Written by pet as a task I gave him and submitted for the BDSM Bake-off challenge.
The snow is coming down in great white sheets of powder, easily overwhelming the small army of plows off doing battle with the accumulating ice. I haven’t seen another pair of headlights the entire trip. This is good because it means there are very few vehicles to potentially collide with, and bad because if something does go wrong I’m on my own. I’m very thankful for my studded snow tires, even though I don’t have an emergency kit to speak of. I hope Samantha loves these cookies cold; there is no way I’m getting there in the promised time frame. How I wound up hauling a tray of snickerdoodles in a nor’easter is a story in its own right, but when Samantha asks for something I deliver. It’s always been this way since we reconnected those years ago. We aren’t romantic but pleasing her is all the reward I need. When she says, “thank you,” she smiles with her eyes and it makes me melt, and that’s what I want to see. The risk is worth it.
Samantha’s beauty defies expectations. Her cool blue eyes contrast sharply with her light brown hair. She’s curvy and soft, with exquisite breasts and an ass that makes my knees shake. She carries her opulent weight with grace and confidence and when she walks her gait brings shame to today’s top runway models. These are only first impressions and become irrelevant when she smiles, because that’s when it hits you, Samantha is genuine. She takes pleasure in everything from crude toilet humor to fine art. One moment she can be explaining the nuances of John Singer Sargent’s work and the next giggling whenever she hears the word “nuts.” Her puns are so quick and so frequent most are overlooked until hours later, which is even better because we get to laugh at the pun itself and how long it took for me to figure it out. While I could say more about her humor, what really keeps me coming back is how I react when I’m around her. There isn’t an explanation for it. In her presence I am completely disarmed and all my pretense is stripped away. When she looks at me my eyes can only obey and focus on hers, and when she speaks it is as if the universe hushes at her command.
Samantha is neither my wife nor girlfriend. We grew up in Pennsylvania, went to school together, drifted apart, were separated by college, and found ourselves back in the same town after nearly twenty years. We’ve both been married and divorced. How Sam and I came to be where we are is uncanny, as if we shadowed each other around the country living in different states sometimes only a few miles apart without ever knowing. Our worlds collided when out of the blue I came across her Facebook profile and reached out to say hi. There was nothing to prepare me for the immediacy and depth of our friendship, or the path it would take leading me to drive a single tray of snickerdoodles through a snow-storm.
After I reached out to Sam it didn’t take her long to figure out I’m a people pleaser and that I thrive in the warmth and appreciation of my peers. This hasn’t always worked out, especially when my efforts go unnoticed or taken for granted. It’s intrinsic to my nature and so despite myself I still seek to please the people around me, something Sam seems to take advantage of in a most delightful way. I’m supposed to be annoyed by this but I’m not. She is different. If she could see into my soul for a bit, she would see that I thoroughly enjoy her taking liberties because of what she takes liberties with. Ok, so driving in what will probably end up being the worst snow storm of the year sounds a little extreme, but beyond that when she wants me to do something it’s almost always something to make myself better. These tasks are therefore not uncommon. The tasks tend to orbit a central thesis of self-improvement. In this case she wants me to learn how to bake and it so happens I love snickerdoodles. Over the course of the past month I’ve made batch after batch to perfect my own recipe at her behest, despite the fact I can hardly boil water. Earlier in the year it was calligraphy, and before that yoga, and before that finally having the nerve to see a therapist. That one was the hardest, because I wasn’t going to just go to any therapist. I was told to vet one, find one I actually liked, which involved some uncomfortable conversations and anxiety. In the end I never found one I liked, and that was an acceptable conclusion for her. These tasks compel me in ways that are familiar but wholesome, and with each subsequent topic of exploration I’ve thrown myself only deeper into our relationship. I can’t help but imagine she is preparing me for something.
As I make the turn at the cut-in marking Sam’s driveway the storm seems to intensify, battering my windshield with a late winter howl that can only come down a frozen Pennsylvania mountain. I’m filled with a sense of urgency to get inside, and as I glance up to her front door I see it open with her standing there, waiting. It’s twenty degrees out, and there she stands in jeans and a t-shirt. I shift into reverse, set the emergency break, and cut the engine, clamoring out of the car so quickly I get half way up the walk before realizing I forgot the snickerdoodles. Watching my flurry of motion as I slide on her icy concrete walk, she leans against the door jam and crosses her arms, and as I approach she does an about face without even a hello.
“You’re late,” she says coldly, reaching for her glass of wine while I close the door behind me.
