I stared at the clock. 11:30. Sergei should be home any minute. I looked around the living room, making sure everything was in place.

I was hungry.

That was Sergei's name for when I got like this, anyway. Dominant, aggressive. The need just strikes me sometimes, right out of the blue, just like lightning. Other times, it builds up and builds up. But this was the lightning kind. It snuck up on me while I was watching the last half of the third period on TV and he just looked so good, sweating on the bench. I knew then that I had to have him. Tonight.

Poor boy. When he walked through that door, he'd be in for one hell of a surprise. He had no idea. I paced with nervous excitement, setting up my toys - the toys I would use to humiliate and take him. I adjusted the fur-lined leather straps on the sturdy kitchen chair one more time.

I played the scene in my mind. Would he like what I was wearing? I hadn't worn this particular outfit before. The skirt was way short for my tastes and the leather wasn't really a huge turn on of mine. But I knew Sergei loved it. He had a lot of leather clothes. He liked women in leather. I decided he would love my choice. Especially the black lace bustier I had chosen. The five-inch high heels were a new touch and would bring me to his exact eye level. Yes, he would like what I was wearing.

I smiled, liking the direction my thoughts were taking. Would I walk him to the chair or would I make him crawl? Would he resist or accept my will gracefully? I tried to decide which I'd prefer and found it didn't matter. I would take him one way or the other. It was up to him how cruel I would be in the process.

Would I hurt him or was I just looking for some humiliation tonight? Would it turn into wild sex after a half hour or be a domination session lasting the whole night? I couldn't answer that question either. I just had to have him; that was all I knew. It was the only thing on my mind since a quarter to ten this night.

The slam of a car door shook me out of my reverie. He was home!

With butterflies of anticipation in my stomach, I stood before the door of the foyer, waiting for him to walk into my trap. I could feel myself enter my domspace and he wasn't even in the room yet. He was in trouble.

When he walked in the door, he didn't notice me at first. He walked in sort of quietly and shut the door softly, his eyes on the ground. It was like he was trying to sneak in. Maybe he thought I was sleeping, though he knew I never slept on game nights until he was home. It was a sweet gesture, but it only increased my desire to take him. I can't explain it. Sometimes, he'll do the sweetest, most romantic things for me and all I can thing about is hurting him or tying him up. It really messes with my mind when I'm not in a dominant frame of mind.

Thankfully, this time I was. My conscience wouldn't be bothered until the scene was over.

It began when he looked up and saw me standing there, decked out in my hot, leather outfit, standing in my "bitch stance". The stance that lets him know I mean business.

I watched him register it's meaning, his expressions ranging from shock to comprehension, to something I couldn't name, then finally to a sort of wary acceptance. He was so gorgeous. He just knew, and a word hadn't even been spoken. God, I loved him for that.

He dropped his equipment bag carefully, never taking his eyes off of mine. He was tired. I could see it - he had just completed a grueling two-hour game, after all. But still, he was willing to allow me to feed this need I had to dominate him right now, despite his fatigue. Another thing I loved him for. He understood me.

It made me burn.

And the way he looked me over...God-damn...I took the moment to do the same to him. He was dressed in a blue suit with a yellow tie that fit him perfectly. It accented his broad shoulders and trim hips. He hadn't been injured in the game tonight, so I didn't have to worry about being too careful. I'm not sure I would have been anyway. I needed it, bad.

I saw him lick his lips when he got to the high heels and met his eyes with a smirk on my face. He was turned on. We still hadn't said a word.

Very deliberately, I sauntered toward him, my heels clicking loudly in the silence. His eyes never left mine the entire time, and I took my sweet time getting to him, too. He was transfixed. I stopped so close our noses were nearly touching.

In the heels, I was eye-level with him.

I rested my hands on his hips and slowly moved them upward, until they were resting on his chest. I saw him swallow hard and his eyes were bright blue. He was tense and aroused and I loved it.

I pushed him violently back against the oak door, surprising the hell out of him, and he hit it solidly with a thud. In a second I was on him, kissing him, his mmmph muffled by my mouth. I kissed him, hard. Very hard and when he squirmed, I pulled on his hair sharply, breaking the kiss.

