It’s 6:54 pm. I’m standing in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom, trying to worm an earring into the hole in my left lobe. It’s been a while since I dressed this femininely, but in my knee-length teal dress, understated black heels and wine-red lipstick, I look classy.
So classy, in fact, that nobody would ever guess I had a butt plug inside me.
The plug was the first part of my outfit I put on (or rather, in), and the only part that my Domme was specific about. She chose my mid-sized pink glass one, which required some warming up; I wiggled one, then two gloved fingers into my asshole, pressing a vibrator onto my clit with my other hand to help me to relax. The plug slipped in without any discomfort and warmed to my exact body temperature within minutes, so I could nearly forget I was wearing it.
I asked my Domme about the rest of my outfit for dinner over text. She replied:
A skirt or a dress – knee length or longer. Something blue, teal or green because those colours all make you look heavenly, and I’ll be wearing purple. Earrings and a matching necklace. Matching underwear – I like that new black set you have. Heels you can walk comfortably in. Any makeup you like.
As I was absorbing all of those instructions, a second message came through:
I can’t wait to see you tonight, angel. I love you xxx
So now I’m standing here, trying to jab my second earring into place, distracted somewhat from the process by the 150-odd grams of glass pressing down into the seat of my black lace briefs. Soon my Domme will be here, but she’ll be arriving in an Uber, so I’ll have to call her by her real-life name, Jen. It feels more foreign than the butt plug – I’ve only ever known her as Sir.
One more text notification. This one says: Oh, by the way: each time I touch my lips, you are to clench your cute little arse cheeks around your plug. It doesn’t matter whether you think I’ve touched my mouth by accident or on purpose, and the rule is in place from my arrival until I decide you may remove your plug (unless you safeword, ofc.) See you soon little one <3
My stomach turns over, and I can’t tell whether it’s excitement about the new, secret protocol, or dread regarding the exhausted soreness I’ll be feeling in my sphincter tomorrow. It might well be both.
Scooping up my tiny silver handbag, which contains my purse (though I won’t be paying for anything), my keys and an emergency sachet of lube, I go to wait on my doorstep. I usually share my house with two other girls, but one of them is abroad and the other is visiting her parents, so I have the whole glorified shoebox to myself. In this dry July heat, not needing to muffle the noise of a vibrator under my duvet is an indescribable blessing.
And with this plug in my ass, thinking about wanking was a mistake. Even as I shield my eyes from the setting sun with my hand (and remember that I’ll be caned ten times for having bitten my fingernails) and try to distract myself by watching out for my Domme’s Uber, I can’t help but think about my most recent orgasm, enjoyed just this morning alongside an iced tea… how I’d rammed my thickest silicone dildo into my cunt and imagined it was in my Domme’s favourite harness, her body silhouetted over mine as she fucked me deep and slow…
All the muscles in my pelvic region twitch, and I can feel the fullness of my asshole more than ever. I sigh heavily, leaning against the front door of my house, glancing between my phone and the street. Even after six months, dates with her make me nervous. Not the fun kind of masochistic nervous, either – less tingling with anticipation, more prickling with unbridled anxiety. I expect to feel relieved when the Uber arrives, but I don’t: my heart rate speeds up again, my palms sweat even though the heat is receding a little, and my whole mouth dries up.
The Uber is purple. I wonder briefly if you can request specific colours of car, but that would be absurd – especially on a hot Friday night like this one, in a student town like mine, with people pouring out of their front doors and into overpriced cabs, en route to any pub or club that has some ice cubes left. But it seems even more absurd that my Domme would have ended up in an Uber of her signature colour by coincidence – she’s so deliberate, so thoughtful, so detail-oriented.
All this fills my head within a fraction of a second, and then it’s immediately replaced by one echoed thought: Holy fuck. My Domme has wound down her window (she’s in the back, not the passenger seat, naturally) and is looking me up and down like I’m an expensive dress she might buy. Her red hair frames her immaculately made-up face and stops just short of her collarbone, drawing my eyes further downwards and begging me to look at her cleavage – I mean, at her dress, which was a beautiful aubergine number with what I recently learned is named a ‘sweetheart’ neckline. It contrasts wonderfully with the evil glint in her eye that reveals she is the exact opposite of a sweetheart.
