Graduation Day

[al****]

So far, I've written 29 short stories, each drawn from different chapters of my life. With every new tale, I challenge myself to explore a unique perspective and delve into varied experiences. This approach compels me to introspect about the diverse forms of BDSM I've encountered and to understand the emotions they stir within me. The story I'm about to share picks up where "The Gifted Brunette" concluded. Perhaps the previous narrative felt incomplete, or perhaps there's a significance in weaving these tales together. Either way, I invite you to embark on this journey with me. Enjoy.

-------------------------------

On the far side of the house, opposite to where she slept, was a room. It lacked a catchy name, but to her, it had become 'the training room' over the past couple of months. Time there wasn't just spent; it was meticulously crafted, every minute and hour dissected and deliberated, then shared with a clarity that left no room for doubt.

Her boundaries were clear: no ***, no physical harm. "I'll be your princess, not your whore," she had declared with a firmness that spoke volumes. She drew her line in the sand, offering me her universe, provided I never dared to overstep. Her submission was an aphrodisiac, but her resilience, her unyielding spirit, was equally arousing. It created a harmony of power and vulnerability.

In that room, she alternated between submission on her knees and the art of reverse cowgirl, each act a lesson in how to please me. But tonight was different. After a night rich with indulgence, I found myself at her door, watching her sleep. She's there, eigh***, bare, an epitome of unblemished beauty, asleep. Stepping into her room, my heart drums with anticipation. Our encounters, until now, have been confined within the calculated scripts of the training room. But tonight, as I watch the moonlight d*** over her, illuminating her in a celestial glow, it's time for her graduation. No more practice runs, no more simulations. This is the real deal. 

With each step I take towards her, there's a rush; it's a blend of adrenaline and something more sinister, lurking in the shadows of my psyche. The question echoes in my mind, unrelenting: "Is it the thrill of the unasked, the allure of the unpermitted?" This isn't just about the plans I have for tonight; it's about the entire scenario unfolding before me. Unscripted, raw, and palpably real.

Seated at the edge of her bed, I am captivated by my own arousal, a colossal living entity, pulsating with eager anticipation. Amidst this contemplation, a curious thought emerges, almost a whisper in my mind: "Am I fascinated by the idea of the sleeping, the unresponsive?"

She doesn't wake immediately, but as my hand traces the curves of her skin, she stirs, waking abruptly.

"Shhh, it's me," I reassure her, my voice a blend of softness and command.
    
Her beauty, untouched by the harshness of the world, is suddenly disrupted as she awakens abruptly, lying on her back, swiftly gauging the situation. In that moment, I feel towering, almost ten feet tall, as her right hand extends, her fingers encircling the shaft of my hardon.

Her touch is tender, soft; her body leans in, striving to rise, to close the distance between us. Her mouth parts slightly, and it's unclear whether she's about to speak or her lips are instinctively seeking my cock. But I halt her movement, issuing my command.

The first directive is clear, "I don't want you to say a word. You need to be as quiet as possible."

Safety measures are in place; the safe word is paramount, overriding all else. We both know this. There's no need for a reminder; it would only fracture the moment's intensity.

Her hand, moving with a sense of wonder, strokes my cock. It's almost unbearable to issue the second order, "I want you on your side. Keep your hands above your breast. You're not allowed to touch me," I instruct her.

As she releases me and rolls over, I realize this is as much a test for me as it is for her.

I sense her apprehension; our encounters have never breached this boundary before. We haven't ventured into the raw spontaneity of a shower encounter, nor have we surrendered to the impulsive desire on the kitchen table. Our time together has been a meticulous journey of training and trust-building. My hand tenderly caresses her face, drifting down over her breast, across her belly. My fingers dance, knuckles brushing against the softness of her pubic hair, a personal runway laid out just for me. They continue their descent, gliding over her legs, reaching her ankles. In this moment, I seek both validation and challenge. I ask her, "Do you trust me?"

Her breathing is labored, her chest rising and falling rhythmically, as if she's adrift in contemplation. Then, a nod.

"Good girl," I affirm, as my hands commence their return journey, navigating back between her legs.

