My Wife the Dominatrix

Conrad, twenty-eight, knelt naked on the rubber mat and tried to keep his hands where she had told him to leave them, clasped at the small of his back. The playroom was dim, lit only by a low amber lamp that turned the black walls the color of old wine and made every polished toy on the steel table gleam. He knew the array by heart. His wife had laid it out before she went to change: a thick black strap-on and its wide harness, a heavy glass plug, a vibrating wand, nipple clamps, a bottle of slick lube, coils of soft rope, and the leather head harness with its large red ball gag waiting like a ripe fruit. He had watched her wipe each piece down after her last professional client and then, with that slow private smile, set the cruelest of them aside for him.

Thirty-two-year-old Kendra ran a private dungeon three nights a week. She came home smelling of latex and smoke, and Conrad lived for the nights she saved the meanest hour for her husband. His cock, small and already half-hard, twitched against his thigh every time the vent sighed. He was nervous. He always was, right up until she walked in and the nervousness turned into something hotter.

The door opened.

She filled the frame. Massive thighs poured into shiny latex lace-up stiletto boots that climbed all the way to the tops of those thighs, the laces crisscrossed tight, the heels needle-thin and vicious against the floor. Above them a glossy rubber open-topped corset cinched her waist, eight thin suspender straps snapping down to the boots and framing the heavy, bare sway of her breasts. Black lipstick made her mouth a dark, wet promise. She struck a lighter, cupped the flame to a long cigarette, and drew until the tip glowed orange. Smoke curled from her nostrils. Her wicked smile found him on the floor.

"There's my nervous little husband," she said, voice low and sure. "Still exactly where I left you. Good. Tonight I am not the woman who makes your coffee. Tonight I own every inch of you. You want that."

"I want it," Conrad said. His throat was dry. "I want you to use me. I consent. All of it. Please, Kendra."

She exhaled a ribbon of smoke and stepped closer, heels clicking. The latex on her thighs shone like wet paint. "Then stop shaking and start aching. I'm going to smoke over that pathetic cock until you beg, lock your pretty face in my harness, hog-tie you like luggage, and wring you dry. Tap the mat twice if you need me to stop. Otherwise you take everything I decide to give you."

"I won't tap," he whispered. "I need it. I've been hard thinking about your boots all day."

"I know." She took another long drag, the cigarette flaring, and let her eyes travel down his body with open, amused contempt. "Look at you. Twenty-eight years old and already on your knees for your wife, cock leaking before I've even touched you. Stay still. I'm not finished admiring how small you look under me."

She circled him once, smoke trailing, the eight suspender straps ticking softly against the latex of her boots. Conrad's pulse hammered. The toys on the table seemed to wait with her. When she stopped in front of him again, the wicked smile had deepened, and the cigarette glowed between black lips like a warning.

Kendra planted those needle heels on either side of his knees and looked down at what twitched between his thighs. "Measly," she said, almost fond. "That's the word for it. A little husband's cock, already drooling because I walked in wearing rubber. Don't you dare touch it."

She drew hard on the cigarette, cheeks hollowing, then tipped her head and blew a perfect smoke ring. It drifted down, widening, and broke in a gray halo right over the flushed head of his cock. Heat and the sweet-bitter smell of tobacco washed across him. His cock jumped. Another ring followed, tighter, settling on his shaft like a collar before it frayed. She laughed, low in her throat, and did it again, and again, until the air between her black mouth and his lap was a slow parade of rings and he was panting.

"Look at it twitch," she murmured. "Every ring and that sad little thing tries to stand up and fails. You like being smoked over, don't you? Like being reminded how much bigger my thighs are than your whole ambition."

"Yes," Conrad said. His voice cracked. "God, yes. Do it again. Please."

"Begging already." She tapped ash into a glass dish on the table without looking away from him, then leaned in so the open corset framed her heavy breasts above his face. Another drag. Another ring, this one so close the heat kissed his slit. Precum beaded and slid. She watched it with glittering eyes. "Pathetic. A professional dominatrix for a wife and all you can offer her is this trembling inch and a half of need. Say it."

"It's measly," he whispered, face burning, cock harder than it had any right to be. "I'm measly. Please, Kendra, more. Humiliate me. Smoke on it. I want all of it. I want you cruel."

"Good boy." She blew one last ring that collapsed over his balls, then set the cigarette in the dish, still burning. From the table she lifted the leather head harness. The large red ball gleamed. "Open."

He opened. She worked the ball between his lips, stretching his jaw, the taste of clean rubber filling his mouth, and buckled the harness tight around his skull—straps over the crown, under the chin, behind the ears—until he couldn't spit it out if he tried. A muffled sound escaped him. She stroked his cheek with a gloved-free hand, black nails light on his skin.

"Still with me?" she asked. "Nod if you want the ropes. Nod if you want to be hog-tied and used."

He nodded hard, eyes wet and eager. The gag turned his yes into a wet, helpless noise.

