#sub garou

garou keens, tensing up at a particular hit that made him feel good. your palm rubs over the red mark on his left cheek. oh how you wished you could've used a paddle with your name etched into it...

garou pants loudly, gripping the bed sheets with all his might. he didn't want to make it seem like he was effected by this, but his body could never lie.

his little stunned noises fill your ears, they're so cute and he's hesitant to let his voice out. silent tears stream down his face as you glance at the mirror in front of you, does he even realize the mess he's making?

his slick pools around your thigh, his cock twitching with every slap. he wiggles his hips, practically humping your leg. you hold his hips down, pinching him slightly.

garou whimpers, biting the inside of his cheek.

"how does it feel?" you whisper in his ear, pushing loose strands of his hair behind his ear. garou shakes his head. he's trying to tell you he doesn't want to answer it but you're adamant to get words out of him.

"nu-uh," your heart swells at his flinching. "use your words, garou."

he stammers, wiggling his ass to get you to continue. you simply pat his head, ignoring his wants. he gives up, dropping his head into the bed sheets and hiding his face. "i l-like it..."

"yeah?" you question, rubbing his sore ass, emitting a pained gasp on his part. "how about in here?"

two fingers poke at his entrance. garou places his hand on your knee to steady himself, his hole puckering in and out, suddenly your fingers get sucked in.

you laugh in surprise. "look at that!"

garou refuses to lift his head from the sheets, concealing a moan between them. he shakes in your lap, lifting his hips up when you finally plunge your fingers fully inside him. his back arches, using your knee and the sheets as a leverage to push himself up.

you kept his head down with your unoccupied hand while you push your fingers in and out of him, pressing against his prostate just to hear him scream.

"w-wait! p-please, please!!" his voice comes out muffled, he flinches away from you, pre-cum dripping onto your leg.

just when he was about to come, you take your fingers out. garou gasps, going limp in your lap, he finally lifts his head up to glare at you.

his tears dried up but the burning red blush still covered his face. it was so cute when he got embarrassed.

"fuck you." he spat out in anger, whimpering when you spank him, jolting.

"i'm sorry," you murmur, picking him up and turning him to his back. you unbuckled your pants. "you feel so good, love. i wanted to get inside you before you decide to pass out on me."

You find yourselves in the midst of a group of people, also waiting to go up. One of the four elevators finally arrives. You let everyone else on first, and oh dear, it looks like there's no space for the two of you.

You give a polite nod to the person closest to the door, that universal elevator nod that says 'It's alright, we'll get the next one thank you' and let the small crowd depart as you push the button again, the up-pointing arrow lighting up.

A few moments later another elevator arrives and two or three people, all power suits and shoulder pads, exit. You step inside, Garou right behind you and by lucky timing you find yourselves the only two in this carpeted, mirrored, plush elevator.

"Thirty five," you say to Garou and give his ass a good full-handed squeeze as he turns around to press the relevant button.

That gets his delighted attention and he whips back around to you as the elevator slowly, smoothly begins to ascend.

You look straight at him as you step your beautifully heeled feet a bit further apart and hike up your skirt a little, pulling down your black transparent G-string underwear to your knees.

"Oops," you say, as you lean back confidently against the corner of the elevator, hands sliding along the wooden railing. "How did that happen?"

Oh dear, he thinks, how indeed. You clearly need his help.

And before you know it he's already on his knees, which are very much spread apart to give room to that very male and impatient part of him, in front of you as the elevator continues to slowly and silently travel to its culinary destination.

His hands slide up your calves, fingers into the elastic of these barely-there panties.

He looks up at you, waiting for your command, his amber eyes focused dotingly on you. On or off, mistress?

"Off," you say, feeling your chest rising and falling softly in this warm enclosed space.

He slides your underwear down your legs, fingertips skimming the smooth stockings covering your skin. When he gets down to your ankles you lift one foot for him. He takes it carefully in his hands, as if handling something fragile and slips the strappy panties off, kissing your ankle as he does so. You lift your other foot next, black stiletto reflecting the hazy light above, and he slowly removes your underwear for you, kissing this ankle too.

He holds your panties in both hands, cheekily displaying them back to you like a prize he's happily won before reaching for his pocket.

"No," you say firmly, stopping him in his tracks and holding out your hand. "I'll be taking those."

There's a look of disappointment on his handsome features that he tries to hide but unsuccessfully, but what else can he do? He hands them to you and you quickly put them in your little black clutch.

