The Healing Process: Use Your Words

“Go ahead; say it” I said. Well, it came out more like a command than anything else. My usual tone is a forceful one, bellowing even in whispers, but I was trying my best to keep it at a reasonable level. I was meant to be the submissive one in this situation after all. And I was fully willing to give myself over to Ophelia, my lithe and leather clad dominatrix for the evening. But she needed a little push to get into character. It was only our fourth time being intimate overall and the first time that I’ve asked her to dominate me. We’ve spoken on the subject of BDSM multiple times – going over what each of us would be comfortable trying, potential safe words, aftercare – but it’s been a slow burn to get to the actual action.

            “There is no possible way I’m saying that” Ophelia said, turning beet red at the very thought of what I proposed. She was so pretty when she got agitated; that cute pixie face of hers all scrunched up in frustration, her lips putting in protest while her green eyes became piercing and angry. Throw in the tight clothing squeezing her figure in all the right places and the appearance was complete. It was certainly doing all the right things for me as evidenced by my stiff prick which anxiously awaited her. But since we were trying out some light bondage at the moment and I was currently tied to the headboard of my bed by knotted sheets against my wrists, I was a bit too bound to satisfy my pertinent ache. I would have to wait for my ravishing Dom to take the wheel, but she would need a bit more goading first.

            “It’s okay Ophelia; I’m giving you consent.”

            “Hell no George; consent or no consent I’m not going that far.”

            “So that’s a hard no?”

            “Absolutely.”

            “And there’s nothing I can say to change your mind?”

            “Nope.”

            “Not even calling you a bitch?”

            “Oh please, like that’ll work.”

            “A whore?”

            “Not going to change my mind.”

            “A cunt whore?”

            “Honestly, what other kind is there?”

            “Fair enough Ophelia. Hmm, what if I called you Pumpkin?” As expected, this one triggered her. Her head snapped in my direction with a fierce quickness, sending her curly hair in a wide spin; her eyes peering holes into my head.

            “Watch it George” she said, her tone intense and serious.

            “What, you can withstand ‘cunt whore’ but not pumpkin?”

            “I’m not playing George; quit it.”

            “Come now, it’s not a bad nickname. You can take it; my slutty little pump…”

            “Shut up you Ni…” That’s when I lunged at her, easily pulling out of the loosely tied sheets restraining my wrists. In an instant I was on my feet and face to face with Ophelia, my breathing harsh and threatening. Despite my demeanor and the fact that my large frame nearly eclipsed her petite form, Ophelia didn’t back away or break eye contact.

            “You should’ve tied better knots” I snarled.

            “And you shouldn’t have pushed my buttons, or tempted me to say that horrible word” she said, her voice shaky but certain.

            “Come on now Ophelia. As if I’d let you say ‘nigger’ to my face.”

            “You certainly let me get close. Why did you even push me to do something like that?”

            “I’ll tell you later. Right now, I need you to take charge. I’ve just broken my restraints without your instructions; what is my punishment?” She seemed to lose a bit of resolve at first, but quickly regained her composure.

            “Well for such an egregious offence, I think you should service me.”

            “Say the words then Ophelia. It won’t happen unless you say it.”

            “You know what I want” she said passively, trying to shy away from her desire. Usually I would let her slide, but not tonight.

            “Do I? You have to be direct Ophelia. Take control and let it out.”

            “Eat my pussy George! Lick every inch of me and do not stop until I tell you to!”

            “There she is” I said smiling at the vulgar woman who had finally emerged. “There’s my Queen.”

            Ophelia’s last boyfriend Jeremy was, for lack of a better term, a complete and total asshole. As she tells it, he was controlling, commandeering, condescending, and all around unbearable. While she fortunately bears no physical scars from her experience with him, Jeremy left quite the imprint on Ophelia’s mental, emotional, and sexual health. I witnessed her trauma the first night we were intimate. Ophelia didn’t move or participate in any way at first; laying stiff, waiting to be moved and manipulated. I stopped only a few minutes in, insisting she tell me the reason for her maniquin-esqe behavior. After some encouraging she opened up about her relationship and how sex usually went back then. I told Ophelia that things would be different between us, that I wanted her to be free and uninhibited, but her problems still haunted her. Eventually I suggested that she try out dominating me. I thought it’d be a good chance for her to feel in control, to return some of the power that Jeremy had taken from her. She was reluctant at first (who wouldn’t be?), citing how incredibly insensitive it would be for a white woman to tie up a black man. But after a week of talking about it and promising several times that I wouldn’t let her go too far, she agreed to take up the mantle of my dominating Queen.

