Fantasy Dom Ch. 04: The Test

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I was driving home the morning after my Manhattan Challenge, ostensibly because I’d over-imbibed and the lady of the house, Theresa, refused to let me drive. All the revelations (and realizations) of the past twelve hours swirled in my head.

Fair to say, I was in the middle of a bunch of spouse-swapping sexcapades. And no question about it – I was the chump, the dupe who least knew what was going on. In the course of one wild evening, the trysts between my wife, Marcy, and our good friend Thomas were revealed to me. And the Dom/Sub relationship between Theresa and me intensified.

I was nervous as hell. How should I act with Marcy? I’d be seeing her within the half hour. I’d learned that she’d been fucking Thomas, our longtime friend and husband to Theresa. I recalled the phone message I’d been forced to leave him (at Theresa’s command). “Thank you for fucking my wife. I hope you keep doing it, often.” Boy, was I confused. I felt like a cuckold schmuck for saying it. I was excited that I obeyed a difficult command from my Mistress (for that’s what she was now, having clearly graduated from the status of a Fantasy Dom). And I felt a panic because I didn’t know if Marcy was aware that I knew. What a fucked-up situation. I was nearly home and at a loss about how to proceed.

I crept nervously through the threshold to our home, still not knowing what to say or what Marcy might say. Would she confess? Lay everything on the table? Play dumb and ignore it? How should I even begin?

“Babe,” she said, getting up from the couch and sauntering up to me a bit uncharacteristically, to give me a welcome hug and assume control of the situation. “I’m so glad you’re okay. You know I don’t get much sleep when you’re not here.”

I was immediately relieved at the overall reception, but I was also shocked at the blatant double entendre embedded in her welcome. I thought to myself, yeah, you don’t get much sleep when I’m gone because you stay up all night fucking Thomas. Before I could process much more than that she continued without interruption.

“Theresa’s a good friend. I’m really glad you did what she said and stayed the night. She has good judgment. You should always do what she says.”

I realized I’d just been double-barreled with yet another double entendre. She may as well have said, “Obey your Mistress.” But that train of thought was interrupted as well as she put her arms around my neck, kissed me sincerely and said, “I’m so glad you’re home. Are you hungry?”

And with that mundane request, any talk of sexual escapades or infidelity were rendered inert. I kissed her back and recall thinking of the old adage, “Let sleeping dogs lie.” And that was that. A dreaded moment defused and buried by my wife. In spite of the circumstances, my love for her deepened during that interaction.

We each went our own way, attending to mindless household chores and typical weekend preoccupations. We each grabbed a bite to eat unceremoniously, on our own. The day crept along without any notable interaction.

As evening came and nightfall progressed, Marcy told me she was exhausted and going to bed early. In my mind I said something snarky like, “Yeah, cuz you were fucking all night.” Of course, I merely smiled and told her I’d join her soon. I did add aloud, “I didn’t get much sleep either.” And then I winced at the potential stupidity of the remark. Luckily, she ignored it.

I sat on the sofa and absent mindedly picked up a magazine and leafed through it without focus. I reminisced about the previous night’s game of “Who makes a better Manhattan cocktail.” My Mistress parlayed that friendly competition into a session of domination. She slapped me, applied my own belt to my bottom, edged me (unbelievably) a good twenty-five times and had me bury my face in her pussy while she laid back on a lush recliner and issued instructions. She demolished any doubt I may have harbored about her interest in a Dom/Slave relationship.

I was still horny as my boyhood dog Beauregard when the neighbor’s standard poodle would go into heat. (I can still see him clawing at the back door, exposed boner, trying desperately to get out to pursue Daisy.) Theresa had taken me to the edge and denied me so many times, my balls were tender and my cock was still half way to a full erection. And with all those cluttered thoughts jostling in my mind, I decided to join my “sleep-deprived” wife in bed.

Just as I was about to move, my phone buzzed with a text message. It was from Thomas. “Got your voice mail. Thanks for the encouragement, sport. Will follow through with your request. Your buddy.”

Wow, I thought. I really have given a green light to my friend to fuck my wife. And I was pretty sure I had said “often” in my message. But what choice did I have? My Mistress made me. And I couldn’t refuse her – right? I felt a bit like a manipulated loser. I also felt a renewed arousal. I erased the message without reply and resumed my previous course.

