About me
Interested in:
I’m looking for:
- Kinky Dates
- Events & Places
- NSA (no strings...)
- Swingers
- BDSM Lovers
Description
An experienced Dom that often finds himself in the role of a teacher or guide. Mostly into impact play, breath play, and bondage, but generally I thrive on full and willfully given obedience
I also have a very nice toy box that I'd love to bring out when we play
Open and honest. Ask me anything
Dabble in writing erotica and speak passable French
175cm (5'9), 7'
Cut, shaved, vasectomized
Limits
None
My roles & archetype
My kinks & fetishes
I like:
Fetish.com gives you…
Fetish.com is like an appetizing smorgasbord in Oroklini Touristiki Periochi with lots of hot guys to meet up with. Have a look around first if you prefer to see who’s around, or if you know what you want, search by selecting the right category "Kinky Dating”. Nobody stays alone here for long! Fetish.com has tons going on!
An experienced Dom that often finds himself in the role of a teacher or guide. Mostly into impact play, breath play, and bondage, but generally I thrive on full and willfully given obedience
I also have a very nice toy box that I'd love to bring out when we play
Open and honest. Ask me Read more… anything
Dabble in writing erotica and speak passable French
175cm (5'9), 7'
Cut, shaved, vasectomized
I also have a very nice toy box that I'd love to bring out when we play
Open and honest. Ask me Read more… anything
Dabble in writing erotica and speak passable French
175cm (5'9), 7'
Cut, shaved, vasectomized
Little Dancer - Part 2
I get what you're saying. I really do. A lot of my stories tend to get real smutty real fast.
But as the old saying goes, we don't write stories, they write themselves. And this one wanted to be a real slow-burn one... 🤷♂️
Little Dancer - Part 2
Part 1 can be found here
---
I take your arm and guide you out. The bouncer glances over, eyes asking if you’re sure; you don’t answer him.
The night air hits like cold water, but I pull you closer, and it stops mattering.
The driver standing by the black Mercedes spots us and quickly opens the Read more…rear door. The car looks exactly like you imagined it would - long, wide, metallic black, the windows tinted dark.
I gesture with my hand, inviting you to enter first...
“Nothing happens tonight that you don’t want,” I murmur against your hair. “Every step is yours to take… or not.”
You’re hesitant again. You understand. Every step, every move, a series of little choices. And it starts with this - choosing to get into the car.
When I get in the car as well, the driver closes the door after me and walks to take his place up front.
"Sit back. Relax", I tell you, as I do the same, casually putting my hand on your leg.
"Where to, Sir?" the driver asks, and I answer: "Nowhere. Just drive”.
"Understood, Sir", and the driver turns on the ignition and starts driving, slowly making his way out of the driveway.
The car drives in silence for a couple of minutes, and you're visibly and equally both stressed and excited, having no real idea what you got yourself into. My hand is still on your leg, and you decide to make a bold move and put your hand on mine.
I look at your hand, then look at your face, and then smile. You think to yourself that this is the same smile as before, the one with the teeth. I'm the big bad wolf, and you are fully aware that you chose to be devoured.
The car quickly reaches the edge of the city, and the driver turns onto the highway and s***ds up. I take that as a sign.
“Come here”, I tell you, not raising my voice, not needing to.
You move without questioning it, without hesitation. Your body answers me before your mind can catch up.
“Take off your coat. I want to see you again."
You do.
You can see in my eyes that I see it all. I see you completely. The good and the bad. The curves and the dangling bits. The makeup and the wrinkles. The energy and the stress.
I lift your face in my hands, feeling the uncertainty in your breath, the pull you’re trying so hard not to show. Then I bring my mouth to yours, slowly, deliberately, claiming the moment just as much as your lips.
The kiss feels somehow so tender yet so demanding. My lips, my hungry tongue on yours, they call to you, and you respond. We kiss deeply, passionately. Your mind is split between the intoxicating sensation and the complete surprise from your own reactions. So free. So careless. So unlike yourself.
I bend down to kiss your neck.
You melt into the feeling, and everything blurs. My mouth and tongue are dancing up and down the crevice between your neck and your shoulder, and you lean your head on mine. You give yourself completely into the feeling, into the sensation of tongue on skin and all the little goosebumps it brings. You try to focus on it, on something, on anything, but it’s becoming very difficult, at least until you realize my hand is already behind your back, skillfully unfastening the clasp of your bra.
You jump into action, your hands instinctively catching your bra to keep it on, and you stare at me with disbelief. I stare back at you, trying to gauge your reaction. To tell the truth, you don’t fully understand it either. You were clearly enjoying the situation, so it takes a second for it to register why you reacted the way you did.
“What about… him?”, you ask, nodding with your head towards the driver.
