Let It All Go, Boy: Part Two, Guest Post by Sonya Bolus

Content: mommy/boy role play, sex. All characters are consenting adults. Read Part One here.

**

Mommy:

I pull away. Stand up, looking down at you.

“You need to stop. Now!”

You look stricken. Poor boy. Still dazed, struggling with your lust. You are embarrassed. And sorry. I can see it in your eyes. I soften my tone.

“Don’t worry, little one. I’m not angry. You’re not in trouble. I just need you to understand. Privilege like that is earned. When I want you to touch me, I will invite you. I will direct you.”

I step closer, bending down and touching your cheek. “I know you didn’t mean anything wrong. You are a very good, very sexy boy.” You smile tentatively.

I sit with you, stroking your cheek and hair for a while, like you are my creature: petting you, lulling you. Then, in a low voice, almost a whisper in your ear, I speak. “I know what you need, boy.” Your eyes get wide. I run my hand possessively over the length of your bared body. “And I’ll take what I want.”

When you breath out with a silent “oh”, I pull you to me and kiss your mouth with all of my hunger and desire exposed. Crush your lips with mine, use my teeth on you, press my mouth against you so you can’t turn away or catch your breath.

Then, using your short, disheveled hair, I roughly bend your head back, holding it there to stroke your throat with my nails, graze your jugular with my teeth. Then very gently, like a shadow touch, a hint, I wrap your neck with my hand, placing the slightest pressure on your throat.

Oh, sweet boy, how can I resist you? You don’t know how your pretty eyes make me ache, make my cunt drip, make my Femme-cock harden. Dear little boy, you make me ravenous, and I can’t help myself!

I release your wrists, shove you down. Run my hands firmly up your thighs. Over your torso and chest, your hard, small nipples brushing my flat palms.

Then down again. I want you open beneath me. Hungry now, I press your legs apart. I want you to give me your butch-virginity, again and again. All boy. All dyke. All stone melted, flowing. Searing hot lava pouring from my boy’s hungry cunt, slick and steaming on my hand, lubricating my entry as I slip my fingers into you, spreading you slowly wider until my folded hand slides into you, and I take possession. Mine. I have you.

For a moment, you panic and your body stiffens. I stop and hold my hand motionless inside you, swathed in your swollen, silky inner flesh. I allow a moment of stillness while your mind catches up with reality and sensation.

Then, beginning with minuscule movements, I start to gently pump you with my fist. Slowly, your tensed muscles melt. With each penetration and retreat, a slight twisting of my forearm eases the stroke. I’m moving languidly, gradually dipping my fist deeper into you, taking a little more, pushing further. Your legs are relaxed and unconsciously splayed, but your hips push up at me, thrusting almost imperceptibly. Your eyes are screwed shut, hands clenching the sheet at each side, like you’d fall through the bed if you let go. You are focused, tuned to the frequency of invasion and disconsonant sensation. Your lips are dry from panting and the guttural groans that accompany each thrust. You are opening beautifully, boy.

Now I move harder and quicken my stroke, fucking you rough and deep. Your moans are long, drawn out, filled with vibrato and pitching higher until you are wailing and keening. Your kegels are a tight band on my wrist and you unwittingly crush my fingers together inside you. Every part of you is tensed, straining. Thigh muscles, taut and shaking, hold your full cunt higher, seeking release.

I don’t let you come. No, not yet. I want to keep you straining for me, begging. So I pull out, amused by your surprise and taking a small thrill in the tears of frustration that wet your eyes.

“Silly, little boy. Did you forget?” I purr, “I own you tonight. You are my toy for the moment. You funny thing… to think I would let you get off so easily.”

I turn you over abruptly, press you face-down into the mattress. Move to your side and hold you down, my left forearm pressing the back of your neck and shoulders.

Don’t wriggle. Don’t cry. You did this to me. Your pretty-boy body, firm and yielding. Your pretty-boy face, flushed and bright. The tousled, sweaty hair. You must know how you provoke my desire. You, with your hopeful, wanting eyes. The mix of hunger and confusion and eagerness. Your surrender, peppered with fear and seasoned with arousal. This little boy is crying for Mama. Why should I resist?

I don’t.

I know you need it. But the first smack to your ass is unexpected. A shock. Yes! The electric snap of energy. The biting pain. I feel the sting on my hand when I strike you, and I watch your ass cheeks quiver and redden. It is a sharp surprise, and you yelp. I almost laugh out loud at such guilelessness. But I don’t want to bruise your pride along with your body.

“Time for a proper spanking, boy.”

I release your neck and teasingly rake my fingernails down your spine almost to your butt crack. Your ass reflexively tips up. Now that you know what I want, you steady yourself to accept it, lifting up onto hands and knees, ass completely available.

“Such a brave little lad,” I praise you. “What a fetching little boy you are, when you know your place.” I smack you soundly. Then again. And again, building a rhythm that makes us into a fluid machine, working together seamlessly toward some unnamed goal.

In a smooth, instinctive movement, I wrap my left arm around your lower back and drag you by your waist, unresisting, to me. Hold you close and tight across my lap where I’m kneeling on the bed, with your head resting face down on the mattress to my left. Your ass is perfectly positioned for me. With my dominant right hand, I whack your already hot and red-purple cheeks. Harder, now. You are doing so well, my little boy with tears in your eyes.

I ball my hand into a fist and punch the soft muscle of your bottom. I laugh lightly when you jump. “I need to bruise you, little one, so you can relive this moment when you examine yourself in the mirror tomorrow.”

