Fifteen inches.

No, no oh no, it’s not what you think. That size? Does it even exist? Do I even want to know? Do I even want to imagine what can and cannot be done with that size?

No, I’m just talking about a ruler, a forty-centimetre or fifteen-whatever-inches ruler, which I’ve just found clearing out an old cupboard.

I always had a thing for rulers and unknowingly hoarded a large collection of them throughout the years. Some ordinary plastic ones; a nice thick wooden one, which I think I’ve nicked from some office as revenge for something a certain dickhead boss did; a few princess ones from my girls’ princess days and a couple of short pink and yellow ones with drawing patterns for stars, crowns, etc. from the same princess days.

I don’t know where this super long white one came from and how did it end up in the back of this cupboard, but it gave me a few ideas as to how to spend the evening...

I think my slight obsession with these fancy implements of measure started back in my final year in secondary school, with Mr W, who was our PE and substitute Maths teacher. I had to repeat a year due to my parent’s hectic travel schedule and at nineteen, not only was I the oldest in my class, but I had a few tricks and kinks up my sleeve, which I’ve picked up on my travels around Europe. (Quick tip: forget Italian guys, they are not that amazing; my pick of the litter would be Dutch – kinky AF, yum.)

Ok, back to Mr W. Everyone loved him, he was funny, always joining in the sports games, and you could turn to him with absolutely any crap life threw at you, he always tried to help. Oh, and he was hot as hell, with a sexy little strip of a moustache curling irresistibly when he smiled, a bit like Freddy Mercury in ‘The show must go on.’

He had a medium-sized clear plastic ruler, which he normally used as a bookmark or he occasionally waved it in the air absent-mindedly when explaining something.  But sometimes when the noise in the classroom was too disturbing, he slapped it against the big wooden desk. “Keep the buzz down,” he always said.

I just loved the sharp crashing sound it made and the authoritative look on his face as he scanned the room for troublemakers, it made me buzz in whole other ways.

On one of the first few occasions he’s done that, I stared at him trying to catch that look in his eyes to answer my unspoken question about possibly using that ruler for other things. We locked eyes for a brief moment and the shadow of a smirk flashing across the corner of his lips seemed to confirm my suspicion. Yes, indeed, he was a big fan of hearing it slap across different materials, but especially peachy bums. And as I later found out, so was his wife. But that is a whole other story...

This time, I want to talk about this white, fifteen-inch beauty. It is made of solid, chalky white plastic and has thick black lines and numbers marking centimetres and inches.

I clean it with a bit of kitchen spray and admire it, testing its flexibility and bite on my naked thigh. I soon learn that because of its length, it is quite difficult to control the velocity of the slap and it has a very sharp nip. My naughty mind starts cooking up all sorts of kink-stew.

Later, when the kids are gone to bed and hubby settles down to watch telly, I sit down at the dining table and pretend to do some drawing with my new toy. There’s nothing out of the ordinary about that, as I often make to-do lists, kids rewards charts etc.

Poor husband still doesn’t suspect a thing, even when I slam it across the table. He looks at me briefly, then back to his boring programme, obviously missing my mischievous pout.

After a while, I sit down next to him in a pair of barely-there hotpants, leaving my naked, outstretched legs on full display. Still nothing unusual about it, I often wear hotpants for lounging around the house.

But what is rather alarming now, is the fact, that I brought the ruler with me and as I pretend to engage in whatever shit he is watching, I’m absent-mindedly slapping my naked thigh with it.

Sure, that earns me a pair of ‘waddafuck’ eyes straight away.

As I clear my throat to speak, my TV glasses would be a great prop to lower onto my nose, but unfortunately, the kid chucked them into his box of toys the previous day, smashing them into a million pieces. (Well, at least I could dump a whole box of toy junk into the bin because it’s not like mummy’s gonna fish for shards in there honey, hold the tears please, it’s all your fault after all.)

Trying to get that mummy tone out of my head, I lower my voice as I tell the eye-rolling husband off. “I think you have been a very naughty boy today, Mister, ignoring me all day,” I’m happy with this more authoritative teacher voice, I found in my ‘the professions that might have suited me better than my current one’ repertoire. In case you’re wondering, there are quite a few voices in there from kinky nurse to cruel animal handler.

Quinn is looking his best tonight, sporting a mix of adorable brown puppy eyes and a few days old ruff scruff with a tiny little moustache, raising cheekily reminding me of Mr W. Tonight, the roles are reversed though and I have the implement of measure and torture in my hand.

“I didn’t mean to be, Miss, I swear, I’ve been very busy.” His slightly mocking tone proves that he’s still unsure, if I’m just fooling around or this is the beginning of a long and ouchy night.

