Say Thank You

Her pleasure is his privilege. Femdom Erotica. Episode Y12.

He’s on his hands and knees. He’s wearing his collar, a set of black leather knee pads and nothing else. His cock, hard and purple and pulsing, juts beneath him. She sits on the edge of the couch, skirt hiked, legs spread. Her hair is cast back over the plush leather cushions, and she relaxes into her pleasure as he kisses her pussy.

He dare not relax.

Once, when they had just begun dating in earnest, he went to one knee to pick something up. They were out at dinner, she was dressed up, short skirt, mouthwatering stiletto boots. As he began to rise, she put her heel on his shoulder and said, “Wait.”

He had looked up, past the glorious new vision of her inner thighs, past even a glimpse of her panties, to see that she had made a V with her thumbs and forefingers. She was looking down at him through it. He raised an eyebrow, but she quickly said, “Don’t move. I want to see just what you’ll look like when you’re thanking me for the privilege of licking my pussy. Say, ‘Thank you, Mistress.’”

Now, kneepads squeaking on the floor, his face is buried in her. His tongue probes between her wet lips, pushing.

She says, “What do you say, slave?”

He looks up to see her smiling down, and he knows that this sliver of his face, visible in the v of her thighs, is the look she modeled with the back of her hands all those years ago. Her lips are red and full and remind him of someone who’s been drinking blood.

“Thank you, Mistress.”

It comes out mumbled and confused, as he doesn’t stop pushing his tongue inside her. He’s not allowed to. She gives a satisfied smile in response and leans back against the couch once more. He feels the tension ebb out of her as she again relaxes into his tongue.

But he dare not relax, instead he keeps a firm, pulsing rhythm, focusing on keeping his pressure just on the edge of too light.

She purrs, “Yes, slave, that’s good.”

She sighs happily and says, “What do you say?”

“Thank you mistress.” He sounds like a fool or a drunk, like someone who has been made numb by a dentist, the words clumsy and humiliating.

To teach him how to properly thank her while performing cunnilingus, she used a thin, searing cane, one that curved enough to sting his ass while he was licking her. Anytime his focus drifted off her flesh, anytime she felt his tongue stop to speak, even to thank her, she struck him.

When she went a month without caning him during their frequent, prolonged pussy worshiping sessions, he thought he was through that training. But he was wrong.

Once, maybe a year into their 24/7 dynamic, he could feel her nearing climax. He was gently rolling his tongue against the underside of her clitoris while sucking tenderly like a newborn puppy. As the waves began to break in her, she had said, “What do you say?”

He said, “Thank you, Mistress,” but she had suddenly stopped him and pushed him away.

She growled, “That didn’t sound very thankful.”

She pushed him off her sex, then sent him to the toy closet for the cane. Then she beat the head of his penis with the thin cane until he was crying and begging for mercy.

When he had finally taken her to orgasm that day, her inner thighs were slick with his tears.

Now, she settles deeper into the couch and again says, “What do you say, slave?”

“Thank you, Mistress.”

Suddenly she tenses, head snapping up, looking down at him. He doesn’t stop licking, frantically trying to keep the same even rhythm he had before.

His cock is so hard right now that if she hits it with that despicable cane the pain will be agony beyond agony.

Then she smiles, almost like she can read his mind in his panicked eyes. She lays back and begins to shudder with the first spasms of her shattering orgasm.

When she catches her breath, she pulls his head into her lap and strokes his hair. He lays still, finally allowing himself to let go. His cock, unrelieved for several days is still hard between his legs, not sure if its waxing or waning. He wants badly to come but knows he will suffer if he asks.

Then she says, “No coming for you today, slut. I don’t think your last ‘Thank you, Mistress’ was sufficiently grateful.”

He stifles a sigh, wrestling the panicked disappointment of further orgasm restriction. He didn’t realize until that very instant, just how thoroughly he wants to come. His eyes get a little watery with need.

“Don’t pout, pet. You’ll make your regular discipline beating after tonight’s chores that much worse. Now, back to cleaning the floors. When you’re done, get started on my laundry. Oh, but first bring me an ice cream.”

She lifts her hand from his hair, and he’s says, “Yes Mistress.”

“What do you say? And mean it this time, or every stroke will be on your balls.”

“Thank you, Mistress.” He speaks with such a fearful, pleading tone, that there is no doubt whether he means it.

“Good boy, mint chip please.”

Then she slaps him on his ass to send him on his way.