Once, twice, three more times I punch your cheek. You give a little yelp with each blow. Then you groan, a husky sound filled with hurt and desire. I move to the other cheek, throw a smack like a whipcrack, then deliver three hard little punches in quick succession. You breathe in, sharply, and release it in a loud moan that breaks into a genuine sob.

Not much more tonight, then. This is too fragile, yet. It is too soon to push you further.

So when I strike you again, it is softer. And I leave my hand pressed motionless against your heated skin until your shuddering breath settles into a regular rhythm. Then I tenderly caress you with my fingertips, softly blowing cool air on your hurts. You relax into the gentle touch with a childlike sigh. I bend and very lightly kiss that hot skin. Another sigh. I pause, take a deep, quiet breath. Savor the moment before I move on you.

I almost denied you this proper finish. But I enjoy how you willingly suffer for me, and I believe you can take this last torment. So I grasp a pliable handful of your ass cheek and twist your hurting flesh, digging hard into the developing contusions, while you cry out in surprise and pain. I release my grip and then crush the flesh of your other bruised and burning cheek, driving my fingernails into you like teeth. I relish how you do your best to silence your cries, but I love the sounds of your pain when you can’t. Silence bores me.

I let go with a little shove, pushing you away before I go further, barely able to contain the ferocious hunger you inspire. You are on your belly, breathing hard, and I let you have a moment, while I gather myself and excruciatingly tamp my fire down to a less destructive flame. Then, I lay my hand flat against your back between your shoulder blades and help you steady, breathing with you. When your breath is even and calmed, you slightly tip up your butt, quietly offering it to me again.

“What a good boy,” I croon. “Hmmm … do you think you deserve more?”

I reach for the pump bottle full of J-lube sitting discreetly next to the table lamp, and I drizzle the slippery cool wetness over the crack of your ass, using my thumb to open you and get it up in there until your hole is as slick as your boy-cunt. I ignore the noises you are making as I slather lube over the length of my hard, black cock, stroking it like I can sense every touch. I feel the power of it, this extension of myself that you will accept as part of me. I pull your hips close to me and rest your dripping asshole against the head. I see you are shaking. Desire? Fear? Fatigue? There is a moment of holding back.

“Tell me you want this,” I demand in a low voice. “Be truthful. Don’t lie to me. I’ll know.”

No hesitation: “Yes! yes! Please!” You are flustered and so earnest. Heart-meltingly earnest. Your words tumble out like marbles falling all over each other.

“Yes! I want You… I mean this. I want this! I need to be Yours. Please, Ma’am? I mean… Mommy.
I want Your… uh… dick? I mean … Is that ok? I do, though. I want it. In me. Please? I mean … if you want me… Mommy? Do you?”

You take a deep breath. Then very softly, “Please fuck me, Mommy. I need… I need you to fuck me.”

So nervous, but so very genuine. You make me want to laugh and hug you and fuck you and hurt you and own you and take such good care of you. But mostly, I want to fuck you.

“Oh I want you, little boy,” I growl. “I want your Tight. Little. Hole.”

You suck in air. Mmmm… I love your hunger, love your need. Your trust and fear. It is all so… delightful and… delicious.

Then quietly, I answer your request, “Yes, you may have Mama’s cock. You have been very well behaved, very honest. And you deserve. To be fucked. By your Mommy.”

‘Your Mommy’. These are powerful words. I think you know that I don’t throw them around like they are anything but sacred. They are an invocation. A baptism. These words name you and claim you. I’m not Mommy to just any cute, horny, butch bottom. I can’t be Mommy for a scene and then walk away.

This is me, accepting responsibility for your body and heart, your want and need. And it is me letting down my guard and entrusting you with my dark and vulnerable self.

How is it that I know so soon … really know … that you are my boy. And I am your Mommy. It hasn’t been long enough. I never take on a D/s relationship like this so quickly, especially Mommy/boy. I don’t understand it, but I don’t have any question in my heart or mind that this is right. I feel a rush of almost painful joy, and I wonder if I’m going to spill tears on your back. I suddenly want to gather you up into my arms and whisper “My boy, My boy” into your ear over and over, kissing you and feeling you against me. But instead, I press gently against your tightness with the tip of the dildo that is also my dick. I need you. Like this. Now.

I take you slowly this first time, this exquisite first possession of your ass. I maintain an insistent, gentle pressure, moving very slightly in and out, nudging you open. I feel it when you release, the ripple of acceptance passing through your body. You sigh as I slide through and in. Filling you. All the way in. I stay there, sunk deep in you, your hot, sore flesh against my skin and the harness. Silence holds the moment. Then I begin to slowly stroke myself inside you. I watch my cock fucking in and out of you, see it stretch your distended hole, watch your tender skin hugging my shaft, moving with it. I listen to your groaning and the rhythmic, wet sound of slow fucking. God, I feel you. I feel myself inside you.

We are in our own small sphere of time and space. The room has faded, the apartment, dinner, personal ads… all faded into the outside world of everyday. Time stretches, somehow viscous. The air is denser, humid, hazy. In this moment we have our own microcosm of sensation, the synergistic dynamism of a perfectly crafted engine, a capsule universe webbing us with bright, breathless energy.

You moan: a low guttural howl. And I feel the fear finally, fully drain from you, weeping from you as if from a lanced wound. Your shoulders are shaking: silent sobs, (I keep slow-fucking you). You pull yourself together, groan and whimper, (I don’t stop). Then you grunt and push against me, wanting more, begging with your body for pleasure.