“That is not an excuse, it only takes a few seconds for a kiss or a cuddle or...” (grabbing my ass, bending me over the counter... But these things we don’t talk about right now, because right now, I’m the boss!)

By this time, my outstretched ruler is near his face. I snuggle up to him and place the ruler under his chin, using it to turn his face towards me. “Doesn’t it?” I scold him with one gentle slap on his damn sexy face.

“Yeees,” he murmurs hesitantly with a question in that reply. And that question is: “So, what’s gonna happen now?”

“You have to be punished don’t ya think?” I whack him across his chest. “Lose this!” Then on his leg. “And this!” The second slap makes a disappointingly muffled sound through the thick denim on his sexy muscular thigh. So, I hit him again. Harder. Too hard, maaaybe. As I said, hard to control the strength with this one. “Boxers too!”

“Babeeees, I was watching (insert the name of any boring shit TV programme here),” he whines, earning himself an eye-roll and a disgusted grimace on my face.

“Your taste of TV has to be corrected,” I snap seizing the controller with my left hand and holding it towards the stupid box, while my right hand continues gently slapping his body.  I put Pornhub on, choosing a femdom video with a leather-clad, slightly old dominatrix (god, why do they always have to be so old? It always makes me question my career choices and urges me to pursue what I know I would be much better at, or at least younger...) strapping a spiked leather collar around her male sub’s neck.

“So much better, don’t ya think?” I point towards the TV screen, that zooms in on the sub’s sorry, hopeless, begging eyes.

“You’ve been very ungrateful and unappreciative lately, pet. We need to correct that.” I’m about to rip the rest of his clothes off and make him kneel on the floor to tie his wrists together, but in the process, I spot something unacceptable. “You haven’t shaved, your balls are disgustingly hairy! Up, up, up!” I command, slapping his butt with the ruler. “Into the bathroom, NOW!”

I run a nice warm bath for him while he looks for a razor and shaving foam in the cupboard. Once he finds all the gear, he looks at me expecting me to leave, but I won’t give him the luxury of privacy. “No, I want to see it,” I tell him, pointing into the bath with the ruler for him to get in. “The amount of money I’ve spent and all the pain I’ve endured to have my bush lasered to be smooth and delicious for you, it would be common decency to shave yours, wouldn’t it? I mean, how long does it take to shave, five minutes?”

He reluctantly mumbles something under his breath while getting comfortable sitting on the end of the bathtub. His voice is monotone and bored. I can tell, he is not doing this because he accepted my rulership (mmm, I love that pun) for the night, but because he knows, I won’t leave him alone, till he does as he’s told. And that ain’t right. “I didn’t hear ya!?”

“I’ll always keep myself tidy for my baby.”

“You mean ‘Miss or Lady?” I always had a problem with titles, with how I want to be addressed when topping. I hate ‘mistress, goddess’ but I also hate ‘master’ when the roles are reversed. The only ones I really like are ‘Miss and Sir’ maybe because they are not that OTT and pretentious. Having said that, for our first anniversary (or Valentine's day, can’t remember) I’ve bought a tiny share of some faraway Scottish castle earning us the decorative title of Lord and Lady, so technically ‘Lady’ is not only acceptable but also accurate.

He doesn’t correct himself and I let it slip because he’s lathering up his sexy private bits and watching it simply takes my breath away. His legs are spread wide, his fingers are massaging his balls, then glide up and down his shaft. He looks at me with a smirk. He knows what he’s doing, he knows how much I love watching him play with himself.

It reminds me of the days when he sent me wanking videos at the very beginning of our relationship. Some shy away from dick pics, but me, I wanted more, and he delivered. I loved every second of it, his cock getting harder and harder with every stroke, the deep ragged moans when he was getting close, or the huge amounts of cum jolting everywhere, his workstation needing a wipe down.

“Stop daydreaming!” I tell him and for myself just as much. He gathers his concentration looking down at the job, holds his hardening tool out of the way and glides the sharp razor up his treasure, which makes me lose my focus.

“Mmm, I’m really enjoying this,” I purr. “Next time, I want to be the one shaving you...” Maybe with one of those dangerous-looking old fashioned, foldout ‘cutthroat’ ones. Mmmm, that image is making me very wet. I could practice on his face, his beautiful precious face... Mmmm...I doubt he’d let me anywhere near him with a blade... But I do have my ways to get what I want, don’t I? I’m getting more and more psycho as I get older. Let’s file this under the ‘really messed up fantasies’ and probably not tell him. Just yet.

