You and I haven’t slept well for a few weeks. Your eyes are bloodshot, mine are vacated. You stare past me, we circle around each other like vultures on pavement.

When we do sleep, it comes in waves, fitful and slow, making distances we can not see. I stare at you, numb. In need of a shot or a shock.

Instead, we march up the stairs, fumbling for the bedroom, our motions not even together. You go right, I go left. Down the hall to check on the children, both of them sound asleep for hours.

The bedroom is not far away but I believe I’ll never make it. My eyelids are weighted and I want to float to our bed. I want to delicately brush against your skin, inhale your scent, and tumble into the darkness together.

But in the darkness of our room, you’re gone.

“Honey?” I ask.

No answer.

I begin to turn; you’re not where you’re supposed to be and I feel panic. Suddenly, you’re behind me.

“Don’t turn around,” you say. “Listen to me and do exactly what I tell you, ok?”

My back snaps upright when I feel your breath on my neck. Your hand comes up from behind me and you grab my crotch. I get hard. Instinctively, I cuff my hands behind my back, crossing them at the wrist. I’m not restrained, but it won’t be long before I am. You hold my swelling cock cupped in your hand and squeeze. It’s everything you need.

You bite my ear and put your other hand around my throat. I’m locked into you on both sides now.

“Safeword rules, apply, Daddy,” you say. “If you want to play, I mean. If you’re not too tired?”

You massage my balls around in your hands. My muscles loosen.

“Mmm,” I say. “That feels good.”

“Well, how about it. Daddy? Do I have your consent?”

“Yes,” I say.

I’m alert now, alive and warm, heart and blood racing underneath the skin.

“Then say it.”

“Yes, I consent.”

“Good boy.”

I love consenting to you. I love when you devour it.

“Good. Because your Queen has needs that only your filthy peasant mouth can fill,” you say. “Kneel down, my lovely little slutty farm boy.”

I do as I’m told. I at all times do.

“But,” you say. “Remember what happens if you break the rules or disobey your Queen. You remember don’t you, Daddy?”

“I do,” I say.

“And you consent to your punishment, right?”

I bite my lip. “Yes, my Queen. Punish me if I disobey you.”

“Then say, ‘I consent to my punishment if I disobey,’ peasant. Say it for your Queen.”

“I consent,” I say. Your hands squeeze around my neck. “I consent to my punishment if I disobey, my Queen.”

Adrenalin floods my body.

“My Queen…” but I don’t finish. Your fingers pull my hair and jerk my head back so wild my neck cracks. Your fingers dig into my scalp, massaging gently, rolling my head around on a pivot.

“You need to shut the fuck up and get on your knees.”

You whip me around and push me down onto my knees, one hand on my shoulder, the other at my throat.

“Don’t you say a fucking word. Not one,” you say. “And keep your mouth open for your Queen. Keep it open like a dog.”

I open it slowly, barely moving my cracked lips. Your fingers are inside my mouth. They explode into my cheeks like a bomb, tentacles running everywhere.

“Open your mouth like you mean it, slut.”

I taste copper and filth as you wriggle my mouth open wide. Skin stretches and cracks.

“Oooh, good,” you say. “You give in so easily. I like that.”

You spit at my open mouth. It misses and runs down my cheek. You spit again and this time it lands in the back of my throat. My cock swells on impact. I open wider, tongue flat.

A slap lands on my cheek like a firework. I take a few heavy seconds and reorient in the darkness. You move like a ghost.

“You don’t ask for more. I give it to you,” you say. “Do you know who I am?

“Of course, your Highness,” I say. I keep my head down. Soft, warm spit runs down my cheek.

“I’m sorry, at first I…”

Another slap across the cheek. Blood pools and stings at the surface.

“Open your mouth, peasant. But, please, do us both a favor. Don’t speak.”

I tremble underneath you.

You raise my head up gently, your thumb caressing my stinging cheek. I shudder in your grip.

I look up and you are hooded, robed, and holding a double fist-sized slipknot. You slip it on both arms, up to my elbows, and bind me in three quick movements. Heat radiates from your breasts behind your silk robe. You hang me up, my hands bound on a hook on the bedroom wall. There’s enough rope for me to lean suspended–but just barely.

You caress my face, your thumb presses my teeth down–I’m not open wide enough for you. My jaw lowers, and you hold my tongue down, clamping it in place.

“Open,” you say.

I open. Wide.

Your lefthand finds the seam between your legs and your open lips squish as you circle around, in and out, gathering sticky clear cum and scooping it out with your three fingers while I salivate. But I don’t speak, only keep my mouth open. Hoping.

“Good boy,” you say. “Ready?”

