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Take It Off or I Cut It Off

Category: BDMS
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We’d spoken for so long without meeting that it was incredibly odd to have such specific and naughty images of a relative stranger. It threw common etiquette out the window. In meeting Heather, the point that worried me the most was the manners. How intimate is appropriate? A folder of her in every imaginable pose and posture—full tits, luscious ass, dripping pussy, strong legs—rested on my hard drive.

She’d performed for me in ways that only a prize sub could, acts of hair-curling hedonism, and I worried about propriety.

As many of those entering the current technological climate can attest, online and real-life experiences were wildly different things. We’d begun talking a few years ago, after a random fluke of a connection. A basic typo of the instant messenger variety. After discovering several key shared hobbies, most falling under the umbrella of “Masturbatory,” we’d begun playing and continued to do so up until now.

Both bi, both happy to play switch in any power games, she usually submitted to me, in the odd times she found herself in dire need of orgasm and without the aid of her Mistress and girlfriend, Emma. Emma, long experienced with the scene, though currently only in private practice, encouraged our playing online, felt that it “keeps Heather out of trouble.” She’d been gently supportive of our meeting in person, understanding the slight fear-of-strangers baggage that Heather and I both carried from previous bad patches, thinking that both of us would benefit from the positive presence of a sane, kinky, amusing friend in our lives.

When Heather finally decided it was time to meet, we both found ourselves somewhat panicked, not ever truly expecting it to happen. Before scooting out the door for dinner, I checked my email one last time, half expecting her to back out, faking some last minute emergency. Instead, I found something from Emma.

Molly—I’m so disappointed that work keeps me from joining you two for dinner, but it seems fitting that the two of you get to know each other a bit first before I jump into the mix. I think it’s good for her to meet someone new in the scene, spreading her wings and other clichés, but she (like you, I’m quite certain) is nervous. Therefore, I’m imposing one clear, unbreakable rule: You may not touch each other in any way until I order you to do so. There is to be no attempts at finding a loophole. Until ordered by me, specifically and in person, to touch, there are to be no hugs hello, no flirty hand brushes, and I would even think twice about an air kiss of any kind. If either of you hope to remain in my good graces, you will wait. Heather is fully aware of this rule, as well, which seems to have calmed her a bit, enough that dinner and drinks shouldn’t be too challenging, at the very least. Have fun and behave—Emma

She was right, of course, and it calmed me to no end to know that the pressure of the body was now removed. She wouldn’t be touching me, I wouldn’t be touching her, and it was one less thing to worry about. I was thankful for the intervention of the dominant, lending a reassuring presence to things.

Until now.

I hadn’t realized that, after years of exclusively text-based interaction, I genuinely didn’t expect Heather to be real. I expected that we’d never really meet, and that if, by chance, we were to meet, we’d find we didn’t like each other, or we had no chemistry, or it would get messy. It never occurred to me that we’d meet, hit it off, be crazy attracted, and continue on, happily ever after. We’ve had a fantastic time, laughing at the same dumb jokes, singing along with the same songs from the piano bar, hanging out amicably.

It was a dream of a meeting, and I couldn’t get my fucking hands on her. What the fuck, man!?

Her phone buzzed a text from Emma, who faked a headache to skip out early on what she less-than-affectionately called “The Bob Loblaw Awards.” She told me that Emma had suggested we head back to their place, since things were going well, and that we’d see about playing a little, if everyone was comfortable.

Walking into the living room, I wasn’t exactly sure what I expected to see. Emma standing in head-to-toe leather with a whip or naked on the couch with a martini or something, but instead, we were met at the door by a woman clearly just getting off work after a late night, slightly disheveled and distracted, but comfortable in her home, and all the more alluring for it. She led us in, gesturing for us to sit on the couch, the two of us making me think of two teenagers caught out after curfew and were having to answer for it.

“So,” she began, leaning against the wall to the kitchen, looking down at us as we sat quietly, hands folded in laps, “Did you two behave and keep your greedy little paws off one another?”

I look to Heather to answer because I don’t know if there’s a right way to answer. I was expecting to come over and really just test out the dynamic a bit, not to immediately begin playing, but I was happy to see where this heading.

Heather doesn’t hesitate, proud in her compliance, “No, Mistress. We just talked and had dinner.”

“What good girls you are. I think you deserve a treat for that. Molly, you’re the guest. Which would like to see first, Heather’s tits or her pussy?”

