Going His Way

She shouldn’t have been out so late, but that had never stopped her before. Her delicate, strappy stilettos and the plunging neckline of her dress broadcasted both her sex and her vulnerability. She might as well have stripped naked and painted a target on her back. To a strange man’s eyes, her look said, “Harass me. I’m obviously asking for it.

Was that what the man sitting across from her was thinking? Possibly. He was in formal wear too– not unusual for a Saturday night in the city. Tailored suit, black, silk lapels, thin tie. Crisp white shirt beneath. Shined shoes. Pleated pants. What was unusual was that they were alone in the subway car, entirely without company except for each other. Not even the city’s homeless were out on the trains this late.

It occurred to her that if he tried something, there wouldn’t be anyone to hear her scream.

If she’d been a smart girl, she would have gone home earlier. Tumbled into the back of a taxi with her girlfriends. Stumbled back into her apartment, downed a bottle of water, popped some aspirin, turned on Friends. Passed out safely between cool sheets behind a locked door.

But there was no thrill in playing things safe. That was what she told herself: that she was a thrill-seeker, an adrenaline junkie, a wild girl with no inhibitions. But that wasn’t it, was it? No– the excitement of the danger was secondary. What she really wanted was to live unconstrained by fear.

That’s what it was.

Slowly, she mimicked her companion’s posture. The friendly arm draped out over the neighboring seat, like he was making a move on a blind date in a darkened movie theater. The confident line of his lips, the look of superiority in his eyes as he watched her. She watched those eyes trail downward as she perfected her pose: a mirror image of this strange man across the subway car, she spread her legs wide, like a peep-show whore or a man asserting his ownership of the space.

The dress was too short to conceal much. Her panties had been discarded before she even left her apartment that evening– they made lines in the dress. She knew he had a full view of her sex, the dark curls of her pubic hair, the shadows in the dampening ravine between her pussy lips.

There was the clank of a belt. The sound of a zipper. And then, there he was, cock in hand. His lips said something else now, wordlessly smirking at her. Smug. You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.

She didn’t allow herself to glance around suspiciously, ensuring they were alone. Now it was a challenge, a game of chicken beneath the glow of the subway lights. He pumped his cock once, twice, staring her down. Your move.

Her heels scraped against the floor of the car as she shifted. She was spread wider now, even more exposed. Always the entertainer, she traced her inner thighs with her fingertips first like a magician doing slight of hand. But even her sense of showmanship couldn’t stop her from the final destination of those fingers. They moved upward, teasing the damp curls of hair on her labia, slicking against the sensitive inner lips. Brushing up, then down, then circling around her clit. The movements of her fingers said, “I know how to please myself. Could you do as well?

If he understood her, his only response was to pump his cock harder.

Who was this man, this handsome stranger sharing the end of her night? A businessman, headed home after a long meeting? A club promoter on his way back from work? He had all of the refined good looks of an haughty heir of a huge fortune, a billionaire out on the town, riding the subway all through the night as he tried to remind himself how the lower class lived.

She was in love with him and in hate with him all at once. His scruffy, shadowed facial hair; the sleek style of his auburn locks; the way he devoured her with his eyes as he stroked himself, hard and erect beneath strong fingers. He clenched himself harder as she slipped her middle finger between her folds and deep into her pussy, then her index to follow. She strummed her g-spot like the string of a bass guitar, hitting note after note in perfect succession until her heels were digging deep into the floor of the car and her shoulders were tensed hard against the window at her back, braced for release.

When she came, she came violently. Orgasm hit her like a shotgun shell to the chest and she reveled in it. Her body bucked and trembled like that of a woman possessed, and all along she watched him watching her until he found his orgasm as well. His semen shot upward, onto his shirt and lapels. There was so much of it, an intoxicating amount.

Before she could control herself, she found herself rocked down on her hands and knees, crawling towards him despite the dirty floor like an animal stalking prey. She lapped it up, fulfilling the craving, giving into the need. Long, slow cat-licks, slurping as she cleaned his semen from the silk of his lapels, the linen of his shirt, the velvet of his tie.

He was going to have a hell of a dry cleaning bill.

His gaze was paralyzing as she licked her lips clean: hazel eyes, bright like a harvest moon. She knew she should say something, but what was there to say? Her arsenal of witticisms had escaped her.

Instead, she pushed off of his knees and brought herself to her feet. The slow, rocking motion of the train settled as it pulled into the station: her stop.

And silently, she straightened her skirt and winked at him before she broke his gaze and left the car, stepping out into the night.


If you liked that, then you’ll love Kayla Lords‘ Masturbation Monday, where getting off is only a right-click away. Masturbation is good for you– so this week, don’t settle for doing it alone. This is week 55 and my first go at a submission, but there’s a whole hell of a lot more where that came from and much, much more left to come.
xoxo Zelda

The Progressive Sub: My Submission Is a Feminist Statement

source

*stands up*

My name is Zelda O’Bannon and I’m a dirty, submissive slut.

*Awkward silence. This is an AA meeting.

Whoops.*

I love to be spanked, ordered around, forced, teased and tortured. I like the feeling of a long, hard cock all the way down my throat, my nose pressed against his pelvic bone, his balls against my chin. I love being taken and used from behind, forced to cum over and over again.

I like relentless men, violent men, dangerous men. Pretty women. Various genders and identities in between.

And yet, I’m also a big, fat, raging feminist.

This is the part where you chime in: How the fuck do you manage that? After all, female submission is all about playing up the power imbalance, right? How can someone who seeks to abolish such a thing possibly also really love getting off to it?

