Mme Moreau
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An Imposition No More Part 2 free porn video
AN IMPOSITION NO MORE PART 2
Sleazy Blonde, 2021
It had been a few weeks. Life settled down into our new routine.
From his perspective, it hardly seemed much different than our old
routine: up; ready for work; commute; work; lunch at desk or a quick
take-away; work; commute; pick-up a grocery or two on the way home;
prep dinner; greet spouse; continue prepping; dinner; clean-up; after
dinner walk in the 'hood; TV, Netflix, or reading; flirting; bedding;
my fist repeatedly shoved up his ass; my cock and ball torture getting
him increasingly willing to cum on my demand; my pleasure time; my
pleasure time; my pleasure time; "now", he gets his little squirt;
sleep-time.
From my perspective, there were endless differences and endless
possibilities. Take, for instance, getting ready for work. Once upon a
time (oh, those magical words inform you just how far he and I have
traveled, even though he hadn't yet noticed), I'd pull up my side of
the bed and he his. Now? I'd casually flick a finger at the bed and
merely utter, "Bed." He'd make it.
I never had to shout or holler. I occasionally used a stern voice, but
that was --- from my perspective of course --- just for show. I had
decided to put little effort into his enjoyment of our new life. I
wasn't trying to dominate him per se. Yes, that may have been an
effect; however, to be perfectly honest with you, it was never my
intention.
Rather, I simply enjoyed treating him as an emotional afterthought. At
what moment does a woman cease to consider her man to be HER man or
even a MAN? My opinion of him irrevocably changed upon his asking me to
rub his prostate to climax him. Real men don't ask such things. No,
they'd instead simply order it done and then rejoice in the bliss
afterward. The odd thing was that he seemed to revel in the
indifference; this coupled to his growing obedience enabled me to
consider him now so easily to be "not my old Jeremy" or "my wimp" or
"my cute-fistee".
I didn't buy the chastity device. No: he did. "You want this on you?" I
asked with my usual disdain. He begged me for a week before I
reluctantly relented. I like it when he begs now. He does it often. He
does it well. He hardly ever receives any positive response for a week.
Only after I tire of his whining --- yes, he whines and, yes, it is
tiresome --- will I go along with his wishes.
I well remember encaging his cock. The poor little thing hadn't had a
squirt in two weeks. I subjected Jeremy to no-notice inspections: "Is
that a cum spot, wittle Jewemy?" During one of them, I instructed him
to get into his usual position and took a bag of ice to his cock and
balls. Wow! They really do shrink fast! Before he knew it, I had the
stainless-steel contraption on and locked.
But he couldn't do anything about it from his doggie position. Yeah,
about three weeks ago, I had dropped some handcuffs on the bed: "For
you. Spread eagle. Well, spread eagle if you want an orgasm. Does my
little prostate pussy want an orgasm? What does little pussy say to
Mistress?" It was two nights before he had cuffed himself, ankles and
wrists, to the bed posts and begged me to fist him.
I ought to have gone into psychology.
This was costing me hardly anything. I was relieved from many of the
household chores. If I wanted something fetched, then I merely snapped
my fingers and complained to him that he hadn't gotten me whatever it
was I wanted. And off he raced to get it. All this because he wanted my
fist up his ass, rubbing his prostate.
He was training himself and he didn't see it. I speak my wish; he
listens and complies; he gets a prostate massage. I look my wish; he
notices and infers; he gets a scrotum kiss. I touch my wish; he sees
and obtains; he gets jerked off. And at any moment I might suddenly
burst out in some petty, insignificant criticism of him ("Loser."), his
appearance ("You're wearing that?"), his job ("I make more than you,
you worthless piece of man!"), and of course his diminishing, vanishing
cock-set.
This to-and-fro, disorienting and destabilizing as it was, delivered to
him the biggest lesson of all: his chances of being pleased increased
in direct proportion to my happiness at any given moment in time.
I recognized my position for what it was: I stared at his asshole as I
shoved my fingers, wrists, hands, and more often now a great deal of my
forearm up his ass. Initially, I felt that this was my humiliation.
Then I saw the potential for power in it. Then I saw innumerable ways
to exert that power with little energy on my part.
"You know I like sunflowers, don't you, my faggoty husband?" I
synchronized the strokes of my right forearm in his ass and the strokes
of my left hand on his cock.
"Yes, Mistress," he moaned.
"Would I rather look at sunflowers or at your asshole?" In and out. Up
and down. I kept my rhythm.
"Sunflowers, Mistress!" he yelped as I pushed deeper.
I immediately pulled out and let go. He heaved breathlessly looking for
my touch to stir him onward.
