In His Hands, English

We’ve been seeing each other for almost two years now. Regularly, each encounter growing more intense. And these past few months... the desire between us has only deepened. The game, the tension, the connection — it seems to pull me in further every time.

This time, he booked a room for us. The night before, he sent me the location. “Secret room,” his message said. Just those two words were enough to set my imagination on fire. I felt the craving bubble up inside me, that sweet ache of curiosity mixed with the certainty that he would surprise me again, push me to new limits.

When I arrived the next evening, tucked away on an isolated industrial site, he wasn’t there yet. He told me to go in ahead of him. My heart was racing as I stepped inside.

The room he had chosen wasn’t just another hotel room. This one was chic, sensuous... soft ambient lighting, an oversized bed, mirrors on the walls. Everything in the space oozed eroticism, as if the room could already feel the tension between us.

And then my eyes landed on the swing.
Wow.

A wide smile crept across my face. I had wanted to try that for so long, secretly hoping that someday he would be the one to introduce me to it. And with J, my Master, I knew it would be perfect.

He’s the one who reads my body and my boundaries so effortlessly, always holding control. From the very first moment, I knew I could trust him completely. With him, surrender never feels like something I must do — but something I get to do. He always builds it up, step by step, and every time it amazes me how much my body can handle, how deeply I can go, and how freeing it feels to let myself fall entirely under his spell.

When he finally walks into the room, a wide smile spreads across both our faces. That pure, honest joy of seeing each other again. For a moment, the world outside doesn't exist — only us, and the desire immediately vibrating between us.

And God, how I want him. He always looks so impeccable, as if every detail of his appearance has been chosen with care. His style is refined, his shirt perfectly fitted, his trousers sharp, his shoes polished to understated perfection. Everything about him radiates taste, control — without ever feeling forced. His posture, his presence... he knows exactly how to ignite my desire without saying a word.

And still... sometimes, when he speaks, that little edge slips through. That rawness. That subtle hint of 'street' lurking just beneath his polished exterior. His voice drops lower, his words roughen slightly — and I know he’s doing it on purpose. He knows how much that contrast drives me insane. The mix of class and raw, pure masculinity.

He moves closer, saying nothing. As always, his first touch is a kiss — intense, deep, hungry. Our tongues meet, sliding and searching, the hunger growing between us. He kisses me like it’s the very first time, like he wants to devour me.

His hands wander across my body, exploring me, claiming me, admiring every inch. Then his hands guide me to the swing. My clothes disappear quickly, and before I know it, I’m hanging there — naked, fully exposed, completely surrendered.

Mirrors surround me, capturing every detail, every angle, every breath.
And he... he stands there. Watching. Studying me slowly, thoroughly, as if he’s memorizing every piece of me.

His eyes tell me everything — how deeply he craves my body, how he wants to own it, control it. His gaze alone, his calm presence, already pull me to the edge before his hands have even touched me.

And this... this is only the beginning of an unforgettable experience.

There I am. My naked body resting in the swing, the straps pressing against my skin, my legs slightly parted, my breath unsteady with anticipation. My cheeks flushed, my heart pounding. He remains still. Saying nothing. Doing nothing. Just watching.

And that... drives me insane.

Every second he observes me like this, my desire swells. He knows me. He knows exactly what this silence does to me, how it makes my body pulse with raw, unfiltered hunger. My fingers twitch, searching for something to hold onto, my muscles tense involuntarily — my whole being is burning for him, and he hasn’t even laid a hand on me yet.

Finally, I feel his fingertips. Slowly gliding over my stomach, over my breasts, down my thighs. He touches me with the calm certainty only he possesses. It’s not just touch — it’s possession. Every inch of me, his.

My head falls back, eyes fluttering closed, the tension rising inside me. He lets me wait. He plays with me. Like always. And I wouldn’t want it any other way.

He lifts my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. That look — those deep, dark eyes filled with both power and tenderness.

"Look at yourself," he whispers.

His hand moves to my neck, and with his other hand, he turns my head toward the mirror. I see myself: spread wide, naked, vulnerable, aroused. My breath quickens as I watch his hand slowly move down, disappearing between my legs.

My body is no longer mine. I hear only his voice. I feel only his touch. My Master knows exactly how far he can push me, exactly when to hold me and when to let me fall.

Time seems to dissolve. My mind fades away, and my body takes over. Moaning, trembling, I surrender fully to him — open, hungry, knowing this is only the beginning. He sets the pace. And I give myself to him.

His fingers slowly slip away from me, just at the moment my body aches for more. He leaves me hanging there — open, trembling — while he calmly walks to his bag. The sound of the zipper sliding open fills the room, and my heart starts pounding even faster.

When he returns, his hand holds a selection of whips. He shows them to me, one by one. Slowly. As if I need to absorb their presence, feel them in my mind before they even touch my skin.

"Tonight, you are completely mine," he whispers softly, close to my ear. "And I’m going to make sure you feel exactly what that means."

The first strike is soft, almost affectionate. But he quickly builds it up. My skin starts to glow with warmth, my ass turning redder with every hit, my breathing ragged, my whole body shivering under his precise rhythm. Each time the tips of the whip kiss my skin, I feel myself sinking deeper into submission.

Suddenly, he stops. He lays the whips aside, and his fingers find their way back between my legs.

This time with more strength, more determination.

His fingers slide in, slow but deliberate. One finger. Two. Three. My body welcomes him, greedy and soaked, as if it already knew he would take me entirely again.

