Owned 2: Complicated

Malcolm's first date with Clara, and his first time doing a lot of things. He's as nervous as he ever gets, not that he's admitting it.


They were out for dinner-- expensive plates of trendy food that Malcolm was completely uninterested in eating, from a trendy pub near his house. Only water for them, to the waiter’s disappointment. Not that Malcolm ever drank anything, but he’d been willing to indulge in a bottle of wine with Clara on this, their first date. First real date. Real, public, no hiding date. And then home for their first night of for-real, negotiated, kinky sex. The sex of his fantasies, at last. If he was getting nervous about it, he wasn’t going to admit it. He’d been waiting for it all his life. And at last he’d found a woman who wasn’t afraid of him.

She was afraid of fucking nothing, it turned out, for sitting right there, in the loud fucking pub, Clara leaned close to him and said, “Did you buy a plug like you were told?”

Malcolm nodded, almost reflexively, and then flushed and looked around them. Yeah, nobody close enough to overhear, not that they could hear anything in this damned place.

Clara smiled, damn her. “Tell me about it.”

“I got, um, three.”


“You said you’d do something terrifying if I finked it, and I wasn’t sure what the fuck you meant, so I got three.”

Clara tilted her head in thought then nodded. “Okay. You could have asked, but I like the ambition there. Tell me about them.”

Malcolm put his fork down. “Not sure what to fucking say. More variety than I thought. Fucking ridiculous colors. I didn’t fancy having a tentacle up me, so I passed on that one. Got a range of sizes. Ridged for his fucking pleasure.”

Clara laughed and drank her fizzy water. “Right. I’ll have to look at them later. How much experience do you have with anal play?”

There was that word, right out there in the pub. Malcolm flushed. Normally he was the one shouting out penis at inappropriate moments. At least when he did it, nobody would suspect him of talking about actual sex. Well, sod it. If she was going to play this game, he was too.

He said, “None.”

“Nobody’s ever–”



“Seriously. The only time anybody’s ever done that to me is in the sodding MD’s office, paper gown, rubber gloves. Didn’t even give me a reach-around, never mind a nice kiss.”

She laughed, as he’d intended. He spread his hands wide and continued, at a normal volume. “Never touched me arse. Or had a woman touch it.” And because her eyebrow was cocked at him, "Nor a man either. Kissed another bloke once, to see what it was like. Didn’t raise my temperature a whit. "

“Well,” she said. “Tonight is going to be interesting, then.”

And if his nerves tweaked him, Malcolm was going to give her no sign. Damned if he was going to give in to her easily. He nodded coolly, and returned to playing with his food instead of eating it.

His nerves were in a proper state by the time they reached his place. Inside, door locked, blinds drawn, mobiles switched off, safe from the rest of the world now, and his heart was pounding and his hands were wet. He had no idea what to do, how to handle this. He led her up to his bedroom and stood there like a fucking schoolboy, all elbows and awkward boner, until she pointed at the floor and told him to get down on his knees and show some manners. Manners, okay, if manners meant kneeling, he would do that in a fucking heartbeat. Kneel, put his hands behind his back because he remembered her asking for that the first time.

“Where are these plugs?” she said.

Malcolm nodded at the nightstand. “Second drawer down.”

Plugs, condoms. He’d bought more slick as well, because he didn’t want her getting any ideas about doing him rough. Clara rummaged through it all and laid them out on his bed, in a neat row. Silicone, bright purple and black, not a one of them flesh-colored or realistic. He hadn’t been able to cope with the idea of those.

“Nice,” Clara said, pointing to the biggest one. “You’re going to enjoy that.”

Malcolm smiled crookedly. “Not sure it’s humanly possible to take that up the arse.”

“Oh, it is. And you’ll like it. See this knobby thing? That’ll feel good.”

Malcolm shook his head. His erection was flagging, if he had to admit it. Thank Christ for his tie, hanging down over his flies.

“This one, this middle one, this is good for wearing. See the flat base? Great under clothes.”

That had not occurred to him as a thing one could do in this reality. He’d thought that was pure fantasy, pure stroke fodder for the skin mags. And he’d bought one of them. Shit.

She was holding up the third one, the one with the two nubblies and the ring on the end. Easy to grasp, or so the site had claimed. Also: “The web site said that was a beginner one,” he said.

