Time to drink your coffee
Erotica, September 5th, 2018
The coffee pot sat on the draining board. There was just enough of the near black liquid inside to make a single mug. Not that I was allowed to touch it. Mistress had been quite clear on that point. She would make my morning coffee.
My place was at the door of the kitchen on my knees with my legs spread and my hands on my head. Already she’d used me once that morning, a continuation of the abuse meted out to me the night before. It would no doubt continue as she had a week’s mandatory vacation, something she always found frustrating.
Mistress, the name my beautiful wife had chosen for herself when she came to own me, was busying herself preparing her own morning coffee. She was tall and shapely, a woman whose physical presence alone dominated a room. When combined with her strong personality and extreme self-confidence she became a woman who got what she wanted from whomever she demanded it of. It was how I, the executive in charge of a multi-billion dollar hedge fund, came to be her husband and slave of a beautiful accounts clerk. She had announced it was what would happen one morning in bed and I had no choice but to accept what seemed so right.
My eyes followed her around the kitchen as she went about her task. She wore a white cotton unitard which clung to every gorgeous curve on her body and moved with her so perfectly. When she turned the fabric was stretch so taut across her large backside that it turned pink as the skin beneath showed through. I admired her bottom, worshipped it and flashed memories through my head. Including the memory of being crushed beneath it only that morning as I’d worshipped her pussy to orgasm.
“Eyes down,” she said without looking at me.
I lowered my gaze to the floor.
Two mugs were brought down. Hers was plain white, mine was decorated with the phrase “This mug belongs to a sex pervert”. It was hand prepared, something I’d been required to do in one of those novelty ceramic places where parents take children and would-be artists go to practice their craft. Coffee was poured, hers from the fresh pot she’d prepared in the machine, mine from the one that had rested on the draining board. She brushed past me and sat on the captain’s chair at the head of the table. A click of her fingers and I was at her feet.
As she sipped from her own hot coffee she looked me up and down, her dark brown eyes penetrating deep inside me. Even though I’d been hers for more than half a decade she still had the ability to make me feel worthless just with her gaze and that flick of her thin sculptured eyebrow.
“You did well with your tongue this morning,” she told me matter-of-factly. “I think you did well holding me on edge like that.”
“Thank you, Mistress,” I replied. I felt pride.
“You also did well last night with the strap-on,” she added.
“Thank you, Mistress,” I replied again. I hoped my pride wasn’t showing on my face. Mistress didn’t like such displays.
She gestured and I stood, still with my hands on my head.
“How long has it been now?” she asked.
“Three weeks and four days, Mistress,” I told her. I’d counted every day.
Her hand reached out and her nails gently scratched my testicles. When I flinched she glared at me.
“What’s your record, slave?” she demanded, placing extra emphasis on the word “slave”.
“Nine weeks, two days, Mistress,” I said.
“Do you want to double that?”
Mistress leant back in her chair and casually played with the thin gold chain around her neck. Hanging from it like a pendant was a small silver key.
“I’m going to unlock you, slave,” she told me. “Two reasons for it. First is because you’ve done so well you’re going to get a treat. Second is because Madame Maxine is having a private party tonight, so we’re going to go to town to get my outfit and you’re getting waxed.”
“Yes, Mistress,” I said, trying to contain my excitement. “Thank you, Mistress.”
Carefully she removed the chain from her neck and slotted the key into the small brass padlock that rested on the top of the plastic cage and which was shielded with black rubber. Once removed she placed it on the table next to her cup, then slid the cage off. I felt cool air on my cock for the first time in three weeks and it twitched a little in excitement at its new found freedom.
“Not yet,” Mistress told me sternly.
It was hard to focus on something else as her fingers worked on removing the ring at the base of my genitals. She pushed my small, flaccid penis back through the ring, holding it delicately in finger and thumb as she worked my balls out one at a time. When each popped through the plastic circle I felt slightly winded, which brought a smile to my lips that I had to fight back.
“My god,” she said in surprise, “I’d forgotten how small that thing was.”
It was true. Weeks locked away without use had turned my cock, already barely average, into a small button that protruded from my groin. It looked pale and pathetic, more so in the darker skin of her fingers as she turned it this way and that. Then she let it fall and rose to her feet, handing me my mug.
I looked down at the contents. It was mostly black with a little white froth that seemed to be fading.
