FROTTAGE Copyright Maureen Lycaon, April 2004. Permission is granted for normal Usenet propagation (but don't repost it, please; I can do that myself); to include it in the official Web archive for alt.sex.stories.moderated, as well as such Usenet archives as Google Groups; and to retain one hard copy and two electronic files for your own use. If you want your friends to see it, please don't email it to them; instead, direct them to my website so they can see my other stories (URL below). All other rights reserved under the Berne Convention. Charging viewers for access to this file is *expressly forbidden*. Warnings: if you shouldn't be reading this, don't. Author's notes: Another Morgan story. Not much to it -- just pure PWP spooge! As usual, all hail my wonderful betas, Tyellas and Ron. I live for feedback. Send it to: maureen_lcn@yahoo.com . You can find my archive of erotic stories at: http://members.vclart.net/Maureen/index2.html. Frottage By Maureen Lycaon I'd planned it all along, of course. Unlike my usual procedure, upon our return from the party, I had ordered Morgan *not* to take off any of his clothes -- not even his long, tan-colored raincoat. I had removed only my own coat, and my shoes. Then I'd kissed him and ordered him straight into the bedroom. Once there, I had firmly pushed him onto the bed to lie on his back in a rather odd position: ass on the very edge, legs spread and hanging down, with his feet resting on the floor. It couldn't be comfortable, being bent backward like that, but Morgan didn't protest. He seldom questioned me these days. We'd built up a lot of trust in the course of the past two years, and he had learned that he could obey me implicitly. The whole point of his tutelage under my hands had been for him to experience new things. This time, though, I meant to really throw him for a loop. I stood between his legs, looking down at his still-clothed body, and felt the thrill of ownership all over again. He lay there with his arms stretched out sideways, and I could see the tension there, the uncertainty, the discomfort. He was still wearing the cloth raincoat, though I'd permitted him to unbutton it. It had fallen half-open as he'd lain down, so that I could see some of his body: the hint of the collarbones and the flat belly underneath his shirt, and the tempting outline of his penis showing through the black dress pants, standing out clearly in his bent-backward position. His long, chocolate-brown hair spilled across the covers. I looked down at that strong-boned face, the full, sensual mouth with the short mustache that I loved to run one finger over during our lovemaking, those handsome green eyes, mingling trust and uncertainty as he looked up at me, still in my white blouse and black dress pants. I raised my right leg, so that my shin pressed gently against his groin as I stood there, and braced my foot on the mattress holder for balance. Slowly, suggestively, I rubbed my shin against his crotch, feeling the soft bulge of his penis underneath the cloth of my dress pants and his trousers. "Rub yourself against my leg," I told him. His brow creased as he struggled with what he'd just heard from his domme, not sure if he'd heard it right. Then he blinked. "I -- are you serious?" "I want to see you do it. Go on, do it. Hump my leg, just like a dog. Rub your crotch against me." Watching his eyes, I could see it click for him then: the humiliation. That wasn't all there was in it for me, of course. I did like making him come, and I liked finding new and unusual ways to do that -- and I just liked touching him, pure and simple. But right now, I wanted to give him a command and see him obey. I wanted him to give me his submission, and that the order embarrassed him would make that submission all the more valuable. What embarrassed him was the sheer bizarreness of the request. He probably associated this with creeps on a crowded bus, or drunken cads at parties -- or, indeed, wayward dogs. He couldn't forget those associations at a moment's notice, just because his mistress had given him an order. And he wouldn't even have the delight of seeing me naked. I could see the inner struggle reflected in his expression, and that it would take only one more command to resolve it. For a few delicious moments, I considered letting him overcome that shame on his own, so that I could enjoy the sight of that struggle . . . but in the end I took pity upon him. "Go on, do it," I repeated softly. His eyes closed in a moment of self-abnegation so beautiful that it sent a bolt of excitement through my clitoris. His face mirrored his shame, and his surrender to me. He sighed deeply. Then he began to move, rhythmically pushing his crotch against my leg. The cloth between our bodies rustled as he worked. After a short time, I felt his penis beginning to swell against my leg, warm and stiffening. I looked down. There was a bulge at the front of his trousers, all right. I wanted more than this, I realized. I wanted to feel more than the bulge of his cock against my leg -- I wanted to feel the heat of his excited body close to mine, be