As she lies there, *** on her side, I have access to all that I cherish, all that I claim as mine. My fingers map every contour, a touch to the lips between her legs, a kiss to the lips on her face. I take my time caressing her breast, intent on her feeling the intensity of my throbbing cock against her as I pepper her skin with gentle kisses. My thumb circles her clit, my fingers delve inside her, then journey to my mouth, allowing me the indulgence of tasting what is exclusively mine.

As the taste of her essence lingers on my palate, my other hand ventures, caressing over her backside. My thumb, circling her delicate area, applies just enough pressure to elicit a tense response from her body. I withdraw my hand momentarily; her body unwinds. The act of teasing, of nudging the boundaries of the unfamiliar, captivates me. I return my hand to her, observing as she tenses once more.

Her body, a sacred offering to me, rests under my dominion; a vessel for me to claim, utilize, and treasure as I see fit. The urge to delve into tightly clenched sanctuary is strong. Yet, while I possess the authority to demand her relaxation, to put her obedience to the test, I refrain. Setting her up for failure contradicts my principles. She is more than a submissive, she's a partner who places her trust in me as much as I place mine in her and she is not prepared for such a directive. But tonight, a night where I wield full control, needs to be memorable, special in its own right.

I straddle her, positioning myself between her thighs. The tip of my cock presses against her lips, a promise of what's to come. With one long, lingering stroke across her body, I remind her again, "Remember, no words. Keep as quiet as you can."

Then, I exert a slow pressure, gradually advancing my hips forward. I watch her expression as my big head breaches her entryway, parting her. She bites her lip, a telltale intermingling of nervousness and pleasure evident in her demeanor. My goal is to tip the scales, to diminish the anxiety and amplify the pleasure. "You need to relax," I command, guiding her through the moment.

The movement is deliberate, slow, focusing on enjoyment rather than mere physicality. My left hand supports us, while my right teases her breast, gentle pinches adding to the sensation. Leaning back, I bring her leg to my shoulder, changing the angle, deepening the connection. My right hand slides down her body, my palm pressing against her clit in a rhythmic dance, each movement synchronized with my hips. Her moan, though nearly silent, resonates through the room.

I'm there, steering her through the experience with a careful blend of affirmation and control, "Good girl, just like that." 

In the training room, she's never reached that peak, perhaps overshadowed by her focus on pleasing me, or maybe a struggle to understand her own body. Maybe it's about control, and tonight, I'm holding the reins. Tonight, I can see the change in her, the readiness. As we entwine in the pretzel position, her form exposed and ***. Every inch of her body is on display, a perfect canvas of flesh and desire. Her whispers, barely audible, are drowned by my deliberate rhythm, a balance of gentleness and assertion. My left hand rests on her back, my right hand tracing her belly, guiding my hips in deep, meaningful thrusts. I watch her face, reading every twitch of emotion, her hands fluttering in the air, bound by nothing but my command.

Words of encouragement tumble from my lips, a soothing mantra in this intimate theatre, "It's okay," I reassure her, "let it all out." Her responses, delicate whimpers of pleasure, drift through the room, punctuating the charged air.

"You're doing so well," I affirm, sprinkling more positive feedback into the air between us. My gaze drifts downward, captivated by the spectacle unfolding before me. My cock appears monumental, its rhythmical journey in and out of her a mesmerizing sight. Then, I introduce a tiny deception, a white lie seasoned with experience: "I'm cuming," I announce. It's a strategic utterance, designed to soothe her nerves, to coax her into relaxation. "Cum with me, baby," I whisper in her ear.

Instantly, her hand lunges for a pillow, gripping it tightly. Her body responds in kind; her muscles contract rhythmically around me, her climax mirroring her essence, petite, fleeting, and intense, reminiscent of a bunny's energetic hops. Her moans, once muffled, begin to challenge the silence, and she buries her face beneath the pillow. I not only permit this; I cheer her on. "Let it out. You love my cock, don't you?" I coax. The pillow bobs in silent agreement as she hides behind it, a veil for her ecstasy.

The onslaught of her orgasms finally winds down; the pillow is tossed aside, revealing her face, a whirlwind of emotions. First, confusion flickers in her eyes as they lock with mine, then lust, happiness. Her expressions shift through each emotion, ultimately settling into surrender, into relaxation. My hips maintain their slow rhythm, as I shift into my favorite position, the deep impact. "Put both hands all the way back," I command.

