BDSM Sex-Club Fantasy Part Two: Owning Mr Muscles

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I just want to bring this up, because it bothers me: please don’t think that because I write about him, I’m extoling the virtues of body perfect. The character Mr Muscles is purely fictional. And though I do wax lyrical about his power and his body, the focus lies in what’s happening within the context of the story. I’m submissive by nature, here I’m exploring how it might feel for me to be on the flipside with an enormously powerful man, who’s yielding to me sexually.

I’m a body-positive person, a complete believer in it’s not how you look, but how you behave with and get on with the people you care about that matters. Sexually, the biggest attractions for me personally are confidence, mutual respect and joy in each other’s company. Being able to open yourself and let go in the vulnerability of the moment. These details are far more important to me than the size, height, weight, body proportions or even the age within a wide-scoping reason of my sexual partners.

But I have been there. I had some pretty horrible comments from people about parts of me when I was young that left me with body image issues for a long time. I’ve worried about my weight, how random strangers perceive me, and felt deep unhappiness about certain parts of my body.

But I’m glad to say that in recent years, I’ve given up these hangups and accepted myself as the constantly changing creature I am. It doesn’t matter one bit, what a random stranger makes of me, in the circle of my world, I’m content as I am.

This story is set in a BDSM sex club, there is consensual impact play.

Owning Mr Muscles – A Story of Female Dominance

Continuing from Part One.

He slipped off the checkered armband, then taking the hem of his T-shirt in both hands, he pulled it slowly off himself, revealing a washboard of a stomach, some heavily muscled pecks, hairy armpits. And then his sloping traps and finally those biceps I know so well. I swallowed a sudden excess of saliva. He slid the white band up his left arm.

Then he undid his shoes, kicked them off and took off his socks. Standing facing me in just his jeans, and he looked exactly like one of those huge film stars from the 1980s, unreal. His hands moved to his belt.

“Stop,” I said.

He stood very still, hands by his sides, staring at me again, his face a rigid wall in his anger, and fear thrilled through me. I automatically dropped my eyes to his feet. I was struggling with my natural submissiveness. I was thrown.

It’s just that it’s him; he does things to me.

I summoned my reserve, and steeling myself, I looked back at his eyes. His expression was still rigid with irritation, but the lines around his eye were betraying his amusement.

Stepping towards him, I watched his eyelids lower as he kept my face the focus of his attention. His eyelashes were long, and with the spotlights shining down, his eyes became dark and shadowy, glinting at me and again I thrilled.

Taking Control

Standing immediately in front of him, I touched the white band on his arm, reminding myself who was in charge. And then I trailed my fingertips from his collarbone down, over his left nipple, over the hard slopes of his pecks and down further, over the ridges of his stomach, to his belt, and his eyes were glinting at me in their shadow.

I ran my fingers over the leather of it, slipped one in and pulled it open, freeing it, sliding it from the loops of his jeans. In the silence of the room, the noise of it, as it dragged over the denim, uhh, my clit pulsed. I put the belt aside.

Not touching him, I came to face him again and watching his eyes, I popped the top button of his jeans. Holding eye-contact, I popped the next and the next until they were all open. His expression didn’t change. Still holding his eyes, I ran the nails of my fingers around the thatch of his hair there, felt his warm, smooth dick growing, tickling against the sides of my brushing fingers. Cupping his balls, I felt them moving against my palm, his dick tick-tocking upward with his pulse.

Our eyes still locked, I took his dick into my other hand and squeezed it hard. He rewarded me with the slightest reaction, his lips parting just a tiny bit, right at the centre of his mouth. I got down onto my knees before him, still holding eye-contact, and angling his dick towards my mouth, I kissed the tip of it with my lips, the lightest touch.

Still watching his eyes, I licked at his tip with my tongue, swirling around it, licking as though he were a melting ice-cream and I wanted to catch every last drop. And though I hadn’t meant to, I sucked him in hard, I let my lips slide down over the length of his dick to the very base, held him deeply inside, and then slid off again.

He closed his lips, and his eyes had changed, darker than before.

He Submits to Me

There was a defiance in him that did not lend itself well to being a sub, at all. I knew he was waiting for me to chastise him, subdue him, for just staring his impertinence at me. And so, we stared at each other for what felt like an age, and I was aware of his dick right there at lip-level.

I let him go, stood up, stepped back away from him.

