You Spoil Me

‘Sorry,’ you say, looking up, and as he wipes his messy hair out of his face, you see who it is.

It is the him, the beautiful young man from over the road. The one I have a little crush on. The one I’ve been going on about. Neither of us know his name, so we refer to him using the number of his house: we call him Number Eight. And it’s Number eight you’ve just collided with.

And it’s such a coincidence, because only last night I’d persuaded you that Number Eight should be the star of one of your particularly dirty ‘stories’. Your beautiful stories: the whispered filth that you breathe into my ear in the dark. It’s one of my favourite things about you darling, the way you bring my fantasies to life in every way you can, even when all I want is the words. The way you happily talk about whoever I want and in whatever scenario I want. You’re never jealous. Why would you be? You know that some little cutie I spy in the street or on television could never be any real competition. Of course not, you’re the one, and you know it.

After a little probing last night, checking out what I was in the mood for, you had invented a fantasy for me.

Your story featured me as an evil seductress and kidnapper, one of my favourite roles. I had pulled up in my car next to Number Eight as he walked home. You had described in exquisite detail his dark fuzzy hair, thin little student body, cute squashy nose and dark heavy brows. He had been wearing tight faded denim, tight on his arse, one of the first things that had attracted me to the beautiful Number Eight.

Under the pretext of asking him for directions I had persuaded him into my car and whisked him away to a deserted and mysterious cabin in the woods.

Oh, that I had such a den in real life!

In your version of my fantasy I was ruthless, far more ruthless than I could ever be in reality. Perhaps, I’d wondered, this was a little of your own fantasy too. I had noticed how as I had got crueller, in the tale, you had got harder, pushing yourself against me in the dark as you breathlessly recounted the endless torments I had inflicted on poor abused Number Eight. For over a week I’d kept him prisoner in that cabin, blindfolded and helpless, tormented by a tight gag. You’d thrown it all in, from bondage: chains; collars and handcuffs, to torture and humiliation: beatings; starvation and at one point I’d hosed him down with cold water, just to make him even more uncomfortable. As you’d described me laughing as he squirmed in his chains trying to escape the dousing, while his begging for mercy was muffled by the cruel gag, I was fighting to hold off my orgasm, desperate to hear the end of the story. Finally, of course, he’d capitulated and agreed to become my sex slave, kneeling naked before me, bowing his head and vowing eternal devotion. As your tale had reached its climax, so had I, panting and crying out in the dark next to you, as you pulled me tightly into your arms.

I’d recovered and found you were squirming, rubbing yourself against my body, demonstrating that you had enjoyed the fantasy too, but were left hanging. And I’d reached over and found your hard cock with my hands. You had come too within a few moments of my well practised manipulations and I had rolled over to sleep, exhausted, leaving you to feel under the bed for your tissues and clean up before following me to dreamland.

And now, with the memory of last night still fresh in your mind, you feel a little ashamed to be looking the poor victim right in the face less than twenty four hours later.

‘Er,’ mutters Number Eight. He seems a little bit confused, bashful even. He raises a hand to the back of his head and rubs it.

‘Did you hit your head?’ you say, ‘let me have a look.’

Reaching up you brush his hair aside and feel the spot he was nursing on the back of his head. It seems fine, not even a bump. You smile and your eyes meet his.

It’s the first time either you or I have seen Number Eight at close quarters. Up until now he’s only ever been a glimpsed figure hurrying in and out of the tatty shared house, where he lived with a group of, what we assumed to be, fellow students. Now, as you look at Number Eight you realise a couple of things. Firstly, I’d always said I thought that Number Eight was about nineteen, maybe twenty, but close up you can see he’s a little bit older than that, more like twenty five.

Secondly, and rather more significantly, you realise something else about him. I’d always assumed Number Eight was straight, but looking at him now, so close to, in those too tight jeans and with that devastating little pouty mouth, and looking at the way he is looking at you, you’re not so sure.

And if that look in his eyes is what you think it is, who could blame Number Eight for being attracted to you? You are, as I am always telling you, a fantastically attractive man. In fact one of things I first noticed about Number Eight was the fact he looked rather like a younger version of you. Truth be told, it was that above all that attracted me to him. My type is so clear cut, I’ve always been attracted to men who look the way you do. You share his dark brows and thin elegant frame, although your nose is bigger and sharper and your similarly dark hair is close cropped, the way I like it, not shaggy and over long like his. In fact, as the two of you stand there, facing each other in the darkening street, your hand cradling the back of Number Eight’s head, you could almost be brothers.

So perhaps it is noble fraternal concern for your surrogate brother that drives you to invite him back to our flat for a while, so you can observe him and ensure he has suffered no serious damage. Perhaps.

