Masked

With all there is to hate about the panic-demic, one thing I appreciate is that all of the office-holding tyrant-toddlers get orgasmic by forcing peons to follow groundless diktats. Including the wearing of cloth masks, which stop a virus like a chain-link fence stops a mosquito.

Because when I wear a mask in public, it hides my mouth. Which means that He can fit me, discretely, with one of my gags.

We’re out shopping. He put my second-largest ring gag in, finger-fucked my mouth until I was drooling like the devoted cocksucker I am, and then tied on a pink gingham mask. As He leads me around the store, taking His time, any other shopper can tell at a glance that my mouth is open. At two glances, that my mask is spit-soggy, clinging to my face. At a careful look, that I’m a gagged, messy, obedient, aroused, submissive girl.

He has struck up a conversation with a stranger in the home improvements aisle — people tend to ask Him for advice and directions, somehow sensing His authority. She’s listening to Him, but since she first looked at me she hasn’t looked away. She is staring. She can see the shape of my gag beneath the wet mask. She knows what it is, what it means. Her nipples have grown erect.

My panties are cream-soaked, my thighs slick. If I’m not careful, I’ll cum right here.

I mustn’t. But I might.

— Frenulum

Voice

We were in the middle of an ordinary day. I was reading a book I had been asked to review, for one of the journals I contribute to. He was down in the workshop, trying to repair a 100-year-old latch from our back door.

I didn’t notice his footsteps on the stairs. He just appeared in the doorway.

He said my name. In That Voice.

He has, of course, many tones of voice — jocular, serious, teasing, romantic, business-like, skeptical, friendly — all the registers or “clocks” that characterize speech.

But there is also That Voice. You might know what I mean; if you don’t, then I’m sorry for you.

He said my name in That Voice and the book went blank, my scattered attention coalesced to a point, the skin of my arms erupted in piloerection, my breath caught, my heartbeat quickened.

And I creamed my panties. I’m always a bit moist, thinking about him, but That Voice kicks open a faucet — no, more like a spillway — in my cunt.

I said “Sir?” and realized that I had left my chair and was kneeling, a reaction so ingrained that I hadn’t really noticed.

“Go up to our bedroom, and prepare yourself,” he said, “I’ll be up in a few minutes.” Then he left.

I am in our room now, full of eagerness and anticipation and need. I am waiting, hyper-aware, aroused, flushed, wet, hot. I don’t know what I’m waiting for — anything on the scale from “Oh boy!” to “Oh no!” That it is not up to me makes me even hotter.

I have prepared myself… for anything he desires.

That Voice alone can make me cum.

— Frenulum

Practical Education

It’s freshman orientation week, and I’m a thousand miles from home. My parents are driving home, after a tearful parting yesterday. I’ve never been on my own.

My roommate, Tessa, is local — she could walk to her house in twenty minutes. She doesn’t feel displaced and disoriented like I do. She knows all the streets, the shops, the hot spots, where to get the best fro-yo. She has a boyfriend — they’ve been together a couple of years.

I’ve never had a boyfriend. Or sex. Or a hot kiss.

Tessa and what’s-his-name are in the bottom bunk; I’m in the top. The only light is from streetlights, through the window.

I can hear them having sex. I know what it involves. I know what an erect penis looks like. I know about how the vagina stretches and lubricates. I know about orgasms… from high school Anatomy, anyway. I can’t quite picture all of the components coming together.

There’s a mirror over my dresser. If I squinch up at one end of my bunk, with my head near the edge, I can see a little bit into Tessa’s bed. I can see shapes in the dim light, and movement, and match the sights with their sounds. I’m flushed, hot, trembling. I’m ashamed of spying, but not enough to stop.

That was last night. This morning, the first thing Tessa said to me was, “For fuck’s sake, next time just get a chair and some popcorn, I don’t want you falling off the bed.” I tried, through my embarrassment, to apologize, but she waved it off and gave me a hug on her way to the bathroom.

I don’t think I want any popcorn.

— Frenulum

Making the Grade

The lockdown, an absurd, panic-driven over-reaction to inaccurate computer models, false reporting, and pseudo-expert predictions, funneled through petty, power-hungry bureaucrats, meant that my classes for the rest of the year would be teleconferenced. Warrantless house arrest will do that.

The software showed me a thumbnail of each student. What the girls saw was the video feed from the one who was talking, plus a constant image of me.

I could write a dissertation on “Bedrooms of Teenage Girls: From Decor to Disaster.” Some of them dressed nicely and sat at a desk; some lounged on their beds with tousled hair and rumpled sweats, balancing a laptop on a pillow or a lap.