You cast your eye to the electric buttons, the floors lighting up one by one as you near the restaurant. Thirty, thirty one…and yet he's still on his knees, can't, won't rise until you tell him to. Though something else has definitely risen in the meantime…thirty two. There may be people waiting on the thirty fifth floor. What if the elevator doors open and they see?

What indeed will they see? A handsome animal of a man ready and willing to serve his mistress? A fanged wolf, a killer beast who will give in to your hands, and your hands only…

Thirty three.

He waits patiently, this risky game doing nothing to calm the keen hardness of his cock. Being the wolf that he is, he could smell your delicate scent on those black little excuses of panties. Those panties that had pressed, rubbed against your pussy on that car ride here…the scent lingers in his mind and he can feel his breathing become a little harder, just a notch.

Thirty four.

There's an obvious slowing in the machinery.

You hold his gaze, as if a challenge, and he responds with his own cocky stare.

The sound, the soft litle 'Bing!'.

"Up," you say, pushing yourself off the railing.

The doors open and he's already on his feet.

A little exhilarating start to your evening.

But there's more to come.

"Good boy," your lips graze his ear, words barely audible, as you walk out into the marbled lobby of Midori.

Those words…two little words that can undo him completely. But not yet. Not yet. He pulls his shoulders back, pulls himself together.

Good boy…

You know the power, the hold those words have over him when coming from you and you choose your timing carefully, aware of your lover's past, his mind, his wild raging ability to lose his head and himself, the power a touch or a word can have on him in this head space. And you handle him with the tenderest of care.

You wrap your arm around Garou's and he's much too attuned to your body, your wants to not know what his role is now. He strides with that swaggering confidence towards the dimly lit restaurant entrance with you proudly on his arm.

You pause him at the maître d' and give your name for the reservation. The maître d' does a little bow and comes out from behind his stand to take you to your table.

You walk behind him, through the elegant dining room. It's a mix of traditional Japanese and tasteful modern European decor. Low lighting and quiet music playing. The tables are set far enough apart to enjoy an intimate conversation. The sounds of hushed voices, the classical piano, faint click of chopsticks and glass become a soothing mix.

Again, people cannot help turning to look at the two of you, impressed by the imposing presence of this man, but Garou knows exactly how to move that attention from himself and onto you. His job is to please you in each and every way possible, make you feel good, to worship you really. And he takes his job extremely seriously, if a little selfishly with how much of his own pleasure he derives from it. And so he shows you off proudly as your hair, the diamonds in your small, classic earrings glisten under the low lighting and you press yourself closer to him.

You're shown to your table, right next to the window, the sky now a pen ink blue, ravished by dramatic white clouds.

You sit down first. This is a very expensive place after all and everything must be done right. Only after you're seated can your partner take his seat across from you.

The maître d' hands you two menus. Garou tosses his casually aside, knowing you'll be making all the decisions.

You thank your host and watch him leave before opening the menu as Garou lounges back in his seat, getting more comfortable, more used to this new plaything you've got between his legs.

You quickly scan the drinks page and put your menu down again, having decided what the two of you will be having.

You keep your small handbag close to your side and shift a little in your chair before finally settling and looking straight at your date.

"What?" He asks playfully, one arm over the back of the chair as you continue to gaze at him without saying anything. The silence is a little too long for him and you know this. All this blustering bravado and yet underneath…

"Come," you beckon him closer with your red polish-tipped finger.

He obliges, of course he does, and leans closer across the table, forearm resting on its dark smooth surface.

"You're very handsome," you say, brushing a couple of loose strands of silvery hair off his forehead.

You run the backs of your fingers down his cheek, your thumb across his lip which he can't help but bite softly. No care for who may be watching or what they may be thinking. Mistress is giving him attention and that's all he can and wants to savour right now.

"Of course I am," he grins back at you as you take your hand back. "Look at this get up you got me in."

You nod in agreement.

You start lightly. This man can take a gut-wrenching punch without flinching but a compliment…well that's another matter. So it's safe to start with the obvious things. The things he can brush off as small talk, even though you mean every word. He needs to be eased into it. You know his past…the feelings he still carries for himself. But that's alright. It's like a garden, you think. When you first met him it was wild and full of terrible weeds, with root deep in his thoughts and you've been working slowly and carefully to pull them out one by one and make that space inside him light and liveable again. But you tread carefully, even though he needs to hear these things. Pairing them with a physical pleasure seems to do the trick…

The waiter reappears and for whatever reason, habit or instruction, looks to Garou. You guess there's a lot of older, wealthier clientèle and it’s usual for the man to make the decisions but Garou looks back at him lazily and gives a small nod of his head in your direction. The waiter flusters for a second before turning to you.