In seamless motion, we remain intertwined as I shift her posture; every stroke of my cock remains unbroken, rhythmic. She finds herself repositioned on her back, her body contorted in a display of flexibility, her ankles lightly grazing her shoulders. From her lips, soft moans break free, each one a subtle chorus to the depth of my movements. Every thrust brings a calculated collision of my pelvis against her clit.

My grip on her is unwavering, each thumb planted firmly under a breast, as if anchoring her to the reality of our linked existence. The intensity of my movements builds gradually, each thrust deeper than the last, as I carefully monitor her every response, her every subtle cue, a silent dialogue that guides my actions.

This dynamic isn't just about sex. It's a privilege, a reward for her obedience, something she'll learn to need. Gentle and steady brings her to one peak, but it's the deep, ***ful rhythm that propels her further, our bodies slapping in unison, igniting a series of rapid, delicate climaxes in her, which in turn trigger my own response. There's a profound satisfaction in reaching that peak together.

"Fuck, that feels good," I vocalize, as a wave of powerful convulsions overtakes me, each thrust amplifying the magnitude. This reignites her response, distinctly different from the small, sequential climaxes of before. I feel her completely envelop me, strong and encompassing. Her ecstatic cry, "Oh my fucking God," echoes through the room.

The aftermath leaves me utterly spent. My hips instinctively continue, seeking to prolong her enjoyment, but my body is drained, devoid of any remaining strength. I collapse beside her, her body still trembling, her hand muffling the aftershocks of her experience.

Lying beside her, her face illuminated by a satisfied smile, I stroke her hair gently. "You did well tonight," I tell her, my voice a mix of praise and caution. "But you broke the rules," I remind her with a stern edge. "Are you permitted to speak?" I ask. She shakes her head, a silent acknowledgment of the breach.

Internally, I'm awash with a surge of emotions, fueled by her compliance. I yearn for another round, feeling nearly explosive with pent-up intensity. "We'll discuss your punishment tomorrow," I whisper close to her ear, my words a soft yet ominous promise.

Reflecting on my life's journey, the patterns become clear. The dynamics that fizzled were those lacking boundaries; relationships that required no effort never quite felt right, the equilibrium was always off. But with her, my red-haired, pale princess in the moonlight, everything aligns. I've walked a tightrope, earned every concession, every moment of submission. And the reward was mutual, a shared gratification in our power play.
 

[Cl****]

Wow, that’s awesome

[Co****]

🥰😍

[Co****]

More more please..........👄🫦

[An****]

So many aspects I like about this story.

[al****]

Thank you all and glad you like the story, I have a few more about the red haired princess I may post down the road. Just need to edit and do some introspection before the chapters are finalized. 

[al****]

I have been working on my book to add depth to existing chapters bout me and the women in my story.

This is the updated Chapter 7: Graduation Day

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On the far side of the house, opposite to where she slept, was a room. It didn’t have catchy a name, but over the past few months, she’d come to call it ‘the training room’. Time there wasn’t just spent; it was meticulously crafted, every minute and hour dissected and deliberated, then shared with a clarity that left no room for doubt.

Her boundaries were clear: no ***, no physical harm. “I’ll be your princess, not your whore,” she had declared with a firmness that spoke volumes. She drew her line in the sand, offering me her universe, provided I never dared to overstep. Her submission was an aphrodisiac, but her resilience, her unyielding spirit, was equally arousing. It created a harmony of power and vulnerability.

In that room, she’d learned obedience. I’d sit in my favorite chair watching her shift from kneeling between my legs, her mouth in motion, to days where she she’d ride me in reverse, eyes down, forbidden to look at me. Each movement was an exercise in control, a lesson in how to serve, how to please. But tonight was different. After a night rich with gratification, I found myself at her door, watching her sleep. She’s there, eigh***, bare, an epitome of unblemished beauty, asleep. Stepping into her room, my heart drums with anticipation. Our encounters, until now, have been confined within the calculated scripts of the training room. But tonight, as I watch the moonlight d*** over her, illuminating her in a celestial glow, it’s time for her graduation. No more practice runs, no more simulations. This is the real deal.