I feel him stretching me, exploring and teasing my boundaries with every subtle move. His rhythm, his pressure — everything is exactly how my body craves it in that moment. He knows. He reads my reactions effortlessly, as if he knows me better than I know myself.

His fingers push deeper, dancing over that one sensitive spot, again and again. And I feel it building — that wave of tension, rising from deep within, spreading like fire through every muscle. My breath hitches, my back arches, and then... it overflows.

My body shudders, squirting with pure, raw release. My first orgasm pours out, uncontrollably, warm and overwhelming. His fingers stay inside me, holding me, letting me ride it out, knowing full well I’m far from done.

His pace slows, playing with the sensitivity lingering in me, until my breathing starts to settle. And just as I think I can catch a moment of peace, he begins again.

He knows exactly what he’s doing.
Over and over, he presses against that spot, pushing me to the edge, until I tilt my head back, crying out as another powerful wave crashes through me. My second orgasm explodes out of me, squirting hard, pulsing, releasing everything I’ve been holding.

Finally, his lips find mine. Calm, claiming. His hand resting on my thigh, a silent reminder that I belong to him. Completely.

My body still trembles, my breath heavy, my legs weak from the tension he’s just pulled from me. His fingers slowly slip out, giving me a moment to catch my breath, but his eyes never leave me — hungry, satisfied, and yet still full of unspoken desire.

His hand keeps exploring me, soft circles tracing along my sensitive skin. Even in my exhaustion, I can feel the familiar tension rebuilding deep inside me. My body remains open to him, wet and eager, even as my muscles still shiver from release.

Then, slowly, he pushes two fingers back inside me. No rush, just steady, purposeful. He lets me adjust, lets me feel the stretch as my body opens up for him, again. Two fingers become three. His fingers spread slightly, stretching me, testing me. His other hand rests on my stomach, his mouth close to my ear, whispering to me, telling me how proud he is, how beautiful I am, and how he wants me to fully let him in.

He builds the pressure, slowly and patiently, his fingers locked together, his hand pressing deeper against me. I feel the fullness, the stretch, the pressure rising with every soft push. My breath hitches, my muscles tighten, and for a moment I hold still, teetering on the edge of something entirely new.

His warmth is there, pressing against me. His hand, steady and strong, pushing, waiting, giving me space to open just that little bit more. My body yields, inch by inch, but then — it stops. Not yet. My body isn’t ready. He knows it, he feels it, and he accepts it. No judgment. No rush.

He slowly withdraws his fingers, his touch still tender, his presence wrapped around me like silk. This isn’t the end. Just a pause. And I know he will claim me fully — when the moment is right.

His voice lowers, calm but commanding.

"Tonight, you are mine. I’ll take you however and whenever I want. Especially your ass. Understand?"

I nod without thinking. My body burning with both desire and submission.

He grips me firmly, pressing me deeper into the swing. His body positions behind me, the thick, hard weight of his cock pressing against my tight opening. He doesn’t rush, he lets me feel every inch as he stretches me open — slowly at first, then fully inside.

And the moment he’s buried deep, his pace changes. No more tenderness, just raw need. His thrusts are rough, steady, claiming. My moans fill the room, echoing off the mirrors surrounding us, as wave after wave of surrender floods my senses.

When he’s had his fill of the swing, he lifts me effortlessly, my body limp in his arms, carried to the bed. He lays me down on my stomach, hands gripping my hips, and takes me again — deep, relentless. My ass still burning from the whip, his hands holding me firmly as he drives into me, harder, deeper, until all I can do is let go and drown in the feeling of him owning me.

And just when I think my body can’t take any more, he pulls me upright, bending me over the edge of the bed. He pushes back inside, fucking me hard, mercilessly, until I can barely remember where I end and he begins.

My body is his. Completely.
And he knows it.

For hours he uses me, again and again, until only he decides it’s enough.

When it’s finally over, I collapse against him, my body heavy, my skin still tingling with the afterglow of his touch. My muscles ache from giving, from receiving, from surrendering. I curl into him, my head resting on his chest, his hand stroking my back in slow, soft patterns.

Our heartbeats sync — his, steady and calm. Mine, slowly settling. Together. Wrapped in silence, words unnecessary.

A single tear escapes, sliding down my cheek. Not from pain, or sadness, but from the overwhelming intensity, from the deep release, from the safety I feel when I’m with him. He notices, of course. His hand never stops, his lips press a tender kiss onto my hair.

"You’re mine," he whispers. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Later, when my body finds strength again, he lifts me carefully, weightless in his arms. He carries me to the bathroom, where the warm water is already waiting. As I sink into the tub, every last trace of tension dissolves.

He joins me, his legs brushing against mine, his hands resting softly on my knees. Massaging. Reassuring. Without urgency.

We talk. About nothing in particular, and yet every word feels exactly right. No roles, no masks. Just us. Real.

Time blurs, the world outside doesn’t matter, not here. Not now. His arms, the water, his voice — all of it wraps around me like a cocoon.

When the water turns lukewarm, we climb out. Slowly. Silently. He dries me off, gently, his hands lingering on my skin as if he’s reluctant to let go of this moment.

We dress, both quiet, both still tangled in the afterglow. His hand strokes my back one last time before we step outside, the cool night air brushing against my face.

He leans in and presses one soft, lingering kiss onto my lips. No grand goodbyes. Just that look. The look that says everything.

And then, we turn, walking away from each other, back into the world.
Fulfilled. Exhausted.
And with a hunger that only grows stronger.