I wanted her tits because they are glorious, and getting the shirt and bra off her would have removed the bulk of her clothing, her skirt working hard just to keep her ass covered, but the idea of her standing there, bare from the waist down and so easily accessed was just too tempting.

I spoke to Emma for the first time, pointedly, “I want her pussy now.” It doesn’t get more pointed than that, really.

I was rewarded with a grin from both of them and an order from Emma, “You heard her, slut. Let’s see it.” Not really paying close attention to the cut of her top earlier, I hadn’t realized that it was somewhat cropped, stopping right at her waist. With her skirt gone, she was completely naked to the floor having kicked off her sandals when we came in. She stood close to me, without even a shirttail to hide behind, her visibly wet lips at eye level. “Turn around; show us that sweet ass. Lovely.”

Emma looked over at me, I thought seeking agreement, so I answered, “Oh, absolutely. She’s gorgeous.” I could feel my mouth actually starting to water at having her so close when Emma cleared her throat and got my attention. When I was able to tear my eyes away from the dripping little peach in front of me, I glanced at her, where she waited, expectation filling her face. She clearly wanted something, and I was missing it.

“I don’t recall the term ‘slut’ being reserved exclusively for Heather. You’re not the only one being rewarded here. You chose pussy, so pussy it is. She gets yours, too. Now take it off or I cut it off.”

I’d worn a long broomstick skirt, narrow at the waist, wide and sweeping at the floor. Admittedly, I wore it because it appeals to me in a very kinky way, being made from enough fabric that it could easily conceal an entire adult beneath its folds. The idea of tucking Heather up underneath me and hiding her away while she busily lapped me to one orgasm after another, whether it happened tonight or not, was too tempting to ignore. As a result, I went minimalist with the top, wearing a baby tee, also hitting me at my waist and covering nothing once the skirt was puddled around my ankles.

“Very nice. Heather, sit. I think that you should get the same up-close-and-personal view that our guest did.” She sat, and Emma quickly directed me through the same set of poses she’d had Heather do for me. I heard Heather’s stifled snicker, gloating and happy that I was just as caught as she was, and without thinking, I playfully swiped at her arm with the back of my hand, telling her to shut it, the way I’d do with any friend.

The moment my fingers brushed her arm, Heather’s eye jerked first to me, and then to Emma, wide in fear and arousal, and I realized what I’d done. I wasn’t the only one, as evidenced by a heavy sigh from Emma behind me.

“Well, that answers that. I had a little plan that revolved around your not touching one another, finding out which one would crack first, and now you’ve destroyed all of the suspense I’d so carefully built. I guess we can dispense with the slow build-up now.” She rolled her eyes in mild irritation and put her hands on her hips. “All right. Strip, sluts. Let me grab the rope.”

She’d tucked away some lengths of rope discreetly on the counter; she grabbed them and brought them over to us as we stripped off what little we’d been wearing, both oddly shy at the direct route the evening was taking, worried about what might be coming since I’d broken the only rule we’d had.

After half an hour of positioning and fiddling, Heather and I found ourselves in classic 69 position, both face-to-pussy, wrists tightly bound to one another’s ankles, the only places we were touching. The ropes held us in the intimate position, about an inch of space between our bodies as we lay on our sides on the floor. Emma had been explicit in our “trying” to remain apart until otherwise ordered, despite my failure, her emphasis on the word indicating my failure was one of weak will rather than honest mistake. She’d positioned us on the floor at the foot of the couch, and there, we waited, dutifully straining to remain apart.

Once she had us securely bound, Emma left the room to change into something more comfortable, coming back in a loosely tied robe, clearly naked underneath, hair piled on top of her head, glass of red wine in her hand. After carefully setting down her drink, she proceeded to flop onto the couch, again making me think of a college kid, this time settling in front of the TV to vegetate after a final.

“All right, sluts, I want a show. You are still not allowed to touch one another. If one of you touches the other, I have a minor punishment, though my definition of ‘minor’ might differ wildly from yours. As we all know, we already have one taker for that one, so it seems that the only question left there is whether or not my pet will be joining you in those festivities.

“Secondly, you will not be released until one or both of you cum, but anyone who cums receives a major punishment. If both of you cum, then the one who cums first gets to help me punish the other one.

“Finally, anyone who does not have her first orgasm of the night now, here on the floor for me to see, will not be allowed to cum at all tonight, sent to bed hornier than she could have dreamed possible.

“Let the games begin.”

