Sweetheart Boy #1

She stands in her fuschia velvet shoes and full bubblegum lace skirt, smoothing her coral curls back from her face, looking around at the velvet couch, all the dark shining wood and leather paddles and floggers hanging on the walls, this playroom she’s booked to meet a man she’s never seen before. She is waiting for the moment that the black door swings open ― for the moment that he enters, and she takes full control. Her hands are hot with nervous sweaty desire, and she leans over the air conditioner, letting the cool air flow over her skin, trying to breathe, trying not to let her mind fill with hypotheticals and spiraling what ifs and hot frenetic thoughts and the scraps of her anxiety that flutter and pile in her mind at the worst times.

She remembers the first time she noticed him and felt his energy, just over text, there was an electricity between them immediately. He caught her eye - no, he caught her azure third eye. She saw the boy behind the words right away, as she was lying on her back, her phone in the air, idly scrolling, when he sent her the first of what would become an endless stream of texts and confessions and offerings between them. She remembers the moment of Knowing that hit her, a charge of intensity from the universe that made her sit straight up in bed and immediately write back: “I would love to meet you.”

She wants to come to this encounter open and empty of jetsam, like walking up to a white stone temple knowing nothing of what might happen inside its walls, with no conception of her initiation into the rites and rituals to come. This experience is like nothing else. She is walking into the temple, knowing that soon it will be hers. She already feels like she could take over and ascend to lie on the altar, queen of everything. She pulls up her spring green stockings so they’re perfectly placed on her smooth soft thighs. For this, the first time she meets this boy who the universe has dropped into her lap, she chose an outfit that speaks to who she is at her core, her truest self - she wants to show her pink heart, her softness, her spirit that’s a valentine, freely given, handmade and girly. She’s a visual love letter. She arranges her skirt and it fluffs out around her hips like a dogwood blossom. Underneath it, the gusset of her mesh panties is already slightly damp. Her fingernails are painted the color of a swimming pool. She knows the boy is on his way. She’s told him to kneel. He has promised he will.

She started her forays into finding a man because she’s angry. The last two men shred her heart in different ways, but the same in the end: it’s over abruptly after the peak of intimacy. Romantic nights on the phone until 3am, a low voice in her ear, making love in the forest, beautiful, all of it, in the way that hurts because it’s so precious. All of it, ripped away by fear and mental illness and the way that humans can’t communicate the wound. She’s so angry. “All I want to do,” she says to a friend, “Is find a man who wants me to slap his fucking face. And I’m going to do it. I’ll do it. I’ve got to fucking slap someone.” She doesn’t think she’ll find warmth or softness in this new world of kink - it feels more like a quest for revenge for her shrapneled heart. She decides she’ll find a man who’s just a face. A face to slap, she tells herself. There isn’t anything else out there for me. No one else out there.

In their days and nights of texts, the boy tells her that all he’s ever wanted is a home. He tells her that he dreams of being collared, taken, owned by the right woman. He wants to be bared, spirit and skin, by someone who sees him, leads him, orders him and enjoys him. The boy wants to be known. He wants to be fully seen, to have his entirely submissive heart accepted by a woman who wants him for who he is. He tells her this openly. He also tells her that he wants to be bent to her will. She tells him that she wants to bend him. They talk every day while she’s out of town and it becomes clear that they fit together like the soft thin skin wrapped around a juicy clementine. The more they talk, the more they both feel the bubbling possibility. She sends him pictures of her feet in the pointed heels that she’s sewing lavender sequins on to wear to a wedding. He tells her that her feet are beautiful and that he wants to sink to the floor with his mouth on her toes. He tells her that he wants to lie on the floor with her foot on his face and give her everything he has to give. She tells him to lie on the floor for her and stroke himself down there, naked, flat to the ground, low. He does it. He sends her photos and they make her weak with desire. They stay up every night making each other hard and wet. They become more aware of one another.

The door opens.

The boy comes in, and immediately she’s lit up by the look in his clear eyes, the color of the swells of the sea. Are they blue or green or hazel? she thinks. They’re all of them. They’re everything at once. He’s self-conscious, hopeful, reverent. Her inner knowing washes over her - this is right, it’s perfect. 

“You may undress,” she says, and the boy immediately puts down his bag and pulls his shirt off over his head, and as he does he looks into her eyes. She has a sudden lightning flash urge to take his shirt and rip it in half and throw it on the floor while he watches, stunned. She doesn’t move. He gets entirely undressed as fast as he can, and then offers her the pile of clothes.

“Fold them.” 

He folds them a bit sheepishly, and then carefully presents her with the stack. 

“You may kneel.”

He gratefully drops to the floor.

“Stay here with your eyes closed.”

He closes his eyes obediently and she watches him for a moment, his beautiful eyelashes resting on his cheeks. They are so sweet that she wants to see them wet with tears. She thinks about slapping him, his soft face wrinkling under her hand like a love letter being thrown away. 

“Good boy,” she says softly, low like a lullaby.

She takes his clothes and walks past where he kneels, face upturned, past the leather armchair and the luxe spanking bench, and swings the heavy black metal door open. She does it as slowly as she can so he can hear the long creak, steps into the hallway, allows him to hear the echo of her footsteps in the velvet shoes. She places the clothes on the bench beside the door that he can’t see. Let him think that they’re out in the hallway, she thinks. Let him think I’ve got him captured here. Let him think he cannot leave.

The boy is waiting, breathlessly it seems, his eyes closed in supplication to her demands. She walks around him, inspecting, looking at every part of him.

“You may open your eyes now,” she says.

