Amity's Stories
Pretty in Purple
©2000-2008 All Rights Reserved
Dipping each carrot into cold dressing and placing it between my lips and sucking it dry is a mere prelude to doing the same erotic luncheon with what is hiding behind the red stripe that decorates you so splendidly. Later, I will bite each morsel and roll it on my tongue, draining the juice and ingesting the power that it provides. As I wrap my lips around the stiff fruit, I will press harder and harder until it succumbs with agony melded with joy into the warmth of my mouth and provide me sustenance and pleasure.
What might you be planning for lunch, my jewel?
Henry must have been pretty surprised when that chat window popped up on his monitor one lazy Tuesday afternoon. After all, we had become acquainted only a few days before and our online conversation had been fairly innocuous. He knew who I was; after all, he wrote the initial email that intrigued me enough to respond. But I had saved the initial cyber play for the moment I believed would be perfect.
Tuesday seemed like a good day to me.
A Beethoven concerto was playing in the background and the rise and fall of the music was filling my senses with a sort of lust that seemed inappropriate for a mid-week episode. When the mood strikes, I’ve learned, it’s best to take advantage of it. Although I never know what could be going on in Henry’s professional life at the moment the mood strikes me on my coast, I figured he’d be amenable to being wooed.
His chat window quickly blinked and I clicked on the edge sticking out from behind two other applications that were fighting for screen space. “Good morning, Ms. Amity,” he replied and I remembered, with a smirk, that a 3-hour time difference separated us.
I adore accountants because they struggle passionately with their need for control versus their need to yield it totally to me and a passionate struggle simply excites me. Henry would read a sensual account of carrot sticks and reply with his usual carefully prescribed professional control. That wouldn’t last for long, I decided, and set about to complicate his day.
I am listening to a symphony -- Beethoven. The crescendo rises and it falls and rises again, much like the amazing music that your body will play when I use the keyboard of your being that you have given me. I feel as if I am one with the movement of the music; up and down, side to side, loud and soft... listening to and watching the musicians struggle with their souls to perform the melody perfectly and in simultaneous unison that is their gift to me. You will be that combined struggle and your exhaustion will be palpable beneath the thin red thong that separates you from my touch.
I get a little lyrical when I’m aroused and incorporate that spirit in my words, even those destined for an unpretentious chat window. By now, Henry knew what kind of mood I was in and I’m sure the bi-coastal arousal was beginning rather early in his business day. Besides, he’d be more fun in court if he were a bit excited.
His reply was unpretentious and clear. “Ohhh,” he typed and pressed enter and spoke to me in the language of online play that this millennium offers.
I had his attention and an ear-to-ear grin spread across my face.
One the reasons I don’t play online very much is that it’s hard to find great corporate sluts, the men who are in positions of enough power and authority that they have private offices with doors that lock and no one hassles them about telephone bills. When the virtual play mood strikes me, I want the boy on the other end of the phone not to have to excuse himself every few minutes to answer a question. If I’m giving him my attention, I want his in return.
I knew from the delay that Henry had just gotten up, closed and locked his door, had his calls held, and returned to the screen. It was early on the west coast and I had just reorganized his calendar because he and I both knew that he’d be on the phone with me very soon and I wondered how he would cope with hearing my voice.
One more volley aimed west.
You are my symphony; my concerto; my ... music. Feel the melody, my jewel, and know that I can taste you.
His keyboard spoke of what his mind had just fathomed. “So aroused,” he typed and his words, like this thoughts, drifted elsewhere. His headspace was enveloping his ordinarily logical thought process and his omnipresent control was fading. There is this state of tension in which I love to put my submissives. It’s a cross between unsteadiness and absolute panic. They teeter on the edge and rely on my words to balance them.
In Henry’s case, I wanted this Tuesday to be completely off balance for him. Because I knew his schedule and there were no court cases on his calendar, I could push him a bit harder and enjoy his rocky ride into my world. The ride would resemble that of a roller coaster and for the time we rode together, we agreed to have fun. With my next missive, the cart rode up a steep incline on narrow rails.