Except, of course, that’s not true. She can be so, so evil – but only in the ways I find delicious, sometimes even comforting. I can feel her eyes on me as I clamber gracelessly into the Uber, unused to heels or dresses or sitting in cabs with a butt plug in me, but she’s not judgemental or mocking – she’s just fond of me, and she leans over to kiss my cheek as I fumble with my seatbelt. I know this is meant to be a soothing, loving gesture, especially since she doesn’t enjoy public displays of affection herself, but it just flusters me more, and it’s a miracle I clip my seatbelt into place at all.
The joy of an Uber is that, since you’ve already let your driver know where you’re going, you only have to make awkward small talk if you really want to. Otherwise, you and your driver can comfortably ignore one another, and you can tip them handsomely via the app for the quiet and business-like journey. This also means that you can chat, in a low voice, to your companion in the back of the car, and your Uber driver will either be unable to hear you or will politely pretend that that’s the case.
“I’ve missed you,” I say timidly, examining the hem of my dress. “And you look beautiful.”
I’m always this nervous for the first ten minutes of an encounter with my Domme, and she always puts me at ease incredibly quickly. This time, she does so by reaching out, taking my hand, and saying quietly, “All for you, as always, Emily.” She says my name with such reverence, and squeezes my hand so softly, that I can almost feel my heart rate returning to normal. “I’ve missed you so much, little one.”
I told her how much I like to be called ‘little one’ when we’d been together a month, over text, whilst I was five drinks deep on a night out and taking a breather in the ladies’ bathroom. My Domme is slim, short and insanely gorgeous, and I am taller, heavier and a lot less self-confident by comparison. Drunk Me confessed that I’m overwhelmingly self-conscious about the size difference between the two of us, especially given the power dynamic our relationship had formed around, and my Domme had responded: But you’re so delightfully soft! And you look so small when you’re tied up or cowering in front of a flogger… ‘little one’ just fits you so well. You’re my little one, and I want to protect you and cherish you and beat the absolute shit out of you (when you’re sober and you want it, ofc.)
So now, she calls me ‘little one’ when she can sense I’m unsure of myself, and it makes me melt every single time.
“Um, Jen…” It feels like calling a teacher by their first name. I’ve been calling her ‘Sir’ or, occasionally, ‘Mistress’ since our second date. (She told me that she preferred ‘Sir’ to ‘Mistress’ or ‘Miss’ because of the “linguistic connotations”, and I told her I preferred ‘Sir’ to ‘Mistress’ or ‘Miss’ because it was “sexy as hell”.) “I meant to text you earlier. I’ve watered your plants, organised the post and had a quick vacuum at yours.”
She was in London until just a few hours ago, having spent two days at a conference in Amsterdam and then four days with her family in Chelsea. Yesterday, I walked the mile and a half to her place just to water the plants a second time in her absence, and I was too sweaty and miserable to face walking back home straight away, so I sorted all her letters, Hoovered the whole flat thoroughly, and cleaned the kitchen surfaces – more because I like the smell of her multi-purpose cleaning spray than because anything was particularly grubby.
She clearly noticed because a smile breaks out across her face: “I saw. Thank you, love. You’re very good to me.”
It’s as close as she’ll get to say, “Good girl,” within earshot of the Uber driver, but it makes me glow with pride.
Before long, we’re in the centre of town, and my Domme leads me to a restaurant I would never glance twice at on my own: not because it doesn’t look nice, but because it looks too nice, and my budget leans more in favour of McDonald’s than Michelin star. My Domme, however, makes more in three months than I do in a year, and insists regularly that, “There’s no point working for it if I’m not going to enjoy it, and I enjoy nothing more than spoiling you.” Six months in, I’m still reeling from culture shock. This is not helped by the fact that there is currently a bulbous piece of glass in my butthole.
This is the sort of restaurant where somebody would offer to take your jacket, but it’s July, and even I’m not masochistic enough to have worn a jacket. We have a reservation (or rather, she has a reservation) and are lead to a table that is nestled against a window. She knows I love tables by windows.
“You remember the instruction I gave you?” she asks, as soon as the maître d’ has walked away. I nod, but she’s not satisfied: she rests her elbow on the table, then brings her hand up to rest her chin on it, and brushes along her bottom lip with her pinky finger. I clench, and I let the sensation show in my face: not discomfort, but a certain intensity, as my muscles clamp around the rigid glass. I release and breathe out through my nose, and she says, “Very good.” And she places her hand in her lap.