The only thing unpleasant about this experience, that pulls me out of my daydreams is a nauseating smell, the smell of cheap shaving foam. It’s making me gag. I look at the bottle: it’s some rubbish shop’s own brand. That typical ‘sport’ labelled masculine smell I wouldn’t even use as a toilet air freshener. “This shaving foam smells disgusting, I need to buy you a better one.”

“Well, I don’t use it too often,” he explains. He’s been growing a beard recently and uses a trimmer only. He looks sexier with the designer stubble, so I approve of that, but not the hairy balls, nor the stinky foam.

“I don’t care. From now on, there will be weekly inspections. And you know, you won’t regret it if you please me...” Apparently, my oral skills are ‘the best he ever had' and ‘out of this world’. So yeah, he will not regret it. “Today is another matter entirely though. Today you displeased me and if you think my mouth goes anywhere near your junk, however clean-shaven it is (just swallowed a little saliva by the sight of it though), you’re sadly mistaken.”

“What the hell am I doing this for then?”

Oh, I could get drunk on the sweet outrage in his voice. I’m in my true element, like a mermaid swimming in a sea of prosecco. I slowly slap my palm with the ruler a few times as I tell him with a twisted smile, “I need a nice smooth surface for the ruler.”

I see his soapy cock twitch in his hand swelling to a full hard-on. Mmm, I do really like these games.

“You are NOT going to slap my balls with that thing,” he informs me in a voice that just simply doesn’t fly this evening, not when I’m the one wearing the pants.

“Well, I thought you wanted to play,” I tease sliding my finger along the wet and slippery edge of the bath, then continue onto his thigh, inch by inch, nearing the soapy mess between his legs. Then, ever so gently, I touch the very tip of his cock poking out of the foamy heap. “You seem to want to play,” I purr lowering myself to his level and seeking out his eyes. “I’ll be gentle, I promise.”

When I see him letting out a relaxed sigh and he looks down again to finish rinsing himself off, I add whispering, almost certain he can’t hear me, “First.”

He stands up, water dripping off his lower body, his frame towering above me as if he was trying to intimidate me with his size. But we’re not playing those games now.

“Towel,” he holds out his hand asking for one.

“You mean ‘please’?!”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“In that case, you can get it yourself, dickhead.”

I trot down the stair, expecting him to follow me shortly. He has a raging hard-on and he’s fighting it but I know it turns him on when I’m being a bitch, so I know he will be downstairs faster than the crack of a whip.

Having shedded my lounge attire of comfy hotpants I’m awaiting him wearing only my black lace slip dress.

The domme on TV finished her ‘job’ and the screen is frozen on the last image, which is a delicious cum soaked cock. I imagine all that cum have oozed out slowly and painfully from the member of the poor tortured slave in a nice ruined orgasm.

“Mmm,” I pout my lips as I grab the controller and chose something else, when he ceremoniously marches in wearing a pair of black boxers.

“I’m glad you decided you wanted pussy, no matter the cost, sweetheart,” I grin at him, well proud of my uppity line.

“I figured, I can stop you any time if I don’t like it,” he says folding his arms on his chest and adding a little cough that sounds suspiciously like ‘bitch’.

I shake my head. Of course, you’re wrong as always. I reinforce my disapproval with my favourite line that apparently I tend to overuse. Every time he’s mimicking me he always brings it up. “I don’t think so.” He is right, I do say it a lot and I do say it in a funny way – I think it’s from a cartoon or something like that.

But how else would I trample his hopes for escape by showing him my brand new purple bundle of ropes other than with that line? “You need to learn how to treat your wife properly!” I add, fiddling with my sexy new rig.

I see his eyes light up because he suddenly thinks he knows where this is going. Well, in a way, he is not wrong. I’m definitely going to be taking advantage of his oral skills for one (which is his favourite pastime when tied down)... But where would all the fun be without coercing him into doing things he doesn’t want?

“Kiss me,” I grab his chin, demanding his complete attention, turning his face away from the damn box. Putting his arms around me he sucks on my lips then prods my mouth with his tongue. “With a little more zest,” I request.

He pulls me closer, our bodies moulding into each other like stacked up honey pancakes. His hip bone crashes into my stomach, his chest into my shoulders and his rock hard cock... Mmm, damn, now I want it inside me! All that beautiful thick, curved 8 inches...

But I stop myself. No, this is not one of those nights when I let him overpower me. His lips and tongue are launching an aggressive attack now, they invade my mouth leaving no empty space in my oral cavity. He’s pressing his body further into mine, that stubborn, rimmed steel-helmeted army general leading the offence. If I’m not careful, he’s going to turn me into wallpaper and have his way with me. I can’t let that happen. I gather all my strength and push him away.

“Hands off! I don’t want you to kiss me like you own me.” (There’s beauty in that too but not now, not today. Damn.) “Kiss me the way you kiss me when you want something. Beg me with your tongue. Because I guarantee you, in a minute you will be begging for a lot of things.”

