The Pleasure Dom

Online and in person, I was always beating around the bush, so to speak, flirting incessantly but shying away from saying the words out loud—I want to fuck you. And here he was, texting me about how he wanted to have me on his bed, hearing how loud I’d moan for him, feeling how wet I’d get, watching me shake from it all. His frankness terrified me. But I couldn’t hide how turned on I was from it all. 

He was ten years older than me, from a different country, and he proudly advertised himself as a pleasure dom. All of these were firsts for me. We met on a sex app, too; the scariest first of all. But something about him seemed familiar, genuine, and I wanted to lean into it. He’d chosen his photos well: no mirror selfies, nothing blurry, nothing cliche or overly posed. Mostly, there were pictures of him traveling, smiling lightly at the camera, well-dressed. His dark eyes were intense, and the more we talked, the more the close-up photo of his abs at the gym caused that familiar thrumming in my stomach. He asked if I’d like to meet him at a cafe. My eagerness surprised me. 

We started off with small talk, but it quickly devolved into sexting once the plan was set in motion. 

Daddy’s excited to play with you. I can’t wait to hear how you react when I go down on you. 

For once I was out of words—I’m blushing already… If this is how you text I can’t wait to see how you are in person. 

I can’t wait to taste your pussy. Is it already dripping wet for me? 

It was. I let him pick my outfit: he told me to wear my thigh high stockings, my plaid skirt. He offered to meet in his apartment outright—he had a zoom meeting, and how hot would it be if I sucked him off under the table? It would be hot, I responded, but let’s meet in public first. I still had a little bit of caution. 

He didn’t know I’d be wearing my favorite thong, red lace, ‘ouvert’—open crotch style, and the matching bra, low cut, hugging my tits and hiking them higher under my tight black sweater. It would be hard for him to look away. Walking out of the train, every head turned to appraise me. Could they tell I was about to get fucked? My perfume was wafting around me— warm vanilla, girly, with a perverse underlayer of oud and musk. Damn. I was breaking necks. My curls were bouncing, unrestrained, glossy, untamed. The guitar blasting in my headphones was helping with the escapism—I felt unstoppable. 

We were meeting at a coffee shop around the block from his place, and I arrived just before him, squeezing my thighs under the table to relieve the overwhelming tension, the blood rushing to my clit. My nerves electrified every sensation. The smell of the chai, the bustle of the crowd, the dim lights. It was all already so sensual and then he walked in and my heart stopped. Our conversation was meaningless—I couldn’t look away from his full lips, his knowing smile. Here he was, just like the pictures, but now I could see that his eyes crinkled when he smiled, and hear how his Australian accent added a charming edge. Through my nerves I sussed that he’d gotten a haircut since his last picture: the sides were close-cropped, revealing just a bit of gray. I’d dated guys in their 20s who had started to bald, and never thought anything of it, but seeing this older man with thick, well-groomed hair was making me feel some kind of way. 

How did we look across the table together, leaning towards each other with that furtive, intense, eye contact? We were close to a university: did we look like a professor and student? I didn’t need more conversation; I surprised myself by turning down his offer to grab a drink. We could go straight to his. I needed this to begin. No caffeine, no cigarettes, nothing to get my blood pulsing faster. Just us, now. His hand grazed my back as he guided me down the street. I know how we must’ve looked. It was perverse. It was wonderful.  

He worked in finance, and his apartment showed off his success: it was spotless, with luxurious, well-designed furniture, a massive TV, floor to ceiling windows boasting a view of the skyline. I saw his desk, and imagined kneeling under the leather seat, feeling his legs shake as he tried to gain composure, his hands pushing my head further down as he droned on about stocks and trading. But for now, I sunk onto his plush, black leather couch, his arm wrapped around me. Was it the smell of the fabric or his cologne driving me crazy? There was something clean, masculine in the air: the scent of someone who meticulously took care of his life, cleaned his apartment before he brought girls over, wore expensive aftershave. So different from the boys my age. He was distinguished, serious, professional, and I wanted it, I wanted it, I wanted it. The small talk faded fast as we looked into each other’s eyes. We’re not going to last long like this, are we? He laughed. I shook my head. 