She orders food for me, as is our protocol, and we eat like vanilla people, chatting about the week we’ve just spent apart from one another and making each other giggle. The only difference is that every now and then, my Domme touches her mouth, and watches my face intently as I squeeze the plug inside me. I love the secrecy of it, and I love the sensation of pulling it in deeper, and I’m almost fidgeting in my fancy chair because of how wet my cunt is getting. Of course, it doesn’t help that I have my Domme sitting opposite me, looking absolutely radiant in her purple dress, and smirking at me like she does when she’s teasing my clit.
The whole time we’re eating and drinking and flirting, I’m on my best behaviour (impeccable table manners, leaving my nails and cuticles well alone, clenching around my plug when she gives me the signal to do so), and she is astonishingly composed. She almost always is, even when we’re playing or fucking; she just has this air of grace and calm around her that’s so different to my own chaotic, bubbly energy. It was one of the things that drew us towards each other in the first place, but it’s also something that drives me slightly mad. I have a plug in my butt! my inner monologue shouts as I delicately place another forkful of cheesecake into my mouth. You should be as flustered as I am! Your girlfriend has a plug in her damn butt, Jen!
I manage to keep all of this under wraps until we’re in the Uber home, but my Domme is still as cool and centred as a glass table top and I’m dying to draw a reaction out of her. So, in the back seat of the Uber, I let my posture slip, and I spread my knees apart so that my left thigh encroaches on the middle passenger seat. We don’t have a rule against manspreading per se, but we do have rules about sitting up straight, for the sake of my spinal health, and about keeping my legs together-ish on the rare occasions I wear dresses or skirts, because I often forget that if I don’t, people can and will see my knickers.
My Domme clears her throat demurely, and when I glance in her direction I’m treated to a sharply raised eyebrow. I feign innocence, looking at her blankly with my biggest puppy-dog eyes, so she reaches over and pushes against my left thigh, trying to guide it back towards its right counterpart. I pretend not to get the hint and keep my leg stock still, until she presses her fingertips hard into my thigh, over my dress – if it weren’t for the teal fabric in her way, her fingernails would be digging into my skin. She looks pointedly out of her window as though nothing’s happening, and pretends to have an itch along her upper lip. I clench again.
I’ve got a reaction and pushed my luck far enough, so I draw my knees closer to each other again and sit up a little straighter for the rest of the drive.
The moment we set foot in my Domme’s flat (which, by the way, is bigger than any house I’ve ever lived in, with much nicer furniture and a good handful more windows), we transform from Jen and Emily to Sir and sub. I kick off my heels, and then I drop to my knees to slip her shoes off her feet. Then I have to wait for her to tell me I’m allowed to stand. She takes her time hanging her keys on their hook and checking her texts before she signals that I may stand with just an upward flick of her index finger.
In spite of knowing I’m due ten strikes with the cane for biting my nails, and knowing that she’ll want to beat me quite a bit to make up for her week away, this is the calmest and safest I’ve felt in days. Inside my Domme’s flat, the rules are consistent, and I know exactly how to make her happy. There’s a certainty to it that warms me right to my core.
Having allowed me to stand, my Domme looks me up and down appraisingly. It always makes me tingle when she inspects me like this – I love feeling like a prized possession. I can’t meet her gaze for long, it makes me too self-conscious, so I look down at the floor while she makes a thoughtful little humming noise and folds her arms.
“You’ve done a very good job with your eyeliner,” she comments at last. I smile broadly. “I’ve seen the state of your nails, though, little one. That won’t do.” My smile falls off my face and I nod. She continues, “You did brilliantly at dinner, and your dress looks amazing. But we’re home now, so you can take it off.”
It’s an instruction, not a permission, so I grab the bottom of my dress and pull it over my head in one motion, rendering it inside-out in my hands and rendering me naked except my knickers and bra. I stand with my dress still in my hands, waiting for my next direction.
“You can go and put your dress in the washing basket, and then I want you in the side room.” The ‘side room’ is, effectively, a dungeon, though when my Domme has vanilla guests, we hide all the toys and put cushions on the futon to give the impression it’s a spare bedroom. “When you come in, you’ll bend over the futon, and you won’t be permitted to make eye contact with me until you’ve taken your caning for biting your nails. Understood?”