I direct your chin and your gaze back to me.
“There’s no one here except me. He’s nothing more than a ghost. Very well trained. All the people in my service adhere to very strict protocols, and my standards are very high.”
The words I use are like direct lightning bolts to your brain. Trained. Service. Strict. Protocols. Your body reacts to them in ways you do not understand.
Once again, you find yourself not knowing what to do. Your eyes shift from me to the driver, to me again. The fact that you just cannot read me infuriates you, as you’re usually so good at it. I remain stoic as ever.
Seconds pass, and then, once again, you understand this is a moment of choice.
You raise your hands in the air.
This isn’t surrender. This is trust. Fragile, trembling, but real trust.
I reach again and take off your bra. This time, you don’t stop me.
--
Cool air kisses your bare skin, and your nipples tighten instantly, aching under the weight of my gaze. You feel exposed in a way the stage never did: raw, seen, no neon lights to hide behind.
You expect me to jump you like all the men that came before, but that has never been my style. My eyes travel over you, and when I finally move, it’s only to trace one fingertip down the center of your chest, between your breasts, stopping just above your navel. Your breath hitches, the car hums beneath us, and your heart is racing inside you.
My palm slides up to cup one breast, thumb brushing over the stiff peak of your nipple. The contact is light, almost lazy, but it shoots straight between your legs like a current. You arch into my hand without meaning to, chasing more. I give it to you, my grip now firmer, rolling the sensitive bud between my fingers until your head falls back against the seat and your thighs press together.
“Look at me.”
You *** your eyes open. My face is close, closer than before. The city lights are gone; only the faint glow from the dashboard touches the lines of my jaw, the glint in my eyes.
“Do you like this, little dancer?”
Your lips part. The alcohol is still fizzing in your ***, but that’s not what's making your voice shake.
“Yes…”, you say.
“Tell me you want this.”
You swallow.
“I want this…”
“Properly”
“I want this, Sir”
“Take off your shoes.”
---
I slide my hands to your waist and lift you over me as if you weigh nothing. You settle across my lap so you’re straddling me, face to face, your knees sinking into the plush leather on either side of my hips. Your skirt rides up; the damp lace of your panties is the last useless barrier left between us. I can feel your heat through my trousers, and when you instinctively rock against me, I let you feel exactly how hard you’ve made me.
My hands settle on your hips, gripping the soft fabric belt still wrapped around your waist. I use it like a handle, guiding you in a slow grind that drags a broken moan from your throat.
“That’s it”, I breathe against your ear. “Move for me like you moved on that stage”.
You do.
You can’t help it. There’s no music, but your body remembers the rhythm, the roll of hips, the arch of spine - only now it’s filthy, intimate, every sway brushing your slick heat along the ridge of my cock.
I nip your earlobe, then the soft place just beneath it, then my mouth finds a nipple. I take my time with it, licking it, sucking it, and finally biting it just a little bit. Then I do the same with its twin.
My hands slide lower, under the waistband of your skirt, cupping your ass, spreading you open so the next roll presses you even closer.
“I’m going to take these off now”, I warn, fingers already hooking into the sides of your panties. “Lift”.
You obey instantly, rising on shaking knees. The rest of your clothes are gone in one smooth motion, tossed somewhere into the shadows. Then my hand is between your legs; no teasing, no hesitation, two fingers sliding through your wetness and pushing inside.
You cry out, the sound sharp in the quiet car.
“Soaked”, I growl against your neck. “You’ve been like this since the bar, haven’t you? Dancing for me, dripping down your thighs while you pretended you weren’t sure”.
You don’t answer. You can’t. I curl my fingers, stroking that spot inside you that makes your vision spark white at the edges, and your hips jerk. My thumb finds your clit, circling slow, merciless.
“Please”, you gasp.
“Please, what?”
“Please, Sir… I need…”
I stop. Everything. Fingers still buried deep, thumb hovering just out of reach.
You sob in frustration.
“Need what?” I ask.
You drop your forehead to mine, trembling all over.
“I need you inside me. Please. Fuck me”
The words are barely out before I’m moving. One hand yanks my belt open; the other keeps you pinned so you don’t fall. You hear the zipper, feel the hot, hard length of me spring free against your thigh. Then I’m lifting you, positioning you.
Instinctively, you turn your head again to see if the driver is looking.
“Eyes on me!”
You sharply turn back to face me as I sink you onto me with a slow, relentless move, stretching you open inch by inch until you’re seated fully and your breath is nothing but a ragged whimper. My hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise.
“Move”, I tell you.
You do.