"Well, Jerri, right now, I'm looking at an asshole. A big, round,
brown, glistening asshole that's begging me to fuck it." I leaned back
further and grabbed a smoke. He hated my smoking in the house. But what
could he do about it? He was cuffed and spread eagled.
"Do you ever want another orgasm, Jerri?"
He nodded furiously.
"Good boy. When I see a big, huge, bright, yellow sunflower tattooed on
there, then I'll give you another orgasm." I started stroking his cock
with my left hand. I wanted him to beg for it.
He stared at me, his eyes wide and full of fear.
I blew my smoke in his face. "Sunflower. Big, Bright, Yellow." I
rounded the bed and went to my closet. I hunted for three things. I
found them!
I smiled at him as I told him to close his eyes and open his mouth. He
obeyed. The penis gag went in smoothly and was strapped on securely.
His face showed fear. I didn't want that much fear; I soothed him a
bit. Again, the psychological effect of talking as a mother does to an
uncomprehending, crying child had a particular effect here on my
husband.
My pat on his head. My soft cupping of his face. My smile bursting with
life from my face. The good old to-and-fro.
"Well, then. You'd better not come now!" I hissed at him and held the
12" vibrating dildo to his face. Before he could gasp behind his gag, I
lubed it up and shoved it in. Forcefully. Commandingly. Brutally. I
tightened the straps; it wouldn't drop out now. And the power cord
ensured it wouldn't falter.
"Ten minutes! You'd better not come without my permission!" I turned it
on and took joy in watching the surrealistic faces he became inspired
to show me.
"Only I give you squirties!" I barked and held the riding cane up.
"You love how this feels, don't you, sweetie?" I teased and gently
caned his two cheeks.
I began a nice caning rhythm to match his body's reactions to the
vibrator. Pain and pleasure. Pain and pleasure. He was training
himself.
"Nine minutes!" I shouted with glee. I turned the vibrator up to the
max. I saw his body buck and I renewed my caning with a relish.
"Eight minutes!" I paid attention to his imprisoned little playthings.
I had once adored them so: their length, their strength, their size,
their weight, their penetrating depth. But it had been weeks without my
missing them. I frankly found this prostate-empowerment far more
tantalizing and enthralling than any pleasure I had ever received
from... from him... from my pathetic husband.
Tool. Fool. He couldn't see my scorn.
I kept my cane in one hand and navigated myself up to sit against the
headboard of the bed, my legs spread, my free hand pulling his head
between my legs. I unstrapped the gag.
"Lick me now, you flaming faggot!" I caned him as he began. I tried to
match my caning and his licking stroke for stroke. It soon felt good to
me.
"Seven!" I groaned with pleasure. I lost track of my caning strokes so
I hurriedly caned him with renewed vigor.
"Six!" I smothered his head.
"Five!" I slowly reached for the remote.
"Four minutes!" I turned off the remote. I caned him as quickly as I
could. "Faster!" I shouted him to lick. Faster I caned him in synch.
The next three minutes were some of the best, juiciest, pleasurable
moments of my life!
My breathing eased. My blood ceased racing. I could think again. And
then I noticed it. Rather, I noticed what I wasn't noticing.
"Who told you that you could stop?"
He looked up at me quite pleased with himself. He probably suspected
the enormity of my orgasms which, I must be fair, he had largely
contributed to. His tongue was to die for! But so too were his
struggles against the cuffs that he had put on himself. So too were the
gyrations of his ass as the vibrator churned away, hidden from sight.
And his tiny cockette: all locked up and nowhere to cum.
I was so turned on.
I grabbed his hair and gently pulled his head back.
"Jerri, that was fantastic. You gave me so much pleasure. How can I
ever repay you?" Doe-eyed and innocent looking. Men are suckers for the
simplest of tricks.
"Mistress, may I please cum? I'm begging you. Please. It's been weeks.
I looked at him with pity. That's how I often looked at him these days.
With pity. You pathetic man. I fist fuck you. I shove a huge vibrator
up your ass. I jerk you off. You haven't had your cock in me in two
months. You may never again. And now you beg me to grant you ---
indulge you --- an orgasm?
I gave him a look of love, of caring, of compassion.
I felt none of these things though.
There would be more orgasms tonight. Just not for him.
I slithered down the bed a bit so his mouth was again against my pussy.
"Again," I said, turning the vibrator back onto to its maximum setting,
grabbing his head with one hand to draw him closer, renewing my caning
of his ass.
The look on his face was priceless.
What could I say in reply?
"Sunflower."
finito
Bess
- 13.06.2022
- 18
- 0