You squish your pussy juices around some more. In and out. I know that sound. I want that sound in my mouth. On my tongue.

“Please…” I whine.

A mistake. You slap me across the cheek and a handful of your cum splatters into my beard. I’m desperate so I grab at it with my tongue. Futilely.

“Awww, that’s cute, idiot peasant,” you say. “You had it and you wasted it all by speaking.”

I taste a small drop and my senses burst: richness fills up my tongue.

“Here,” you say. “Let’s try again and see if you can do better.”

You use your hand like a pro, milking and squeezing all that sticky glue out of your pretty pink hole. You cup a hand under your slit while you writhe around and feel inside for the sponge behind your clit. You find it easily.

“Oh fuck,” you scream.

In the dark, I hear you squirt in your hand. It overflows and gushes through your fingers.

“Fuck, yes,” you say. “Did you hear me, slut?”

My brain says, Don’t speak…don’t speak… but my mouth says, “Mmm-hmmm.”

Your wet hand slams salty cum on the other side of my face. I’m covered on both sides now and the smell is making me hyperventilate, I’m panting like a dog, a bitch in heat.

“Please,” I beg. “Please, my Queen. Please let me taste you. You can have whatever you want, you can have…”

Your hand on my throat silences me.

“I already have everything I need,” you say. “I don’t need your worthless cock. The only reason you are alive is that I let you live. I have plans for you, peasant.”

Your face is next to mine. Hot breath and desire ripple off you. I want to close my eyes, but I can’t. I’m fixed on your gaze. I can’t see all of your faces in the shadows but I can see your eyes turn white as they roll upward. Your hand churns wetly inside your frothing lips.

“Tongue out,” you say. I stretch it out toward your body. Don’t speak, don’t speak…

You spit down across my tongue. It splashes up and into the roof of my mouth catching in my throat. I gag, but you spit again, even more. Harder, too. I cough.

“Don’t you fucking choke on what your queen offers you,” you say.

But it’s too late. By the time you spit in my throat a third time, I’m gagging for air. My tongue creeps up and backward into heavy saliva gathering at the back of my throat.

I can’t hold it out anymore. I cough and drool, grabbing for air. I come up spitting and shaking tears forming.

“I’m sorry, my Queen, I’m sorry…” I pant, still drooling.

You lean down next to my ear.

“That was very disrespectful to your Queen, peasant,” you say. “We need to teach you some humility.”

I collapse on my legs, gasping, only mostly broken.

The weight of my body is hung in the air, soft rope tied at my wrists. It’s not painful, not yet, but it’s not comfortable either. I’m on pins and needles: your captive. And you are not pleased.

“Stay down and catch your breath, boy.” You spit the word at me. “You couldn’t just keep quiet, could you?”

You’re a ghost again, a white robe cast against darkness. You disappear from view. The sound of a match, sulfur in the air. A familiar crackle. You return with two lit candles and place them on the shelf. I squint in the sudden light and try to shield it with my hands but they are bound above me. I pull up and face you, heaving as I go.

“Oh, someone’s got a little fight left in them,” you say. “Don’t worry. We can take care of that.”

This is your pleasure; my submission. I see you shift a belt at your waist: a harness. You twist it right over your unkempt, unshaven pussy. A strap-on–my punishment for disobeying.

“Please, my Queen, please,” I say. I brace for a slap but it doesn’t come.

I can’t tell if it’s pity or disgust on your face. Both, I hope.

“Please?” you say. “I don’t remember giving you permission to speak, peasant slut.”

“Please, my Queen,” I whisper and lower my head. “Mercy, please. I deserve everything you planned for me. I know I’m a terrible servant. I want to be punished for it.”

“But?”

“Please, my Queen, please…” I trail off.

You raise your hand.

“Speak, peasant,” you say. “Don’t waste any more of my time.”

The words spill out.

“May I sniff your cunt, my Queen? I’ll do anything. Anything for one smell. Please,” I say. “You wouldn’t deny me one small pleasure before you punish me? My queen is merciful, I can tell.”

“Tell me why,” you say. You’re not buying it.

“Your scent,” I say writhing in place, “is so powerful. I’m overwhelmed when I smell your lips, your cum, your squirt. I love the taste of sweat and honey. Your smell slides down my throat and up to my brain. It’s an opiate for my pain, my miserable peasant life. Just once, my Queen. Once is all I ask. Let me smell you fuck-juices from their source. Before you punish me.”

You grin in the candlelight.

“Is that all?”

“Yes, that’s all. I promise. Please, my Queen.”