I try to swallow, but my mouth is dry from the anticipation. I have a love-hate relationship with the cane. “Yes, Sir,” I manage. She smiles at me, then disappears into the side room herself.
Her flat is big enough that it takes me a full twenty seconds to dart over to the washing basket in the kitchen, where I throw my dress onto a pile of laundry that I wasn’t brave enough to wash on my own yesterday, and another twenty seconds to come back to the side room. My Domme is still in her dress, as she often is for beatings, so I feel even more naked in my black pants and bra. I keep my eyes cast downwards like she told me to, never glancing above her waistline as I turn to face the futon and the wall it sits against.
“Would you like me to take my underwear off, Sir?” I ask softly, hoping that the answer will be yes – this bra digs into my sides a little, and I want the plug to be on full display: partly so she can avoid hitting it with the cane, mostly because I think it looks incredibly hot.
There is a long pause before she says, “Yes, do.”
I unhook my bra, hula out of my pants, and drop both items into an ungainly heap on the floor. I could have been sexier about it, I’m sure, but I’m not graceful at the best of times, and I’m eager to get my caning done with. I bend over the futon, supporting myself with elbows a shoulder-width apart the way my Domme has taught me to. My naked, glass-plugged ass is in the air, and all I can see apart from my own hands is the fabric of the futon beneath me and the wall ahead.
She asks if I’m ready. “Yes, Sir.”
Thwick. The cane slices through the air and connects with my flesh, right where my thighs meet my butt cheeks, and I squeak involuntarily. It’s that burning pain, concentrated and hot in a single line across my legs – it knocks me for six every time. I take a deep breath in through my nose, and I know that my Domme will hit me again on the exhale.
Thwick. I look down at my nails. They are a state. Thwick. It’s not the nails as such, it’s the shredded skin around them. I tend to chew on them more when I’m anxious, and it’s not out of the ordinary for me to draw blood when I do. Thwick.
I have no idea how she’s hitting me this precisely – all four of her strikes have been within an inch of each other, and the stretch of skin she’s striking hurts so badly I worry it’ll split. She knows her way around a cane, though – and, more importantly, she knows her way around my body. There’s a pause that makes my heart race, and then something other than the cane lands on my left asscheek – her hand. It’s cool and gentle and it squeezes as softly as when she held my hand in the Uber earlier.
“You’re doing so well, Emily,” she whispers. “Six left.”
I take my next deep breath, and the next cane strike knocks it straight back out of me.
I try to pull the last deep breath all the way down to my belly, which is no mean feat when you’re bent double over a futon and waiting for a strip of wood to hit you. My Domme likes to make the last strike the cruellest, since the blood is already flowing and I’m usually already woozy with lust and subservience.
This one is no exception.
I scream and clench my fists so hard that if I hadn’t bitten all my damn nails off, they would have dented my palms. My skin is alight with pain and I can’t even form coherent thoughts, let alone any words. I am only vaguely aware of my Domme making soft, soothing noises, setting the cane down and running a hand lightly – so lightly – over the raised stripes of skin where the strikes had landed. It takes a full minute, or maybe longer, for me to remember exactly how to take a deep breath and to start doing so, leaning up a little from the futon so that the air could fully inflate my lungs.
“You took that so well, little one,” says my Domme, her fingertips still skimming my ass. “Now, what do you say?”
I’m not too stunned to remember this part of our protocol: “Thank you for helping me to be my best self, Sir. I love you.”
“I love you too,” she murmurs, and I know that she means it. I draw in another breath, slower this time. “Now…” Her hand wanders away from the unbearably sore skin on my upper thighs and towards the split between my butt cheeks. Why…? “I think you’re due a reward, too.”
I forgot, somehow, that I had a plug in. I remember as soon as her fingers close delicately around its base and she starts moving it, working it in small circles so that it gently massages my asshole. It feels incredible, especially after the inescapable pain of the caning, and I can’t prevent a heartfelt moan from escaping my throat.