She smiled. "That's my husband."

She eased him onto his stomach on the mat, careful with his shoulders, then drew his wrists behind him and his ankles up to meet them. The rope was soft, practiced, snug without cutting. In under a minute he was hog-tied, chest and knees on the rubber, ass raised, arms and legs bound together at his back, utterly unable to crawl or cover himself. She checked each knot with professional fingers, then leaned down so her cigarette-scented hair brushed his ear.

"Color?" she murmured, a private check they had used for years.

He grunted twice, their signal for green, and pushed his bound body back against her thigh in case the sound wasn't enough. She laughed, delighted, and gave his ass a sharp, affectionate slap.

"Eager little luggage," she said. "Both of us want this. I'm going to suck that measly cock dry, and you are going to thank me with every drop."

She rolled him onto his side just enough to reach him, one massive latex thigh braced against his hip, and took his cock into her black-lipsticked mouth without ceremony. The heat of her was shocking. She sucked with ruthless skill, cheeks hollowed, tongue flat and mean along the underside, one hand cupping his balls and squeezing just shy of pain. Conrad thrashed in the ropes and could go nowhere. The red ball gag muffled his groans into wet, desperate sounds. She didn't rush and she didn't gentle him. She worked him like a client she meant to ruin, lipstick smearing a dark ring at his base, smoke-sweet breath huffing through her nose against his stomach.

"Look at you," she said, pulling off just long enough to speak, strings of spit shining between her mouth and his flushed head. "Hog-tied by your own wife, gagged like a toy, and this pathetic cock is already trying to finish. Not yet." She slapped the shaft lightly, watched it jerk, and swallowed him again, deeper, until her nose pressed his belly and her throat fluttered around him.

He lasted less than a minute after that. The humiliation, the latex against his thigh, the red ball stretching his jaw, the expert pull of her mouth—it broke him. He came with a strangled shout around the gag, hips bucking uselessly in the hog-tie, spilling hard down her throat. She didn't swallow. She held every pulse of it on her tongue, sucking him through the aftershocks until he was twitching and oversensitive and whimpering, drained so thoroughly his cock softened against her black lips.

She rose, mouth closed, eyes bright. With quick fingers she unbuckled the lower strap of the harness and popped the large red ball from between his teeth, leaving the rest of the leather still cinched around his head. "Open," she ordered.

He opened, gasping, jaw aching. She leaned down and kissed him deeply, black lipstick smearing his mouth, and forced the thick, salty load from her tongue onto his. He tried to turn his head. She caught his jaw in one strong hand and held him, kissing harder, pushing his own cum past his lips.

"Drink it," she said against his mouth. "Every drop. From my lipstick. That's what measly husbands do when their dominatrix wife milks them."

He swallowed. She chased what tried to escape at the corner of his mouth with her tongue and fed it back to him, kissing him until his throat worked and nothing remained but the bitter taste and the waxy stain of her lipstick on his lips. Hog-tied, harness tight, he took it all, eyes wet, cock giving a helpless twitch at the degradation.

"Good," she whispered. "Filthy and obedient. Now I'm going to open you up."

She rolled him onto his stomach again, ass high in the ropes, and reached for the lube and the glass plug. Cool slick fingers pressed between his cheeks. She worked one in, then two, twisting, opening him while he moaned into the mat. The plug followed, thick and unyielding, seated with a slow push that made his spent cock drag against the rubber floor and start, impossibly, to thicken again.

"Already?" She laughed and lit a fresh cigarette from the dish, drawing until the room smelled heavy and sweet. "She gets you hard for more. That's what I do." She eased the plug out, watched his hole flutter, and blew a thick stream of smoke directly into the stretched opening. The heat made him jolt and cry out. She did it again, leaning close, exhaling deep into him until he was shaking, then replaced the smoke with two fingers and a generous shove of lube.

The strap-on was already buckled over the suspender straps and the open corset, the thick black cock jutting from her hips beneath the heavy hang of her breasts. She knelt behind his bound body, massive latex thighs bracketing his, and pressed the head to his hole.

"Take it," she said, and pushed.

He opened around her with a broken sound. She didn't pause for kindness she hadn't promised. She sank in to the hilt, the harness kissing his ass, and started to pound him—long, merciless strokes that rocked his hog-tied body across the mat. Each thrust shoved a grunt out of him. The latex of her boots creaked. Her breasts swayed above the open corset. She fucked him like she meant to leave the shape of the toy in him, one hand fisted in the harness at the back of his head, the other holding the cigarette.

Between thrusts she leaned down and blew thick smoke into his stretched hole around the withdrawing shaft, the heat blooming obscene and strange, then drove back in while he was still gasping. She hauled his head up by the harness.

"Mouth," she ordered.

He opened. She bent and blew a hot lungful of smoke straight past his lips, filling his mouth and throat, then kissed the remnants into him, black lipstick and tobacco and the faint salt still on both of them. He coughed, moaned, and pushed back onto the strap-on as far as the ropes allowed.