You ride me in a way that is almost opposite to the way you dance. Your dance is intentional, seductive, in control. You ride me like you’re desperate; like you’re starving; like you’re parched; every roll of your hips a plea for more. The car rocks gently beneath us, the driver oblivious or perfectly trained; it doesn’t matter. There is only the slick drag of my cock inside you, the slap of skin, the way your breasts bounce with every thrust.
I let you set the pace for a little while, let you chase it, but when your movements start to falter, I take over. My hands tighten, lifting and slamming you down harder, faster, until your cries fill the car and your nails dig into my shoulders through my shirt.
“Ok, little dancer. It’s time”, I growl in a low voice. “Right now. Let me feel it”.
You shatter.
The orgasm hits you like a wave, rolling through every limb, clenching around me so tight I have to grit my teeth to keep from following you. You collapse forward, burying your face in my neck. I keep you impaled through every aftershock, stroking your back, letting you fall to pieces exactly where I want you.
“Good girl”, I murmur into your hair.
---
I take your arm and guide you out. The bouncer glances over, eyes asking if you’re sure; you don’t answer him.
The night air hits like cold water, but I pull you closer, and it stops mattering.
The driver standing by the black Mercedes spots us and quickly opens the Read more…rear door. The car looks exactly like you imagined it would - long, wide, metallic black, the windows tinted dark.
I gesture with my hand, inviting you to enter first...
“Nothing happens tonight that you don’t want,” I murmur against your hair. “Every step is yours to take… or not.”
You’re hesitant again. You understand. Every step, every move, a series of little choices. And it starts with this - choosing to get into the car.
When I get in the car as well, the driver closes the door after me and walks to take his place up front.
"Sit back. Relax", I tell you, as I do the same, casually putting my hand on your leg.
"Where to, Sir?" the driver asks, and I answer: "Nowhere. Just drive”.
"Understood, Sir", and the driver turns on the ignition and starts driving, slowly making his way out of the driveway.
The car drives in silence for a couple of minutes, and you're visibly and equally both stressed and excited, having no real idea what you got yourself into. My hand is still on your leg, and you decide to make a bold move and put your hand on mine.
I look at your hand, then look at your face, and then smile. You think to yourself that this is the same smile as before, the one with the teeth. I'm the big bad wolf, and you are fully aware that you chose to be devoured.
The car quickly reaches the edge of the city, and the driver turns onto the highway and s***ds up. I take that as a sign.
“Come here”, I tell you, not raising my voice, not needing to.
You move without questioning it, without hesitation. Your body answers me before your mind can catch up.
“Take off your coat. I want to see you again."
You do.
You can see in my eyes that I see it all. I see you completely. The good and the bad. The curves and the dangling bits. The makeup and the wrinkles. The energy and the stress.
I lift your face in my hands, feeling the uncertainty in your breath, the pull you’re trying so hard not to show. Then I bring my mouth to yours, slowly, deliberately, claiming the moment just as much as your lips.
The kiss feels somehow so tender yet so demanding. My lips, my hungry tongue on yours, they call to you, and you respond. We kiss deeply, passionately. Your mind is split between the intoxicating sensation and the complete surprise from your own reactions. So free. So careless. So unlike yourself.
I bend down to kiss your neck.
You melt into the feeling, and everything blurs. My mouth and tongue are dancing up and down the crevice between your neck and your shoulder, and you lean your head on mine. You give yourself completely into the feeling, into the sensation of tongue on skin and all the little goosebumps it brings. You try to focus on it, on something, on anything, but it’s becoming very difficult, at least until you realize my hand is already behind your back, skillfully unfastening the clasp of your bra.
You jump into action, your hands instinctively catching your bra to keep it on, and you stare at me with disbelief. I stare back at you, trying to gauge your reaction. To tell the truth, you don’t fully understand it either. You were clearly enjoying the situation, so it takes a second for it to register why you reacted the way you did.
“What about… him?”, you ask, nodding with your head towards the driver.
I direct your chin and your gaze back to me.
“There’s no one here except me. He’s nothing more than a ghost. Very well trained. All the people in my service adhere to very strict protocols, and my standards are very high.”
The words I use are like direct lightning bolts to your brain. Trained. Service. Strict. Protocols. Your body reacts to them in ways you do not understand.
Once again, you find yourself not knowing what to do. Your eyes shift from me to the driver, to me again. The fact that you just cannot read me infuriates you, as you’re usually so good at it. I remain stoic as ever.
Seconds pass, and then, once again, you understand this is a moment of choice.
You raise your hands in the air.
This isn’t surrender. This is trust. Fragile, trembling, but real trust.
I reach again and take off your bra. This time, you don’t stop me.
--
Cool air kisses your bare skin, and your nipples tighten instantly, aching under the weight of my gaze. You feel exposed in a way the stage never did: raw, seen, no neon lights to hide behind.