His head was yanked sideways, painfully in my grasp and he was breathing raggedly. His eyes were on fire, bright and clear and a bit defiant. He didn't raise his hands though, and that was important. He was willing to play tonight. To let me have my way with him. And by now he knew that I wasn't in any huggy-kissy mood, if he didn't know it when he first saw me. I just stared into his beautiful eyes for a moment, making sure he understood. His expression never changed. And with that consent, I was again attacking his mouth, pulling his hair, and pushing him against the door. I pinned him there and kissed him until his moans mingled with his whimpers.

When he tried to kiss back, I'd pull away. We repeated this scenario several times until I got fed up. The next time he did it, I pulled away and slapped him. It was rather hard and then I pulled his hair. He flinched and my knees went weak. But I didn't let it show.

"Open your mouth to me." My words felt so loud and they seemed to echo. Like I'd shouted in the Grand Canyon. He stared at me for a moment, measuring my involvement with this scene. Finally he opened, looking me straight in the eye. Damn. He was so beautiful. I shoved my fingers in and he gagged, eyebrows coming together in some sort of betrayed gesture.

"Hold still," I growled. And once again, I lowered my mouth to his, hand still in his hair. He was good, and let me do all the work as I probed, running my tongue over his teeth, sucking on his tongue and biting his lower lip. It was difficult for him to remain passive. I could see his fists clenching and unclenching in my peripheral vision and it only made me hotter and more forceful in the violation of his mouth.

When I had my fill of that, I pushed myself away a foot or two, assuming my bitch stance. Sergei sagged weakly against the door, eyes squeezed shut tightly, breathing in gasps. His mouth and teeth were smeared with my blood-red lipstick. It was a fucking hot sight.

I let him regain some of his senses before ordering, quietly, "Get on your knees."

He looked at me for a moment, his eyes hooded. When I flexed my hands he dropped to his knees quickly and bowed his head. Jesus, I wanted to faint. There was a steady throbbing between my legs that I had been ignoring until now.

I walked around him, as if I were studying him. I was. Circling him like he was my prey. He was. And he knew it, too. He tried to look relaxed and calm, kneeling there in the middle of the foyer, but his posture was tense and edgy. He was breathing actively through his mouth. I could see his jaw clenching and then relaxing.

It was so endearing to see him try so hard to appear relaxed, and it made me want to slap him at the same time. I shivered.

I stuck out my hand and ran it through his crisp, soft hair. I loved his hair. It was always the right length to get a good grip and pull.

So I did.

He hissed sharply through his teeth, clenching his fists from the sudden pain. I turned his face up to me and his eyes were wet. Crinkled with discomfort.

I cannot explain what that does to me. Seeing him like that. And I don't really know that it's seeing him in pain that turns me on so much - I know it isn't because when he gets hurt in games or any other time, I feel nothing but concern and panic. Nothing close to arousal at ALL.

No, it's the fact that he submits to me. That he's willing to go through this pain and discomfort and humiliation - there will be humiliation - for me. Because he knows how much I love to see him helpless; because he knows it turns me on.

Because he knows that I need it.

Oh, he may not like it, this whole ego-shattering, comfort denying, frightening domination thing...but he knows I need it. And he accepts it, from me. For me. He's very special.

What I do to him is very hard to take - sometimes even I have a hard time accepting what I do to him when I'm in these moods. It requires a lot of love, but more importantly, understanding - to the nth degree.

He's breathing raggedly now.

I shove his face into my crotch. He moans softly and brings his hands up to my hips. I yank his head back sharply.

"No."

He swallows convulsively.

I stare at him for a minute then abruptly let go his hair and walk to the kitchen, leaving him kneeling, bewildered. He doesn't move though. He's a good boy, I smile to myself.

Acting irritated, I stand in the doorway, hands on hips.

"Come here, now!" I snap.

I watch him bring himself up to one knee, then begin to stand before ordering, "No."

He freezes, half standing, looking at me with wide eyes.

I take a deep breath, butterflies of excitement twirling in my stomach. "Crawl," I order in a low, mean voice.

I can tell he doesn't like that command by the way his eyebrows collapse together in a massive scowl. Humiliation has always been the hardest part of my desire for him to take. He'd rather I slapped him all night - and he's not fond of pain. That's the second least-favorite part of my dominance desire he detests. But he'd let me slap him rather than humiliate him if he could barter it that way. Men and their egos. And this one has a particularly large one.