We begin moving together in a hard rhythm. Each thrust is a shared heartbeat, pumping the tide of heat flowing between us. I bend forward, take a gentle-firm grip on the back of your neck; you strain back toward me, like a bridled horse, unconsciously obeying my touch. I slip my hand up into your hair, combing through your soft, short curls, then grasp them in my fist, holding you, bending you back to me.

“Mine. I fuck you to make you Mine, boy,” I growl. And you give it to me. Your tears and sweat and your body fucking me back, insistent. Your asshole strained and accommodating, so willing.

I want to feel your body against me, so I bend forward, supported by my hands on either side of you. And you curl down and arch your back into me. My body envelops you, my breasts pressed to your skin. I shift my weight to my left arm. With my right hand, I reach around your pelvis to find your cunt hole dripping. I slip two fingers into you, thumb against your clit, and moan with the thrill of your heat, liquid fire lust. You pump against my hand, carnal animalistic grunts escaping your throat. But I can’t fuck you properly in this awkward position, and before long, I pull my fingers away, reach for your hand and guide it to your crotch.

“Be a good boy and make yourself come while I fuck your pretty ass.” My voice is husky and distant. You pant your tremorous reply. “Yes. Mommy.”

I kneel up, knees planted on the bed behind you, ready and eager to fuck you for my pleasure alone. My desire is blinding; I want the wild ride, driving you like a beast. But instead, I force myself to hold back, and I pace myself to you, listening to your body, matching your desire. Because… I want your come, boy. That is my pleasure tonight.

Your hand is busy. “Oh God! Oh yes!” you whisper, and say it again. “Yes. God, yes!” Chanting it in sync with each thrust I make. Your breath is quickening and the energy in the room pulses like a live thing. My mind dives deep into the blur of your pleasure and our synergy. I feel your orgasm gathering. “Oh my God! Yes!” You howl, “Yessss! Please!” Your muscles tighten, your ass tries to push me out. But I push back and give you just that much more until you convulse and shout, “Yours! I’m Yours!” and your body spasms and spasms again, and then again.

But you are still stroking yourself intently and still moaning: a long, drawn out, “Ohhhhhhh,” almost as if you are surprised by what you feel. Your moan pitches higher and suddenly all of your muscles clench, hard and juiced. You are frozen, tense and mute. Then the wave breaks; you wail and howl, riding the swell of pleasure I can see and feel pulsating through you. I press my cock deep in you, holding your hips and pulling you against my pubic bone, pulling your orgasm up against me. Your thighs are shaking. You cry so sexily, “Oh Mommy. Oh Mommy.” Over and over like a mantra.

And I cum from your cum. It always shocks me when I climax without physical stimulation. Not earth-shattering, but a surprising, gushing pleasure. My cunt contracts and throbs, and clear ejaculate sprays from me, drenching your ass, trickling hot down your thighs and mine. A lovely way to end things, you covered in my cum. Like an animal, marked and claimed. I hold myself stiff inside your ass and enjoy the bright moment. I deep inhale, tasting the sex in the air. Exhale and savor your exhaustion, satiation and post-come, starry-eyed pleasure. I am finished, so I pull out slowly, releasing your hips. You whimper just the tiniest bit and crumple to the soaked sheet below. I love what I can do to you, boy.

I lie down next to you and draw you very close, lifting a blanket over our bodies, murmuring softly, “Dear boy, sweet boy. My darling boy.” Kiss your head and face and stroke your shoulders until you drift into sleep nestled in my arms. Sleeping in your own wetness and mine. Sleeping like an angel. I live for this; these magical moments.

But, you don’t know.

You don’t know what goes on in my head.

Lying here with you sleeping in my tender embrace, I imagine all that I might do to you. There is a caged Tiger in me that hungers and wants release. My hunger is dangerous, darling boy. My hunger wants to violate you, tear you open, destroy your innocence.

Oh yes, Mommy wants her sweet boy to take it hard. Mommy wants to slip a hand over the boy’s mouth, keep you quiet while I use you. I’ll push my fingers into your mouth so you can suck for comfort while I force you. I’ll croon in your ear, “Be a good, quiet boy and I’ll give you what you really want. I’ll give you the fuck you need.”

I want to watch you try not to cry, try not to turn away or disobey, try so hard to offer yourself to me like a good boy. (I know you can do it. I know you can take it, boy. Make Mommy proud.) I’ll fuck you until you hurt. I’ll hurt you until you’re Mine. I’ll push up in there and give you the deepest drilling you’ve ever had. I’ll open you so wide. I’ll break you. Break you.

You know why I want to hurt you, don’t you, my boy? It’s because you are good. The sweeter you are, the more I want to beat you, cut you, choke you. You seduce me with your trust and naivete, and I can’t stop myself. I want your tears. I want to hear your suffering. The more you snuggle into my arms, the more I want to fuck your mind, blind-side you, turn you roughly over and ram into you, hurt you and take my pleasure in your pain and submission. You’re just a little boy, but I’ll use you for my fuck hole. My little rough-trade boy-bitch.

Someday, maybe soon, the Tiger will emerge, with claws and teeth, eager to devour you. Perhaps I will wrap your neck in my hands, choke you until I see your eyes roll back, until your lips are purple-blue and you start to go slack. Bring you back from the edge and do it again.

Perhaps, I will take a steel cane to you, bring up welts, maybe blood. Then fuck you from behind, wearing a spiked harness, scraping and abrading your hurt skin with every thrust.

Oh my boy, I will cum so hard in you, I will finally be truly gratified, fully satiated.

