The final pulse of More Human than Human by White Zombie fades out. I squeeze my thighs together and revel in the zing that radiates there. My heartbeat pounds in my chest. Fingertips itch to touch. One final respiration and I’m ready to be me, without fear of rejection or guilt. It took years to accept this corrupt part of myself. Every day it’s a struggle. That’s what makes my job perfect. It gives me the outlet I need to stay sane. Being with Tyler and Rob goes beyond that. To something I’d call divine.

  Turning around to face him, my eyes scan Tyler’s glorious body. As promised, he’s hard, so very hard as he stares straight ahead. None of that kneeling nonsense for my men. They stand because I respect them. They obey because they respect me. His ice-blue eyes widen as he takes in my outfit from head to toe. Gaze landing on the swell of my breasts, the smallest, almost shy grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. Compliment received. He approves. If that’s not indication enough, the slow sweep of Tyler’s tongue across his full bottom lip cements his appreciation. Suppressing a shiver, I watch a thin stream of pre-cum cascade from his pierced slit onto the floor. His cock bobs there, performing for its mate. Tyler’s putting on a show for me. One that we’re both aware of, but don’t acknowledge. He wants to entice his Mistress and is doing a damn fine job of it.

  My mouth begins to water as he flexes that dick again, sending a stream of pre-cum flying, catching the light just right. Tyler’s member is a masterpiece much like the man himself. It’s the perfect thickness; a virile seven inches that he’s decorated with jewelry from crown to base. A chunky Prince Albert hoop loops through the head. Along the underside is an eight-rung Jacobs ladder. I’m not sure which I like more. They’re both a turn-on.

  Without addressing him, I let the music carry my steps to the wall of tools. Unhooking two leashes from their designated spots, I make sure he can see what I’m doing. Anticipation is half the excitement. Pivoting on my heel, I approach Tyler and stop three feet away—so close yet so far. Poised to keep my excitement in check, I drape both leashes over my forearm a few inches apart. One is medium-weight leather, the other lighter nylon; both sufficient for our use. Gesturing toward them with the subtle jut of my chin, I give him the option to pick his desired heft. What he chooses will determine how deep we go tonight.

  Aware he’s not allowed to touch me without permission, he quickly points to the leather before returning the arm to his side.

  Hmmm. Perfect.

  He wants it hard. I was hoping for the same as well.

  Pleased, I grin inwardly at the prospect. Tonight’s gonna be fun.

  Making him wait a tad bit longer, I return the nylon leash to its place. Then it’s show time. Leather clasped in one hand, I wrap my fist around his erection with the other. His pulse throbs through my palm, the heat of his flesh warming my chilly fingers from the outside in. Stroking him roughly, once, twice, a series of severe tremors wrack Tyler’s frame. I draw another bubble of pre-cum from the tip. That’s it, baby, take the pleasure. Opening the metal clasp of the leash, I connect it to his Prince Albert and let go of everything. Tyler’s throat works through thick swallows, lips slightly parted. His six-pack flexing, the leather falls into a heap at his feet, forcing his cock to point downward, drawing the skin taut at his smooth pubis. Damn, that’s sexy. He’s sexy. Even the bareness he favors, apart from his legs that’re covered in a dark smattering of hair, is sexy. It makes his dick look bigger. Engorged even; with all the blood flowing south from the leather weighing it down. Excited, my pussy clenches at the decadent sight before me, and my gums begin to ache.

  I need to bite him.

  To sink my teeth into the side of his neck. Into his collarbones.

  The hickies there are starting to heal. That’s unacceptable.

  Closing my eyes, giving myself a mental shake, I beat the overwhelming desire down with a baseball bat. My tongue runs across the front of my teeth. I nibble my bottom lip. There’s no need to get ahead of ourselves. He’ll be well used by the time the night’s through.