“Yeah, it is. Would you prefer to start with this one?”

Malcolm opened his mouth, shut it again, and considered her carefully. He was in danger of finking it, to use her phrase. There was an etiquette to this, wasn’t there? According to the pornos he’d rented in hotels far, far away from home, there was a way to behave here that mistresses liked.

“I’ll take whatever you want me to take. But I’d fucking appreciate the beginner one. To start with. If it pleases you.”

Clara laughed. “Well said, Mr Tucker. I almost suspect you of having done things like this before.”

He merely showed her his teeth in a smile he hoped was charming instead of terrifying. Not that she was ever terrified.

“The beginner it is. But first I think we start with something easier. Okay?”

Malcolm tried to hide his relief. “What?”

“A shower. Together. And this.” She held up her forefinger.

Malcolm stared at it. A finger. Okay. He could start there. And a shower. With Clara. He could do that. And he did it, almost automatically. Undress, run water, look at her body as much as he dared while hoping she wasn’t judging him for having no muscle worth mentioning. Into the spray. Soap her up, copping a feel of her breasts while she laughed at him because she knew exactly what he was up to. Let her soap him up, still playful. This was okay. This was something he could do. Let her turn him around, ease his legs apart.

Yeah, his nerves were at it again.

He leaned against the shower wall and tried to stay calm. It was supposed to hurt, that was all he knew about it. It hurt straight men and gay men liked it. Fucked if he understood the rules. A finger up the arse was supposed to feel good, especially if you were being blown at the time. That was the other thing he knew. Sodding humiliating to have had to admit he’d never had that done for him. The finger, not the blowjob. He’d had those. In quantity. A decade ago, when he’d had a life.

She wasn’t going right for his arse, for some reason. She was touching him everywhere else. Washing his back. Stroking his thighs. Reaching around, cupping him. Felt good. Malcolm rested his forehead against his arm and breathed, let his shoulders drop. He was getting hard at last. So easy to be hard with Clara’s hand on him, her fingers stroking behind his balls, so nice. So good. And then her finger was there, on his arsehole, sliding over, around, and he was moaning because fuck him, it felt good. Strange, good. Clara touching him. He might have moaned if she touched him anywhere, but fuck, oh fuck, that was good.

And then she was pressing against him directly with a soaped-up finger, pushing and wriggling and fuck, she was inside him. Malcolm tensed up. Clara went still and said something soothing to him, he wasn’t sure what. Relax, she was telling him. Breathe. Push back. He breathed, pushed, and yeah, okay, this was okay. This was better than okay. This felt good, Clara moving inside him, touching him in a completely new way. It was nothing like he’d feared. Yeah. Yeah, he could imagine wanting more of this. He could imagine his cock in her mouth with her finger up his arse, driving in deep to find the back of her throat, her tongue on him. Yeah.

Then her finger was gone, and he was protesting, and then it was back again, huge, forcing him open further.


“That’s two fingers.”

“Fucking fuck.”

Clara moved her fingers inside him somehow. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to flinch away or push back onto her. He’d couldn’t think about anything else but that. Clara’s fingers. Inside him. Moving. That was him making noise, wasn’t it. Damn it. He was fucking whimpering at her.

“Some day,” she said, “some day you’ll have my whole hand inside you.”


She laughed, fucking fuck her. “Do you know any other words right now, Malcolm?”

“Fuck me, no. Oh God.”

“No words to beg me for more?”

“Fucking hell, I could-- I-- you want me to beg?”

“Begging is always appropriate.”

He wasn’t sure how to start. He liked begging. He liked begging to be allowed to come. He knew how to do that, so-- “Clara.” He cleared his throat and tried again. “Clara. Please. More.”

“More what?”

“More of you inside me. Like that. Want you to, to, to fuck me. Shit.” Because he did want it, suddenly. As much as he’d wanted anything. He’d gone from rigid terror to gagging for it. Gagging to be shagged up the arse by a woman who was five-foot one in her stockings. Oh, fuck.

And then her fingers were gone. “Well, then,” she said, “Let’s take it to the next level.”

