This post contains strong language (L) and anal play (A).
This story contains BDSM in the context of a consensual female-dominated sexual relationship. MH acknowledges that this content will be controversial, especially among Christians. We do not believe that humiliation or degradation should occur in any relationship, but we understand that consensual role-play of that nature is attractive to some.
We have created a discussion post to allow for discussion of this topic entitled “Can Sexual Domination be Christian?” Please add to the conversation with your thoughts and experiences. One of the reasons we exist is to allow civil communication and shared insight on difficult subjects.
It’s 92 degrees today, and I know I should be less demanding of my slave husband Corey’s chores, but the weeds in my vegetable gardens won’t wait to be pulled until it is a pleasant 75 degrees with a calm 5-mile-per-hour breeze. No, that kind of weather won’t be around again for several more weeks. Therefore, he will simply have to endure the heat and the sun and weed the gardens in the nude with his slave harness on and his erection poking straight ahead as if it is giving directions which way to go down the garden rows. I watch him work from my favorite bench swing sipping on my Mango iced tea. I’m dressed in one of his tank tops and nothing else, either underneath or down below. It’s simply too hot to wear any more clothing than that in our private back yard on our 20-acre ranch. I observe the sweat form on his naked flesh as he kneels between the potato plants and the cabbage rows, dutifully uprooting the stubborn weeds. God used to curse Adam and made his garden-tending a whole lot more difficult. My thoughts drift to when I saw him almost as sweaty and almost as naked when we enjoyed an anniversary trip to Negril, Jamaica many years ago.
I’m Mistress S. and Corey is my willing slave husband. We have told you before in previous stories that Corey is still the spiritual leader of the home but has wisely delegated to me the right to manage him (while on the ranch) and the ranch itself as I see fit. He reserves for himself the authority over our finances, spiritual guidance, and shared but remained the ultimate discipliner of our children when they were younger. (We are empty-nesters now.) In any other area of our lives, he delegates authority to me: the ranch and what it needs for maintenance—including his slave schedule for ranch and house chores—his diet, his exercise schedule, our sexual activities, and his attire on the ranch, which is usually no attire at all.
Yes, it’s true tbat this unique relationship started very early in our courting days, as he said earlier in one of our posts, when I asserted control over how much sexual activity I would allow. I knew back then that I needed to control his sexual passions; otherwise, they would easily get out of control. That worked to keep both of us virgins until our wedding day.
It also taught me how keeping my fiancé horny and hungering for more could work to my advantage even after marriage. If we had intercourse three times a week, his sexual drive would be on simmer, not boiling. But, if I required oral sex only for two out of those three times and didn’t permit him to cum more than once a week, his sexual drive and subsequent desire to please me and shower me with affection stayed on high. It was a win/win. I got amazing oral sex often, and he got the pleasure of being on a sexual high daily.
Of course, I had to learn to tease him and bring him, again and again, to the point of orgasm without release during his off nights in order to keep his mind in a perpetual state of horniness and desire. That’s how he chose his username for MarriageHeat. TDX30 stands for teased and denied for 30 of my orgasms to his one, or if we lost count, 30 days between his orgasms.
Does he feel deprived? Not when we have 12 or more scheduled C & A—cunnilingus and analingus—sessions every month for an average of three a week that both he and I thoroughly enjoy. When he’s finished servicing my cunt and ass with his tongue and I have had no less than three orgasms each time with my Hitachi Magic Wand and my smaller Yarosi wand to finish me off, all I have to do is look at his transfixed face and his extremely erect cock to know he is one happy boy who won’t mind waiting until the 30 days are up to get his “rocks off,” as we say. Sometimes it’s sooner, but he never knows when.
But, back to my memories of Jamaica. Getting up from my bench swing, I tell Corey to drink some more of the water I have put out for him, finish the chores, and then come in and get showered up for dinner. He rises from all-fours and answers politely, “Yes, Mistress,” just as I expect him to do. His cock is just as hard as it was when he started on that weeding an hour and a half ago. I decide to go into the air-conditioned ranch house and pull out photos of our Jamaican vacation so many years ago since that’s where my thoughts and memories have taken me.
