N Morley: Packing Heat: Femdom Strap-On Stories

“Of course I am, darling,” I said.

“Don’t get cute.”

“Never,” I said, snuggling close to her. “Never, ever.”

“You’re quite a little cocksucker,” she said. “But you know what makes a slut a real slut?”

The first was a reasonable comment, since I had her cock down my throat at the time. My answer was, therefore, slow in coming. I eased myself back, opening up wide, letting my ravaged throat give up the feel of the cock it so loved. The slim, arrow shaped head popped out of the back of my throat and I gave a little shudder as I came up, gasping for air. A string of saliva popped and glistened between my lips, painted bright red with a thick coating of lipstick.

I slurped.

“No, Mistress,” I told her, even though I already knew.

“A real slut takes it in the ass,” she told me, caressing my moist lips, smearing my lipstick further. “You know that, don’t you Kerry?”

I should tell you one thing before this goes any further: I love my ass. I love my tight little ass. It’s the most feminine thing about me; it always was, even before I started tucking it into panties and zipping it into skintight latex. All my old girlfriends used to comment on it: masculine chest, feminine ass and legs. Except, of course, for the cock between those legs—but, then, a good enough tuck job can hide even that. Until, of course, I get hard.

I was very hard now, my panties distended with the thick bulge of my erection. Sucking cock always makes me hard, especially when it’s a cock strapped to Juliette. I know from experience that nothing gets my Mistress wetter than having me suck her cock like it’s a real one, a flesh-and-blood cock, and more than once I’ve made her cum with the proper movements of my mouth and throat, pressing the base of her dildo against her clit and, if she’s wearing the right kind of rig, thrusting the plug deep inside her, a place I would never, without permission, even think of going myself.

But she knows that nothing makes me hotter than having my ass looked at, admired, lusted after. Men or women—it doesn’t matter. A pair of eyes lingering on my ass, whether it’s in skimpy white panties under a lifted schoolgirl’s skirt or crammed into skintight PVC hip-huggers, will ruin even the best tuck job.

Now, my tuck job was hopeless, given that my ass was exposed in a black pair of French-cut lace panties, underneath a tight spandex skirt that, as I’d begun to suck her, Mistress had instructed me to lift. And a small crowd had formed around us while I serviced her cock; a dozen, perhaps two dozen people, men and women and others, looked on hungrily, no doubt some admiring the way I took Mistress’s large cock down my throat—but many of them, I knew—or imagined, which was just as good—lusting after my ass.

Mistress didn’t have to lust—she could take what she wanted, and she hadn’t taken me yet.

“Yes, Mistress,” I said, looking up at her through eyelashes painted heavy and black. “A real slut takes it in the ass.”

“Would you like to be a slut for me, Kerry? Would you like to be my real slut?”

I was so hard and hungry and blissed-out in sub space that I would have said yes to anything she wanted— anything . But the thought of having my ass taken, the very first time, by Mistress Juliette while all these people watched, caused a turbulent swirl of emotion deep in my belly.

“Here, Mistress?”

“Of course here ,” she said, petulantly, the hint of irritation making my cock ache even more than it already did. “Bent over that table. Spread wide, and impaled on my fucking cock, Kerry. Isn’t that what you want? You said you wanted to be a real slut.”

She indicated the nearby table with just the motion of her eyes. The big platform, sturdy and padded in black leather, had just been cleared of its writhing, nude female submissive; it still glistened from the wipe-down. Mistress Juliette knew full well that I wanted nothing more than to be a real slut—but she also knew I’d never been fucked there, never used by a cock or a woman’s dildo. I had fucked myself, of course— of course! —but only in private, legs spread, ass pointed at the mirror near my bed, watching my tender ass stretched open by a dildo in my hand.

So I knew I could take her—physically. But on an emotional, sexual level, it really wasn’t quite the same thing.

But Mistress Juliette had made promises, you might even call them guarantees—“Stick with me, Kerry, and you’ll be a slut. I’ll make you a real slut whether you like it or not.”

And I liked it, I liked it very much—so I quelled my fear and nodded.

“Yes, Mistress,” I said. “If it pleases you, nothing would make me happier. Please fuck my ass.”

Mistress Juliette gave a musical laugh, almost a giggle—if that girlish word can be applied to her statuesque, imposing figure, five-ten in her stockinged feet, six-two in heels (on which she moved as gracefully as a sleazy ballerina, an expert in the use of fuck-me-pumps if ever there was one).

“Can someone volunteer to get this slut tied to that table?” she called to the crowd. “Ass up, of course.”

This was our agreement, it almost goes without saying—anyone could play with me, given Mistress Juliette’s permission. Of course, she was a possessive bitch—meaning no disrespect—and the pleasure of tying me to a table was, doubtless, the most she would allow any of the revelers to do to me.

But for the two men in leather pants and vests who stepped forward, that was plenty.

“Would you like her tied tight or loose?” one of them asked.

“Oh, as tight as you possibly can,” said Mistress Juliette with a wink. “Let’s make sure the slut can’t get away. Not that she’d dream of such a thing.”

“As you wish, Mistress.”

Though these two hunky leathermen were plainly tops themselves, they offered the scene’s top the customary deference. It gave me a thrill of fear and arousal to feel them seize my arms and all but lift me in the air. With barely a squirm, just the hint of a struggle, I was thrust across the padded table. One of the men went to work on my wrists, while the other stood behind me and forcibly kicked my legs apart.

It was an expert move, one that Mistress Juliette no doubt appreciated. In a few moments I had secure rope cuffs circling my wrists, and the cuffs were bound to the D-rings at the far corners of the wide, padded table. My ankles, similarly, were bound to the legs of the table, high six-inch fuck-me-pumps and all, spread so wide that I felt suspended in space, my ass raised high, exposed and vulnerable.

“Anyone have a knife?” I heard Mistress Juliette ask behind me, and my flesh goosebumped head to toe in an instant. I moaned softly.

Behind me was the telltale click of a switchblade, and I shut my eyes very tight. I’ve always had a ghastly fear of knives.

“You may remove the slut’s panties if you like,” said Mistress Juliette, her voice as rich as chocolate.

I have no idea which of the hunks did the slicing; my eyes were shut tight, and all I could feel was his hand on my stretchy skirt, pulling it up further, the cold steel of the blade as he slid it gently under the straps, the minimal pull of the fabric in my ass as he slit first one side and then the other. It was a very sharp knife.

He swept my panties away and must have presented them to Mistress Juliette.

“Stuff them in the slut’s mouth,” she said.

I opened my mouth obediently and one of the hunks—I was only able to see their bulging crotches, now, without raising my eyes in what would have been a far-from-deferent gesture—inserted my panties, which smelled and tasted like me. I felt a curious mix of humiliation and arousal, made more intense with the snap of a latex glove just behind me.