‘I live just across the street,’ you say, pointing to our front door.

‘I know,’ Number Eight whispers rather shyly, ‘I’ve seen you around.’


In the flat you make some tea and small talk and then lead Number Eight into your small study to sit down.

It’s a bit of a mess as usual and you have to move a pile of papers and books off the battered sofa so he can sit down. You sit at your desk, balancing your cup of tea on top of a pile of books about film and filmmaking, swivelling the chair so you are facing him.

Now, with a plan forming in your mind, you look at Number Eight. He is not particularly attractive as far as you’re concerned, I guess you’re no narcissist, but you know how I feel about him and you know what I would like you to do. Yes, making my fantasies come to life has always been you’re speciality. And as well as in verbal form you’ve often taken things a step further and role played for me. You can be a wonderful actor with the right motivation and an appreciative audience, playing everything from a slutty street walking rent boy to a nervous ingénue. And now, here is an opportunity for you to play a part for me again. Taking Number Eight for me. Doing what I would like to do. Playing me.

I’m so lucky to have you, I know that. I never thought I’d find a man who understood me so well, who indulged me so completely and found pleasure in the same things I did, who found pleasure in my pleasure. When I told you how much I fancied a certain television presenter, or some bloke in my office, or, of course, the young man who lived at number eight you revelled in the knowledge, turning it to your advantage. You loved to encourage me to tell you exactly what I’d like to do with my latest object of desire, giving you plenty of material to draw on when, late at night, you’d recount the stories back to me, delighting in my obvious arousal.

You never blanched when the fantasies I shared featured you either. Frequently you were the kidnap victim, the object of my dominating desires.

Together we’d always experimented. I loved to tie you up and watch you struggle for me. I bought leather straps to bind you comfortably and safely for hours. One day you had come home with a short black crop and that was when I discovered how much you loved pain. A true masochist the pain got you hard and I loved it. Our toy collection had grown from there.

Tying you up will always remain one of my greatest pleasures. I love to see men helpless and struggling, especially when their helplessness turns them on. When they’re hard and moaning with frustrated desire. There’s something beautiful about the way a submissive man is more enslaved by his own sexuality than by my control. And there is no doubt that you are a submissive my darling. Pleasing me takes precedence over everything.

Truly nothing shocked you when it came to my darkest secrets. So I hadn’t thought twice when I’d told you how much it excited me to think of two men together, taking each other roughly, making nasty love, bondage, beating, everything I enjoyed but darker and nastier because it was between men. And I’d told you how I liked to think of you as one of those men. Sometimes the top, sometimes them bottom.

I would tell you how I’d like to hire one of the studs that advertise in the back of gay free sheets. Pick out one of those adverts that consisted of nothing more than a name a number and a photo of a torso and an erection. Rent a stud and watch him take you. You’d be tied down, gagged and blindfolded with no idea. No escape either and knowing I was watching, you’d enjoy submitting to this strange man, whose face you’d never see.

I’d tell you these things and you’d just smile and ask for more details, revelling in being party to the darkest parts of my sexuality.

I suppose you’ve probably wondered if I’d ever really go through with it. Of course I’d ask for your consent. Of course you’d give it.

Often too, of course, I would fantasise about you and my latest crush together. You knew this. And so here you are and it falls into place. You’re in your study in an empty flat, with exactly such a crush object, Number Eight, who’s clearly pretty keen on you. Of course you hit upon a plan to make one of your stories, not the one from last night but another favourite of mine, come true. In the most intense way you can. You’re priority is to please me, so you can hardly do anything else. You spoil me darling, you really do.

So, after chatting for a while about your job and his, the area, the other people in the street, the poor range of stock in the corner shop, you drain your cup and move from your armchair onto the sofa next to him smiling softly as he gives you a questioning look. A moment or two after that you place your hand softly on his leg, just above the knee. He stops what he’s saying and looks up at you when you do this then glances down biting his lip shyly for a moment before trying to continue his sentence. After a few words though he falters and tails off, staring at your hand on his leg.

To break the silence you say something, asking him lightly about the others who live in his house and he, relieved by the distraction, starts to tell you something about his eccentric landlady and her three over indulged cats, all the while your hand still rests on his leg. In your mind you are carefully planning your next move, meaning that when he pauses you haven’t been listening. So, instead of replying to his question, you pretend to check where he hit his head again, and you reach up and stroke his hair. He responds with a sigh of unmistakeable desire and that’s all the sanction you need.