It was one of our important anniversaries, a milestone. By that time in our marriage, I was enjoying and had firmly secured my status as ranch and sexual mistress, and Corey had embraced his status as slave-at-home. We had kept our unique marriage a secret from all our friends except Kat, who discovered it many years earlier when I indiscreetly behaved in a domineering manner towards my slave husband in front of her. But again, I digress.
On this important anniversary coming up, slave suggested a full-fledged “mistress/slave vacation,” one where he and I could feel much more at liberty to reveal and live out our at-home lifestyle in public. He suggested a trip to Negril, Jamaica, and I agreed to his idea. It would be fun to live a little more on the edge and not hide what we were to one another. So, I let him plan it, and he found a small, mom-and-pop-type clothing optional resort called Firefly, where we could enjoy a week of sunning, walking the beaches, shopping, and relaxing in the amazing culture of “Ya man, no problem” (say it with a Jamaican accent) Jamaica.
A month before our trip, I took him to a swimwear store in a major city inside a major mall. They sold custom-made suits; you could pick out the style and fabric of the suit you wanted, and they would make it for you. I had them make a couple of bikinis for me, and I told the female clerk (Would there be any other kind in such a store?) to measure my husband for the smallest bikini-style they had in the store. She showed us a Rio-style suit that only covered half a man’s ass, and I said “yes.” She took his measurements, and after we picked out just the right shade of blue and gave a down payment, told us the suits would be ready in a few days. We were to come back and try them on to make sure we were comfortable with the fit.
I know Slave Corey was a bit embarrassed to have his measurements taken for a bikini, but that would be nothing compared to the fun I would have when returned to try on the suits. I didn’t then, and I don’t now, allow Corey to go anywhere without wearing a locked cock collar under his jeans. I want him to remember even at work that the cock attached to him belongs to me. That fitting coming up would be no exception. Call me a bitch if you want, but I saw no reason to relax my standards just because slave had to stuff his beautiful cock inside a sexy swimsuit and then come out of a changing room to see if the designer and I approved of the fit.
A few days later, that was exactly the scenario. I tried on my bikinis, and just as promised, they fit perfectly. Slave had to try on his as well, and he was a trooper. I don’t know how he managed to get his cock to shrink in size from what it normally would be, but somehow he did, and when he came out blushing and red-chested to display the suit for our approval, he had managed to get most of his cock and balls inside the very small amount of front fabric. Obviously, those who design such suits don’t expect the men wearing them to have erections because once they do, there is no room for a cock to go unseen. Slave’s equipment that day cooperated just enough to keep him from being X-rated. He told me after the fitting that he had to think about anything non-sexual he could to get his cock to shrink, even thoughts of modeling the swimsuit out in the middle of the mall. Somehow it must have worked. I didn’t know how it well that technique would work in Jamaica, though.
Then I took a closer look at his cock. Something wasn’t right. I couldn’t see the tell-tale signs of his locked cock collar under the suit. Usually the padlock sticks out with its pointy edges, but it was nowhere to be seen. I left the issue of the absence of his collar alone, not wanting to embarrass the young clerk, and decided I would bring it up in the Suburban on our way home.
“Why didn’t you wear your cock collar for the showing, and how did you manage to get it off?” I asked slave as he buckled up into the driver’s seat.
“I couldn’t get my erection to subside enough to fit inside the swimsuit, so I knew I would have to somehow get my collar off before I went out to show you and the clerk how the suit fit,” slave lamely answered. “It took about five minutes, but I finally managed to squeeze one ball through the collar and then the rest came off easily. My balls still ache from doing that,” he said confidently, thinking I would be understanding.
“And somehow you thought I would be okay with that decision?” I asked, using my mistress voice.
“I’m sorry, Mistress. I should have asked you first,” slave said, admitting his mistake.
