This is the second in a two part series about Ingrid and Tanner, if you are just getting started with this story begin at Part 1.
I woke up slowly, the golden New York sunlight filtering through the sheer curtains and painting stripes across the duvet. I stayed still for a long time, just breathing, watching Tanner sleep. He looked so peaceful, so soft. I love him, I truly do—he is my rock, my provider, the man who ensures my life is as luxurious as my wardrobe. But as I traced the line of his jaw with my eyes, I felt that familiar, nagging itch. Something was lacking. There was a void in our dynamic that hadn’t been quite filled yet, a missing piece of the puzzle that I needed to uncover. I wanted to get to the bottom of it, to find the exact frequency that would make my power over him resonate perfectly.
Tanner’s eyes fluttered open. He caught me staring, but I didn’t blink. I didn’t smile or offer a morning greeting. I simply kept my gaze locked on his, letting him feel the weight of my scrutiny. He smiled, that eager, hopeful smile of a man who knows he is completely owned, and reached an arm over to pull me closer.
I didn’t lean in. Instead, I reached down beneath the covers. My fingers closed around his penis, gripping it firm and unmoving. He began to grind his hips, a reflexive search for pleasure, but I held him steady. I squeezed just enough to remind him who was in control of his arousal. It was a power move, a silent assertion of dominance that he had become all too familiar with, and I could feel his heart rate pick up against the mattress.
“Are you awake enough for a little fun, darling?” I purred, my accent thickening as I felt the thrill of his submission. “I’ve been awake for some time, just lazily enjoying the sun… and thinking about you.”
I released him abruptly and sat up, the sheets sliding down my body. I stood and stretched, feeling the suppleness of my muscles, knowing he was watching every curve. I paused by the nightstand and pointed a manicured finger at the delicate porcelain teacup—the same one from the day before, still sitting there like a trophy of his inadequacy.
“I’m going to go make some espresso,” I told him, my voice cool and commanding. “Fill it up. Drain your useless little balls for me. I want it brimming by the time I return.”
I didn’t wait for an answer. I walked out of the room, the click of my heels on the hardwood echoing the finality of the order. As I stepped into the kitchen, I could almost picture him—the frantic, desperate way he would start tugging at himself, the mix of shame and arousal that fueled him.
Back in the bedroom, Tanner was already working. He gasped, his breath hitching as he looked over at my dildo lying on the other nightstand. He remembered the last time he had worn it in the harness, the way I had commanded him to drive it into me, the sheer intensity of the role reversal. To him, I wasn’t just his wife; I was his ultimate sexual fantasy, the goddess who allowed him the privilege of serving her.
As the orgasm built, he scrambled for the teacup, his movements clumsy and hurried. He lined the rim up with the tip of his penis just in time. One, two, three. He spurted into the porcelain, the first few bursts strong and thick, but the final one was nothing more than a pathetic trickle that ran down the head of his penis. He collapsed back onto the pillows, chest heaving, waiting in the silence for his bride to return.
I entered the room several minutes later, the rich aroma of espresso trailing behind me. I stopped at the edge of the bed and looked down. There he was: a bead of sweat on his brow, looking utterly spent, and the little teacup filled with his cum.
“Good boy,” I whispered, a cruel, satisfied smile playing on my lips.
I set my coffee down and stepped out of my robe. I didn’t want the harness today. I didn’t want the artifice of the strap-on. I wanted something more raw, more direct.
“Now, I want you to fuck me with my dildo,” I commanded. “Something that can actually please me. But I don’t want you to strap it on. Just kneel before me and please me with it.”
Tanner scrambled off the bed, dropping to his knees on the floor. He reached for the silicone length, his hands trembling slightly. I leaned back against the bed, opening my legs for him. He gripped the dildo and began to slide it into me, his eyes wide and focused on my face. He thrust with a desperate intensity, trying to prove his worth through the tool I had provided. I felt the aptly sized head hitting the back of my cervix, and I let out a sharp moan, my back arching off the mattress. The sensation was electric, the power of the moment amplifying the physical pleasure. I came in several violent waves, my muscles clamping down on the plastic as I shuddered under his efforts.
“God, that was good,” I panted, my voice breathy and spent. “Thank you for pleasing me.”
But then, the missing piece clicked into place. The physical release was wonderful, but it wasn’t enough. I needed the ritual. I needed the devotion. I wanted to feel truly loved and adored, and for me, that love was expressed through the art of the cleanup.
“Now,” I whispered, my voice dropping to a sultry, demanding tone. “I want to feel cared for. Pour your little teacup over my pussy. I want your cummies all over me.”
Tanner reached for the cup, his expression one of absolute devotion. He carefully tilted the porcelain, pouring the warm, viscous fluid over my clitoris and labia. I gasped as the warmth hit my sensitive skin, the smell of his essence filling the air. It felt intimate, a branding of sorts, marking me with the remnants of his failure and his desire.
“And now,” I commanded, “I want you to clean my messy pussy with your tongue. Every single drop.”
He didn’t hesitate. He knelt between my thighs, his face diving forward. He began to lap at me, his tongue sweeping across my folds, licking up his own juices mixed with my cream. The sensation was intoxicating. The control of the situation—the fact that he was cleaning up the mess he had made, serving me in the most primal way possible—was more arousing than the sex itself.
I tried to hold it back, to savor the slow, rhythmic motion of his tongue, but the intensity was too much. I arched my back again, my fingers digging into the duvet, and I spiraled into a second, even more powerful orgasm. The combination of his tongue and the feeling of his cum being reclaimed by him was beautiful. I felt completely seen, completely worshipped, and utterly dominant.
As the afterglow settled, I felt a sudden wave of tenderness. I reached down and stroked his hair, pulling him up toward me.
“Come here, Tanner. Cuddle me,” I murmured.
He climbed onto the bed, sliding his body against mine. I could feel him—his penis was throbbing, hard and insistent against the small of my back. He was still aroused, still wanting, still hoping for a piece of me that he couldn’t have.
I felt the poke of his erection and sighed, a small, knowing smile on my face. I motioned toward the bedside table, where the small, black plastic device waited.
“Stop poking me, darling,” I whispered in his ear. “Put on your little chastity cage.”
I listened intently as he moved, the sound of the plastic sliding over his skin, and then—click. The sound of the lock engaging was the most satisfying noise in the world. It was the period at the end of the sentence.
Tanner leaned into me, his breath warm against my neck, his arousal now subdued and trapped. I closed my eyes, feeling perfectly content, knowing that he was exactly where he belonged.