  Soaking up my fill before we get started, I circle Tyler slowly, appraising him like a prized bull. This too heightens the anticipation tenfold. The tiny shuffle of his feet is an adorable tell. Pausing to ogle his backside, I groan under my breath at the view. As I suspected, his firm ass cheeks are a thing of beauty, covered in yellowish bruises from our mild paddle session. Leftover love bites are still imprinted across the expanse of his shoulder blades. Satisfied by the marks, I slowly draw a finger down Tyler’s curved spine. He shivers, goosebumps flaring to the surface. I grin. There’s just something about his pure, creamy white skin that’s extra fun to mar. It reddens beautifully.

  Drawing my fingertip to the base of Tyler’s tailbone, I dip between his cleft to tease his backdoor. His cheeks clench, locking my digit in place, then loosen just as quickly when he recognizes the intent. My man’s a magnificent bottom. Loves to be fucked. Hungry for it, even. I consider it an honor to watch him fall apart on my cock.

  Brushing over his hole, that’s slick with lube per my instructions, I trace around the rim on tormenting repeat, revving his libido. He pushes his bottom back, seeking more. Smiling at his eagerness, I give him a small taste by dipping the tiniest fraction inside, feeling his muscles squeeze around the invader. Jesus, he has a sexy ass. Look at how much he wants me in there. And people wonder why this is highly addictive. Why I need it as much as my personal subs do. The appetite for pleasure-laced pain that vibrates throughout Tyler is so heady, I can almost smell its sweet aroma. That’s why he’s mine. Why this space is ours. Why I don’t jump straight into the whips. Tyler’s like an aged cognac, you savor every taste. You don’t chug him down like a cheap beer at a frat party.

  Hands fisted at his sides, Tyler gifts me yet another hug from his hole, as it envelops the pad of my finger. Impatient to get the ball rolling, he tries his luck, and pushes back on my digit, urging it deeper. But I stop him with a sharp smack on the ass. Agitated that he’s letting his baser needs rule, I tsk aloud even though he can’t hear me.

  Naughty, naughty man needs to be taught a lesson.

  Nobody rushes my perfection. Most of all him.

  If I want to take things slow, I’ll take them slow. If I want to pull out my strap-on, bend him over, and make him my slut, I will. The darn masochist can’t hold his stinking horses.

  Placing a foot between Tyler’s, I kick his legs apart to widen his stance. He complies way too eagerly. Then I reach between his thighs, careful not to touch his cock, and grab the leash, pulling it backward. He rewards me with a guttural moan that registers a few decibels above NIN.

  Extracting my finger from his passage, I tease his smooth pucker before grasping the leather and using the handle to paddle his butt. Three quick slaps on each cheek is plenty reprimand for now. Any more and he’ll start his initial descent into subspace. It doesn’t take much to get him to skim the surface. It’s reaching the bottom of the abyss that takes patience.

  Ah yes, this is the hors d'oeuvre course of the evening.

  To drive Tyler crazier, I spread his cheek with one hand and rub the leash over his hole with the other. A puddle of pre-cum gathers between his feet as I yank on his dick, forcing it between his legs. Not that he minds. Tyler has a safe word of sorts—a special sign. One he’s never used to stop a scene. If I wanted to bend his cock back and make him fuck his own asshole, he’d let me. Perhaps that’s something I should consider another day.

  My artist’s chin drops to his chest as I abrade his rim. His shoulders begin to shake between passes. Another moan erupts from his throat. I spank him with the leash again, harder this time, and return to tormenting his asshole. Back and forth, I swap from spanking to abusing his entry. Broken cries begin to pour like rich molasses. I grip his cheek, watching my nails bite into flesh.

  Toes curling in my heels, I shudder with power, loving this far too much already.

  Slap. My palm joins in on the fun.

  Firm skin bounces under my assault as pinkness blooms. My pussy grows wetter. A thin sheen of sweat coats Tyler’s back.

  Ousting a heavy breath, I force myself to stop. If I don’t, that leather will end up fucking his hole, and my teeth will embed in his bottom.

  I take a careful step back and drop the leash. Then watch in rapt fascination as Tyler trembles from head to toe without me laying a single finger on him.

  What a beautiful, beautiful man.