“I probably would have given you the keys if you had asked for them, but since you directly disobeyed a clear instruction from me, you need to face the music. Before you start the engine, I want you to strip down so you are totally naked and put the collar back on. You must drive home naked and erect while I rest and nap. If I open my eyes and see your prick slumping over, you are in deep s*. Not only that, but you just earned yourself the pleasure of sleeping on the floor next to my bed,” I said with as much sternness as I could muster.
“Yes Mistress,” slave Corey obediently replied.
Having slave drive or ride naked in our tinted-window Suburban was not an unusual occurrence. I have insisted he travel without clothes on for several of our long-range trips, and we haven’t been pulled over by the police or state patrol on any of those excursions—not yet anyway. Just in case, though, I keep a pair of bikini undershorts in the console for him to quickly cover his genitals in case such a traffic stop should occur.
When we finally got home from our two-hour trip, I was extremely turned on. Several times during my “rest,” I opened my eyes to see slave doing his best, stroking his member to keep his cock sticking straight up. The sight of him obeying me in such an earnest way made my crotch start humming in anticipation of what I was going to do with him when I got home.
Seconds after the engine shut off, I had slave lying face up in my bed with his hands shackled behind him so that I could mount him as I always do. I slid his cock up my vagina without any need for lube and dangled my breasts just inches from his mouth. Every time he tried to raise himself up to kiss my nipples, I would pull away and say, “Not tonight, slave.”
Then I rode him slowly so as not to make him ejaculate inside me. Normally, I would allow him to orgasm and make him eat his cum afterward, but I insisted that he not have an orgasm for six weeks prior to leaving for Jamaica. I wanted him to be extremely horny, which makes him super compliant. So this night, with his cock filling my slippery cunt, I reached for my Magic Wand and played with my clit for at least 20 minutes.
You know the sounds coming from a woman’s vocal cords when she nears orgasm. They are hard to describe, but it is a universal language that every man and woman who has had sex knows intimately. She is so into her pleasure that the noise coming out of her is a distinct whimper and pre-orgasmic groans, a language all its own. If you know how to interpret, it sounds as if her clit says to her hands, “Please, don’t stop, please go faster, please don’t, I want more.” And then those whimpers lead to this: “Oh no, no, no, f*** no, here it comes!” Her head rolls back and she lets the waves of orgasmic electricity pulse through her body.
But we women know that the first one is only the starter. For we who are multi-orgasmic, a night of sex does not end until at least two more orgasms have finished us off. I tease my slave husband that God chose to make women the superior sex because he gave us the ability to have so many more orgasms than men in one night of sex. I say tease, but I do think we got the best design.
When I finished pleasuring myself on his pole, I lifted off of him and ordered him to the floor where he would spend the night. Without complaint, Slave Corey obeyed and took his bobbing cock with him to the floor to somehow get some sleep. I’m sure he hoped, when I got up at 3 a.m. or so to pee and stepped over him, that I would unshackle him and allow him to come up and sleep on the mattress, but no. I returned, stepped over him again, and crawled back into bed without saying a word. In the moonlight, I could see his cock sticking straight up in the air with his unabated sexual drive—oh, the power of dopamine—only to be left untouched by his hands or mine. I knew that if I recanted on my punishment he would not learn his lesson; besides, I intended to make him do a lot of sleeping on the floor when we reached Negril, so his ordeal this night and every night up until we left was good practice for him.
I had decided to do all the packing since, as mistress, it would be my choice to decide what he would wear when we got there. He didn’t ask what I packed, and if he had, I would have told him it was none of his business. But what he did not know was that I packed next to nothing for him to wear while I filled my travel bag with lots of fun clothes to wear in the tropics. Included on his side was no underwear, (why should there be any?) but two of his G-strings—one blue, one white see-through cotton—his new bikini, a pair of unlined spandex workout shorts that he would wear in public, and one tank top. He would also have the clothes he wore to the airport. Once in Jamaica, those airport clothes would be stowed away and worn only on the return trip since there was no need to wear them where we were going. Oh, and I also packed some shackles and padlocks, some rope—you know, the essentials for mild (if you want to call it that) bondage while there.