With each step I take towards her, there’s a rush; it’s a blend of adrenaline and something more sinister, lurking in the shadows of my psyche. The question echoes in my mind, unrelenting: “Is it the thrill of the unasked, the allure of the unpermitted?” This isn’t just about the plans I have for tonight; it’s about the entire scenario unfolding before me. Unscripted, raw, and palpably real.

Seated at the edge of her bed, I am captivated by my own arousal, a colossal living entity, pulsating with eager anticipation. Amidst this contemplation, a curious thought emerges, almost a whisper in my mind: “Am I fascinated by the idea of the sleeping, the unresponsive?”

She doesn’t wake immediately, but as my hand traces the curves of her skin, she stirs, waking abruptly.

“Shhh, it’s me,” I reassure her, my voice a blend of softness and assurance.

Her elegance, once untouched by the harshness of the world, shatters as she awakens abruptly, lying on her back and quickly assessing the situation. Her red hair spills over her shoulders like wildfire, framing a body that looks sculpted, almost exaggerated, with hips that flare with defiant femininity. Her skin stretches taut across every inch of her, all curves designed to break necks and expectations. In that moment, I feel towering, almost ten feet tall, as her right hand extends, fingers wrapping around my tautness.

Her touch is tender, soft; her body leans in, striving to rise, to close the distance between us. Her mouth parts slightly, and it’s unclear whether she’s about to speak or her lips are instinctively seeking my cock. But I halt her movement, issuing my command.

The first directive is clear, “I don’t want you to say a word. You need to be as quiet as possible.”

Safety measures are in place; the safe word is paramount, overriding all else. We both know this. There’s no need for a reminder; it would only fracture the moment’s depth.

Her hand, moving with a sense of wonder, strokes my shaft. It’s almost unbearable to issue the second order, “I want you on your side. Keep your hands above your breast. You’re not allowed to touch me,” I instruct her.

As she releases me and rolls over, I realize this is as much a test for me as it is for her.

I sense her apprehension; our encounters have never breached this boundary before. We haven’t ventured into the raw spontaneity of a shower encounter, nor have we surrendered to the impulsive desire on the kitchen table. Our time together has been a systematic journey of training and trust-building. My hand tenderly caresses her face, drifting down over her breast, across her belly. My fingers dance, knuckles brushing against the softness of her pubic hair, a personal runway laid out just for me. They continue their descent, gliding over her legs, reaching her ankles. In this moment, I seek both validation and challenge. I ask her, “Do you trust me?”

Her breathing is labored, her chest rising and falling rhythmically, as if she’s adrift in contemplation. Then, a nod.

“Good girl,” I affirm, as my hands commence their return journey, navigating back between her legs.

As she lies there, *** on her side, I have access to all that I cherish, all that I claim as mine. My fingers map every contour, a touch to the folds between her legs, a kiss to the lips on her face. I take my time caressing her breast, intent on her feeling the intensity of my throbbing hardon against her as I pepper her skin with gentle kisses. My thumb circles her clit, my fingers delve inside her, then journey to my mouth, allowing me the indulgence of tasting what is exclusively mine.

As the taste of her essence lingers on my palate, my other hand ventures, caressing over her backside. My thumb, circling her delicate area, applies just enough pressure to elicit a tense response from her being. I withdraw my hand momentarily; her body unwinds. The act of teasing, of nudging the boundaries of the unfamiliar, captivates me. I return my hand to her backdoor, observing as she tenses once more.

Her vessel, a sacred offering to me, rests under my dominion; a vessel for me to claim, utilize, and treasure as I see fit. The urge to delve into tightly clenched sanctuary is strong. Yet, while I possess the authority to demand her relaxation, to put her obedience to the test, I refrain. Setting her up for failure contradicts my principles. She is more than a submissive, she’s a partner who places her trust in me as much as I place mine in her and she is not prepared for such a directive. But tonight, a night where I wield full control, needs to be memorable, special in its own right.

I straddle her, positioning myself between her thighs. The tip of my cock presses against her entrance, a promise of what’s to come. With one long, lingering stroke across her body, I remind her again, “Remember, no words. Keep as quiet as you can.”

Then, I exert a slow pressure, gradually advancing my hips forward. I watch her expression as my big head breaches her entryway, parting her. She bites her lip, a telltale intermingling of nervousness and pleasure evident in her demeanor. My goal is to tip the scales, to diminish the anxiety and amplify the pleasure. “You need to relax,” I command, guiding her through the moment.