Exhausted, sweat dripping from my breasts and clinging to my hair. Pumping the last of my cum into you. My legs buckling so that I fall onto you. Collapse on you, pinning you down, breathing in gasps and shuddering, my cock still wedged hard in your ass, still owning you.

But, dear boy, before I destroy you, I need to love you first. I need to trust you. I need to know you. Because when I pull out of you and roll to my side, spent, for a brief moment I will be yours, letting it all go. Crying, maybe.

You see, I need your gratitude. I need your forgiveness. I need you to tell me “thank you”, so I know I didn’t hurt your spirit. Tell me you love me, that you are always mine. Then I’ll know I haven’t truly broken your mind or damaged your trust. Smile and kiss me, so I know you can take it, whatever I need to do to my boy. Rest in my arms, so I know you want me, Tiger and Lover. Mommy and Master.

I’ll float, while you stroke my back and hold me quietly until I can move. Until I am your Mama once more and can take care of you again.

Then I’ll hold my broken boy until my love can knit you back into joy, bright-eyed wonder, devotion. So you can stand proud and whole, my strong Leatherboy. Precious Mommy’s boy. Cling close, and I’ll embrace you until my own heart melts, and I’ll know I have loved you how you need it. How I need it. How it can only be for a Mommy and a boy.

Let It All Go, Boy: Part One, Guest Post by Sonya Bolus

Content: mama/boy age play, sex.

 

Dyke Mama seeks little boy. Leatherboy. Butch. Non-negotiable: compassion, integrity, Leather Heart. Any age, size, ethnicity, etc. Are you willing? Let’s play.

***

boy:

I’ve got my coffee, black. Cruise on through the back door of The Brew Zone coffee shop and find a metal bistro table with two chairs in the rear patio. The air is hot, but misters lightly cool my skin. Feels great, but my hair is starting to cling to my forehead in short, annoying, curls. Dammit, I’m trying to look my butch best here. And now my white tee, half tucked into well worn jeans, is damp, too. My feet are sweltering in heavy, polished boots. I sit down, attempt a pose, and wonder what the hell I’m doing.

Thirty-two, scrawny, butch leatherboy waiting on a blind date with some internet stranger. Is this stupid?

But what choice did I have?

I’m a boy, and after being ashamed and shy about it for years, I’ve finally accepted that I want to be with a Leather Mommy. Well, good for me. Hurray. Whoop-dee-doo. Problem is, Daddies are everywhere, whereas no-one even mentions Mommies without a bit of a sneer. Total double standard. So because of some fucked up taboo, it’s practically impossible to find a queer, femme, Leather Mommy. Screw that! I’m 32 and sick of hiding, done with waiting. My options few, I had to cowboy up and post a personals ad. Not cool. Except, on that same day, some “Dyke Mama” puts up an ad looking for someone just like me. 

I don’t believe in coincidences, so here I am.

I check the back door again, for the zillionth time. Nothing. Maybe she stood me up. Maybe she saw me, didn’t like the goods, and decided to leave. Fuck that shit! I’m not going to humiliate myself waiting on a no-show. I start to get up, ready to blow this off, and then the door opens and a woman walks out into the sun. Her. Olive skin, blue-black dyed hair, a bit fat, older than me by at least ten years. She looks around, sees me, smiles like a cat and heads toward my table.

I swear I can feel some sort of energy radiating from her. Smacks me right upside the head. I forget to be cool. Forget everything. I’m just a tongue-tied, butch lump-in-a-chair. Looking up at her.

“Hello, little boy,” she purrs. Heat rises up my neck and flushes my cheeks. Great. Real sexy. But at least I remember to stand up and pull out her chair like a civil gentlebutch.

I check her out while I’m holding her chair. Her hips are wide, and they spread when she sits, overflowing the chair. She’s wearing matte-black men’s leather boots, dark jeans, a thick, intimidating black-leather belt — the classic Leather Uniform — but she wears it with a sheer white blouse, at least 20 thin bangles clinking on her wrists, long earrings almost to her shoulders, cropped hair, black cat eyeliner and red, red lips. A black lace bra shows through the blouse and her cleavage is … fuck, it’s incredible! I tear my eyes away, worried she’ll think I’m disrespecting her.

She smiles like she’s amused. “A lemonade would be nice.”

And — “Yes, Ma’am!” — I head inside for the cold drink, happy to occupy myself with something she wants. When I get back, I see her forehead is beaded with perspiration, and she’s sweating a bit through the thin blouse. I should have had ice water waiting for her, I kick myself. Good thing there wasn’t a line to get the lemonade. I place it carefully before her, scrape my chair back, and she nods very slightly, so I sit. God, she has kind eyes! Finally, I can smile at her. I know it’s a big, goofy, shiny smile, but she seems to like it, so it’s all good.

She takes an icy lemonade sip. I lick my lips. Then we do the small talk thing, generally shooting shit about the heat, our hobbies, coming out, work, the scene. I pull myself together, and I’m very charming, I think. I hope.

She pauses for a moment, then abruptly asks me “What did you come here looking for? A Mommy? Tell me what that means to you.”

I stumble a bit. “Um … Not some mean, ego-bound Mistress, doing Leather as performance, that’s for sure.” I nurse my cooling coffee. “And not a role-player or a weekend player.” I think hard about it, trying to put it into words for the first time. “I want a genuine Leather Mommy. A kind-spirited, nurturing Mommy. One who can take charge of me and take care of me, teach me and love me and … take me down.”

She considers this. “Are you a little boy?”

“Well, yeah. Guess so.” I know I’m blushing again. “But I still like to play hard. Rough. And to serve. I want all that, too.” Long pause, then quietly, “I need it.”