Of course, humiliating him is what turns me on the most. Maybe because it's the hardest thing for him to give me.

I can see he's going to refuse to crawl to me. His jaw is clenched tight now and he doesn't really want to play if it involves this. He goes through this scenario often. He almost always tries to refuse.

"Come on, baby, " I coo. "Crawl to me. It makes me so hot to see you crawl."

All right, so it's dirty pool. I need to see him do this for me tonight. He was so in control at the game...

He swallows and closes his eyes, debating. He knows I am not lying, how very hot it does make me. That's his weakness, why saying what I did is dirty pool. He wants to please me. And I use it.

"Crawl for me, baby. Please."

That does it.

His resistance melts, albeit slowly.

Finally, he lowers his head, as if too ashamed to meet my eyes, and I gaze on him hungrily as he gets down on all fours and slowly begins crawling toward me. Every line of his body is tense with resistance and I start touching myself. He's so fucking hot, crawling around on the floor for me, dressed to the nines in his $2,000 Armani suit. Hot.

He stops at my feet, head still lowered. The back of his neck is red. I'm sure his face is equally colorful. God, how he hates to abase himself.

I can feel myself breathing quicker, fully aroused already, and we've just begun.

I reach down and pat his hair, stroking it softly. "Good boy," I murmur, likes he's my dog. His fingers try to dig into the solid oak floor. This is difficult for him. A sudden wave of arousal washes over me and I come from that thought. The thought that it's for me. My hands tighten in his hair as I gasp in surprise and pleasure. I hadn't expected that!

He hears me and he tenses, but in a different way. A good way. He knows he was the cause of that mini-gasm. He loves that he can do that to me just by submitting to me. That's why he does it. It's his reward for the hell I put him through. He moans softly and nuzzles my leg with his cheek. Carefully -- I still have a fistful of his hair. I look down at him and ease my grip, and he takes the opportunity to relax just a bit. I exhale deeply, and crouch down to look him in the eyes. But he doesn't look up, keeps his head down like he knows he should. I smile to myself, shuddering involuntarily.

I reach out and put my hand under his chin, raising his head. "Look at me." He raises his eyes slowly, and I can see his eyes are damp, his cheeks crimson. I can't help the grin that begins to spread across my face as I stare at him, imagining everything I'll do to him, everything I'll make him do for me. He tenses again, wide-eyed.

No sense in letting him know where any of this is going. I straighten up and his head falls back down.

"Follow me," I tell him quietly, and he pauses for just a moment, obviously hoping I'll tell him to stand up to do it. No such luck. I narrow my eyes and wait, and with an anguished expression that makes me want to give in and fuck him right then and there, he slowly begins to crawl once more, following me back into the living room. I stop in front of the couch and Sergei stops, too, head at my hip, head bowed to the floor.

"Stand up." This he does without missing a beat, glad to be on his feet again. I stand in front of him, taking his wrists and pushing them behind him, making sure to rub against him as I do it. He sighs a beautiful, aroused sigh and immediately, I can't resist. I twist my fingers in his hair and pull his head to one side. His breathing becomes unsteady, broken, as I run my tongue up the line of his throat. He tilts his head even further to the side, grateful for the momentary lapse in humiliation, and the sound that he makes does indescribable things to me.

I can feel him moving against me, and keeping his hands behind his back is becoming increasingly difficult. I wriggle just enough to slide my skirt up an inch or so, and I can feel him against my inner thigh, hard and insistent. I can't decide what he wants to do more, touch me or touch himself. Either way, it makes me undeniably aroused.

I pull back just enough to be able to glare into his eyes, deep blue and wide from both arousal and apprehension. And then, abruptly, I untangle my fingers from his hair, step away and walk purposefully to the couch, leaving him standing there, breathing hard.

I feel his eyes on me as I walk away, and when I turn back toward him, seating myself on the couch, I catch him staring at my skirt. With an inward smile, I praise myself for choosing something so perfect. He raises his eyes to mine once more and licks his lips. I finally decide that he wants to touch me more. I lean back against the couch, staring at him. He looks so gorgeous, standing there in that suit, his hands still obediently held behind his back. I take a breath and say, suddenly, "Make me come."