"We'll have the tasting menu," you inform him with a smile.

"Excellent, madam," he says. "And for drinks…?"

"Fukuju sake," you close your menu and hand it to him. "Warm."

The sake arrives first. A small tokkuri bottle in muted colours for each of you, accompanied by a small potbellied ceramic cup.

You fill your cup and Garou does the same.

You hold it out for a moment.

"To tonight," you say, your eyes growing excited and dreamy before you take a quick sip and he does the same.

Warm sake…There's just nothing better. You'll only be ordering one round, of course. This is not a drinking game and you prefer to be in control and your wits about you for an evening like this. Just one round to flow through you, the subtle heat, the relaxation…It's just what is needed.

And then the first course arrives. Three small pieces of handcrafted sushi on a hand-painted plate.

Garou doesn't know what to make of this. This is quite slim pickings, you know. He looks at you a little less than impressed.

"There'll be more," you reassure him, picking up your chopsticks. "We're getting a little of everything."

He looks at you as if not quite believing your words and picks up his chopsticks too, waiting for you to start.

But suddenly you put yours down again.

"Tell me one nice thing you've done recently," you say, holding him back from his food.

Oh…is that how it's going to be? You always do this. Always make it about him when all he wants is for you to give the dirty commands and to be at your beck and call, preferably good and warm between your legs, pleasing you in whatever way you see fit.

"One nice thing," you repeat, smiling at him, unable to conceal your love for this man, your hand under your chin.

He looks away. Sometimes your eyes make him feel too much.

"I haven't beaten the shit out of anyone," he suggests.

"That's good. But that's something you haven't done. I want something you HAVE done."

He thinks for a moment, stroking his chin dramatically.

"I saw that Metal asshole the other day," he says, the memory making him scowl.

This probably happened while he was with Bang, you think. Bang is still part of the Hero Association so it wouldn't be surprising for him to be in touch with the other elite heroes.

"And?" You press.

"And I used my words," he says mischievously. "Just like you told me."

"What words?" You raise an eyebrow.

"Fuck, mostly," he shrugs happily.

This is going on much too long now, you sigh and secretly reach into your clutch by your side.

"One good thing, Garou," you repeat and before he can open his mouth for another clever comeback he suddenly sits up straighter than he's been since you got here. The hell of a fucking surprise.

"What is it?" You ask, playing shocked and concerned.

You little…!

You can see the effort he's putting in to control his face, to keep that cocky expression even as you make that cock ring buzz, the almost silent vibration sending him into overdrive.

Fuuuck…

There's a light sneer as the corner of his mouth lifts as he clenches his jaw, trying to ignore what you're doing to his cock from all the way across the table.

"One nice thing," you remind him cheerfully.

You watch him exhale slowly, forcefully, trying to not let you win so quick. But sweet fucking Jesus this feels incredible.

And no one around is the wiser. Your table tucked away next to the window. You can't even really hear the conversation at the next table over.

"I…" he starts, but the novel sensation almost makes him forget what he was saying. Fuck...he's gotta come up with something fast otherwise this evening will be over much to soon. Fuck! Think!

"The kid!" He finally catches on something. "I got him to pass his grading exam!"

You push the little stop button.

"Tareo?" You ask brightly.

"Well, what other fuckin’ kid?" He says. The relief in his voice is palpable.

"So he finally got his orange belt?" You say, making sure to make a mental note and buy Tareo a gift. It's done Garou a load of good, you reflect, to teach. To have Tareo at least looking up to him. He hated it at first when Bang made him do it but you could see the positive influence it had on him, on his thinking and behaviour. And Tareo is such a sweet boy. Eventually, even though he’d never admit it, you could tell Garou loved this new role.

"Yeah," he's still taken by surprise.

"Why didn't you tell me before?" You ask, picking up your chopsticks and finally taking a small bite of your sushi.

"I'm tellin' you now," he says and practically wolfs his down.

"Slow down," you shake your head. "It's meant to be savoured and appreciated."

"You said it'd be covered in gold," he says, the devil back in his voice, watching you finish yours, little dainty bites.