I was leading a Biology class, when I noticed that one student, Melanie, had muted her microphone. Sometimes a student does that by accident, occasionally it’s to make sure that her video is never the one being sent to the class. I fired off a quick IM to make sure she knew about it.

Melanie was at the bottom of the class, hovering dangerously over the failing grade. If she was distancing herself on purpose, it wouldn’t be surprising.

Midway through the class, a movement caught my eye; I could see in her thumbnail that Melanie was holding up a handwritten sign. I clicked it to give me a full-scale view.

“Would a C cup get me a C?” said the sign.

Before I could puzzle it out, Melanie dropped the sign. She was topless.

I forced my attention back to the class, trying not to sound unsettled, but couldn’t resist glance after glance as Melanie played with her lovely breasts. She lifted them, squeezed them together, stroked them; she licked her fingers and played with her nipples until they stood stiff and proud.

I was losing my train of thought. I told everyone to take a ten minute break. “Be back at 10:40.” Some girls took off, for a snack or a bathroom. About half went straight to their phones, probably calling each other. A few stayed looking toward their webcams, presumably surfing other sites.

Melanie cupped her breasts as if to offer them, and raised a questioning eyebrow. Nothing in my teaching career had prepared me for this; I didn’t know how to respond.

She held up another sign: “How about Butt for a B?”

Then she bent over, back to the camera, and slid her shorts and panties down. Her bottom was fetching indeed, but my eyes were on her pussy, peeking out between spread legs. She reached behind to play with her ass cheeks, which had the effect of revealing her private places in greater detail. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, even as my brain was screaming warnings. I couldn’t stop my cock from responding either. When she gave herself a few spanks, it grew full and hard.

With three minutes left in the break, Melanie sat back down and lifted up her last sign. “An A would be the best. Have to save my cherry but…”

She lowered the sign and slowly, deliberately, sensuously, ran her tongue around her lips, her mouth in a wide O. Not at all ambiguous.

My resolve crumbled. I sent an IM with my home address, and seconds later Melanie vanished from the conference.

It was so wrong, in so many ways. But my pulse was racing and my cock was hard and… well, nobody can spend a career teaching high school girls without ever having a single fantasy.

I finished the Biology class, somehow, although now I don’t remember a bit of it. I just remember one thought, surfacing again and again as I listened for the doorbell.

Sure, Melanie, I’ll let you suck my cock. But in my gradebook…

A is for Anal.

— Frenulum

Perfect Storm

After a harsh winter, the first week of truly springlike weather was irresistible. We drove to a local park to take a walk around the lake, but even without the scenery, being out in warm sun and gentle breezes would have been a sufficient treat.

On the way, the sunny sky clouded over, but we hardly noticed. As usual in light traffic, I had one hand on the wheel while the other toyed with her pussy. Moaning is my favorite music.

We parked and headed for the paved path that winds around the lake. The first drops of rain fell when we were a quarter of the way around. We were both surprised: the morning forecast was for sun. We kept walking, hand in hand. My mother used to say, “You aren’t made of sugar and you won’t melt.” But everyone else in the park was hurrying toward their cars.

By the half-way point, the rain had become a downpour, the skies were dark, and the wind had picked up. Going back would be just as far as going on, so we continued. Her sundress, thoroughly soaked, clung to her body like a coat of paint. She wore nothing beneath.

The first bright flash of lightning stopped us in our tracks, and we counted seconds until thunder rolled. Five miles or so away.

In a deserted park, in a thunderstorm, we looked at each other in perfect understanding. We had imagined the scene countless times.

I looked around for a good spot. A rocky formation about fifty yards off the path looked ideal. Holding hands, we ran toward it, laughing in the storm.

Behind the rocks, away from the path, she sank to her knees, heedless of the wet ground, and tugged my pants down. With all the eagerness of a fantasy realized, she began to suck.

Lightning flashed, brighter now, and thunder roared, closer.

Rain washed her face. Her eyes remained upturned, looking at me and conveying love, lust, worship, gratitude, and hunger. Hunger for praise, hunger for cum. She put her hands on my ass and plunged my cock deep into her throat, again and again. The tears that filled her eyes from choking were indistinguishable from the steady rivulets of rain.

The excitement of fantasy-come-true had its effect on me as well. When the moment came, I pulled myself out of her throat, past her busy tongue, and aimed for her face.

