As directed, Marina wore a black minidress, cotton, with a lot of little buttons, white sheer tights, and maroon panties. Only hours before, I had seen as – at my request – she had sent me her own personal rendition of Clayton Cubitt’s “Hysterical Literature.” She read the same text as Stoya had read. Somehow, she managed faithfully to recreate the black background, the table, and, though she didn’t have me (or anyone else) working her cunt beneath the table, she did manage to get herself off without, really, appearing to be responsible for her orgasm. When Marina came, it was unmissable, but you might have wondered – at least initially – just what was happening. (And if you haven’t watched the Hysterical Literature videos – you must. They’re just so fucking hot. Not half as hot as Marina’s handmade version for me, but whatchagonnado?)
Our meeting began with me having her stand before me, shove her hands down her white tights – tights she had bought because she knew I would like them – and get herself off. Or at least, that was my instruction. But before she could finish, I had her stop. Turn around. And start again. I stopped her one more time. And then, I think, I let her come for me. Or maybe not yet. I don’t, honestly, remember.
“Do you want to open what’s in the box, now?” I asked.
The box had arrived a few days earlier. I wasn’t sure what was in it. There were two possibilities. One, a gift I had sent. One, something a bit more complicated, but not a gift from me.
It was, in fact, the gift I had sent.
Marina and I had discussed the gift – a black leather O-ring “bondage collar” from Babeland. Something she had been considerably… reluctant… about. Reluctant twice over: first, because collar = ownership = UH UH. And second, because Marina has a hard time accepting gifts. Nonetheless, I had secured permission – or something just short of permission, but certainly not prohibition – and so, on this day, she opened the box, and removed a fucking huge bondage collar.
Whoops. I shopped badly. I had intended to get something that clearly was a collar, but that would fit reasonably around her small neck. (Marina is 5’1″.) This collar might fit reasonably around the neck of a Doberman. But around Marina?
At first, I thought, we would return it. And/but…. no reason not to give it a test ride, at a distance.
“Put it on,” I instructed her. She fumbled a bit with it, she left my view as she worked it in the mirror. When she returned? She was fucking hot. The collar made her neck, her face, look tiny. Which, of course, they are. And, the collar made me need Marina to come.
“Come for me,” I growled. “Sitting. Facing me.” Marina opened her thighs, showing me the inside of her tights as she hiked up her dress. She slid a hand down to her cunt and, in less than a minute, she said – as I have taught her to, and as she has learned well – “I’m coming for you, N,” and she shuddered, hard. “Thank you, N,” she panted, as she returned to the chat.
“Take off the dress, please,” I asked. (I didn’t ask, as the punctuation reveals.)
“Come for me again.”
Marina sat there in her white tights, a tiny black bralette, and a huge leather collar. She brought herself to another orgasm. And another.
I had her remove the bralette, and then, I had her fetch the ice I had asked her to have handy.
“Use an ice cube to make your nipple hard,” I said. She winced a bit as she did as instructed. On her second nipple, she hesitated, working up the nerve to press the ice cube against her warm flesh. “Do it NOW,” I said. “If I were there, I wouldn’t be hesitating.” And she did as I asked, flinching, even as she pressed the ice cube against her.
“How was that?” I asked.
She was grinning, a big, satisfied grin. “GOOD.” She said.
“Good,” I said. “Let’s give those pretty breasts just a moment to warm up before we get to the wax.”
I also had asked Marina to have a candle ready.
I saw her hesitation.
“Grab the candle,” I instructed her, “and lie down on your bed.”
A few moments later, her nipples and breasts had been fairly coated with hot wax – white hot wax – which caked on her like so much sperm.
“Come again for me,” I said.
In these sessions with Marina – and there have been a few – my cock could break glass.
Marina lay on her bed, the wax hardened on her breasts and torso, as she bucked and writhed. “I’m coming for you, N.” “Thank you, N.”
“Now,” I said. “Get the Sharpie.”
Marina disappeared from my screen for a moment, and returned, Sharpie in hand.
“Pull the tights down, far enough to give you access to your inner thighs.”
She did as commanded.
“Now, write ‘N.’ on the inside of one thigh – I don’t care which – and write ‘Likes’ on the inside of the other.”
We had been discussing marking, ownership. She had reacted badly to another man’s having told her he wanted to give her a hickey. In part because of a hickey’s clumsy, adolescent assertion of ownership.
My assertions of ownership aren’t clumsy. They aren’t adolescent. They are in leather. And indelible marker. And they come off essentially at will. Though Sharpie is a bit challenging to remove. Bruises, one of the best forms of marking, of ownership, sadly are unavailable to me in the current moment, with Marina.
I had Marina dress for me one more time. The end of our hour together approached. “Come one last time for me,” I said. And she did.
We spent a few minutes chatting. Catching up on a few open parentheses and untied threads from our conversation. And, she went about her day.
“I don’t think you’re returning that collar after all,” I told her.