"With how much you'll be paying, it may as well be," you say haughtily.

The next course arrives, grilled fish and eggplant artfully arranged on a rectangular plate.

"What the hell is it with this?" He still can't quite wrap his head around this circus. Why do they bring out such small portions? Ain't the point of going out to eat is to get stuffed and full? And they bring this out! Just as he's getting into it, it's finished! Why the hell would anyone bother making something delicious just to give you a spoonful of it? These people…he will never understand. But whatever. You seem to be enjoying yourself so he's happy.

You laugh a little at his frank and direct approach. It's kind of charming. No amount of expensive suits and fine dining will be able to change him. And you don't want him to. You don't want him to change, loving his savage humour and biting wit. All you really want is for him to finally let go of the painful past and see himself as you see him. The crisp white shirts are just a bonus.

"Stop complaining and enjoy yourself," you giggle and pour him a little more sake which he takes and downs in one shot before saluting you with the small ceramic glass.

The next course arrives and you wait for him to finish his in the usual two seconds flat before picking up a piece from your plate with your lacquered chopsticks.

"Come here," you say and he leans closer in to you while you feed him carefully. "This is delicious, isn't it?"

He mutters something in agreement, mouth full.

You lift your little cup and let him pour you another shot as the waiter comes to clear away these plates.

"Tell me," you say, taking a small sip.

Oh here come those words again he thinks, getting himself, mostly his cock, ready.

"Tell me one thing you like about me," you say, looking at him bold and beautiful.

Oh…is that all? That's fucking easy.

"Just one?" He smirks.

"Flattery will get you anywhere won't it?" You shake your head at him as you quickly slip your foot out of your stiletto and he suddenly feels it between his legs, softly pressing into his already bewildered cock.

You feel the hardness, though his pants, your stockings. Move your littles toes up and down slowly.

"Your eyes," he says with no hesitation, almost a sighing groan.

You're surprised, even your footwork stops for a moment. You look at him questioningly.

"I-" he can't explain it. But your eyes always say a lot. He always knows what you're thinking, feeling by the changing weather of your eyes, sometimes calm and serene, like a still summer day, and other times raging and storming when something has gotten to you or when the love-making becomes too heated and you dig your nails into his back…. He knows the difference between the two. The gale of anger and the storm of red hot passion. It’s your eyes…it's always your eyes. How can he put it into words?  "I know it's you," he finishes, frustration in his voice at not being able to logically express his thoughts.

You understand. There's no need to get frustrated. You reach out and kindly give his hair a soft stroke.

You slip your foot back into your glossy shoe and continue your questioning.

"Now," you say, "tell me one thing you like about yourself."

He frowns for a moment.

"I'm handsome," he suddenly announces, smug and self-satisfied. But not for long as here comes that fucking buzz again.

"Nope, I already said that one," you sit back cheerfully and watch him, the struggle going on beneath his surface turning you on to no end.

He shifts in his chair but to no avail. You can see a hint, a flash of red across his face, the first of the evening and you find your breath catches in your throat. You'll be the one getting much too turned on soon if you're not careful.

"One thing you like about yourself, Garou," you repeat gently, crossing one leg over the other.

Fuck. What is there to like? He could say he's strong but he feels you're looking for something a bit more…what's the word? Fuck! And you ain't making it easy to think with this thing going off! But fucking God does it feel good… This new sensation on his cock…it's making him have the lewdest thoughts of your tongue, no, your pussy….no, tongue… His head is beginning to swim.

You watch him fight so hard to keep control, sharp cheekbones growing visibly warm as he strains a little at that collar.

"Just one little thing you're proud of," you encourage him as he fights to keep his yellow eyes open and focused while his cock rages at all this. If only you two were at home. But here he's got to keep his goddamn pants on and his hands respectable. Fuck it all.

"Protect you," he says, and it's almost turning into a pant.

"What?" You uncross your legs and lean in.

"I can protect you," he says, and there's a definite pant in between his words now.

You lower the intensity of the vibration without turning it off completely, thinking, deciding whether this is a good answer.

"I wanted to hear about you," you say, thinking this over.

"I can protect you," he repeats firmly, a little calmer now that you've turned it down. It gives him a purpose and a positive one. Using his strength and intelligence for something good. He likes it when he's with you. He likes it when you feel safe and happy. When he comes home and you're there, smiling, running to throw your arms around him, snuggling into him as if he's the most secure place in the world…It makes his heart so…what's the word?

