The Programmer and I had plans for Sunday night, but I was in an awful mood. I told him so over IM. “Me too,” he admitted. He suggested we meet in the middle for a hug and a grilled cheese sandwich. Of course nobody ordered the grilled cheese. And instead of just the hug, we headed right on back to his place.
I first met the Programmer on a dating site a few years ago, and I didn’t know it, but I was to learn all kinds of new things from him. We went to bed together on our first date, and there was the first surprise: he wore a chastity device. He produced a key, and in between sexy kisses and touches, he explained to me who kept his keys and why today was a very rare exception – he really should never keep one with him. The Programmer didn’t do vanilla sex. He wanted me in charge in every way. He was my first submissive … and I wasn’t even a Domme yet! The Programmer helped change that as we got to know each other, and I discovered that not only did I have quite a flair for domination – I was good at it! – but I enjoyed it thoroughly. It turned me on to see him struggle against restraints; to watch him trying as hard as he could not to beg me; to then deny him any release at all. I was a secondary partner of his; we saw each other every few weeks. On the day he handed me his key to keep, I said casually while slipping it on a chain around my neck, “I’ve been thinking that perhaps it’s a good idea if you never orgasm with me.” He moaned instantly in tortured arousal. “Never,” I would whisper in his ear while we were out and about, and I’d feel him shiver at that single word. We drifted apart but remained friends as things in our complicated polyamorous lives changed and changed again. Circumstances were right for us to begin seeing each other again last year, and since then we’ve done some great things for one another. In fact, I’d say Sunday night was possibly our best work ever.
As we left the restaurant to drive our separate cars, I mentioned I wasn’t wearing panties, almost as an afterthought. “Then why are you wearing a bra?” he asked. “Keeping it classy for the family restaurant,” I told him. “But now you don’t match,” he protested. The Programmer, like all my partners, knows that my bra and panties always match. Now he could think about it during our short drive back to his place. He took me upstairs to his room, and made short work of my jeans and tank top and bra. And although there was no question about who was in charge, he cuffed my wrists, hooking each of them to a loop of rope secured to either side of his bedframe. When the Programmer restrains me, it’s courtesy rather than domination – he knows I’ll want it and he doesn’t want his mistress to have to ask or order it done. You see, the reason I need those cuffs to yank against is that the Programmer makes me come over and over again, each orgasm becoming more and more intense. He works tirelessly with his tongue and fingers to pleasure me until I’m satisfied and then some, and then some more. Sunday night, he was in top form, and I lost count somewhere around 8 or 9 orgasms. As he tapped my g-spot with two fingers and licked my clit so delicately, so perfectly, I wound my hands in the ropes, desperately needing something to hang onto. I moaned and screamed and cried my pleasure loud enough to wake the dead … and the Programmer didn’t even look up.
He unhooked my wrists at one point and pulled my still-cuffed hands to his head. “Guide me,” he said. I could barely think and I had zero to add to his technique, but I pushed his face against my cunt and rocked my hips against his chin. Finally, I had to ask him to stop. “Good boy,” I told him, giving him the ultimate compliment from a mistress to her sub. I lay still, shaking with aftershocks and trying to regain control of my muscles and my breathing. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said. “I try to please you.” “You’ve done well,” I told him, “and today, you get a reward instead of a punishment. What would you like for your reward?” He thought for a minute. “Punishment?” he asked. I considered, and a brilliant idea came to me. The Programmer works from home every day, so his office was right down the hall. How better to torture him than to give him all kinds of hot memories of that room to taunt him while he spent his days working, locked securely away from his own touch, even his own arousal? We gathered an assortment of straps and cuffs and hooks and other goodies, and set up his two office chairs face to face.
The Programmer kept still while I secured him neatly to the chair, binding his hands behind the chair back and his ankles underneath the frame. Although he loves to be blindfolded, I made him watch me do this, taking care to slowly and sensually pull on a pair of the black medical-grade gloves that I prefer and that drive him crazy. He licked his lips as I slid them up my wrists, and started to say something. “Quiet!” I told him. He was immediately silent. When I was finished with his bonds, I let him watch me take toy after toy out of the bag of goodies and arrange them on his desk in front of his keyboard. When I was ready, I pulled a silky black spandex hood over his face, zipping it shut at the back of his neck, and added a blindfold to block the light. I unlocked his cage and set his cock free, tightening a thin cord around the base of it and his balls, to keep them easy to grab. I teased only the head of his cock with just one finger, until he was fully hard and had a nice deep flush. “Your cock is gorgeous right now,” I told him. “Thank you, ma’am,” he whispered. “I’m not complimenting you,” I informed him. “I’m complimenting me.” He bowed his head, averting his already blindfolded eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”
I applied less physical pain in this session than usual, wanting to focus on torturing him with orgasm denial and ruined orgasms, but I did spend some time with a small slapper and the Programmer’s favorite homemade flogger, which makes a lovely deep thud as its thick plastic tails hit skin. I smacked it across his chest, thighs, and shoulders; dragged it over his cock and balls, hearing his breath hitch in his throat as I did so. My favorite way to apply pain is with my hands and teeth, and they couldn’t be left out either. I was impatient, so when I felt I had his blood running sufficiently hot, I dripped some lube onto my gloved hands. “Do you know that sound?” I asked him. “Yes, ma’am,” the Programmer whispered. I wrapped my fingers around his cock and stroked him until he was throbbing in my hand. I stopped to stand over him and press my breasts to his chest, open his thighs wider with my knees. He gasped. I kept on teasing his cock, over and over just to the brink of orgasm and back. Listening to his breathing and his moans, I could tell he was ready to come. I stroked faster and after I let him squirt twice, I squeezed his cock tightly in one hand and locked my fingers around the base of it with the other, controlling the rest of his ejaculate. It dribbled out and ran prettily down his shaft while he whimpered and groaned in disappointment and agony, and I oohed and ahhed in satisfaction. Perfect.
I repeated the process from the start, not allowing ejaculation at all the second time. After a few moments of wind-down druing which I just let him breathe, I peeled off my gloves and stroked the Programmer’s skin gently with my bare hands, signalling the end of the scene. His cock was beautifully frosted with come, and I told him so, congratulating myself on a job so well done. “Yes, ma’am,” he agreed. As I removed his hood and unclipped and uncuffed his wrists and ankles, unstrapped his body, the Programmer smiled beatifically at me, both thrilled and peaceful. “Good boy,” I told him again. He grinned up at me, still sitting in his office chair naked, covered in come. “Thank you, mistress,” he said. “Thank you for never.”