Page 46 of João
the scene
JOÃO
How would I describe the perfect week?
I sat at my kitchen table as Gisele moved around in her satin robe and apron, fixing us some breakfast. The sweet aroma of caramelized sugar and cinnamon surrounded me, lifting me in a fog of happiness I hadn’t experienced in a long time. Her humming and her joy kept me anchored in the room while my mind traveled.
If someone would have asked me that question before my father died, I would have said the week that I got word of his death. Somehow I hadn’t realized how much I was holding onto the deep-seated contempt I had for the man that sired me. Now, of course, that was the practical side of me speaking; if I’d asked the sentimental side what would be the perfect week? The reality was that I hadn’t given myself the permission to dream that far. The issue of being a realist was understanding my tendencies and proclivities. I was a nasty man with nasty needs and I recognized that love might never visit my door.
Then I met Gisele, and suddenly that romantic, sentimental side of me started awakening from a deep slumber. I didn’trecognize that shit at first. Instead I focused on my stubbornness and determination to court her until she put her foot down and explained what she wanted from me. And for the first time in many years, I made a choice based on pure instinct and no rationality.
This past week with Gisele in my home had shown a side of me I thought I could never explore. From the day she greeted me at the door, our routine took on another tone and shade. Every morning, she would wake up and bring me coffee in my room, standing with her hard nipples begging to be touched under the lace lingerie I’d gifted her for sleeping in. Fuck, I wanted to suckle her until she begged for my name, her pussy dripping between my fingers, her clit engorged and urgent for my touch.
“Good morning, Master, did you sleep well?” Her raspy morning voice would brick me up if I wasn’t already hard, but this was far from only sexual, at least on my part. Letting her approach me, she’d present the coffee, then stand next to me as I told her what I had in store for my day and she shared what she had in hers. Her hands were always behind her, one of the poses I taught her, her smile radiant and ready for whatever the day brought.
“Go lay out three outfits for me to choose for you, and pick what you want me to wear today.” My instructions, as simple as they were, always brought an extra shine to her gaze, her thick lips pursing as she considered what to select for both her and me. In her lingerie under her satin robe, she would wait to be dismissed, the sweet swaying of her hips encouraging the fabric clinging to her ass. By that point, all I needed was to step into my steaming shower and caress my length at the thought of how deeply she’d receive me in her mouth, a poor substitute for the real thing just next door.
I’d had subs I never had sex with. I had bottoms I only had sex with during short scenes. With Gisele, I wanted it all. Greed,plain and simple. I wanted what she wasn’t willing to give, but I received every morsel of what she gifted me. With sure strokes, my hand glided along my dick, my balls heavy, the hot water tempering my hunger. Steam surrounded me, the air heavy in my lungs as my breath quickened until the inevitable image of Gisele in her own room, touching herself at the thought of me catapulted me right toward the end. Slightly lightheaded and muscles languid, I exited the shower, making my way to my room to find my outfit laid out perfectly on the bed for me to wear.
Every day started like that and continued with touching bases, instructions, and rituals.
Master, I’m about to sit down to eat.
The text arrived promptly at 12:00 p.m.
Okay, boa menina, you know what to do.
A picture of her plate with her bright smile and a hint of her cleavage was enough to erase any lingering stress in my day.
Through the week the instructions and the tasks evolved. The hunger gnawing for her skin, for her taste, for her scent started driving me away from the well-constructed rules I had created for myself as a Dom.
The nasty, filthy, greedy side of myself started to take over, an inevitable evolution.
First, I told her to send me pictures of her panties whenever she got wet thinking of me.
That Wednesday, the first picture arrived at 9:45 a.m. In the middle of a meeting with the Club’s accountant, my phone chimed, the invisible ink image sparkling on my screen.
“Thompson, let’s continue this next week. The numbers are all looking solid for the month.”
Thompson, my accountant and a member of the Club, nodded, his silent exit from my office timed perfectly to avoid him seeing me desperately rubbing my phone as if I was in the corner store with a bunch of scratch-offs.
My heart pounded as my fingers touched the cold screen, uncovering the red cotton panties I had picked for Gisele today glistening with her cream, her thick chocolate thighs framing the perfect image.
Fuck! I could smell that fucking picture. Her cream probably tasted just like she smelled, earth and sunshine. Abundance and lushness. My mouth watered and before I knew it, my dick was out of my pants and cum splattered on my screen.
Lightheaded again.
The whole week, fucking lightheaded, all because of Gisele. We escalated the sexual side of our arrangement without ever touching each other. Our chat was filled with pictures of her cleavage at work with a brown are?ola peeking, her soaked panties in different creative arrangements, images of my print whenever she was a good damn girl and followed all my instructions. Sweet nothings all masked as instructions or, in her case, service.
I’d never been as high in all my life as I felt this week.
By Saturday, something had to give.
“Master, I was wondering if I can masturbate and come today?”
Gisele’s question startled me from my thoughts as we sat in front of each other at my kitchen table having French toast, bacon, and berries.
“No.” There was no thought behind my answer, just a gnawing hunger to possess every one of her orgasms. My stomach knotted at the thought of not being part of her pleasure. Pressure started to build in the middle of my chest and I couldn’t see straight. Simple, primal emotions had such a fucking hold onme, I couldn’t even think of a creative way to channel both of our frustrations.
