WITH ANOTHER MAN @Copyright Maureen Lycaon, March 2001. All rights protected under the Berne Convention, but permission granted for this story to be duplicated in the course of normal transmission over Usenet. It may also be archived on the normal Usenet archives, such as Google and the alt.sex.stories.moderated Website. Readers are welcome to keep copies for their own personal use; but please, if you think a friend would like this story, refer him to my Website. I wouldn't want him or her to miss out on my other stuff.;-) In all cases, the text must be kept intact and unaltered, including this copyright notice and author's notes, with proper attribution to the author. Reproduction for commercial use *strictly forbidden*! Author's Notes: You know the drill: all resemblance to real persons living or dead is strictly coincidental and unintentional, not intended as a guide to safe sex, etc., etc. I live for feedback. Email it to: maureen_lcn@yahoo.com. You can find more of my erotica at my Velan Archive at: http://velar.ctrl-c.liu.se/vcl/Authors/Maureen/ With Another Man By Maureen Lycaon I lie on our big king-size bed, my wrists chained to the brass bars that I have never been able to bend, even during the worst whippings. I’m still dressed: no shoes or socks, but I'm wearing my soft thin jeans and a blue plaid cotton button-up shirt. My head rests on a pillow. I’m comfortable physically, but psychologically is something else. Bruce smiles as he stands by the side of the bed. He’s so big, so muscular, so macho-looking with his dark shoulder-length hair and confidant manner, that when we met I was surprised to discover he’s a bit shorter than my 6'2" height, and even his voice isn’t as deep as mine. I’m fit enough, but I’d never beat him in an arm- wrestling match. I take a deep breath as he looks me over more closely. Leona sits down in the chair to watch, breathing, "Okay, let’s go." She was adamant that I have the experience of being with another man. She knows Bruce very, very well; they’re both in the local BDS&M club and have seen each other at play many times before. It’s my first time with another man, of course. I trust her implicitly, and she’s going to watch this. Even so, I feel butteflies in my stomach as he looms over me, approaching. He really *is* big. His clean-shaven, ruggedly handsome face is only a couple of feet from mine now, as his warm chocolate eyes look deeply into my blue ones, and I can just feel his breath on my face. I force myself to stare back into those eyes; I feel a kind of electric shock at the proximity to another male. Then he breaks into a smile -- a warm, reassuring smile -- as he reaches out and strokes my long blond hair that Leona loves so much. "Mmmm," he purrs. "That hair really is magnificent, James. Like silk. I’m just going to stroke it a while." His voice is slow, calm. And that’s what he does, his large hand moving over my hair, stroking it back from my forehead, down the sides of my face, with feathery gentleness. I feel myself relaxing despite my nervousness. He increases the pressure just enough to make it even more soothing, and I lay back and relax still more, ignoring what remains of the uneasiness, just enjoying the touches for the moment. I feel the mattress dip as he sits down beside me on the bed, leaning over to continue the caresses. What he sees in my face as I enjoy the stroking makes him smile that warm smile again, and I feel a like smile form on my own lips. He strokes my hair down the sides, gently runs his fingertips over my sideburns again and again. Mostly he just strokes my brow, enjoying the comfort he’s giving just as I do. I feel myself melting, warming under that tender touch. My eyes close. "Soooo . . ." he croons to me. "Rest easy, James . . . Relax." Something about such tenderness in a stronger man while I am helpless moves me, relaxes me. Gods, I could fall asleep like this . . . He’s not about to let *that* happen, though. One hand slips down to gently hold my jaw, lifting my chin, while the other braces his own weight on the mattress as he leans over me, his warm moist breath blowing on my face, and then he kisses my lips. Another little shock, less intense but deeper, runs through me. He continues the kissing, gently holding my face with one hand, lips brushing my mouth, my nose, my chin, along my jawline (gently turning my head to accommodate himself), my cheeks, my brow, finally even my ears. He bathes my face in soft kisses, exploring me, letting me know how handsome he finds me. I close my eyes with pleasure at the kisses. His smell fills my nostrils: warm, tinged with sweat, faintly musky. He shifts, and the kissing halts. I open my eyes, and he’s looking down at me, smiling again, before he lowers his face to mine once more. This time, his