We retire to the living room after dinner.

“Strawberry or vanilla?” Mister asks from the doorway, holding a small carton of ice cream in each hand. “Never vanilla,” coos Anya.

The three of us squeeze together on a small plaid sofa, a DVD  I’ve missed the title of plays on the television. I try to look interested, but I can’t follow the plot. The tension of the moment is giving me a headache, I wish one of them would make a move. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t invited over just to be fed. Finally, as if he read my mind, Mister leans over me, plants a hand firmly against my crotch, and kisses Anya. When Anya leans over to kiss him back, Mister places her hand on my thigh. They kiss inches from my face, neither acknowledging my presence save for their hands.

Anya radiates longing, but she isn’t sure what to do with me in the middle. Mister grabs a handful of her hair, she moans, I try not to whimper.  I know his firm grip, how Mister pulls my hair just so, how that hard tug means I’m nothing but a possession to him. I moan again from the memory. He finally looks at me, but it’s a dismissive flicker before he turns his attention back to Anya.

“Bedroom,” Mister suddenly decides. “Both of you.” We silently untangle ourselves from the couch and go into the bedroom. Neither of us wants to be the first one to sit on the bed, the hierarchy is unclear. 

Mister solves it by pushing me down on the bed first. He pulls my clothes off, practically ripping them from me. I lie there utterly naked before the both of them. I move to cover my breasts with my hands, Mister slaps them away.

Mister sits on the corner of the bed and pulls Anya to his lap. She falls to him in an embrace and kisses him deeply. Mister pulls her shirt over her head, revealing a tattoo identical to the one on his arm. I wonder how long they’ve known each other, and how well. Tenderly, he finishes undressing her. I forget my unease and nakedness.

I’m entranced by the dark, fine hairs on the back of his hand contrasting against the pale curve of her shoulder.

Mister cradles her, she sits in his lap and wraps her arms around his neck. They rock back and forth slowly as he plunges his fingers into her pussy. I love the easy way they fit together, like lovers in a painting. Their intimacy is almost painful to witness. She whispers something into his ear, he smiles. Mister whispers back, and gives her a gentle kiss on the forehead.

Their movements accelerate into an earthquake as he fucks her harder with his hand. Anya clings to him, crying out with every thrust. She nuzzles against his neck, hiding her face from me. As I watch this exchange, I plunge my finger in and out of my pussy, trying to keep the pace with them. Mister glances over her shoulder at me, his eyes flash dark and hard, as if he forgot I was there. Just as Anya seems on the peak of orgasm, Mister stops and rolls her off onto the bed. We’re both shocked.

“Kiss her,” he commands Anya, pointing at me.

“But…” Anya protests. Mister smacks her hard on the thigh.

Anya crawls the length of the bed towards me. I shrink back. I liked being the invisible spectator, this seems too real. She tries to kiss me. I’m too nervous to kiss back. Anya kisses me again, more insistently, but I’m frozen. She gives a frustrated little huff and glances at Mister.

“Daisy,” Mister says sternly, “Kiss her back, you’re being ungrateful.”

I’m surprised by how soft her mouth is. Every hard edge of a man I’m familiar with is absent here. She’s gentle, so tender it’s like kissing sweet warm air. Anya bites my lower lip, but even that feels delicate. As I explore her mouth, I shyly place my hand on her naked back. Everything about her is so smooth and warm. Her skin smells like a candy I’ve always wanted but never tasted .

Anya moves my hand to her breast. I’m afraid to do more than lightly rest my hand on her, frightened any movement will make this moment shatter. Anya runs her hand between my legs. Her soft fingers drift across my labia, my inner thighs. The tip of her tongue flicks against my lips, waiting to be invited into my mouth.

I decide I’m going to be brave and take her nipple into my mouth. As I move towards her breast, Mister swats my pussy. He hits me hard and swiftly. My eyes tear. Reflexively, I sit straight up. “Hold her down,” he says to Anya. Mister is naked, sitting up on his knees, watching us. His cock juts straight and hard as he rubs the tip. A thick sticky string of pre-cum trails from his dick to his fingers.