I hear you slide the harness back around to your ass. I’m too afraid to look, but the smell is undeniable. My small request is granted. You open your robe and inch towards me. I tilt forward, arched, my face at the height of your cunt. An inch or two in front of my beard you pull on your pubic hairs. Excitedly, you give a wiggle, and the upside-down triangle of your hair brushes my nose.

I’m a good boy so I don’t move, just stare up at you while you tease me with your open cunt lips.

“Come to it, then. Smell this fuckable pussy, peasant. If you want it bad enough, you can have it.”

I jerk forward. Caught by my restraints, a dog on a chain.

“Awww, poor slut,” you say as I snap back into place. “Try again.”

So I do. I buck up and lunge forward with my chest, holding my muscles taut on the ropes.

I’m buried in it now, my tongue outstretched. I gulp it down, overwhelmed by your scent. I swallow it through my nostrils. Blood and lust and cum; a sticky aroma of pure fuck-juice.

“Mmmm,” you moan. You lean in to feel the skin around your clit. I take my chance.

My tongue finds your pussy lips and I part them and lick them clean from inside out, lapping up everything my tongue touches. I bury my face inside you as far as it will go, as far as my restraints allow me. I munch on your brown hair, pulling at it gently. I keep my eyes locked at you. You rub your lips up and down across my outstretched tongue; a kitten’s bath for your cunt.

My tongue grazes your swollen clit. You twist in circles.

“Ooh, no, no,” you say. “No, no.”

But you don’t move away, despite your protests. I know you won’t, anyway. My tongue is locked around your pulsating clit. I lick at it slowly, methodically, pushing back when it pushes forward. Around and around, I swirl your juices with my tongue. They drip off my beard and down my chest. You press your sticky cunt right into my face and use my nose to plug your hole. In and out, my lips tremble as you grab my head and smash it into your gash over and over. I’m a fuck machine for you.

“Fuck you, you fucking farm boy,” you hiss. “You don’t deserve this.”

You may be right, but I open my mouth anyway. But I don’t speak. I’m a quick learner with cunt in my mouth.

You jerk my head back, let out a sharp squeal, and squirt a perfect stream right into my throat.

I open as wide as I can. I want to catch it all. All of your squirt.

Then, I swallow it all. Because I can.

Because I’m a sloppy fucking whore for you and because drinking your fuckjuices makes me feel like a messy slut from my throat down to my gut. I hear your liquid slosh in my belly.

It’s a short-lived victory but I relish it. I’m still in trouble for disobeying–I asked for a smell and swallowed your squirt instead.

Am I proud? Yes. Am I in trouble? Oh yes.

But right now, I’m the cat who swallowed the mouse, all drips and grins. I stick out my tongue and plead for more but your legs are still shaking. So I wait.

“I know you think you got the better of me, farm boy,” you say. Your trembling says I am correct.

I hope you’ll slap me but instead you hold me delicately by my chin, stroking my beard between your thumb and index finger. I lick your palm clean. It tastes like your clit and that makes my cock drip.

“You’re a good boy cleaning up my mess,” you say.

I want to purr and beg to be let loose. I try to show off as I wriggle and thrash against my restraints. My arms burn from being held upright. The rope is soft and gives easily, but there’s a fine line between using too much energy and being depleted.

I’m beginning to give out but we’re not done.

“Awww, farm boy,” you say. “We haven’t even gotten to my favorite part yet. Don’t go anywhere,”

You laugh. I breathe, ignoring the tiny tears in my arm muscles and chest. They stretch and snap. Blood releases in needles and warmth rushes over me.

I feel my blood, but I hear yours. It speaks to me.

When you return, your hood is back on. Vestiges of your face remain, but you’re smiling.

“You know you disobeyed me,” you say. “And there are rules. Without rules, where would we be in society? Right? And when you break them, you have to accept the consequences. Isn’t that right, peasant?”

“Yes, my Queen,” I say.

“And you know what the consequences are for disobeying your Queen, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I say.

You grab my nipples and squeeze firmly, then slowly. As you pull them taut, I buck up against my wrist bindings. You’re pulling me up by my nipples.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, my queen.”

Electric fire charges up the nerves in my chest. I shriek, then catch my breath and whimper. You let go and I fall on the balls of my feet. But that’s not what you want. You kick my feet apart and I’m on my knees again, with warm pain and carpet burn. My chest is spotty and red from the rush of blood inside. You watch me struggle on my knees, while I heave.

“You’re close, Daddy,” you say. “You’ve got more in you, though, don’t you? What color are you, Daddy? Tell me. Tell your Queen.”

“Green,” I say. “Green, my Queen. I’m ready.”

You slap me gently on both cheeks.

“Yes,” you say. “You are, in fact, ready.”