tongue gently brushes my lips, suggesting entry. I’m nervous and uncertain at first, but his tongue patiently brushes my lips again and again, getting me used to it, willing to spend as much time as it takes to earn my trust. Eventually I lose my shyness and my mouth falls open of its own accord, letting him in. His hand on my jawline softly massages, caresses, as his tongue explores. As the gentle probing of my mouth continues, I find myself sucking at his tongue in acceptance, letting him do what he wills. His powerful hands slip under my hair to cradle my head as we kiss. I let my neck muscles relax, letting him hold me like that. He releases me every so often to let me breath, and then it’s I who lift my mouth to him, silently begging for more kisses. Then one hand again lifts my chin, gently but firmly forcing it upward, so that I must expose my throat to him. I feel his kisses go down to cover my chin, and then my proffered throat, and down my neck to my collarbones. He releases my jaw, and I turn my head to one side, and the kisses slide over my neck, over my jugular vein, down to my shoulders. "So beautiful," he murmurs, again stroking my hair aside, and I dimly hear Leona’s soft voice, "Yes, he is." I’ve almost forgotten that I am in bondage, my wrists shackled above my head. Now I’m reminded of it as he once again draws away, still looking down at me, smiling, and then his hands reach up to mine. They fondle, almost tickling as he plays with my fingers, then holds hands with me, all the while looking down into my eyes, his face a study in affection and admiration. "Are you happy," he says as much as asks, continuing to fondle my hands, my bound wrists. "Uh-hunh," and I manage a brief nod, then, "Yeah, I am." "Good." His smile broadens, beaming. "I’m going to make you even happier." He lowers his head to administer yet another deep, tender kiss. There’s no hurry in his motions, as if he has all the time in eternity to soothe me, to explore me, to open me slowly and carefully like some delicate flower. I love it. I love his gentleness. I want more. His hands slip from mine, administering a parting gentle squeeze before they slowly trail over my arms to my chest. They move up and down my flanks from armpits to hips, feeling my rib cage through the fabric, the way it rises and falls with my breathing. I feel my breath quicken, wanting more . . . All this, and I’m still dressed. What a lesson in skill. Then, with the same unhurried gentleness, his hands move to the front of my chest and begin to rub it. I inhale deeply, holding my breath at the sensations. The palms rub against my nipples through the cloth; I feel the nipples stiffen, poking up into his hands, and feel my pectoral muscles loosen underneath. He surprises me then, bending to kiss my shirt precisely over my left nipple, briefly caressing it with his lips. Another pleasant shiver, passing its tickling way through my whole torso . . . He withdraws, straightening. I feel his fingers again - - this time working the top button on my shirt, slowly unbuttoning it. He opens my shirt slowly, button by button, then pulls the flaps apart. Still-gentle hands, wonderfully gentle hands, slip under the cloth to run up and down my flanks, making the shirt fall open, down to the sheets. Now the front of my entire torso is exposed to his gaze, his touch. He gazes down at me, taking in my flesh -- my flat, faintly muscular belly, my chest, my nipples -- it seems I can almost *feel* his eyes upon me. What he sees pleases him; he smiles, nods slightly, and then his hands get back to work, this time on bare skin. They slip around to soothingly rub my back, my shoulders -- and I know he’s feeling the almost-faded welts remaining from my last whipping at Leona’s skilled hands, a week ago. "Does this hurt?" he asks. "No," I half-whisper. It doesn’t. I don’t want him to stop touching me. He doesn’t. He rubs my shoulder blades and he lowers his head to kiss my bare chest. More kisses follow, hands and mouth roving over me. His kisses descend from my sternum down my belly; he plants a reverent kiss on my navel, a strange sensation that makes me inhale sharply. Then slowly up, straying to the side to feel the skin over my ribs and then the flesh around my left nipple. With the same gentleness he’s been using all along, he kisses me directly on the nipple, brushing the tip, then again, and again. The touch sends a thrill through my entire torso, down into my penis, still concealed under the thin jeans. I arch my back, and I try to move my arms to embrace him, hold his head, but the clink of the chains reminds me of my bondage. I can only lie back and accept as he touches my flesh where he wills. I arch my back some more, offering my nipples as he continues his gentle ministrations, making them