Water off, out of the shower, and a scheme to please her occurred to him. He went down on his knees, took a towel, and dried her off. Started with her lovely calves, worked his way up, until he was standing behind her, dabbing at the back of her neck. They’d showered together before, after that first time, but he’d been too flustered and too post-coital to pay as much attention to her body as he’d wanted. He’d won some kind of lottery here. He’d always admired her, from a safe distance, yeah, but now here he was, naked with her. Lovely body. Gym-fit. Trim. She wasn’t a scrawny stick-figure, thank goodness. Nice breasts, looked fantastic in a dress, looked fantastic bare like this in front of him, nipples erect. He wanted to kiss them, but didn’t dare.

When she was dry he went back down onto his knees and dried himself off. Wasn’t sure what else to do, but she seemed to approve so he must have got it right. Right, when in doubt, go on his knees and do something submissive. Okay. Noted.

Follow her back into his bedroom, starkers, hands behind his back, stiffie preceding him. Kneel up on the bed at her command. Hold out his wrists to her. Sigh with something like satisfaction as she buckled the cuffs tight around his wrists. Strap around the headboard, through the rings. Clipped into place with something she produced from her own back of tricks.

Malcolm was almost panting. Fuck. He was kneeling on his bed, hands cuffed to the headboard, naked. He tugged at his wrists. Solid. He was helpless. His cock rose even further as he thought about that. She could do anything to him. She was likely to do only the things she’d asked for consent in advance about, but she might not. She might do something else. Anything. He was bound. God. This was what it felt like, then, to be bound for real, with a mistress standing over him. Why had he waited so long to do this?

He hadn’t known. Idiot. Cowardly idiot.

She arranged him to her satisfaction, down, almost stretched out, with his knees spread wide. He felt a right twit, with his arse in the air like this, everything exposed. He could feel his cock dangling down. That was the point, probably.

Here it came. He was going to take it up the arse now.

Lubricant cap coming open, the sound of the bottle being squeezed. His cock jumped. He knew that sound well, and it usually meant he was about to stroke himself off. Not this time. This time it was his arse, and Clara’s fingers, cold and slippery, pushing inside him again, so easily this time. His dignity was as fucked as he was; he was whimpering and making sounds he didn’t know he could fucking make.

She was gone, and he opened his mouth to complain, and then he felt it. The plug. Bigger than her fingers, harder, unyielding, forcing him open even further. It hurt and it didn’t. Breathe. Bear down. Oh, there it was, pleasure not pain, that thing he’d never felt before that night. She crooned to him and played with it, moved it inside him. God, so fucking huge. How was he supposed to have known these things were so big? Beginner plug, his left bollock this was the beginner plug. How did men take other men up their arses? But oh God, it had to feel good, because this felt good, tickling him somehow up inside. He was, he realized, pushing back against it when she moved into him. She was fucking him, he was fucking himself on it, God, his cock was dripping, he was a fucking wreck, God only knew what was coming out of his mouth right now.

“How’s that?” she said.

“Beginner plug. We agreed on the beginner.”

A little laugh. “That is the beginner plug.”

“Oh, fuck.”

“Does it feel big?”

“Like a fucking horse cock up me arse. Splitting me open. Fuck.”

“Do you like it?”

“Yeah. Yeah. I like it. Fuck me. Oh Christ, you are fucking me.”

She kissed the back of his neck. “Yeah, that’s right. I’m fucking you. This is me, inside you.” She moved the plug and he swore again. “Going to go wash my hands, okay? Back in a minute. I can hear you if you need to call for me.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m fine. It’s fine. Everything’s fucking fine.”

Hands still cuffed, still couldn’t tug his way out of them, he still had a fucking scots pine shoved up his arse, and the most gorgeous woman he had ever guiltily wanked over was in his loo, washing her hands because she’d had her fingers fucked straight up him. What had his life become? And why hadn’t he done whatever damn-fool thing he’d done to make this happen years ago instead? Fuck the diem, as the Poxbridge nancies said. He’d enjoy it now he had it.

Plug in his arse. He could tighten around it and feel it inside, that big heavy thing, inside him, hold him open. What would it feel like to come with this inside him? Malcolm wanted to know. Maybe it would be nothing. Maybe it would be amazing. He was going to find out, that was sure. He was going to find out tonight.