The way he was staring at me, the fact he was challenging me to command him was destroying my control over my body. And all at once, I became aware of my horny heat, and how thoroughly randy I was feeling. Uhh, how wet I was. I swallowed again, and watched his amusement growing.

“Eyes down,” I said.

He held my eyes for another long insolent moment, and then he finally cast them down. And it had the strangest effect on me. I felt like I had become a spectator.

To break the feeling, I held my hand in his line of vision and gestured to him to turn a circle. He raised his arms, palms up and he did so. Slowly. Giving me ample time to survey the slopes and ridges of his impossible body. And it did not help my horny heat.

It was as though the lighting in the room was designed to display him. That such a powerful person, all that strength and all that anger, was prepared to yield to me, uhh. A wave of dizzy disbelieve rushed over me, making me feel euphoric, enabled.

Reaching out, I let the fingertips of my right-hand trail over the slow turn he was making, feeling those warm ridges under my cool fingers, his back, his hip. He completed his turn with my fingertips in the middle of his stomach.

His jeans had slid down to his mid thighs. Uhh and he looked so sexy like that.

He was looking at me again, his eyes mocking, and beautifully amused.

In a split-second decision, I raised my arm and gave him an openhanded slap on the cheek. It was hard, and the sharp crack of noise disturbed the silence of the room. My hand began to sing.

There was a fleeting alteration in his expression, though he did not betray any shock. For the merest microsecond, he still held my eyes, though his look had changed, the barest hint of a smile now, just there at the corner of his mouth. And then he looked down at my feet again.

“Mistress,” he said, accepting my dominance.

I gestured him to the cross and he turned to face it. I moved behind him, reached up and fastened his wrists into the shackles at the top of the cross.

Flogging Him

Taking the floggers then, I swooshed them in slow circles, getting a feel for them, and when I felt as though I had the weight straight in my mind, I began.

The floggers kissed the skin around his shoulders, I was gentle, careful not to let them wrap around him. It began to mesmerise me, watching the tails stroke down over his skin after the thwack of the initial contact. He did not move, nor did he make a sound.

I switched my focus to his ass, swinging the floggers so they flipped down, stroking over it, one after the other. How the tails trailed downwards, the rhythm of the strikes, how delicious they sounded to me. I was losing myself. I could feel sympathetic warmth building over my own ass, and ooh, the heat around my pussy, as his ass began to glow.

“Harder please, Mistress,” he said, surprising me out of my whipping daze.

Increasing my speed, the volume of the impact grew in the quietness of the room. His ass became alarmingly red.

“Please, Mistress,” he said again.

And so, I increased my swing. His whole body tightened, his muscles taut, and he moved with the strokes. And it was so hot to see him straining to take the pain. I became tense, aware of the power I was using on him, knowing from my own experience how much this must hurt.

He said it again, “please.”

And his voice was cracked with pain.

Though I know how it is when you need to be hurt; I was not enjoying inflicting this level of pain. But I increased my speed and struck him a few more times, and he was grunting now.

Once more, he said it, but I would not go harder.

When I stopped, he let out another frustrated grunt of a noise, his wrists straining at the shackles, and oh, how hot and vulnerable he looked.

I put the floggers back, took some oil and spilled it over his back and ass, rubbed it in gentle, tender circles over his skin, the heat radiating out of him, my hands gliding over the contours of his back. I spent some time just massaging the muscles of his ass, first firmly, gradually lightening my touch until it was so light, I knew it was a sweet agony over the pain for him. Then, I let my hands wander around to the front of him, and with both hands, I oiled up his warm, rock-solid cock, gliding them one, then the other down the length of him with no let-up, until he moaned.

The Mirror-Wall

I freed his wrists and he stood there, waiting for me to tell him what to do. I took his hands in mine and wrapped his belt around them, securing them behind his back.

“Turn around,” I said, and he did so.

I stared up at his face, but he kept his eyes downcast. Moving back behind him again, I stood close to him and pressed myself to the side of him, the material of my dress against his oily back and right ass cheek. Reaching one arm around his hips, I let my fingernails run over his abs, down to the hair around his crotch. He did not move, and though I could tell his breathing had changed, he did not make a sound. I could see him in the mirror-wall, his eyes still downcast and me standing behind him, stroking his oily dick.

“Look at yourself,” I told him.

He lifted his head and looked at his reflection. His form tall and proud, his jeans still pulled down around his thighs and his cock in my hand.