Liquid praise erupted, splashing and spraying on her beautiful face. She raised both hands and scrubbed it into her skin, mixing in the raindrops. She scooped some into her mouth, and smiled with delight.

I helped her up. I took a careful look around the park, confirming that we had it to ourselves. I told her so, and she peeled her sodden sundress off. I fished a leash from my pocket and clipped it to her collar.

We completed our circuit of the park as the storm raged, coming within a couple of miles. Rain cascaded from her erect nipples like miniature waterfalls. The lightning, mirrored in her eyes, made her sapphire irises sparkle like gems.

When we got back to the car, I started it, turned on the heated seats, and cranked up the thermostat. She fingered her pussy, and in only moments was begging me with her eyes.

“Cum,” I said, so of course she did.

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Good girl.”

I put the car in gear, and we headed home.

One more check mark on our list.

— Frenulum

Her first attempt

“Oh my god. It’s huge!”

“I told you. You probably figured I was exaggerating.”

“I did. But you actually understated it. I can hardly fit it in my hands. There’s no way, seriously, that it’ll fit in my mouth. I mean… just look at it… bigger than my face for sure.”

“I just asked you to try, just once. I know it’ll be a stretch, and take some… enthusiastic effort. But it’s not like I’m asking you to swallow the whole thing on your first try.”

“My mouth doesn’t open that far. My jaw doesn’t open that far!”

“Here… I’ll hold it. Just open up your pretty little mouth and let me feed it to you — just a little bit at first.”

“Ok. Here goes…”

“Oh, good girl! See, you can do it! Just a tiny bit more now…”

“My mous is so ull I an’t reathe!”

“Breathe later. Enjoy this moment.”

I let go with one hand. I stole a couple of waffle fries from her plate.

“I told you. They don’t call it the Five Monsters Burger for nothing.”

— Frenulum

Directness

We had been dating long enough, and feeling strongly enough about each other, that I decided… it was time.

I invited him to dinner at my place. Before he arrived, I put on carefully selected lingerie, and a white, sleeveless, low-cut dress. Heels as well, of course.

He brought flowers and wine — such a gentleman. I served dinner and we sat down to enjoy it together. Our conversation was entirely about each other, and about us. When I started saying some rather suggestive things, he definitely took notice, as I had never departed from modesty before. Soon our banter was less playful than it was steamy and replete with possibilities.

He offered to help me clear the table, but I insisted that he sit and enjoy the last of the wine. “I’ll serve dessert in just a minute.”

I got everything I needed from the kitchen, and while there, slipped out of my dress. I wore a white lace body-suit underneath, and the white spike-heeled sandals I’d worn all evening. My nipples showed through the lace. So did my lips. So did my wetness.

I came up behind him. As I laid dessert at his place, I came into his field of view. His eyes got huge and he tried to say something, but — pussy got his tongue, I guess. I found that endearing.

He glanced at his plate, and then did a double take. For on the plate there was a single, ripe, red cherry, and on the table was a hammer.

“What? I — I don’t…”

I leaned over to whisper in his ear.

“If I wanted you to pop my cherry, I would have brought you a pin.”

— Frenulum

Point of View

She always sucks me first, so I’m nice and wet and slippery, before I work my way into her cunt. Slipperiness hardly helps, though, because she’s so very tight and I’m… more than adequate.

A gradual advance is always necessary. Her hot, clinging cunt stretches just a little, and each thrust advances only a bit deeper than the last.

Oh, she’s so hot! As if that snug, sucking sheath were furnace-fed. Her body is a constant wonder to me.

At last, all the way inside. That is to say, as deep as she can take me — cervix deep. There’s still plenty left outside her pussy for her hand to fondle, stroke, and squeeze. Her fingers are so delicate, compared to the single-purpose grip of her cunt. I know it hurts a little each time I hit bottom — but I also know that turns her on even more.

My excitement is so intense it feels like I’m vibrating all over. Our pace increases. She’s nearing orgasm — all the signs are there. Faster, faster, all the way deep, now vigorous to the edge of violence. She tenses. Incredibly, she squeezes me even tighter.

She cums.

I feel every pulse of her climax, the innate rhythm coursing through her body. A second crest overtakes her.

In time, our coupling slows. I slip out of that beautiful warmth. She sucks me, lapping up her juices, as she does without fail every time.

Then she twists my bottom, quieting me, and slips me back into the nightstand drawer, ready for the next time she needs me.

— Frenulum

Wants and Needs

“Sir?”

“Why, there you are, my love. Don’t you look pretty!”

“Thank you, Sir! I do know what you like.”

