Read part 1 here.
My body tensed in anticipation of his touch- where was he going to start? I could feel his presence next to me- a quiet calm. It was his voice I heard first. “Relax your body,” he said, his voice gentle but even. I unclenched my fists (when did I make fists?), and did my best to focus on relaxing my shoulders and hips. “More,” he instructed, “focus on sinking into the mattress. Relax each part of you- start at your toes, and work your way up to your head.” I recognized that he was leading me through a progressive muscle relaxation exercise, and it piqued my curiosity. I did as I was told, relaxing each muscle group and visualizing myself sinking deeper into the mattress. By the time I made it to my eyebrows, he still hadn’t touched me- and I was relaxed enough that I easily could’ve fallen asleep.
“Good girl,” he said, recapturing my attention. Something about that phrase hits me right between the legs every single time. He cupped my face, planting a kiss on my willing lips. “I am going to touch you now,” he began, “and you are going to pay attention to my hands. Pay attention to how they feel on your skin, where and how the goosebumps form, and how your body reacts. If your mind wanders, bring it back to my touch. Do you understand?”
“Yes Sir,” I breathed, visualizing myself sinking into the mattress in an effort to get control of the butterflies taking over my body. His fingertips brushed my stomach, trailing up my sides, deliberately bypassing my breasts to trail up and down each of my arms. I shivered at the invasion, my restraints preventing me from shielding myself from the tickle.
Despite my blindfold, I could feel his eyes on me. My mind began to wander: what is he seeing right now…what is he thinking? How does my body look? I refocused on his touch; his fingertips were now tracing the outlines of my breasts, dancing around my nipples but never quite touching them. “You’re beautiful,” he said, and I felt myself blush. At least then I knew what he was thinking.
I squirmed under his touch, desperate for his fingers to touch my nipples. He outmaneuvered me, continuing to avoid my more sensitive areas in favour of tracing lines up and down my stomach, across my hips. He traced where my belly meets my pubic bone, an area that typically invites a certain degree of self-consciousness. I forced myself to relax and remain in the moment- just as he instructed.
I could feel my pussy start to ache as he moved lower down my body, kneading my thighs and calves. He massaged each of my feet, commenting on how pretty my painted toes were. As he moved back up my legs, he focused his touch on the inside of them. I could hear myself breathing heavily as his fingertips grazed my inner thigh, and I stifled a moan as he traced the triangle between my legs.
By this point my body was a ball of nerves, and frankly it was difficult to concentrate on anything but his touch. I was eager for him to explore more of me and give me the sensation that I was so craving. When he finally touched my nipples I moaned, the tension that he created being temporarily relived until it quicky built again. He teased my nipples with his fingers before adding his tongue. He sucked, pinched, stroked, flicked, and squeezed them with patient focus until I was moaning and squirming at every touch.
“That’s it, let it feel good,” he coached, and I did.
His hands wandered my skin as his mouth worked my breasts and nipples; my body and mind were completely surrendered to his sensations. Eventually he moved himself between my legs, and I could feel an ache deep inside me. He took an excruciating amount of time to get settled, laying down so that his face and hands were perfectly poised between my legs. “Please,” I breathed in desperation. I could literally feel the wetness in my pussy dripping.
“All in good time,” he said with the slightest teasing note in his voice. He was clearly enjoying himself, which deepened my own enjoyment. I felt his fingers trace the lines where my thighs met my hips, taking time to brush between my thighs as well. When he finally traced my damp slit, my entire body shivered. It felt like a whispered orgasm. “Remember, you are not to cum,” he reminded me as he gently parted my lips.
I felt vulnerable and desperate in that moment. I was starving for stimulation but knew that he was setting the pace. “Mmm, so wet,” he marvelled. He still wasn’t touching me, just holding my lips open and admiring me.
He was exposing- exploring- my most secret places. His entire focus was on me. Part of me wanted to crumble, that all-too-familiar self-consciousness threatening to seep in- more out of habit than any influence of his. While part of me was worried I would burst into flames when he touched my clit, the rest of me was looking for matches.
The fact that I couldn’t see what was happening- his expression, his next move- very much challenged my innate desire to please. Where I would typically be angling my hips up to him or preparing a moan to demonstrate my enjoyment- and keep his attention- I was instead forced to wait, and genuinely focus on what I felt.
Don’t get the wrong idea, reader- not every sexual experience before this has been an act. If you ever find yourself in a similar situation, however- tied up and blindfolded, at the mercy of your partner- you will find that your usual dance moves don’t fit the rhythm of the music. Mr. Grey was right- I had to pay attention.
He had all of my attention as he remained rooted between my legs. “Are you ready?” I heard him say, and moaned a “yes Sir” before he had even finished.
