IRE Scoville Scale: Sinfully Satisfying












She was an African American woman with soft auburn hair, a voluptuous figure, sparkling brown eyes, and a captivating smile. It would serve my ego better to imagine our meeting was a happy accident, but, in truth, a mutual friend had arranged it. Her name was Marissa. I knew from the instant we met it was right—her touch and the way our skin looked mingled together ignited something inside of me. It’s a trivial admission from a man, but it’s true. I felt our attraction immediately. I knew I’d do anything to please her.


We didn’t waste time making small talk. We’d spent countless hours conversing over the phone. This, our rendezvous, was a long time in coming. I wanted her to push my limits—strangely, I wanted her to own me. Ownership isn’t about sex. It’s about giving someone the privilege of your unconditional trust. Marissa had mine. In her eyes, I saw myself not as I was at that moment; I saw who and what I could be. In her deep sable eyes, I saw compassion and fury. I saw my freedom.


At her apartment, she led me down a long dim hallway to her bedroom. With each click of her black stilettos on the wood floor my anticipation grew ferociously. Try as I might, I couldn’t resist watching her juicy ass sway provocatively beneath her skirt. I’d sent her tributes, gifts: a purple silk bra and underwear set and a pair of sheer black stockings with a back seam along with a black silk garter belt. She’d chosen them, of course, but her wearing them wasn’t a given. Her wearing them was a sign of her satisfaction with me up until that point. I noticed she wore the stockings but what of the rest? The closer we came to the door, the harder I prayed.


She stopped dead at her bedroom door and turned to me and said in her distinctive tone. “Once we enter into this room, your life changes; there’s no turning back. Are you sure this is what you want?”


“I’m sure,” I said and she opened the door. Inside, I could make out a large bed but little else. She stepped close to me and removed my clothes. I stood nude while she circled me, inspecting me. She looked me in the eyes, sighed with what I imagined to be relief and placed her hands on her hips.


“Undress me. Carefully.” she ordered.


I approached each garment reverently as if it was the Shroud of Turin. The weight of worry lifted from my shoulders as my tributes were revealed. I smiled despite myself; they were a perfect fit. Unfortunately, my enthusiasm eroded when she pointed to a closed door.


“In there. Run my bath.”


I obeyed without another word, filling the large marble tub with tepid water. She joined me in the bathroom. I took her hand and helped her into the tub. She lowered herself gracefully, nestling herself into its curve, her legs outstretched near the faucet where I sat on the rim of the tub as she instructed. We sat in silence, her watching me. I averted my gawking eyes away from her beautiful naked body in an effort to rid myself of naughty thoughts. Our silence stretched on for a little while before she asked me to wash her. Unsure how best to carry out this task, I moved closer along the rim of the tub and took the sponge she offered.


“You don’t expect to wash me from there, do you?” she chuckled and rolled her eyes at my nervousness. She sat up, giving me room to sit behind her.


She reclined against my chest and I sponged warm soapy water over her arms and neck. Our bodies fit together like pieces of a puzzle—I especially liked the way her head fit in the alcove under my chin; her hair smelled of apricots. Her head rested lazily to one side as I ran the sponge over her clavicle; I could see the suds cascade over the luminous mound of her breasts and nipples and began to wonder if she could feel my erection pressed between us. I wanted her to feel it. I wanted to let her know the effect she had on me. I wanted her to know that I was hers.

Casually, she reached back and ran her fingers through the back of my head as we talked about her day. I didn’t realize at the time that this seemingly innocent conversation was a ploy to put me at ease. It worked. By the time I toweled her off I was unquestionably hers.


In the bedroom, she grabbed me and cuffed my wrist cuffs in front of me. “Do you need to be reminded who owns you?” she asked seductively into my eyes. Her fingers traced down my chest, ribs, abs, and thighs.


“No, I’m here to serve you.” I replied, trying not to cum. She had the perfect balance of aggression and tenderness most Dominas lack. I wasn’t afraid of her physically partially because I stood at least four inches taller than her and partially because brut force wasn’t her forte. She mind-fucked me, her look of disapproval was far worse than getting kicked in the gut. In her happiness, I found my own—just as she said I would.


She led me to the bed and laid me on my back with pillows under my head. Then she straddled my face and commanded me to pleasure her with my mouth. I could’ve cum right then and there; I’d dreamt of spending an eternity between her thighs.


She lowered herself closer to my mouth and I gently brushed my nose against her lips until her aroused clit rested on the bridge of my nose. I moved my head up back and forth, rubbing it, worshiping it while the pink tip of my tongue peeked inside of her, tasting the sweetness I’d envisioned while masturbating. I flicked my tongue over her clit until she shuddered and braced herself against the wall in front of her. It was then when I became addicted to her pussy. She was like nothing I’d ever tasted; my cuffed wrists brought her closer to my mouth and my hands cupped her ass as I devoured her.