"That's it," she said, voice rough with pleasure. The base of the toy was grinding her clit through the harness with every snap of her hips. "Take your wife's cock. Take her smoke. Get hard for me again, you measly thing. I can feel you dripping on the mat."

He was. The pounding, the smoke, the helpless bind of the hog-tie had dragged his cock back to aching stiffness, trapped and rubbing the rubber floor. Kendra reached for the table without breaking rhythm. The vibrating wand buzzed to life in her free hand. She wedged it under him, pressed the broad head to the underside of his cock and balls, and laughed when he shouted.

"Don't you dare come until I say." She kept the wand there, cruel and buzzing, while she fucked his ass in deep, grinding strokes. With her other hand she dragged a small clit vibrator from the tray and shoved it down the front of her harness, right where the strap-on base met her. Her breath hitched. "Toys everywhere, husband. For you and for me. I'm going to edge you until you cry and ride this until I soak the leather."

She did. She pounded him until his hole fluttered and clenched around the thick shaft, then slowed to a mean grind, wand buzzing, denying the peak. Smoke poured from her lips into his open mouth between thrusts, thick and dizzying. She pulled almost out, blew another hot stream into his gaping hole, and slammed home while he sobbed her name. The wand climbed his shaft. His cock jerked, leaking, painfully hard. She clicked the wand off at the last second and he wailed, denied, hips shaking in the ropes.

"Again," she said, delighted, sweat shining on her breasts above the rubber corset. She turned the wand back on, fucked him harder, and worked her own vibrator in tight circles until her massive thighs trembled in the lace-up boots. "You stay on the edge. I get to come. That's the arrangement."

She came with a sharp, filthy cry, grinding the strap-on deep, the vibrator whining against her clit, smoke spilling from her open mouth onto his back. Her cunt pulsed, slicking the harness, and she rode it out in short, punishing thrusts that kept him stuffed and desperate. Before the aftershocks faded she was moving again, cigarette fresh between her lips, blowing lazy then sudden streams into his mouth and down into his fucked-open hole whenever she withdrew.

"Harder," she told his cock, tapping the wand against it. "I want you aching. I want another load boiling in those little balls so I can decide what to do with it."

He was painfully hard, edging in a haze of latex, smoke, and her voice. She added the nipple clamps from the tray, cold metal biting his chest, a chain she tugged whenever his moans got too sweet. She swapped the wand for her slick fingers, stroking him too lightly to finish, then too tightly, then not at all, while the strap-on hammered his prostate in steady, ruthless beats. Every time his balls drew up she stopped, blew smoke into his ass, and laughed at the wrecked sound he made.

"Please," he begged, harness creaking as he tried to turn his face toward her. "Please, Kendra, let me come. I'll drink it again. I'll take the smoke. Just—please."

"Since you asked so pretty." She shoved the wand hard against his cock, slammed the strap-on deep, and leaned over to fill his mouth with smoke at the same moment the pleasure broke. He came in violent, helpless pulses, striping the mat, ass clenching around her so tight she groaned and ground out a second orgasm of her own, thighs shaking in the shiny boots, black lips parted, cigarette trembling. She didn't stop until he was sobbing and oversensitive and she had wrung a smaller, sharper third climax from herself against the harness, toys buzzing, smoke thick in the dim room.

Only then did she ease out, click the toys off, and set the cigarette carefully in the dish. Her hands, suddenly gentle at the knots, worked the hog-tie loose. Rope fell away. She unbuckled the rest of the head harness and lifted it free, rubbing the marks on his cheeks with her thumb.

"Up," she said softly. "On your back. I'm not finished using that mouth."

He rolled, trembling, spent and shining with sweat. Kendra swung one massive latex thigh over his face and lowered herself, open corset and eight suspender straps framing the view, the strap-on harness shoved aside so her dripping pussy hovered at his lips. She was soaked from the toys and the grinding, slick and swollen and hot.

"Worship it," she ordered. "Your wife came all over that cock she put in you. Clean her. Make her come again."

He did, eager, grateful, tongue broad and devoted against her clit and her folds, tasting latex-warm skin and her sharp, sweet arousal. She rode his mouth without shame, boots planted, heavy breasts swaying, one hand in his hair. It didn't take long. She ground down, smoked nothing for once, just breathed hard, and came with a low, shaking moan, flooding his tongue, thighs clamping his head until he had licked her through every pulse.

When she lifted off, she reached for the dish, lit another long cigarette, and blew a lazy smoke ring that drifted across his spent, trembling body. Another followed, breaking over his soft cock, his heaving chest, the faint rope marks on his wrists. He lay in exhausted, satisfied submission, lipstick on his mouth, her taste on his tongue, eyes half-closed and shining.

She looked down at him through the smoke, wicked smile returning, and tapped ash aside.

"Tell me, husband," she said, voice rough and fond, "do you want the ropes again before this cigarette burns out, or should I make you beg for them first?"