Anya draws me back to the mattress and pins my arms down, her breasts mere inches from my face. She’s stronger than she looks. I plead with my eyes, but she ignores the look. “Hold her down,” Mister repeats to Anya. I know from the look on his face what’s coming, literally. I try not to tense, knowing it will only hurt more if I fight it.

Mister slaps my cunt, striking his palm against my clit as hard as he can. I cry out. Giving his palm a lick, he strikes me over and over in a staccato rhythm. It stings, he’s spanking me so fast, I can’t even get a moment’s relief from the pain. A tremendous pressure builds in my pussy, every blow brings it spilling closer to the surface. I’m aching, riding right on the edge between sanity and complete loss. I cry out as I squirt across the bed in a high arc. Mister keeps slapping, his hand is sopping wet now, making it sting all the more. I squirt so much that it splashes everywhere, his arm, the bed, my hair. Then he stops.

“Did you ask if you could come?” he admonishes.

Fuck. I forgot.

He flips me over in one motion and grabs my hair, hard, yanking my head back.

“No, sir.”

“Count,” he says as he starts to spank me. Mister’s hand is still wet from my fluid, intensifying each swat. Every blow sends flaming red arrows of pain through me. I love it, the pain, my body being used, exposed. I’m just a thing, his thing.

“Do you have to hit her so hard?” I hear Anya ask.

“Daisy’s a good little fuck slut, she can take it,” he growls. “Unless you want to take it for her.” Mister spanks me harder, roughly yanking my head back so I can see Anya rubbing her pussy as she watches us.

“No sir,” she replies meekly.

I count off the blows, when I finally gasp out “Twenty,” Mister releases me and I slink back to my side of the bed. I’m chilly and shaking all over, but I don’t dare cover myself with a blanket.

“Lick my hand,” he says to me. I run my tongue across his salty fingers, then pull them into my mouth, sucking hard on each one. Mister pulls back his hand and  rubs my spit on his cock. He yanks Anya’s legs apart and forces his cock into her. Anya reaches out for me. We wrap our arms around each other, kissing now without hesitation, all crashing teeth and tongues. The three of us move as one being, every thrust of his cock reverberates through her in and into me.

Anya cries out and begs Mister to let her come. Mister nods, fucking her harder. I rest my head on her chest, taking her nipple between my teeth.  I place my  hand low on her stomach so I can feel every muscle tighten and release, every thrust of his cock rippling through her pussy.  Anya gives one final buck, we all collapse together in a heaving, sweaty, slippery heap.

Mister reaches out and lifts my chin, looking straight into my eyes as Anya comes. My heart stops, the moment freezes, shrinks down to this single moment. His gaze never wavers as Anya climaxes underneath us.

I roll off her, Mister pulls his cock out, leans against the headboard to catch his breath. Anya cleans her damp thighs off with an edge of the bed sheet, then reaches for me.

Mister grabs her arm and pulls her to his chest.

“I want to eat her out,” Anya pouts.

“My, someone’s insatiable,” Mister says, amused, “But you need to save something for next time.”

“Fine, it’s late. My husband will be expecting me soon anyway,” she huffs as she pulls her pants on over her sticky reddened thighs.

I start looking for my clothes to get dressed too, but Mister motions for me to stay there. They walk out of the room holding hands. I hear low murmuring, then I hear the squeak of the front door open and close.

Mister strides back in as if on a mission. His eyes are shiny, his cock is freshly erect. Opening a drawer, he pulls out a set of black leather restraints and swiftly binds me spread-eagle to the bed. Smacking my face, he thrusts his cock towards my mouth. “Clean me off,” he orders as he grabs my head. I shake my head “no,” pursing my lips together.

“Wanna be a brat, huh?” Mister asks. He pinches my face hard, forcing me to open my mouth. He inserts something metal and adjusts it behind my teeth and locks it open with a little pop. I can’t close my mouth. I try to spit it out, but it won’t budge.