  The slender cut of his body is not something I thought I’d find attractive. Yet, do. He has the arms and shoulders of an artist. Hours of paint strokes have carved muscle so precise, like a sculptor with his clay. Add in a killer metabolism, and you get Tyler—a five-foot-ten, masochistic artist with a heart the size of a whale and a sunny disposition.

  Now it’s time for the salad course.

  Circling back around, I grip Tyler’s chin between my thumb and forefinger to garner eye contact.

  Oh, sweet mercy, he’s already wrecked. His lips are swollen from biting them, blue eyes glassy, face flushed. He blinks slowly through hooded lids, watching me watch him.

  Because I can’t control it any longer, I wet my lips and lean in just enough to sweep my mouth across his in the barest of touches. The connection sparks, sending a tendril of hunger to my nipples and sex. I pull back before I dive in for a full-bodied taste. Instead, I wrap my fist around his velvet steel and close my eyes to concentrate on his pulse drumming against my skin. It centers me enough to do what needs to be done. When I’m with other men as their Domme, there’s no need to control any urges, because there are none. I never get aroused or desire to kiss them. Being with Tyler takes discipline on my part, when an innocent touch means everything.

  Needing a bit more, I press our bodies together. Folding his cock against my belly, I nuzzle his throat. Tyler smells amazing there. Like cologne, musk, and paint—a unique scent that could never be replicated by anyone but him. A rumble of contentment vibrates in his chest as I nibble down to his collarbone and lave my tongue across the protruding bone. If I wanted to, I could sip wine from the notch above his clavicle. To prove this theory, I dip my tongue into the shallow bowl. My masochist sputters on contact as I grin, loving the effect I have on him.

  The ache in my gums intensifies.

  Screw it.

  Sinking my teeth into the side of his throat, I give in to temptation and fulfill both our needs at once. Moaning deep and ravenous, I extract fronds of depravity from the recesses of my soul, eyelids sliding shut. Yes. That’s it. My tongue flicks the supple skin as I nibble it between my teeth. Tyler returns a moan even louder than my own, a violent shudder washing through him. The dick between us lurches. Then I feel it… hot jets of cum bathing my stomach. I groan, pussy clenching tight as he wastes his nut on us; not where it’s supposed to be.

  Well, well, well, isn’t he full of surprises tonight? He knows the rules. No release until I say so. Somebody’s in trouble.

  Refusing to give him any more marks, for now, I step back, separating us and the sticky cum mess that coats our bellies.

  Furrowing my brows so he can tell that I’m displeased, I swipe the back of my hand across my lips to clear the saliva there.

  “You came,” I sign, tapping my foot on the ground in annoyance. In truth, I’m not that upset by it. I actually find it kinda sexy he couldn’t control himself for once. But, I can’t show that. You break the rules, you face my wrath.

  Tyler bows his head in shame, a piece of his faux hawk falling onto his forehead. “I’m sorry, Mistress.”

  “Why did you come?"

  Tears gather in the corner of his eyes, bottom lip wobbling. “It’s been three days.”

  “Three days since what?”

  Tyler shuffles from foot to foot. “I was here.”

  “That’s your excuse?”

  “You know I don’t… You know.” His fingers trail off.

  “Come without me?”

  He nods, crestfallen. If I wasn’t his Domme, I’d wrap him in a hug to wash that horrible expression off his face.

  I never said Tyler couldn’t ejaculate without me present. It’s a choice he made on his own. One I’ve never held him to.

  By Tyler’s bizarre anxiousness and his impatience with our session tonight, something tells me there’s more to this than he’s letting on. Perhaps he met someone else. It’s always a possibility. We don’t exactly have a normal relationship. Then again, he’d be upfront about that. The only thing in his life he’s reluctant to speak about is his art. Pain is Tyler’s muse. It’s the driving force behind his masterpieces. Very few know this about him. None of the articles written about him reveal his kink. When he first applied to be a submissive, I noticed right away he was trying to fulfill his masochistic needs with self-infliction. Penile and testicular torture to be exact. He initially got his piercings as a way to extract the level of pain he needs, to see whatever he sees inside that brilliant head of his. During our first exam, his cockhead was puffy and red, the slit almost swollen shut, balls well beyond their usual size. During our long talk, he admitted that he’d tried everything from tying rubber bands around his balls to hitting his dick with a mallet.

