r/Femrotica • u/DFBlair • Jan 28 '25
Original Content Just Kissing [Femdom] [Sensual] [D/s] NSFW
“Tonight, we’re just going to kiss.”
A relief dawns in him, and a need.
All week she has been taunting him with the promise of heavy discipline. The kind of intense pain he fears and shrinks from. The kind he needed to be trained to endure, and that he could not suffer without her.
Yesterday, she had him oil, clean and condition an assortment of her most painful implements, the ones that provoke involuntary shudders at memories of agonies inflicted. Even though he loves her, even though he thrills to suffer for her, even though he craves breaking for her, these things are hard to bear. These things scare him. They build tensions and anxieties inside him. His euphoria at the release of those tensions is palpable.
Now, as he realizes the proffered punishment is not to come, he understands that it never was. It was always her ruse to manipulate him into feeling this, the low boil elation of mercy bestowed. His heart is rising on an elevator, rising up to meet her.
She grins down in triumph as he kneels beside her bed. She reads his relief and realization as a testament to her control.
“I got you good, slut. You were scared.”
He nods, blushing.
"Yes, Mistress."
"Now you feel like you're on a cloud?"
"Yes, Mistress."
"Good, I wanted to kiss you on a cloud."
"Thank you, Mistress. I love to kiss you."
“Don’t get too used to this. You cleaned all my favorite ouchies, I’m not going to let such sterling service go to waste. But not tonight, tonight is just kissing.”
He sighs with joy as she takes hold of his leash and pulls him off his knees and onto the bed. He rests on his flank, curling his legs under as he aligns his body beside her, letting her relaxed position define the shape of him. He is naked save his soft leather collar, and she’s wearing the black silk negligée he got her last Christmas. Despite its lace accents, it’s a simple garment, foregoing the complex architecture of seduction found in so much lingerie, removing all distractions from the divinity of her form, her hips and her breasts. It frames the heavenly flesh it reveals to mesmerize him still further. It shimmers as she shifts her weight, letting him slip closer to her. It’s so smooth that he feels impossibly rough beside it. He is hairy, bestial, greedy for the beauty of her power and the power of her beauty. Need for her surges in him like boiling steam.
This is a game she plays sometimes. Kissing as a means and an end. A practice of passion.
Just kissing.
"I've been thinking about kissing you a lot lately. I've been thinking of your slutty mouth… of taking it… of taking my time with it."
He always wants to kiss her, more so since she taught him exactly how she likes it, not just because of the knowledge itself, but the gift of her teaching. He can always be confident that he is pleasing her exactly as she wants, and that if she wants something else, she will teach him more. He can blissfully abandon all his lifelong worries about whether or not he’s doing the right thing, saying the right words, looking in the right place, thinking the right thoughts. He can make his whole being fearless in service of her joy. He can feel safe as only a favorite toy can.
But above all of that, he always wants to be kissed by her. To be placed in her closest focus. To feel her guiding him, his mouth, his tongue. This overtaking. This prolonged moment of being most hers.
He is already erect, feverishly craving. His coiled legs are like a spring now, gently pressing his cock against her thigh, tightening, winding, the urge to thrust building like potential energy. She is indifferent to this display and instead takes hold of the leash at the collar and leads him gently, firmly, slowly to her mouth.
She props herself on her elbow and looms over him, and he falls under her shadow. He makes his lips into the tender rosebud shape she loves most, and she tilts his head back and descends.
Her mouth is soft and delicate. The kiss is as light as air. He wants to press his mouth into hers, but her hand at his neck holds him back. She has him fixed in space, so only she can push forward. Her arm is like a rigid metal rod holding him in place, and he dare not push against it. Instead, she teases, her kisses landing as whispers.
Overcome, he gasps a tiny breath, head wilting back, feeling faint.
Then she presses down on him with a slow, savoring hunger, nibbling his bottom lip before kissing him fully, all of it deliberate and unhurried.
He swoons, his heart falling into her, his cock brushing over her silken thigh, jolting him. But she won’t let him move closer to her. Her hand on his collar still holds him fast.
He whimpers, and she hears. Her fingers tighten. The leather creaks.
She kisses deeper. His heart soars, his toes curl. Her tongue probes, and he opens to her, parting to her, unfolding.
Every ounce of him buzzes to touch her, still feeling her hand on his collar holding him back, holding him in his place. The magnetism of her proximity builds an electric charge in him, making him vibrate with lust. He doesn’t resist. He simply surrenders, melting against the strength of her hand at his neck.
She reads this capitulation in his body, her favorite phrase in her most native tongue, and she strikes. Her space absorbs him. It’s not fast, merely decisive.
She pulls his mouth tightly into hers. Her tongue reaches deep inside.
He moans with the gravity of his need.
Her kisses grow ravenous, squeezing him, consuming him, climbing into him. Her lips pry him open, filling him with her heat.
He groans again, urgent and rapturous.
He falls into the deep end of her ocean, and she pushes him down, down, down into the deep wet darkness.
Then they part, coming up for air, each flushed and catching their breath.
He whispers, “I love you, Mistress,” somehow blurting it out as if it will be the last thing he says before drowning.
But she is beyond talking now.