You expect me to jump you like all the men that came before, but that has never been my style. My eyes travel over you, and when I finally move, it’s only to trace one fingertip down the center of your chest, between your breasts, stopping just above your navel. Your breath hitches, the car hums beneath us, and your heart is racing inside you.
My palm slides up to cup one breast, thumb brushing over the stiff peak of your nipple. The contact is light, almost lazy, but it shoots straight between your legs like a current. You arch into my hand without meaning to, chasing more. I give it to you, my grip now firmer, rolling the sensitive bud between my fingers until your head falls back against the seat and your thighs press together.
“Look at me.”
You *** your eyes open. My face is close, closer than before. The city lights are gone; only the faint glow from the dashboard touches the lines of my jaw, the glint in my eyes.
“Do you like this, little dancer?”
Your lips part. The alcohol is still fizzing in your ***, but that’s not what's making your voice shake.
“Yes…”, you say.
“Tell me you want this.”
You swallow.
“I want this…”
“Properly”
“I want this, Sir”
“Take off your shoes.”
---
I slide my hands to your waist and lift you over me as if you weigh nothing. You settle across my lap so you’re straddling me, face to face, your knees sinking into the plush leather on either side of my hips. Your skirt rides up; the damp lace of your panties is the last useless barrier left between us. I can feel your heat through my trousers, and when you instinctively rock against me, I let you feel exactly how hard you’ve made me.
My hands settle on your hips, gripping the soft fabric belt still wrapped around your waist. I use it like a handle, guiding you in a slow grind that drags a broken moan from your throat.
“That’s it”, I breathe against your ear. “Move for me like you moved on that stage”.
You do.
You can’t help it. There’s no music, but your body remembers the rhythm, the roll of hips, the arch of spine - only now it’s filthy, intimate, every sway brushing your slick heat along the ridge of my cock.
I nip your earlobe, then the soft place just beneath it, then my mouth finds a nipple. I take my time with it, licking it, sucking it, and finally biting it just a little bit. Then I do the same with its twin.
My hands slide lower, under the waistband of your skirt, cupping your ass, spreading you open so the next roll presses you even closer.
“I’m going to take these off now”, I warn, fingers already hooking into the sides of your panties. “Lift”.
You obey instantly, rising on shaking knees. The rest of your clothes are gone in one smooth motion, tossed somewhere into the shadows. Then my hand is between your legs; no teasing, no hesitation, two fingers sliding through your wetness and pushing inside.
You cry out, the sound sharp in the quiet car.
“Soaked”, I growl against your neck. “You’ve been like this since the bar, haven’t you? Dancing for me, dripping down your thighs while you pretended you weren’t sure”.
You don’t answer. You can’t. I curl my fingers, stroking that spot inside you that makes your vision spark white at the edges, and your hips jerk. My thumb finds your clit, circling slow, merciless.
“Please”, you gasp.
“Please, what?”
“Please, Sir… I need…”
I stop. Everything. Fingers still buried deep, thumb hovering just out of reach.
You sob in frustration.
“Need what?” I ask.
You drop your forehead to mine, trembling all over.
“I need you inside me. Please. Fuck me”
The words are barely out before I’m moving. One hand yanks my belt open; the other keeps you pinned so you don’t fall. You hear the zipper, feel the hot, hard length of me spring free against your thigh. Then I’m lifting you, positioning you.
Instinctively, you turn your head again to see if the driver is looking.
“Eyes on me!”
You sharply turn back to face me as I sink you onto me with a slow, relentless move, stretching you open inch by inch until you’re seated fully and your breath is nothing but a ragged whimper. My hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise.
“Move”, I tell you.
You do.
You ride me in a way that is almost opposite to the way you dance. Your dance is intentional, seductive, in control. You ride me like you’re desperate; like you’re starving; like you’re parched; every roll of your hips a plea for more. The car rocks gently beneath us, the driver oblivious or perfectly trained; it doesn’t matter. There is only the slick drag of my cock inside you, the slap of skin, the way your breasts bounce with every thrust.
I let you set the pace for a little while, let you chase it, but when your movements start to falter, I take over. My hands tighten, lifting and slamming you down harder, faster, until your cries fill the car and your nails dig into my shoulders through my shirt.
“Ok, little dancer. It’s time”, I growl in a low voice. “Right now. Let me feel it”.
You shatter.
The orgasm hits you like a wave, rolling through every limb, clenching around me so tight I have to grit my teeth to keep from following you. You collapse forward, burying your face in my neck. I keep you impaled through every aftershock, stroking your back, letting you fall to pieces exactly where I want you.
“Good girl”, I murmur into your hair.