She nods, really listening to me. Then we start talking about limits and wants, boundaries and experience. Our conversation ramps up. Consensual this and Safe that. And Sane whatever. And I’m thinking: Yes, yes. Thank you for caring and reassuring me. I will do the same for you, Ma’am. But let’s get real: What can we both expect if we do this? I mean, what comes next?

To be honest, I’m half terrified, half excited and half horny as fuck. Yeah, I know: too many halves; it’s called “being overwhelmed.” She must see my anxiety, because she takes my hand across the table and holds it in hers. My racing thoughts calm a bit.

“Okay, here’s what it would look like, if you were my boy.” Her voice is tender and yes, maternal. “We could play games together and draw pictures and play with toy cars. We might even go for ice cream or to the zoo. And you could sit on your Mommy’s lap any time you want. Even in the bar.” She squeezes my hand. “You will need to be a good boy, well behaved with good manners, and do as you’re told.” Then she smiles conspiratorially. “But you could be a bit naughty when it’s just us. Most important of all,” she continues, “you’d be cuddled and loved and treasured.” She looks right in my eyes. “I want to take care of you like that.”

I shiver at the last bit, feeling small and hopeful. I swallow and my chest aches, like something heavy and hurting is trapped inside, and I’m just now noticing it.

She continues, her tone a little firmer, “You would also be my Leatherboy, not just my little boy. My Leatherboy, with all that a D/s relationship implies: negotiations, expectations, protocols, SM, Leathersex, service, obedience. I expect you to be open and proud of who you are and who you serve. And I do not tolerate anything less than authenticity, honesty and integrity.”

This is a lot to take in. But I love almost everything she’s saying. I imagine living it, and it seems unreal. I can’t quite believe; Could it really happen?

Without warning, the patio lights click on, cuing dusk to fade in. How did the afternoon just slip away? She squeezes my hand again and lets it go. We exchange references and phone numbers. And then, it’s over. 

Except when we get up, she traps my wrist, pulls me close against her softness and kisses my cheek so gently it burns. In the span of that moment, as if a spell has been lifted, I suddenly see her incredible beauty. Striking. Alluring. A stunning, magnificent creature for whom I would willingly kneel. I am totally wrecked as I watch her navigate away from me. She doesn’t look back. But I keep staring at the door after she’s gone.

***

Two weeks later, references verified and ground rules established, we’ve shared three phone calls, two Skypes, dinner and a movie, one long, deep goodbye kiss, and a snail mail card from her to me, with a hot-as-fuck biker boot on the front, a romantic message inside and a dinosaur sticker slipped into the envelope.

But now we’re finally going to meet for dinner at her home. I think I know what that means. So I’m literally shaking with excitement when I arrive at her apartment.

“Perfect timing. I just finished making dinner,” she exclaims as we hug hello. So we go straight for the dining room.

The fish she prepared is probably very tasty, but I am far too distracted to notice. Later, after I clear the table and wash the dishes, loving this first small act of service, we move to the living room.

We are sitting on her couch, digesting and chatting for a while, as if that’s what this date is all about. But then, during a break in the conversation, she reaches for my hand and holds it in both of hers. I shift a bit closer on the couch. The warmth of her body hovers around her like a sweet, humid halo. I lean against her shoulder, holding my breath, feeling small and safe but also uncertain. The world seems to pause, listening.

She turns and gently pulls me into her embrace and her kiss, tender and soulful. I’m floating. I’m trembling. Every single molecule in my body vibrates. She stands up, gently bringing me with her. Looking into my eyes, she strokes my hair, then leads me silently to her small bedroom. Oh my God, yes!  

She lays me down on her bed and kisses me from above, like she’s searching for something deep inside me. She presses her leg up between mine and pushes against my crotch like she wants to fuck me through my jeans. Taking my hands, she holds them firmly down against the bed while she keeps kissing, kissing … and I am unresisting. Maybe she’s put me in a trance, because I can’t move, can’t make a move on her. This has never happened to me, I swear. Yeah, I’ve bottomed before, but this is so freaking gentle and slow, hypnotic.

A ceiling fan stirs the warm air. I notice it as she releases me from the spell and pulls me up to stand in front of her. We kiss again, and it fills me with want. Her tongue steadily becomes more possessive, then invasive, until it claims my mouth. She grips my jaw, holding my mouth open, the other hand on the back of my skull, keeping my head still, making me her receptacle. She runs her tongue over my palate, deep into the softness of my throat, then exploring between my lips and teeth. I can only receive her, and it provokes an almost delirious hunger. Nothing else exists except her filling my mouth.

She releases my jaw, but continues to kiss me as she covers my body with her hands, over my shirt, then up inside, seeking skin. Her hands under my shirt, moving up my back, fingers resting on my shoulder blades as her thumbs press sharply into my armpits, as if she’s testing my response. Her hands soften again, trailing down my chest, sliding fingertips an inch under my waistband and circling the inner fabric to my belt buckle. Releasing the buckle, opening my fly, she slips a hand down into my jeans, over my shorts, pausing to cup my dick in her palm: a soft packer that seems adolescent beneath her caress. She squeezes and fondles and strokes me like she wants me to stiffen in her hand. Her eyes are locked on mine now, hazed with lust and power; she almost looks high.

Her hands at my waistband again, she eases my jeans over my ass to the floor. As she slowly unbuttons and removes my shirt, she wets her lips then uses her palms and teeth and tongue on my skin. Everything is mesmerizing and so incredibly sexy. I feel disoriented, but I know I must want it; my cunt is so slick and my cock pushes hard against my shorts.

