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Safe Words 3: Angel's Grace, Chapter 7
🕑 Added 2022-12-16 01:00:02 +0000 UTCAngel told her Mistress she was ready to begin.
Grace said, “During this exercise, I want you to only regard Diego. He is your partner, and he deserves your utmost respect and attention. Never regard me. I will guide you through the experience with my voice, but I am only your guide, not your partner. Who is your partner?—tell me his name.”
Angel said, “Diego,” her eyes locked on the naked young man with his legs wide open, looking like a handsome prince on a throne. His penis had lengthened further, and it bobbed with each beat of his heart.
“Look in Diego’s eyes, Angel.”
While it was uncomfortable to do so, drawing up deep anxiety from her well, she moved her eyes to meet Diego’s. They were chocolate brown and sparkled in the grey nautical light. Diego’s expression was chilled, and what she would call presumptive. As if Grace could read her thoughts, she said, “What you read in your partner’s eyes should be done without judgment. Consider only the task at hand, and what you read informs nothing but your partner’s needs.”
She thought she knew what that might mean. Don’t judge the presumption, only feed it. Diego was a young, good-looking man who most likely had no difficulties getting women to lose their resolve in his warm, soulful eyes. His life to this point had informed that superior sort of expectation. A proper Sub wouldn’t seek to rectify what she might think of as a moral wrong. A proper Sub would translate her partner’s expression into osculating action, two enormous wheels rotating like gears, driving a forward movement in unison, operating the driveshaft of their partner’s sexuality. If Diego was presumptive, then Angel would be his eager supplicant, drawn to desire like it was her own compulsion to do so.
With this perspective she softened her kneeling posture, melting into Diego’s gaze, shoulders lowering, raising her chin and showing a vulnerable part of herself: her throat.
“Excellent,” Grace sighed, standing outside the sexual dohyō, an avid spectator and a coach, looming in the dim, unfocussed backdrop behind Diego.
Angel still wouldn’t look Grace’s way, eyes on Diego’s. His penis had grown more turgid, straightening out, rising off the chair. She watched now as it crept up his leg, jerking with Diego’s heartbeat. It was a fascinating thing. A sagging length of skin and tissue, but when aroused, when the man’s heart beat faster and there was the promise of sex, the tube inflated to solid meat. Diego’s penis climbed higher—the passing clouds painted ashy light on his lean muscular body, drawing out his young masculine prowess, his male charm. Shadows dashed under his brow, intensifying the mystery and malevolence in his smoky gaze; his cheeks sank under the knobs of his wide, flat cheekbones; he angled his head, dipping his chin to his chest. Diego was sultry to the point of divine femininity, a spoiled Spanish prince with a long penis that now lifted onto his thigh-top under its own power and lengthened toward his hipbone, dark brown against his tanned Mediterranean skin.
“Go to him, Angel,” Grace commanded in a soft, urging whisper. “Feed from him.”
But as she made her first move, knee-walking closer into the delta of Diego’s open legs, Grace scoffed and said, “Not like that.” She stepped back from the chair and moved behind the gathered girls, coming now into the performance space and standing above Angel. When Angel looked up, saying in a pleading tone, “What did I do wrong?” Grace snapped her fingers.
“Eyes on Diego, Angel.”
Angel returned her gaze to Diego, wounded by Grace’s disapproval, standing on her knees before her male partner, naked, with a terrible pubic grooming, ashamed and locking her squirming fingers together. Diego smirked. Grace squatted at her side, her expensive clothing ruffling, a warm embrace from Grace’s faint perfume comforting her.
Grace whispered, “You’re powerful, young one. More powerful than him. Your power could destroy him and he can’t comprehend it.”
Angel nodded, her mouth slimming, lips wriggling as anxiety loomed.
“But you must use your power. It might frighten you or make you anxious, but you must trust me in this.” Grace ran fingernails up Angel’s naked back, and her Mistress’s touch sent her shivering, skin tightening, nipples hardening. Angel drew a deep inhale, arching her back forward, and Grace purred with approval.