If that shit dropped your jaw, allow me to do you one further: I fucking love to cook. I find my zen in scrubbing bathroom floors. I would rather delicately prepare a 5-course dinner and clean up afterward than I would ever mow the lawn or change the oil or man the manly thing that only men are traditionally acknowledged for manning.

See, there’s this crazy thing about submission that nobody seems to get but is 100% part of the lifestyle’s allure: the submissive, at all times, is entirely in control.

It’s so simple that it almost doesn’t make any sense at all. Being a submissive is firstly, about acknowledging one’s power over one’s own body. I own my body. I am its master. I decide what goes in it, around it, in it again, and again, and again, and OH GOD YES, YES, PLEASE FUCK ME YES!

And it’s only after I acknowledge that power that I can relinquish it to someone else. After all, if my body isn’t my own, then its certainly not mine to give– so when I say, “Please Sir, take my tight little pussy with your big, hard rod,” I am firstly letting Sir know: this is my pussy, and I am giving it to you. I am submitting to you. These are my gifts to you: my obedience– my consent– myself.

Blindfolded

Good girls don’t need to see what’s going on.

“Kneel,” he tells her, and she obeys.

She’s a good girl.

She does what Daddy says.

“Eyes on the ground,” he tells her.

Maybe not such a good girl after all: she looks up.

He smirks down at her. “We’re still working on following orders, aren’t we?”

“Yes, Daddy,” she says, cheeks flushed. She hates looking down. He only lets her speak when spoken to; her eyes are her only form of communication. She wants to gaze up at him adoringly, tell him how she loves him in a flutter of eyelashes.

Instead, she lowers her eyes and stares at her reflection in the black shine of his shoes. Her hair has fallen over her cheeks, hiding her face. Her collar encircles her neck, a delicate silver choker. Her leash is an elegant string of pearls that hangs before her and leads up to his hands. Her breasts are bared. Her hands are behind her back. In her dark reflection, she looks every bit the slave that she’s meant to be– but it’s too late for that now. She knows her Daddy better than that.

“Close your eyes,” he tells her.

When she does, she feels cold silk against her eyelids.

The world has gone dark, but her other senses are heightened now. She can hear her own heart thrumming, quick like a bunny’s. She can feel the cold, hard tile of the floor beneath her, bruising her knees with her every move.

She can sense him move before her.

His hands smell like coffee and ink. She can smell them as he runs his fingers through her hair, stirring up the scent of her shampoo. Vanilla and roses. She smells as sweet as he is masculine, but her scent is light, and his is strong.

The smell fades as he withdraws his hands. She hears the sound of a zipper.

He pulls her closer.

“Open your mouth, girl,” he tells her.

She’s a good girl.

She does what Daddy says.

His cock is hard and demanding against her lower lip. When she flicks her tongue out, she tastes the salt of his pre-cum, slick and still warm from his body heat.

He pushes in, and she takes him. Her mouth is wanton, wet with longing. He pushes deeper, and she feels his foreskin pull back as it slides against her open lips. The underside of his cock, the sensitive ridge that connects head and shaft, smooths against her tongue, in and in and in, and then back out. She hears Daddy’s breath hiss. She knows then that she’s pleased him. He loves the feel of her tongue.

As his cock slips back out of her mouth, she draws in a breath. Her heart is racing with excitement. She knows what comes next.

He presses in again, harder this time. He is no longer relishing the warm wetness of her mouth. He’s only taking now, taking the mouth that he owns, the tongue that serves him, the lips that worship him. He uses her mouth like it was made only for his pleasure. In the moment, she believes it: she was made for this. She was made for him to fuck and him to own, him to use as he pleases.

In another thrust, he takes her throat.

There’s the old choking sensation, the inevitable panic as he pushes past her gag reflex and down her throat. She can’t breath, and he knows this. He’s waiting for the signal, the three quick taps against his thigh, but she doesn’t give it. She can take it. She can take whatever her Daddy gives her.

He wraps one hand around the back of her head– leverage. The other, he wraps around her throat. She imagines he can feel it, the way his cock bulges beneath the skin of her neck.

He ravages her and she loves him for it.

And just as she fears she has neared her limit, he withdraws. The first shot of cum lands against her lips, all salt and musk. The next finds her cheek; another still shoots all the way across her face, from forehead to jaw. He presses his cock back into her mouth for the final few spurts. His seed is sweet, salty, sour– a whole palette of flavors that he paints her tongue with.

He replaces his cock with his fingers, wiping the cum from her face and feeding it to her. Not a drop is wasted. She loves her Daddy’s cum. She licks his fingers clean.

When the blindfold is removed, he’s smiling down on her, soft and sweet so she knows that she’s done a good job.

“I’m afraid that we’ve stained my tie,” he says with a laugh. She watches as he examines the length of cloth that was covering her eyes: his favorite tie, the black silk one she picked out for his birthday.

“I’ll wash it,” she offers, but he shakes his head no.

“Let the housekeepers deal with it,” he tells her. He helps her up and she leans against him. Kneeling for so long has made her knees weak. “You did too well today, darling girl. I want to pamper you now.”

She smiles. She loves being pampered.

“How’s your throat?” he asks, but before she can answer, his lips are on hers.

“A little sore,” she admits when he finally pulls away.

“We’ll get you some tea with honey,” he says.

He holds her against him like a small kitten, pressing her cheek to his chest until she can hear his heartbeat through the linen of his shirt. It’s strong and steady, just like he is, and she slows her breathing until it matches her own.