I brushed my teeth, removed batıkent escort all my clothes and attempted to join Marcy under the covers, hoping that I might find some release. I lunged my head towards hers, hoping to land an erotic kiss, a prelude to even greater luck.

She kissed me but held me at arms-length.

“You’re horny, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Yeah, I am. Being away from you does that to me,” I added disingenuously.

“Here, lie back,” she told me, as she guided me back to my side of the bed and onto my back. She placed my hand on my cock, leaned over and began kissing, licking and sucking my nipples. This had become, in our mature marriage, a default scenario. When I was horny and she really didn’t feel particularly amorous, she’d get me to masturbate while she attended to the most erogenous zone in my body…my nipples. No one else in the world knew how sensitive and arousing this part of my body was. She kissed, flickered her tongue and sucked, knowing that I’d be instantly aroused. And then she ventured into that Dom realm, which she was ordinarily reluctant to embrace, and said, “Jerk off for me.” And she added, “That’s my cock. Those are my balls. Jerk for me! Cum for me!” as she continued her nipple teasing.

I immediately made the connection to Theresa, who had chided me so similarly the night before while edging the shit out of me. I could still hear her. “Whose balls are these, whose cock is this?” Holy shit! Were these gals coordinating this thing or was it just the common language of domination? I didn’t know. But logical thinking was out the window. I was only aware that my hard, desperate cock was in my fingers and some sexy woman was licking my nipples and telling me to cum for her. I wanked like the piston in a souped-up Shelby Cobra.

As usual, she sensed when I was near my ejaculation. It didn’t take long. She leaned back and watched as the first forceful, spasmodic jet stream reached my chin, followed by subsequent emissions on my neck, chest and stomach. She giggled. And in my eye-fluttering, semi-conscious, rapturous state, I was vaguely aware of her exclaiming, “Holy shit! You were packing a load there, mister!”

After calming down, I expressed deep gratitude for her indulgence. I think I said “thank you” a dozen times.

“Any time,” she smiled before climbing back under her covers and curling up into a fetal position.

I cleaned myself up and then snuggled into my own cocoon. In my mind, powerful, erotic images of the past twenty-four hours swirled in kaleidoscopic fashion. Spontaneously, sexually suggestive remarks of the past twenty-four hours played as well. “He’s been fucking your wife…these are my balls…I don’t get much sleep when you’re not here…You should always do what she says… Thank you for fucking my wife…please keep doing it – often,” fading in a decrescendo into sleep.

Marcy and I spoke not again of my overnight at Theresa’s (or Thomas’s overnight at our place.) I think we both thought it best simply to leave it alone.

Over the next couple months I nurtured my dedication to my Mistress. I sent her suggestive limericks, a naughty joke or two, an occasional heartfelt compliment about my complicated emotions, which included adoration and lust. She never reacted. Nada. Of course, she’d indicated to me in the past that neglect is the prerogative of a Mistress. Her thrall was still expected to keep the tributes flowing, regardless.

Then one day Theresa called Marcy and invited us to attend an NFL football party. This was not unusual. She and Thomas typically picked one Sunday a season and hosted a hell of a bash. They’d cultivated a circle of friends who followed the regional team (identification withheld to protect the innocent) and all looked forward to a raucous and convivial party. Marcy informed me of it as she was copying it into our calendar. Not that I minded, but so much for checking with your spouse.

About a week before the football party, I received an email from my Mistress.

“Looking forward to the game. This is a command from your Mistress – you will not touch your cock or your balls beginning 12:01 AM on Monday morning, the week prior to the game. I will tell you when you’re allowed to touch them when I’m ready. You WILL obey me!”

This order came from out of nowhere. I re-read it many times to make sure I wasn’t missing something. I found the request completely odd yet crazily exhilarating. And I began wondering how I was to conduct my bath-rooming – from peeing to showering. I had no choice but to figure it out. I had to obey the mandate from my Mistress.

D-Day (Monday morning, 12:01 AM) arrived and the first time I peed I realized that her edict would be challenging. I couldn’t simply pull my penis through the fly in my shorts. That would be touching. So, I dropped my trousers and shorts down to my ankles, scooted forward and lowered myself a bit over the bowl and kind of straddled beşevler escort it. I felt stupid. And I told myself that I shouldn’t worry about it. She’d never know one way or the other. All I had to do is to tell her that I complied. But then a Freudian internal sense of guilt and a compulsion to comply with her command won out. I committed myself to this ritual of emptying my bladder and followed it religiously.