He does. His eyes are beautiful like a summer sky, and he isn’t afraid to look at her. He takes in every detail of her, the long pink skirt, her feet in fuschia velvet and her stockings the color of new leaves, the vintage crystal necklace looped around her neck, the blue silk velvet ribbons that look like they were painstakingly unstitched from Marie Antoinette’s own gown and resewn to perfectly frame the soft swells of her breasts, and the carefully chosen sequins that draw a line down to the valley of her cleavage, every bit of her perfect and made for worshiping. He looks at her adoringly. “You look beautiful,” he says. “You look like - you look like a ballerina princess.”

Her cheeks turn rose red, and she smiles at him, comes to sit in the leather chair in front of where he kneels, and opens her arms. “Come here, sweet boy.” Her voice is like music, and he moves hypnotically to fit into the open space between them, sliding his arms around her waist, coming closer. His arms are muscular and hard and the feel of them around her soft fat swells is exquisite. She can feel warmth on her clavicle where he leans in, his hot breath rhythmic on her skin. She can feel his heart beating out of his chest as she embraces him, feels him suddenly smell her floral scent, feels him grasp her tightly as he settles into being held.

They have only just met in the flesh, and they are both nervous. The nights of texting, sharing fantasies and dreams and vulnerabilities were beautiful, but they both want more. She sat with her intuition, held it closely, and gazed into it like a dark mirror, and saw him there, kneeling in front of her at last, his cock and balls presented in his hand for her to claim. 

Now they are here, him kneeling, his lips drifting close to her flowery skin, and they breathe together, getting used to the way that their bodies feel pressed against each other. She did not know it could feel so right, so exact, and she knows that he feels it too. She looks down between them at his cock, pink, innocent, hopeful, with one darker scar across the very top of his foreskin. He straightens up, brave, making his offering to her.

She takes his cock in her hand, inspects it, pulls at the foreskin gently, and as she explores it, he breathes raggedly and says, “oh,” very quietly over and over again. She lifts his cock and takes his balls in her other hand, pulling and lifting to inspect each of them and he twitches in anticipation. She runs her finger over the scar and he gasps.

“Very nice,” she says. “Now present them to me.”

“Yes, Miss.” He is so eager to do it, to get into the position that she has taught him. In their long nights of texting, being able to order and demand from him has crystallized her desires. Telling him what to do has given her clarity on what she wants, no, needs him to do for her. They stay awake sending descriptions and pictures of positions, until the perfect shape firms in her mind, and she begins requiring him to do it on command. Before they meet, she has him practice this position every night, kneeling widespread on the floor. She gives him notes on the pictures he sends, and he refines his practice every night leading up to their meeting. He wants to be a good boy. He wants to be perfect for her. He tells her this. She tells him she expects no less.

As he shifts into position, she can see his practice. Kneeling, legs wide apart, firmly holding his cock and balls in one hand, pulled out from his body and offered to her, eyes upward and making strong eye contact with her as he offers himself. The shape of him, moving as she’s told him to move, starts the slippery river of her desire flowing. The shape of him is his yearning for a home.

She lifts her skirt up around her hips, and he looks at her eagerly. “You may smell,” she says. “Breathe it in.”

He leans close to her, not quite touching the pink soft mesh of her panties, and takes a huge slow breath. “Oh,” he says. “Thank you. Thank you, Miss.”

“Good boy.” She runs her fingers through his hair as he breathes her sweet scent into his body.

She feels an electric pulsing all through her, starting right at the spot where she can feel his hot breath on the soft slope of her pussy. His breath creates the spark that rushes through her. She has never felt a connection quite like this.

They look at each other for a long moment, and then she dives down, meets his lips with her own, and they lose themselves in a kiss that seems to go on forever. She bites his bottom lip softly, then harder, and he whimpers into her mouth like he’s singing her name. His lips taste like dawn. They taste like the first bite of an apple straight off the tree. This is the beginning, she thinks. This is something else altogether. This is cosmic connection. She reaches down and grasps his cock and balls firmly in her hand, and he gasps out loud, fearful, pleasure full, hoping, open. “Please,” he whispers. “Please, Miss.”

“Please what?” She tugs slightly, pulling him out and away from his body, inexorably toward her. “Please what Miss?”

“Please do it,” he gasps. “Please hurt my cock and balls. Please.”

She is euphoric with the sound of his begging. She squeezes, tightening her grip around him, torturously slow, and his gasping turns to a high whine as he fully hardens: please, please, please. 

She gives his erect cock a slap, and he shudders with the ecstasy of fantasy fulfilled. She slaps it again, and it bobs up and down and she suddenly laughs with delight. 

“It is so decadent to slap a beautiful erect cock,” she says. “It’s wonderful. I didn’t know I’d laugh like that.”

“I’m glad you enjoy it, Miss,” he says. “I like it too.”

She slaps it again, harder this time, and he yelps wordlessly, his eyes begging her, begging her, begging her. Another slap, another yelp.

“I love your noises,” she says. “I love them.”

They stop, looking at each other, and then she opens her arms and he slides back into them, resting his face against her shoulder, dropping reverent tiny kisses on her skin without even thinking about it, already hers in body and soul.

She knows by the end of this delicious evening, she’ll have claimed him. She knows that he already wants her to, is desperate for her to do it, and she thinks that if she says, “You’re already mine,” he will respond, “Yes.”

She wraps her arms around him and strokes his hair as he makes small noises into her shoulder like a beloved pet settling down for a cuddle and a nap. She kisses the top of his head, then his cheek, and as he turns his face to look up at her, his clear beautiful blue green eyes like a sky after the rain, she knows that he already belongs to her. 

“It already feels like you’re mine,” she says.

“Yes,” he says.

Yes.

Photo by Ekaterina Mitkina