            A tight squeeze on my wrists told me she was ready. We were developing a subtle language, Ophelia and I, as she was not yet ready to speak her needs to me (her earlier declaration was the first time she had been so brave). My hands rested partway up her sides, high enough for her to reach to my forearm while lying on her back. A slight brush against my arm meant she wanted to be teased; a solid grip meant she was ready for direct stimulation. Circles drawn with her forefinger meant to change pace while steady taps meant to stay in one spot. A single stroke with her thumb meant to stop and talk, and fingernails digging into my skin conveyed the obvious – usually accompanied by a deep groan of affirmation. In this silent speech Ophelia was loud, certain, unbound by any shame or tepidness. And I relished in her confidence, the beauty of her directness, wanting to give her all that she required. I like to imagine her voice in my head whenever I receive her unspoken messages. I don’t necessarily feel her light touch but rather hear her, firm yet innocent, saying ‘Play with me.’ The circles brought on by my fleeting pecks on her inner thighs translate to an annoyed ‘Stop messing around.’ Continuous taps come in as raspy chants of ‘More’ before her actual voice breaks through, unleashed and unfettered in a joyous uproar. These things flood my mind as I bury my tongue into her shy cunt; each brush of it against her meek lips is given with the desire to break her from the bonds of uncertainty. With every lick I feel her draw closer to a firm understanding. The more I pleasure her the more she realizes that she deserves pleasure. That’s the help Ophelia needs; the help I’m all too willing to provide.

            Eventually, countless minutes into my tongues persistent assault on her vulva and clitoris, a single line drawn with Ophelia’s thumb on my forearm puts an end to my lashings.

            “Have you had your fill my Queen” I inquired still in character.

            “For the time being George and you can stop with the Queen stuff. I just want to be Ophelia right now.”

            “Okay then” I said while climbing into the bed beside her. “So how do you feel now having taken charge like that?”

            “A little deviant honestly” she said, her face turning a noticeable red despite its already exasperated shade. “I mean, what kind of woman shouts ‘Eat my pussy’ at the top of her lungs?”

            “One that knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to demand it. Also one that is willing to say the N-word in a spat of anger.”

            “Oh shut up” she said playfully slapping my bare chest. “Why’d you bring those words up anyway, that and the other one?”

            “Well, I called you pump… I mean that P word because I knew you had to be angry in order to take charge. And since I was using one of your trigger words, I felt it was only fair to give you one of mine in exchange.”

            “But the two aren’t even close to being equal; neither would have been your response. What would you have done if I actually said it?”

            “Thrown you through the wall without a second thought; it would’ve been the only sensible course of action.”

            “Okay then. So please, for my sake, don’t ever bring race into our little sessions of domination again.”

            “Does that mean you’re willing to try this again” I asked eagerly, perhaps too much so.

            “I believe so. Having you call me ‘queen’ was kind of a turn on if I’m being upfront.”

            “In that case, is there anything else my Queen would have me do this evening?” To this question Ophelia pondered for a moment or two. I anxiously awaited her request, silently routing for her to take charge once more.

            “Are you in pain my Knight” she asked gesturing to my turgid erection.

            “Yes my Queen; extremely so” I responded while turning over the idea of being referred to as knight and liking it very much.

            “Then by all means pleasure yourself for me and ease your suffering.” Without question I took hold of my dick and stroked it slowly. Ophelia watched me intently as I became stimulated, looking into my eyes and not breaking that sight for a second, making me crazy in the process. In this moment she was truly a queen. Regal, poised, unmoved by my grunts and lurches of lust; Ophelia was slowly but surely becoming what I knew she had the potential to be. “Don’t come” she said, her voice sudden but calm. Although I was teetering on the edge of orgasm, I heeded her command. My Queen showed herself to be quite devious; placing indiscriminate kisses across my body and blowing air on the wet spots her moist lips left on my skin. She was making me tremble. “Don’t come” she commanded once more. I obeyed, even after she moved a hand down between my legs, using her nimble fingers to massage the space between my balls and anus. I couldn’t stand it, but I didn’t want it to stop. “Now you may come my brave Knight” Ophelia said as she positioned her face right above my soon to erupt penis. No sooner had she spoken the words did I feel a beautiful orgasm crash through my system, shooting come onto my dominating lover’s face.

            What words could I use to describe Ophelia as she turned to me, her lips and chin sporting the spurts of my lubricious need? I fear I have exhausted them all already. I’ll suffice to say that she looked every bit as royal as the moniker I called her by. She seemed to believe in her gracious title as well, taking great pleasure in licking my ejaculate from her lips with a sensuality that I didn’t know she possessed.

            “Thank you my courageous Knight. Your Queen is now pleased.”

[The Healing Process:Twenty-Five Percent Complete]

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