Sir Knows Best

Sir knows best is a Tale of Desire, Submission and Reckoning.

It is the end of an era. Or at least this part of this era. Sir and I would go our separate ways. It was time to move on, or so I had said. He had said, if you think this best.

I hadn’t even made it down the sidewalk in front his house before I’d thought about coming. How long had it been since I’d had a big “O”? I was unsure. I’d lost count of the days. They’d turned to weeks. Multiple. That’s how long it had been.

Sir’s rules had always been clear. Ask for permission, come by his hand, or don’t come at all. I wouldn’t lower myself to begging, although he enjoyed bringing me right to the precipice without letting me fall. Over and over. Until tears would leak from my eyes and I’d become a hollow toy greedy to be filled.

With the rules no longer in place, I was itching. Like an addict needing a fix, palms sweaty, knees shaking, I drove myself home.

I could hear my bedroom summoning me as I pulled into the drive, the box of toys I hid underneath the bed whispering my name. I already had my favourite dildo in mind. The pink one. Not quite big enough to be considered large, but enough to make me pleasantly aware I was full.

Somehow, I didn’t think it would be enough. Like by not coming for so long, I’d need an excess of sensation to throw me over the edge. But it had been weeks. Or had it been months? Either way, I was primed to blow.

Like I was tethered, I bee-lined for my bedroom, unaware if I’d even latched the front door. My shoes were discarded before I’d finished crossing the threshold. I used the screen on my cell phone as a light source, not wanting to stop to find the lamp switch.

Part of me thought to just tear my jeans off and plant myself down in one thrust, but another wanted seduction. A slow warmup to the grand finale. A bit of finesse.

I compromised by undressing quickly, then savouring the cool air as it brushed between my heated thighs. Letting my nipples perk and pull tight. Twisting them to help them on their way.

I pulled some lube from the top drawer of my nightstand, laid the dildo beside. Then I took my place in the center of the bed, head on the pillows, the dim screen of my phone setting the atmosphere.

It felt strange to be in position without being given a command. I found myself unsure what to do next and unexpectedly found myself thinking back to all those times Sir and I had been in this setting, asked myself what he would have had me do.

Spread your legs for me, I knew he would have begun.

And I would have willingly, just to watch the light in his eyes change.

Hmmm. Good girl, he’d have continued as I let my knees fall apart. Open yourself to me.

So I do, using one hand as he’d taught me, allowing him an unimpeded view.

Line the dildo up. He’d have said next. But don’t press it in. Circle it around your entrance.

My eyes close as I follow his quasi-command, envisioning his gaze hot on my moist flesh as the blunt end pushes against my opening.

Tease yourself.

So I do, until I feel hollow, an ache forming deep in my belly, moisture dripping down to pool beneath me.

Slowly now. Push it in.

His voice would have sounded tight, constrained.

My gratuitous moans fill the air.

Now pull it out, almost to the end, but not quite.

My groan echoes in the squelch of my thrust.

Mmm. Yes, just like that. Now do it again.

I know how to follow a command.

Before long, I’ve picked up the pace, the euphoria inside me reaching a crescendo. My impending climax building, growing, intensifying.

I thrust until my arm aches and my fingers cramp. Until sweat beads my brow and dews my skin.

But no matter how hard or soft I thrust, which way I shift, how busily I try, I can not fall over the edge into ecstasy.

Immediately, I know why.

With a frustrated growl, I grab my phone. Contemplating, I pause for a second, thinking about what this will mean. Then, biting my lip, I push the one button I have for speed dial. The one number that’s saved.

The line rings once, twice, a third time. Half way through the fourth, I think about hanging up, giving up. Those same tears felt all those times before begin running into my hairline, filling my ears, when mercifully a click answers.

“To what do I owe the pleasure so soon after your departure?” Sir asks on the other end, but I can hear his smile.

I feel my cheeks heat. When I say the words, they are little more than a whisper.

“May I come, Sir?” Even I can hear the tears. The need. The desperation.

“I’m sorry, what? I can barely hear you? Can you repeat that?” But I know he had heard me.

I clear my throat, close my eyes and say it again. “Please, may I come, Sir? Pleeeeeaaaaase?”

There was no mistaking the plea in my request. One could almost call it begging.

The space between us stretches, a second. Ten. My humiliation grows.

His voice is husky on the other end when he replies, “come for me.”

I do as he asked.

What can I say?

Maybe, Sir knows best?