By Erden Das

I’m on my knees. I intended to be fully dressed when this happened, but it’s been too long since I agreed to discuss “expanding the boundaries, just a little,” and I talked myself into (or was talked into) losing the shirt. And the jeans, well…ironically, I gave up the idea of keeping those on more easily than the shirt.

I don’t remember *agreeing* to strip my boxers away as well, but I must have, because I’m certainly not wearing them. And my cock, of course, is hard. So, to recap, I’m kneeling. Naked, Collared. I haven’t gotten off in a week or more (I’m a little fuzzy on the details). And I’m not quite sure how much I’ve had to drink.

A perfect negotiating position.

Actually, in some ways, it is, because all I fucking want right now is to lose. To be rendered incapable of resistance beyond whatever amount it pleases you to see me cling to and inevitably surrender. I am getting off on my own defeat and I can’t imagine anything hotter.

When you finally decide to fuck me, it’s a foregone conclusion that we’ll leave the condoms where they are. We don’t even discuss it, and that realization has me quivering with need. Not just crossing the boundary, but in having it be almost a non-event. You want me bare, and so that’s what I’ll give you. That I want it just as badly factors into the equation only in that it makes it just *that* much more arousing.

I’ve lost track of how long you’ve been riding me, and hurting me, and teasing me. I can hear my voice – ragged, needy – calling out my pleas without prompting. Please fuck me.

Please use me.

Please claim me.

Please mark me.

Please do it again.

Please.

When you finally bring up the idea of my orgasm, like an idea that you’ve been toying with idly, my mouth and hands and cock have already been implements of your own pleasure. I begin begging again, my hunger an obsession now, my words not quite coherent but their meaning crystal clear.

I’m promising things now that I won’t remember, but you’ll remember all of them. Not that it matters. At this point, you could tell me that I traded that orgasm for my next ten, or for your right to use me whenever you desired for a month, or for the design of my next tattoo, no exceptions, and I would believe it. I almost want you to do so enough to beg for that, and maybe I do. There are words and promises from me, and knowing laughs and sharp slaps and hungry, ownership-filled growls from you, and whatever happens next – be it an orgasm or not, longer-term consequences or not, release or not – I know what my answer will be, both now, and when you (if you) demand my attention and presence in the future.

“Yes, Goddess.”