“That’s it, Angel. Control him. He is easy. A fifteen-piece puzzle. Own him by giving him what he wants. You have what he wants. You own what he wants. This is a transaction you control; a unilateral clash.”
Angel nodded, finding new strength inside now, hearing her Mistress’s words—words, if spoken by anyone else, would be laughed away and dismissed.
“Not all at once, Angel,” Grace said, her other hand coming to rest on her collar, those long, graceful fingers curling against her exposed throat. The hand dropped now and clutched Angel’s breast, her hard nipple pressing into the delightful soft warmth of her Mistress’s palm. Grace’s thumb circled her nipple in feathery orbits that put sparkles of pleasure in Angel’s vision. Fingernails peregrinated the length of her spine in heavenly ascent, from her tailbone to a wild spot between her shoulder blades that got her hands jerking. She arched her back and thrusted forward her chest. Grace approved, humming a delighted sound in her throat, moving her hand across to cup the other breast and give the nipple fair and equal treatment.
“Chest forward,” Grace said, “back arched in sexual presentation. Show Diego the preview of your fine woman’s body, your athletic feminine pomp. You are a divine creature, young Angel. But keep this”—her hand dropped swiftly to the space between Angel’s thighs and cupped her sopping pussy, fingertips glissading against her opening in teasing strokes—“for the very last. This is all men desire. They’ll murder, deceive, betray, martyr, immolate, devote, upend, fight . . . they’ll start thermonuclear wars over this simple possession of yours.”
“And yours,” Angel whispered, even though she expected she wasn’t supposed to.
But Grace smiled in her periphery, huffing through her delicate nostrils. “I know my power, Angel. You are right. Don’t take yours for granted. Now go to him. Go to him and make him everything.”
This time when Angel approached Diego, she did so with her back arched, her ass out, crawling on all fours like a sultry cat. It was an awful display, one she would find comical in any other circumstance. She’d taken theater in high school for one semester, and instructions like “be a tree” or “move like a monkey” always made her self-conscious and embarrassed. But the exercise today was wholly different.
She could read her effect in Diego’s eyes. The self-assured expectation still lingered, but something else had been stirred in: the complication of desire. Desire for her. The charm Grace instructed worked, even if Angel thought it would only be a farcical pantomime. No more superior smirking from Diego; now when she moved, the young man’s eyes watched as if hypnotized, gaze darting over all her angles and curves, taking everything in and liking what he saw. It imbued a sudden sexual confidence—but only a slipshod one, like those roving nameless carnivals with no permanent home, assembling in strange towns for only weekends at a time.
Enough courage, at least, she held Diego’s utmost attention until she came between his legs, her upper arms close enough to feel the heat of his bronze thighs. Now she was in prime location and some of the conjured confidence evaporated, wavering like a mirage. What was she to do now?
Behind her Grace rose and came to stand at the throne’s side. Angel didn’t look her way, instead still eye-locked with Diego, who, now she was closer, had caramel slivers in those chocolate eyes. She showed Diego a face that defined lust, that showed an almost mythological carnality that made her think of sirens luring men to their ruin. Her hands went to his thighs, curled their tops, her back still arched in a supple bow.
Her chin hovered over his genitals, his reddish scrotum relaxed and sagging, his longish testicles resting on the fabric. His erection had the smell of hot, gummy skin, but she also smelled mint (from chewing gum?) and a soapy smell, but not a drug store deodorant, something richer. On no one’s command, only her own instinct, she brought her face close to his erection in a swooping manner, teasing as though she would run her tongue up its length, but pulling up on the joystick, her tongue staying planted in her mouth, coy-smiling at Diego—who returned the same smile, engaged by her playfulness. Every girl must play for him, perform to rouse his attention, but she knew what Grace would command: truthfulness. No, not truthfulness. Authenticity. Truth can’t be faked, but authenticity could. Any woman could mimic the actions they saw on their phones, that contrived and inauthentic pigtail playacting.
“That’s it, Angel, that’s perfect,” Grace said. “You mean it. Your desire is genuine. Your desire is everything. It’s everything and you need him to satisfy you. You need satisfaction so strongly you would do anything to gain his favor.”