The tempo increases; the beat races. You can touch the color red of our tight spandex thong through words... but soon... the color fades as only the touch matters. Listen to your body; it's speaking to you. Calling. Screaming.
His first thong that I told him to buy was, of course, red. The color of harlots, sluts and whores, his reaction to the fabric as well as the hue impacted his entire outlook. “I feel naughty,” he wrote, “like a slut.”
It was then that he became my slut boy for the day.
The power of typed words can be huge. Henry wanted to be my whore yet he had little understanding of how demanding I could be and how his yearning and my encouraging his experience would influence his day.
I’m going to push you, my precious jewel. I will take you a little farther than before and you will meet yet another side of your passion.
Allowing the words to sink in as they traversed the continent, I returned
to the demands of the other programs competing for my attention. It’s
good to let a cyber toy consider and fantasize while my attention is
elsewhere. Finally, his words blinked in the small window.
“I want to be your whore,” he pleaded. “I want you to push me. Please… please…” His words drifted off and we both knew that he had fallen completely into the headspace I provided for him.
I adore begging.
It’s time, time for you to take the next step. You are the instrument and I will play your body like a concerto.
Even across the miles, I knew that his fingers were reaching for the phone and he would place the first call that would link our voices similarly to how our hands had linked our minds. Cyber play, without voice feedback, is empty for me. I need to hear his intonation, his heartfelt passion, and most of all, his breathing. That’s what makes my fun and therein lays the joy of online play for me.
Turning back to the programs and work that vied for my attention, my thoughts drifted to an attorney’s office with west-facing windows and a wooden desk that oozed an antique aura. Juxtaposed against my technological penchant, the odd combination of new and age-old desire struck me.
I let the phone ring twice before I answered my private line.
The professional voice greeted me properly and respectfully and I vowed that before the call was done, that voice would deteriorate into a morass of passion and fervor worthy of this particular Tuesday afternoon. The game was afoot and I held not only the cards, but also all the rules.
“Hello, my jewel,” I returned his civility in my manner of greeting. “How is your day?”
“Well,” he began with the slightest hesitation that literally jumped out of the phone into my ear, “it seems to be turned out differently than I anticipated.” His smile reached out across the miles and tugged at me. There’s nothing quite like a submissive who is enjoying himself.
He had dressed for me that day. Although male clothing is merely something I wish to remove, I have to admit that gift-wrapping is always lovely. I had insisted on black slacks and a great tie, of course, but added to his list one of my secret passions.
I adore white shirts, the crisp cotton, the sharp creases and enough starch to be palpable in my fingers. After writing to him to wear a ‘shirt to die for,’ I was amused that he knew exactly what I meant. Although I could merely visualize his appearance, the feel and sound of the white cotton fabric became my focus. I wanted him to visualize, too, but in a more provocative manner.
“Imagine... black slacks slowly sliding down tight hips toward shackled ankles, revealing a bright red thong separating naked skin from my long nails. Imagine... those nails pushing the elastic millimeters away from pale skin and dipping inside. Imagine... the desperate aroused rise to meet ten insistent fingers and the rhythmic thrusting of those hungry hips.” I spoke clearly and hoarsely, as my own enthusiasm was seeping into my voice as I attacked his ability to control himself.
The only response I heard was something like, “Uhhh.” It was music to my ears.
I knew his eyes were closed and his thoughts were pressing toward me. Wanting more and more from him, I pushed him a bit farther.
“Slide under the desk,” I insisted, “and unzip those slacks. Show me the red thong.” When a submissive is in that much headspace, it doesn’t matter what time zone he is in. Time and space have little meaning as we ventured a bit closer through our voices.
I took him deeper into my world.
“Push away the tails of your shirt,” I instructed mostly for my own enjoyment. “Let me wrap my fingers around yours,” my voice spoke in a throaty whisper that surprised me when I heard it, “and let me hold the jewel behind that red fabric.”