“You know how to make me soft,” he rumbles. I could hate him for that sentence, it could make me soft, if I wasn’t in love with his voice, with every deep syllable he breathes out and the disappointed rasp edge in it.

“You’re far from soft, look at you! You are as hard as ever.” I grab his tool, cursing under my breath about the stupid cotton covering my toy. “Lose that fucking boxer already!” I grit my teeth at him because he’s really pissing me off now. Honestly? I don’t give two fucks, if he’s hard or soft. He’s my plaything tonight and if he underperforms in that department, he can always up his other tricks.

It’s time to bind those hands as it seems he can’t keep them at bay, still confident he can turn things around. Nope, sweets, not tonight!

I tie his wrists together behind his back, just to hear him make another smartass comment about how is he going to take off his underpants now. That just earns him a super tight cuff around his wrists and me coming into his face. “I think it’s about time you shut it up for the night, pet! And don’t you worry about your underwear, it will come off in due course. Now, let’s try that devoted kiss again.”

This time my hands are around him, around the back of his head and I lick his lips, chew on them a little and do any sort of instinctive nastiness that propels out heartbeat.

I leave him panting, wanting more when I push him away. The expression on his face has changed, more placid, more submissive - we’re getting somewhere.

“More?” I ask with a large intake of breath as if I was going underwater. Indeed there’s no breathable atmosphere where we’re heading.

He nods and the low grunt escaping his lips is first gear to my revving engine.

“Down on your knees, you dirt!” I kiss him like a beast, covering his whole mouth with my lips, not letting him breathe, paralysing his mouth, his jaw, I press my thumbs into his neck until he struggles for air. Then I slowly release him, licking his face, his jawline. I delight in the sudden gulps of air he’s fighting for. Deep inside, now he knows what’s coming.

I kiss him hard, ferociously both of us panting, wheezing, wanting more. Then I tear my lips away from his, just to cover his mouth and nose with my palm. I get my toxic buzz from the sight of his pupils dilating to resemble a total eclipse. Like full moon to a werewolf, those eyes are to the animal ripping from the inside of the chest of this sweet little MILF.

I put my bare foot underneath his package and feel for his wildly twitching cock. I wait a few seconds (normally around five) looking into his eyes, smiling, mouthing the words ‘slow down your breathing, baby’.

He does as he’s told, he’s a smart boy. He trusts me, of course he does, he has no other option. By this time he normally had tested the strength of my rope handcuffs, just to conclude every single time, that no, they won’t break.

I kiss the back of my hand that still smothers his mouth, still cutting off his precious air supply. I lick it and once again tongue his whole salty face, then I let him breathe. Well, not quite. Because as soon as I take my hand off, my lips are on him.

“That’s it, breathe me in, like oxygen, kiss me like you need me,” I grunt between ragged breaths letting him get some too. Because I’m nice like that.

Once his breathing somewhat regulates itself, he murmurs something incoherent.

“Did you say ‘more’?” I grin.

He very quickly gathers his thoughts and straightens his alphabet to form that ugly objection, “No!”

“Ahh, just one more baby, don’t disappoint me now. You know how much this turns me on.” Yes, as I said, psycho bitch and all. What can I do? I get off on torturing him a little, so what?

“Please, no!”

I look at him, shaking my head, disappointment written all over my face. Then comes my second favourite sentence ever with narrowed, darkened eyes: “That is not your safeword.”

We both know, it means much more than those five words. What I really mean to say is ‘There is the safeword, if you really really need to use it, but don’t be a dick and ruin my fun by using it!’

And I know he won’t, because he trusts me and because that delicious rush overrides that initial rouse of panic. I stroke his swollen cock with my foot as I speak again. “Just give me one more baby,” I purr, “then I let you taste what all this does to me.”

Now that he knows what’s coming, he’s a bit more apprehensive but more prepared. His panicky flight reflex is rising his heartbeat, he’s taking in too much air, possibly causing him to hyperventilate. But he knows the rules, he knows what’s happening, he’s a smart boy so he’s using his mind to slow down his breathing. I stroke his face so gently, so lovingly, as if thanking him for letting me hurt him a little.

“That’s it, good boy, deep breaths.” I straddle his kneeling thighs and rub my bare, moist pussy on them, while kissing his trembling lips. Then I stand in front of him again pressing his face against my mound to inhale my scent and remind him of his reward.

“We’re gonna go slow and steady this time.” Holding his chin up with my thumbs, I claw his face with eight fingers, soft enough not to be too painful, hard enough for my nails to draw eight little red lines on his face.