“Well, yeah! Have you seen what’s going on outside?” I laugh as I sit the tray down on the dining room table, as if the icy white shit excuses everything.
“And these are cold,” she says, tossing a half-eaten snickerdoodle back on the tray. I didn’t even see her take one. She walks into the kitchen and returns with the wine bottle for a refill.
“What else would they be? It’s fucking cold out there!” I’m utterly gobsmacked. I put in all this effort and she not only disregards it, but has the nerve to be dissatisfied. I feel the kind of ire stirring in me reserved for men who piss me off, and as I’m about to unload it all she squares off in front of me with a look that makes me flinch.
“Make them again.” she states matter-of-factly.
“It’s nine o-clock!” And as the words roll off my tongue the floor starts to shake and the familiar grind of steel on pavement roars by the house as a snowplow piles a wall of ice directly behind my car.
“Baby, it’s cold outside. Make them again,” she says, and this time she lowers her voice and her gaze, curling her lips in a predatory grin knowing whatever plans I had tonight just got canceled.
I stand there agape watching untold thoughts flutter across her face and she stares back at me in equal fascination, our eyes searching for clues about each other’s motivations. She turns around to the pantry and takes out a crock of flour setting it on the counter.
“You better get started,” she says demurely, bending at the hips to produce a mixing bowl from below. When she came back into view I could feel it, the tug that won’t let me just walk away from this inconvenience. It’s a compulsion that pushes past all my objections and buries itself in my consciousness. I want to please this woman with all my heart, and no logic will avail against it. I start to take off my coat and she moves to help me from it.
“I know it’s been rough these past few weeks, and I know it’s cold and ugly out, but I can’t eat cold cookies my pet,” she says, taking my hand and leading me to the counter where the flour now sits. “Go on, you know where the butter and sugar are. Don’t forget to pre-heat the oven.”
This is new. No one’s ever called me “pet” before. I feel my knees start to wobble as she turns to face me, leaning closer. She’s inches from my right ear when she whispers, “Pet? Start the oven and cream the butter. You know how to do it.”
I’m dumbstruck, but my hands get to work. I turn to the fridge and find what I’m looking for, pressing a few buttons on the oven as I pass and I discover my legs have renewed their strength. The sugar is next to the flour already and I begin the task of softening the wrapped sticks of cold butter as she watches from the other side of the island, resting her chin on her palms. She intently focuses on me as I roll and knead each stick in my hands until they are just soft enough to be worked with a mixing spoon. She is all too distracting.
“What’s going on Sam?” My voice croaks.
“I’ll explain everything as soon as you’re done. I promise.” she coos. Forty five minutes and an egg accident later, two dozen snickerdoodles rest on the island, each cookie delicately placed on the cooling rack for Samantha’s inspection. She leans over my shoulder and reaches for one of the hot gooey confections taking a big bite, moaning long and low. “Oh this is much better, pet. Do you mind if I call you pet, pet?” I shake my head. “Please speak your answer.”
“No?” I say quizzically.
“Good” She returns to my side leaning her back against the island, beaming with approval she knows I crave. “Now, do you trust me?”
“Yes or no, please, pet.”
“Yes,” I correct myself. This interaction is beyond exciting. My heart is pounding and my skin is flushing. I brace myself and watch as she studies all of these facts. I’m suddenly aware that the blood vessels in my neck are throbbing and her eyes wander there causing my breath to catch.
“That makes me very happy,” she says. “Close your eyes.”
I close my eyes and hear her open a drawer. There is a brief sound of metal clinking and I imagine she’s pulling out an early Christmas present. We’ve been exchanging gifts for years, and we don’t particularly care about timing precise holidays. This was different, however, all the more so as I hear her move next to me. I could feel her soft fingers on my cheek and I felt something shift inside my mind, as if something was falling into place. I lean into her touch and hear her smile before she continues.
“You said you trust me, pet. It’s important that you know I trust you too. We’ve been doing this dance for so long. I want to take the next step with you. Would you like that?” I’m dizzy with excitement. I want to take this next step, as long as I can go on pleasing her. All I can think of is all the years we’ve spent in affectionate proximity, and the years before that when we were just an arm’s length away unbeknownst to one another. I love her. I always have. In my excitement I forgot to acknowledge her.
“Yes!” I say emphatically.