He was voiceless but not soundless. Guttural groans escaped from between his lips and I was confident that his overpowering need to control his responses had abandoned him for this time that we shared. Nothing excites me more than groaning except, perhaps, heartfelt moaning. The decision was a no-brainer and I was determined that we would go there together that morning.
I was desperate to hear him moan.
As his hand surrounded his cock and balls and his mind convinced him that mine enveloped his, I taunted him further to move him deeper into my world.
“You want to be my whore? Then give me what I want! Feel my hand press tighter and squeeze the gift you want to give me.” Struggling to breathe evenly, I continued my tirade every time he mumbled a response.
“Tighter!” I hissed at him. “I will take everything that you will give.”
A magnificent groan filled my ear with joy and my body with increasing fervor. He was getting to me, my little wrong-coast jewel, and I felt myself enter his world. Sometimes my mind stops and thinks about conundrums like this one - - one in which he first entered my world and then I entered his, a world that was mine - - but right now, that kind of thinking was beyond my comprehension. The only thought I had was of my ear drinking in a muffled moan that seeped from his lips and exploded into my brain.
“Tell me what you want,” I demanded quietly and waited.
After what seemed like an interminable delay, his response fought to escape his remnants of self-control.
“I want to be your … whore,” he rasped. “Your slut. That’s what I want. Please, please let me be your whore!”
In spite of his gravelly speech, I could hear a newness awash in his words. These words were foreign to his brain, but close to the exhilaration that had just launched within his body. Facing a struggle that was new to him between want and need, I felt his body lurch and churn with conflicting emotions.
And I knew exactly what would push him over the edge.
“Feel the struggle, my jewel, and know that I can taste you,” my final words impaled the leftover bit of control he still exercised and demolished his final defense.
“Take me!” he cried in a whisper so full of anguish and desire that I knew I would have to change my lingerie when we hung up. “Please, please take me!”
He had crossed the edge, teetered from the edge to the brink and fallen with full force of ardor into my world where he trusted me enough to know that I would neither hurt nor betray him no matter what. That trust is precious to me and it is a gift my submissives give fully. There was only one thing left to say.
“I will take you, my sweet one. In a while.” I felt his jaw drop, even though he was thousands of miles away.
His Tuesday would be interesting. But his Wednesday would be divine.
Throughout the afternoon, I played with his ardor and passion through occasional missives in the little chat window. Certain that he was both excited and bit miffed at my rather abrupt conclusion of our first call, my messages were brief and pointed.
I will play your body as my instrument, to my tempo.
And later, another continental volley:
You will respond to my cadence and my rhythm. You will hear the music that only we can share.
And finally,
You are my symphony and I will conduct the crescendo
that you will perform for my enjoyment.
Occasionally, the little window responded with various personifications of his lust. “Uhhh,” was a favorite of mine and “Ohhh…” was a pleasant little response to read. Later in the day, he added a new one that was simply delightful.
“Oh god…” he typed with such simple emotion that it reached across the miles and grabbed at my heart. I could hear the verbal inflection in his typed text.
It was time to give him a pleasant dream.
Tomorrow, my precious jewel, wear the little purple panties I had you buy and a shirt to match. By midday, I will push you even farther and rock your secure world just a bit.
His response was as delightful as it was ardent with desire.
“Thank you,” he began, “I have no idea how I’m going to sleep tonight. Everyone I see, every client to talk to - - I see them with the arousal you give me. I don’t know to explain it. I just feel so… so… alive.”
Once, several weeks ago, I told him that he would discover new things throughout the course of our online relationship. Specifically, I informed him he would have a greater understanding about his submission, about his desires, the difference between wants and needs, and finally, about what submission would bring to him. It was my intention to withhold the answers to those situations; instead, I insisted that he learn those them on his own.
He had just learned a very profound lesson about what submission gives in return for the gift he gives me. What men don’t seem ever to foresee is the result that I know so well.
Submission brings freedom. And Henry had just begun to understand how free he was becoming.