Your eyes soften and you push the stop button. How is this man in front of you, a savage in so many other people's eyes, so sweet? If you're not careful you're going to blush soon.

But the next course arrives and you're saved.

"Very good," you say with soothing praise. His Achilles' heel.

You pour yourself and him another little shot and watch him swig it back in one go.

God fucking damn woman, you're going to drive a man to drink at this rate.

And he wouldn't have it any other way.

Alright, alright, you think. Enough of the serious questions for now. Your baby needs a break. So you think of something lighthearted.

"A little bird told me it's your birthday next month," you smile brightly at him.

Ah fuck. Again? Didn't he just have a birthday?

Never really having had a party or anyone too interested in his birthday since the age of seven he still isn't used to the attention you've given to these occasions in the past.

"Nah, not mine. You must be mistaken," he says, casual and unbothered. "I had one last year," he adds.

"Smart ass," you say, but bite the inside of your lip to stop your reflexive laugh nonetheless.

"Guilty as charged," he nods in approval, crossing his arms over his chest as you wait for the plates to be cleared.

"So, what would you like for your birthday?" You ask.

"Pussy," he doesn't even think. It just comes out of his mouth before he can stop it.

Your thumb presses hard on the little remote in your handbag and he can't help slapping one hand on the table, making the people around you turn in your direction to see what the fuss is about. He feels the eyes on the two of you, cock is still buzzing and hard, the soft noise drowned out by the music and cutlery. You raise a victorious eyebrow at him while he grits his teeth and straightens up, takes his hand off the table and everyone goes back to their expensive, but not jewel-encrusted, food.

In a way, being watched throughout all this is an aphrodisiac. For you and for him. Having your intimate, erotic secret at once hidden and exposed for all to see… The two of you might have a little exhibitionist kink that has gone unexplored. Something to think about for next time.

"Your pussy," he tries again, almost growling, face getting more flushed by the moment.

"Well, of course it would be my pussy," you purr. "That's a given. What else would you like for your birthday?" You coax him.

Fuck… He feels so hard it's getting unbearable. His cock is practically aching, throbbing. What the fuck does he want? He doesn't know. What the fuck do people have on their birthdays?

"Fuck…you decide," he says through gritted teeth. "Cake?"

"Of course there will be cake, that's obligatory, but what do YOU want. No generic answers please," you say, interlacing your fingers in a businesslike way on the table in front of you.

You can see the heat begin to spread down his neck, into that handsome collar, and you want to kiss it so bad, run your tongue along his throat…

Oh you're good…he thinks…much too good. He's always prided himself on how long he can last, on how with a little will power he can hold back, not cum until you do. But this is a whole new ballgame. Who knew toys could be such fun? He forgets the question…imagines unzipping right here and you walking over and sitting on him, guiding him into your warm slippery pussy and he doesn't care who sees…He doesn't mind giving these bastards a good show.

There is definitely an exhibitionist kink that needs to be explored.

You watch his face, eyes beginning to roll a little upwards before he catches himself and suddenly looks back at you.

"Birthday," you remind him.

Shit. His cock strains at his pants, he clenches his fist at the edge of the table, breathing coming faster now.

From the corner of his eye he can see the waiter still on the other side of the room but turning in this direction now. The finished plates are still in front of you and he's making his way over to collect them.

Just say something! Anything!

"Let's go away," he says, voice beginning to rasp.

Oh! You like that idea!

"Where to?" You ask, not setting him free yet.

Fuck, what? Where?

The waiter is getting extremely close but you don't seem to care. Well, Garou doesn't care much either but…

"Surprise me," he says quickly.

You like this. The vibration stops.

"That's a great idea! I'll think about it!" You say excitedly. You love planning trips and you'll make sure this is one he won't forget!

Your plates are cleared and the last main course is delivered.

"So, are you still hungry?" You ask as you finish the last of your food.

"Ehh…" he gives you a 'so-so' hand gesture.

"I'm not surprised," you smirk playfully. Well, that's ok. You can eat afterwards again.

You pour the last of the sake. These tiny little cups, much smaller than standard shotglasses are wonderful. They make one round of sake last much longer, letting you appreciate the heady floral tones and take your time.

"How much am I paying for this?" He asks before swallowing back the last of the warm liquor. It's good. Not enough to mess with his mind but enough to relax, to feel everything just a little bit more, a comforting warmth in his muscles, his body.