Our first kiss melted the tension. When foreplay starts, everything else fades away for me. Logically, I know he’s pulling me into his lap, I’m wrapping my hands around the back of his neck, we’re breathing heavy, he’s already hard under me, but really, it all feels like a heady, wonderful dose of pleasure. I catch my breath as he lifts me up, takes me to his bed, pushes my skirt up. You’re going to like this next part, he warns me, and kisses his way down my stomach. I don’t know what he’s doing with his tongue, but it’s soft, insistent, warm. I feel my body responding, the moans begin soft. He pulls my thighs further apart. His hands are strong, adding a whole different tension to the already tight elastic of my knee socks. I don’t want to cum yet, I want to feel him inside me, so I grasp his hair to pull him up. I taste myself on his tongue, warm and like wild lemon, musky, natural, intense. I’m unbuckling his belt, and his cock springs out against his abs. I lunge to take him in my mouth fully: his length tickles the back of my throat. I’m hollowing out my cheeks, pushing myself deeper and deeper, encouraged by the low sounds he’s making. Somehow he’s able to narrate the whole thing, teasing me about how much I must love it, what a natural I am on my knees, how pretty I look when I deepthroat, and what a good girl I am to take daddy’s cock so well. Giving head turns me on like crazy. My nipples are hard. I need him inside me. If it started out fuzzy, now that the subspace has taken over, all I know is that this is good. This is pleasure. He starts with me on my stomach, face pressed against the expensive fabric of his pillow, back arched, legs pushed wider by his knees. I’m still in my skirt: it’s pushed up like a garter belt around my waist, but my underwear’s off, my sweater and bra discarded somewhere on his floor. You ready for my cock, baby? He enters slowly, with control, inch by inch, until I feel the soft hair around his dick pressing against my pussy. Then, he slams into me. Fuck. He corrects my arch, pushes my shoulders into the bed.

The pretty accent he has turns commanding, assertive, safe. I’m fully submitting. This is my favorite place to be, full of abandon, full of pleasure. He wants it just as bad as I do. God, you love taking my cock, don’t you? Listen to the sounds you’re making. Such a good girl. Through the condom I can feel the shape of his tip against my g-spot. He’s going fast. Hard. My hair is getting wrecked, he’s using it like a handle, pulling my head up to watch my pretty face as I moan. It’s a good thing the apartment’s walls are thick, baby, you’re so loud when I’m fucking you so hard. Can you take it? Tell me how much you need me, tell me how much you need daddy’s cock so deep inside you. My first orgasm blooms. I’m almost ashamed by how loud he’s making me moan. Want to be my fucktoy baby? Want me to use you? Yes, yes, yes. 

He maneuvers me onto my back, on the edge of his bed, and he’s standing over me. Want me to use my vibrator, baby? Tell me you want daddy to use his vibrator on you. Tell me how much you want to be good for me. I’d known he liked toys—it was in his bio—but watching him select his favorite is driving me crazy. He pulls out a palm sized vibrator, pearly white and gold, and places it between us. Turn it higher, daddy. I barely know what I’m saying. God, yes, make me cum, let me cum on your cock, use your toy…. My speech is jumbled, and he’s laughing, teasing me, but he’s obliging, fucking me close, holding my ankles, sealing the space between us with the unyielding vibration of the toy.

Here’s the moment I return to again and again: He nearly pulls out, til just the tip of his head is inside me, then slams his way back in. Right as he’s fully inside, he lets my cries punctuate his rhythm, and pulls back out again. Slowly out, quickly in. Again, again, again, an overwhelming tempo. I’m pleading: I can’t take it, oh my god, fuck, oh my god, I can’t take it, fuck, it’s so good, fuck don’t stop, it’s too much, but I love it, yes, fuck, yes, ah! My vision goes out. He keeps it going til my orgasm’s intensity recedes, then pulls me off the bed, positions me on my knees. 

Want to make daddy happy? Suck me off. Be good and go nice and deep. There’s something about a good fuck that makes me competitive. I want to reciprocate the pleasure he gave me fully, so I pull out all the stops. I lick his balls, the soft skin of his perineum, stroke him firmly, one hand on the shaft, the other around his tip. Then, I deepthroat him, watching his reaction. I know how I must look, messy, obsessed, and this is what I adore, the power in being submissive, following someone else’s demands to get them to a place they could never get to alone. When he can no longer taunt me with his narrations, I know he’s close, and with his cock so deeply down my throat, his cum goes down easily. 

I’m sad that I can’t taste it for longer. I want to make a mess. He conjures the last of his strength and lifts me to the bed. We lay back in a comfortable silence, our breaths synced, our limbs entangled, our hearts pounding. 

Photo by Inna Mykytas