Wednesday morning brought the usual business-related challenges and conflicts yet Henry and his purple panties were foremost in my mind. He would ride to work with his well-exercised ass decorated in panties that were purchased intentionally small to hold what had to be gorgeous asscheeks firmly and lovingly in its grip. Feeling his arousal mixed with trepidation, my morning flew by quickly and before long, I noticed that clock click incessantly toward the 11:30 time that would bring Henry to my chat window.
His words ripped onto my screen. “Good morning,” he began with his gentlemanly custom, “I have a purple shirt on to match the purple panties.”
Now where ELSE could I get that kind of greeting? Henry had found his voice and it was expressing his innermost longing because, with me and our cyber experience, he had discovered the freedom to say what he wanted and the independence to act on his desires. The only way I enter into virtual play is when both of us achieve a mutuality of fun and the thought of purple silk panties biting into Henry’s pale virgin flesh excited me more than I thought it would. Our game was fun for both of us and very powerful for him.
I intended to use his exhilaration to my advantage. That’s one of those rules that I get to set.
I will play you as my instrument and create new chords of cacophony in your soul. You will hear the silent music, as I will drink in the glorious tones of the soundless noises that will soon rise from your throat.
“I am so aroused,” he wrote back simply and I knew then that he was exactly where I wanted him to be. My face hurt from smiling so broadly.
Allowing him to enjoy the apprehension of not knowing exactly when I would pounce upon his monitor with another suggestive communiqué, I busied myself with work and soon discovered that I was engrossed in a piece of code that would not behave. The challenge of dominating code is as joyful as having a sub on his knees. But today, no matter how much pleasure I received from repairing the recalcitrant code, it wasn’t as much fun as having a west coast, purple-pantied accountant behind a locked door on his knees.
A few hours later, I sent him a quick and clear demand.
Lock your door, Henry. I want you now.
I didn’t have to imagine what his face must have looked like; in fact, I was absolutely certain what expression he wore.
My private line rang a few moments later and I heard his husky voice offer a greeting. There were no platitudes, no politeness-required questions about my health. He was focused, albeit off balance, and was concentrating with his entire being on the simple act of waiting for my direction. I could hear it in his perfunctory but charged words, “Good morning, Ms. Amity.” It was as if he was undergoing a superhuman struggle inside himself to bare this part of his soul to me and within his struggle I heard a glimpse of pure fear. He had no idea what else to say.
It’s scary to be emotionally naked before your Domme, and even more frightening when you can’t see her face. I intended to use his apprehension and his inner battle to wrest the last ounce of self-control over his own actions and speech that he had managed to secrete from me. The struggle would be powerful and would leave only one winner. That winner is always me.
“You’re wearing purple for me,” I informed but did not ask.
“Yes, Ma’am,” he replied and I heard him swallow a gulp of air. Although a wave of slight suspicion ran through me, I remembered what I had been told by my mentor so many years before.
“The most important quality of a Domme,” he told me, “is empathy.”
His wise words reverberated in my ears. I sorted out my feelings and tried to visualize what my boy was doing at this exact moment in his office on the other side of the continent. My mind saw him kneeling, naked and trembling with his stiff cock barely hidden behind the pure purple silk that he put on that morning knowing he would be my whore that day. I was certain that the fabric was decorated with drops of hot precome that oozed without embarrassment from the tip of his throbbing organ. What I had trouble with was seeing his eyes in my mind.
I adore eyes. A submissive’s eyes speak the agony that churns in his soul and when I am prevented from enjoying that view into his essence then I feel a bit cheated. Henry was, without a doubt, speaking volumes to me with his eyes and given the continental divide between us, I couldn’t hear his silent words.
That is one reason that I don’t like playing online - - without hearing the silence he is screaming into my ears, then a large piece of our shared experience seems excised from our encounter. Yet this particular attorney sang a joyful song in my heart and he had inexplicably become a precious jewel to me. I would sacrifice a few bars of the song for the greater good of the game. And I don’t do that very often.