“Indeed you do — to every detail.”

“Sir?”

“Mmmm?”

“I would like something, please.”

“Oh?”

“I really, really want it. Enough to kneel for you and make pleading puppy-eyes that you can’t resist.”

“And what is it that you would like, my darling?”

“Ummm...”

“I love you blushing. Such a lovely pink.”

“Yes, Sir. Please... may I have a mouthful of your thick spicy creamy cum — if I do a very good job of sucking your precious cock?”

“That’s what you want, is it? Some cum in your mouth to savor and play with and swallow?”

“Yes, please, Sir. Please please please feed me lots of your delicious cum. Please? I’ll earn it by sucking you in all the ways you taught me. Oh, Sir, I want your cum so much!”

“Want, belovèd, or need?”

“I need your cum, Sir. Your reward. Your praise for being a good girl. When you feed me, or glaze my face, or fill my adoring eyes, that’s when I know I’ve truly served you as I am meant to.”

“You need this.”

“Yes, Sir, please.”

“I think...”

“Sir?”

“That what you need, right now, is a spanking.”

“Umm...”

“I do know what you need, my own.”

“Yes. I know that. You’ve shown me so many times.”

“So a spanking it is.”

“Umm...”

“Yes?”

“Sir? Will it be a hard spanking, and a long one?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“If it’s not hard, it’s not a spanking. If I’m not crying, it’s not over.”

“Good girl.”

“I am a good girl for you, Sir, a very good girl.”

“So you’ve earned a good girl spanking... and if a good girl deserves a long, hard, spanking until she’s red, and sore, and crying, what would a very good girl deserve?”

“I... well... she, umm, I mean...”

“Just so.”

“Oh, Sir.”

“Over my lap now, sweetheart. Let’s get these panties out of the way.”

“Sir?”

“Yes, love of my life?”

“After?”

“Yes?”

“You’ll praise me then, won’t you? With cum all over my face and in my mouth and all the wonderful ways you decorate me? Because I’ve been a good girl?”

“If your gratitude is clear.”

“Oh, Sir. Of course. Always. Forever. When you give me what I need but... all the time, my center, my owner, my lover, my teacher, my friend. All the time, every second, I am so grateful for your love.”

“And I for yours, belovèd. Bottom up and legs apart, now.”

“Sir.”

— Frenulum

Relaxing Reading

She sat in a comfortable chair, reading the latest novel by a favorite author, dressed in nothing but pink-and-white striped bikini panties and five-inch heels. A fashionable lady would never omit proper footwear.

Wherever her tongue could reach, her face was clear of cum, but plenty was left on her cheeks, chin, and eyelashes, with a single thick stripe drying in her hair. A driblet of cum had fallen from face to nipple, where it clung in a short strand, every page turn causing a brief wiggle of the creamy pendulum.

From time to time the sound of her husband’s voice prompted her to send a smile his way. She loved hearing him help the other patrons of the public library.

— Frenulum

Evening

He sits in the living room in a wing-back chair. To his right is a small table, upon which is a glass of red wine. There is a book open on his lap; whether he is reading or not is unclear. He wears a suit, conservative, with a tie, too colorful for business.

To his left, she waits, kneeling, facing toward him. She wears shoes she can barely walk in: heel trainers that will, after much practice, make a four-inch spike feel like running shoes.

Her head is bowed. Her long hair is held back at the sides by blow-job clips, known to the unenlightened as bobby pins. They ensure that her face is visible despite her posture.

She waits, motionless, without even a hint of impatience or discomfort, for if he wants her kneeling and silent, soft and small, then what thrills her most of anything imaginable is to serve as he wishes. Her obedience alone makes her drip, and she can feel trickles of her honey cooling on her thighs.

She wants to be in his lap, wants him to hold her, wants him to read to her, to give her sips of wine, to stroke her back, to toy with her nipples, to talk to her with the most erotic voice in the universe. But above all else, miles and miles above, she wants to be a good girl for him, for that is the essence of her being. She kneels in joy, serves with pride.

He puts a finger under her chin, lifting gently, and she tips her head up until she meets his eyes.

He smiles and nods. She swallows.

— Frenulum

Let It Snow

Some girls like the snow for downhill skiing. Speed and adrenaline, danger and success.

Some girls like the snow for cross-country, instead. Crossing a drifted lake just after sunrise, warm from the effort, surrounded by beauty.

Some girls like the snow for snowshoe hikes. Following trails through chiaroscuro forests, quiet as a rabbit, spotting a fox, hearing birdsong.