The movement is deliberate, slow, focusing on enjoyment rather than mere physicality. My left hand supports us, while my right teases her breast, gentle pinches adding to the sensation. Leaning back, I bring her leg to my shoulder, changing the angle, deepening the connection. My right hand slides down her torso, my palm pressing against her clit in a rhythmic dance, each action synchronized with my hips. Her moan, though nearly silent, resonates through the room.

I’m there, steering her through the experience with a careful blend of affirmation and control, “Good girl, just like that.”

In the training room, she’s never reached that peak, perhaps overshadowed by her focus on pleasing me, or maybe a struggle to understand her own body. Maybe it’s about control, and tonight, I’m holding the reins. Tonight, I can see the change in her, the readiness. As we entwine in the pretzel position, her form exposed and ***. Every inch of her figure is on display, a perfect canvas of flesh and desire. Her whispers, barely audible, are drowned by my deliberate tempo, a balance of gentleness and assertion. My left hand rests on her back, my right hand tracing her belly, guiding my hips in deep, meaningful thrusts. I watch her face, reading every twitch of emotion, her hands fluttering in the air, bound by nothing but my will.

Words of encouragement tumble from my lips, a soothing mantra in this intimate theatre, “It’s okay,” I reassure her, “let it all out.” Her responses, delicate whimpers of pleasure, drift through the room, punctuating the charged air.

“You’re doing so well,” I affirm, sprinkling more positive feedback into the air between us. My gaze drifts downward, captivated by the spectacle unfolding before me. My erection appears monumental, its rhythmical journey in and out of her a mesmerizing sight. Then, I introduce a tiny deception, a white lie seasoned with experience: “I’m cuming,” I announce. It’s a strategic utterance, designed to soothe her nerves, to coax her into relaxation. “Cum with me, baby,” I whisper in her ear.

Instantly, her hand lunges for a pillow, gripping it tightly. Her body responds in kind; her muscles contract harmoniously around me, her climax mirroring her essence, petite, fleeting, and intense, reminiscent of a bunny’s energetic hops. Her moans, once muffled, begin to challenge the silence, and she buries her face beneath the pillow. I not only permit this; I cheer her on. “Let it out. You love my cock, don’t you?” I coax. The pillow bobs in silent agreement as she hides behind it, a veil for her ecstasy.

The onslaught of her orgasms finally winds down; the pillow is tossed aside, revealing her face, a whirlwind of emotions. First, confusion flickers in her eyes as they lock with mine, then lust, happiness. Her expressions shift through each emotion, ultimately settling into surrender, into relaxation. My hips maintain their slow pace, as I shift into my favorite position, the deep impact. “Put both hands all the way back,” I command.

In seamless motion, we remain intertwined as I shift her posture; every stroke of my cock remains unbroken, rhythmic. She finds herself repositioned on her back, her body contorted in a display of flexibility, her ankles lightly grazing her shoulders. From her lips, soft moans break free, each one a subtle chorus to the depth of my movements. Every thrust brings a calculated collision of my pelvis against her clit.

My grip on her is unwavering, each thumb planted firmly under a breast, as if anchoring her to the reality of our linked existence. The intensity of my movements builds gradually, each thrust deeper than the last, as I carefully monitor her every response, her every subtle cue, a silent dialogue that guides my actions.

This dynamic isn’t just about sex. It’s a privilege, a reward for her obedience, something she’ll learn to need. Gentle and steady brings her to one peak, but it’s the deep, ***ful rhythm that propels her further, our bodies slapping in unison, igniting a series of rapid, delicate climaxes in her, which in turn trigger my own response. There’s a profound satisfaction in reaching that peak together.

“Fuck, that feels good,” I vocalize, as a wave of powerful convulsions overtakes me, each thrust amplifying the magnitude. This reignites her response, distinctly different from the small, sequential climaxes of before. I feel her completely envelop me, strong and encompassing. Her ecstatic cry, “Oh my fucking God,” echoes through the room.

The aftermath leaves me utterly spent. My hips instinctively continue, seeking to prolong her enjoyment, but my body is drained, devoid of any remaining strength. I collapse beside her, her form still trembling, her hand muffling the aftershocks of her experience.