When the day came to depart for our trip, we left our house early for the airport, went through security, and headed to our gate of departure. The flight to Miami and then to Montego Bay was uneventful. Arriving in Montego Bay, we ordered a taxi to take us to Negril, a pleasant hour and a half trip along the coast of northwest Jamaica. We pulled up to Firefly Resort and paid the taxi driver our fare, then I made slave take our luggage through the gate to the office where we would be assigned our bungalow. The pretty Jamaican attendant gave us the rundown once we registered.
“The resort is clothing-optional up to a point,” she said. “The beach is clothes optional, and so is the bar, but when you get to this point of the resort,” and here she pointed to a spot on a path through a garden leading to more bungalows, “we require that men and women wear at least a G-string. Women may go topless throughout the resort, but as I said, at least a G-string beyond this point.”
I asked if it was alright if my male slave (I did; I called him that in front of her. What a rush!) wore a little genital jewelry while sunbathing such as a leather cock collar. She did not know about any such restrictions but said she would ask the owners later if it would be allowed. Then I asked about the seven-mile beach and what attire was acceptable for walking the beach, and she replied that women generally went topless, but not all beaches were nude beaches, so the minimal clothing necessary to walk the beach was, once again, at least a G-string for men and women. We thanked the pretty Jamaican girl and headed to our assigned bungalow.
Back then, the bungalows were more on the primitive side. There was no air conditioning, an amenity they must have thought unnecessary because of the cool ocean air. Average highs in the day hovered at 90 degrees and, at night, 80 degrees. The windows were little more than slats or shutters that could be pulled for privacy, but during the day and night, most guests kept them open to let in the sea breeze. The double size bed was nothing spectacular, but slave knew he wouldn’t be on it apart from sex, so whether it was soft or hard made little difference to him. I found it satisfactory.
Our bungalow was on the side of the boundary where G-strings were not required. We were not sure why such a boundary existed, but later we discovered that, beyond that point, guests and their lack of clothing could be seen from the street, and the owners did not want any complaints from passers-by.
After checking out our bungalow, I had slave first strip and then unpack. He didn’t question why I packed so few clothes for him to wear; I assume he concluded correctly that he wouldn’t be needing many. He hung the dresses in the closet and put my other clothes in the dresser drawers. When he was finished, I made him put on his leather cock collar, the one that evidently wasn’t tight enough to keep him from getting out of at the swimwear store. He dutifully locked it and knelt by my side awaiting further instructions.
Then I took the shackles out and joined slave’s hands behind his back. His cock was standing at attention as a good soldier should. I made him kneel by the foot of the bed and left the window slats open so that the room would stay somewhat cool from the breeze. He wouldn’t be seen by passers-by unless they intentionally peered through the screen door and window slats. If they did, well, then they were prying where their eyes shouldn’t go. Maybe I should have been more concerned about other people’s sensitivities, but the Jamaican air was already starting to intoxicate me and effectively remove my inhibitions.
I got out of my airport traveling clothes and into a bikini top and a flowing skirt with a floral print, deciding to go get the lay of the land for myself. It seemed like a good idea to figure out how all of this “worked.” I opened the screen door and walked out, leaving slave kneeling where I positioned him, and turned back to see exactly what people would if they passed by: my very handsome and muscular slave, kneeling with his cock sticking straight out in plain sight. The screen door and open slats did not obscure anyone’s view into our bungalow, but as I said, they would have to get up close and personal and peer in, and I doubted any would. Once my scouting trip was done, I’d ask him if anyone ogled him.
Leaving the bungalow, I headed for the shore and the beachside bar. There I found a few couples who had taken advantage of the clothing-free option, sunning themselves in the nude in the midday sun. The men seemed to think public nudity no big deal because their genitalia remained un-aroused. There were also two single gals in their later twenties or maybe early thirties, also nude. I wondered how slave would be able to handle that arousing scene—not my problem, though. I also saw many vendors plying their wares to the people on the beach.
