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From: Maureen Lycaon <maureen_lcn@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} With Another Man {Maureen Lycaon} (Fdom-Mdom/M, cons,  bd, voy, pett)
Date: Sat, 31 Mar 2001 05:10:03 -0500
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WITH ANOTHER MAN


@Copyright Maureen Lycaon, March 2001. All rights 
protected under the Berne Convention, but permission 
granted for this story to be duplicated in the course 
of normal transmission over Usenet. It may also be 
archived on the normal Usenet archives, such as Google 
and the alt.sex.stories.moderated Website. Readers are 
welcome to keep copies for their own personal use; but 
please, if you think a friend would like this story, 
refer him to my Website. I wouldn't want him or her to 
miss out on my other stuff.;-)

In all cases, the text must be kept intact and 
unaltered, including this copyright notice and author's 
notes, with proper attribution to the author. 
Reproduction for commercial use *strictly forbidden*!


Author's Notes:

You know the drill: all resemblance to real persons 
living or dead is strictly coincidental and 
unintentional, not intended as a guide to safe sex, 
etc., etc.

I live for feedback. Email it to: 
maureen_lcn@yahoo.com. You can find more of my erotica 
at my Velan Archive at:

http://velar.ctrl-c.liu.se/vcl/Authors/Maureen/



With Another Man

By Maureen Lycaon





I lie on our big king-size bed, my wrists chained to 
the brass bars that I have never been able to bend, 
even during the worst whippings.

I'm still dressed: no shoes or socks, but I'm wearing 
my soft thin jeans and a blue plaid cotton button-up 
shirt. My head rests on a pillow. I'm comfortable 
physically, but psychologically is something else.

Bruce smiles as he stands by the side of the bed. He's 
so big, so muscular, so macho-looking with his dark 
shoulder-length hair and confidant manner, that when we 
met I was surprised to discover he's a bit shorter than 
my 6'2" height, and even his voice isn't as deep as 
mine. I'm fit enough, but I'd never beat him in an arm-
wrestling match. 

I take a deep breath as he looks me over more closely.

Leona sits down in the chair to watch, breathing, 
"Okay, let's go."

She was adamant that I have the experience of being 
with another man. She knows Bruce very, very well; 
they're both in the local BDS&M club and have seen each 
other at play many times before.

It's my first time with another man, of course. I trust 
her implicitly, and she's going to watch this. Even so, 
I feel butteflies in my stomach as he looms over me, 
approaching. He really *is* big.

His clean-shaven, ruggedly handsome face is only a 
couple of feet from mine now, as his warm chocolate 
eyes look deeply into my blue ones, and I can just feel 
his breath on my face. I force myself to stare back 
into those eyes; I feel a kind of electric shock at the 
proximity to another male.

Then he breaks into a smile -- a warm, reassuring smile 
-- as he reaches out and strokes my long blond hair 
that Leona loves so much.

"Mmmm," he purrs. "That hair really is magnificent, 
James. Like silk. I'm just going to stroke it a while." 
His voice is slow, calm.

And that's what he does, his large hand moving over my 
hair, stroking it back from my forehead, down the sides 
of my face, with feathery gentleness. I feel myself 
relaxing despite my nervousness. He increases the 
pressure just enough to make it even more soothing, and 
I lay back and relax still more, ignoring what remains 
of the uneasiness, just enjoying the touches for the 
moment.

I feel the mattress dip as he sits down beside me on 
the bed, leaning over to continue the caresses. What he 
sees in my face as I enjoy the stroking makes him smile 
that warm smile again, and I feel a like smile form on 
my own lips. He strokes my hair down the sides, gently 
runs his fingertips over my sideburns again and again. 
Mostly he just strokes my brow, enjoying the comfort 
he's giving just as I do.

I feel myself melting, warming under that tender touch. 
My eyes close. 

"Soooo . . ." he croons to me. "Rest easy, James . . . 
Relax."

Something about such tenderness in a stronger man while 
I am helpless moves me, relaxes me. Gods, I could fall 
asleep like this . . .

He's not about to let *that* happen, though. One hand 
slips down to gently hold my jaw, lifting my chin, 
while the other braces his own weight on the mattress 
as he leans over me, his warm moist breath blowing on 
my face, and then he kisses my lips.

Another little shock, less intense but deeper, runs 
through me.

He continues the kissing, gently holding my face with 
one hand, lips brushing my mouth, my nose, my chin, 
along my jawline (gently turning my head to accommodate 
himself), my cheeks, my brow, finally even my ears. He 
bathes my face in soft kisses, exploring me, letting me 
know how handsome he finds me. I close my eyes with 
pleasure at the kisses.