The surprise is evident on his face, but there's something behind the surprise. Eagerness, hopefulness, maybe. He opens his mouth, then swallows, and finally speaks. As he does, I realize it's the first thing he's said to me since he came home. "How?" he asks in a rough voice. He's eyeing my skirt once more and I know what he's thinking, what he's hoping I'll say.

It's almost always worse for him when I know what he wishes I'll say or do, because I'll almost always say or do just the opposite. So instead of giving him explicit orders as to how to touch me, I decide I'm not letting him near me.

I wave my hand toward the middle of the room. "Strip."

I can see him think this over in his head. He wonders if he'll be able to do it, just by taking his clothes off, and he wonders what the consequences will be if he doesn't. And he's frustrated beyond belief.

Nevertheless, he'll comply, because it's what I want.

He never breaks my gaze the entire time. First, he brings his hands back before him and unbuttons the suit jacket. He shrugs his shoulders very slowly and lets the coat drop to the floor. It lands with a soft fluffy sound and I bite my lower lip. So far he's doing very well.

His hands move to his tie. He loosens it but I hold up a hand. "Leave it."

He doesn't even give me a questioning look. Sometimes I want the strangest things. But I know why I want him to keep his tie on.

Meanwhile, he is still undressing. He lifts his hands, deliberately displaying them to me, holds them outward - wrists together of course - for a second before moving his right hand to the left cuff of his shirt. I close my eyes momentarily and shift in my seat. He unbuttons the right cuff and then his hands travel back up to his neck.

He's nervous and that makes me wet on its own. His hands are shaking just a bit and he keeps swallowing with difficulty. But still, he never looks away. He pushes the tie out of his way and begins to work on the buttons of his shirt, pulling it out of his pants when he reaches the bottom. With an unsteady breath, he takes the edges of the shirt and pulls it backward, off his shoulders with such unhurried care that I almost tell him to do it faster.

Almost.

It slides off his body easily and to the floor on top of his coat. I take a breath and lean further back into the couch, squirming quite a bit now as he steps out of his shoes and socks. He has a hint of a smile on his face, realizing that he's doing a very good job. The smile fades quickly as I slide my hand down the front of my skirt, making sure he pays attention. He looks positively betrayed watching me, betrayed because I am doing what he can't, what he wants to do. When I sigh, I hear him groan and when I focus on him again, he's watching me so intensely, breathing hard.

But he doesn't stop, and neither do I.

He pulls his t-shirt out of the waist of his slacks and crosses his arms in front of him. Grabbing the bottom of the shirt, he peels it off, just as slowly as he's taken everything else off, and tosses it aside. I stare at his shoulders, his strong, perfect shoulders, and rub myself harder and faster. He looks pained as he watches me and I make sure to catch his eye as I moan softly.

I can see his entire body shudder.

He unbuckles his belt and pulls it through the belt loops, dropping it into the pile of discarded clothing, and at last, he unzips his slacks. He doesn't bend over when he takes them off, but instead wiggles his hips just slightly and they fall past his slim hips to the floor. I moan a little louder, not even meaning to this time. He's definitely putting on a show for me now, and doing a wonderful job of it.

Sergei is wearing only his boxers and that same hint of a smile again, frustrated that he can only watch as I bring myself closer and closer to orgasm, but incredibly pleased that he can do this to me and incredibly turned on at the sight.

Finally, his fingers slip inside the waistband of his black silk boxer shorts and I swallow hard. He slides them down a half-inch at a time, teasing me. So be it, I decide. It's one of the few opportunities he'll have to be the one doing the teasing, and I might as well let him enjoy it. I might as well let myself enjoy it, too; he's very good at it.

At last, with a quick little smirk, he slips them off completely. I groan, and Sergei raises his eyebrows, surprised. He is encouraged, though, and decides to get into things a little more. Watching me carefully, he drops his hand, wrapping his fingers around his cock. Now it's my turn to raise my eyebrows. I'm impressed with his creativity.

And he holds my gaze the entire time he's stroking himself. He does it slowly, teasing me more than he is himself, but I can still hear him moaning very softly. He opens his hand and runs his palm up the underside of his shaft, over the head - and this he does very quickly and very lightly - and then down the top, pushing it downward. He holds himself like that for a moment and then takes his hand away. His cock springs upward once more, slapping against his stomach and the tie still around his neck.