MrMrsHoney1989 ❤️❤️❤️ ❤️❤️❤️
LikeAngelusInMotion
· 11.12.2025 15:57:17
RoseandSage 🖤🖤🖤 🖤🖤🖤
LikeAngelusInMotion
10.12.2025 22:14:43
AngelusInMotion ➦AngelusInMotion quote sluttbuckett:❝I like it. My eyes kept searching for the dirty words in the early paragraphs kind of skipping along, but I realized if I did that I would miss the message You’re really trying to send as story. It’s good as something to inspire or uplift the physical act of Read more… love but I think it needs a few more dirty words/ actions to make mine stand at attention. You do a great job being creative explaining their actions in the moment.
The tough thing for me was mentally putting us in the back of a limo’s plush, black leather seats!
I owned at least one car that resembled your limo. I did alot of things in that car , but I never got lucky enough to use the sweet backseat while being transported . Usually a deserted , un patrolled parking lot at the beach. You’re on your way as a writer it seems. Times I’ve tried to write an autobiographical sex story, I’ve taken the lazy way out: clothes? Off. Position? yes dirty words? Tons of them . Action! Cigarettes!
Of course I’ll respect you in the morning!
Camera fades out. CUT! PRINT!❞
I get what you're saying. I really do. A lot of my stories tend to get real smutty real fast.
But as the old saying goes, we don't write stories, they write themselves. And this one wanted to be a real slow-burn one... 🤷♂️
The tough thing for me was mentally putting us in the back of a limo’s plush, black leather seats!
I owned at least one car that resembled your limo. I did alot of things in that car , but I never got lucky enough to use the sweet backseat while being transported . Usually a deserted , un patrolled parking lot at the beach. You’re on your way as a writer it seems. Times I’ve tried to write an autobiographical sex story, I’ve taken the lazy way out: clothes? Off. Position? yes dirty words? Tons of them . Action! Cigarettes!
Of course I’ll respect you in the morning!
Camera fades out. CUT! PRINT!❞
I get what you're saying. I really do. A lot of my stories tend to get real smutty real fast.
But as the old saying goes, we don't write stories, they write themselves. And this one wanted to be a real slow-burn one... 🤷♂️
Like
· 10.12.2025 7:15:58
Show more
3 of 4
Little Dancer - Part 1
Backstage, your body is already moving in front of the vanity mirror, rolling your shoulders, watching the silver-and-black floral decoration on your purple silk bra catch the light. The fabric is tight enough to lift your breasts high and proud. The matching skirt hugs your hips as if it were Read more…***ted on. The hip scarf, heavy with coins, flashing silver every time you snap it, and the high girdle cuts a line that makes men stupid. Your long, straight, red hair drops down, finishing the killer look.
You’re thirty-one, not twenty-one, and the harsh backstage lighting doesn’t do you any favours, but out there this body still knows how to lie. Tonight's theme is “Oriental.” Tonight, you are fantasy made flesh.
It’s a Tuesday in a gentlemen’s club that pretends it isn’t a strip club. The tips are usually pathetic, and the audience is typically drunk. Tonight, the room is especially empty, and that’s perfect - fewer witnesses.
A small lamp on the wall flashes silently five times.
It’s show time.
--
The music begins softly, a heartbeat beneath the floorboards. You step into the harsh neon light, but in your mind's eye, you’re entering the stage of a famous concert hall. Your body starts to move, and with each hip sway and arm roll, the lights reflect off your costume, bathing you in gold. You let the rhythm settle into your body, guiding you into movements that feel both natural and deeply purposeful. With every graceful turn, you ***t the air with shimmer and motion, captivating the audience without a single word.
You dance for no one and for everyone, letting the rhythm lick up your spine. You dance not to reveal, but to suggest—to let them feel the sensuality woven into every beat. As the melody builds, your movements deepen, spiralling outward like a story unfolding in light and shadow. And when the final note dissolves into silence, you hold still just long enough for the room to feel the lingering heat of your dance before you gently step back.
You’re two steps from the curtain when you feel it - eyes that don’t blink, don’t cheer, don’t look away. Black suit, white shirt, no tie, no smile. Every other gaze in the room is loose and greedy. Mine is a blade. It slides straight between your ribs and pins you in place. It’s hungry.
---
You have a couple of minutes before the next dance, so you go back to your vanity.
Your fairy godmother, also known as Stacy the stage manager, comes by and hands you a shot glass.
Stacy is your only real friend in the club. She used to be a dancer too, before an *** ***d her to retire. Luckily for her, the club owner adores her, as do most of the girls, so he made her the stage manager, and now she basically runs the show. She’s one of the most beautiful women you know, but what you love most is her fluency in sarcasm and a sense of humour as dark as her coffee.
