Total Power Control: Male Dominant, Two Female Submissives

Hassan shut the door and the ordinary world stayed outside. At twenty-eight he filled the entry of his apartment without trying, black shirt open at the throat, sleeves already rolled, the kind of calm that made both women go quiet and hot at once. Bianca was twenty-four, a book-cover designer who had spent the day redrawing the same layout because her mind kept sliding to his last text. Marisol was twenty-six, a physical therapist whose hands had been steady on a client’s shoulder that morning and were not steady now. They were his girlfriends. They had asked for this night in plain words, more than once, sitting on his couch with the wine untouched while they spelled out what they wanted: his decisions, their bodies, hard use, no hesitation once it started. Red stopped everything. Anything else was his. Both had said they craved the weight of total power exchange, the thrill of handing him the wheel completely, and he had made them repeat the edges until he believed them.

“Shoes off. Clothes folded on the bench. Kneel in the living room, knees wide, before I finish with the water.”

Bianca’s fingers shook on her blouse buttons. The silk clung where she had already sweated through it on the ride over. She stepped out of the skirt, then the panties that had been damp since noon, folded each piece with care she didn’t feel, and sank to the rug. Marisol peeled the gray sweater and jeans faster, paused only long enough for his glance before the bra and panties joined the stack, and knelt beside her. Cool air from the vent tightened their nipples. Hassan set three glasses down and walked a slow circle, boots quiet on the wood.

He gathered Bianca’s hair and tipped her head back. “Color?”

“Green, Sir.”

The same grip on Marisol. “Color?”

“Green, Sir. Please.”

“Then you are mine until I say otherwise. Every sound, every orgasm, every inch. You fuck how I tell you. You take what I give you. You thank me. Red if you need out. Otherwise no choices. Say it.”

“I’m yours completely, Sir,” Bianca whispered.

“All of me, Sir,” Marisol said, voice already rough.

He freed his cock, thick and flushed, and both of them stared. “Bianca, hands behind your back. Warm it. Marisol, tell me exactly how wet you are and what you want done to your cunt.”

Bianca clasped her wrists and opened, taking him onto her tongue, the familiar weight making her pussy clench around nothing. She had wanted this since she understood, well after twenty-one, that polite sex would never be enough; she wanted the structure, the way he decided and she obeyed and the pride that came with doing it well. Marisol watched spit gather at the corner of Bianca’s mouth.

“Soaked, Sir. Wet in the car thinking about you owning us. Panties ruined. I want you to hold me down and fuck me hard until I can’t think. I want her mouth on me while you do it. I want to come only when you allow it even if I ache. Please use us.”

He rocked deeper into Bianca’s throat, then pulled free and tapped her tongue. “Switch. Marisol, deeper than she managed. Bianca, fingers in her, mouth on her tits. Make her moan on my cock.”

Marisol swallowed him until she gagged, eyes watering, and stayed. The contrast undid her: hours of telling other bodies how to move, and now her own held exactly where he put it, throat full, Bianca’s fingers curling inside her soaked cunt and finding the spot that made her thighs jump. She moaned around him and the vibration went straight to his balls. Bianca sucked one nipple then the other, teeth grazing, proud of the way Marisol shook and still didn’t pull off. Hassan let it build until pre-cum salted Marisol’s tongue, then stepped back.

“Couch. Bianca on her back, head off the edge. Marisol, sit on her face. Trade my cock between your mouths. Neither of you comes.”

Bianca lay back, hair hanging, mouth open. Marisol lowered her cunt onto that tongue and gasped when Bianca licked broad and hungry. Hassan fed himself into Bianca’s throat in the upside-down angle, thrusting until spit ran into her hair, then pulled her off and guided Marisol’s mouth down onto him instead, over and over, messy and wet, Bianca licking between turns while Marisol ground in tiny helpless circles. Their pleas blurred. He hauled them up before either tipped over.

He bent Bianca over the couch arm, ass high. “Hold her open, Marisol.”

