Asian Plaything

Sometimes when she's away, he imagines what it would be like to be hopelessly, helplessly, at her command. He leafs through the dirty clothes basket, finds a pair of her used knickers, opens them up and holds them to his mouth and nose, inhaling the smell of her, the stale smell of her cunt, the aroma of ass.

She doesn't like anything kinky, so he imagines her bringing home one of her work mates. Another Asian woman --skin sisters-- attractive but unknown, to give the orders for her. But that's for another time.

This time its just her. She's dressed in her work clothes, layers of black and lace, tights and boots, neat and sexy. He kisses her exposed upper breast. Knows from the purr she likes it. Does she have any idea how much she turns him on?

This time, she does. Tells him, more. He bends again, places his lips against her flesh. Soft, warm, dry kisses. She reaches down and rubs across the bulge in his jeans with the flat of her palm. Feels its hardness. Knows he wants her. Knows suddenly what to do.

Do exactly as I tell you, she says. His stomach knots. Of course, of course. Whatever you want, whatever you say. Go on kissing me then, she says, while I just...

She rubs again, once, twice, a little squeeze. Then moves her fingers to his belt buckle, pulls, lifts and loosens. Then the button. Her fingers are at his flies, easing down the zip. Suddenly he is open to her.

His attention is down there, on her fingers, wanting. But she takes her hand away, lifts his chin with her finger, looks into his eyes. Youre hard, she says. For me? Of course. For what may happen? Of course. Are you sure you want this? Oh god, yes.

Still looking into his eyes, she moves her hand back to his waistband, tugs downwards. The jeans are down around his knees. Using her foot, she presses them down to his ankles. With her finger tip, she traces the tip of his cock through his boxers. Already there is a small circular dark stain. His cock rears up through the material. With her fingertips, she reaches lower, underneath his balls, takes a tiny pinch of flesh. And squeezes, short but hard. A hard pinch.

He jumps. She smiles. Let me look at you, she says. Walk to the centre of the room. Like this? Yes, like that. Your jeans around your ankles. Let me see. That's good. Good boy. Stand still. Now turn and bend over. I want to see your behind.

He does as he's told. He can sense her moving towards him, towards his exposed ass. He can't see her, but he feels her closeness. Long seconds tick by. Then, a spidery touch of fingers trailing lightly across his underwear, tight stretched across his ass. More seconds.

Then suddenly, firm fingertips pinch the waistband of his pants and yank them down. His bottom is bare, but in front, his pants are only half down, his cock sticks out, perpendicular, purple. He feels like a naughty schoolboy.

She is standing beside him now, leaning forward and sideways, seeking his lips. One soft hand is on his behind, the other she curls around the head of his cock, squeezing tight and pinching his bunched foreskin, till it burns nicely. She kisses him slowly, circles her hand over his bare buttocks, trailing one finger along the crevice till it rests dainty as a petal on his puckered asshole.

Is this how you like it?

Yes. Oh yes, he says. But more. Please, more. Use me. Abuse me. I want to be yours completely. To be your plaything. Your slut.

Her tongue explores deeper in his mouth. He is standing, bent over, jeans around ankles, pants around his thighs, craning his head upwards to meet her mouth, but he can feel her breath coming heavily. She tightens her grip on his cock. Her finger circles his anus, digging deeper.

You are mine, she says.

******

This time, there are two of them. She's brought Preeti home. He's met her, once, briefly. A party, at their home. He talked to her, admiring her as she stood next to her tall, handsome husband. Catching her eyes, and then casting his down, noticing her trendy, expensive, sexy suede boots.

He knew she was bringing Preeti home with her. He got an email telling him to get himself ready. This evening, she wrote, I am really going to make you mine. And there's no better way of showing that than by sharing you. I'm going to make you my plaything. And I'm bringing someone home to help me play with you.

She's never seen him dressed up in her clothes before, but she knows he does it sometimes. He's told her it excites him, even when he's alone. Imagining her looking at him, her flimsy lacy underwear totally inadequate to contain his engorged cock and heavily hanging balls. Seeing in her imagined eyes a sliver of a sneer, an excited contempt, the knowledge that it gives her control. That he needs to be controlled.

