Obedient Male Seeks Mommy
Waking up with a sore pussy in a condom-strewn room means today is going to be a great fucken day.
The night before last I had a dream. I was riding on top of a man, rocking back and forth, feeling him deep inside of me: feeling that fullness, like I was meant to be plugged up with dick. I wasn’t sliding up and down or anything fancy or impressive. I was simply “enjoying the ride.
In college, I briefly dated a smoking-delicious Russian with alopecia. His skin always smelled like clean laundry. We were about to have sex, and I expressed to him my anxiety over being a bit of a novice when it came to being on top. I imagined there was some secret knowledge about making it wonderful for the man (of course, I still thought that sex was primarily about male pleasure at the time). He told me not to worry. Just enjoy the ride. It was like a hidden key to a hidden lock somewhere deep in my female psyche. I’ve enjoyed the ride ever since.
In my dream, this guy was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall. He was naked. I typically hate floor sex. Knee to hardwood is not my idea of hot, but this was somehow all working in the dream. It was matter-of-fact. No loud sighing or gasping. Just the reflective sheen of sweat and knit brows, like this was just as functional and biologically-mandated as pissing.
This dream “ likely ovulation inspired “ flung me back into the arms of Craigslist. I posted something simple, short. No point making it too long because the peril of being flagged persists eternal. On a side note, in trying to understand this incessant CL flagging, someone told me that there are two sorts of people who flag (1) the man who wants to improve his chances of getting your attention; he writes you a letter of interest and then flags you with the logic that the fewer the contenders, the better his odds and (2) the bots and spammers who want a competition free, captive market. This economics of flagging sounded so oddly primordial, perhaps the 21st Century version of clubbing women on the head or something.
Anyway, Craigslist. I mentioned the usuals: I’m smart, articulate, thick, busty and bossy. I replaced “bossy with “toppy this time and managed to elicit a reply from a 33-year old semi-lawyer in Berkeley or, as he referred to himself, a “hung, breast-loving sub. But before I tell you that story, I must add that he was not Choice #1 (C1). C1 was a military boy, 25, with lots of tattoos and an enthused curiosity about sticking his dick into everything repeatedly and with impunity. Since I was in that sort of mood, we exchanged a little phone conversation. It turned out he lives in Monterrey, and after chastising him for being foolish enough to be looking in the San Francisco personals section, we parted ways.
Nearly disheartened, I replied to C2: hung sub. He informed me that he too had posted an ad that very day: “Obedient Male Seeks FemDom. I sent him my phone number. It turned out that he loved nursing on big boobies, being told what to do, and was desperately in need of a Mommy. What a coincidence, I thought. Forgive me for skipping all the stuff between first hearing his delectable voice and his appearing on my metaphorical doorstep, but you just want to hear the juicy parts anyway. I put his blindfold on the door knob. (Forgive me this second interruption, but blindfolds are absolutely invaluable in the following situations 1: you’re a top or want to be one for the night, 2. You don’t want to be or can’t handle being too intimate. I’m telling you, if you can’t see your partner’s eyes, you’ll never fall for them. I swear!) He stood outside my door, putting it on. I led him inside my bedroom. I touched his stomach. 6-pack. Score. His hands at his side. He’s a new sub, but he’s eager. I have to admit that I don’t think of myself as a FemDom, but I do prefer having control, setting the pace, being worshiped, pissing on men and few things turn me on more than making a man cry (via mind fuck, cock torture or otherwise). Resist the urge to resort to psychoanalytics.
I know he’s a new sub because when he came in we were 10 inches apart and he (seemingly unconsciously) slowly drifts closer to me until our noses are nearly touching. This act would have been swiftly disciplined, and he would have known better than to try this with me. But again, my dom-flexible attitude allows me to think this is cute rather than disobedient.