This is the moment when you decide to go for it. You take hold of a handful of his hair to keep his head still, lean forward and kiss him very slowly. You are quite shocked when he struggles a little, pulling his mouth away and whispering ‘No,’ but then gasping with pleasure as you yank at his hair to pull his mouth back to yours. You slide your other hand up his leg and grasp his crotch. Through his jeans you can feel he is slightly hard and you force your tongue roughly into his mouth. He gets harder. But despite his obvious enjoyment he is still squirming around as if he’s putting up a fight. You pull away from his mouth and look at him, confused.

‘Make me,’ he says very gently, ‘force me, please. I need it this way.’ He shivers a little, clearly turned on by asking for what he wants.

You smile. Even better.

Grabbing his whole jaw in one hand, with the other still tangled in his hair, you pull his mouth back onto your own, roughly. He struggles and murmurs, ‘Please, don’t.’ But he doesn’t try and fight you at all.

You pin him right where you want him, pushing him back against the sofa. Then you swing one leg over his lap and straddle him. Crashing your mouth against his you kiss him so hard he can barely breathe. Relishing the taste of him, as you force your tongue in deep, your own cock begins to stir as you grind it against his own desperate erection.

Sitting back a little, but keeping one hand firmly in his hair and sliding the other between his legs to grip his cock, you look at him. You can tell he is turned on, although trying to stay in control. His lips and slightly parted and he is breathing hard. His cheeks are flushed red and you can feel his cock growing harder all the time under your fingers.

‘You dirty little bitch,’ you hiss at him, making him flinch and squirm. ‘You want it don’t you?’


You tighten your fingers painfully in his hair and raising your hand from his crotch, slap him hard round the face. ‘Don’t you?’ you snap.

He lowers his head submissively and looks up shyly at you. ’Yes,’ he says, very softly, ‘yes I do, use me, please. Please, sir’

You smile and feel your own cock growing harder at his submissive posturing. It’s quite strange, you wonder to yourself, you really didn’t expect to enjoy this so much.

After a short moment you let go of him and snarl softly, ‘Strip, now, and make me want to give it to you.’

You slide off Number Eight’s lap and he stands, turning to face you, only a few feet away in the tiny room. He keeps his head lowered in deference, but holds eye contact with you all the time.

Slowly, carefully, and rather seductively, he pulls his loose fitting top over his head. His chest is thin and pale, with a little dark hair on it and his smallish nipples are bright pink and tightly erect. He looks vulnerable and scared standing there topless and it turns you on. You can’t help start to tease your own cock through your trousers, getting it hard, getting it ready. Ready for him.

The boy pauses, his hands on the waistband of his jeans. He is staring at you rubbing your cock and seems to be frozen. You wait a moment or two. He still doesn’t move.

‘Come on,’ you saw, keeping your voice low, but still sounding threatening, ‘get them off, slut.’

‘Please,’ he says, ‘please, don’t make me do it myself. I can’t’

‘Do I have to come and tear them off you myself?’

The boy doesn’t answer, but he still doesn’t move, except to tremble slightly. He looks so scared and it’s so beautiful. You are sure he’s done this before. He knows just how to play little boy lost. It’s a role you’ve played for me so many times and he, like you, has got it down beautifully. He even knows just how to tilt his head and look shyly through is hair at you, just to look all the more vulnerable and helpless. The only thing that gives him away being the unmistakable bulge of his straining cock. You realise how much this boy needs to be put in bondage and punished. You realise how much you want to do it.

‘Okay,’ you say, suddenly softer, ‘come here.’

The boy walks towards you and you urge him closer and closer until he is standing between your knees.

‘Put your hands on your head,’ you say, and he does so, instantly appearing more vulnerable once his hands are out of the way.

Reaching out and placing your hands on his hips, you can feel now that he is still shaking slightly. He really is amazing, you muse to yourself. I really do know how to pick them.

Slowly, savouring the moment you slide your hands along his waistband to the fly of his jeans and undo the button and then the zip. Holding your breath you slide the unfastened trousers and then his underpants down to the floor.

Still with his hands on his head, Number Eight glances down at his own, now very erect, cock. He’s so turned on that the head is adorned with little flecks of glistening wetness. He flashes you a shy grin before lowering his head again, in submission. Reaching out, you grasp his cock and stroke it firmly from top to bottom. Then you scoop up a little of his wetness in you fingers you bring it to his lips. Pushing your fingers into his mouth you force him to taste himself. He closes his eyes and sucks eagerly on your fingers, almost as if he were sucking a little cock, cleaning of every last trace.

Withdrawing suddenly, you fix him with a stern look. ‘Get on your knees, you bitch.’