She knows. And this evening she's going for broke. Put on something of mine underneath your jeans, she wrote in her email. Something from the second drawer down. Shower first. Really thoroughly. Wait for us upstairs.

Downstairs, he hears the key turn in the front door. Her familiar voice in the hall, another unknown one answering her.

Come down, she calls.

He feels so awkward, so embarrassed, that he's almost lost his erection. The sensation is all in the knot in his stomach. He's reluctant to show himself.

Come down, now! A note of asperity.

He forces himself to the top of the stairs, and over the precipice.

They are in the front room. Ah there you are, she says, kissing him lightly on the cheek. This is Preeti. Say hello.

Hello, Preeti.

He looks towards her. She's taller than his wife. Short dark hair, gamine style, gold stud in her nose. Short black leather skirt. She's smiling, but she doesn't exactly reply, just holds out her right hand, palm downwards, to be kissed. He moves to her, takes her hand lightly and bows her head down to kiss it. As he does so, she lifts her other hand and presses it, lightly but firmly, on the top of his head. Locking him, neck bent, head lowered, over her hand.

Then she speaks. Not Preeta. His love, his wife.

We are going to share you tonight. You are going to serve us. You must do as you are told without hesitation. Otherwise you will be punished. Preeti will probably do that. She's got dogs, and a horse. She's used to animals. So she knows what to do.

He feels the hand resting on his head press down slightly more heavily.

If this is not what you want, she goes on, say so now, and we'll have a drink and a laugh before Preeti goes home. If this is what you want, you may turn Preeta's hand over and kiss her palm.

He's never wanted anything more. Head still bent over, he gently rotates Preet's small, delicate hand 180 degrees. As he inhales, the warm scent of skin fills his nostrils. Slowly, moistly, he draws his lips together and presses them against the flesh of her palm. Kisses it.

His wife is the first to speak. So that's it, then.

There is an unfamiliar laugh. It must be hers. The hand pressing down on his head grabs a handful of hair, pulls. Quite hard. Pulls his head up, so that he is now looking directly into Preeti's eyes. She looks straight at him. But when she speaks, she is addressing her skin-sister.

What shall we call him? And what do you think he should call us?

She ponders. Then speaks.

He already told me what he wants to be. My slut. Our slut. So maybe that's how we should address him. I don't know what he should call us, though. What do sluts call their mistresses?

"Mistress", probably. Although since you say he wants to be treated like a girl, maybe he should call us master.

No, that'll sound too silly. Mistress will do, I suppose. Do you hear, slut?

He can't quite trust himself to speak, not yet.

Do you hear? A slight note of menace. The fingers entwined in his hair give it a sharp tug.

Yes, he says, his strangled voice sounding strange to his ears. Yes... mistress. Mistresses.

Better, she says. Talking of wanting to be treated like a girl, Preeti, did I mention to you that I told the slut to wash himself and put on some of my underwear? Would you like to see?

Go on, then.

You tell him. He needs to get used to doing what you say.

OK. For the first time, Preeti addresses him directly. Why don't you take off your shirt and jeans now. We'd like to see what pretty things you've chosen to wear.

His heart is thumping in his chest. His stomach is so knotted it feels like a troupe of Boy Scouts have been in there. But he manages to move his fingers to the top button of his shirt, pushes it through the fabric, down to the next, the third, till his shift falls open. Slowly, he pulls it off his shoulders and lets it drop to the floor.

The two of them are sitting down side by side on the sofa. He sees for the first time there is a bottle of white wine on the table. Preeti has a glass in her hand and is sipping from it, her eyes fixed on his torso.

Go on, then.

Swallowing, his hands move to his belt buckle. Fumble with it. Preeti is saying, giggling, he's not gone quite as much to seed as he might have at his age. They laugh. The belt is undone now, and he's opening the button, pulling down the zip. He swallows again, then tugs the jeans over his bottom and thighs, down to the ground, and steps over them.

He is wearing nothing now but one of her black, lacy thongs. The head of his swollen prick is poking out the top. His balls are contained by the flimsy fabric, but only just.

They're looking at him. He feels deeply shamed, yet deeply aroused.