I felt more than saw Heather’s sigh of what I guessed was smug relief. I’d already touched her, and the pussy I’d already more or less demanded, that had made my mouth water on sight, was here, inches from my waiting tongue, and she knew it. I had no risk in touching her. I was free to do so, encouraged even. Even better, once I came on that pretty face, she would be my toy later tonight, at least in part.

Instead, I hesitated, my lips just close enough that I know she felt every puff of warm breath that slipped through with every word, “Heather, I’m stubborn. We both know that, and now that we’ve met, I’m going to get to borrow you. I’ll punish you eventually. You’ll be my whore for a weekend at a time when your Mistress is away, left in my care for a very modest fee, maybe, playing the whore in truth. You’ll be tongue deep in—”

And she was.

While Emma was laying out ground rules, I’d been plotting. I had a whole speech prepared. I was going to convince Heather to lick me, to make things even. I’d planned to seduce her into her first punishment of the night. I felt stupid now, having touched her first, thoughtlessly conceding the first victory to her without even getting to second base out of the deal. If I couldn’t convince her, I’d wait her out, refusing to touch her at all without her willingly breaking the first rule, taking on a punishment.

Instead, I could barely think. One of the advantages of being a slut is the sexual prowess that goes with it, and the tonguing being delivered by this girl’s mouth was the result of years of intense practice, training for cunnilingual performance the way Communist bloc countries train for the Olympics. I felt the edges of my orgasm almost immediately; I had a moment of panic cross me that, somehow, by cumming first, I was letting her win, or that it was the female version of premature ejaculation, an embarrassment in its suddenness, when she stopped just as quickly as she started.

“You talk too much. Hee.” She half-said, half-giggled that last, every ounce the pleased little girl who has found a new game. The momentary distraction was enough to chase back the orgasm a bit. It was one of the very few times in my life that I’ve actually been happy to see an orgasm knocked off its rails, thinking it a point of pride not to instantly orgasm the minute a pretty girl touched me down there.

She returned to her ministrations, more slowly this time, seeming to savor it now that the initial “do I or don’t I” question had been resolved, her tongue starting at my opening, just barely dipping into me before softly and steadily dragging up and across my clit. Each of these long laps was punctuated by a soft little kiss, wrapping her full lips around my clit and just barely fluttering her tongue just across the tip before releasing it and licking her way back to where she started.

She was constant, methodical, slowly building an orgasm the way a hunter builds a fire, all meticulous attention and steady movements, feeding the ravenous heat just one tiny morsel at a time, growing incrementally into a thing of power.

“Fuck, slut, that feels incredible. You are a skilled little cuntlapper, aren’t you?” Playing with Heather, even online, I’d become familiar with some of her buttons. She enjoyed reveling in her own carnal depravity, wanted to live and relive her moments of pussy-clenching debasement. I was generously providing soundbites.

“No, ma’am.” Emma actually tsk-ed at me and continued, “No, we’ll not have the pot calling the kettle black. At the moment, you’re both my sluts, of equal status. There will be no condescending attempts at taking charge of one another; I am in charge here, you uppity little bitch.” The “I” was punctuated by a cane across my ass. I could only assume she’d had it tucked in among the cushions or under the couch or something. Back to her as I was, even craning my neck, I couldn’t see her clearly. “I would have let you play your little games if I hadn’t had my game ruined, but you spoiled it. Now you’ve irritated me. She’s not the only veteran cuntlapper here. Get busy. I want to see what you can do. If you can get her to make any fun little noises, I might not feel as put out.”

Heather’s mouth paused, unable to resist a chance to stir the pot, “You heard her. ‘I want her pussy now,’ remember? Come and get it.” Her tongue not missing a single stroke, Heather yanked her knees toward her chest, pulling my arms with her, planting her pussy hard on my mouth, grinding her hips, smearing herself on me from chin to hairline, at one point actively fucking herself on my nose. “You’re going to make me cum, and I’m going to cane that ass for the pleasure. GOD, YES. You’re right, Mistress, she loves the cunt.”

“Yes, dear, not that you’re giving her a chance to do any actual work. Stop rubbing your pussy on anything that you can mount like a fucking alley stray, and let me see what she can do.” To herself, she muttered, “Like a kid trying to get a cookie, just fucking relentless.”

I felt more than saw the flush at her Mistress’s words. At “alley stray,” Heather reacted, growing instantly wetter, if that were possible. I did what I always do in these situations. Her Mistress had called her a slut, a dirty, needy street bitch, mindless in pursuit of filling her pussy, and the dirty bitch had gotten wetter. There was only one path forward in that moment, and I took it. I took her, my forehead on her asshole, nose deep in her cunt, lips locked on her clit, and I sucked. I couldn’t breathe, and I sucked. She dripped into my eyes, across my cheeks, into my hair, and I sucked.