I braced myself for the impact I so craved, waiting to feel hands, tongue, SOMETHING on my needy clit. I could feel his grip firm on my lips, spreading them a little bit more. I pictured him squaring his shoulders, going in with his tongue. I screamed- in frustration, elation, who knows- when the burst of air hit my clit.
He had only blown on me, and it felt like the most powerful of vibrators.
I couldn’t tell if it took the edge off, or sharpened the knife. All I knew is that I wanted- needed- more.
He giggled at my shiver, reinforcing his enjoyment of the moment. “Relax back into the mattress, baby, we’re just getting started,” he coached. I refocused, trying to get back to the center that I had built. Just as I relaxed, he blew on my clit again, reigniting the fire. How rude.
“Please, Sir!” I exclaimed, unsure of exactly what I was asking for.
“Let it feel good, baby, that’s all you have to do,” he reminded me- as if I needed it.
My heart hammered in my chest, my body as tense as a stretched rubber band. My efforts to recenter myself were abruptly- mercifully- interrupted by his tongue on my clit.
At long last.
The sensation was warm, fulfilling, exquisite. My body was rock hard tension and melting wax all at once. His tongue was hot on my most sensitive part, gently flicking electricity all the way through my body.
The restraints dug into my wrists as my fingers fought to grip his hair. My hips bucked underneath him in an effort to give him more of me. I wanted him to consume me until there was nothing left.
“Pay attention,” he coached gently, the vibration of his voice yet another sensation between my legs. “Let it feel good, but feel it- you’re not going to cum. Feel my tongue, feel my fingers,” he said as he added the tips of his fingers to the mix.
I felt him stroke my clit with a finger- the same pressure as his tongue, but somehow more precise. He rubbed me back and forth, then side to side. My body responded naturally. “That’s it, good girl, focus.”
His words coached my focus back into my body- back into my clit. I was getting caught up in the sensation, and my body was taking over- but as much as I tried to focus my mind, I could feel old habits creeping in. Was I moaning too loudly? Not loudly enough? Was I squirming enough to let him know I liked it?
The thing is, OF COURSE he knew I liked it. Every fibre of my body was his at that point. He was paying attention to my every shiver- he had been since we started. My moans and motions were all but superfluous by that point- so why was I still so focused on them? After all, this wasn’t about cumming- so really, I didn’t even need to focus on the climb- I just had to let it feel good.
So I did.
My moans quieted as I refocused my mind only on the dance that his fingers and tongue were doing. It was intricate, practiced, and indulgent. He was clearly taking his time, mixing up pressure and pace as my body responded under him. Each time I felt my mind wander, I dutifully brought it back to my body. I pushed out all of the pressure, the self-consciousness- even the self-awareness, and just let myself feel.
It felt good. Really, really, really good.
Mr. Grey kept checking in, sometimes with his words (Does that feel good baby? That’s it, good girl), and other times with his actions- stopping the sensation just long enough for me to sigh or groan in frustration- as if to make sure I was paying attention.
He definitely had my attention. He had all of me.
“Now, I want to talk about orgasms,” he said casually, as if we were sharing lunch. His fingers were buried in my pussy, gently thrusting in and out, each time deeper than the last. His fingers curled against me, hitting that sweet spot that makes me feel like I am going to implode.
“Not that this is about orgasms,” he reminded me, “but I’m curious. With other partners, or with yourself- what makes you cum, baby?”
It took me a minute to remember how to say words, and another to consider his question. The truth was, I had two different answers- one for partners, and one for myself. As I considered, he continued a regular pace of fingering me- enough to keep me stimulated, but backing off so that I could come up with a coherent thought. How kind.
“With partners,” I began with effort, “fast. And hard.” He noticeably picked up the pace of his fingers.
“Clit, or inside you?” he asked.
“Clit.” I said definitively. I had never had an internal orgasm. More on that later.
“Mmmm, good girl,” he said, adding a third finger and pressing extra deep inside me. I moaned. “And alone?”
Alone was, in truth, harder to answer. “Reflex,” I said vaguely. The truth was, I just knew what felt good. I could match the external pressure to the internal feeling, and seemingly glided up the mountain instead of the crawl/climb that I had to do with a partner.
“Say more,” he challenged.
I sighed, trying to pull some focus from his fingers to my own mind. “Fast, but more…deliberate. Less pressure,” I said, still considering. Finally, something clicked. “Fantasy…mental…my mind,” I said, fighting to hold onto the thought as his fingers in my pussy threatened to take it from me.
“Ah, your mind has to be engaged,” he said knowingly.
“Yes,” I breathed, relieved that I didn’t have to find more words to explain myself.
“Do you use your mind with a partner?” he asked, clearly on a path to somewhere. My mind was much too fractured to follow.