I continued my stroll down the beach, thoroughly enjoying the view, the atmosphere, the sight and sounds, and the incredibly relaxing feeling one has when visiting the wonderful people of Jamaica. Couples passed me going the opposite direction as they strolled down the beach. Some of the women wore regular bikinis (no one-piece suits could be seen anywhere) but most of the women went topless and wore string bikinis. Most of the men wore boxer style swimsuits, but I occasionally saw a man wearing a bikini too. (They looked mostly European—the men, not the bikinis.)
I heard beautiful Jamaican music played on steel drums and watched lovely dark-skinned women of all sizes and ages selling their handmade items from booths. The smell of the famous jerk chicken wafted from some nearby restaurant. I passed massive beach fronts of the larger resorts with hundreds of lounge chairs and many younger couples sunbathing. Here also, the women wore mostly string bikini bottoms and went topless while the men had on typical boxer-style swimwear that hid whatever they had underneath.
The stresses of my normal life seemed to wash out of my body in the same way the waves of the ocean washed up on the shore. I could feel myself relaxing with every step. It was fun to stop and look at the items the women were selling and know that I would be returning later to purchase some as souvenirs of this trip. I had had my doubts about how this vacation would go, but strolling that beach in the most unhurried way made me glad I listened to slave Corey. This trip would be very good for my heart and soul.
As I strolled, I thanked God for my very loving husband who had offered himself to me many years ago as my servant slave to care for me, to love me, to serve me, and to be my life-partner. I also thanked Him that he made us male and female and gave us parts that could be sexually aroused and stimulated and give intense pleasure—often, if not daily, or even multiple times a day. That last thought made me smile, and under my breath, I said, “Thank you, God, for orgasms.” Then with a chuckle, I added, “and thank you for big dicks!” Then in a more serious tone, I said, “Thank you, God, for a loving and devoted husband who leads me in devotions every morning and sucks my cunt at night just like Solomon did to his bride.”
After taking off my sandals and playing tag with the small waves on the beach, I approached our resort. Entering our bungalow, I found slave exactly where I left him, kneeling on the floor with his cock still fully engorged. I took the keys from my purse and unshackled my handsome slave, then ordered him to put on his white cotton G-string. It was time to play in the ocean. I removed my skirt, found my own Rio-style bikini bottoms that matched the top I had on, and slipped into them.
Slave squeezed his cock to get the blood back inside his body so that it was not as erect as when I returned. He tried his best to fit it, balls and all, inside the very small amount of material that formed the front of his G-string.
Teasingly, I told him, “I don’t have all day,” and to stuff whatever he could and leave the rest.
Somehow he got small enough to get it all in with no exposure of balls or prick, at least for now. This was a first for slave. He had never been required by me to be this exposed in public—or as public as a nude beach could be. But, true to his training, he obeyed and walked out the door, carrying my towels and sun lotions.
I picked a spot close to the two women still sunbathing in the nude and had slave put my beach chair at an appropriate distance from theirs but still close enough to have a conversation with them, should one develop. Once settled in, I ordered slave to lather me up with lotion so I wouldn’t burn, and he knelt next to me, facing the women. He did an excellent job massaging my legs, belly, arms, and chest with #8 while I put a special lotion on my face. Then, I turned over so he could do my back, buttocks, and legs.
By this time, his cock had begun to push against the cotton fabric that loosely held his penis in place. It was growing by the second, especially as he lathered my butt while the women next to us took sneak peeks at what he was doing.
When he finished, I threw his towel on the sand and ordered him to lie down between me and the female sunbathers. After about an hour of sunbathing and enjoying the cool ocean breeze, I ordered slave to go for a swim; I wanted to see what his white cotton G-string would look like once it was wet.
