Welcome to Part 3 of our ongoing story. If you missed Parts 1 or 2, you'll find them in our archives. But to get you started, here's where we left off last time:
"Play with your pussy in front of our guests," Andre had ordered. "Play for real; finger your little nut until your body goes weak and they can see how red you get." Nita touched her clit, threw her head back against the wall, opened her legs wider and moaned. As her body shivered from her own finger pressure, her breasts bounced …
...and the upturned nipples pointed straight at us. She was hot. But in the middle of her show -- and now I could hear the lip-smacking sounds of wet cunt -- I started thinking of how Eric would look stretched back just like that, stroking himself. He would spit saliva into his hand and then throw his head back as he ran his palm over his cock's sensitive nipple. He would moan, slide the sleeve of his hand up and down his shaft and then he'd try to increase his speed. But I would stop him. "Slower," I'd command. I'd seize both of his nipples and run them between thumb and forefinger with a tight pinch, and kind of like Nita (because he's light-skinned like she is, even under his dusting of fur) he would flush.
"Now lift your leg so our guests can see what a wet little ho you are."
She did as she was told, and being a dancer, she could lift her slender leg high, straight and beautifully. I stared as the inner lips peeked out from her opened pussy. I could see the creamy wetness in her vulva seams as well as wet splotches just below the creases of her inner thighs.
Andre went to Nita then and pulled on nipples, demanding she maintain her balance on one foot. Like the ballerina she is, she held arms out prettily, one leg up towards the sky, and let him slide a hand into the slit of her cunt and glide over her natural lube while he stretched her small tittie outward and let it drop, stretch it and drop it, stretch, drop.
"Please milk this pussy, Andre," he rumbled low and cat-growly in her ear, an instruction for her to repeat after him.
"Please milk my pussy, Andre" she repeated in a whisper.
As I watched him pulling her soft tit it sort of woke me to the fact that I had thought of doing something similar to Eric -- had thought of it before Andre enacted it in front of me. That's when I first realized that I could be dominant and a little sadistic, and back then it scared hell out of me.
But now, ordering Eric to perform naked for me, that scene between Andre and Nita seem far away. Or maybe it's just my sense of shock that seems far away, for now to do what I'm doing seems the most natural thing in the world. Eric gets to his feet, underwear at his knees. He's still narrating his plays in the basketball game as I have ordered him to: “The second I heard Grizotti's whistle," he says, "I realized what I'd done. Like a split second too late.”
That look is very nice. Him bending over, reciting his errors in judgement.
I nod ever so slightly and thrust my chin out and he lets his underwear drop to his ankles. He has the tall gangly body of a basketball player, sharp lines of lean muscle around the knees and thighs -- but his cock is like a body builder, all bulk.
"Now tell me how you did it, and about how it almost cost you the half time lead."Little pink flushes in intimate places tell me he is mortified. Talking about his minor humiliations in this environment magnifies them.
“Just a bad instinct,” he said softly, while I enjoyed his reddening face and rising cock. “And a miscalculation. I was in too close."
"Tsk, tsk," I say. I hold his chin briefly between thumb and forefinger.
I remember that Andre had embarrassed Nita in a similar way. I don't set out to copy them, but they had their influence or maybe made their psychic mark. Sometimes it even feels as if all I'm doing is creating echoes of their relationship. The way Andre did it -- he saw Nita's performance, just as I saw Eric's game -- but Andre had her open her legs and assume the position with her butt facing him where he sat on the couch. And as he recapped the humiliating event -- it wasn't even her mistake, but the male dancer missed a lift and she fell to the floor, so ungracefully -- he fingered her from behind. "You looked so silly," he said with his finger in her pussy, pulled it out, examined it, said, "And you became just an obstacle for the line going out," he plunged back into her, between her legs and her half-hidden slit. "Good thing you were near the end of the line, right?" He is now pistoning in and out of her hole with his finger. "Or what would have happened?" He made her answer his question. "Other dancers might have fallen," she said in a dejected voice while he finger fucked her pussy from behind. And we watched. In fact, Eric took hold of my hand. His own, I noticed, was clammy warm. As a dancer, Nita, like Eric, had an athlete's tight body. And like Eric, her body had no spare flesh; muscle stretched firmly over the bone. And even against myself, I was lured by the beauty of her body, by Andre's power over her, by Eric holding my hand, wishing to be in her shoes.
Now, Eric's long hands are hung by his sides. I have the weird thought that he is purer in his nakedness than I will ever be. I study him, how he’s not the animated guy he would have been in the locker room after the game. I study the different textures of his body. Where he has fur, extra pale skin appears in need of its protection, but along his arms, his legs, he is all efficient, sharply cut muscle.
“OK,” I say, “now you may kiss my feet. And I mean feet, not sox. You know what I like.”
Truly, it's what he likes and I’ve fallen into. Kneeling, he lifts my first foot and takes off my sock, rubbing my foot in his hands and my toes between his fingers until the cotton fibers float away. Then he rests the heel of my foot on his chest, in that soft patch of fur, and begins kissing individual toes. He kisses them as if they each have a name and he is in love with them.
He holds my feet to his face, one at a time, always resting the idle foot against the small mound of his pecs. With the ball of my foot pressed into him, I can feel deltas of fur, and the faint pulse over his heart. My toes leave brief, pink indentations in his flesh. He’s tight and muscular and powerful on the court, and yet there is something vulnerable about his skin. I suppose I ought to know, since I have struck all manner of implements against it.These are soft, slow moments, all the way through the little cleansing ritual and massage that he developed and loves to perform. I let him collect his foot massage kit and watch how his naked body moves when he leaves the room, and when he returns, how his cock bobs slightly. He walks like a boy in surprisingly small strides for the length of his legs. He kneels and takes up my feet again. One at a time, he runs a small brush over my heels to make them softer; he rubs pumice stone over the rough spots, then spreads the oil and falls into deep massage. He gets lost beneath my skin. He has told me it's all very relaxing for him, especially after a game, to unload his command as network hub coordinating four other people. His service to me is about paying attention to small details and taking orders from one. He has taught me to be exacting, corrective and assertive about what I like, and I’ve learned a lot about my own relationship to asking for what I want by having him be so willing a sub.
But one time when Andre and Nita came over our house to help us put together our own style of D/s, they took us to a place that appalled me at the time -- with something that has just recently crept into our play. They came at a time when we thought we had our D/s life the way we wanted it already. Well, they showed us…
[To be Continued…]