Before I can fully take in what is happening, she has pulled my underwear down past my knees, my packer with them. I’m suddenly so naked, with just a tangle of fabric at my ankles. 

She reaches down again, now staring impassively into my eyes but breathing roughly. With one finger tip, she slides between the folds of skin in my crotch. With a fluid motion, she dips slightly into my cunt and drags the wetness up over my clit and onto my belly, leaving a slick trail. I feel like I might cry. Like all my butch bravado has just fizzled out.

She steps back to get a look at me. “Such a sexy little boy,” she croons. I start to shake.

Feeling way too vulnerable, I kick off my jeans and briefs and move toward her, reaching for her, wanting to feel her body up against my skin. But she pushes me, and I stumble inelegantly backward onto the bed. With a soft chuckle and a wicked smile, she begins to undress. And I’m under her spell again. First the jewelry. Tinkling earrings, rings, long necklace. She unbuttons her sheer black blouse, and it flutters to the ground, exposing a satin bra with just a hint of lace. The flowy crepe black skirt slips off easily, to reveal a black leather harness already strapped on. Well, that makes things clear as crystal.

Finally, she removes her bra, releasing breasts, generous and natural, heavy with large areolas and nipples. She is thick and fleshy… and not perfect. But she is confident, seductive and erotic. And all woman! Without meaning to, I moan just a little, and it is a rough, throaty sound.

Flashing me a sly smile, she opens the bedside drawer and takes out a thick, black cock, stroking it suggestively. She inserts it into the silver o-ring at the front of the harness and tightens the straps. Then she wraps her hand around the shaft, like she’s ready to jack off. She slides her hand up to the head and circles it with a finger, then lightly strokes the tip, where the piss hole would be. Then she looks up at me and lets out a wicked little laugh. My body’s electrified, almost painfully aroused. When she stands above me, arms akimbo, naked and strong, her femme-cock sways and bobs gently in my direction.

“Mommy?” I murmur.

She closes her eyes. A wave seems to move through her, and she sighs soundlessly. Then, like a benediction, she breathes huskily, “Yes, boy.” And she leans to kiss me. Gentle and floaty, and then harder. Then deep and hungry and overpowering. Mid-kiss, she lies her body on top of mine pressing against me, soft and full, with her hard dick wedged between us. I moan a little. Can’t help myself. I am bursting with want, buzzing with it. Dying from it.

She wraps her embrace around me and My Whole World is contained within her arms. The sweet natural scent of her. The yielding spread of her breasts. Indulgent, she offers them to me, and I suckle, unquestioning. She pulls me into her voluptuous warmth with a heavy, sensual groan. But I am not focused on pleasuring her, sexing her, fucking. Not focused on my hard-on or whether she likes my body or what she’s going to do with me later. I just suck her heavenly nipple and let go into a dreamy bliss.

I feel like her all-grown-up, baby boy, and it is so natural and so good. I want to be snuggled and held. I want to love and be loved in a sort of innocent, childlike way. I want to trust her. I want to let down my guard.

And somehow, drifting in this euphoric haze, I do.

I let go of my embarrassment and fear, my bravado and the insecurity underneath. All the inner-child-longing I’ve hidden away from a judgemental world: that is Hers now. I let it all go. All of it. I give it to her while I nurse at her breast; a crazy moment of pure trust. I feel like her precious boy. Hers.

Maybe it’s too soon. Maybe I should be more cautious, guarded. But I know that this is right. I know that she really is my Mommy. I have no question. And she wants me, too! She She She. Wants me, her little one. Her leatherboy. Baby boy. Hungry boy. Grown up, sex-hungry boy.

Lust suddenly overtakes my other needs. I’m sure she can feel the shift, how I’m not so little anymore. Now, her breasts are making me hard and wet and horny. I drown myself in the softness of them, cupping and holding that pillowy flesh. Licking her nipples and biting and losing myself in her. Squeezing and kneading. My whole body is asking for her attention.

Please Mommy, I need your gentle fuck.

I need your deep, hard fuck. Your fingers. Your cock. Use me. Wear me out. Find the way to my tender self. Open me. Please. Fuck me open.

***

Read part two here.

Satiated (Mistress Elise Winter & morgan #3)

Content warning: mommy/boy play, breast and nipple play

Elise wakes slowly, her body a little stiff in places that were stretched and thrust and pounded and tightened last night, still nude under her silky sheets. The boy is still asleep, face relaxed, breathing light next to her, his butt snuggles up into the crook of her hips, his body curls and folds nearly in half. A faint cloudy morning light shines behind the lightweight curtains.

She doesn’t quite want to wake him, but she can feel a stirring in her cunt for more. When will she get enough of him? It would be so easy to take him, now, thrust her fingers into his hole, strap her favorite cock on and enter him again and again until she was spent. He is hers now, she has that kind of overarching permission to take him whenever she wants him—in fact, he likes it even more that way, when she uses him unapologetically, when she demands her own pleasure from his body. That is what gets him off the most.

Shifting, she pulls her arm out from under morgan where it is starting to cramp, slides it under his neck where it has more room, and wraps her arms around him. He moves too, sighing softly and turning to face her, sleepily nuzzling against her armpit and breast and the crook of her shoulder.

“Mama,” he murmurs, soft consonants and long vowels, kissing wherever his mouth has landed. He’s very close to her nipple and she wants him to suck for a while. “G’morning.”

She kisses his forehead. “Morning, my sweet boy.”