  This most definitely has to do with his art.

  “What color?” I prompt, referring to the subby high color chart we devised a month after our first session all those years ago. When you work with a deaf man, and there’s music pulsing through the room, words are impossible to discern. That’s why we invented a way to understand highs without speech. Each color is given a value and a sign, which is nothing more than the first letter of the word. At base level Tyler is white or W. Then goes the subsequent colors yellow, orange, red, green, blue, purple, silver, and gold.

  “Gold,” he signs in return.

  I was right.

  This is serious.

  “To gold?” I verify, taken aback.

  “Yes.”

  “For how long?”

  “All night.”

  That’s not good.

  “You’re having trouble with painting this week. Aren’t you?”

  Tyler nods, bottom lip pulled between his teeth.

  “Why, sweetheart?”

  “You know why.”

  Arching an inquisitive brow, I wait for him to elaborate. He knows I won’t stand for evasive answers.

  “You. Me. Rob.”

  “What about us?”

  “It’s time, Mistress. Two days a week for us both isn’t enough.”

  My stomach dips at his directness. Heat pooling there as a kaleidoscope of butterflies breaks free.

  I swallow the sudden knot in my throat.

  “Have you spoken to Rob?”

  “Yes. Sort of.”

  “I don’t know if I’m ready.”

  Tyler’s not buying my bullcrap for a second. “You are. We all are. It was always gonna come to this, Mistress.”

  He’s right. I dunno why I’ve been reluctant to make us more permanent. Change can be difficult. In this case, it’s scary. What if we can’t be this way every day? What if it’s just a fantasy?

  Enough.

  I shake my head, ridding it of such thoughts. I can deal with that later. We’re in session now.

  ‘That still doesn’t explain why you came.” I revert back to the topic at hand.

  “I’ve been hard, a lot, thinking about you this week. I couldn’t wait to be here. I need you to take me to gold. All night long.”

  “I can’t take you to gold again for another month if that’s what you want.”

  This is going to be rough on the both of us. My muscles will be screaming for days.

  A firm nod. “I do.”

  “You’ll hurt for a week, if not longer.” Our typical sessions hover around red or green on the subby high chart. The last time I took Tyler to gold I had to improvise on client domination for a week. Wielding a simple paddle was impossible. My assistant even had to help dress me. It was one of the best sessions of my life. One that’s marked my soul forever.

  Fingers moving in sharp, fluid-like grace, Tyler explains himself. “I know. I need to feel you on me for a week. When I sit down, I need to feel you. When I touch my neck, I need to feel you. The effects of the paddling this week lasted a day, then I couldn’t feel you anymore. I fucking hate that.”

  “You need to feel me?” God, why is it so hot watching him admit that?

  “Every single day. I need to feel you on my skin, under it.”

  My heart flutters.

  “Gold is asking a lot, sweetie.”

  Pursing his lips together to fight off a smile, Tyler tilts his head to the side, eyeing me like I’m a big fat fibber. “No, it’s not. You’re afraid you’ll like it too much. That you won’t be able to let me leave after it’s over.”

  I sigh inwardly. I’m not supposed to be that transparent. He isn’t supposed to be able to read me like I do him.

  “You can’t know that.”

  “But, I do. I’m yours. You’re mine. I need gold, Mistress. Then I need to paint for you.” His hardening cock flexes as he signs, still weighed down by the leash hanging from the tip, where remnants of cum reside.

  Sheesh, I love that dick. But what I love just as much is when Tyler paints for me. There’s always a canvas ready for him on the easel, waiting to be touched. Watching him work is like witnessing firsthand a modern day Dali, or William Blake transform nothing special into something extraordinary. There’s a reason why many of his originals sell for hundreds of thousands of dollars. If he had sold the twelve originals I have decorating my walls upstairs, he’d be wealthy beyond my wildest imagination. That is, if Tyler cared about money. He doesn’t. That’s why he wears paint-splattered Converse and holey jeans everywhere. I find it, along with everything else about him, charming.