Black Gloves

"So, it will be Christmas soon," Ms. Morrigan said to me with a coy smile.

"Yes, it will," I replied, with a grin.  I felt a little thrill, the one I get every time I contemplate the opportunity to treat or spoil her.   "So what do you want for Christmas?"

"Well, I just updated my wishlist," she replied. 

I reached to pick up my phone from the endtable behind me.   At this particular moment, Ms. Morrigan and I were both seated at opposite ends of her sofa.  Fully dressed, in casual clothes; both of us sitting sideways, facing each other, so she could put her bare feet in my lap to be massaged.  Other than that, the scene would have been surprisingly domestic to an outsider.  No one would suspect that I was her chaste submissive and she was my domme, and that if it was her preference today, I would have been naked and caged on the floor in front of her.

I brought up her wishlist in my browser, and a moment later I was arching my eyebrows and grinning at her over the top of my phone.

"What?" she challenged me.

I turned the phone to show her the item that had attracted my attention -- a simple but lovely pair of black lambskin gloves.  

"Oh, so those caught your eye, did they?"

"Mmm hmmm."

"Hmmm.  Well, just so you know, I've decided that the subby who buys them for me is going to get a very special Christmas present."

I felt my pulse quicken.

"He's going to actually, finally feel my hands wrapped around his ... erect penis."

I heard myself gasp.  Ms. Morrigan never uses words like "cock" -- or "handjob" -- around me.  She's much too elegant for that, and she expects me to be far too proper to use words like that myself.  At least out loud.

Words like that, she's implied, are for men who are more arrogant and self-assured about taking and deserving pleasure.

I shuddered and looked into her eyes.  She was looking at me intently, a wry smile on her lips, slowly moving her hands in front of her as if to show them off for me, half-closed around an invisible cylinder..

"Of course, not my *bare* hands.  No.  But, I'm sure, my hands in those soft leather gloves would be the next best thing.

"Don't you think?"

I inhaled sharply and nodded vigorously in agreement.   Meanwhile, she had extended the index finger of her right hand, and was making a gesture, as if she was slowly tracing it down ... and then back up again ... as if ...

well, I wasn't imagining that she was doing that to a cucumber.

"Lambskin really is the finest leather for gloves," she said, with conviction.  "So thin..."

She lowered her left hand, cupped it, as if gently coddling ... well, eggs, of course.  "It both conducts, and maintains, body heat."

I gulped, as she closed her eyes and sighed deeply, as if focusing on her own imaginings.  Then her eyes shot open again, piercing me.

"What do you think?   Do you think maybe a boy who had been settling for being teased for, like, a year, might think that was a pretty good deal?"

"Umm ... yeah, maybe..."

"Are you picturing my hands on your penis?" she asked.  See?  There it was.  She called it my "penis."  She never suggested that I had a "cock."   Nevertheless, I nodded.

"Are you sure?  That's all?  You're not picturing my hands on some other sub's penis?"

Oh, crap.  I gritted my teeth.  Well, I am *now.*  Suddenly.  Lot of them, in fact.

Bigger, thicker penises ... powerful, but submitting to her nonetheless ...

Smaller, less rigid ones ... undeserving, but still, getting the attention that I never had.   Arghhh.

"Of course, a whole actual stroking, all the way to orgasm, might be a little too extravagant a gift in exchange for just a pair of gloves," she mused.

"He might find it ending just a *little* TOO soon ..."

Ohh, God.  She was talking about a ruined orgasm.  With that thought, the images of her teasing other men evaporated, and the vision of my own quivering erection, at her mercy, slammed into my consciousness and locked into place.  

I looked at her hands.  Pictured them, clad in soft black leather gloves, moving slowly up and down.  I really could almost feel them ... warm and soft, but not quite warm and soft enough, stroking me.  I could imagine the mounting, building sensation of desperation as my body tensed ...

"Of course," she continued, her soft sweet voice suddenly husky, "It may be the only orgasm he gets."

I felt a shudder go through my body.  

"Regular male orgasms are a dime a dozen.  Ruined ones are just so much more memorable."

I heard myself whimper.

"Only one.  But, ruined," she confirmed.  Then she lowered her chin, so when she made eye contact with me, her eyes were looking up through her seductive lashes.

"Your pupils are dilated," she commented. "What are you thinking about?"

I was breathing too hard, and my mind was racing too fast, to answer.  

But ... I was suddenly contemplating ... more than contemplating, I was having an epiphany ... realizing ...

if I was ever going to have an orgasm with Ms. Morrigan ...

even if I was only going to ever have just *one* orgasm with her ...

hell, *especially* if I was only going to have just one orgasm with her ...

it *had* to be a ruined orgasm.

Yes!   Yes, Ms. Morrigan!   Do it to me!  Let me see your dancing eyes and hear your sweet voice singing with bemused laughter as you let go of me!

Let me watch you enjoying the scene as my desperate erection bobs and twitches in futile search of the lovely soft grasp that you just denied it; as my semen dribbles out of it, without any accompanying spasm of ecstasy, to pool on my quivering stomach ...

Let that be my reward for my months of service!   Would that amuse you?  It overwhelms me to think that it would ... 

That you would want me remember that the pinnacle of my sexual life would be just that ... a puddle of spilled and wasted semen, and a trembling penis, still erect but numb, unrequited, still yearning ... 

Yes.  Yes, I want that ... I want to let you see that happen ... 

"I just love watching you process things," Ms. Morrigan was saying.  "I wish I could hear your thoughts right now.  But I guess I'll have to wait until you write them down."

"Well, anyway," she said, turning her attention to the New York Times Review of Books.  "There's a thought for your Christmas shopping."

I quivered.  I had clicked "Buy Now" five minutes ago.