Looking at his juicy lips panting with trepidation, I can’t resist the urge to give him a taste of all the sweet nectar that this little game fountains out of me. I can’t let all that go to waste running down my legs, can I?

His eyes are on mine, so he doesn’t notice my hand disappearing between my legs and he’s very pleasantly surprised when I dab the honey onto his lips. He eagerly licks it off and doesn’t forget to thank me. Such a good, well-mannered boy, making me so proud. Deserves a treat. “Do you want more, puppy?” He nods enthusiastically. ”You have to earn it, sweets.”

I shove two fingers into his mouth while holding his head with my other hand. I fist the longer strands of hair on the top of his head and pull his face sideways onto my knee as I roughly finger fuck his mouth. Every time my fingers disappear into his throat my pussy tightens, dripping more and more of that liquor he thirsts for.

He gags a little but I’m gentle, I know his limits. And instead of going deeper, I just use all of my fingers trying to fist his reluctant tight little throat.

That is new and he looks at me with that kind of panic he looked at me the first time I cut his oxygen off, not knowing whether he will live to see the morning. The relaxed expression, the trust evaporates in the heated shock. But no matter how he’s gagging, how his eyes tear up, he holds my gaze, because that rapid three blinks would be the end of my current cruel game. And we don’t want that.

It only lasts a few seconds, I can almost see as he’s counting in his mind ‘one – fuck she’s nuts, two – ok, ok I can do this, three – fuck, I wish she didn’t have that irresistible evil glint in her eyes, four – ok, almost done, pull out before I’ll be sick, five-five, five, bitch, pull out! FIVE, FIVE!’

“And SIX baby! Very fucking well done,” I slap his face. “God, that was fucking hot,” I exclaim directing his gaze to my leg to show him the long slimy line running down my inner thigh almost reaching my knee. Holding his face in a strong grip I make him lap it up, stopping him just short of reaching my swollen petals.

I finger myself obscenely in front of his face and I tell him he’ll be compensated for his suffering generously. His reward is my fist back in his mouth but this time laced with his favourite nectar.

“Good boy,” I purr, “you’re really turning me on.”

Part of me just really want to ride his huge cock and feel all that uncontrollable twitching inside of me instead of just on my foot, while I’d keep him tied like that and play with his breath like the fucking goddess of life and death I am. Mmm, yes maybe, maybe just for a minute... Damn, I got to have his cock!

I step aside and pull out a drawer of the sideboard I retrieve a pair of scissors and negligently cut his boxers off. I see him opening his mouth for objection, but it’s already too late, and it wasn’t a particularly good pair anyway.

Once the tattered material falls to the ground, I surprise him by pushing him sideways like a bulldozer. Of course, he is too stocky for me to move so I order him to sit on the floor, his back against the sofa. This all happens in seconds and I’m not even sure what I’m doing. Every plan seems to veer off the original path, as one foot on the ground one on the settee I push my crotch into his face.

As he grunts and moans swallowing delicious cunt juice, there’s a growing need in me to have his cock inside my pulsing bones. His tongue is buried inside me, deeper than physically seem possible - his only aim to make me want more. And I stumble.

I sit on his cock that’s bigger and harder it’s ever been, guiding it home with no hesitation or BS and I ride it deep and hard because it feels fucking good. And I need it. I kiss his face, loving the taste of insatiable pussy on his lips, grinding my hips on his rock hard cock while I feast on his puffy ambrosiac lips.

He’s already breathing hard, struggling for breath under the vicious attack of my lips, but now I place my palm against his mouth and nose. He’s trying to turn his face away to escape, but I won't let him. With his hands tied behind him, his head, his neck don’t stand a chance against my strong arms.

I push his head into the side of the sofa, his neck beautifully bent backwards almost distortedly, his Adam’s apple racing wildly up and down his throat. I’m stuffed full with his throbbing cock that is no doubt will erupt inside me any second now. I know I should stop, but I can’t get enough of that otherworldly full feeling.

Still covering his mouth and nose I turn his face sideways, bounce on him one final time as I murmur incoherently into his ear “You are not fucking cumming.” Then I get off his cock, even though seeing it so fucking hard, twitching as it does, covered in my thick juices shatters me to million sharp, incomplete pieces.

I look at him. And I know he would roar like an animal if I let him breathe now.

I pull his head out of the sofa to face me. His chest rising without falling, his eyes are gone even beyond the black eclipse. He is gone. Part of him is. “Listen to me! Slow your breathing.” I release his nose and I’m unsure whether he can hear me. This state is like tribal drums in your ear, which is your own heartbeat, all inside a chaos of loud buzzing white noise. I know, I’ve been there. So, I repeat, louder. “Slow down your breathing.”