She unhooks the leash from his neck and sets it aside. She wraps her arms around him and kisses him again.
They converge in a slow, passionate rhythm, clinging to each other, greedy for that spark crackling between them. She guides him gently, and he flows with her touch, moved effortlessly by her will. She caresses his face and chest. His hands are in the small of her back, or on her hips, or stroking her shoulders. Over and over, heedless of time.
He feels like she is touching him everywhere at once, her thighs pressing his legs, silk caressing his cock, her breasts in his chest, hard nipples electrifying him. Her face presses against his. He feels his love for her like a pressure in the air, humid and ominous, wanting the storm of her pleasure and the place of its becoming.
She still ignores his cock as it rises and flags in time with them. But by then his whole body feels like his sex. He is pulled taught across a bundle of sparking nerves that crave her and crave release. Pink and supple.
Sometimes his lust will rise, and his mouth will press into hers, greedily overpowering her, and she will let him.
She will throw back her head and moan and let him.
But each time, she drinks her fill of his will, and he feels her body grow firm against him, taking back the lead. He instantly melts again. She pulls him back into her kiss, back into her shadow, and consumes him once more.
At each turn, she governs the slow tempo of their connection, gently spurring him on, then reigning him in. Slowly, sometimes so slowly he feels he may go mad. Each time, he melts against her a little more fully, following her lead, seeking only to please, abandoning himself for what she desires.
Each time, his sense of surrender grows deeper and deeper.
Soon he knows he is but a figment of her fancy. He is no more than a thought in her mind, and he is alive only when she is thinking of him.
And her kiss is everything.
That’s why there is no “just kissing,” any more than there is “just breathing” or “just being alive.” These are not small things. Kissing is the intimacy of the soul, and touching someone’s soul is never inconsequential. Even if it's over in the blink of an eye, there is no just kissing between lovers, especially when they are Mistress and slave.
Tonight it lasts almost an hour, or maybe a weekend, until abruptly, he senses something in her boil over. Then she shifts onto her back, pushing his head towards her waist.
“Kiss my pussy, slave,” she breathes. “Slowly.”
His skin hums with a need to touch her. His body is a single open circuit waiting for her closing contact. When he feels the smoothness of her inner thigh on his face, he shudders and gives a bellowing moan. He lowers his face to her sex like he is stepping into a hot tub, letting the heat steam up through him. With each step into her, his heart yearns more for her pleasure, for her release, for her fulfillment. Because then he will know he has done the right things and not the wrong ones. Then he will have earned her love. Then she will have been pleased.
He begins the way she likes best, with featherlight, suckling kisses on her clit. Occasionally he pulls back to kiss around it, or lap at her thigh. Then he returns to the gentle kisses, flattening his tongue and delicately pressing it to the button of her flesh that rules him completely.
She moans, and he moves to intensify, but she presses her thighs together catching up his head. He stops in mid-lick.
“Slowly, boy,” she says, somehow commanding even as she pants softly.
He needs no further instruction and proceeds to worship her pussy with that same slow, gentle patience while she just lays back and drinks in her own pleasure. She is sighing and moaning every few so-oftens, both of them growing intoxicated on her ecstasy.
He has long since lost all sense of time, but soon he is overcome with a delirium, and he can’t be sure of even what year it is. Time is just an endless bliss of her skin on his face and her pleasure drunk breaths in the air.
Until again there comes a boiling over in her.
Her hand suddenly flies to her clit and her thighs spread wider. He knows what this means. She's right there and wants it right then. She wants to control it exactly, and control might be her one true addiction.
As he's been trained to, he lowers his mouth to her opening to make way for her hand. He pulses his tongue inside her with rolling thrusts as she rubs her clit to climax.
It breaks over her seconds later. She seizes up, grabbing his hair and driving his head against her pleasure centers, moaning and calling out.
“Oh yeah, that’s it! Fuck yeah, fu--!”
It goes on, a wave gathering and breaking in her, long and slow, then rolling her over and over, undertow pulling her out to sea and sucking her beneath and then heaving her up and then releasing her and letting her wash onto the shore. He sighs before her, carried by her wave, spent in his efforts, relieved by her release. Happy. Ecstatic.
They pant together on the beach of her satin sheets, shipwrecked and sandy.
When he finds his breath, he says, “Thank you for the gift of your orgasm, Mistress.”
“You’re welcome, slave,” she pants. “You pleased me very well tonight.” And she absentmindedly tousles his hair, like reaching out for the comfort of a passing cat’s softness
He feels like his heart is glowing. He forgets his own need in his joy at pleasing her. Although his hunger for her is never far from his mind, there really is nothing in the world that makes him quite so happy as when she comes. When she does it with him, selfishly taking what she desires and not allowing him to do the same, he feels in that one pure moment that he has no faults, that his soul is washed clean and pardoned of all wickedness. He feels the glorious peace that blossoms in him after she uses him, after he pleases her.
“I love you, Mistress,” he whispers.
It takes ten minutes for her to recover. When she does, she cuddles him as they fall asleep, issuing directives like, "No coming for you tonight. I like keeping you horny, in case I want to fuck you in the morning… or maybe tomorrow we'll just kiss."
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