Lying beside her, her face illuminated by a satisfied smile, I stroke her hair gently. Her red hair, soft and slightly tousled, fans out across the pillow, framing a face that radiates quiet devotion. Her body, long and lean, stretches out beneath the sheets, each movement unhurried and graceful. The soft curves of her form are highlighted by the pale glow of her skin, legs still delicately raised, as if ***ly holding the memory of our earlier encounter. Her eyes, soft and unwavering, reflect nothing but the desire to please.

“You did well tonight,” I tell her, my voice a mix of praise and caution. “But you broke the rules,” I remind her with a stern edge. “Are you permitted to speak?” I ask. She shakes her head, a silent acknowledgment of the breach.

Internally, I’m awash with a surge of emotions, fueled by her compliance. I yearn for another round, feeling nearly explosive with pent-up intensity. “We’ll discuss your punishment tomorrow,” I whisper close to her ear, my words a soft yet ominous promise.

Reflecting on my life’s journey, the patterns become clear. The dynamics that fizzled were those lacking boundaries; relationships that required no effort never quite felt right, the equilibrium was always off. But with her, my red-haired, pale princess in the moonlight, everything aligns. I’ve walked a tightrope, earned every concession, every moment of submission. And the reward was mutual, a shared gratification in our power play.

[An****]

2 hours ago, alexxxwild said:

I have been working on my book to add depth to existing chapters bout me and the women in my story.

This is the updated Chapter 7: Graduation Day

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On the far side of the house, opposite to where she slept, was a room. It didn’t have catchy a name, but over the past few months, she’d come to call it ‘the training room’. Time there wasn’t just spent; it was meticulously crafted, every minute and hour dissected and deliberated, then shared with a clarity that left no room for doubt.

Her boundaries were clear: no ***, no physical harm. “I’ll be your princess, not your whore,” she had declared with a firmness that spoke volumes. She drew her line in the sand, offering me her universe, provided I never dared to overstep. Her submission was an aphrodisiac, but her resilience, her unyielding spirit, was equally arousing. It created a harmony of power and vulnerability.

In that room, she’d learned obedience. I’d sit in my favorite chair watching her shift from kneeling between my legs, her mouth in motion, to days where she she’d ride me in reverse, eyes down, forbidden to look at me. Each movement was an exercise in control, a lesson in how to serve, how to please. But tonight was different. After a night rich with gratification, I found myself at her door, watching her sleep. She’s there, eigh***, bare, an epitome of unblemished beauty, asleep. Stepping into her room, my heart drums with anticipation. Our encounters, until now, have been confined within the calculated scripts of the training room. But tonight, as I watch the moonlight d*** over her, illuminating her in a celestial glow, it’s time for her graduation. No more practice runs, no more simulations. This is the real deal.

With each step I take towards her, there’s a rush; it’s a blend of adrenaline and something more sinister, lurking in the shadows of my psyche. The question echoes in my mind, unrelenting: “Is it the thrill of the unasked, the allure of the unpermitted?” This isn’t just about the plans I have for tonight; it’s about the entire scenario unfolding before me. Unscripted, raw, and palpably real.

Seated at the edge of her bed, I am captivated by my own arousal, a colossal living entity, pulsating with eager anticipation. Amidst this contemplation, a curious thought emerges, almost a whisper in my mind: “Am I fascinated by the idea of the sleeping, the unresponsive?”

She doesn’t wake immediately, but as my hand traces the curves of her skin, she stirs, waking abruptly.

“Shhh, it’s me,” I reassure her, my voice a blend of softness and assurance.

Her elegance, once untouched by the harshness of the world, shatters as she awakens abruptly, lying on her back and quickly assessing the situation. Her red hair spills over her shoulders like wildfire, framing a body that looks sculpted, almost exaggerated, with hips that flare with defiant femininity. Her skin stretches taut across every inch of her, all curves designed to break necks and expectations. In that moment, I feel towering, almost ten feet tall, as her right hand extends, fingers wrapping around my tautness.

Her touch is tender, soft; her body leans in, striving to rise, to close the distance between us. Her mouth parts slightly, and it’s unclear whether she’s about to speak or her lips are instinctively seeking my cock. But I halt her movement, issuing my command.

The first directive is clear, “I don’t want you to say a word. You need to be as quiet as possible.”