Mister jams his cock in my mouth. The thick, salty taste of their sex coats his penis. I suck every drop of her from him. Mister fucks me with his hand, until I’m soaking wet, then stuffs his fingers in my mouth, telling me to clean those off too. I start to gag on his fingers, my eyes begin to tear. Mister slides his cock back into my mouth, pinching off my nose. I fight the urge to panic as he fucks my face. Once I finally deep throat him, he lets go of my nose.

Mister pulls away and takes the device from my mouth, I work my stiff jaw back and forth a few times. Mister’s eyes shine, he’s so lost in his power now.  I’m a million little exposed electrical wires, pulsing and sparking. I want more, I want him to dangle me from the edge of every dangerous precipice.

“So, brat, did you like watching me fuck Anya?” he asks.

“Eh, it was okay,” I answer sarcastically. “Is that the best you could come up with?” I want to push him over the edge, I want to receive every last punishment he can imagine.

“You ungrateful slut,” his eyes darken and narrow as he searches the room for his flogger. Picking it up from the dresser, he strikes me hard across the stomach. I grit my teeth as the pain blooms into a red flower.

“Is this what you want?” Mister punctuates every word with a hard flick of the flogger.

“Is that all you’ve got?” I ask, pulling against the restraints.

“That’s it, brat,” he bellows.  Mister falls on me in a frenzy, biting me, flogging me, choking me. Every  lash, bite and smack sending a white hot jolt straight to my pussy. We’re lubricated by sweat, cum and saliva. All I want is for  him to tear me open, to find every bad dark secret and to punish me for all of them. I come, he comes, we start over again. We fuck until we’re barely moving anymore.

Mister finally unfastens the restraints still holding my wrists against the bedpost. I sit up and examine the scatter of bruises across my body, then I start to giggle uncontrollably. “Subspace,” Mister comments, pleased.

“C’mon giggle girl, let’s get you clean.” He helps me into the bathroom, turns on the shower.  I stand under the stream, reliving each individual mark as the hot water runs down my body. Mister squirts a dab of shampoo into his hands and carefully washes my hair. Gently, he washes my back, my arms, stomach, pressing slightly into each budding bruise.

“Mmmm…that’s the best part,” I purr, “Every mark is a little souvenir for later.”

We dress, then drive to the diner for breakfast. I’m surprised to see it’s light out, I wear my sunglasses against the harsh rays. We order too much food, sneak tastes from each other’s plates.  Mister orders tall, cold glasses of orange juice for me, tells me to drink up. I’m so dehydrated.

I leave my sunglasses on while I eat, feeling like a movie star. Mister blows straw wrappers at me, and we play hangman with crayons on the paper placemat. I press against the back of the chair,  re-awakening every little mark. The bruises on my body make me feel safe and beautiful.

Daisy’s note: An audio version of this story is on Sonic Erotica. A shorter version of this story was one of my earliest blog posts.

4 thoughts on “We retire to the living room after dinner.

  1. That’s a really good one. I liked the first part a little better. Things were not clear then and many details were up to imagination. But that doesn’t mean the second half was bad in any way.
    And I really like the end. Two worlds beneath each other and entangled in harmony.

  2. A touching story. Revisiting the first version, it occurs to me to ask if you’ve decided to refer to Mister by that name in later works for reasons of privacy.

  3. @Josh The first dozen or so stories I wrote were actually part of one longer piece for an anthology that rejected my submission. I thought the story was too good to be forgotten, so I decided to publish them myself. When I started the blog, I broke each section off into it’s own story and published them separately.

    I didn’t yet have in mind what I was going to call everyone in my stories, or even have a real vision on how much true stuff I wanted to share, so some of the earliest stuff isn’t as consistent with names and details. Once the blog took off, I outright asked him if I could refer to him by “Mister” in the stories, because that’s what I call him IRL- it’s actually less of a pseudonym than “Michael”!

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