He sighs again, snuggling closer. His mouth is doing that suckling thing already, the leftover of how he grinds his teeth at night, and she shifts against him again, turning her body so she is a little more on her back. His hands are already tucked up next to his chin and he catches her breast in his hands, feeling the nipple against his lips before he opens his mouth to suck.

Soft, so soft at first, just the slightest pressure from his mouth. Just the hardness of her against the softness of him, just the way she grows thick against him, just the way he opens soft under her. And then more pressure, and more, how he urges her deeper, how he starts to swallow. She thinks about milk coming out and down his throat, she thinks about it filling his mouth and spilling down his chin. His hands squeeze a little too, almost unconsciously, like a kitten kneading. Her cunt is hot and starting to swell.

“That’s good, baby. So nice. I like how you do that,” she says quietly, the hand under his neck smoothing his hair, touching his cheek. She can feel his jaw and lips contracting under her fingers. She can feel the want of him sucking it out of her. Sometimes he uses his tongue, but mostly he just sucks. A little harder now, and she squirms, rubbing her legs together.

“You get mama all wet, boy,” she murmurs, so soft she is barely audible, but her lips are close to his ear and he can hear. He moans a little in response. They are in a sweet bubble here, wrapped around each other, his legs around hers, rubbing his hips against her. Her right knee is bent, lifted a little and draped open to the side, pressure building in her pelvis.

He keeps sucking, mouth fully open and hungry now, sucking down as much of her as he can hold. Little sounds from the suction and the skin, little murmurs from his throat. She slides her hand down her body and cups her cunt with it, feeling how her lips are swollen already, her opening slick and needy. She circles her hole with two fingers and brings them up to her clit when they are wet.

“Ohhh god,” she moans, arching her back and sliding her legs against his, just centimeters of movement but enough to feel their bodies pressed against each other, enough to feel the friction and heat building. Her hand tangled in his short hair. Mine, she tells herself. Mine mine mine.

Her clit is hard and hot and he is still sucking like a good boy, like a hungry sweet boy who will devour everything she pours into him, like he is oblivious to how it turns her on and just needs something in his mouth. He paws at her gently, holds her breast in his hands to get the angle right, works his jaw to swallow. Elise flicks at her cunt harder, faster. She’s close, she’s always close when he is like this. Feeling the hole of his mouth open up to pull it out of her is so different than using any of his holes to shove inside. Somehow equal and opposite, somehow the thing that lets her relax, receive, be taken, be used—but still be in charge. Feeding her boy, filling him up with her milk.

“Good boy, my good boy,” she murmurs, working her hand faster, that way that only she can do.

“Ummm,” he moans a little, rubbing against her, sucking harder now, so hard it almost hurts, she almost pulls away, but it’s good, he needs it, and she does.

Her clit pulses under her fingers, cunt contracting and thick with want. She’s close, and she holds his head with more pressure, feeling her stomach contracting as she pulses, her nipple hard, sore, so sensitive, her clit hard, it’s almost too much, almost too much—. Until it isn’t, and she’s coming, her mouth open and gasping, eyes squeezed shut, lifting her shoulders a little off of the bed as all of her focus pours into her clit and her nipple, the nipple in his mouth as her boy still softly laps.

She shudders—once, twice, four times—wringing the orgasm from her body, and kisses his forehead. He sucks deep a few more times, as if cleaning off her nipple, as if tidying up the mess he made. “Mama,” he sighs happily, cheek against her chest, raising his face to be kissed. She brings her mouth down and sighs back on the bed, zings of aliveness running through her.

“Baby,” she replies. Hollowed, satiated, awake.

The Bootblack Boy (Mistress Elise Winter & morgan #1)

Elise is so over these regular play parties. She sits in the corner drinking sparkling water through a straw—no need to muss her lipstick over a drink—and surveys the dungeon. There are a handfull of young kinklings, giddy and drunk on flesh and feasts and possibility; a smattering of couples who haven’t left each others sides, their slightly widened eyes giving away their nervousness under their I’m-cool-I-got-this external demeanor; and a handful of former (and perhaps future) of her own play partners. She starts to regret that she ever let Hannah talk her in to coming. Hannah is right—of course, she always is—that it’s been too long since Elise played, but Elise just isn’t sure if what she wants is out there—or maybe more accurately, how to find it. She is starting to feel old at 35, as if everyone has found someone by now, so nobody’s left to find. Except, of course, her.

Tucked into the corner Hannah is up on the high bootblack chair, wearing her favorite blood red Agent Provocateur matching lingerie set and her stiletto thigh-high leather boots. A bootblack is buzzing around her feet, soaping the leathers, expertly massaging Shay’s feet and calves while cleaning the leather. Elise heads over to tell Hannah goodbye and hit the road. It isn’t even midnight yet, but she’s done.

“Hannah,” she starts, a few strides away, “I—”

The bootblack and Hannah both flick their attention over to Elise. The bootblack pauses, just for a moment, blinking, as if he is caught off guard, then quickly re-focuses on Hannah’s boots.

Elise tries again. “Hannah, I’m going home.”

“What? No, you can’t go yet! They haven’t even done the demo,” Hannah protests. That means, it isn’t even midnight. “Stay until then, at least. Barely anyone is here yet. You never know … ” Hannah flashes that seductive smile full of unspoken promises, and Elise gives in immediately, rationalizing it in her head. Well, someone new could show up. The demo could be really hot.

“Hannah, may I lick your boots, please?” The bootblack boy pauses his work again and waits, without expectation, for Hannah s permission. The boots are sparkling clean, oil and some high-quality polish lined up and waiting obediently on the tray for the next step. The boy stands still, focusing, not nervously fumbling but calm and collected. Even at the feet of one of the most powerful dommes in the room.