And she screamed her orgasm and her victory at once, “YES! SHIT! GOD! FUCK! YES, MAKE ME CUM, YOU SLUT! SUCK IT! I WIN! I OWN YOUR ASS! OH GOD, YES! YES! YES! YES! KEEP SUCKING, BITCH! FUCK, YES!” With every syllable she fucked my face, and I drank her in. I wanted to be coated in her. I didn’t need to breathe, if I had this woman, this slut, this sweet cunt dancing on my tongue.

Every submissive in every scene, I imagine, has what I’ve come to think of as the “Oh, shit” moment. Going into a scene prepared to submit, one knows that the situation is not necessarily under the submissive’s control; that’s simple logic. Dominants are in charge. It’s kind of their thing. One does not submit expecting to be the boss. (Usually.) There often comes a moment, though, in which it becomes crystal clear to the submissive exactly how much control he or she has relinquished, where he or she finally fully understands the predicament, sees the dominant he or she is up against.

My moment came about thirty seconds after Heather did.


Both women laughed when I realized my mistake, making it even more obvious just how lost I’d been in the perfect pussy in front of me. Emma’s laughter, I could take; she had the right, but Heather’s pissed me off. Her pussy still resting on my mouth, I brought my teeth down around her clit in a little nip, holding her more securely than the ropes by far, my lips surrounding the sensitive bud of flesh, tongue stroking her slowly.

I spoke between my closed teeth, alternating between merely holding her to speak and actively sucking her amid the words, “Make me cum. After that, I make you cum, and let you go. I’ll even make it rough, if you ask nicely enough.”

Another bark of laughter came from the couch, “I’m going to allow it, pet. You did earn the chance to punish her, fair and square. You’ll get it. You also called her ‘slut’ after I’d specifically nixed that. I’m sorry, but you were so quick to gloat that you stupidly let her get you by the clit and she says she isn’t letting go. You might as well go ahead and give her her orgasm. She earned it. It’s not like you’re kidding anyone—we all know just exactly how far you’ll crawl for a chance at eating pussy.”

Unable to resist her sweet slit any longer, I’d returned my attentions to Heather and the pearl I rolled along my tongue, working to convince her to do the same. I could almost hear the wheels turning in her head: that it wasn’t the answer she’d wanted to hear, that she’d pout, that what I was doing felt so good, that she was eternally in the mood for an orgasm, and that there was always time after the orgasm to pout, if needed. She returned to her diligent work on my clit, this time with some impatience, but no less enthusiasm, seemingly everywhere at once, making me cum quickly and fantastically.

I released her, not in fulfillment of my promise, but in reflex, crying out, “Right there, right there, right there, like that! Don’t stop, don’t stop, FUCK, don’t stop!” as she hit just the right angle and pressure, her lips locked around my clit and her face buried in my pussy. I rocked on her, fucking her face as she’d done mine, clearly understanding now the impetus, “Oh, god, yes, suck me!”

I rode her face, rode my orgasm, rode the pure joy of a clever girl on my face and her even cleverer mouth busy on me. As I began to come down, she pulled back, breathing deep after working so hard, and almost gasped her response, “You said I’d get to cum, too. Now get those teeth and that tongue back where they were.”


“Oh, yes.”

Growling my approval, I obliged, gently clamping onto her clit, teeth scraping with intensity on her soft flesh, letting her grind against the hard ridges, a stark contrast to the nub I was gently tonguing. For the second time in the very short time that we’d been officially acquainted, Heather crowed her orgasm, coated me in it, claimed her win over me, and collapsed to a whispered, “Oh, FUCK, yes.”

We stayed there, idly licking at the lips in front of us, coming back down from the heights, breathing deep in temporary respite. Emma began loosening our bonds, the two of us taking over as we returned to clarity. Once I was free from Heather, I found myself disoriented, saddened by the loss of her.

“Oh, look at the two of you. Ready to cry over the fact that you no longer have a pussy in your face. Well, let’s see what we can do about that.” She dropped her robe in one sweeping movement, stepping toward us as it fell behind her, a billowing cape framing the ripe, fecund glory of her pale body.

Walking toward us, Emma produced two sets of chained nipple clamps. Heather and I both wore titanium rings through pierced nipples, were quickly bound together again, facing one another, kneeling, rings chained together. We carefully scooted closer to one another, trying not to pull apart or make any sudden movements (or, god forbid, sneeze), her knee coming to rest against my pussy and vice versa.