He finally floats back to reality and I lift my fingers and palm one by one off his face. But before he comes back fully, I feed my cunt into his face again.

“If you make me cum, I let you cum too.” I’m not proud of the whinging, begging edge of my voice but unlike him, I don’t have to hold back.

Now his body doesn’t know which one is more important, to breathe or to greedily savour every little piece of my Eden till he receives his reward as the most delicious liquor man can taste. So he does both, he breathes me in and I don’t need much...

He is sucking my clit in and everything that goes with it that fits into his starving mouth. I fuck his face into the soft side of the sofa as I ride his tongue, lips, teeth, chin, tearing at his hair and calling him a useless piece of shit and other obscenities that come to mind. My vision, my consciousness explodes into a full sky, blindingly white firework display.

I kiss his face roughly still soaring high up somewhere and the taste of me on his face is almost as good as a good hard pounding just after he makes me cum on his face.

“Good fucking boy,” I say, gritting my teeth giving him a few hard slaps on his face. It won’t hurt him as he’s still in that other, more abstract, disconnected world. I reach for his cock. Of course, he hasn’t cum yet, still high as a kite on the lingering endorphins of hypoxia and I wank his shaft a few times asking him if he wants to cum.

Which he incoherently replies to, “Yes,” knowing full well it's not his time yet.

“No, not finished with you”

Now that my urgent needs are sorted it’s time to play again. “Now, where’s that fucking ruler? “

“You are one mean bitch, damn ya,” he curses. The expression on his pretty face is of pure frustration as he’s sitting oh-so-helplessly on the floor with his huge red cock glistening with our mixed sticky juices. The smell of sex in the room is intoxicating, it makes me hypoxic, it makes me more... ‘loopy’.

“Mmmm, poor baby,” I grunt into his face giving it a lick from stubby chin to his eyes closed shut, savouring every drop of sweet desperation.

I’ve found my ruler and I’m drawing sketchy lines on his body, his face, his hairy chest. My touch regulates the heavy rise and fall of his ribcage like the moon draws the tide in and out.

I can’t stop myself from indulging in the ultimate mischief and tickle the instep of his feet knowing how he cannot bear it. But this time he doesn’t struggle, doesn’t giggle, doesn’t pull away like he normally does. I guess being ticklish is currently overridden by other, more pressing needs.

He’s looking away as I slide the sharp edge of the ruler up his shin, his inner thigh, giving it a few hard slaps on the way, just so I can ‘kiss it better’ by gliding my torturous toy higher and higher up, until it eventually reaches his swollen, oversensitive balls. So nice and smooth. God, I want nothing more than slap my tongue against them and trace his cock all the way to the tip.

Then the devil I am, I repeat all of that out loud. And of course not do any of it. But as I murmur those tantalising, drawn-out words, moaning and gasping between syllables, I follow through with the ruler, awaking every nerve ending possible. His eyes are closed, his consciousness is still dangling on the edge of that cliff. One wrong move, one more word and he would crumble. Part of me wants to see him losing the plot, losing control and see that huge blob of precum ooze out, or quite possibly more, but not just yet.

And of course, I can’t have him escape into god knows what comfortable dream world. I stroke his cheek with the ruler then smack it hard to wake him from his daze.

“Open your mouth,” I request. “Tongue out.” He has no idea where this is going and I see little pearls of panic form on his forehead. His eyes are flamed with fear.  He doesn’t dare to disobey me though and reluctantly offers his tongue for my sick games. I place the ruler flat on his tongue, as if examining his throat for infection. “Did you enjoy me cumming in your mouth?” My words are dripping with venom, scribbled with the ink of impending hell. He swallows hard, unable to reply with the ruler on his tongue. And he knows, there’s no right answer to my question anyway.

“Yes, no need to reply,” I say sarcastically, mimicking simmering anger. “I know you did.” My clit throbs with every word.

I step closer, into him. My bare, still needy, still dripping sex in his face. I lock his neck between my fingers and force him to look up towards the ceiling. Then I slide the ruler into his throat. He gags and struggles, his whole body convulses under me. And I enjoy every little cinematic slow motion jerk of his being. I pull out but not completely, just leaving it on the middle of his tongue. His cock is twitching uncontrollably again. I can’t get enough of that, which gives me an idea.

He can finally breathe freely for a few seconds till I retrieve his favourite cock strap. It goes around his balls and the base of his cock and I pull it tight with the black bead on it. His balls instantly grow to golf ball size and the veins on his cock protrude obscenely. But he assures me that it’s not too tight.

I’ve asked, because I’m nice like that.