He’s already trembling, hungry, trying to touch my mouth with his. His head is shaved. His waist narrows as it closes into his hips. He doesn’t smell like anything. His breath doesn’t smell fresh. He asks if I want him to brush his teeth. No, the smell has already begun to synch with our erotic scene. I want to taste the smell. I’m wearing a micro-dress, light gray, tight, a waist cincher, an electric pink push-up bra, baby pink boy shorts, thigh high fishnets. I smell like pineapple and mango and papaya. I run my tongue over his and let the very tips of my full DD breasts push against his chest. He sighs. His dick is pushing up against his jeans. It’s big and I can see it, the outline pushing against his pants even with just the little bit of light coming in from the streetlight outside my window. I open his shirt. White undershirt. Oh, he’s a blue blood boy. Not many men bother to wear an undershirt. I like the formality. His body is smaller than mine. His chest is as defined as his tummy. I turn around and push my ass into his dick, bring his hands around front, let him grab handfuls of my tits. He tries to run his hands down my body but I remind him of his place. He’s not in a man-woman scene. He’s in a Mommy-boy scene.
He wants to taste my tits. I inform him that he’ll have to earn that. I sit him on the sofa and tell him to show me his dick. He pulls it out, pulls his pants off. His dick is long. I ask him if he brought condoms. Yes. I go and get one from his jacket pocket. He packed four of them. “How presumptuous, I thought. I sit on his lap. I slap him across the face, my reminder that such presumptuousness demands punishment. He puts it on. I sit on it. I’m tight. I haven’t fucked in two, maybe three months. He moans, buries his face in my chest. Thank you, he says. I slide up and down, rock back and forth. I pull one tit out over the top of my bra and dress and then the other. They’re heavy and somewhat difficult to maneuver. I’m proud of them. I know how much power they command. It sometimes feel like I am subject to their whim. I tell him they’re out, how good they taste. They’re a couple inches from his face. He can sense them. He wants to suck them so badly. He’s pushing into my pussy from underneath. He almost gets another slap for that. I lean forward letting him feel my left nipple brush against his lips. This makes him crazy. I brush his face and mouth again and again and again until he latches on. Yum. His mouth feels good. My tits make him want to fuck harder.
I slide off. “Come on my bed, I tell him. He comes up, he nurses devoutly, quietly. He tries to touch my pussy. I push his hand away. I spank his dick. Hard. His dick his hard. The spank is hard. Twice. I tell him to eat my cunt. He begins and quickly slides one finger and then two inside. I feel at his whim in that moment. He begins to swipe his fingers like he were trying to empty out the edges of a bowl of sticky stuff. It goes from good to intense to too intense in rapid succession. I like smelling his face after he eats my pussy: the tart citrus, the pungent musk. He asks if he did a good job, if he hurt me. Yes. Yes. He’s upset, very mad at himself for having fucked up.
I kiss him, stroke his cock, tell him he’s a good boy. He says I’m the best kisser, give the best handjob, the best head. I want to fuck him again, against the edge of my bed. I turn around. I’m bent over at the waist, and he slides in, grabbing hold of my tits. He pushes my thighs together so my pussy is so tight around him. He’s holding my tits, pinching my nipples. I can feel them as they bounce up and down. He’s fucking me hard. It feels so good. My pussy inspires him to fuck hard and moan hard. He’s so close. He’s about to cum but knows that he’s not allowed. He stops. His legs are shaking. He’s hissing, blowing short breaths out of his mouth, his dick is super, super hard. It’s that last moment before cumming. After 10 or 15 seconds he manages to hold it back. He says ok, ok, ok. I want to push back into his lap, making him cum, show him how little control he actually has, but I don’t. I know he’ll be useless after that. He’s in sub space and I can keep him there while his balls are full of cum.
I slide off him. He has a tantrum. He’s become a petulant child who is frustrated. He wants to keep fucking, but I don’t care what he wants. This isn’t for him or about him. My pussy and his dick are mine in this scene, and I’m annoyed that he’s having a tantrum. He won’t kiss me and so I let him stand there while I crawl back to the top of the bed. I tell him he can stand there until he’s done being a bad boy.
He sees that he’s being bad, and apologizes. I lie down with my magic wand vibrator. He asks if he can be inside of me while I play with the vibe. I let him. He pushes in and out while I vibrate my clitty. I can feel the squirting coming. I can feel it welling up in my thighs and inside of me. I want to gush out. I come and he lays his head down on my sternum, feeling my warmth, listening to my heart. He stays there. I want to suck him off. I want his cum in my mouth, filling my mouth. I know I won’t do that. He hasn’t earned that. I stroke him against my tits, pumping his head against my nipples. He comes hard. His dick spits out cum 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, more times.
He asks how old I am. It’s especially hot having a Mommy who’s younger than her boy. He kisses me as he goes.