able to look closely into his face, to be nearer to him. "One moment," I half-whispered, and his movements ceased. He looked up at me curiously, lifting his eyebrows. "Scoot up a little." He did, lifting himself up on his elbows and pulling himself backward so that only his lower legs now dangled over the edge of the bed. I slid onto the bed to crouch over him on hands and knees, my legs straddling his hips, my hands braced on the bed under his arms. Moving slowly and carefully to keep my balance, supporting my weight on both hands and one knee, I lifted my other leg and moved it over his thigh. Then I pressed my knee in between his legs, so that his groin could rub against it. "Arms over your head," I whispered, slowly, languorously, and he complied. "And slow down, there's no need to hurry. We have all night to do this, nobody here but us . . ." I trailed off as he shivered with the reaction my words produced. His eyes searched mine, a question still in them: Why did I want him to do this? Was it merely to humiliate him and exact his obedience? For answer, I only lowered my head and kissed him softly on the lips. *You are beautiful when you come*, I tried to say with my own eyes. I lowered my knee to the bed for a moment, to rest my weight on it. Then I lifted one hand and stroked his cheek, feeling the warmth, the bristles of his short beard scrubbing gently against my palm. In answer, he rolled his head to one side, offering his cheek, eyes half-closed as he smiled, enjoying that gentle contact. I returned the smile. Lowering my hand to support myself, I raised my leg and pressed my knee against his clothed groin once more, silently bidding him to begin again. He did, pushing his crotch against my leg. His movements were still small, almost tentative, and I could sense his lingering unease at what he was doing. Gradually, as he lost his embarrassment and gained more confidence, his thrusts became more regular. His hips flexed and relaxed, flexed and relaxed, in little rhythmic motions. His handsome body undulated with more certainty as his arousal grew. Confusion and shame were ebbing away, leaving only the warm glow of submission. He made the soft purring sound I knew so well, his lips parting. I felt his heat, his stiffness against my leg, even through two layers of cloth. His warm, spicy masculine smell filled my nostrils, tinged now with the stronger musk of sweat. Was he enjoying my own smell this way? The sight of my clothed body looming above him, my breasts hanging down but confined by my blouse and bra, my face? No doubt my expression showed my affection -- and my delight in his submission. I began to move with him. We worked together now: me pressing my leg rhythmically against his groin, Morgan pumping his hips to the same rhythm. No hurry. No hurry at all. As he grew more aroused, his body undulated slowly underneath me, squirming with pleasure. Just watching it, feeling it, was a gorgeous turn-on, and I could feel my nipples stiffening, my crotch warming as I watched him. Finally, I could no longer resist the urge for more contact. I lowered myself until I was lying on top of him, face to face, my breasts pressing against his chest through the clothes, feeling those sensual movements, his penis flattened down and pressing against my thigh now. It must have hurt, having his erection flattened between our bodies like that, and yet his hips never stopped pumping. There was a certain special pleasure in this, our bodies rubbing against each other while barred from full contact by the layers of clothing. Something like frustration, made all the sharper by the little taboo of soiling clothes . . . it was unique. I kissed his half-open mouth. Even in his discomfort, he responded passionately. We kissed and we kissed. Even when he broke off and turned his head, eyes closed, breathing hard, I continued to bathe his face and neck with kisses, as the animal smell of his sweat filled my nostrils and my mouth tasted salty skin. He arched his back and shivered. With a little reluctance, I raised myself up to my knees, abandoning the sweet pleasure of full-body contact to look down and study the pronounced tent in his trousers. There were little darker spots in the fabric that hadn't been there before. I could feel my own vulva getting even warmer. Grinning, I reached down and slowly unbuttoned his fly. Then, with equal slowness, I pulled down the zipper, setting his swelling erection free. His breathing quickened as he looked up at me, again waiting to see what I would do. I moved my leg and pushed my knee against his crotch again -- but now his naked penis rubbed against the fabric of my dress pants. He gasped, face contorting. When he recovered, opening his eyes to look at me, I nodded once. Morgan resumed his motions, rubbing against me. Those green eyes closed, opened just a little so that I could see their glint underneath the lids, then closed completely again. There was more resolution to his movements now, less languor, as he worked to stimulate himself. His breathing came faster. I could feel the heat of his cock through the