His smell fills my nostrils: warm, tinged with sweat, 
faintly musky.

He shifts, and the kissing halts. I open my eyes, and 
he's looking down at me, smiling again, before he 
lowers his face to mine once more. This time, his 
tongue gently brushes my lips, suggesting entry.

I'm nervous and uncertain at first, but his tongue 
patiently brushes my lips again and again, getting me 
used to it, willing to spend as much time as it takes 
to earn my trust. Eventually I lose my shyness and my 
mouth falls open of its own accord, letting him in. His 
hand on my jawline softly massages, caresses, as his 
tongue explores.

As the gentle probing of my mouth continues, I find 
myself sucking at his tongue in acceptance, letting him 
do what he wills. His powerful hands slip under my hair 
to cradle my head as we kiss. I let my neck muscles 
relax, letting him hold me like that.

He releases me every so often to let me breath, and 
then it's I who lift my mouth to him, silently begging 
for more kisses.

Then one hand again lifts my chin, gently but firmly 
forcing it upward, so that I must expose my throat to 
him. I feel his kisses go down to cover my chin, and 
then my proffered throat, and down my neck to my 
collarbones.

He releases my jaw, and I turn my head to one side, and 
the kisses slide over my neck, over my jugular vein, 
down to my shoulders.

"So beautiful," he murmurs, again stroking my hair 
aside, and I dimly hear Leona's soft voice, "Yes, he 
is."

I've almost forgotten that I am in bondage, my wrists 
shackled above my head. Now I'm reminded of it as he 
once again draws away, still looking down at me, 
smiling, and then his hands reach up to mine. They 
fondle, almost tickling as he plays with my fingers, 
then holds hands with me, all the while looking down 
into my eyes, his face a study in affection and 
admiration.

"Are you happy," he says as much as asks, continuing to 
fondle my hands, my bound wrists. "Uh-hunh," and I 
manage a brief nod, then, "Yeah, I am."

"Good." His smile broadens, beaming. "I'm going to make 
you even happier." He lowers his head to administer yet 
another deep, tender kiss.

There's no hurry in his motions, as if he has all the 
time in eternity to soothe me, to explore me, to open 
me slowly and carefully like some delicate flower. I 
love it. I love his gentleness. I want more.

His hands slip from mine, administering a parting 
gentle squeeze before they slowly trail over my arms to 
my chest. They move up and down my flanks from armpits 
to hips, feeling my rib cage through the fabric, the 
way it rises and falls with my breathing. I feel my 
breath quicken, wanting more . . .

All this, and I'm still dressed. What a lesson in 
skill.

Then, with the same unhurried gentleness, his hands 
move to the front of my chest and begin to rub it. I 
inhale deeply, holding my breath at the sensations. The 
palms rub against my nipples through the cloth; I feel 
the nipples stiffen, poking up into his hands, and feel 
my pectoral muscles loosen underneath.

He surprises me then, bending to kiss my shirt 
precisely over my left nipple, briefly caressing it 
with his lips. Another pleasant shiver, passing its 
tickling way through my whole torso . . .

He withdraws, straightening. I feel his fingers again -
- this time working the top button on my shirt, slowly 
unbuttoning it.

He opens my shirt slowly, button by button, then pulls 
the flaps apart. Still-gentle hands, wonderfully gentle 
hands, slip under the cloth to run up and down my 
flanks, making the shirt fall open, down to the sheets. 
Now the front of my entire torso is exposed to his 
gaze, his touch. He gazes down at me, taking in my 
flesh -- my flat, faintly muscular belly, my chest, my 
nipples -- it seems I can almost *feel* his eyes upon 
me. What he sees pleases him; he smiles, nods slightly, 
and then his hands get back to work, this time on bare 
skin.

They slip around to soothingly rub my back, my 
shoulders -- and I know he's feeling the almost-faded 
welts remaining from my last whipping at Leona's 
skilled hands, a week ago. "Does this hurt?" he asks.

"No," I half-whisper. It doesn't. I don't want him to 
stop touching me.

He doesn't. He rubs my shoulder blades and he lowers 
his head to kiss my bare chest. More kisses follow, 
hands and mouth roving over me. His kisses descend from 
my sternum down my belly; he plants a reverent kiss on 
my navel, a strange sensation that makes me inhale 
sharply. Then slowly up, straying to the side to feel 
the skin over my ribs and then the flesh around my left 
nipple. With the same gentleness he's been using all 
along, he kisses me directly on the nipple, brushing 
the tip, then again, and again.

The touch sends a thrill through my entire torso, down 
into my penis, still concealed under the thin jeans. I 
arch my back, and I try to move my arms to embrace him, 
hold his head, but the clink of the chains reminds me 
of my bondage. I can only lie back and accept as he 
touches my flesh where he wills.

