Cleo and I are quite different. 

She’s submissive; I’m dominant.

We don’t have much in common. Her submission is of a very different cast to my form of dominance. I like to impose my control (to collect my submission) constantly – at a distance, when we’re apart, and when we’re together. Cleo wants to be in control pretty much all the time – except when we’re together.

She bears a striking, kind of overwhelming resemblance to my first college girlfriend, J. As I was fucking Cleo, her face turned to the side in missionary position, I couldn’t help but remember more than thirty years ago, as my cock slid in and out of J, as I looked at her pretty, long face; her wavy, curly brunette hair; her thick, full, sensuous lips.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. 

I had given Cleo lots of instructions. Too many it seems, for her to follow. This is partly information about me, about how demanding I am, about how maximalist I can be when I have an eager, submissive woman eager to do my bidding. But it also says something about Cleo.

Cleo, notwithstanding her protestations to the contrary, likes to top from the bottom. My shrink, as I described my relationship with Cleo, asked if I was sure that I was the dominant one in the relationship.

I’m not. Not unsure. No, I’m certain I’m not the dominant one. Sure, in the moment, in the bedroom, Cleo does as instructed. She takes a beating, moves her body as directed, and makes herself available to me as I request. But the structure of the relationship, the times she makes available, the ways she responds to my requests at a distance – and even as that distance narrows – reveal that she never really lets go of the reins. 

My instructions for Cleo were specific and precise. Her execution of them was, though directionally faithful, not even close to specifically faithful. 

She failed to bring an envelope, to successfully leave her panties and key at the desk for me, to be waiting as instructed, or to bring all that I had asked. (To be fair, she had asked for permission not to bring all I had asked, some hours before our tryst, saying that she didn’t want to be wheeling a suitcase through the streets on a snowy afternoon. Of course, she also had announced her unhappiness with how much I was asking her to bring some days earlier, and had had the good sense to retreat from her whining.)

Topping from the bottom she was, and I allowed it. 

One might ask why I allowed it. I ask myself why I allowed it. 

As resilient as her body is, as savage a beating as she clearly can take, Cleo has her limits, and those limits, where they are, are relatively easy for me to trip over. Her jaw is fragile: while I would love her to suck my cock for hours, she has a pretty hard limit at, I would say, somewhere between ten and twenty minutes, cumulatively.

When I arrived, I washed my hands. She had texted me, “Please wash your hands before they touch my cunt.” 

“You don’t ever have to ask me that,” I said. 

“You’d be surprised,” she said. 

“No,” I said, “You don’t have to ask me that, ever.” Note to Cleo (and, I suppose, to all women): at least as far as I’m concerned, I would prefer you not make me think about how many men – not to mention how many unsanitary, or inconsiderate men – have had their fingers in your cunt, moments before my fingers, or my cock, or my mouth, will be on/in it.

I directed her, in her jeans and white top, to kneel and to edge for me. 

It had been since three or four days previous that she last had an orgasm, and Cleo had a needy, desperate (insanely hot) look on her face, as, for the first of many times, she pleaded, “May I come, please?” 

“No,” I said. 

I know myself well enough to know that in a relationship like this, where I don’t own Cleo, where I can’t exercise perfect control over her orgasms over time, that on a date like this, she will come. I will not send her off to have an orgasm in my absence, not at my command, not in my view. No, I will ask her to come for me, eventually.

But I made her wait.

I made her beg. Repeatedly. 

Cleo had brought three pairs of matching lingerie, not the five I had originally instructed. She had brought one dress and a pair of pantyhose. She didn’t bring a skirt. She didn’t bring a second pair of pants. (I had granted her permission to leave these other items at home, to lighten her load, as described above).

Over the course of the afternoon, Cleo must have approached orgasm a dozen times. In each outfit she had brought, except for the pantyhose. Here she is, just before edging in the dress. [She asked me not to post this, or any, photo, and so I will oblige.]

I fucked her face as she kneeled, not too hard, because of her sensitive jaw, her magic wand pressing between her thighs.

I fucked her cunt as she lay sprawled on the bed, my sweat dripping on her face. 

I pondered spitting on her (or rather, asking permission to spit on her – that’s an act I wouldn’t do without pre-clearance) but decided against it. She later told me she hates all bodily fluids. Including the come of mine she had swallowed the last time I’d seen her.

I slapped her ass hard, more times than I could count. I used my hand. I used a paddle. I bruised her ass, and maybe her upper arms – this, another example of her topping from the bottom. “It wouldn’t be bad,” she said, “if my upper arms were bruised.” [For all that, her bruises, at the end of our time together, were minimal. As I said: she can take a beating – and I don’t, inherently, get off on beating anyone. It’s something I do, but my absence of sadistic pleasure puts a low ceiling on the bruises I can generate in someone who doesn’t bruise easily.] I say “my absence of sadistic pleasure.” Cleo called me a sadist repeatedly throughout this time together – sadism in not allowing her the orgasm she so desperately needed.

I had intended to bring a sharpie. 

“What would you have written?” she asked. 

“Something you don’t want me to write,” I said. 

“Like what?!?” she asked excitedly. 

“I don’t know. Bottom-topper?” Cleo was hoping I would have written something like “dirty fuckhole,” because, as she said, “I am one!”

But no, had I written on her, it would have been something like “bottom-topper” or “bratty sub.” I’ll save that for next time. 

I had brought some rope, which I used to bind her ankles to her thighs, and her wrists to the bed board. It was in that position that I fucked her first, pressing her thighs apart as I slid in and out of her wet, tight cunt.

I flipped her over, spanked her, paddled her, bringing her blood to the surface of her flesh. 

I slapped her face, hard, multiple times. I missed once and boxed her ear by mistake. 

I hogtied her and spanked her some more, paddled her some more. [Here, I have a delicious photo of her reddened ass, encased in rope, that I can’t share.]

When, finally, I let her come, the wand on her cunt, a finger or two inside her, and my tongue on her clit, she was again on her back. “Now it’s my turn,” I said.

“It would be hot if you came on my ass,” she exclaimed. “Is that sick?” 

“It’s not sick,” I said, “but it’s not where I’m going to come.”

Some minutes later, after she had confessed that she doesn’t enjoy the taste of come, and after her jaw fatigued long before I was ready, I thought I might come in her pussy. I put a condom on for the third time and fucked her a bit. Finally, true to form, my cock wilted a bit. 

“I think I will come on your ass,” I said, and proceeded to jerk off, first standing above her, but then, tiring of that position, lying on my side. When I finally did spray my cum all over her ass, it was five minutes before her originally stated preferred departure time, fifteen or twenty minutes before my preferred departure time. 

We both quickly rinsed off, walked down to the street, kissed goodbye, and said farewell.

Not Cleo’s ass. Not as good as Cleo’s ass.

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