“Take a few paper towels,” I instructed, “and roll them into a tight cylinder and bite down on it.”
After a few moments of silence, I heard him grunt and my heart soared. If I couldn’t see his eyes, at least I could hear refrains of his melody.
“I’m going to take away your words,” I warned him. “Don’t answer, don’t try to speak. Let the song rise from you and sing it to me with the sounds that will escape from your throat.”
I knew he was struggling; after all, a accountant whose life centers on the precision and impact of his words would find it life-threatening to be forced to communicate without them. Confident that he could meet my challenge, I held the phone tightly to my ear and whispered simple instructions across the miles.
“Come for me, my jewel,” I hissed and added, “but plead for permission first.”
There could be but little uncertainty as to what Henry was doing right now. His hands had gravitated to his pounding cock and were busily bringing himself delight to entertain me through the bandwidth. Although I was curious as to his exact motions and a bit put off that I couldn’t see his eyes express his pleasure, I wanted this boy to feel the freedom that invisible submission brings. That’s the oddity of cyber play - - he performs for an unseen audience and relies upon my reactions to the invisible to guide his monologue.
It’s also one of the hardest parts of the process for me. Because I’m responsible for him, I have to anticipate where he is and how he is feeling and know how deep he is into his headspace and in my world.
I whispered encouragement into the phone and within moments, I heard his first moan. Shortly thereafter, a second and a third escaped from his throat. As I continued to persuade him to move harder, faster and stronger for me, his moans evolved into groans and I could hear heartfelt pleading burst into my ear. He didn’t need words. His body sang for him.
The silent song that we shared was growing into a crescendo and no philharmonic orchestra could have played a sweeter melody. Interspersed with his sighs and grunts and pleading was the refrain that I heard only when I played with Henry. His song was personal and his body was my instrument.
That’s when I heard his breathing change.
Quick short rasps of air struggled into his throat and I was certain that his cock was pulsing uncontrollably in his hands. I also knew he was waiting for the word that only I could give. Visualizing him on his knees in my world, on the brink, teetering on the ledge and wrapped up so entirely on what was between his hands, I felt the rush begin to tingle in my toes and waltz in a peculiar tempo up my legs. Soon my thighs were dancing in delight to the tune that his body played for me.
He needed permission and his gagged groans ate at my heart.
“Now,” I said simply and knew that his conclusion would precipitate my own.
His urgent grunts and whimpers in my ear greeted my own climax in a resounding but silent completion. The song that only the two of us heard wafted into a lingering memory that warmed me. My eyes, shut surprisingly tightly, struggled to open and I remembered that this young man, kneeling and spent, was my responsibility.
“Lay down,” I spoke quietly, “and curl up in a ball.”
For ten minutes, I talked to him as I listened to his breathing even out and imagined how his body was relaxing. Finally, I told him to remove the homemade gag from between his teeth.
“Are you with me?” I asked seriously. I had to hear his
answer because only the strength of his voice would make me confident
that he was recovering from our mutually satisfying morning. There was
no immediate answer and suddenly I felt terribly cold.
Waiting and giving him a bit more time, I held my breath. Finally, his words spoke to me.
“Great,” he mumbled. “I’m great. I’m fine. No, I am better than fine.” Words fell out of his lips in no particular order and I was confident that not only had he ceded his control for that time we were together but also he could regain it when we were done. He seemed unable to express himself any more clearly than that right now, but it was enough for me.
Online play can be as profound as it is difficult, especially for me. Because I take things seriously, especially my responsibility, I won’t play with just anyone and I will turn down some intriguing candidates because I don’t think they are strong enough to give themselves fully to me in such a distant relationship and then regain the control they need to function in their real world lives. Besides, it’s a lot of work for me, because I am constantly anticipating and visualizing and imagining and speculating what might happen next and because all of that - - and all of him - - are simply my responsibilities.
But once in a very great while, I meet someone like Henry. Inexplicably, he had become my precious jewel, and for the time that we take this journey together, I will polish him until he sparkles.