He obeyed, leaving his spot between me and the two women to jump into the aqua-colored ocean and swim for a while. Then he waited until I gave him the “come hither” signal. He did his best to walk out of the ocean waves with his head held high and act as if he had done this a hundred times. There may have been other men sunbathing and swimming nude somewhere on this seven-mile beach, but no other man wore a G-string that now showed every inch of his cock. His G-string had become totally see-through, just as I expected.
Wow, did it feel good to have this power rush! It gave me such a high to order my masculine and muscled slave husband into the water with nothing but a G-string to wear and then watch him come out of the water to return to his spot between me and our neighbors, showing them all there was to see. That’s my man. I peeked to see if my two neighbors were watching, and indeed they were, glued to the sight of him walking toward them.
When he reached his towel but before he had a chance to sit down, I quickly ordered him to go to the bar and get me a local beer. I spoke just loud enough for the ladies to hear and used a tone and speech made without pleasantries, such as “please get me” or “would you get me” but instead an abrupt, “go get me,” to show there was indeed a mistress/slave type relationship going on between us. He obeyed, and when I looked directly at the women, I saw their smiling indication that they appreciated what just unfolded. I returned the smiles with one of my own, leaned back in my lounger, and again thanked the Lord for making men and women so different and so sexy. He knew exactly what he was doing when he created the sexes, for sure.
An hour later, when I’d had all the sun I could take, I made slave pick up our beach towels and lotions. We both showered in the open-air beach shower and then headed to our room. It was almost time for dinner, and I was getting hungry, not having eaten since we got off the plane. I dressed in my string bikini top again, the same blue one I wore earlier, and then put on my floral skirt and sandals with no underwear underneath. Slave got out of his G-string only to put on the new Rio-style bikini I had made for him.
Having scouted the beach, I already knew which restaurant I wanted to patronize, about a half-mile down the beach from Firefly. As we walked towards the restaurant, I knew slave was looking at what all the other men on the beach or sitting at the bars along the way wore. They all had on board shorts or something equally un-sexy. He was the only one boldly and prominently displaying a bulging cock (aided by a ¾ inch cock collar) and a tight, half-naked ass. I watched as female heads turned his way and gave me a smile and a congratulatory look. “Oh, but life is good,” I thought to myself.
We arrived at the restaurant, and the attractive Jamaican hostess seated us at a beach-side table, allowing both of us a good view of the walkers. We heard mainly English, but also a smattering of German, French, and some Spanish being spoken by couples. Almost all of the women were walking topless along the beach.
When the same young lady that seated us returned as our waitress, I asked for the local fish. She turned to take slave’s order, but I interrupted and said, “He will have a burger, no bun, and water to drink. Thank you.”
In Jamaica, it was not the custom for a woman to take the lead, so her reaction was typical: a little shock at first, but then a mixture of appreciation and pleasure could be seen in her smile and wink to me.
Slave expected this. It was not his first time being told in a restaurant what he would eat as I, his mistress wife, ordered for him.
Sitting next to each other, facing the beach and eating our food, I could quite easily reach down and fondle slave’s cock and feel it get even thicker and meatier than before our meal started. I felt through the very thin layer of nylon fabric to separate his cock from his balls and pull it aside, playing with his purplish head and the nerve endings below the glans. It caused him great difficulty in chewing and swallowing, I knew. By the time we finished our meal (no dessert), his penis was pushing at the thin one-inch side strap of his bikini, trying to find room to hide but having no luck. The flesh of his cock head poked out of both edges because I had pulled the elastic up and away, helping it escape its confines. I continued playing with it as we sat enjoying the wine (me) and water (him).
After finishing my drink, and satisfied that slave was thoroughly aroused, I said, “Let’s go back.”
“Now!” I said, a bit too harshly. Slave and I got up from our table after paying our bill and tipping extra-generously. We headed back down the beach toward our resort with his cock fully visible under his skin-hugging suit.
Back in our bungalow, I stripped off my skirt and bikini top and made slave do the same with his mini bikini. It was time to have some sexual satisfaction. My dinnertime shenanigans of playing with his cock had me highly aroused. I quickly locked his wrists behind his back again with the leather cuffs, and he, with expertise, buried his face between my legs to service my cunt.