Safety measures are in place; the safe word is paramount, overriding all else. We both know this. There’s no need for a reminder; it would only fracture the moment’s depth.

Her hand, moving with a sense of wonder, strokes my shaft. It’s almost unbearable to issue the second order, “I want you on your side. Keep your hands above your breast. You’re not allowed to touch me,” I instruct her.

As she releases me and rolls over, I realize this is as much a test for me as it is for her.

I sense her apprehension; our encounters have never breached this boundary before. We haven’t ventured into the raw spontaneity of a shower encounter, nor have we surrendered to the impulsive desire on the kitchen table. Our time together has been a systematic journey of training and trust-building. My hand tenderly caresses her face, drifting down over her breast, across her belly. My fingers dance, knuckles brushing against the softness of her pubic hair, a personal runway laid out just for me. They continue their descent, gliding over her legs, reaching her ankles. In this moment, I seek both validation and challenge. I ask her, “Do you trust me?”

Her breathing is labored, her chest rising and falling rhythmically, as if she’s adrift in contemplation. Then, a nod.

“Good girl,” I affirm, as my hands commence their return journey, navigating back between her legs.

As she lies there, *** on her side, I have access to all that I cherish, all that I claim as mine. My fingers map every contour, a touch to the folds between her legs, a kiss to the lips on her face. I take my time caressing her breast, intent on her feeling the intensity of my throbbing hardon against her as I pepper her skin with gentle kisses. My thumb circles her clit, my fingers delve inside her, then journey to my mouth, allowing me the indulgence of tasting what is exclusively mine.

As the taste of her essence lingers on my palate, my other hand ventures, caressing over her backside. My thumb, circling her delicate area, applies just enough pressure to elicit a tense response from her being. I withdraw my hand momentarily; her body unwinds. The act of teasing, of nudging the boundaries of the unfamiliar, captivates me. I return my hand to her backdoor, observing as she tenses once more.

Her vessel, a sacred offering to me, rests under my dominion; a vessel for me to claim, utilize, and treasure as I see fit. The urge to delve into tightly clenched sanctuary is strong. Yet, while I possess the authority to demand her relaxation, to put her obedience to the test, I refrain. Setting her up for failure contradicts my principles. She is more than a submissive, she’s a partner who places her trust in me as much as I place mine in her and she is not prepared for such a directive. But tonight, a night where I wield full control, needs to be memorable, special in its own right.

I straddle her, positioning myself between her thighs. The tip of my cock presses against her entrance, a promise of what’s to come. With one long, lingering stroke across her body, I remind her again, “Remember, no words. Keep as quiet as you can.”

Then, I exert a slow pressure, gradually advancing my hips forward. I watch her expression as my big head breaches her entryway, parting her. She bites her lip, a telltale intermingling of nervousness and pleasure evident in her demeanor. My goal is to tip the scales, to diminish the anxiety and amplify the pleasure. “You need to relax,” I command, guiding her through the moment.

The movement is deliberate, slow, focusing on enjoyment rather than mere physicality. My left hand supports us, while my right teases her breast, gentle pinches adding to the sensation. Leaning back, I bring her leg to my shoulder, changing the angle, deepening the connection. My right hand slides down her torso, my palm pressing against her clit in a rhythmic dance, each action synchronized with my hips. Her moan, though nearly silent, resonates through the room.

I’m there, steering her through the experience with a careful blend of affirmation and control, “Good girl, just like that.”

In the training room, she’s never reached that peak, perhaps overshadowed by her focus on pleasing me, or maybe a struggle to understand her own body. Maybe it’s about control, and tonight, I’m holding the reins. Tonight, I can see the change in her, the readiness. As we entwine in the pretzel position, her form exposed and ***. Every inch of her figure is on display, a perfect canvas of flesh and desire. Her whispers, barely audible, are drowned by my deliberate tempo, a balance of gentleness and assertion. My left hand rests on her back, my right hand tracing her belly, guiding my hips in deep, meaningful thrusts. I watch her face, reading every twitch of emotion, her hands fluttering in the air, bound by nothing but my will.

Words of encouragement tumble from my lips, a soothing mantra in this intimate theatre, “It’s okay,” I reassure her, “let it all out.” Her responses, delicate whimpers of pleasure, drift through the room, punctuating the charged air.