Knowing she practically lives at the club, you ask if she knows anything about the man sitting at the bar, the one with the eyes that feel like they’re looking straight through you. She hesitates before answering, just long enough to make your stomach tighten, and tells you that I’m bad news. That you should stay away from me. You try to get more out of her, but she won’t elaborate, and soon enough, your time is up.
The second song starts.
You *** yourself onto the stage, trying to focus, but your eyes keep finding me.
You begin hesitant, almost shy.
Then something shifts.
You stop dancing for the room.
You dance for the man who hasn’t moved, hasn’t blinked, hasn’t looked away once.
Every hip drop, every slow circle of your ribs, every coin that flashes silver—it’s all for him now. And when the music ends, you’re breathing hard, flushed, terrified, and more turned on than you’ve ever been on this stage.
The lights dim. Silence stretches. Then, slowly and deliberately, I lift one hand and crook a single finger.
Not a request.
A summons.
Your feet start moving before your brain even agrees.
---
“Good evening, Sir, I hope you’re enjoying the show”, you say, letting the practiced bedroom voice do its work. It’s never failed you before.
It fails now.
I look you over once, slow and clinical, the way a man evaluates something he has already decided to buy. For a second, you feel like a piece of future property, and it’s not entirely unpleasant. Then the wolf's smile flashes. You must have passed.
"You are very pretty", I say in a low voice, now looking straight into your eyes.
A minute ago, you were half-naked on stage and untouchable. Four words from me somehow make you blush like a little schoolgirl.
"Thank you", you manage to utter.
"Sit"
You sit.
"Do you drink?" I ask, and when you nod your head, I pour a bubbly wine into a flute you could swear wasn’t there before.
You pick up the glass in both hands, taking both comfort and courage from it, and start drinking. I move my chair closer to yours, so that we're almost touching. My eyes never leave you, and I can see your chest going in and out as your breath gets shallower. I watch the way your fingers tremble around your glass, the way you’re trying so hard to look composed. You’re not fooling me. Your body gives you away long before your words ever could.
I let my own hand drift slowly along the bar top, not touching you, not yet—close enough that you feel the warmth of it brushing the air beside your skin.
“I like pretty things”, I say softly, my eyes never leaving your face. And though I still haven’t touched you, I can see the breath catch in your throat as if I already had. And when I finally let my hand find you, I do it slowly enough to give you every chance to move away. You don’t.
My fingers settle against your skin, warm, deliberate. The moment I touch you, a quiet shiver runs through your body. You try to hide it, but you fail.
Inside your head, every alarm bell is ringing. You know you should get up and go this instant. But at the same time, the place where my hand rests feels like it’s burning like wildfire, while a shiver runs through your entire spine. I’m not the first club patron to flirt with you and offer you a drink, but no one has ever made it hard for you to breathe like this. Nobody made you feel so… lacking in confidence, and definitely not that fast.
You look at my hand, my fingers gently stroking your skin. You can see that I see your shiver, and there’s nothing you can do to hide it. You also can’t hide your nipples from poking through your bra with evident excitement.
You bite your lips, take a big gulp of liquid courage from the drink in your hands, turn your eyes straight into mine, and ask me: “Do you have a name I can call you?”
“You called me Sir before. I liked that”, I say, my big smile unwavering.
“And… what do you want from me… Sir?”, you ask, somewhere between tease and anxiousness.
"I don't want anything from you. I want you. And I'm the type of man that usually gets what he wants."
I spread my fingers and grip, no longer so gentle.
You gasp, more from surprise than actual ***, my voice and words ringing in your ears, and the champagne and tequila having a little party in your brain.
“Sir… Please…I… I am… I’m working, please…”
You hear yourself say the words, and you’re not actually sure what it is you’re begging for. Do you want me to stop? Do you want me not to stop? You try to steady yourself and take a deep breath, only to catch a whiff of my cologne, and it does not help your situation one bit.
"I see…”, I finally answer after what seems like eternity. “In that case, it seems the real question is not what I want - it's what do you want?
You see, it might not look like it right now, but you actually have all the power here. You have options. For example, you can ask me to leave you alone, and I will. You can give me your phone number. Maybe I'll call, and maybe I won't.
Or you can ask me, very politely, to take you out of this hole right now and fuck you until you forget your own name. I have a driver waiting outside. You can ask for whatever you want, but you do need to ask”.
“I have one last dance…”, you stutter. The thought of me leaving right now didn’t sit well with you at all. You needed more time to think. “One more dance, and then, and then we can leave”. I release my grip.
You go back to the stage, and the music starts again. This time, your dance is intentional. Sensual. This last song is the most erotic of the three, and you’re milking it for everything it’s worth. You’re dancing and making sure that I see you.
---
When your dance is finally over, you turn to me and signal with your hand for me to stay put and wait.
