My angel was taking me to the darker side, introducing me to new sensations and passions, higher levels of arousal than I had ever known before in my heretofore vanilla sex life. He was an addiction, a dangerous habit to feed, I fully realized, and I had come back to his den willingly, wanting to know what more there was, what new heights my passion could reach. My head kept saying no or at least go slow, but my body yearned for his touch, for his domination, for reaching new heights of body awareness and pleasure under his guidance.

I had returned voluntarily to his basement room, as he knew I would. My hands were handcuffed to the brass headboard welded to the wall, and I was kneeling, facing the wall, on a stained mattress. We were beyond the spankings and light lashings that had made my tender ass, inner thighs, and cock and balls red, swollen, and ultrasensitive to the touch. We were even beyond the soothing and arousing attention his lips and tongue had paid to my swollen thighs, tender kissings that had crescendoed to bitings that had me screaming for mercy, and then to the rimming and invasion of my asshole with his searching tongue with its tantalizing knobbed stud.

We were now on to a new phase. He knelt between my thighs, very close into me now, the studs of the leather harness criss-crossing his bulging chest rubbing against my shoulder blades, his rock-hard cock, with its Prince Albert pierced head ring rubbing between my swollen thighs. He had one hand firmly palmed on my lower belly, holding my ass into his pelvis, and he held a purple silicone ribbed and nubbed dildo in his other hand, pressing it between my lips. I took it in as I would have willingly taken in his cock—as I, indeed, already had taken in his cock before I'd been handcuffed to the wall—and I made love to it as I knew he wanted me to, taking in its measure, knowing that it soon would be working its thick eight inches or more into my puckered hole.

The dark angel was humming. He had done this before when he was engrossed in what he was doing and when, it seemed, that he was being especially aroused by the activity. I had learned in our earlier session that this marked his being in a zone of his own while he worked my body. And, as long as he was humming, it made no difference what I might feel or want—he was going to pursue what he felt and he wanted.

He pulled the moistened dildo from between my lips and sat back on his haunches briefly, lathering the tool up with lube, all the time telling me how nice my body was and how he was going to play me like a violin. No, he said, not like a violin. That was too refined. He was going to work me like a factory machine, roughly and strongly, one that worked with a punching rod, pistoning the rod inside it endlessly and forcefully. I moaned at the image he was providing and longed for him to cover me once again, to hold me close and dominate me.

And then he was covering me again, and I felt the bulbous-capped end of the silicone dildo against my throbbing asshole. He told me not to hold back in voicing my responses, which he hardly needed to have done, because I lurched and arched my