Likewise with showering. I was forbidden to touch my cock or balls, yet sensible hygiene required my attention. I took to soaping up a wash cloth and slapping it between my legs. (I learned that there was a fine line between a gentle stroking and a more aggressive approach that could hurt.) Luckily, my showerhead was attached with a hose so I was able to rinse well. To dry off I resorted to a hair dryer. I had never dried my crotch with a hair dryer before. I actually found it quite pleasant and even stimulating.

I learned fairly quickly and established routines. I had to be careful not to spontaneously rearrange, scratch or fondle my balls. It occurred to me how often I did touch my cock and balls, now that it was forbidden. But I was determined to carry out her will…her command…strange as it was.

I found myself feeling controlled, sapped of free will. I wasn’t touching my cock or balls because she ordered it. I heard her voice again. “This cock is mine. These balls are mine.” And the current exercise proved her point. I dropped my drawers and straddled the bowl. And I began to get excited each time I did it. I started to get a bit of a hard on when I peed. Her power over me, and my acquiescence, grew sexually stimulating. Boy, was she wrapping me around her finger. I felt a tinge of resentment. But my irritation quickly dissolved into appreciation, and willing compliance.

All week I followed orders. Not once did I touch my cock or balls. I wondered what my Mistress had up her sleeve. Why was she doing this? To cement my obeisance? To prove to me that she owned me? I wasn’t sure. But I was obedient, to the point where I held my dear wife at arm’s length, for fear that she might initiate some sexual contact that could compromise my fidelity to my Mistress.

The week passed. Sunday arrived. The party was on. We drove to our friends’ home, each of us with an anticipation that the other could sense. I wondered if Marcy was planning some clandestine sex with Thomas. I wondered if she suspected the same of me with Theresa.

When we arrived, my dear Mistress was working the bar like a real pro. It was her bar, in her beautiful home, nestled in the pine forest, adjacent to a secluded golf course. We were but two of over a couple dozen friends and neighbors invited to watch some football, eat, imbibe, chat, laugh and have fun.

Quite the hostess she was. Always was. When it was her party she made sure that everything was as perfect as it could be, from the plentiful hors d’oeuvres to the custom-made cocktails and libations that she created and served to guests from behind the bar.

And that was the scene on this fine, warm autumn day when a couple dozen of us descended on their beautiful home. We were enjoying the football game and the camaraderie. I was sitting at the bar, in my usual spot, the last seat at one end. Everyone else was coming and going, to watch football, step out on the deck, play some pinball, gorge at the snack table, tell stories and jokes, etc. The perfect football party.

Occasionally, we’d be left alone, in between drink orders from others. She and I were sipping a potent concoction of hers, a specially blended Patron Silver margarita, and were just starting to feel a little giddy from the alcohol. That’s when she leaned over the bar and whispered, “Were you a good boy all week. Did you obey me?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I answered with confidence.

“Call me Mistress,” she retorted. “You’ve earned that privilege.”

Her permission to refer to her as “Mistress” was most meaningful to me. She’d been for so long my Fantasy Dom, existing only in my wildest reveries, in my imagination.

“Yes, Mistress. And yes, I obeyed you all week.”

She wandered to the far end of the bar to put a couple glasses in the sink before returning and resuming the confidential conversation.

“You wouldn’t wimp out on me would you? I mean, if I took our relationship to another level. If I really subbed the shit out of you, if I became your STRICT Mistress, you’d do everything and I mean EVERYTHING I tell you to, right?”

“Yes Mistress,” I responded eagerly.

“‘Everything’s’ a big word. Are you absolutely sure I can’t stump you with the…” She paused to hunt for the right word… “unpredictable?”

Without hesitation I reassured her.

“I trust you completely. I’m just positive that I can and will do anything you tell me to…” I paused and then added, “Mistress.”

She moved to the far end of the bar, leaving me momentarily. She returned büyükesat escort after several minutes of cracking bottles of beer, pouring wine and kibitzing with the patrons. She leaned over and spoke to me, audibly but discretely, “Let’s find out if you’re really deserving. I’m going to give you one shot, and today’s the day. This is a big test.” She paused. “Are you sure you’re in?”