I smile, and you rush backstage, trying not to bump into everything and everyone there. Stacy asks you what’s the rush, but you completely ignore her, not actually noticing she’s there.
You grab your bag and your coat, barely manage to put on your shoes, and start running back to the bar, hoping to whatever gods are out there that I didn't leave. But I'm still there, waiting patiently.
Once again, you take a deep breath, muster all the courage you can, and say, "Okay, Sir, I'm ready."
"No. Not yet...”
You are utterly confused and have no idea what I meant by that.
"You need to ask."
You take a second to try to find your voice, which seems to have disappeared.
“Ask me”
“Sir, take me away from here, please.”
You’re thirty-one, not twenty-one, and the harsh backstage lighting doesn’t do you any favours, but out there this body still knows how to lie. Tonight's theme is “Oriental.” Tonight, you are fantasy made flesh.
It’s a Tuesday in a gentlemen’s club that pretends it isn’t a strip club. The tips are usually pathetic, and the audience is typically drunk. Tonight, the room is especially empty, and that’s perfect - fewer witnesses.
A small lamp on the wall flashes silently five times.
It’s show time.
--
The music begins softly, a heartbeat beneath the floorboards. You step into the harsh neon light, but in your mind's eye, you’re entering the stage of a famous concert hall. Your body starts to move, and with each hip sway and arm roll, the lights reflect off your costume, bathing you in gold. You let the rhythm settle into your body, guiding you into movements that feel both natural and deeply purposeful. With every graceful turn, you ***t the air with shimmer and motion, captivating the audience without a single word.
You dance for no one and for everyone, letting the rhythm lick up your spine. You dance not to reveal, but to suggest—to let them feel the sensuality woven into every beat. As the melody builds, your movements deepen, spiralling outward like a story unfolding in light and shadow. And when the final note dissolves into silence, you hold still just long enough for the room to feel the lingering heat of your dance before you gently step back.
You’re two steps from the curtain when you feel it - eyes that don’t blink, don’t cheer, don’t look away. Black suit, white shirt, no tie, no smile. Every other gaze in the room is loose and greedy. Mine is a blade. It slides straight between your ribs and pins you in place. It’s hungry.
---
You have a couple of minutes before the next dance, so you go back to your vanity.
Your fairy godmother, also known as Stacy the stage manager, comes by and hands you a shot glass.
Stacy is your only real friend in the club. She used to be a dancer too, before an *** ***d her to retire. Luckily for her, the club owner adores her, as do most of the girls, so he made her the stage manager, and now she basically runs the show. She’s one of the most beautiful women you know, but what you love most is her fluency in sarcasm and a sense of humour as dark as her coffee.
Knowing she practically lives at the club, you ask if she knows anything about the man sitting at the bar, the one with the eyes that feel like they’re looking straight through you. She hesitates before answering, just long enough to make your stomach tighten, and tells you that I’m bad news. That you should stay away from me. You try to get more out of her, but she won’t elaborate, and soon enough, your time is up.
The second song starts.
You *** yourself onto the stage, trying to focus, but your eyes keep finding me.
You begin hesitant, almost shy.
Then something shifts.
You stop dancing for the room.
You dance for the man who hasn’t moved, hasn’t blinked, hasn’t looked away once.
Every hip drop, every slow circle of your ribs, every coin that flashes silver—it’s all for him now. And when the music ends, you’re breathing hard, flushed, terrified, and more turned on than you’ve ever been on this stage.
The lights dim. Silence stretches. Then, slowly and deliberately, I lift one hand and crook a single finger.
Not a request.
A summons.
Your feet start moving before your brain even agrees.
---
“Good evening, Sir, I hope you’re enjoying the show”, you say, letting the practiced bedroom voice do its work. It’s never failed you before.
It fails now.
I look you over once, slow and clinical, the way a man evaluates something he has already decided to buy. For a second, you feel like a piece of future property, and it’s not entirely unpleasant. Then the wolf's smile flashes. You must have passed.
"You are very pretty", I say in a low voice, now looking straight into your eyes.
A minute ago, you were half-naked on stage and untouchable. Four words from me somehow make you blush like a little schoolgirl.
"Thank you", you manage to utter.
"Sit"
You sit.
"Do you drink?" I ask, and when you nod your head, I pour a bubbly wine into a flute you could swear wasn’t there before.
You pick up the glass in both hands, taking both comfort and courage from it, and start drinking. I move my chair closer to yours, so that we're almost touching. My eyes never leave you, and I can see your chest going in and out as your breath gets shallower. I watch the way your fingers tremble around your glass, the way you’re trying so hard to look composed. You’re not fooling me. Your body gives you away long before your words ever could.
I let my own hand drift slowly along the bar top, not touching you, not yet—close enough that you feel the warmth of it brushing the air beside your skin.