So nice in fact, that I promise not to get him gagging on the ruler again. I think it was enough for a first-time familiarisation. But I definitely will be pushing it down his throat more next time. And I don’t forget to inform him of that plan.

“I want to throat fuck you with my fingers a bit more, though,” I tell him before he starts harbouring unrealistic ideas about the roughhousing ending prematurely only because I have cum. As if!

When I have my four fingers in his already stretching mouth, but yet to try to nudge my thumb in, I tell him how much “I really miss seeing you swallow another man’s cocks.” He gulps hard trying his best to accept my chunky thumb along with that statement. “I think we need to do some threesomes again,” I declare matter of factly.

If his cakehole wasn’t full of my fist he would laugh. Laugh with that sad, hurt laughter he has when I say something that cruel and dark humoured. Because he’s been begging me for a threesome for months. And I always said no so far.

Instead of that laughter his eyes flare up with annoyance and despair.

I pull my fist out, a thick line of saliva trails between us following it. “Would you like that?” I provoke his simmering hatred a bit more. He doesn’t know it yet, but my question is genuine this time, he’ll be soon granted his wish. Because what he doesn’t know yet, is that I’ve been chatting to one of our old regulars, James and we have set up a meet for next week.

He’s panting heavily, his eyes are like a vision from a stormy and hostile alien planet, one that I somehow still recognise as home. “You know, I would. Stop teasing me.” Did I mention how much I could just get off on his voice alone? How much I love that deep rasp of echoing frustration and wrath?

Well, there’s a new depth to it now. A ‘just been throat fisted and it fucked up my vocal cords’ edge.

I feel weak. I should tell him. I should tell him my plans for next weekend. With James. He deserves to know. He deserves that tiny little climax that knowing would bring to his tortured soul. But I won’t. Not just yet.

“Get up,” I say instead, helping him to stagger to his feet and I drag a chair over. Still standing, I turn him in a way that his back is to the back of the fancy padded dining chair, one he won’t be sitting on this time. I tie his ankles to the legs of the chair and position his bound wrists over the seatback securing it to the bars with a short length of rope.

“And now, the most fun part, I’ve been dreaming of all day...”

His whimpers, noisy breathing are music to my ears, a calming white noise, but exciting buzz at the same time. Even if he said something, even if it was that three-letter word, he so rarely dares to use, I wouldn’t be able to hear. 

I’m so turned on, my clit is one pulsing, beating a tribal drum with an unbearable urging, prodding feeling.

I claw at his gorgeous, full balls and his veiny cock. “It’s so fucking beautiful, like a decorative ornament. If we didn’t have kids I would create a cast version and put it on the mantelpiece, baby. That’s how much I adore your cock! And that’s a good thing, isn’t it?” I jabber those words like a roller coaster picking up speed downhill, then slow down to a near halt to deliver the news of a cliff edge right in front of the car. “Even, if sometimes, I want to bad things to it.”

We both swallow hard. But the giant filth-ball doesn’t budge in the back of my mouth. And him,... he just doesn’t want to know what I meant. He’s nothing short of terrified.

I walk to the kitchen, which is normally not a good sign. He doesn’t like it when I collect everyday torture equipment from my domain. He didn’t like the ice, or the ice thong last time or the plastic bowl before that. His least favourite were the clothes pegs.

But of course, it won’t be any of those. It always has to be something new, for the surprise and shock element. I’m holding up a wooden spoon marching back. I like to threaten him (and the kids) with it when they do something naughty like leaving the back door ajar or stealing the muffins I was keeping for lunch bags, but I have never ever actually used it on anyone.

And I won’t this time either. Not in that way at least. I grab his chin and force his lips open, then shove the handle in his mouth. “Fucking sexy. You know what’s it for, right?” Of course, he does. But because he can’t speak, it’s best I tell him, just to be sure. “To bite on to take away the edge of pain.”

My first targets are his sexy nipples poking out hard and erect from the forest of his hairy chest, like adorable pink flashing beacons. One by one, I give them a mighty slap making poor husband flinch and yell out. “Keep it down, we don’t want to wake the neighbours,” I rumble into his ear.

I spot the beech-coloured spatula moisten and discolour in his salivating mouth. His tongue is darting up and down around it, fighting its designed function to expel foreign objects. Next time, I think I need to tie it around his head.

“Keep it in!” I roar at him; my aberrant mind drinking in the sight of his frenzied drooling. I make a mental note to record this on video one day. The internet is full of babes deepthroated, mouth-fisted drooling like this. When this is just as good, if not better.

I distract him, lead him on by wanking him a few times telling him how fucking hot he looks dribbling onto the carpet. I take the wooden spoon out of his mouth, but I won’t let him close his mouth to swallow. I shove my fingers to the back of his mouth to find a huge pool of saliva and I make him gag on it.