"If you have to ask, you can't afford it," you joke.

"You ever dined and dashed before?" He asks, being somewhat of an expert himself, except that one time where some random bald fucker managed to somehow-

"Not in these shoes," you wiggle your finger at him.

"I'll carry you," he says with some finality and measures the distance between your table and the exit with a glance.

The waiter comes around to take these last main plates and you ask him to hold off on the dessert for about twenty minutes. He nods politely without asking any questions and leaves discreetly as always.

You turn to look out the window.

"It's beautiful," you say. It might be stating the obvious but you don't care. You're on the 35th floor surrounded by a cloak of stars and billowing clouds.

"It sure is," he agrees, never taking his eyes off you.

When you realise he wasn't talking about the sky you turn and give him a reproachful look. Well, you attempt reproach but a little bit of your self-consciousness breaks through. You almost reach for the secret little remote again but remember you have imminent plans and stay your hand.

"Look at the sky," you wave him away.

"I seen it," he says.

"No, actually look. That's an order," you add before turning back to the window.

Why? It's just the sky. It's there all the time, ain't it? What's so special about it? But he turns and looks anyway. Looks back at you and how lost in wonder you are and looks back to the horizon again, a half-moon shining like a lantern through a layer of gauzy clouds. For a moment he sees it, maybe, whatever you’re seeing…allows himself to get lost in it for a second or two. Strange how other people see the world. It’s still a new feeling, putting himself into someone else’s shoes, someone with a less pessimistic view of the world. Maybe it is beautiful.

Maybe.

Your attention is caught by a middle-aged woman in a graceful blue dress returning from the direction of the bathrooms, her own handbag under her arm. And now it’s your turn.

You pull your phone out of your bag and stand up.

“I’m going to make a call,” you inform Garou, intending to do no such thing. “In exactly two minutes, I want you to be in the powder room.”

You don’t give him time to reply and begin walking away from the table, holding your phone up to your ear, as if on urgent business, needing privacy.

You walk confidently, determined as if not to draw attention, but when you’re dressed like that, and your hips and your ass sway in that way, you can’t exactly expect people to not look, Garou thinks as he watches you himself, a captivated grin plastered all over his face, until you disappear from view.

The nice thing about these opulent, ridiculously expensive restaurants are the bathrooms. But not just the bathrooms, but the lush, separate powder rooms. You push the door of this one open and find yourself in a small softly lit room with a mirror, bench and a velvet covered seat. Perfect for taking your time to reapply your make-up or fix your hair. Though that’s not why you’re here. You set your bag down on the seat next to you, your phone out and wait.

And precisely two minutes since you left, the door opens with a forceful push and Garou appears.

So this is a powder room, eh?

He glances around, slightly impressed. They never make anything fancy like this in the men’s.

You cross one leg over the other, letting your skirt ride up as much as it wants and look up at him.

“Lock the door and come closer,”  you say and he can tell now that this is where the game really starts to get serious and it sends somewhat of a shiver up his spine as he obeys your order, finding himself very close to you, still standing while you sit and look up at him. Despite you being down there, you still somehow hold all the power and he loves it. Your eyes are sultry, almost dangerous in a way that makes him want to do nothing but heed your every sensual command.

You run your finger lightly down his groin, that trapped, building erection before suddenly pulling your hand away.

“Unzip,” you say. “Get it out.”

It’s a demand he’s more than happy to give in to, getting to it almost before the words are out of your mouth.

And there it is. Right in front of you.

Sweet merciful heaven. Fucking finally. He breathes a sigh of relief and you can see why.

His cock is magnificent. Hard, big…perfect really. And right in front of your face. It must be a tight fit in those slim trousers. Poor boy.

You sigh at the sight. All you really want to do is slip the whole thing in your mouth but that would be much too easy and you don’t want to give your much too cocky sub that satisfaction yet.

“You may not speak,” you instruct him. “You may not make a sound. The only words I want out of your mouth while we’re in here are ‘Yes, mistress’ and ‘No, mistress’. Understood?”

“Yes,” he pauses mischievously. “Mistress.”

“Excellent,” you say, and swap legs, crossing the other one over, letting him see a hint of your bare skin above those stockings.

“Now,” you say, tilting your head a bit, looking up at him but also somehow looking down and he’s all about it. Step on his chest in those heels of yours, mistress. He can’t keep that self-satisfied grin off his face. Well, you’ll see how long that grin will last. “I want that big hand on that big cock.”

