I don’t know how to dominate you, but maybe I’ll begin by taking your face gently in my hands. Then I’ll press my lips against yours to feel their cushion-softness, and whisper ‘get your fucking dick really really hard for me.’
I want to reach around behind you so I can dig my fingers into the meat of your arse, and yank you closer so I can feel your crotch pressed solidly against mine.
I want to tell you to shut the fuck up: bite down on your tongue while I strip you from head to foot, taking slow and careful note of each detail of your body as I reveal it. Grip the thickness of your swelling cock in one hand and squeeze it so tightly that you can’t help but let out a gasp.
Then I’ll scold you for making noise after I’ve insisted on your silence.
I want to push you to your knees on the floor, and open the fly of my jeans – yanking them open so you can see the slit that leads to my cunt, and then order you to bury your fucking face in it.
The eager glee with which you do it tells me I shouldn’t let you indulge yourself for too long… but then again I do adore the softness of the back of your neck, and the way I feel when I grip it tightly in one hand. And the slippery wetness of your tongue as you slide it over my clit, of course.
I want to order you to touch yourself while you do this. Grip your cock in one fist and jerk at it as hard as you possibly can – squeezing tightly, making slapping sounds as you beat it. I look down at the back of your head, and the arch of your back, and your right shoulder – tense and twitching with the effort of wanking yourself off.
Watching you masturbate is one of my favourite sights.
I don’t know how to dominate you, but I do know what I like. And maybe that’s one of the key parts, surely: understanding what I like and want you to do, and just saying it – doing it – without any of the questions or suggestions or concerns-about-reciprocity that I’d include if I weren’t the one with power.
If you can’t tell me how to dominate you, perhaps I should just do what I want, and trust that you’ll stop me if I go too far. In that trust comes freedom – the freedom for me to say, for instance, ‘get this cock ring on your dick and touch yourself until you’re so fucking hard it’s actually painful.’
Or ‘fuck me with long, slow strokes while I use this vibrator. If you dare to even think about coming I will beat you so hard.’
Or ‘bend over the table and let me tie your ankles to it – I’m going to fuck you in the ass.’
I don’t know how to dominate you, but I know what I want to see: your eyes, red-rimmed and sad and desperate and eager, as I tease your dick right to the throbbing, twitching edge, then let go of it and pinch your nipples so tightly you let out a yelp.
The other day I gave him a blow job during which he let out actual, vocal whimpers. Loud and plaintive and aching with sorrow – he was so close to coming, yet still miles away, because I balanced out each suck as if it were second-to-last, and kept a tight grip on his balls to stop him from spilling over.
Whimpers: that’s what I want.
I want to take my knickers and shove them in your mouth while I work your cock, and then I want to make you whimper loud enough that I can hear it through the muffling fabric.
I want to make you fuck me without coming. Beg me, as you’re fucking, for permission to let go. I want to talk to you while you do it – about your spunk, and how you have to hold it back. About your jizz, and how if you spill even a single drop of it inside me I will wrestle you down onto your stomach on the bed and let you pump the last few squirts of it into the cotton duvet while I take a flogger and whip you from neck to ankle for disobeying me.
I don’t know how to dominate you, but I do know how to fuck you. And that’s what I want, right now, I think. To take your face in my hands, press my lips against yours to feel their cushion-softness, and then order you to get your dick hard.
So I can control you and instruct you and order you, then have you fuck me good and hard until you cannot help but whimper.