“Yes,” I said. “No,” I followed. The truth was, my mind, as we have established throughout this piece, was often on other things when with a partner. His pleasure, his needs. Mine were forced into a secondary position, no matter the physical stimulation.
“Ah,” he said. “I think we might be onto something.” With that, his fingers picked up the pace, while his other hand rubbed my clit. “Let it feel good,” he reminded. “Don’t cum.”
When he said cum, something inside me clicked. I had been climbing the mountain without even knowing it. I could feel the telltale pull from deep inside me as he rubbed my clit. Something pulling from my belly button downward to his fingers, drawing me closer and closer to release.
The excitement and surprise damn near killed me.
He kept going, my body clearly giving me away. The tension built, and I remained completely dialled into it. I chased that orgasm as I climbed, terrified that the precious pull would leave me and I would fall down, only to have to start again.
Imagine my horror when he pulled away entirely.
I groaned, disappointment radiating through my body in all the places where pleasure once was.
“I told you, tonight isn’t about cumming,” he chided, his tone chipper and light in the shadow of my dismay.
“Please,” I begged, still yet to feel the full weight of my situation.
His now soaked fingers circled back up to my nipples, tracing familiar patterns that he had established earlier that night. My previous self consciousness as he traced my belly, my lines, my curves, had entirely evaporated. All I wanted from him was stimulation; all I could focus on was pleasure.
He came up to lay beside me, his clothes soft against my overstimulated body. He kissed me deeply, appreciatively. “You’ve been such a good girl,” he purred in my ear.
It’s a good thing my hands were tied, or I might’ve hit him.
“I’m proud of you. You paid attention; you let it feel good,” he commended.
“Thank you Sir,” I said automatically, desperate to win good favour in hopes of turning it into an orgasm. I was floating somewhere above my body, half of my focus still on my throbbing and denied clit.
“I know it was cruel to edge you,” he admitted, “but it’s all part of the process. Did it feel good?”
“Fuck yes,” I breathed, still trying to get myself back to earth.
His fingers returned between my legs, and I was all too happy to oblige- not that my restrained legs gave me much choice in the matter.
I purred out a moan as his fingers stroked my swollen clit, loosely debating the value of asking to cum, knowing that he would say no. I elected to be quiet- and let it feel good.
I focused on his fingers- I couldn’t see his face, couldn’t read his body language. I had nothing to focus on but his touch, so I leaned in.
He stroked my clit back and forth, applying various amounts of pressure and watching my body react. “That’s it, good girl, focus on my fingers,” he said gently, his breath tickling my ear as he whispered.
I could feel myself getting footing back on the mountain, and starting the climb as he stroked me. I could hear the wetness between my legs, the sound adding to the decadent sensation. All I wanted in that moment was an orgasm, and it was decidedly within grasp. I was laser focused on the climb, completely oblivious to every other single thing around and within me.
He was patient, deliberate- bringing me step by step closer to where I wanted- needed- to be.
“You aren’t going to cum tonight,” he reminded me, to my extreme disappointment.
“Please, Sir,” I breathed, the tendrils of release starting to slip through my fingers.
“I know you don’t like it,” he said obviously, “but it’s how you will learn. You have to know that you can get there, and know that I can bring you there- that I want to. You have to practice focusing your mind on your body, and in the moment- and only that. You’ve done so well tonight, baby, but we are just beginning.”
The disappointment was crushing, even as his fingers continued to stroke. I could hear a finality in his voice, and as new as I was to submission, I was smart enough to understand that he held all the cards. My fate was in his hands, and while I felt that he was nurturing it, he was also denying me.
Not something that I had a terrible amount of experience with.
When he finally trailed his fingers up from my clit, across my belly, around my nipples, I breathed a sigh of- frustration, disappointment, relief?
The sigh was interrupted as he gently put his wet fingers into my mouth.
“You taste so good, baby. I had so much fun,” he said gently. I sucked his fingers, enjoying my own taste and sinking into his voice.
My body was exhausted, and so was my mind. He untied my restraints, taking his time to massage my limbs as they relaxed. He finished with removing my blindfold.
I blinked my eyes until they focused on his, an unrelenting but somehow gentle stare. “I am so proud of you, this is going to be so much fun,” he said with a smirk.
That moment, that smirk- was what got me. I was his, as long as he would teach me. I had never been so indulged, so understood. I had had some great sex in my life, but nothing with that level of dedication to my pleasure. He was clearly invested in me- in what made me tick, in what I needed, wanted- and I was along for the ride. I wasn’t overthinking it, I wasn’t self-conscious. I kissed him deeply, hoping to communicate my gratitude with my tongue.
I was ready to let it feel good- whatever came next.
Like Mr. Grey’s style? Read more about him here.