“That’s wonderful,” I can hear the relief in her voice, and I half expect her next words to be a marriage proposal. Instead she tells me to open my eyes. On the island is a circle of brown leather, sturdily crafted with two cold steel eyelets on either end with a locking toggle on the other. It takes me a moment to recognize it as a collar. A real collar, not a chincy fetish novelty toy or fashionable choker, but a real double stitched collar, the kind you’d put on a dog except this one looks actually comfortable with soft suede padding on the inside to keep the metal components off the skin.
“Do you like it?” she says, her voice wavering. She’s taking a big risk and all at once it comes to me. I should be terrified, offended, and incredulous, but instead I’m ecstatic, to the point I forget to speak again. The moment of silence leaves her anxious, and I can feel the panic welling inside her. “Pet?”
“Yes! I love it!” I squeal.
Samantha continues and motions to the collar. “This isn’t a gift. This collar is my property, and whoever wears it is also my property. I can’t force this on you, pet. From this point forward everything must be consented to. Surprises will come later if we get to that point. I’m going to ask you once more- May I put my collar on your neck and make you mine?”
“Yes.” I declare clearly. Once again I can hear her smile as she reaches for the collar and opens the toggle. I feel the leather coiling around my neck where before her breath fell in anxious exhales.
“To whom do you belong?” she asks.
“You,” my voice is now a breathless whisper. I have no explanation for this. It goes beyond turning me on—though it certainly does. I feel completely naked before her despite the fact I’m fully clothed, as if she were staring into my soul. I feel safe as well, secure in myself and my place at her feet. I realize this is what I’ve wanted all along. This moment, or something like it, has illuminated my dreams ever since I was a child. She then lifts a leash from her pocket and fastens it to the collar with an audible *click*.
“Perfect” she exudes. I’m led from the kitchen and down the hall to her bedroom. “I just realized something, pet,” she says wheeling around and giving a hard tug on the leash, “I’ve never seen you naked.” It’s true we’ve known each other for decades and while I’ve always dreamt of a relationship with Sam, I’ve never had the courage to ask for one. Her having pointed this out makes my heart race faster.
“You have kept the workout regimen we started last year, haven’t you?” she asks. I nod.
“Now pet, when I want you mute you’ll know. Please speak when I speak to you.”
“Yeah, I have.” I say shyly.
“Excellent,” she exclaims, sitting on a luxurious oxblood leather chair. She crosses her legs and stares at me for a half second sipping her wine. “Now. Strip.”
“What? Here? Now?” The words stumble out of my mouth before I can think, and I immediately regret them. “No, I didn’t mean it like that, this is all so—”
She interrupts, “You’re nervous, I know. Embarrassed possibly but you can do this, pet. Don’t think. Just obey. Strip.” I nod and immediately lift my shirt over my head, guiding the leash through the collar and letting it tumble to the floor. I bend over and tug my socks off, delaying the moment when I reach for my fly. I hold there watching her reaction. She’s staring at me in a way I haven’t ever seen before, as if watching really good porn and itching to get off. It terrifies me, and I forget in that instant what it is I’m supposed to be doing until she nods toward my jeans as if to say, yes those too. I unbuckle my belt and open my fly, pushing the denim over my thighs to the floor revealing my little secret. I don’t wear underwear.
“Oh my, pet. You have been following my regimen.” She lifts her eyebrows appreciatively. I hadn’t really noticed how much harder my body had become, but apparently enough to warrant a closer inspection. She rises from her seat and reaches behind the chair for a crop. On any other day that would’ve made me flinch, but today I steel myself for this woman and stand fast as she approaches tapping it against her leg, before slipping the crop between mine in a gesture to widen my stance. I spread my legs and the crop glides over my calves and my knees, I follow her gaze as she inspects the tightly packed cords of muscle I’ve developed in the past six months. I won’t lie, I’m proud of this, proud of her appreciation of my effort and of my appearance. Apparently it does not go unnoticed.
“You like this don’t you pet?” I nod, and I receive a light smack of the crop against my cheek. “When I want a farm animal I’ll tell you. Speak when I speak to you.”
“Yes,” I say, keeping my tone neutral.
“Mmmhmm, you like it when a beautiful woman admires you. Don’t you?”
“I’m going to show you off to all my friends, just like this. Would you like that?”
I hesitate, “Yes”.
“They are going to drool all over themselves, and I’ll be the envy of every Domme in the State, won’t I pet?”
“Yes,” I grin.