Come here, says Preeti.

He moves forward. Sitting, her face is at the level of his waist. A tiny, shining globule has appeared on the tip of his exposed prick.

May I? She asks. You nod. Be my guest.

Preeti reaches out, and with one finger, touches the tip of his prick. Circles her fingertip around in the little ooze. It burns. He shivers. She moves her fingers down, till they are resting gently on his pouched balls.

These look terribly uncomfortable, she says. Shall we liberate them?

She runs her fingertips up one thigh, slides them under the elastic, and uses them to pinch the skin of his sack. Pulls hard. One of his balls pops out under the elastic. She laughs. Does the same on the other hand. Now the straining black fabric of the panties covers only the join of his scrotum. On each side, hangs one hairy, round ball.

Preeti laughs, shortly. This is fun, she says. Her voice is husky.

He looks across at his wife. Her lips are slightly parted, but he can't read the expression on her face.

She's quite a good girl, isn't he? Preeti says. But she's very untidy. Look, she's just left her clothes lying around in the middle of the room. Go and pick them up, slut.

He's not quick enough. She braces her index finger against her thumb, and flicks hard at the tip of his prick.

Ow.

Did that hurt? I thought you liked a bit of pain. A bit of humiliation. That's what your wife has been telling me. Is that right?

She flicks his prick again.

He stifles the cry in his throat. Mumbles instead. Yes. Mistress Preeti.

Turn round, then. I want to see your ass. Lets see if you cleaned yourself properly like you were told.

He turns round. He is standing between the two women, his behind at the level of their chests.

Fingers --he doesn't know whose-- grope for the waistband of the thong, and slowly pull it down over his buttocks. Not all the way. Just to the indent of his thighs.

That's nice, she says. Now spread your legs and bend over.

The knots in his stomach re-tie themselves. Immersed in the sensation, he's too slow.

You're just not quick enough, slut, Preeti says. You'll have to be punished. Now bend.

He does so. He's bent over in front of them, his behind spread. But not enough.

Hold your buttocks open. Now!

His face reddening, his stomach cramping, he reaches behind himself, takes one cheek in each hand, pulls them apart. He can feel the cool air on his scrubbed, puckered hole, his centre of things.

The women are inspecting his arsehole.

Cute little arse, says Preeti. Has it ever been fucked?

I've put a dildo into him once or twice, his wife says.

Why don't you go and get it. ******

Minutes later, she returns, with the small pink dildo, a jar of Vaseline—and a thin bamboo stick. I found this in his cupboard, you say. I thought it might be useful.

Preeti smiles. I'm sure it will, she says.

He is still bent over, holding his buttocks apart, his whole consciousness focused on his exposed hole. Preeti has been daintily flicking over its surface with her fingertip. Its getting hot in here isn't it? she says. Do you think perhaps we're over-dressed?

Her fingers stop flicking at him. In the mirror in front of him, he sees Preeti stand up. She takes his wife's face between her hands, kisses her on the lips. His wife kisses her back. His prick, which has been flagging slightly from the pull of gravity, jolts upright again.

I tell you what, says Preeti, pulling away slightly. I'll just shove this dildo up his arse, and then he can undress us both. With his teeth.

She turns and picks up the dildo. Holds it in front of his face and says, better lick this. It's the only lubrication its going to get. Lets hope you cleaned it properly after last time.

She puts the dildo into his mouth. Still holding his arse open, he sucks on it, tries to salivate onto it.

She pulls it out, walks around him.

There's a good girl, she said. Now, prepare to be fucked.

She brings the rubbery tip to the entrance of his ass. Then looks up, into his wife's face. Or would you like to do this?

A pause. Then she says. Yes. I rather think I would.

After, their breasts squished against each other, their lips glued together, their hips grinding together, their pubes sucking and kissing through the thin fabric of their underwear, he can take no more. On all fours, kneeling over their entwined feet, his cock engorged beyond measure, he explodes, shoots his load. His spunk spurts from his cock in syncopated arcs, landing splat on the brown suede of Preeti's boot.

She pulls her mouth away from his wife's breast and looks at him. You'll pay for that, she says.

***********