Except for its inconspicuous lock, the door at the end of the short hallway of Miranda's middle-class home looked perfectly ordinary.
"Now the reward you've been hoping for," she said softly.
I raised my head and looked sideways at the mirror, and saw that Miranda had shed her leather skirt. She was wearing a harness that was like a leather G-string, and jutting out from it was a long black dildo. I watched as she moved in behind me, guided the head to my asshole, and pushed it up inside me.
It was blissful, humiliating, erotic. I was impaled, stretched, violated. Miranda was fucking my ass, claiming possession of me, and all I wanted to do was open to her and give her whatever she wanted to take. And then she reached around my waist and loosed the straps on my harness, freeing my cock from its leather prison. She began to masturbate me, stroking my cock in rhythm with her reaming of my ass.
With everything that had gone before, I was on the edge, and had been for some time. Before long, my gasps and moans betrayed my approaching orgasm. Miranda took that cue to bury the dildo deep inside me, tighten her grip, and stroke my cock furiously. After a long few seconds, I went over the edge, crying out and writhing as my cock spurted long jets of come into the air.
Miranda took a Polaroid photo of me before she freed me, and then allowed me to shoot one of her before she changed. I took that photo, my memories, and the four crisscrossing red stripes from the riding crop home with me on the plane. I don't know when I'll next see my friend, or if she'll ever favor me that way again. But one thing is certain -- I'll never again think I know someone if I haven't seen what they keep, and who they are, behind locked doors.
"Now the reward you've been hoping for," she said softly.
I raised my head and looked sideways at the mirror, and saw that Miranda had shed her leather skirt. She was wearing a harness that was like a leather G-string, and jutting out from it was a long black dildo. I watched as she moved in behind me, guided the head to my asshole, and pushed it up inside me.
It was blissful, humiliating, erotic. I was impaled, stretched, violated. Miranda was fucking my ass, claiming possession of me, and all I wanted to do was open to her and give her whatever she wanted to take. And then she reached around my waist and loosed the straps on my harness, freeing my cock from its leather prison. She began to masturbate me, stroking my cock in rhythm with her reaming of my ass.
With everything that had gone before, I was on the edge, and had been for some time. Before long, my gasps and moans betrayed my approaching orgasm. Miranda took that cue to bury the dildo deep inside me, tighten her grip, and stroke my cock furiously. After a long few seconds, I went over the edge, crying out and writhing as my cock spurted long jets of come into the air.
Miranda took a Polaroid photo of me before she freed me, and then allowed me to shoot one of her before she changed. I took that photo, my memories, and the four crisscrossing red stripes from the riding crop home with me on the plane. I don't know when I'll next see my friend, or if she'll ever favor me that way again. But one thing is certain -- I'll never again think I know someone if I haven't seen what they keep, and who they are, behind locked doors.