I arch my back some more, offering my nipples as he 
continues his gentle ministrations, making them both 
swollen and incredibly sensitive, rubbing the area 
around them with his fingertips, then slipping both 
arms around my torso to lift my chest up as he suckles. 
Any thought of fear is long gone as I move restlessly, 
now laying my head back against the pillows, now 
turning it slowly from side to side as I growl and moan 
with pleasure.

I don't know how long he goes on caressing and 
stimulating my nipples. I only know that at last he 
withdraws again. I've got the beginning of an erection. 
I can actually feel his eyes upon me before I open my 
own again. Once again, he's looking me up and down, and 
he spots that hard-on bulging at the front of my pants 
and smiles.

Then his hands and his lips return. He continues to 
work on one nipple at time, gently suckling on it, but 
now his roving hands also move down to my belly, to the 
waistband of my trousers. He begins to stroke my 
abdomen with exquisite gentleness, then rubs it softly.

The sensation that causes sends incredible thrills 
through me. This is something Leona and I haven't 
discovered yet. I had no idea I liked having my stomach 
stroked so much; it seems to melt under Bruce's 
comforting hands, and another blissful moan escapes me.

He makes a little purr of pleasure and keeps up that 
wonderful stroking and gentle sucking, and I feel 
myself dissolving in a pool of ecstasy on the bed. I 
hear Leona's chuckle and then her voice: "Ooh, he loves 
that." "He sure does," Bruce responds, releasing my 
nipple for just a moment.

He kisses his way down to my belly, where he works with 
both hands and mouth to bring more sighs and moans of 
pleasure from me. I can't help but thrash in slow 
motion with the ecstasy, my whole world narrowed to 
Bruce's hands, Bruce's mouth, and the pleasure they 
send flooding through me.

His tongue flicks at my navel, bringing little gasps 
from me as he continues to massage and stroke and rub. 
He soon finds a light, soft touch brings the strongest 
reaction, and those powerful hands are incredibly 
gentle once again.

It seems as if every square inch of my skin has become 
erogenous as I squirm happily under his ministrations. 
I've lost all awareness of the room, of Leona sitting 
and watching nearby. I don't even think about a 
possible orgasm in the future, about what will happen 
later, what's coming in the days ahead as he trains me. 
There's only the now, with this strong, knowing man's 
wonderfully gentle touches and kisses and the joy of 
surrendering my body to his sweet hands.

Then he's running one hand down my hip, my thigh, down 
to my knee, where he fondles briefly. It seems totally 
automatic, a reflex action, to lift my leg and then 
spread my legs a bit wider. Now, though he continues 
kissing my belly, he's using both hands to stroke and 
massage my thighs, feeling them through the cloth of 
the trousers.

He gets up to change position, now moving down the bed 
to my feet, and then his head lowers as he attends to 
his next task.

It's not a belly rub. Instead, one large hand moves to 
cover my groin through the pants.

My genitals receive a thorough examination right 
through the cloth, as his palm and his fingertips 
explore, discovering the lines of my swelling penis, 
the head, the shaft, the tip, my scrotum underneath. 
There is scarcely any pressure, but once again I am 
reminded of my helplessness, and how utterly open I am 
to him.

A hand cups my crotch, as if to weigh my balls. The 
other firmly presses my left thigh back into the bed. I 
am to be open for him, that silent gesture commands, 
legs spread to expose my sex as much as possible.

My penis hardens still more under that gentle but 
searching exploration. I'm sure he knows almost 
everything there is to know about its dimensions, its 
shape and its size, without even unzipping my fly.

"My, that's nice," he observes. "You're hot and hard."

Then both his hands guide my thighs to spread wide 
apart, almost but not quite to the point of discomfort, 
and then they're pressed softly but insistently to the 
bed. A gesture of dominance. Now the cloth is stretched 
tightly over my genitals, which must be clearly 
outlined beneath the trousers as he gazes.

His hands explore me even more thoroughly, playing a 
little with me, rubbing and stroking gently over my 
crotch, my inner thighs, as I respond, moving my pelvis 
to press my genitals into his hand. Every now and then, 
he runs a finger down my penis. When I start to move my 
thighs together as I squirm, they're pressed back down 
onto the sheets, keeping me spread. I have no idea how 
long this continues, or whether I'm seeping out into 
the cloth, but those knowing, possessing hands 
stimulate me, pleasure me, excite me and make me want 
more, more, to be out of these damned jeans and feel 
his touch on my naked cock.

