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Cold lubricant trickled down my crack, and he smeared it about my puckered hole. Flinching, I buried my head in my arms. He poked a finger inside, testing my readiness. I gasped at the intrusion then, with a pop, he extracted his digit.
I risked a peek over my shoulder and shrivelled with mortification. He been to the lair and fetched the damn butt plug with a pig’s curly tail stuck on the end of it.
“Eyes front,” he snapped, sergeant-major style.
I squirmed. The plug was on the large side, and he slipped it in with a firm shove. Each second that passed, I stretched and grew around the incursion, finding its dimensions bearable and shamefully desirable. Heat rushed up my body, into my neck and face, no doubt adding extra pinkness to my flesh tone.
“What noises do piggies make, Gemma?” He wiggled the tail and corresponding movement inside me excited my clitoris.
“Oink, oink,” I replied through gritted teeth.
Jason slapped a buttock. “No, that’s what you say to children. I want you to grunt. Deep grunts.”
Hell! I buried my face in my hands.
Jason coaxed, cajoled, but avoided sweet-talking me into compliance. Instead, he pushed the humiliation aspect of his small, contrived scene. I grunted, not convincingly, and he threatened to flog me until I had the right sound effects spewing out of my mouth. One hand rested on my lower back—the calming weight—while the other, the crueller one, twisted and rotated the silly plug in my butt hole.
I arched my back, rocking back and forth, then caught my reflection in the full-length mirror attached to the walk-in closet door. A vision of me, us. Bum up, head down, with Jason kneeling behind me, playing with my butt. As I grunted, he grinned and thrust the plug in then back out again. My reflection managed to appear both ludicrous and erotic.
The plug suddenly went, eased out of me. We hadn’t finished, though.
“Keep grunting, little piggy, while I fuck you,” growled Jason.
His erection was hard as a scaffold pole, and I struggled to accommodate his thick cock. Then it happened. I thought of what he’d called me, what I’d become—his little piggy. An animal with an unfortunate reputation because they were quite sweet and cute when piglets. I had read countless farmyard stories to Joshua and the pink, stylised pigs illustrated on the cardboard pages were the images I used to visualise my submission. I was a pristine, pretty pink pig—a beautiful creature being fucked for the pleasure of one man.
I grunted enthusiastically. I discovered my way past the humiliation aspect. I had to be submissive and think of him fucking his cute little porcine. I pushed back, meeting his slapping thighs, and sucked him in deeper. When done right, anal sex was a winner for my libido. The ache in my hips, the pain in my kneecaps, all forgotten, substituted by sheer, unadulterated sexual pleasure. Even without direct contact, my clit raged, clambering to reach a fiery resolution.
“Oh, Gemma, my little piggy,” he groaned. He let go of my waist, thrust hard, and I fell flat on my belly, squashing my breasts. Master didn’t seem to mind the piggy had lost her footing. He pinned my shoulders into the carpet, rose up then hurtled down, knocking the air out of me.
I whimpered, not through pain, but the electricity pulsating around my pussy. I wanted to slip my hand underneath, touch my clit. The frustration of being edged by my Dom grew, and I wanted to beg. I head butted the carpe
t.
My energy levels shattered, disintegrated in my desperate need to have completion. Jason’s enthusiasm remained unperturbed by sleepless nights and his boundless energy kept him hard, and able to hold off his orgasm, ensuring he drove me crazy with impatience.
“Thank you, Sir. Please....” I could not work out what to say to him. He’d forbidden me to beg, to plead.
“Wait.”
I can’t hold it. The more he denied me, the stronger the ache to come, and I teetered on the brink, falling….
“Come.”
One word, and I dissolved about him, hollering, clawing at the carpet threads. My orgasm a pulsating bedlam that rippled on for a delicious eternity and, in the midst of it, he spurted his load.
We’d achieved the perfect simultaneous climax because he had controlled me, rather than having me beg until I told him I was coming. He’d demonstrated his authority over my lust. Held hostage to his needs, from this time on, he truly owned my sexual being, I’d nothing left to give him. My orgasms were his to command, and I would endeavour to deliver them on cue or accept his denial.
I lay on the sticky towel while he filled the bath. We slipped in together, and he guided me down.
“Well done, babe. You almost asked.”
I leant against his chest. “It was a challenge, not being about to beg, not even being able to drop a hint.”
He chuckled, wringing out a cloth over my breasts. The water formed rivulets down my cleavage. “I can read your body. You tense up when you’re close to coming.”
“Oh.” Of course, he’d predicated my orgasm many times in the past.
Jason handed me the cloth. “We need to be quick; his lordship will wake up soon. Remember, every day you make those preparations. Don’t make the mistake again. It’s a ritual. It helps you maintain your submission, you know this, and unless you ask permission, you keep doing it regardless of circumstances. Don’t make it something I’m required to watch.”
