Praise (Salacious Players’ Club)

Emerson

My reflection stares back at me in the bathroom, but my eyes won’t focus on the man in front of me. All I see is her on her knees in the middle of my office. The image plays over and over in my mind. How did this happen?

Is it too far? Have I royally fucked things up already?

But there’s no room in my mind for regret when it’s so damn overwhelmed with desire. The things I wanted to do to her. God, I wanted to remove her clothes, touch her face, sit her on my lap, and stroke her perfect body while I worked. With any other girl, that’s what I would have done, but I’ve never wanted it the way I want it now.

For years, I’ve accepted that these dominant cravings were just a part of who I am. I was happy with that, but never fully satisfied with anyone who came along. Now, the craving is stronger than ever, and I have the terrifying notion that Charlotte might actually be perfect for me, and that’s a real problem.

She’s Beau’s girl. I can’t possibly keep doing this.

Fuck, my brain still can’t process no, so I strip off my clothes and start the shower. This day fucked with my head and I need to wash it all off so I can refocus on getting my son back.

Apparently, my cock can’t process no either because it’s at full attention, still thinking about the way she hummed with pleasure while I stroked her head during the call.

Not to mention, it’s still thinking about what happened Saturday night in the voyeur hall. That’s what started all this. I never should have taken her to the club opening, and I definitely shouldn’t have followed her into that hall. And I really shouldn’t have fucking touched her the way I did.

But it was impersonal. I touched her, tasted her, but that’s what we do at the club. We shed the personal ties and hang-ups from our daily lives and we experience freely what our body craves to experience. If I hadn’t gone back there with her, she never would have had the nerve to touch herself and make herself come the way she did.

My cock twitches at the memory. The way she rubbed herself, the sounds she made, the taste of her arousal, and how good she felt in my arms. Like she belonged there.

I give my dick an easy stroke, but it won’t let me let go. And it won’t let me think of anything other than Charlotte, conjuring up images of her in my head. Those perfect lips wrapped around my cock.

In my imagination, she’s between my legs at my desk, swallowing me down while I work. My perfect little secretary.

Fuck. My hand slaps against the tile wall as my other hand picks up speed. This is so wrong, but maybe this will help me get her out of my system. This is the only way I’ll ever have her like this—in my mind. If people knew I was jacking off to my son’s girlfriend…

But I’m already too lost to the fantasy. The way she loves my cock. The way she calls me Sir. That smile as I unload warm jets of cum all over her face, and she licks it up like the good girl she is.

An illicit groan vibrates from my chest as I come onto my hand. My heart is hammering like crazy in my chest and my cock just won’t stop. I obviously need to get laid or something because this is fucking ridiculous.

Tomorrow, I have to tell Charlotte that I can’t be the Dom she wants. It’s inappropriate, and I need to focus on work and getting my son back. But when I towel off after my shower, I find a message from her on my phone. My eyes nearly bug out of my head when I see a photo come through.

It’s a picture of a St. Andrew’s cross, a giant wooden frame in the shape of an X with restraints on the end of each post.

She follows the picture up with a text.

I’m doing some research. Have you ever used one of these?

I scrub my hand across my face and force myself to breathe before replying…

You should be sleeping.

And no, I have not. I am not into impact play.

The text bubbles pop up before her response.

I’m googling impact play.

I let out a groan. This should feel wrong, leading her into this lifestyle. But she’s an adult. Everything is consensual. I’m not forcing her into anything she isn’t interested in. With a shake of my head, I carry my phone to bed with me and climb under the sheets, trying to talk my cock into giving it a rest for the night when I get another alert.

I don’t think I’d like that either.

I have a question…

What is it?

Everything is really…sexual. Is it even possible to do this without sex?

I’m about two seconds away from tossing my phone across the bed in frustration. My cock seems to think it was invited to something because it is aching in my boxers, flinching at the sound of each new text that comes through like a puppy waiting for a treat.

I think about my response for a long time. The problem is that I’m not quite sure if Charlotte is asking this because she wants there to be sex and is hopeful it will happen or if she’s genuinely afraid of sex being involved and wants to learn about the lifestyle regardless. She is so blunt and open with her questions, but so guarded with her emotions.

Finally, I decide to be honest…and careful.

It is possible. It just means our options are limited. Yes, the Dom/sub activities are mostly sexual in nature, but the dynamic is not. And the dynamic is what I like most.

She’s typing out her response almost immediately.

So you didn’t have sex with your last “secretaries”?

I groan again. Does she even know what she’s doing to me? Does she really understand how much I want her and how hard she makes it to deny myself when she asks me stuff like this?

Answering this question is painful, and I hate that I have to be honest.

I had sex with most of them.

Her reply takes a moment longer.

Oh.

There’s tension on the line while I wait for another message. I wish I could just tell her how badly I want her, but I can’t. Finally, when she does respond, the message nearly breaks me.

I can’t believe I’m even saying this, but I like being submissive. I just want to be enough for you. I want to make you proud.

Even if we can’t… 🙁

The words on the screen course down my spine like a slow drip of lava, and my cock is more than ready for round two. It might actually be the sad face emoji that does me in. The tiny little frown on my screen that makes me want to say fuck it and drive over to her pool house right now so I can force her to her knees, slide my cock between those perfect, wide-set lips, and make her beg me to fuck her. I quickly type out my response before I can overthink it, choosing to ignore the last message she sent altogether.

You made me very proud today.

And you are more than enough.

You are perfect.

The throbbing organ in my chest swells as I hit Send. This is more than arousal. More than wanting to fuck her or hear her call me Sir. If I were twenty years younger, she’s exactly the kind of girl I’d want. Why Beau let her get away, I have no clue. But I’m finding myself more and more addicted to this girl with each passing day.

And when my phone chimes again with another text, I’m almost too afraid to read it because I’m pretty sure I already know what it’s going to say.

Thank you, Sir.

God, I’m so fucked.