“You’re doing so well,” I affirm, sprinkling more positive feedback into the air between us. My gaze drifts downward, captivated by the spectacle unfolding before me. My erection appears monumental, its rhythmical journey in and out of her a mesmerizing sight. Then, I introduce a tiny deception, a white lie seasoned with experience: “I’m cuming,” I announce. It’s a strategic utterance, designed to soothe her nerves, to coax her into relaxation. “Cum with me, baby,” I whisper in her ear.

Instantly, her hand lunges for a pillow, gripping it tightly. Her body responds in kind; her muscles contract harmoniously around me, her climax mirroring her essence, petite, fleeting, and intense, reminiscent of a bunny’s energetic hops. Her moans, once muffled, begin to challenge the silence, and she buries her face beneath the pillow. I not only permit this; I cheer her on. “Let it out. You love my cock, don’t you?” I coax. The pillow bobs in silent agreement as she hides behind it, a veil for her ecstasy.

The onslaught of her orgasms finally winds down; the pillow is tossed aside, revealing her face, a whirlwind of emotions. First, confusion flickers in her eyes as they lock with mine, then lust, happiness. Her expressions shift through each emotion, ultimately settling into surrender, into relaxation. My hips maintain their slow pace, as I shift into my favorite position, the deep impact. “Put both hands all the way back,” I command.

In seamless motion, we remain intertwined as I shift her posture; every stroke of my cock remains unbroken, rhythmic. She finds herself repositioned on her back, her body contorted in a display of flexibility, her ankles lightly grazing her shoulders. From her lips, soft moans break free, each one a subtle chorus to the depth of my movements. Every thrust brings a calculated collision of my pelvis against her clit.

My grip on her is unwavering, each thumb planted firmly under a breast, as if anchoring her to the reality of our linked existence. The intensity of my movements builds gradually, each thrust deeper than the last, as I carefully monitor her every response, her every subtle cue, a silent dialogue that guides my actions.

This dynamic isn’t just about sex. It’s a privilege, a reward for her obedience, something she’ll learn to need. Gentle and steady brings her to one peak, but it’s the deep, ***ful rhythm that propels her further, our bodies slapping in unison, igniting a series of rapid, delicate climaxes in her, which in turn trigger my own response. There’s a profound satisfaction in reaching that peak together.

“Fuck, that feels good,” I vocalize, as a wave of powerful convulsions overtakes me, each thrust amplifying the magnitude. This reignites her response, distinctly different from the small, sequential climaxes of before. I feel her completely envelop me, strong and encompassing. Her ecstatic cry, “Oh my fucking God,” echoes through the room.

The aftermath leaves me utterly spent. My hips instinctively continue, seeking to prolong her enjoyment, but my body is drained, devoid of any remaining strength. I collapse beside her, her form still trembling, her hand muffling the aftershocks of her experience.

Lying beside her, her face illuminated by a satisfied smile, I stroke her hair gently. Her red hair, soft and slightly tousled, fans out across the pillow, framing a face that radiates quiet devotion. Her body, long and lean, stretches out beneath the sheets, each movement unhurried and graceful. The soft curves of her form are highlighted by the pale glow of her skin, legs still delicately raised, as if ***ly holding the memory of our earlier encounter. Her eyes, soft and unwavering, reflect nothing but the desire to please.

“You did well tonight,” I tell her, my voice a mix of praise and caution. “But you broke the rules,” I remind her with a stern edge. “Are you permitted to speak?” I ask. She shakes her head, a silent acknowledgment of the breach.

Internally, I’m awash with a surge of emotions, fueled by her compliance. I yearn for another round, feeling nearly explosive with pent-up intensity. “We’ll discuss your punishment tomorrow,” I whisper close to her ear, my words a soft yet ominous promise.

Reflecting on my life’s journey, the patterns become clear. The dynamics that fizzled were those lacking boundaries; relationships that required no effort never quite felt right, the equilibrium was always off. But with her, my red-haired, pale princess in the moonlight, everything aligns. I’ve walked a tightrope, earned every concession, every moment of submission. And the reward was mutual, a shared gratification in our power play.

Holy shit THIS is perfect!!

[ShyTeddy]

ur stories are so amazing

[Co****]

Absolutely delightful 😊 🔥