“You’ve only just begun. As intuitive as submission is to you, I won’t let you serve me until you know what I want as well.” Her voice lowers and she leans forward, reaching for the tail of her shirt and lifting it gracefully from her body. Beneath she wears a beautiful mauve lace bra. She pauses for a moment allowing me to take in the scene before she reaches behind and releases the hooks. The bra goes slack and then falls to the floor revealing her voluptuous breasts and stiffening nipples. She gently squeezes them, massaging toward her nipples.
My penis is now fully erect and straining. She smiles appreciatively. I kneel before her and she runs fingers through my hair sending electrical arcs down my spine. The same hand reaches behind to rest on the back of my head guiding me toward her nipple. My hand finds the other breast and I softly begin kneading it. When my lips meet her flesh she inhales sharply, letting out a soft moan as I press myself firmly against the warm softness of her. I can’t imagine how much courage it took for her to offer me this degree of intimacy, and as the wind howls just outside her window I feel cocooned in her security, safe and cared for, my soul nourished in the brilliant sunlight of her guidance. This is divine, feeling her soft nipple against my tongue with each pull as I stare transfixed into her eyes. I have always loved her, and now all I want is to please her.
Once I’ve worshipped her breasts to her satisfaction, she rises and motions to her closed fly with a smile. Intuitively, I do not say a word; after all, she didn’t speak. I reach up immediately and open the hem of the soft stone washed denim hiding the rest of her from my eyes. She nods approvingly as I work them over her ample hips and down her legs, and she sits so that may remove them from over her bare feet. I rise then, folding the jeans neatly and placing them on the bed before descending to my knees again to attend to her thong, a petite violet satin patch held in place by silk cords. No elastic here, these cords are tied in lovely feminine bows which I open, leaving the front to fall away and taking the satin patch with it.
“Hmmm, something’s missing,” she says wistfully. She reaches behind and produces something that is abruptly plopped on my head. “Perfect,” she coos, and I’m immediately aware that I’m now bedecked in a bright red and bawdy Santa hat.
She slides down in the chair, spreading her thighs and resting a soft heel between my shoulder blades. Her scent greets my nose and hits my blood stream like heroin, and I find myself staring at her glistening sex, her labia swollen and eager to be touched, licked, teased, and loved. I position myself carefully for maximum comfort prepared to be here for a while, and lean forward. In the moment that passes with me hovering over her needy pussy I can hear her breathing and out of the corner of my eye, I see her hand ready to grasp my head and pull my tongue into her should I delay any longer. I’m about to taste the essence of her, a part of her body covered by cotton and unseen, unsmelled, untasted. There is power for me here, but unwilling to test her patience any further I push my tongue against her lips and drag it along each labia in turn, working my tongue into every fold and crease not wanting to miss anything. She lets out a broken groan, forgetting for a moment that I’m her pet as she looks down at me. I look up into her eyes and watch her gaze shift with my position. For a moment I see the briefest hint of disbelief on her face, right before I find her clit reaching out from under the safety of its hood. I watch the pleasure wash over her. It drowns out every thought, every conceivable notion of now, and obliterates her sense of the present. I reach up with my right hand and dare to touch the sensual puddle of bliss gathering just under my tongue, she’s so wet, I slide my fingers inside of her. Her knees tense, lifting her feet from my back. Lost in pleasure she holds them aloft loosening her grip on my hair to reach for the curtains behind her. I push deeper to find her G-spot. When I curl my fingers up and into that rough sensuous patch of inner flesh her voice keens and modulates, elevating registers high into the falsetto. I hold her there, milking her of sanity between her G-spot and her clit, switching off between the two. Perhaps It’s not very subby of me, but I can’t help it, holding her on the edge of orgasm until her body is trembling and shaking violently.
“Fuck you! Make me cum!” She cries out half in frustration and half in bewilderment, and I obey, increasing my rhythm and synchronizing between her clit and G-spot, beckoning her orgasm come-hither with my fingers. She surrenders completely to the build; I nearly stop to watch, remembering that I mustn’t. Orgasm blooms across her entire body like a heliosphere of ionized particles radiating from a supernova. Her skin burns with desire. Her legs convulse and she reaches down to hold them as the shakes ripple from her knees back up her spine. I’m staring at the wave of her orgasm, and just when I think it has subsided she cums again, and again, one after another, before I feel her palm abruptly push my forehead away.
She rises and guides me to the bed, “Come hold me”. I follow her under the covers, where my arm is wrapped protectively around her. I can feel her legs reaching back for mine and my feet are interleaved with hers. “Merry Christmas,” she murmurs as we drift off to sleep.
*Featured image courtesy of pixabay