both swollen and incredibly sensitive, rubbing the area around them with his fingertips, then slipping both arms around my torso to lift my chest up as he suckles. Any thought of fear is long gone as I move restlessly, now laying my head back against the pillows, now turning it slowly from side to side as I growl and moan with pleasure. I don’t know how long he goes on caressing and stimulating my nipples. I only know that at last he withdraws again. I’ve got the beginning of an erection. I can actually feel his eyes upon me before I open my own again. Once again, he’s looking me up and down, and he spots that hard-on bulging at the front of my pants and smiles. Then his hands and his lips return. He continues to work on one nipple at time, gently suckling on it, but now his roving hands also move down to my belly, to the waistband of my trousers. He begins to stroke my abdomen with exquisite gentleness, then rubs it softly. The sensation that causes sends incredible thrills through me. This is something Leona and I haven’t discovered yet. I had no idea I liked having my stomach stroked so much; it seems to melt under Bruce’s comforting hands, and another blissful moan escapes me. He makes a little purr of pleasure and keeps up that wonderful stroking and gentle sucking, and I feel myself dissolving in a pool of ecstasy on the bed. I hear Leona’s chuckle and then her voice: "Ooh, he loves that." "He sure does," Bruce responds, releasing my nipple for just a moment. He kisses his way down to my belly, where he works with both hands and mouth to bring more sighs and moans of pleasure from me. I can’t help but thrash in slow motion with the ecstasy, my whole world narrowed to Bruce’s hands, Bruce’s mouth, and the pleasure they send flooding through me. His tongue flicks at my navel, bringing little gasps from me as he continues to massage and stroke and rub. He soon finds a light, soft touch brings the strongest reaction, and those powerful hands are incredibly gentle once again. It seems as if every square inch of my skin has become erogenous as I squirm happily under his ministrations. I’ve lost all awareness of the room, of Leona sitting and watching nearby. I don’t even think about a possible orgasm in the future, about what will happen later, what’s coming in the days ahead as he trains me. There’s only the now, with this strong, knowing man’s wonderfully gentle touches and kisses and the joy of surrendering my body to his sweet hands. Then he’s running one hand down my hip, my thigh, down to my knee, where he fondles briefly. It seems totally automatic, a reflex action, to lift my leg and then spread my legs a bit wider. Now, though he continues kissing my belly, he’s using both hands to stroke and massage my thighs, feeling them through the cloth of the trousers. He gets up to change position, now moving down the bed to my feet, and then his head lowers as he attends to his next task. It's not a belly rub. Instead, one large hand moves to cover my groin through the pants. My genitals receive a thorough examination right through the cloth, as his palm and his fingertips explore, discovering the lines of my swelling penis, the head, the shaft, the tip, my scrotum underneath. There is scarcely any pressure, but once again I am reminded of my helplessness, and how utterly open I am to him. A hand cups my crotch, as if to weigh my balls. The other firmly presses my left thigh back into the bed. I am to be open for him, that silent gesture commands, legs spread to expose my sex as much as possible. My penis hardens still more under that gentle but searching exploration. I’m sure he knows almost everything there is to know about its dimensions, its shape and its size, without even unzipping my fly. "My, that’s nice," he observes. "You’re hot and hard." Then both his hands guide my thighs to spread wide apart, almost but not quite to the point of discomfort, and then they’re pressed softly but insistently to the bed. A gesture of dominance. Now the cloth is stretched tightly over my genitals, which must be clearly outlined beneath the trousers as he gazes. His hands explore me even more thoroughly, playing a little with me, rubbing and stroking gently over my crotch, my inner thighs, as I respond, moving my pelvis to press my genitals into his hand. Every now and then, he runs a finger down my penis. When I start to move my thighs together as I squirm, they’re pressed back down onto the sheets, keeping me spread. I have no idea how long this continues, or whether I’m seeping out into the cloth, but those knowing, possessing hands stimulate me, pleasure me, excite me and make me want more, more, to be out of these damned jeans and feel his touch on my naked cock. And at last it comes. Again his hands press my thighs down and apart, a