And at last it comes. Again his hands press my thighs 
down and apart, a gentle command to keep still. Then 
his fingers are at the button at the top, opening it. 
Slowly, teasingly, unhurriedly, he pulls down the 
zipper, and my throbbing cock is at last freed of its 
confinement as he opens the flaps, pulling them back to 
expose me as much as possible.

He smiles at the sight of my stiffened penis, gently 
cupping it in one hand, feeling its heat -- my heat. 
"Nice," he observes, smiling. "My, you're excited, 
aren't you?"

Somewhere deep in the part of me that can still form 
words, my response comes. "Yes!"

He chuckles, and goads my thighs together so that he 
can remove my pants. When I have obeyed, he tugs at the 
the jeans, ever so slowly pulling them down over my 
hips, my thighs, my lower legs, until they're all the 
way off, and he lays them aside on the corner of the 
bed. Now I'm completely naked and exposed, except for 
the shirt that now lies open, covering only my arms.

Once again my thighs are urged apart and pressed back 
to the covers. He looks down, smiles at my arousal. He 
runs his fingers through my pubic hair, strokes it 
gently.

"You've got a lovely blond bush," he observes.

Then he cradles my penis in his hands, weighing it, 
feeling it, and it's hard and excited, his mere touch 
sending shivers of arousal through me. Slowly he moves 
one hand down to the root, and then still lower to cup 
my balls. I can feel both the strength and the 
gentleness of those hands, and I have a moment to 
marvel at my own lack of fear. With a squeeze of one 
hand, he could neuter me . . . but he simply holds 
them, weighs them in the palm of his hand, admiring 
them. What little nervousness I still have only adds 
spice to my excitement and submission.

He turns my cock this way and that to admire it, take 
in the sight of my arousal, my manhood. Then one finger 
lightly pokes at the tip where the urethrum is. I'm 
definitely seeping precum now; I can feel the moisture 
wetting his finger. He gently wipes the fluid all over 
the head of my penis, which only adds to my lust.

I'm no longer relaxed into a puddle of bliss. Instead, 
my muscles are tensed with excitement as I control my 
impulse to thrust demandingly into his hand -- a wholly 
pleasurable tension.

His gentle, clever fingers rub the moisture all over my 
cock, lubricating it, reminding me of my own excitement 
and need, and my hips and buttocks flex and relax, flex 
and relax, as he works. It's clear he's taken lessons 
from Leona about my turn-ons; she does this to me 
often. I can grit my teeth and refuse to cry out or beg 
under the lash, I can stare defiantly back into her 
eyes and refuse to safeword when it's pain that's in 
question, but that weeping cocktip that shows my 
passion is something I can neither control or hide, 
reminding me of how much I need this.

He teases my penis, sliding one finger up and down it, 
tickling it, using one fingertip to rub the spot 
underneath where the glans joins the shaft. My cock 
gets harder and harder, and I'm squirming now in 
earnest, unable to hold back the gasps, the occasional 
growl-moans of need that come more and more frequently. 
Now I really am thrusting into his hands in earnest, 
and he doesn't correct me but simply lets me do it.

Dear gods, will I be allowed to come? Or will I simply 
be left dripping and squirming, reminded that he, too, 
can leave me in need, helpless prey to my own 
unsatisfied lust?

In the end, it's the latter. Just before the point of 
no return, his hands leave me. I squirm and thrust 
mindlessly, but of course it's no use. I grit my teeth 
against the useless pleas I want to voice, but I can't 
hold back a whimper of frustration. I must be giving 
both of them a delightful show.

Sure enough, I hear Leona's chuckle, answered by 
Bruce's, as they watch me writhe.

Slowly, slowly, my urgency ebbs. As it does, I manage 
to get control of my gasping, my helpless squirming, 
and open my eyes to look at them.

Bruce has sat back, but he's still watching me, a smile 
on his face -- a smile of approval. I turn my head to 
look at Leona, still in her chair, and there's a smile 
on her lips, too -- pretty much the same expression. 
They're both pleased with me.

"He would have come if you'd kept that up," Leona says.

"Oh, he wanted to!" Bruce answers, laughing.

"He sure did!"

Bruce's attention returns to me.

"I know you liked that," he tells me. "But you won't 
come for the next few days until I'm satisfied with 
your performance. And believe me, I have high 
standards. You're going to learn to please another man, 
and you're going to become great at it."

Then he reaches out and pats my thigh. "But for now, I 
think we're going to get along just fine, James," he 
says, turning the pat into a fondle of my knee.



Direct comments and criticism to: 
maureen_lcn@yahoo.com. The URL to the author's Website 
may be found in the Author's Notes above.

|--------------------------|
|   Do I *look* worried?   |
|--------------------------|

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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