Slave Corey used his tongue to explore and lick every crevice and fold of my vagina, flicking my clit with his tongue at just the right time to bring me ever closer to my impending orgasm. My juices washed his face, flowing freely. I’ve tasted them a few times, and slave, every time. He tells me he loves to drink my love juices for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Perhaps this vacation he would get to do that as often as he wanted.
Turning on my side, I made slave lick my rosebud. I truly enjoy his oral attention there. It seems he knows to honor that part of my body with even more aggressive lovemaking than any other part of me. After ten more minutes of him making love to my asshole, I reached for my mini vibrator to finish the job slave had started. As I faced the windows with his face buried in my ass, I noticed that I forgot to close the shutters.
“Oh, fuck, here comes one of the couples we saw earlier on Firefly’s beach. They’re walking down our, our, our, our, oh no, no, no, fuck, fuck, fuck, here it comes.”
I did my best to hold my squeals in and closed my eyes while the month’s—maybe the year’s—greatest orgasm hit me with wave after wave of intense, nerve-sparking-nerve pleasure. There was no way the couple could have ignored my orgasmic squeals or not seen what produced them. Slave’s head remained buried in my ass cheeks and his tongue still adored my asshole, his hands bound behind his back and his cock fighting against its restrictive collar. But it was losing the battle, swelling and pulsating in its futile hopes of having its own orgasm.
But at this point in my climactic relief, I couldn’t think of our neighbors or what they did or did not see. The only thing that mattered now was my own mid-orgasmic state; I needed my Yarosi vibrator on a different setting to finish me off. I turned it to my favorite pulse and speed and let it do its work, bringing me to my second—“…yes, yes, yes, YESSSSSSSSSSSS!”—orgasm. Exhausted, I turned it off and pulled slave’s head back out of my ass to let me come down from my sexual high. Then I turned over and planted a kiss on his forehead before offering him one of my breasts to kiss as his reward.
He hungrily took it in his mouth and milked it as if it was providing him all he needed for his sexual joy. It was. At least at that moment, it was.
When the post-orgasmic waves receded as softly as the ocean waves outside our room softly washed up on the beach, it was dusk and time to take a stroll along the water’s edge. We enjoyed the beauty of the evening sunset, which matched the afterglow of my orgasms. Putting on a smock to cover my nakedness and ordering slave to stick his cock back into his white G-string, we left our bungalow to walk hand-in-hand down the sandy beach of Negril, mistress and her slave listening to the romantic music of steel drums and Reggae singers at the bars. What a perfect day.
When we returned to our bungalow, slave stripped off his white G-string, and I put his cuffs back on and fastened his wrists behind his back again. He lay down at the foot of the bed on the floor while I snuggled in under the sheets. I left a little night light on in case I needed to get up at night to pee, or in case someone walking by our room might want to get a better view of slave sleeping on the floor at the foot of my bed. (My motives at that moment seemed to be blurred.) I couldn’t close the slats in the window; if I did, no breeze would come through. If someone saw slave through the window because I left the slats open, well, in that humidity and temperature it was either my comfort or his privacy. My comfort won. I fell fast asleep, dreaming of what day two in Negril would bring. More sexual adventures, for sure.
This is slave Corey. Our first day in Negril went exactly as Mistress described it. My memories of day one and hers seem to match, moment by moment. Was it hard for me to wear so little clothing and come up out of the water fully exposed? Yes, it was. But I pushed my way through it to please Mistress S. Can she be bitchy at times and demanding? You bet. But I wouldn’t want it any other way. She has pushed me to accomplish so much more in my career and at the ranch than I could ever have done on my own. She is an amazing, strong, determined, sexy woman that thousands of men would and could only dream of serving in the ways I get to. Yet it’s only I that get to feast between her legs as often as I do. King Solomon, I bet you felt the same with your face between the legs of your dark and lovely bride. (Song of Solomon 1:5)
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