gentle command to keep still. Then his fingers are at the button at the top, opening it. Slowly, teasingly, unhurriedly, he pulls down the zipper, and my throbbing cock is at last freed of its confinement as he opens the flaps, pulling them back to expose me as much as possible. He smiles at the sight of my stiffened penis, gently cupping it in one hand, feeling its heat -- my heat. "Nice," he observes, smiling. "My, you’re excited, aren’t you?" Somewhere deep in the part of me that can still form words, my response comes. "Yes!" He chuckles, and goads my thighs together so that he can remove my pants. When I have obeyed, he tugs at the the jeans, ever so slowly pulling them down over my hips, my thighs, my lower legs, until they’re all the way off, and he lays them aside on the corner of the bed. Now I’m completely naked and exposed, except for the shirt that now lies open, covering only my arms. Once again my thighs are urged apart and pressed back to the covers. He looks down, smiles at my arousal. He runs his fingers through my pubic hair, strokes it gently. "You’ve got a lovely blond bush," he observes. Then he cradles my penis in his hands, weighing it, feeling it, and it’s hard and excited, his mere touch sending shivers of arousal through me. Slowly he moves one hand down to the root, and then still lower to cup my balls. I can feel both the strength and the gentleness of those hands, and I have a moment to marvel at my own lack of fear. With a squeeze of one hand, he could neuter me . . . but he simply holds them, weighs them in the palm of his hand, admiring them. What little nervousness I still have only adds spice to my excitement and submission. He turns my cock this way and that to admire it, take in the sight of my arousal, my manhood. Then one finger lightly pokes at the tip where the urethrum is. I’m definitely seeping precum now; I can feel the moisture wetting his finger. He gently wipes the fluid all over the head of my penis, which only adds to my lust. I’m no longer relaxed into a puddle of bliss. Instead, my muscles are tensed with excitement as I control my impulse to thrust demandingly into his hand -- a wholly pleasurable tension. His gentle, clever fingers rub the moisture all over my cock, lubricating it, reminding me of my own excitement and need, and my hips and buttocks flex and relax, flex and relax, as he works. It’s clear he’s taken lessons from Leona about my turn-ons; she does this to me often. I can grit my teeth and refuse to cry out or beg under the lash, I can stare defiantly back into her eyes and refuse to safeword when it’s pain that’s in question, but that weeping cocktip that shows my passion is something I can neither control or hide, reminding me of how much I need this. He teases my penis, sliding one finger up and down it, tickling it, using one fingertip to rub the spot underneath where the glans joins the shaft. My cock gets harder and harder, and I’m squirming now in earnest, unable to hold back the gasps, the occasional growl-moans of need that come more and more frequently. Now I really am thrusting into his hands in earnest, and he doesn’t correct me but simply lets me do it. Dear gods, will I be allowed to come? Or will I simply be left dripping and squirming, reminded that he, too, can leave me in need, helpless prey to my own unsatisfied lust? In the end, it’s the latter. Just before the point of no return, his hands leave me. I squirm and thrust mindlessly, but of course it’s no use. I grit my teeth against the useless pleas I want to voice, but I can’t hold back a whimper of frustration. I must be giving both of them a delightful show. Sure enough, I hear Leona’s chuckle, answered by Bruce’s, as they watch me writhe. Slowly, slowly, my urgency ebbs. As it does, I manage to get control of my gasping, my helpless squirming, and open my eyes to look at them. Bruce has sat back, but he’s still watching me, a smile on his face -- a smile of approval. I turn my head to look at Leona, still in her chair, and there’s a smile on her lips, too -- pretty much the same expression. They’re both pleased with me. "He would have come if you’d kept that up," Leona says. "Oh, he wanted to!" Bruce answers, laughing. "He sure did!" Bruce’s attention returns to me. "I know you liked that," he tells me. "But you won’t come for the next few days until I’m satisfied with your performance. And believe me, I have high standards. You’re going to learn to please another man, and you’re going to become great at it." Then he reaches out and pats my thigh. "But for now, I think we're going to get along just fine, James," he says, turning the pat into a fondle of my knee. Direct comments and criticism to: maureen_lcn@yahoo.com. The URL to the author's Website may be found in the Author's Notes above.