I slipped my other hand between his legs, pressed my wrist right up into the crack of his still smarting ass, cupped his balls in my hand and squeezed them, pulled them toward me, just enough to cause pain, and his breath was the quietest exhalation of a reaction. Holding his balls a little tighter than necessary, I started to wank him, rhythmically.

I watched his reflection, one arm through his legs grasping his balls, the other wrapped tightly around his body clutching and pumping his dick. And there I was, and the lighting was doing beautiful things to my body in this dress. And with him standing there, his jeans around his thighs, losing himself to pleasure, I began to feel languid, wanton and powerful, just watching myself wanking him.

After a minute of my unrelenting wanking of his dick, his breathing changed and I knew he was getting close, despite the pressure-pain in his balls. I watched his reflection, his eyes met mine, and I brought him right to the edge, his lips parted, his breath coming fast.

And then I let him go.

I freed his wrists from the belt, came round in front of him. And it pleased me enormously that he did not meet my eyes at all this time.

“Take them off,” I said, gesturing at his jeans.

Face-Fucking

He rubbed his wrists, and then slid them down his legs, pulling them off. He stood in all his naked glory before me, and my eyes were drawn to his dick again. It was pulsing with his heartbeat.

“On your knees,” I said.

He got down to his knees, one and then both. Pulling the deep V of my dress open, I freed my tits and taking his head in my hands, I brought his mouth to my right nipple. He sucked it in, his enormous hands coming up to hold my hips, and I let him. His hands slid around to cup my buttocks, and he pulled me fast against him, so my pelvis angled upwards and my mons pressed into the hardness of his chest, uhh clit pulsing, and he was still sucking deeply at my tit. The tease was just gorgeous, and I could feel my juices on my inner thighs, gathering at the top of my stockings.

I bid him lie down on the floor and he did so. Pulling my dress up around my waist, I stood over his head in my fuck-me heels, my legs spread open, and he looked up at the crack of my ass, my glistening cunt, upward to the undersides of my exposed tits and then my eyes.

“Please,” he said again.

And so, I got down on my knees over his head and pressed my cunt onto his face, felt his tongue exploring my creases, slipping inside me and it felt so good.

He wrapped his arms around my thighs next to his head and pulled me even harder onto his face, his head nodding against me, chin at my asshole. And then he sucked my clit into his mouth, and as my orgasm drew close, I began to fuck his face, my hips moving and bucking against him. And I came hard, moaning and straining, with his face buried in my cunt, he sucked and lapped at me until I was done.

When I moved, he let my thighs go. I stood over him again, and he was staring up at my ticking, buzzing cunt, his face slick with my juices. I let my fingers stroke over my sex, pushed a couple inside, and he licked his lips his eyes stoked with desire. His cock was standing out, a thick long line pointing upwards towards his naval.

“Stand up,” I said, and he did.

He Begs

Again, I tied him to the cross, this time with his back to it, facing the mirror and I poured oil over his dick, and began wanking him again. His eyes were dark, his lips parted and he watched my hand sliding up and down his oily shaft, wanking him fast, and furiously, bringing him right to the edge. And then stopping. He turned his eyes to the mirror, groaning.

And then I wanked him to the edge again, slower this time and stopping just short. His arms tensed, and he was pulling against the bindings, but they would not release him. He groaned and I slapped his face again, light, just enough to shock, to bring him back. Another groan, his eyes met mine and there was some pleading agony in them.

“Eyes down,” I said again.

And he lowered them, blinked at his straining dick and with him watching I wanked him, slowly, rhythmically to the edge and stopped one more time.

“Please, Mistress,” he said.

And so I let him have it, I brought him oh so slowly right to the agonised edge again, and I slowed my pace even more, the lightest touch, kept him there the longest time. He was grunting, his hips trying to buck me faster, but I denied him. Kept him on the brink until I could see tears in his eyes.

“Please,” he whispered.

And only then did I speed up my pace, and groaning, he came hard, an almighty, spurting orgasm, his jizz firing upwards, hitting his chin and my exposed tits, then dripping down those straining pecks and over his stomach. All his muscles straining and shuddering with his release, tears on his cheeks.

And when I freed him, he got to his knees in front of me, lifted his head to my tits, licked his jizz from them and suckled me again, while I wanked myself to another powerful orgasm, looking down at him all the while.