And yes, he was going to get his wish, because she snugged up behind him and got one hand on the handle of the plug and the other on his balls, playing with them. Teasing him. Warming him up, fucking him and toying with him. And then because he was begging her so nicely, she played with his cock. Not enough friction, but it was good. A little more slick on her hand, and oh here it was, she was going to do him now.

Malcolm let himself fuck her hand. A hand, not a cunt, not her sweet cunt, but at least it wasn’t his own hand. And that thick plug was inside him, feeling so good, so good.

“Clara, love. Oh, so close. I’m gonna–”

But then her hand was gone and he was left pumping his hips fruitlessly, clenching himself around the plug. She was watching him carefully, watching him calm down, watching him until he was away from the edge. Teasing him by moving that plug inside him while his heart rate slowed. Then her hand was there again, around his cock, bringing him up and up, until he was close again. He was well desperate and digging deep into his creative stores to find new ways to beg her to let him come, have mercy on him, let him empty his aching balls. But she was ruthless. Relentless. Fucking cruel. He loved it, but it was time she let him come. Surely this time. This time. How much did she expect him to bear?

Hand off him again, and this time he was fighting against the cuffs he was so out of his mind.

“Malcolm. Are you mine?”

He whimpered and tried to keep himself still. “Yeah. Clara. I’m yours.”

“It’s time for you to prove that to me.”


“You don’t get to come tonight. Friday night, if you’ve been obedient and haven’t masturbated without permission, I’ll consider it.”


“You heard me.”



Her voice had a warning in it, but he was past caring. “Fuck you, Clara, you can’t do this to me and not let me come. It’s fucking inhumane-- Shit!”

Her hand came down on his arse, once, twice. Hard. Malcolm clenched his jaw around his urge to swear even more. She’d actually spanked him, not hard enough to truly hurt him, but hard enough that she had his complete attention. She had more strength than he’d expected.

“I think you need a reminder,” she said to him.

“Of fucking what?”

“Of what you agreed to when you agreed to this.”

And her hand came down again. Malcolm yelped. She smacked his arse, then his thighs. Hard. How the fuck could she spank him that hard? She had the right to spank him. They’d discussed it. He’d said yes. Why the fuck had he said yes? She was fucking spanking him with her bare hand. He was outraged and he said so, and she paused, and he opened his mouth to complain some more, and then her hand came down again. He jerked against his cuffs. Oh, fuck, just as helpless as he’d wanted, and God, she was still at it, fist in his hair, yanking his head back, hand coming down on his backside.

And oh God, he wanted it.

It wasn’t that he liked it-- he didn’t; it hurt; he was keening and writhing-- but that he loved that she could do it to him. He was helpless and he belonged to her and she was fucking spanking him because she wanted to and he was hers. He’d handed himself over and this was how he knew it. She was doing what she pleased with him. This was it. This was what he’d been wanting. He stopped fighting it then, stopped trying to shrink away from her, and started begging her to – he didn’t know what, do something to him, do anything to him, take him somehow.

He’d surrendered to her, somehow, he had no idea how, in the middle of all that, but he knew it. And she saw it too, for she stopped, knelt up next to him, and got her arms around him. He leaned against her and tried to catch his breath. He was about ready to explode with something. Or he had exploded. He felt like maybe he’d come, but he hadn’t. He felt light and airy and good, so good, just then. And so very sorry he’d defied her. What had he been thinking? Never do that, Tucker, you fucker.

“Malcolm,” she said.

Did he have enough control of himself to talk coherently? Yes. “Clara. Mistress.”

“What do you have to say?”

Malcolm blinked. Something in his eyes. He took a moment to make sure he sounded as humble and submissive and contrite as he felt. “Not sure. What should I say? Please?”

“You say, I’m sorry, Clara. I’ll obey you, Clara. I only come when you allow me.”

Malcolm swallowed. “I’m sorry, Clara. I-- I’ll obey you.”


“I only come when you say I can.”

“You are forgiven.”

“Thank you.”

Oh, God, he hadn’t meant it to come out so raw and sincere, but apparently he fucking meant it. He was grateful, so grateful, fucking amazingly grateful to be here, to have Clara holding him, wiping the sweat from his face. Tears and sweat, admit it, Tucker. He’d cried. He’d stayed hard through the whole thing, and that was a revelation to him. What a fucking bent sod he was, to be this worked up because his mistress had spanked him.