“Coffee’s almost ready,” she told me. “I used the cold dregs from my cups yesterday, plus some of the tea left in the pot. I gave it a bit of extra texture when I spat in it while I was brushing my teeth.”
Suddenly the “coffee” didn’t seem so appetising. I drank cold black coffee regularly, but this was something else. To drink Mistress’s discarded drinks was an honour, I knew that, so too was to kneel at her side as she brushed her teeth so she could use my mouth as a place to spit. But together it somehow seemed more disgusting.
“You’ll need whitener,” she mocked.
I knew what she meant and reached down to my groin.
“It’s pretty simple,” she told me. “Sixty seconds to cum. If you do you get to be my sex slave at the party tonight, which means you get to put that inside me. Fail and you get to be my cuck, which means someone else gets to fuck me and you have to clean up.”
“Yes, Mistress,” I said.
I reached down and started playing with myself. It barely was long enough for a thumb and two fingers, but as I teased it so it started to lengthen. But slowly. Oh so slowly.
“What’s up? Isn’t the idea of sex with Mistress enough to make you cum?” she teased.
I was so conflicted. The pleasure of sex with Mistress was balanced so finely with the need for humiliation as her cuckold. Knowing that other men and women would see me in such a state, see how completely she owned me, that was thrilling. I would clean her pussy so eagerly just to show the others in the room what an obedient and loyal slave she had.
Mistress was there looking at me, smiling her cruel, tormenting smile. Her figure was perfection: wide hips, a tucked waist and full bossom achieved through her commitment to be the best she could be. The flat stomach, broad shoulders and strong arms evidence of how hard she worked at the gym and in her lifestyle to be the Goddess men worshipped. She could have any man she wanted, sometimes she did, and all I could do was stand by powerlessly and watch because she’d taken ownership of my soul long ago.
“You love to worship my body, don’t you, slave?”
Had she said those words or was I imagining them? My excitement was growing, my orgasm coming close. Her bottom, her beautiful wide bottom, filled my view and I imagined myself diving in between her buttocks and wallowing in their soft warmth.
“You look so stupid when you wank,” she quipped. “Your face has gone all red and sweaty.”
She was laughing. It was more than her physical beauty, it was her ability to read me like a book and respond. She knew when I needed to be hurt, or pleasured. When I needed humiliation or teasing. There was no need for safe words or negotiation or aftercare. My submission to her was total and whatever happened did so because she knew it was what I wanted and needed.
Tonight, if I was allowed to have sex with her, it wouldn’t be the love making of man and wife. I would be humiliated for it. My performance would be rated and then, perhaps, she would have sex with another man to show me how it should be done. I would be beaten for being inadequate and degraded because that was all I was good for. And if, after we returned from the party with her exhausted from pleasure and me destroyed, she allowed me to hold her and rest my head on her warm breasts it would be because it was what I needed. If she rolled me on my back and sat over me, pressing her breasts onto my face as she rode me, well…
I could feel it building up inside me. My cock was hard, so hard that it hurt. My balls were tight. Orgasm was close.
“Please, Mistress, please may I cum?”
Her eyes turned to the clock on the wall. Had I taken too long? Would I be denied?
“No,” she said. “Wait.”
It was what I needed. I needed to feel the agony of an orgasm denied, of my own body being controlled by her. Her eyes fixed on mine, challenging me, daring to disobey her command and bring with it all the hell that she could unleash. I resisted the challenge.
Could I last longer though? Could I control my orgasm having not been able to achieve one for nearly a month?
“Now,” she commanded.
My body relaxed and I felt the orgasm push through. My cock twitched, then jerked as pent up hot cum sprayed in to the mug. It splashed loudly, floating for a moment before sinking into the depths. A second pulse of cum shot out, then a third and then my cock started to wilt and with it came the gentle ooze of white semen falling slowly into the mug and mixing with the disgusting drink.
“All done?” she mocked.
“Yes, Mistress,” I told her.
“Still looks a little wet,” she said.
I wiped my cock on my left hand and then raised it to my mouth, licking the small trail of stickiness off.
“Good boy,” she told me. “Now drink it up.”
I looked down at the drink in the mug. It was dirty brown with globules of cum and toothpaste spit floating and bobbing on its surface.
“Yes, Mistress,” I said and raised it to my lips.