He suppresses a little moan and lowers himself down onto his knees between you legs. His face is now a little lower than yours and you touch his cheek, smiling.

‘Turn around,’ you whisper.

The naked Number Eight shuffles around on his knees until he has his back to you and then you use your hands on both his shoulders to push him down onto the floor. His arse is right in front of you now. It’s pale and rounded, flawless. You remember how much I love your arse, how I love to touch and caress it and you reach out. He moans as you begin to caress him, gently at first and then more and more roughly.

You slowly run your fingers up and down, occasionally giving him a twisting little pinch or a light slap. You run a finger along the crevice and find the little warm bud of his arsehole. Still with just one finger you start to tease that soft little mouth until it opens up greedily and you push inside him.

You can hear him panting hard. You slide your free hand between his legs and find his cock, which you stroke lightly, while you continue you fucking him with one finger.

You continue this teasing until both of you are very hard. You’d love to fuck him right now, but it’s too soon, there’s so much you want to do to him before you come. He gasps and whimpers when you let go of his cock and pull out of him.

‘Get over that table,’ you say, in a low matter of fact tone.

He looks at you with a timid expression for a moment but obeys quickly, spreading himself face down across the low coffee table and reaching down to hold onto the legs.

Most of my bondage toys are kept in the bedroom, but not all of them. Luckily for you, because you’d hate to have leave the room now to get equipment, there is a small bag of spare ropes and less favourite toys stashed out of the way on one of your study shelves. You stand up and pull the bag down from the shelf. A quick inspection of it’s contents reveals some rope, a small table tennis bat shaped paddle, condom and lubricant and a pair of rather nasty silver nipple clamps. To begin with you pull out four lengths of rope.

He catches his breath as you begin to tie his wrists in place. Once you are satisfied that they are secure you move round and tie his knees to the other two legs, fixing him in place on his knees. To your delight he squirms a little in his bondage, testing the restraints, but you know your business and he’s held fast.

He seems to enjoy his new predicament, along with his struggling, he is grinding his hips, pushing his cock into the table. Well, you’ll soon put a stop to that.

You pull your belt from its loops. He hears the sound and quivers. Doubling up the belt you draw it through your fingers and pause, making him wait.

The first time you hit him gently, checking your aim, but soon you build up some force and begin to lash his arse, hard, panting as you see bright marks come up. He squeals and makes to try and move away but the ropes keep him in place. As the beating goes on and he struggles and yells, you find yourself wishing there’d been a gag in that bag.

You continue until you are desperate to come and he is yelling in earnest on each stroke. He starts to beg for mercy through his screams of pain.

‘Please, please sir, no more, please.’

That piece of begging turns you on more than anything. You have to have him right now. Kneeling behind him you slide on a condom and push a finger into him again. He’s even more open and ready than before, clearly he has enjoyed his bondage and beating. You remove your finger briefly and squeeze some lubricant into him, replacing the finger to work it inside him. He knows what’s coming and begins to writhe eagerly, bucking against your finger. When you replace your finger with your hard cock he moans out loud.

‘Oh yes master, please, fuck me please.’ You glide in and out, already close to climax from watching the arse you are now taking turn pink under your belt. Spurred on by his begging, you come quickly, thrusting hard and deep into him.

You slump back onto the sofa exhausted. He turns his head to look at you, still tied in position, now covered in red lash marks and splashes of your come. You smile at him and spend a long moment enjoying the view. You are aware, though, of Number Eight’s own frustrated arousal and after a brief respite you stand up and free him from his bonds. He stays where he is, waiting for permission to move, as you settle back down.

‘Come here,’ you whisper.

The naked young man stands up and makes his way over to the sofa. Again he stands between you legs, head down submissively. His cock is bright red and desperately hard. You pull him onto your lap and cradle him in your arms. ‘We’d better sort this out hadn’t we,’ you purr in his ear. You grasp his cock and slowly begin to move your hand up and down, starting with soft teasing strokes and then building up a firm rhythm that has him wriggling and gasping.

‘Please sir,’ he gasps desperately, ‘please may I have permission to come sir?’

‘Wait for it, bitch,’ you hiss and in response he moans. A sound both of frustration and desire.

You keep teasing him, keeping him right on the brink of orgasm, while he squirms and writhes.

Eventually you say, ‘Okay slut, come, now.’

Instantly he comes into your hands.

When he opens his eyes you hold your fingers up to his mouth for him to lick clean.

Later, after he has shyly thanked you and left, you check the camera. By the time I arrive home you are in bed, fast asleep. I am disappointed until I see the post-it note on the video recorder, which says ‘PLAY’.

wicked 10From The Best of Wicked Words
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