“I’m in,” I responded unwaveringly.

“Okay,” she replied and stared me straight in the eye for several moments, as if to cement the commitment.

“Are you wearing underwear under those shorts?”

I knew I’d heard her correctly but wasn’t quite sure how to respond. It was a pleasant autumn day and I was wearing khaki shorts. Underneath I wore some tighty whiteys. I know I blushed three shades of red before I answered her. “Yeah, I am.” I hesitated. “Why?”

“I’m disappointed. Go take them off and then come back.” There was an awkward moment of silence and inaction which she brought to a quick end by ordering emphatically, “Now!”

She must have known that in that short span of a thirty second exchange my libido went from warm to simmering. Of course, I followed her instructions. I dashed to the bathroom to do as she said, driving myself crazy wondering what in the heck she was up to. I stuffed my underwear into my fanny pack in the hall closet and returned to my seat at the bar. Of course, having been celibate all week I was especially horny. And the commanding persona she’d created was turning me on even more. I was getting hard and was self conscious about it showing through my khakis.

She wasted no time with small talk. She spoke discretely to me, as no one else occupied the bar.

“I want you to stick your hand up the leg of your shorts and rub your cock. Don’t let anyone see. But I want you to rub your cock and make it hard while you admire me working the bar.”

No sooner were those words out of her mouth than a somewhat inebriated woman approached the bar and asked if she’d make her another of those delicious limoncello martinis.

My Mistress gave me a stern look that communicated again her expectation. Her eyes toggled between my eyes and my crotch before she swiveled and began measuring, shaking and pouring. I’ll admit that I was intoxicated well beyond the margarita I’d been sipping. My libido was revving and she was hot.

Over the next ten minutes or so I sat and admired and ogled while she continued to play the perfect bartender host, serving, bantering and flattering all who showed up. And as I watched and admired, I scooted as far under the bar top as I could, reached judiciously up my pant leg and massaged my cock, as best I could without drawing any attention to myself. I was so turned on. Masturbating in public, on command from my Mistress. It was so naughty and mischievous. I had a hell of a boner. Furtive glances from her confirmed that she was monitoring me.

Finally, there was a lull in the action and my bartender approached me with undivided attention. She placed a short high ball glass filled with ice in front of me.

“You’re going to jerk off for me, slave” she ordered matter-of-factly. “Go to the bathroom and take this glass with you. Jerk off and shoot all your cum into this glass. Go, now,” she finished, as another patron approached the bar for a refill.

I was astonished at the command. Who was this woman? This was NOT my casual decades-old friend. This was not my Fantasy Dom. This was someone new. An edgy Mistress. She was wild… unpredictable… exhilarating! What she told me was so bossy and kinky, the kind of directive that a male sub dreams about but thinks will never actually happen. But there it was. I was truly astonished at the request but thrilled that she made it. And, I was determined to prove to her that I’d to anything she told me to. So, there I went, straight for the bathroom with ice-filled tumbler in hand.

It wasn’t a difficult task. She had been arousing me for the past week, demanding celibacy, and now clearly granting me opportunities to admire her while I surreptitiously played with my cock. And I was admiring her…every inch of her…every flirting, prick-teasing inch. I was hard, horny and turned on by…it felt so good to say it…my Mistress. I made sure the door was locked, dropped my shorts and began pounding my dick as fervently as I could, hard and fast. I thought of her visage, her power, her control; my submission and my obedience. I thought about how deliciously she was subbing me, ordering me around in such a sexually explicit way. ‘Goddamn, what a Mistress!’ I thought.

It was but a few minutes before I ejaculated. I aimed every drop into the glass, over the ice. It was a powerful orgasm. I wasted none. I’d been so caught up in the excitement, it was only at that point that I wondered what the next step was. Why the glass? I found out upon my return to my seat at the bar. The stool at the end was still open. No one else was near.

“Hey stranger, have a seat. Long time no see,” she greeted me. I placed my glass on the counter. She waited until we were relatively alone and leaned toward me as though in strict confidence. She studied the glass, looked at me knowingly and winked. She produced a naughty smirk. “You’re my jerk off boy,” she declared. Admit it to me, admit to me that you’re my jerk off boy.”

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