I got the first swat with that infernal cane, one solid strike across my back, right shoulder to left hip. The cane itself was light and whippy, all sting; it could bring intense pain quickly without risking genuine injury, and it did. The cane was fire across my back and I straightened in response, flinching to get away from a second blow, one that landed not on me, but on Heather, who responded in kind.

Back and forth like this, we went, seemingly for hours, our Domme quietly building intensity, her patter, her intentionally broken rhythm between strikes, her chains, she worked us to the point of madness. We whimpered, semi-sobbing from the pull of one another on our too tender nipples. We dripped, all but humping one another’s knees like the bitches we’d been accused of embodying. We sank, dissolving into a single amusing toy for this vixen.

“Now, sluts, it’s my turn.” She pulled a dildo gag from her stash, small end going in the mouth, large end into the dominant. “I know how very much you’ve wanted to meet us, Molly, and I’m certain that tonight’s events have already surpassed your expectations. However, I just wouldn’t be a proper Domme if I let you get everything you wanted, now would I? Since my pet actually managed to mind her manners tonight, she gets to lick me. You simply hold the toy. Maybe if you’re lucky enough next time, you’ll actually earn a chance to taste me. Open wide.”

My cheeks burned in genuine embarrassment and the sting of disappointment. She was right, the bitch, this was a big punishment. As Heather pulled her Mistress closer to us, she gave me a look of self-satisfied glee. She’d won. We both knew that, between the two of us, she was destined to be the bottom slut in our hypothetical threesome. Emma the dominant, me the switch, Heather the sub. Oh, we might play around with the roles a bit from time to time, but these were the roles we fell into most regularly. Heather knew, and I knew, that the day would come, and soon, in which she’d take her rightful place, and it would be my turn to grin.

Tonight, though, she managed to snatch a treat that I’d wanted (so to speak), and she would revel in her win while she had the chance. Her face was lost to me as Emma finished buckling the gag on me and mounted it, her pussy so close to my mouth, I watched as she sank toward me. Heather, still chained to me, leaned back to make room for her Mistress, eliciting identical moans from the two of us, before locking her lips around the stiff little clit in front of her. Emma sat there for a moment, her ass nearly completely obscuring my vision, my nose full of the smell of her, her cunt stretched full and fat around the cock in my mouth, her sub sucking her off in the way only a perfectly practiced cuntlapper could, sat and smiled.

Slowly, she began to rock, fucking herself to a slow, lazy peak before beginning in earnest. As she increased her speed, my neck beginning to tire from her sheer athleticism, she seemed to remember the cane in her hand. As Heather’s was the only ass she could see, she began timing her strokes with her strokes, punctuating each hit, each thrust, with a word, “What! Good! Sluts! You! Both! Are! Oh! FUCK! FUCK! That’s! Right! Just! Like! That! You! Filthy! Bitches! Fuck! FUCK! FUCK!”

She gushed her orgasm, not so much squirting as becoming intensely wet, splashy-loud, and the bottoming out of each thrust seeming to sprinkle her pussy over the two of us. Heather reached for the clips on her nipples, instinctively thinking to ask before actually removing them, “Mistress, may I, please?”

“Yes, go ahead.”

With that, the chains were off and Heather was on me, tongue bathing my tits, my face, my hair, my shoulders, everywhere that her Mistress had sprinkled me, Heather cleaned me, her busy hands taking my ends of the chains off, removing my gag, and finishing her scouring of me before gasping, “Now do me!”

Happy to obey, I licked her clean, as well, taking time to finally, properly kiss her. Just as we began to get distracted, her Mistress cleared her throat, having returned to the couch to recover.

“Well, sluts, I think we’ve had a very productive first night. Molly, it was lovely to meet you. Heather, if you’ll just show her the door, I think it’s time we all get cleaned up and into beds for the night. Drive safely and call us to let us know you got home okay.”

With that, I was dismissed, by the Domme, but kindly so. When she said “first night,” she’d meant it, indicating more to come. It had been a good audition. Heather walked me out, exchanging pleasantries and rather shyly giving me one more kiss to say good-night. I called when I made it home safely, Heather impaled on her Mistress’s cock on one end of the call while Emma directed my fingers in my busy pussy on the other end.

Before hanging up, I was ordered to give myself “two screaming orgasms” before going to sleep.

Oh, these girls were gonna be fun.

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