“You were so cute at dinner,” she teases, still drawing circles with the base of the plug. “I could see you getting more and more turned on, fidgeting in your chair; I could tell you were pouting on the inside about your cunt being so neglected while it soaked your knickers…”
Her voice is so low and every word is carefully considered. My asshole feels amazing, but she’s right – I was, and am, pouting on the inside about my slick, hungry, neglected cunt.
I open my mouth to try and say something sexy in response, but between the caning and the anal massaging, all that comes out is, “Sir… I… wet…”
She chuckles at me, warmly condescending and obviously not deterred by my inability to use verbs. “I know, baby. What do you want me to do about it?” The circles she’s making with the base of my plug are getting gradually bigger, and the range of motion feels like it’s putting pressure on my cunt – but maybe I’m imagining that because of how badly I want my cunt played with. “Use your words, slut…”
“I want – ah! – a vibrator, maybe?” I manage, closing my eyes so tight that the bridge of my nose wrinkles. “I want to cum, Sir…”
She feigns an outraged gasp and lets go of my plug. “Well, why didn’t you say so?” I stay stock-still, eyes shut, bent over the futon. “Let’s take care of your little cunt…”
There are sounds that probably represent Jen rummaging through her toy drawer, and then there’s something cool and squishy against my clit. I can’t identify which of her vibrators is, but frankly, I’m beyond caring – I just wiggle my ass in a way I hope is enticing and otherwise stay in my place.
The buzzing starts quiet and gentle, but it’s so welcome after waiting this long that I moan again, right at the back of my throat. She chuckles at me again and presses it a little harder against my cunt, the head of it broad and smooth and already getting soaked in my wetness. I wiggle my hips against it a little, desperate for more stimulation, and my Domme makes an approving sort of ‘hmm’ noise – I know she loves watching me hump things.
“Do you want it turned up?” she asks sweetly, as though she genuinely doesn’t know what my answer will be.
I nod even though she can only see the back of my head. “Yes please, Sir,” I whine, my hips grinding steadily harder against the source of the vibrations.
She turns it up. It’s quite a jump; my clit is now getting shaken to its core, and I have to stop moving my hips for a moment to adjust to the change. I didn’t realise exactly how much the movement of my glass plug had stimulated me, but I’m close to cumming already, the sensation of fullness and desperation starting to swell in my abdomen. My Domme clearly knows this better than I do, because she starts to move my plug again with her free hand, a little more firmly and quickly than before.
“I don’t want you to ask permission this time, little one,” she tells me in a low, hungry voice. “You’ve been so good that you can just cum whenever you need to. Just ride the wave for me…”
I start grinding against the head of the vibrator again, feeling the muscles in my cunt tense up. I’m squeezing my hands into tight, sweaty fists, whimpering quietly and curling my toes. The whole while, as the intensity of the feeling in my clit and my abdomen mounts, my Domme is still murmuring filth, and starting to push and pull on my plug, essentially fucking me very, very gently with it.
“Your wet little pussy looks so good like this,” she tells me, “with you bent over my futon, desperately humping a vibrator like the insatiable little slut you are. I can’t wait to sit you on my face later and make you scream… or maybe I’ll fuck you with a strap-on first, pound you so hard that your cunt bruises and you can barely sit down… I’ll make you scream, I just love the way you scream…”
I want to make this last, but it feels so damn good, and I’m so damn desperate, that when the vibrations are turned up again, I just hump the vibe harder and stop resisting. My thighs shake, and all of a sudden I’m at the edge, muttering, “Fuck, fuck, fuck –”
And then orgasm sweeps through me; I wail, every inch of me shaking and my cunt twitching uncontrollably, and all I can focus on is my Domme saying, “Oh, that’s so fucking hot! Cum for me, that’s a good girl…”
She knows my body so well that she pulls the vibe away the second my orgasm has subsided, so I don’t have to endure the prickly sensation of my clit getting overwhelmed. I sigh, unclench my fists and murmur, “Thank you, Sir,” into the fabric of the futon.
I feel my Domme’s hand close around the base of the plug again. “Don’t thank me yet, little one,” she purrs, her voice edged with menace. “I’m only just getting started.”
Morgan Pescheck is an up-and-coming blogger over at A Kinky Autistic, where they write about kink, autism, queerness and polyamory (whenever they're not busy with their BA English course, or knitting).
Find Morgan on Twitter at @KinkyAutistic