I should have seen tonight coming. Master informed me this morning that I was not allowed panties. I was already at work when this edict came, which I foolishly thought might absolve me from the fashion requirement. His response? “Guess you’ll have to do something about that then.” I knew what that meant, and 5 minutes later I returned to Master with my panties bunched into my pocket. He rewarded me with the greatest of praises: “Good girl.”
This pantiless sensation kept me aware all day. Aware of my submission, of my obedience, of my cunt. He added to this constant distraction with words that push, push, pushed me down to the place he likes me. In my head I spent the bulk of my day kneeling at his feet, gazing up at him longingly. When I went to the restroom I discovered I’d soaked through my pants and had simply been lucky that nobody had stopped by to chat yet that day!
By the time I came home the work day had cut into my focus and I’d pulled out of the mindset he’d created that morning. As I lay on my bed chatting with him via Skype I felt very normal; very mundane. I had someplace to be this evening so I couldn’t stay forever, so we chatted about life, love, everyday things. Soon he’d be headed off to sleep and I’d be off to my evening. “Could I see you?” he asked and I turned on my camera.
“Before I go to sleep,” he purred into my ears “you’ll need to show me that you are, in fact, not wearing panties.” My body hummed as I unfastened my slacks, kneeling on the bed so that the camera captured me only from knees to waist. As I pushed my pants down my legs I heard the front edge of that word: “Freeze.”
When I came back to myself I was in the same position with one important difference: my right hand was wedged between my legs. I could tell from the remaining tingle that he’d had me rubbing myself for the camera. I composed myself and then, remembering the importance of permission, I asked if I could move my hand away. He gave me some non-committal approval and I pulled my hand away, sitting back on the bed. Or at least that was my plan. But instead, seemingly in response to my attempt to pull away my hand, I began to fuck myself, my middle finger diving deep into me over and over. I erupted in squeaks, pants, groans as Master, his voice thick with amusement, asked me “What’s going on, baby?”
I tried to speak, but my voice escaped between deep breaths. “You tell me!” I snapped back (clearly too focused on my dilemma to consider what a bad time it was to talk back to my Master.) I gave up trying to control my hand and once I changed the goal my assault on my cunt stopped. “As soon as I tried to move my hand…” I felt like I shouldn’t have to say any more – my situation was obvious, as was the fact that it had to be by his design.
“Yes?” he grinned, forcing me to find the words to finish my sentence.
“I started fucking myself.” I finished, frustrated. “I couldn’t stop fucking myself.” Now I felt trapped – kneeling on the bed, my right hand deep inside my cunt. If I tried to pull it away I knew I’d go straight back to fucking. I’d found the solution, but only part of it. So very trapped. But Master wasn’t going to leave it there.
“And even as you sit there, thinking about what you want to do, you realize that just the simple thought of removing your hand now has that effect, does it not?” As he said it, it became so and my hand went back to work, fucking me furiously. I groaned in passion and frustration. He laughed in response, enjoying the show.
On and on it went, with my finger burrowing into me and my body betraying me. I could not NOT think about my hand; about what I couldn’t stop doing to myself. Instead I tried focusing on something else. Nothing could compete with the thought of Master watching me fucking on camera. Finally I found a thought I could focus on completely: my mouth sliding up and down on Master’s cock. I closed my eyes and let my mind drift to kneeling over my Master, filling my mouth with his organ hungrily, and my hand slowly came to still. I fell down onto my other hand on the bed, exhausted. I thought I’d found the solution, and he’d be proud of my ingenuity. My creativity. He’d free me from his trap now. I heard his laugh grow.
“What are you thinking about, my pet?” he asks. I tell him the truth – that by thinking about worshipping his cock I could stop my thinking about my hand. I heard in his voice he was proud of my solution, but he wasn’t about to let me get off that easy. “Very good. Still, you know what you are working so hard to avoid. And really, do you want to stop?” I knew that my cunt was now throbbing from attention. Even when thinking about his cock fucking my face I could still feel the thump of my heart in my pussy. I tried to stay focused by his words pushed my new image back, and gradually my hand came back to life.
Though I could stop things for small windows it wouldn’t last. Over and over and OVER my hand would get away from me and I’d be back to panting and moaning. Soon my symphony of worship included the thick “slurp” of my hand as it plunged into my cunt over and over, my juices squishing out around my fingers. I gave up trying to stop – I’d lost control completely and I could hear how much my Master was enjoying his win. But as I built up speed and enthusiasm I felt myself hearing the edge of the cliff. So I asked, begged him. “Master, can I cum?”
“Not yet.” He smiled. I cried out in dismay. I fucked and fucked, holding myself at bay but I knew I couldn’t hold out much longer. The combination of the feeling of my hand and the feeling of his control; of my helplessness; of my humiliation were getting the best of me. I started to worry out loud.
“What if I can’t stop from cumming?” I asked him. “what if I can’t help it? If I cum without permission? What if I do it, Master?” He held me back with encouraging words for a while, but finally he changed his mind.
“Alright, my dear. You can cum.” I was sure that would be my release. “But you can’t stop.”
“Can’t stop cumming? Or can’t stop fucking myself?” I panted, panicked.
“Well in a way both.” I could hear how amused he was. “You cannot stop latter, and that will cause the former.” He was right, of course.
I let the walls down and fell back on the bed, cumming and cumming. Each wave that crashed over me seemed like it would have to be the end, but then another would follow behind it. And all the while my hand kept cramming into me, deeper and faster and hotter. It was an unstoppable maze of fucking and cumming; cumming and fucking. I have no idea how long he kept me in this puzzle. I was his toy and he enjoyed the playing. I fell into a hole in my own mind, where I could not escape the loop. Things became simple; clear. I need just keep pleasing Master in this way. If I kept fucking myself, my hand and my cunt in view of the camera, providing him the show he desired then I’d need worry about nothing else. I was doing the only thing that mattered in all the world: obeying. Just as I began to fear that he’d leave me this way forever, fucking my mind into oblivion, I heard the words I cherish.
“Open Wide Cum Slut.” My hand never stopped, but now I focused on opening my mouth wide to allow my Master’s cum to fill it. Once he finished cumming he told me “swallow it all down.” And I eagerly did so. I was still swallowing when he said “now you will cum for me once more. Once you’re finished you will return to normal, remembering everything.” This, my seventh and final time cumming, was the most amazing. I cried out over and over as I finally came down from this high. My hand, soaked with my cream, finally stopped moving. I lay there spent. And content. And happily obedient. The way that Master so often makes me.