She showed him her hand: reddened, just as hot as his arse was. He kissed it with as much reverence as he could manage. She’d done that for him. Suffered for him. He kissed her, because she was right there, with her hot palm cupped against his cheek and her nose rubbing against his. Kissed her and wished he could put his arms around her and hold her.

And then Clara was undoing the strap holding his wrists in place, unbuckling the cuffs, rubbing at his wrists with him, easing him down onto the bed. She helped him stretch himself out. His legs ached and he hadn’t even realized it. He lay unbound, on his stomach on his bed, with his face pressed against his hands. His arse was still plugged, still glowing hot. His cock was as as hard as it had been in the shower. God, his miserable balls were going to ache. Hadn’t planned on this end to the evening, had he. Did he mind it? Yes, and yet: fuck, no. He was hers. He was proving it. Oh, God.

Clara’s hand stroked through his hair.

“Are you okay?” she said.

“Yeah. I-- yeah.”

“Was that too much?”

“No. Was good. I’m good. You? You haven’t come.”

“It’s not always about that, Malcolm.”


Her hands parting his burning buttocks, and taking hold of the plug. Moving inside him, fucking him with it for a moment. He groaned. And then it was sliding out. Loss, loss as it left him, of all the fucking goddamned things to feel. Like she had left him. Fucked if he understood that.

Footsteps leaving the room, water running for a while, then Clara was back. She sat down on bed and pushed him down when he tried to sit up.

“What’s this about?” he said.

“Aftercare. Me making sure you’re really okay and the worst thing you’ll feel tomorrow is a little soreness.”

She had a tub of some expensive body lotion in her hand. Unscrewed it, scooped some out. It smelled like almonds or some shite. Malcolm twisted around to watch what she was up to with it. Right onto his buttocks it went. Cool, smooth. Felt wonderful. He rested on his elbow and watched her side-eye. She was taking it seriously: that was a lot of lotion going onto his skinny arse.

“It’s a lot of work for you,” he said.

“Yeah, sort of. Sort of not. This is part of the experience, for me.”

Malcolm was silent, thinking that over. Hadn’t occurred to him that she might get something out of this beyond sex. She hadn’t come; she liked fussing over him. Complicated, this shite was. Far more complicated than he’d thought, back when he’d lain here all alone with a skin mag in one hand and his cock in the other. Fuck him, he was still hard. And he was going to go without. It was messing with his head, that thought. Everything was erotic, everything. Her hands on his tender arse, rubbing lotion in. The sting where her hand had come down on his thighs. The spots on his wrists where the cuffs had bit in when he’d struggled. The burn in his arse, the memory of the plug opening him up.

He groaned.

“What’s up?”

“Want to come so fucking much. Can’t.”

She laughed, but it wasn’t a cruel laugh. It was sympathetic, somehow. She rubbed a soothing hand over his back. “You’ll get the payoff when you do finally get to come. Trust me, Malcolm.”

“If you fucking say so.”

“I do say so.” She capped the jar and set it on his nightstand. Malcolm blinked at her. She was standing up and fussing with her bag. Her bag of toys. Packing it up. His plug, all scrubbed and clean, went back into the drawer where he kept the lube. Was she leaving? What did she expect from him? He wanted her to feel appreciated. Welcome. Worshipped, even. But what was this relationship? Tie him up, roger him, spank him, and then back to cool nods in the hallway?

Time to put it to the touch. Malcolm said, “Staying the night?”

Clara hesitated. “I could. If you wanted me to.”

“Yeah. Please.”

He reached up, took her hand, and tugged her back to the bed. She came to him willingly. He stood up and kissed the hand he held, because it seemed like the right gesture to make to someone he’d done all these things with. And then they were in bed, and the lights were out, and she was allowing him to snuggle up behind her and pull her against his chest, tuck his hard cock against her backside so she could feel how much he was suffering. And he was fucking content to do it. Exhausted, drained, desperate, content. Was it complicated? Maybe. This felt simple.

Malcolm kissed the nape of Clara’s neck softly, tenderly. Gratefully.