This time at Grace’s words, Diego snuffled a light laugh, smiling and running his white teeth over the plump curl of his lower lip. Light sparkled in this dazzling eyes again, and a legitimate flicker of desire for Diego bloomed. She nurtured it like a spark struck with flint when the night was cold and the sun gone down. She cupped hands on the spark and huffed and huffed bringing it to vibrant life—caressing the pads of her fingers up the warm sticky length of his mottled brown penis, drawing the pad of her middle finger to the very tip and tracing an exploratory circle around the shallow cup at the thin-skin chevron point of his cock head where the flesh was tight and smooth. Her touch had Diego jolting in his chair; an uncomfortable sexual tension tightened the energy in the room. The young girls watching shifted where they stood, their expensive leather loafers scratching on the timeworn littoral floorboards just beyond the edge of the cashmere rug.
“I want you to assess him, Angel. Study what he has and appraise it.”
She did as instructed, handling Diego’s long erection with care, touching it with light tender fingers, never gripping it fully, but playing with its angle, looking it over—a cold guilt embraced her, chilling her; this was not the act of a good girl, not the act of a dutiful daughter. And if Brian were to see her now, he would hit the roof. But things were over with Brian and she was a very long way from home, literally and metaphorically.
“That’s it, Angel,” grace softly encouraged. “You recognize his power. Show him. What he has between his legs is a totem of his masculinity. When you lavish attention on his totem, you lavish attention on the essence of the man. Men crave attention, as do we, but how do you deliver it to them? Show Diego with your eyes.”
Again she complied, moving her eyes from his penis to his roasted amber gaze, lips parting, eyes narrowing, her back further bowing, her ass stuck out.
“What is that, Angel?” Grace’s voice betrayed how she was unconvinced by Angel’s performance.
Angel resisted the powerful urge to look Grace’s way and defend herself, and she couldn’t help it—she chewed the inside of her cheek. She thought she’d been doing it right.
“That’s affection, Angel. Steps down from love. Men aren’t looking for affection, and Diego certainly doesn’t want you to love him. Do you, Diego?”
Diego’s sultry gaze dissipated, and he looked to his own Mistress, Sarah, standing beside Grace.
Sarah said to him, “You’re not, Diego.”
“Angel,” Grace said, squatting down again, her face level with Angel’s, looming at Diego’s elbow. Angel kept her eyes on Diego, who regarded her again now, showing a similar measure of unsureness that made her wonder how long he’d been in Sarah Jasper’s coven. “Men need purpose. Purpose fulfills them. Purpose will draw them from the deepest depths. Do you see it?”
Angel said nothing, eyes getting wet as she regarded Diego. She didn’t see it and that embarrassed her.
Grace said, “Men must be needed. That is their purpose, Angel. Diego is what you need. You’re not offering him anything, you see? There is nothing to offer. You only have a need. An awful aching need—and Diego is the only one who can satisfy your need.”
It came clearer now, enough the anxiety thinned and a path forward appeared. Just when she thought she was powerful, sexually meaningful, Grace had a way of reminding you of your place at the starting line of an arduous endurance race.
“You see it now,” Grace said, pleased. “So show him. Tell him. Tell him how you need him.”
Angel recomposed herself, returning to the sly way of admiring Diego’s erect manhood, eyes flitting to his as she said, “I need it, Diego.” Her words sounded hollow in her own mind, but Diego stirred, enlivened by the words she spoke. Her cheeks blushed with shame. She said, “I need it and only you can do it for me.” Now her eyes went round and wet, and her brow furrowed with dismay—playing like she was a female in heat, and she needed what Diego had, needed his hard penis to thrust away her feminine ache, needed his seed to fill her belly and make her complete. She sold him this story with her eyes and her expression and the poise of her naked body. And as ridiculous as she felt, Diego’s reception of her dirty, awful words was like an electric circuit closed; a completion of a connection that would allow sexual energy to flow between them unhindered. It surprised her how she could have such an effect on such a sexy and gorgeous young man.
But the next thing Grace said tightened her chest and froze her heart.
“Excellent, my little Angel. Now lay on your back and open your legs to receive Diego.”