He holds up both hands. Right or left? But he can’t ask. That’s not on the list of words.

“Insolent,” you tut tut and reach out and squeeze his balls just enough to almost hurt, almost, treading a fine line between pain and pleasure, edging on the side of pleasure and hear him let out a most satisfactory grunting groan. “Right hand,” you say.

He does as you say, wraps that beautiful rough hand around his impatient cock.

“Stroke it,” you command, moving yourself a little closer only inches between you and his erection in hand.

And he does so, touching himself in front of you. Hand moving up and down, a little harder on each downward stroke, appreciating the permission to satisfy himself after that fucking torture. Well you might make that thing buzz again but he hopes you won’t because he may just not be able to hold back from cumming, and all over your face at this rate, and then you’ll really have to punish him.

“Slower,” you say, your tone sharp and refined.

He slows down, letting his grip loosen a little too, but never stops. Pleasures himself for you. And it feels so fucking good, having his cock out just like that. But the pleasure, it’s not only physical. Having you watch, take control of him, even if only through your words…To be doing this for someone else. Knowing that this is something YOU want, and that he can give it to you. He’d jack off right in the middle of the restaurant if you order him to. He doesn’t care…as long as you watch, as long as you want to see him. Living for someone else, even if it’s for a night or a day… It’s new to him and it’s a sort of erotic high he’s never experienced before meeting you.

‘I can protect you.’ That was a truthful answer. He likes that. And he likes that he can give you pleasure by letting you be in control. All he’d ever been good for before was as an object of hate and derision…so to be your object of affection. It’s-

“I said,” you let your hand close around his balls again, “slow down.”

He hadn’t even noticed. Just got carried away with the thoughts.

“Yes…” he says, no…he’s no longer speaking, groaning because this is fucking ecstasy. “...mistress.”

You can’t help yourself. Grab your phone and switch on the camera and lean back a little, filming this glorious sight, letting your hand sneak under your skirt, your fingers skim over your pussy, your clit as he continues to stroke his cock just like you told him to, intoxicated by the thought that you can’t keep your hands off yourself because of him. He would love to sneak his hand under your skirt too…but alas, those were not the orders.

Fuck, he’s too goddamn beautiful. You pull your hand out from between your legs and toss your phone on the velvet seat next to you.

“Do you like this new toy?” you ask.

“Yes,” the word comes out as a heavy rasp as he begins to intensify the movement of his hand a little more, “...mistress.”

“I’m glad,” you smile softly up at him. “Stop.”

He reluctantly lets go of his raging cock.

You stand up and circle him while he stands perfectly still, hands at his sides. You come around behind him, leaving him face to face with the mirror while you take cover behind his broad back.

“Look at you,” you say quietly, your breath warm and sweet on the back of his neck as you let your hands wander under his shirt. “That’s indecent,” you peek from behind his shoulder and give him a foxy smile.

The mirror…it makes him a bit uncomfortable to be left alone with it. Come back into the frame. But you want him to like him. To like him as much as you like him. No, as much as you love him.

“Look at you,” you breathe, words quiet and admiring just by his ear. “You’re so strong,” your hands travel over his abs, “and sexy”, there are those pectorals, “you get me really wet,” you say, nibbling at the edge of his ear as your fingers brush over nipples. “And I didn’t say you could do that. Get me so wet,” you sigh, digging your nails a little into his muscular chest, watching a new shade of red appear over his sharp features. “I don’t know how you always manage to do that,” you say, moving your hands slowly up and down his stomach before running your fingers through the patch of dark hair right above his cock.

God, it’s taking all his self control to keep his hands by his sides, to not turn around and pull your skirt down, or up, or whatever and fuck you against the wall. He makes you wet? What do you think you do to him? You’re driving him a little more insane with every caress, every word. Why are you so…kind?

“You looked pretty happy touching yourself,” you say. “Should I leave you to it?” you pull your hands away. Suddenly he looks so forlorn and desperate it makes your pussy ache. “Or would you prefer for me to do it after all?” you throw him a line of salvation.

“Yes, mistress…” his breathing hard in anticipation.

This man…this imposing man, his body as if built for destruction. Muscles hard and taut, those glinting eyes that can flash fatally dangerous. This man who is capable of, though now restrains himself from, pure vicious violence. He lets you in close. Closer than anyone else. Let’s you see under his intimidating exterior, grows tamed at your touch and trusts you with parts of himself he didn’t even know he had. This man…And you take that trust very seriously. His pleasure, his sanity your only concern.

