His Bitch

“Needy bitch,” he says, his voice low and gravelly in my ear. His knee is between my legs, his strong, muscled thigh hard against my cunt. He’s holding me against him with one long-fingered hand on my ass.

The room is dark, the beginnings of daylight just a glow through the shades. Our bodies are warm beneath the covers. Once upon a time, in another life, one of my children had opened the bedroom door just after their father and I had had sex. “Hey,” they said. “It smells like sleep in here.” K and I haven’t had sex yet this morning, but the room has that warm, musty scent, two bodies exuding pheromones and sweat; the dampness between my legs adding its own particular sweetness.

I’m half asleep but as the pressure between my legs increases, I begin to drift up into full awareness, and soon I am moaning into his neck and panting – yes, like the bitch in heat he tells me I am.

I love it when he calls me his bitch – a word I have never been comfortable with before, but which, from his lips, is praise. I want to be his bitch. I want to pant and whine for him and grind myself against him. “Cum for me,” he says, and I give a broken cry, muffled against his throat, and do, my body heaving. In one of those tricks of the mind, I don’t recall his words: later, when I tell him I feel bad for having cum without permission, he tells me that he had told me to do so. I retain no memory of it. Apparently my subconscious was listening when my consciousness was not.

We lay there for a few moments as the room begins to brighten. I am half drowsing, replete and spent.

But apparently not.

Because before I know it I am once again grinding against him, spreading my legs as though to swallow his knee, his thigh, into my cunt, and climbing up into another orgasm. “You greedy bitch,” he says, and I nod against him, feeling the heat of embarrassment in my face even as I thrill to hear this from him. “Yes…yes…”

I am that.

“Ask for it,” he says. “Beg for it.”

I whimper and pant and try to pull away. I love this and I hate this. I don’t want to say the words, I don’t want to beg.

He pulls me closer and presses his knee harder against me. There is no escape; I don’t want to escape. There are no words; my head is filled with words.

I’m going to cum. I’m going to cum without permission, just because I don’t want to say it, because I don’t want to beg, and I can’t do that, I won’t do that. I want to obey.

“Please,” I say. “Please!” Hoping this will suffice.

“Please what?” he says, just as I am cresting that long hill to my orgasm. He pulls his knee away from me. “What, my little bitch in heat, what do you want?”

“Please!” a growling pant. I was almost there! I push against him, desperate and mindless. “Please may I cum?”

I feel the hesitation in him. He’s going to say no! “Please may I cum for you, Sir?!?” It comes out all at once, a desperate rush, the right words, the correct way to ask. Don’t say no now, because there I am, I’m going to cum anyway…

“Yes, you may,” he says, and the rush of gratitude I feel is almost more powerful than the orgasm that rolls over me. Somehow, obtaining his permission to orgasm has become as important, as pleasurable, as pleasing and as necessary as the orgasm itself.

I tease him about the “milestones” in our relationship: things like me sleeping over at his house, my dog accepting him, us driving to bowling together, taking a vacation together, meeting each other’s families, attending our first kink event as a couple and a throuple…but this is one I keep quiet about. It feels…important…in a different way. A way that I want to savor, secretly, a bit longer.

Meanwhile, I search the internet for socks or a shirt that says, “His Bitch,” on them, wondering if I would be allowed to wear them to our next kink event.