She ordered me to suck her clit gently. I obeyed. My mouth was hers to use as she pleased—I belonged to her—she looked down into my eyes and told me so. I sucked tenderly at her lips, pushing my tongue inside of her; sucking and flicking in a deliberate steady rhythm until her eyes rolled into the back of her head. I tried to restrain myself, I really did, but I couldn’t help it. I held her ass tighter. I could feel her thighs trembling against my cheeks and her walls contracting around my tongue as I fucked her with my entire face. One of her hands braced the wall, the other palmed my head—she screamed and gasped, using me …using my tongue to get herself off. This thought alone drove me to the brink of orgasm. I labored to keep my tongue and face moving with her bucking hips. I prayed to the Goddess Cunnilingus to give me the strength to coax another orgasm from the beautiful creature straddling my face.


She leaned against the wall, panting for breath. She caressed my face and we looked into each others’ eyes as I continued to lick her softly. She told me how happy she was and how much she looked forward to exploring a deeper relationship with me. It’s amazing the calmness I felt once I knew she was satisfied. Naughty boy that I am, I tried to pull another orgasm from her by kissing her pussy, but she wasn’t having it and dismounted. Damn it, I went too far. She retrieved a condom from the dresser and put it on me. She uncuffed me briefly, only to reattach them to her headboard.

“Who do you belong to?” she whispered in my ear as she lowered herself onto me.


“I belong to you.” I blinked away the urge to cum. Fuck, she felt sublime! But … something was wrong.


Her mouth was close to mine, she spoke softly. “Are you afraid?"


“Yes.” I replied honestly. I was afraid—not of her. I was afraid of what she might unleash within me. I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to cope with it—that she might see me for what I was and disapprove. Then what? How would I rebottle everything and move on? How would I slip back into the alpha male role society expected me to play knowing there was another human being who’d seen my imperfections and rejected me despite my willingness to expose my vulnerabilities? To this day, it is incomprehensible why those feelings arose at the very moment my cock found its new home.


Seeing that I was (what I later came to realize) having “a moment”, she smoothed my hair and assured me she wouldn’t push me too far this time. "Joshua, stay with me, okay?” She said sweetly. “Don’t withdraw.”


I nod because the deep sinking feeling in my chest allows me to do little else. I found comfort in her words … but more so it was the warmth I saw in her eyes that allayed my fears. They color my thoughts and take me to the corners of myself I rarely reflect upon and never visit for fear being choked by my uncertainties. But she is there with me, mirror in hand. I toggle between flight and resilience, but in the end I stay and I’m comforted. Remembering that my cock was still inside of her, it began to stir—strangely, not for my sake but for hers. She touched something inside of me. “Kiss me, please kiss me.” I blurted out, not realizing at the time the inappropriateness of my request.


She smiled down at me demurely and kissed me gently, just touching her lips to mine; barely, just barely rubbing them, licking softly at my mouth; tasting me, exploring me. She parted her lips against mine. I opened my mouth, submitting to her. No other kiss we’ve exchanged since then has compared to our first. Protocol or not, it was what we both needed at the time. We stayed there kissing at length; her on top of me—me cuffed to her bed, ready, practically pleading to be used. I inhaled when I felt her pussy tighten around me.


“Tell me what you want,” she said into my mouth.


“I want to please you.”


“How?” she nibbled my lips, her hips gyrating in slow dragging waves.


“Any way you see fit.”


“Whose lips are these?”


“Yours.” I answered.


“Whose cock is this?”


“Yours.”


“Who does your cum belong to?” Her nails dug into my shoulders, her pussy milking the response from me.


“It belongs to you!” I screamed like a bitch. I had no shame.


“Give me my cum.” she purred.


At that moment, I began to feel open and vulnerable—I was cumming in a way I’d never felt before. I felt myself melt, disappear into her. For that split second while she was cumming, it felt as though neither of us was in control of the situation; it was simply happening to us. She wrapped her arms around me, pulling me close. My cock was still erupting inside of her—I was lost—I couldn’t breathe—yet I was compelled to give her every drop I had. She sheltered me from myself; the darker part of me; the part of me that wanted to recede to the far reaches of my comfort zone. Behind the mask. She kept me present, focused solely on pleasing her. I could do this—I could face my demons—I could let go and trust.


It was the most exquisite and terrifying experience of my life.


She cupped my face and kissed me gently. I found myself seeking her mouth as some conduit of relief. She uncuffed me and sent me to clean up. I returned to the bedroom, not entirely sure what to do. She asked me to come to bed and gave me permission to hold her. I did. And then she did something I didn’t expect: she wrapped her arms around me; our bodies struggled to envelop as much of the others as possible. Our legs were intertwined as we kissed and stroked one another; her eyes on mine—my eyes on hers. We talked about how we both felt about the experience; what we’d gotten out of it; and how we would go forward. Then she turned away from me and laid her head on my pillow, tucking her apricot scented hair beneath my chin. Like pieces of a puzzle, we fit together.


We lay there quiet, the room heavy and dark. Her breathing is almost nonexistent. I nuzzle closer and feel her relax against me. I am satisfied that she is satisfied. For the first time in ages, I genuinely feel.


Languid and peaceful, this is how it has always been between us. Sometimes it feels as though we’re tethered to one another’s souls, we are so kindred. She is a part of me as much as I am a part of her. I am that tightness in her chest; she is that clag in my throat.


I love her. She loves me.