“I like pretty things”, I say softly, my eyes never leaving your face. And though I still haven’t touched you, I can see the breath catch in your throat as if I already had. And when I finally let my hand find you, I do it slowly enough to give you every chance to move away. You don’t.
My fingers settle against your skin, warm, deliberate. The moment I touch you, a quiet shiver runs through your body. You try to hide it, but you fail.
Inside your head, every alarm bell is ringing. You know you should get up and go this instant. But at the same time, the place where my hand rests feels like it’s burning like wildfire, while a shiver runs through your entire spine. I’m not the first club patron to flirt with you and offer you a drink, but no one has ever made it hard for you to breathe like this. Nobody made you feel so… lacking in confidence, and definitely not that fast.
You look at my hand, my fingers gently stroking your skin. You can see that I see your shiver, and there’s nothing you can do to hide it. You also can’t hide your nipples from poking through your bra with evident excitement.
You bite your lips, take a big gulp of liquid courage from the drink in your hands, turn your eyes straight into mine, and ask me: “Do you have a name I can call you?”
“You called me Sir before. I liked that”, I say, my big smile unwavering.
“And… what do you want from me… Sir?”, you ask, somewhere between tease and anxiousness.
"I don't want anything from you. I want you. And I'm the type of man that usually gets what he wants."
I spread my fingers and grip, no longer so gentle.
You gasp, more from surprise than actual ***, my voice and words ringing in your ears, and the champagne and tequila having a little party in your brain.
“Sir… Please…I… I am… I’m working, please…”
You hear yourself say the words, and you’re not actually sure what it is you’re begging for. Do you want me to stop? Do you want me not to stop? You try to steady yourself and take a deep breath, only to catch a whiff of my cologne, and it does not help your situation one bit.
"I see…”, I finally answer after what seems like eternity. “In that case, it seems the real question is not what I want - it's what do you want?
You see, it might not look like it right now, but you actually have all the power here. You have options. For example, you can ask me to leave you alone, and I will. You can give me your phone number. Maybe I'll call, and maybe I won't.
Or you can ask me, very politely, to take you out of this hole right now and fuck you until you forget your own name. I have a driver waiting outside. You can ask for whatever you want, but you do need to ask”.
“I have one last dance…”, you stutter. The thought of me leaving right now didn’t sit well with you at all. You needed more time to think. “One more dance, and then, and then we can leave”. I release my grip.
You go back to the stage, and the music starts again. This time, your dance is intentional. Sensual. This last song is the most erotic of the three, and you’re milking it for everything it’s worth. You’re dancing and making sure that I see you.
---
When your dance is finally over, you turn to me and signal with your hand for me to stay put and wait.
I smile, and you rush backstage, trying not to bump into everything and everyone there. Stacy asks you what’s the rush, but you completely ignore her, not actually noticing she’s there.
You grab your bag and your coat, barely manage to put on your shoes, and start running back to the bar, hoping to whatever gods are out there that I didn't leave. But I'm still there, waiting patiently.
Once again, you take a deep breath, muster all the courage you can, and say, "Okay, Sir, I'm ready."
"No. Not yet...”
You are utterly confused and have no idea what I meant by that.
"You need to ask."
You take a second to try to find your voice, which seems to have disappeared.
“Ask me”
“Sir, take me away from here, please.”
RoseandSage Beautifully written sir 🖤 Beautifully written sir 🖤
LikeAngelusInMotion
09.12.2025 18:07:28
50 SHADES OF FUCKERY
And that's why Edward Grey is a much better dom role model than Dorian Grey
Likemrvetnotthepet ·
Jump to discussion
Question for doms
FET doesn't have an option to upload a photo in comments and that's a shame, because we had a session once and we invited a photographer to be there. He captured a wonderful photo of us doing affirmations before the session started and you can really see the connection
LikePowerDDLG, KittehKatGibson1982 ·
Jump to discussion
Her Slave Name
Emma is not her birth name
Emma is her slave name
I named her the day we signed our contract
It's not a nickname
It's not a stage name
It's not a persona
It's the name she uses when she is most ***
It's the name she uses when she is the most honest
It's the name she uses when she is her true self
And like Emma herself, it is mine
Emma is her slave name
I named her the day we signed our contract
It's not a nickname
It's not a stage name
It's not a persona
It's the name she uses when she is most ***
It's the name she uses when she is the most honest
It's the name she uses when she is her true self
And like Emma herself, it is mine
Daddy9Plus Signed over and fully owned Signed over and fully owned
Like
· 15.11.2025 18:57:17
Hiring my slave as my PA was the best decision
You phrased it perfectly. It's an absolute privilege, and I'm not taking it for granted *at all*