“I want you to figure out something,” you say and tip my chin back. “I am giving you a small mercy. I don’t grant many mercies–especially not to rule-breaking peasants like you.”

Your fingers roll around my lips.

“I’m gonna fuck your face,” you say. “Myself.”

You hook your thumb on my cheek and pull. My face distorts.

“Usually I would have my big-dicked harem boys take turns reaming your mouth-hole until it was split open. But tonight? Tonight I’ll gag you all by myself with my big dick.”

I shake and give in to the strain of the ropes. I feel a weakness coming on.

“I’m so sorry, my Queen,” I say. Your fingers still trace around my wet lips. “But, please.”

“Please…what?”

“Please. Don’t,” I say.

“What’s your color, Daddy?” you ask.

“Green, my Queen. Green,” I say and give you our backup signal so you know I’m being truthful. “I’m ready. I’m ready. It just feels so fucking good to be used beyond the point of exhaustion by someone you trust.”

You turn my head around; you’re inspecting me. My eyes are wide and heavy, but lucid. We’re burning pounds of sexual energy every second, a fire that can’t keep using up all the air. Something has to give. Not yet.

“I love you, Daddy,” you say.

“I love you, Kitten,” I say. “But I’m about to fuck your throat with my harness strap-on.”

You kiss me sweetly. You taste like Judas.

“Yes, my Queen.”

You adjust the harness to the front of your belly, right below your scars. Our scars. All of them are small and off-white where the skin was torn. I’ll kiss them later.

“Any last words, peasant?”

“Yes,” I say. “Don’t be gentle.”

“I won’t,” you say. “You’re a good boy, but you do deserve to have your peasant mouth fucked. You know that, right?”

“Yes, my Queen.”

I stand on one foot, shaking drool from my face and beard. I brace for a facefuck.

My hands are useless and numb. Your spit and squirt bubble down my chest like champagne and I want my cock sucked, stroked, touched–anything. I drip loads of pre-cum but I can’t touch any of it.

I try and signal my brain to stop clicking. I imagine shutting it down like a series of fluorescent lights, blacking out, one by one down a dark corridor. Darkness descends over my brain; I slip into your image, my Queen.

It’s so easy to submit to you.

“Use me,” I moan. I’m half drunk in sub-space. “Don’t be gentle.”

But you are gentle–at first. I make an “O” and my jaw cracks. I expect to feel the tip of your flesh-like dildo cross my lips on its way into my open mouth but when nothing touches my lips, I’m momentarily lost in a hall of memories.

Our play was so different than when we were young. You were always brave and eager. So fucking filthy. I was light and dark, full of resentment and ready to be punished. We opened our bodies together and traced each other’s familiar exposed faultlines. Then we traced other parts.

A cold, icy evening. The power went out; I asked you to trust me. You felt a flogger for the first time and I came on your shiny pink cunt. You rubbed my white come it into your clit, like cream, like lotion, you said. When we held each other, we didn’t say it but it had to be–it had to be–the darkness that made us feel uninhibited.

“I feel fearless in the dark,” you said that night.

“Show me,” I said.

You were on your knees when I slapped you gently for the first time. Three times quickly across the same cheek. You went silent and I was sure I had already gone too far, already ruined us before we even started.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean…”

“Can you do it harder?” you said. “I didn’t really feel it that time.”

“Are you sure?” I said. “I don’t want to…”

“Harder, Daddy,” you said. “Your little girl wants to feel it this time.”

Your thick dildo hits my teeth. And I’m back. Immobile, tied up at the wrists, knees touching the ground in our sickly suburban bedroom, kids asleep in their beds, one short thick candle burning behind you. You’re draped in your Queen robe: white with purple trim, faux fur, and a black leather strap-on harness.

“My Queen,” I say. “It’s you.”

You don’t acknowledge me. You slap your glittery purple cock on my lips, against my teeth.

I close my eyes, open up, and wait for the head of her dildo to touch my tongue. But she slaps my cheeks with her cock instead.

“Tell me you want it in your mouth, peasant.” She slaps it against my cheeks.

“I want it in my mouth,” I say.

The cock slams into my cheekbone. I see stars.

“What did you say?”

I’m stunned, digging in my brain for an answer.

“My Queen!” I say. “I want it in my mouth, my Queen.”

“Kiss it,” you say. “Kiss my cock and beg for mercy.”

I kiss it gently, trigger-shy. Another cock slap could come on my other cheek at any moment if I say the wrong words.

“I’m sorry, my Queen,” I say kissing the head lightly and looking up at you. “I’m sorry I offended you. Please, be merciful to your stupid, peasant.”