it was my Mistress — did I dare call her that yet? — that demanded it. I could almost hear her voice, telling me not to touch, telling me she knew how desperate I was to cum, telling me how proud she was that I hadn’t. Her voice was as impossible to disobey as if she were really there, telling me to prove myself to her, to offer up my mind and soul, to prove to myself that escape is impossible. Telling me that my cum belonged to her now and I was to be the good girl she knew I could be.
And then the moment came - the door opened, and felt a tear slip down my cheek as I dropped to my knees.
Author’s Notes: A little more backstory to set up the larger dynamic. And I’ve sat down and teased out how a second follow-on serial would go here. This episode sets that up, so all I have to do is take it there. But, for the moment, we have our heroine pushing herself to the edge and ready to that the plunge that will change her life perhaps forever.
The foreshadowing here for the next serial. You can see it, right?