Marisol spread her and watched him drive in to the hilt in one stroke. Bianca shouted into the cushion. He fucked her hard, hips snapping, the wet slap loud, grip bruising the way she had asked for weeks ago. Marisol licked where they joined, tongue sliding over his cock and up to circle Bianca’s ass. “Harder, Sir, please ruin me,” Bianca managed. He gave it, the couch scraping the floor, then slowed and held just the head inside when she tightened, denying her until she sobbed and tried to push back.

“Floor. Marisol on her back. Bianca, ride her mouth. I’ll fuck Marisol while you grind. You both come only when I say.”

They scrambled. Bianca sank onto Marisol’s tongue. Hassan knelt, shoved Marisol’s legs wide, and thrust into her while one hand kept Bianca moving. He fucked deep enough that Marisol cried out against Bianca’s cunt with every stroke. “Rub your clit, Bianca. Get there and hold it. Marisol, don’t stop.” Bianca’s fingers flew. Marisol sucked like she was starving. Hassan watched the strain, the obedience, the way their bodies begged while they waited for his word. “Now.” Bianca broke first, high and sharp, pulsing against Marisol’s mouth. Marisol followed, cunt clamping hard around him, muffled cries vibrating straight through Bianca. He fucked her through the rhythmic squeezes, then pulled out, stood, and stroked twice before he came across both of them, striping Bianca’s ass and Marisol’s stomach and breasts while they shook.

He gave them breaths, not minutes. “Hands and knees, Marisol. Bianca, spank her while I fuck her again.” He pushed into Marisol’s sloppy cunt and set a grinding pace while Bianca’s palm cracked light then harder across her ass until the skin pinked and Marisol pushed back for more, thanking him in broken fragments. He switched without warning, buried himself in Bianca, and let Marisol’s fingers work Bianca’s clit while he pounded. Bianca came again almost at once, oversensitive and raw, and the clench dragged his second orgasm out of him; he stayed deep, pulsing, filling her until it leaked down her thighs onto the rug.

Still not done, he sat on the edge of the couch and pulled Bianca into his lap facing him, sinking her onto his cock while it was still half-hard and slick with both of them. “Ride. Slow. Marisol, behind her. Mouth on her ass, fingers in her cunt alongside me when you can. I want her full and shaking and still not allowed to come until I count it down.” Bianca rolled her hips, breasts swaying, sweat shining on her stomach. Marisol knelt, spread her, and licked, then worked two fingers in beside Hassan’s cock so Bianca was stretched and gasping, the fullness obscene and perfect. He counted from twenty, each number a harder upward thrust, voice calm while Bianca begged in whispers and Marisol moaned against her skin. At five he told Marisol to suck her clit. At one he said come and Bianca shattered, sobbing, cunt milking him while Marisol licked her through it and he held her hips down so she took every pulse.

He lifted her off, turned Marisol onto the cushions on her back, and fucked her facing him with one of her legs over his shoulder, deep and relentless, kissing her so she tasted Bianca while he used her. “You wanted hard. Take it.” She did, nails in his shoulders, voice gone hoarse from thanking him and pleading and saying his name like a prayer she had permission to speak. When she tightened he rubbed her clit in the tight circles she needed and let her come around him, then kept moving until the overstimulation made her twitch and whimper and still push up to meet him because he hadn’t said stop. He came a third time with a low groan, buried deep, forehead against hers, spilling until they were both a mess.

Only then did he ease out, gather both women against his chest on the rug because the couch was ruined, and hold them while the shaking faded. He kissed their temples, their swollen mouths, the dominance softening into the care that had always been part of the bargain they had made. “You did so well. Both of you. Mine.”

They murmured it back, boneless, Marisol’s head on his shoulder, Bianca tracing idle lines on his ribs. Their hearts slowed against him. The city moved beyond the window and none of it mattered.

Hassan kept his eyes half-closed and his smile small. In the jacket by the door were two thin silver chains he had bought that afternoon, plain enough to pass for jewelry, meant for their throats in the morning if they still wanted the word collar after the marks of his hands had faded to something they could choose. They didn’t know yet. The secret sat warm and entirely his while he held them, and he intended to give it away only when the night had finished teaching them exactly how completely they had wanted to be his.