cloth of my pants; it was fiercely hard now, bobbing rigidly against my thigh. I toyed with the idea of driving him to orgasm then and there, making him spray his own clothing in his passion. It would be a nice humiliation. But there was a reason I always worked him naked -- I never wanted to be deprived of the sight of his handsome lean body flexing and writhing and thrusting in passion. "Stop," I whispered, and his mouth opened in half-protest as he struggled to obey. He clenched his fists as he forced himself to remain still. Those green eyes opened again and looked back at me, knowing my command had some reason, some motive. Slowly, I backed off of him and the bed, and stood, feeling a smile form on my lips. "Strip. I want you naked." He practically jumped to get off the bed, but I quickly put a hand on his chest to stop him. "Not such a hurry. Do as much as you can while you're there on the bed, on your back. And do it as I've taught you." As I'd taught him: in spite of his arousal, he moved with his usual grace. I permitted him to roll onto his side to pull first one sleeve off over his arm, then the other, and cast the raincoat aside. The pants would have been more awkward, but here I took pity on him again and helped, taking off his shoes and socks for him, then pulling the pants off over his lean legs. I just dropped them all on the floor and kicked them aside. I was still wearing my blouse and pants. Now I pushed him back to climb onto the bed again, looming fully dressed over his naked, aroused body. His penis stood straight up, reddened and gleaming at the tip with a droplet of precum. Arousal brightened his eyes as he looked up at me, face rapt, still breathing hard. I changed legs; my right leg had been tiring. When my left knee was against his swollen penis, I nodded at him, and he began again. As his arousal took its course, I watched in a sort of silent awe. How his hands knotted into fists; his open-mouthed gasps, silent at first, then noisier, less controlled, the moans starting to come. How his thighs spread apart even wider, exposing himself, offering himself. His muscles stood out starkly. His hard cock twitched, damp and shining with the juices of his arousal. It bobbed up and down with his rubbing, now pushed upward across his clenched belly, now standing straight up along my thigh. The minutes passed, and his whole body became sheathed in gleaming sweat as he struggled, unable to hold back a whimper now and again. His head went back as his neck and spine arched, his whole body writhing in his mounting passion. His eyes were glazed. He wasn't just whimpering now; he was groaning aloud shamelessly. He no longer remembered how humiliating this had been at first, the sheer indecency of bringing himself to orgasm this way, rubbing against a woman's leg. He seemed to come to himself a little as he neared his climax, opening his eyes, hesitating. I understood at once: he didn't want to come on my clothes. I acted quickly: lowering my leg to hold my weight, I gripped his arms, even pulling them higher over his head to deny him any freedom, pressing myself closer to him. His hard cock stabbed into the crease between my thigh and my hip, and he bucked and actually uttered a small cry, but I refused to let him go. My eyes bored mercilessly into his. The shock of the message filled his face: either he would come all over my clothing, like a shameless animal in rut, or I wouldn't let him come at all. I spoke, before he could begin to worry about which one I wanted. "Do it!" I whispered sharply. That pushed him over the edge. Even as I released his arms and lifted myself a little, he arched his spine backward, his head thrown back against the sheets to leave his throat utterly exposed. Every muscle in his body tightened at once. He shuddered, stilled, and came, his cock spraying long trails of semen from my breasts to my thigh. As his orgasm subsided, he fell back, gasping, spent. I slipped off him and the bed to stand up, and looked down at myself. Thick, pale semen was literally dripping from my blouse and my pants back down onto the floor. I grinned wolfishly, enjoying the sense of power that welled up inside me at the sight. Trophy of a successful domme. My submissive was opening his eyes, a bit blearily, beautiful in his exhaustion. He swiped his arm over his sweaty face, and looked at me. There was a hint of dismay in those lovely green eyes as he saw the mess he'd made of my clothes. I couldn't care less about stains at this point. "Don't you *dare* apologize," I told him, and grinned fiercely. After a moment of looking into my eyes, Morgan smiled, an incredible, beautiful smile with so many things in it: embarrassment, weariness, relief, and soul-deep satisfaction, all blending into joyous submission. I couldn't help but reach down and stroke that torrent of long, dark hair. He lifted his arms up toward me in response. I accepted, lowering myself onto his body and into his embrace, answering with my own. Send comments and feedback to: maureen_lcn@yahoo.com . The URL to my story archive is in the author's notes at the top.