“You may,” Hannah answers. Though her tone was clear, Elise could hear underneath it that Hannah was a little bored, too. There really isn’t much notable going on tonight.

Elise’s attention drifts to the bootblack, watching as he takes his time getting into just the right position before he gently places his tongue on her finest leather. His tongue is long, thick. Like it barely fits in his closed mouth. He licks in smooth, elegant strokes, almost deicate, though the boy himself is not. He looks like he could be thrown into walls, wrestled to the ground, torn open until he bled, and he’d only say thank you and beg for more.

He licks one boot: the seam of the leather on her insole, and the line starting at her pinky toe; the textured design of abstract flowers that snakes up her calf; and even the seam at the top of the boot, past her knee, well on to her thigh. Hannah sighs, and Elise can see her hips relax and her legs fall open just a little more.

The boy kisses back down her knee and calf, and begins to lick the other boot.

Elise realizes she is staring. Almost drooling. Fuck, why hadn’t she worn her best boots? Hannah didn’t come with him, she picked him up here, so he’s probably unattached and doing anyone’s leather. How hadn’t she noticed him before? Damn he’s cute: quite a few inches shorter than Elise, probably almost the same height if she took off her towering 4″ heels. Light brown hair, light skin, fine fingers and small hands. He had a thin wisp of facial hair, the kind on teenage boys before they can grow the real thing. Elise hopes he isn’t as young as he looks.

“A little longer,” Elise tells Shay. “I’ll stay for the demo.” She heads back over to the perch on the other side of the room and tries not to keep watching Shay and the bootblack, but mostly fails. He is deft, supple, and Elise craves to be in that chair. Her hands start pulsing in her lap, twitching with ache and desire.

The demo starts at twenty after midnight, because kinksters are never on time. Elise loses sight of the boy by then. Probably off playing with somebody else, probably he’s the one making the grunting yelps from the back room, probably he’s already left the party and Elise won’t see him again. A butch daddy-type and thick-thighed curvy gorgeous femme demonstrate a rough blow job for the whooping crowd, the butch standing up high on the bench, the femme kneeling on it, her lipstick wrecked and drool down the front of her bright thrift-store vintage dress. Elise watches half-heartedly, giving up on the party for the second time. That’s what everybody really wants, right? Some sweet, submissive femme—not the towering domme Elise presented. No wonder she had no dates. Play was easy enough—usually—but that wasn’t really what Elise was looking for. She wanted romance, courtship, love, a partner. A wedding, even. And also a servant, a submissive, a boy who would do his proper worship, and obey all her orders to the best of his ability. Even more so than play, she wanted companionship, wanted someone to walk through life with. She’d played with poly and open relationships, and that’s a possibility, but it isn’t necessarily her preference. She is too possessive for that, she wants to go too deep and too all-out with ownership and vulnerability.

It is a hard thing to date when one’s needs are so specific, especially in a community that usually values different sorts of pairings.

Elise turns to make her way through the crowd and head to the coat check.

“Hey, you’re not leaving, are you?” A voice cuts through the noisy dungeon from someone close to her ear. It’s not Hannah s voice, who else—? She turns, coming face to face with the bootblack boy, the crowd so thick that they are almost touching.

“Yes, I think it’s about time,” she replies, smiling. Unless …

“I’m Morgan,” he offers his hand to shake. She takes it, palm to palm, his hand warm and smaller than hers, nesting nicely into her grip. She doesn’t let go.

“Elise,” she says.

He nods, not meeting her eyes, shyly looking down. “I saw you watching me.” Elise flushes a little—was she so obvious? She usually keeps her hand much closer to her chest. But there is something about this kid, something intriguing and so very hot.

“I was,” she says. “You made quite an impression. I liked how you treated Hannah’s boots.”

He nods slowly. “I liked it too. I love to be useful.” He shifts a little, foot to foot. Someone knocks into Elise from the back and she almost falls into Morgan, but catches herself.

“Well, I don’t want to keep you. I just wanted to make sure to introduce myself. I hope I run into you again,” Morgan says.

“I’m not sure I believe in fate,” she says, taking one of her trick cards out of her tiny pocketbook.

“Oh, I do,” says Morgan. “Absolutely.” He smiles and almost looks directly at her, for just a blink,, and Elise sees his eyes sparkle.

“You do, huh,” Elise flicks her arm back and holds the card close, tapping it against her cheek, considering some options. “Then I guess your fate is to call me tomorrow.” She hands him the card, keeping ahold of it, their fingers almost touching. “Not too early, I sleep in on Saturdays,” she adds, setting up a challenge: What would “too early” be to her? 9am? 11am? She lets go of the card.

He swallows, pulling it up to his face to read it in the dim dungeon. Mistress Elise Winter, it reads, with her email address and phone number in embossed blue text on a cream background.

“Yes, uh, Elise. I will. Thank you.”

She leans in close to his ear. “Ma’am will do just fine, Morgan. Thank you for introducing yourself. Goodnight.” Husky, low, sweet. She felt his knees tremble, saw the rumble through his body.

“You’re welcome. Goodnight, Ma’am,” he whispers back.

She kisses his cheek, and disappears into the crowd.

Hunger, Guest Post by Maria See

Content warning: Age play, nipple sucking, lactation play.

Maria posted this a few (5?) years ago online, and it cracked open my desire in a way I never would have expected. I am grateful she gave me permission to reprint it, to share it with you all.

Hunger

by Maria See