“Are you sure?” You won’t make this easy, knowing he loves to be pushed.

“Yes, mistress…” the words are getting harder to get out.

“Hmm…” you press yourself against his back and wrap your arms around his waist. “Maybe a little,” you say and slowly move your hand to his cock, giving it a light caress before wrapping your fingers around it.

And when you move your hot little hand downwards he forgets the explicit instruction about the only allowed words and growls, growls without inhibition. Finally, finally feeling your touch, having lusted after, craved it all evening.

You stop.

“I said,” you remind him carefully, “not a sound.”

He can barely remember himself. Alright. Not a sound. But fuck. That roar claws at his chest as you work his cock, your fingers light and nimble, the other hand roaming under his shirt.

“You’re not going to cum, are you?” you ask, full of concern as you continue to stroke him, feeling him ridiculously hard in your hand.

“No…”

“No what?” you kiss his neck.

“Mis…tress…” he can hardly focus his eyes.

“Good,” you say, pressing your cheek against his shoulder for a moment. “Do you want to feel me?” you ask.

“Yes…mistr…ess,” that low, aching voice. He tries so hard to sound coherent.

You slowly let go of his agonising erection and move between him and the bench. You lift your skirt so that it’s gathered around your waist, your pussy visible, lightly glistening in the mirror.

“I want your cock between my thighs, and nowhere else,” you say. “You can hold my hips, but if your hands stray anywhere else-”

Fuck it. No time to listen to it all. You feel his tight grip on your hips, pushing you forward and suddenly his cock between your thighs, rubbing against your pussy.

And he thrusts against you like this, letting himself feel your wetness flow over him, making it slippery and so easy fuck your thighs like this. You squeeze your legs closer together, making it a little tighter for him, getting him ever closer to heaven.

He wants to kiss your neck, touch your breasts, play with your nipples, which he notices are visibly hard in the mirror under your thin blouse but he can’t. He can’t even ask. All he has are his yes and his no. And his mistress. He has his mistress.

The groans, he can’t keep track of them. Between your thighs and your scent and your whispers he can barely suppress them. To be against you and not be able to make a sound…so sweetly cruel. But it heightens his pleasure. Sacrificing his voice makes him focus more on the feel of you, the way your pussy feels so soft and so hot against his cock, teasing him to cum but at the same time challenging him to keep going. He doesn’t know how long he’ll be able to keep this up. What if he just cums? Fuck…he doesn’t want to…the night is nowhere near done but…the feel of your thighs and your pussy slipping like that against him...

You watch his face, behind you in the mirror, his expression one of ecstasy and pure agony, mouth open, fangs glinting, his breath heavy on your neck, the collar visible under his shirt.

You reach a hand behind you, stroke that gorgeous face and say the thing…That thing.

“You’re doing so well for me,” you whisper, full of boundless affection. “You’re doing so well.” You caress his cheek and then those fatal words, said so softly, so deliberately… “Good boy.”

And then as soon as they leave your lips you have to push him away because you know what it will do to him if you don’t. And you don’t want that to happen yet.

A moment later you have him up against the wall, your skirt still around your waist, his pants still open.

He needs his own moment and you give it to him. Keeping your hands off until his expression settles. And then you reach up and brush your fingertips over his cheek, his forehead, feeling the heat of his skin, the faint sweat built up by desire and restraint.

You say nothing, letting his breathing return to a more normal rhythm while you adjust his collar, his tie, zip his pants up again.

Good boy.

It’s painful, it burns and aches and soothes and tightens and curls itself around his heart like a soft animal, making him feel part of something…beautiful. Part of you. Words that scare and give him a reason to live. And with every time you say it, the fear recedes a little more and he lets himself feel more of your love, lets himself believe that you love him.

You are determined to say it enough times so that he no longer questions it. But it’s a work in progress. And you don’t mind. The two of you have all the time in the world.

You pull your skirt down and give the front a quick brush down.

You look up at him, your eyes asking that most important question. Wanting to know how he is. Something you know he’ll never say out loud.

You place your hand on his cheek again, your eyes searching his. He takes your hand and kisses your fingers, once, twice, three times by way of answer. Everything is as it should be. He is perfectly fine. He is yours.