Spit bubbles out of his mouth, running down his chin, his chest. “You’re such a sight. I love it,” I let a satisfied praise slip. I’m so pleased with him that I tongue his balls and cock with gusto. “Making them nice and wet,” I thrill. “For the ruler,” I add through gritted teeth.

 The spatula flies back into his protesting mouth and I hold the ruler up for him to realise, that there’s no stalling the inevitable now. I lick its length up and down looking straight into his panicky eyes, sucking the corner of it teasingly. I give his inner thigh a few gentle warm-up slaps then rub the full length of his shaft with my wet ruler.

The most exciting thing about these types of games is that you have absolutely no idea when and where and how hard the next sensation is going to bite. It messes up one’s mind and keeps you on the edge like nothing else.

In his state, the pure impending threat is almost too much to bear but I want to push him further, until he’s so close that even blowing on his package would make him cum. Not a cataclysmic, cum shooting everywhere type of orgasm, but a nice ruined one.

I envelop his tool in my fist and gently rub his shaft up and down swirling my tongue on his smooth helmet. Normally, he can’t cum unless I stroke him very fast and under normal circumstances I can read him well. Not today.

“I need you to tell me when you are close. No cumming unless I grant one. Understood?”

The first one should be easy. I make his exquisite cock nice and wet by swallowing him a few times. Probably a few times more than absolutely necessary. Then I rub him hard and fast till his moans become guttural, his eyes close, his teeth clasp on the spatula.

He’s there. So close.

“Ssstop,” he hisses; his tongue protrudes over the wooden bit-gag.

I bend his steel rod out of the way and whack the base of his cock with the ruler. Hard.

He howls like a wounded animal.

I slap his balls, just tiny little pats on both sides, then scrape them with the sharp edge of the ruler.

“Again!” I demand, my mind flying high as a kite fuelled by his dependent state. I check the restraints for show. I do as I wish and I like to rub it in.

“I wonder how many times can I edge you like that?” – Just a rhetorical question for my own amusement. If his mind gets off on my dominant voice just as much as I get off on his suffering, he already came way too many times anyway. “I’m thinking ‘three is the magic number’ but five is my favourite.”

This time I bring him to the edge by sucking, deepthroating, holding the base of his cock tight – just in case he won’t tell me when to stop. I gag on his swollen head, my contracting throat muscles giving his swollen head a squeeze he can’t bear.

He’s so wound up, the coils of his clockwork will spring out if I’m not careful.

“Ssstoooop!” he bawls.

But it’s too late. Even though I clamp his cock both at the base and around the rim, a long white line of thick cum shoots onto his stomach.

“Wow, that was fucking hot! Did you feel anything?” I inquire wanting to know just what the fuck happened. He blinks two for no. I trace the line of cum with my finger, “So dirty.”

“I’m still haa’d,” he whimpers, his eyes begging for more.

But now I want something different. I leave to get another ruler. I have to rummage for it in the cupboard a little, then I decide on the two princess ones.

I bring him close again, but not as close as the previous times. Just a few steps from the edge, where his breathing is laboured, eyes wild, drooling constantly.

Then I squeeze his cock between the two rulers lengthways and haphazardly tie them together on both sides with two rubber bands. Tiny patches of skin bulge through the star and heart-shaped stencil holes.

Then I squeeze a huge blob of lube onto my palm.

“I let you cum now,” I purr.

His tense body, his troubled eyes know that I wouldn’t say something like that if there wasn’t a catch.

“But I won’t touch your cock.”

Instead, I massage, knead his balls, circle his perineum. Slowly first, letting him relax. Then in a deeper, more and more demanding way.

My depraved soul drinks in the sight of his body tensing against the restraints, his back arching into the seatback.

Once I work him up to a pent-up state again, it’s time to fuck his mind. “When you cum, I want you to think of how delicious my pussy tasted when I came into your mouth. Would you like more of that?”

His reply is a long rasp growl.

“Later tonight you get to taste it even more. And I let you fuck this tight little pussy.”

His eyes dart open to watch my fingers disappear into my cunt. The same fingers, I will now use to knead his balls then sliding over his perineum, my middle finger penetrates his almost virgin little butt hole.

“Yes baby, I want you to cum for me now and I’ll let you do anything you want to me tonight.”

Slow, ‘come-hither’ finger pads massaging his button and slow tantalising whisper-soft words in his ear massage his mind. And my reward for my coordinated efforts is the priceless low grunts followed by lines and lines of sweet milky cum, most of which lands on the brand new lush carpet.

“You’re expected to clean that up,” I rumble with a pleased purr in my voice. “But other than that, you’ve been a very good boy, pet.”