Some girls like the snow for the way it softens. Landscape edges become curves, sounds are blunted, all seems slower, calmer.

Some girls like the snow for the sparkle. Cities and parks and shops are coated with crystal glitter, reminders of past holidays, celebrations, and families.

Me? I like the snow for the way it drifts in my back yard. When I have been given — it is a gift — a long, severe, needed spanking, I can dash outside and sit on my custom-fitted winter throne, letting it numb the pain without diminishing the effect.

I wonder what the neighbors think.

— Frenulum

Two Not Sleeping

One Christmas break. Ten senior girls. One overnight party. Two parents retiring early due to noise fatigue. Ten smartphone cameras for hundreds of candids, poses, and selfies. Six varieties of pizza to choose from; seven soft drink flavors; two kinds of cupcakes, creating laugh-until-it-hurts frosting mustaches (more photos).

Ninety minutes from “It’s late, we should pro’ly go to sleep” until all ten girls were tucked in, in one fashion or another, and the lights were turned off. The interval had been spent in shedding clothes and donning sleepwear, in brushing and braiding and otherwise fiddling with each other’s hair, in renewed bursts of laughter as reminders of the evening were voiced.

Living room furniture pushed to the walls. Emptied space filled with sleepers. Two with sleeping bags, eight content with blankets and pillows.

Zero girls in shamefully un-cool purpose-made sleepwear such as pajamas or nightgowns. Ten girls in various assortments of panties and shirts — three tees, seven tanks — four with shorts and six content just in panties.

Two hours of deep breathing, gentle snorts, and sporadic somniloquy.

Nine girls asleep.

Maddie among them. Erica not. One slow, silent approach.

One gradual realization of being touched — no, more like caressed. One gentle “Shhhh” with a finger crossing two lips. Once sure, a hand moving to stroke a face.

One idea. One unexpected flush of… of what, exactly, Maddie wondered. Something new.

Two breasts never touched by another. Two lips, ending that. More boldness from silent Erica. More acceptance from softly moaning Maddie.

Oh. My. God. There? Really?

One clock on the mantel, ticking softly.

One slow retreat in the absolute darkness. One girl feeling triumph and promise. One girl dizzy from epiphany, yearning for more, baffled both by darkness and by the similarity to the touch of the other nine.

One girl, Erica, thinking: “How can I tell her?”

One girl, Maddie, thinking: “How can I find her?”

Night time. Quiet. Peaceful… for eight.

— Frenulum

Seasonal songs that never need to be played again

In no particular order. Does not include novelty songs, just the standard playlist.

I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

My mother is a whore for presents and my father is clueless. And somehow that’s funny.

The Little Drummer Boy

Nobody likes drum solos, kid. Especially not parents of an infant. Get lost in a hurry. Also, see somebody about those animal hallucinations.

Feliz Navidad

I want to wish you a merry funeral pyre lit by the sheet music of your mindless, repetitive, pointless crap. Oh god not another repeat, seriously?

Little Saint Nick

“Christmas comes this time each year” — oh, is that it? Really? It’s been hitting me by surprise for decades — could this truly be the secret? Oh my goodness. It’s so clear now.

The Twelve Days of Christmas

The seasonal version of “99 Bottles of Beer.” Start with verse 12 and get it over with.

It’s Beginning To Look a Lot Like Christmas

“Mom and Dad can hardly wait for school to start again.” Well, maybe in the severely dysfunctional family you grew up in, but I happen to love and enjoy my children and wish them close.

Away In a Manger

“No crying he makes.” As a child, I felt that this set an unreasonable standard. My resentment lingers to this day.

— Frenulum

Panties du Jour

Every morning, after her shower, still naked, she waits for me to choose a pair of panties for her. Her collection is large and diverse, so it often takes a while to decide.

Lace, silk, or cotton? Pattern or solid? Playfully little-girlish or provocatively sensual? Brief or bikini or cheekies or boy-shorts or thong? Some days, my choice reflects my mood. On others, it might just be a question of variety — we haven’t had these in a while.

I fit her panties into place, with her help; inevitably this leads to familiar signs of her arousal. We head downstairs to the kitchen, where the first thing I do is switch on the elixir-of-life machine and select a K-cup.

The coffee brews and my cup fills. As soon as it’s ready I take the first invigorating sip. I am no good to anyone, and thoroughly antisocial, until the first cup is down. I need to be left to myself in peace and perfect quiet.

I take the last sip, and pull the soggy panties from her mouth.

“Good morning, my love!”

—Frenulum