At His Hands

The clock shines at 4:36am. I sigh and stir under the comforter. My mind won’t rest. I was jolted back by a far-off noise, dreams and reality clashing. Now I am wide awake, met by full silence in the dark. My thoughts refuse to settle.

I feel his hand slide over my waist. He sleeps lightly too.

I roll over and nuzzle into his chest, his arms automatically wrapping tightly around me. It’s the warmest and safest place I know. He smoothes his hand over my hair repeatedly, he knows this sends me into bliss. I feel small and safe in his arms. Protected, sealed off from everything but him.

He strokes me at the curve of my back, onto my rump, and over each of my thighs, the lightest of caresses on my skin. He finishes the circuit up over my shoulder and onto the small of my back again. He does this repeatedly. His need to touch me is as great as my need for his attention ~ his hands are always on me in reverent homage. It feels natural. In fact, it feels strange when they are absent.

“Better?”

“Much.” I’ve curled into him, pressing myself against every part of him, seeking the warmth dancing on his naked skin. I run my hands through his fine chest hair and plant wet kisses along the path my fingers have made.

I look up. There’s a sliver of light cutting through the heavy curtains, and I can see a slight glimmer in his blue eyes. I can’t help but smile when I think of his eyelashes curling only at the outer edges, the waves in his hair unruly and flecked with red like my own. He looks like a boy at times, his laugh almost resembling a giggle, his story telling was animated, no detail missed. But he was also very much a man, the only man I had ever had a D/s relationship with. We fell into our roles almost instantaneously. I recall lying in bed moons ago, in the midst of our first marathon snuggling session, when he fired off a question out of the blue.

“Would you say you have an above average sex drive?”

“Yes” I answered, partially stunned. I felt like I was being interviewed.

“And would you say you were Dominant or Submissive in your tastes?”

I remember grinning like a small girl.

“Both.”

Those questions dripped with the promise of what was to come, and I remember feeling alive and on heat with dark desire right there. It was soon understood that the only price to pay, for our wants, to our agreement, was that my body was always available for his pleasure. Of course, this suited me perfectly, I was rarely satiated. I quickly discovered that he was the dirtiest man I had ever met. His mind was filthy, and constantly filled with ways to tie me up and restrain me, slapping me around, fucking me over and over in his head. I was his whore, he was my Master. I lived to please, and to be pleased in kind.

There was a beautiful and tender side to him as well. He went to great lengths to take care of me, showing me each day how he loved me unconditionally. He spoiled me regularly, even did my laundry. Lived to see me smile, eased my burden continually.

I slip back to the first time I visited his house. It was also the first time the Naughty Secretary came out to play. I wore my grey skirt that was cut above the knee. It hugged my arse and thighs. My black blouse was sheer and smooth. Around my neck I wore a strand of sparkling black glass beads. My stilettos were the finishing touch, the straps hugging my ankles. I was confident that my appearance would please him immensely, but I was also giddy at the prospect of our first lovemaking session.

I smile when I think about him slowly stripping me that night. Tying my hands down spread across the bed, my thong and heels the only articles left on. He coated his hands with sesame oil and dripped it over my breasts. It slithered a path down to my belly.

“I’m going to rub you down, and using this oil, it will feel like you have 3 hands simultaneously running all over your body. And once I’m done, I’m going to untie you and fuck you, fuck you my way.

Slick oil shined all over me, his hands running over my hard nipples, the soft of my belly and waist, around the tops of my thighs. He peeled away my thong and poured oil over my bare pussy, caressing the warmth into the soft lips of my sex. They were already wet and ready for him. He opened me slowly, his tongue flickering over my clit, my legs spreading with every thrust forward. His fingers exploring my flesh, coaxing more wetness. He suckled greedily at my cunt and I came hard, my hands pulling on the restraints. I was left gasping, limp and bound.

He withdrew his fingers from me, and kneeling beside me, rubbed my arousal over his engorged cock. I was heady from my climax, but watching him stroke himself inches away from my face sent a shiver through my body. I wanted more, my pussy ached to be fucked. I wanted him to reprimand me. I wanted it to hurt. I wanted him to growl in my ear, licking and nipping at my neck as he did so. He untied me.

“On your front.”

I didn’t dare deny him, and obediently positioned myself face down on the mattress. He entered me from behind with full force, fucking me on the edge of the bed, pulling at my hair and grabbing at my skin. He marked me, imprinted me with his brute force, and later that day I left his house with over 30 bruises on my body. The purple marks of our desire burned under my clothes, their heat a constant reminder of our nocturnal union. The biggest was a hand print he left on my back, from where he had held me down, crashing into me as he came hard into my warm cunt.

The memories of our early romance have made my eyes heavy. I sigh and stare out the window at the morning sky. Starry jewels wink back at me.

“You’re never allowed to leave here,” he quietly whispers in my ear as he rolls me back onto my side, his body tight against mine.

There’s some peace I find in his possession. His hands move over my skin with delicate precision. It’s almost like he’s studying every curve of me, a sculptor recording every inch of me for replication. Wearing away at my frame, polishing the round of my rump, the curve of my breast, the flair of my hip. If he were to go blind tomorrow the image of me had been burned in his brain countless times, he’d recall everything. Every muscle, every sigh, every secret spot he’d uncovered. I was pliable under his hand, he saw everything through his fingertips.

He knew me like no other.

I close my eyes, and at his hands, I am gently lulled to sleep.

4 Responses to “At His Hands”

  1. Absolutely delicious. 🙂 He is a very fortunate man.

  2. NS,

    “He suckled greedily at my cunt”. Beautiful! 😉

  3. Naughty Secretary Says:

    cajunag ~ I’m flattered you think so. Thank you.

    Miss Minx ~ Nothing like a determined boy at hand, or with mouth, as it seems to be in this instance…

  4. Beautiful post. Both in its sentiments and its style. I adore to hear those few words whispered, murmured, growled, ‘You belong to me’, ‘You’re mine’. That possession is so comforting. And it works in the reverse direction on an altered plane.

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