Stella

She stroked her cock with one hand and watched him, watched the combination of fear and desire stutter across his face. He was a good looking man, married, mid-thirties, a little paunchy but nice definition through his chest and shoulders. His hair was close-cropped and brown. His eyes were brown, too. He had a delicious ass, and a serviceable, if not impressive penis. She wondered, as she always did, what brought him to her feet.

He had long lashes, dark, silky. They rested on his cheeks when he caught her watching him; it was an animal game. When their eyes met hers, they were always the first to look away, to roll over and expose that soft, vulnerable under-belly.

She was Dominant.

He was standing across the room, naked. His hands kept wanting to shield his member from her, but he'd force them back to his sides. She knew all the questions poised on the tip of his tongue. They were always the same. Where is everything? The chains, the hooks, the whips and floggers? What do I call you? Are you going to hurt me?

The room was empty of everything except a four-poster bed covered by a crimson duvet. The only equipment she used was the strap on hugging her hips and occasionally, when requested, the soft ties lashed to the bed-posts. She'd be the first to admit that she wasn't your typical, leather-clad Dominatrix. There were no crops, no floggers, no collars or gags or chastity devices. Humiliation was not something she believed in, nor practiced. Her game was pleasure, for both of them. But mostly for him. She was paid to do to him what his partner was unwilling to do, or what he was unwilling to ask for from anyone else.

He finally said it. "What do I call you?"

"Mistress," she said. She felt powerful, rubbing the synthetic flesh jutting from her pubis. The black bustier made her large breasts appear larger, and pulled in her hourglass waist. Her hips were full and round, and her thighs thick. She wore a garter belt to hold up the patterned black stockings on her impossibly long legs, and her 6 inch heels put her well over six feet. They were simple, black, patent-leather with a mirror shine.

"Yes, Mistress." he lowered his eyes again, but not before they flitted around the room once more.

"Why are you here, Boy?"

"Do you have to call me that?" The question was polite. But still.

"Yes. On your knees, Boy."

"Yes, Mistress."

He knelt, his hands behind his back and chin on his chest. It made her wet when they did that. "Why are you here?"

He cleared his throat. Sometimes they couldn't say it aloud.

"Would you like to suck my cock?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Crawl."

He crawled obediently across the space between them and she felt her pulse quicken. She watched his penis begin its transformation. He knelt in front of her, and looked up, but didn't make eye contact. She used her black-gloved finger to trace the side of his face, almost tenderly; she swore she could feel his pulse in the room, the anticipation in it. She slipped her hand down, placed it firmly but gently on his throat, and cupped the back of his head with the other.

"Look at me. Have you ever sucked a cock?"

He tried to nod, but she held him still. "Speak."

"Yes, Mistress."

"Has it been some time? Is that why you're here?"

"Yes, Mistress." She felt his Adam's apple bob beneath her hand as he swallowed.

She knew nothing about him, other than that the background check and blood tests were clean. His check cleared. But she saw many of these 'cases.' Men with the kinds of sexual appetites that couldn't be satisfied through ordinary, monogamous relationships. Strong men with the weight of their worlds on their shoulders, who needed for a little while to be cared for, commanded.

Her persona, the image she put out, was one of strength, hardness, maybe even a touch of cruelty; but what she felt each time a new face knelt before her was tenderness and respect. She thought of herself as a sex worker, but part of her loved some part of each lost little boy that wandered into her den. She needed to give as much as they needed to take.

She thought of Harold, and the look of repulsion on his face when she'd whispered her fantasies to him. Together nearly a decade, that was how long it took her to gather the courage, to convince herself she wasn't a freak or an indigent. He stopped touching her after that. She'd asked him why, and he'd said, "Because I'm not queer, Stella."

She held the Boy's head and throat and rested the realistic, flesh-colored and textured plastic on his lower lip. He put his tongue out and wet it, and met her eyes. She nodded, and he opened and let her slide the length of the dildo over his tongue. She slid back and forth, holding his eyes, the thrusting movement of her hips and the hungry look in his eyes enough to make her drip. She felt his hands on her thighs, and felt the moment sweeping over her. She pushed deeper and deeper, and he took it, all of it, eyes tearing. "Touch me," she said firmly.

His hands slid up her thighs, and she felt his fingers part her, stroking, finding the heart beat at her center. When he let a finger slip inside her, he groaned around the cock in his mouth.

She fucked his mouth, forbidding him to come. He clutched his throbbing erection, and she watched while his mind left. He was pushing it back, holding it off, wanting to please her.

She pulled out of his mouth. "On the bed."

He half-walked, half-crawled, and sat on its edge.

"Do you want to taste me before I fuck you, Boy? "

"Please, Mistress."

He was back on his knees, and she draped one leg over his shoulder. His tongue lapped against her, and she willed stoicism. Her job was to feed his fantasies, to take him to the edge and back. As he buried himself deeper while grunting noises of appreciation and pleasure, she held still. When she couldn't take it any longer, she pushed him away. Her tone was severe. "On the bed, Boy. On your back. I'm going to spread you like a whore."

"Yes, Mistress."

His cock was raging, his balls tight against his body. She smiled a predatory smile while lubing the strap on. His breath rose and fell as he watched, and his skin pinked.

She watched his face while her lubed and gloved fingers stroked from the tip of his cock, down the seam of his fat scrotum, across his perineum and circled his asshole. "Have you been fucked in the ass?"

"Not in a long time, Mistress."

As she played and teased around him, he tilted his head back and another sound escaped him. She pressed against him with one finger, working his cock at the same time with slow, lazy strokes. She slipped inside, and he groaned again. "What's that, Boy?"

"Nothing, Mistress," but his breath was short.

"Tell me."

"Please Mistress. I want more."

She slipped another inside, and fingered and stroked him to the edge again. "I want to come, Mistress, please," he panted.

"No!"

He made a tortured sound, and his cock softened in her hand.

"Good, Boy." She pressed her cock against him. She was gentle at first, moving slowly, giving him only the tip. She loved this sight, the submission of his body, the beauty of a cock stretched over a soft belly, and watching him take her, take what she gave. As he relaxed, she began fucking him, slowly, inch by inch. "Jerk yourself," she ordered. She wanted to see him hard again. She wanted her hands free to press his thighs open and pinch and hold his nipples until he cried out.

He grunted with each thrust, and his face contorted. She could imagine what he felt; it was one thing she loved about an ass-fuck. She knew what it felt like, she knew the exquisite sensation, and the building, full feeling, the tingling that raced down the legs and up into the belly. She didn't know what it felt like for him when he was the penetrator. But she knew what this felt like. It drove her, drove the rhythmic movement of her hips.

As she fucked him, her own fantasies, always unfulfilled, crept in, and she imagined feeling a long, hard cock enter her from behind, and imagined the feeling of being fucked while fucking, pleasured while pleasing. She leaned down and took him in her mouth and sucked him hard. Harold would not approve. But that's why Harold now lived across the state.

Without realizing it, she touched herself with one hand while she fucked him and pinched and smacked his thigh with the other. He was begging for her. He was trembling with the pleasure shooting through every nerve-ending in his body. He pleaded for release.

She pushed him beyond where he thought he got off, and he rode it. He closed his eyes and fisted his cock, and when she finally gave permission, his sack sucked upward and his member jumped in his hand, and he exploded in a violent jet, one, then another, and another. She kept thrusting while he emptied, then she left him.

She went through the concealed door at the back of the room. She would only see him again if he requested her, and most of them did. She leaned back against the door and let out a long shuddering sigh. She missed the lying together part. She missed the kisses and caresses over trembling skin.

But she would never miss the hiding.