DIXIE CUP

Anastacia Lucretia

Warm. The air-conditioning was doing its best to cool us down. But with the temps in the nineties outside, the room was still warm. The fucking probably didn’t help things either. Sweat covered both of us as we lay side by side, eyes closed, random body parts touching each other.

She and me. My Domme and I. It was a Saturday afternoon; we had both gotten up, had our caffeine together, and then went our separate ways to deal with the things in life that most people push off until the weekend. I brought home lunch, and afterward we decided to nap. The truth in the previous statement was this: there was in fact a bedroom involved, and we both did go in there to sleep. But so far, little sleeping was being done. It wasn’t my fault. I couldn’t stop touching her.

Touching led to kissing. Kissing led to groping. Groping led to more and once you added nipples into the mix, napping wasn’t going to happen. She ended up face-sitting me, grinding her pussy onto my mouth, lips, and tongue until she reached down and pulled herself as tightly as possibly against my face and came. So very Domme.

With her come drying on my face, we lie there, her hand slowly playing with my nipples. That’s a good sign for me because if she stops touching me, we’re done and I don’t get a chance to make my own mess. But she’s still using a finger, flicking it up and down across my nipples. I make a low sound and turn toward her, kissing her.

“Please,” I say. Nothing else is necessary. I don’t need to ask for something specific. I don’t get to choose. My Domme will decide if I should mess and, if yes, how I should do it. And while that unequal power seems unthinkable to your average vanilla guy, it’s how we both prefer it. My sexuality is Femdom. It’s the only way I fuck these days.

Her eyes are still shut when I lever myself up to an elbow and kiss her stomach. I say a little prayer to the fertility gods of old, asking them for help. I want to mess. I want to come. She opens her eyes and turns her head to look at me. Her eyes lock on to mine. “Up. Off the bed. On the floor.”

I kneel. She rolls and sits on the bed, bending to reach for the second drawer from the top and coming out with a seven-inch latex dildo. Kneeling between her legs, I kiss her knee. She reaches down and plays with a nipple. “You better start,” she says.

I’m already half-hard as I begin to jerk my cock. I close my eyes and feel myself get fully hard. I still smell her pussy on me. I’m kneeling in front of my Domme, and I know she’s watching me. She’s always watching me.

I hear her say, “Open.” I open my mouth and narrow my eyes a bit. I see the cock in her hand begin to slide past my lips. I feel her begin to use little fucking motions, in and out of my mouth. My hand on my cock begins to work faster. I try and keep my mouth closed tight around her cock.

“Cocksucker,” I hear her say. She knows that doing this for her makes me feel dirty. She knows that having me suck “cock” makes me feel more than a little humiliated. With my mouth around one of her dicks, I feel like I’m being used. I feel very much not like a guy, but more like a slave whose purpose at this moment is to just be a thing—a sucking thing.

“You look so good, sucking my dick. Bitch.” Faster now. I make a noise, then another. I hear her say, “In the cup.”

I look. She’s handing me one of the little Dixie cups from the dispenser she keeps on her nightstand. When she put them there I didn’t understand. But she told me that nothing breaks a vanilla guy faster of his old life than cleaning up after himself. That a guy who will clean up and eat his own mess begins to leave vanilla fucking behind. That the taste of his own come, time after time after time, ingrains submission into him like nothing else. So for weeks now when I’ve been allowed to mess, she has me finish in her little Dixie cup, then holds it to my lips and pours the salty come into my mouth to swallow.

She bought a package of one hundred cups. She said when I’ve used all of them and her dispenser is empty, after I’ve swallowed one hundred of my own loads, she was going to take me to get a small Dixie cup tattooed on me. On the front of the cup will be a big letter C, indicating the Roman numeral for one hundred, or come eater. She said I would find greater submission in this. That I would be far from vanilla. I believe her.

I take the cup, glance down, and put the head of my cock in it. She pulls my nipple while pushing her cock farther into my mouth. I close my eyes and take a breath, hoping that my aim is true. I hear, “Don’t you fucking stop, bitch,” and I feel the rise and know I’ve made some kind of noise. I’m dimly aware that I can’t breathe very well from the amount of cock that’s in my mouth. She pulls again on my nipple and fuck, I just do that thing where I try and hold back for a half-second because I know it will make that first spurt harder. I feel myself go. I begin to mess, my hand jerking very fast. I feel the sides of the cup on either side of my cockhead and hope I’m where I need to be because she’s watching.

I slow down. I bend forward and rest my head on one of her knees as I milk the last bit of come out of me and into the cup. I open my eyes to look. Nothing on the floor.

I straighten up in time to see her put the cock down. She leans over and kisses me on the lips. “Good boy.” I wordlessly hand her the little cup but she doesn’t look in it; she knows what was done. She was watching. Her other hand pushes my bottom lip down and open. I close my eyes and feel the liquid move past my lips onto my tongue. I swallow. They say it’s a tablespoon, but trust me, it feels like more.

I swallow again and hear her pitch the used cup into the trash. I rest my head again on her knee. We stay like that for a few moments, letting that energy swirl between us. I will eventually use that one-hundredth cup, and I have no doubt she’ll have some other challenge ready for me so I can continue to be and become what we both need me to be: Hers.