That's just enough to send me over the edge. I come with an unladylike grunt, writhing on the cushion, my head thrown back against the top of the couch.

I can feel Sergei watching me. After a moment, I sit up again and open my eyes, catching my breath. He's still stroking himself, but I can see that he's speeding up. His eyes flutter closed and I can hear him breathing hard. I don't want him to come, but this is far too interesting to put a stop to just yet. I slip my hand back out from the front of my skirt and lean forward, elbows on my knees, watching him. And even though I've come just moments before, the voyeuristic intensity and allure of the situation is quickly making me hot once more.

The best part comes when he lightly brushes the head of his cock and groans my name. It makes me shiver, and I wish I could watch him for hours. He looks so beautiful, standing there in front of me, stroking himself, putting himself on display for me. But he's getting too close, and I have to stop it.

"That's enough," I say softly, not unkindly, but the look he gives me is heartbreaking. He wants to keep going more than anything. And he doesn't stop right away, but can't help rubbing himself a few more times before he's finally still, panting a little. I can see the moisture on his cock and his hand, and I know just how close he'd been. It was cruel to make him stop.

But he did stop.

He stopped for me.

This gives me pause for a minute, and my dominant aggression seems to melt away just long enough for me to feel a little guilty. I resolve that later, I will make it up to him. Right now, though... right now is a different story entirely.

"Put your hands behind your back."

He complies with a bit of a shaky sigh, moving his hands slowly behind him and I have the sudden urge to touch his wrists, to pull them backward roughly, to wrap them in silk, to secure them in steel. I think for a moment, and then say, "Now come here."

When he walks, I can see every muscle in his body move, and he looks so very strong standing in front of me. But I don't want him standing. Rather than waste my voice on him, I stare at him instead and immediately, he gets the idea, dropping to his knees without complaint.

I lean toward him, reach out my hand and run my fingertip over his piss-slit.

He nearly convulses, and gives a little yelp of surprised, agonized pleasure. I know he can barely stand being touched there, and I'm curious to see just how much he can take. I lean forward again and he rears back for a split second before realizing his mistake and taking his position once more. This time, I use a little more pressure when I rub the head of his cock and he groans loudly in his incredible voice. It makes me a bit dizzy.

The third time is a bit more difficult.

I reach for him but he whimpers and lifts his head to stare at me. His eyes implore me with such sweet sincere innocence. "Maggie, please," he whispers, tears standing on his eyelashes. He begs me with those deep blue liquid eyes and I almost give in.

But unfortunately for Sergei, I blink and look away, and am suddenly irritated. He always does this; he will always try and use his beautiful eyes to get me to break because he knows it's my weakness. I hate it when he does it, because he knows he can get to me.

I hate it that he knows he can get to me.

I shove him away from me as I stand up, and he falls back, catching himself with his hands. I start to tell him to get up and then decide against it. He's pissed me off, and now I will see him humiliated until he cries.

I grab the free end of the pale yellow tie still hanging around his neck and yank it forward, throwing him onto all fours. He looks so shocked that I have to bite back a vengeful giggle.

I want to tie him up now, and I want him to crawl to the chair. I tug on his "leash" but he doesn't move, and the look he gives me could turn the sun to ice. He doesn't like this one bit. I've already made him crawl to me once tonight; even that little humiliation took a lot out of him. But this, being treated like an animal, forced to crawl around wherever I pull him, this is asking a great deal.

I kneel down to him and glare at him. "Come on," I say angrily, yanking the tie a bit harder.

He glares back at me and holds his ground.

I sigh with exasperation. "I mean it. Come on, now." He still doesn't budge, his face crimson and his eyes cold. I'm not getting anywhere like this, and I'm not about to give up, not now. I change tactics.

"Come on, baby, please? Please? For me?" I ask him quietly in the tone I know will always make him melt. I can see his eyes soften but he remains motionless. I put out my hand and run it gently through his hair, stroking him, running my fingertips over his forehead, across his lips. He turns his head toward my palm, rubbing his cheek against my hand. He wants to make me happy, wants to hear me praise him, and at last, he decides that if he has to go through this terrible humiliation to get my approval, he will do it.

He breaks; he chokes back a little sob and his head drops but he begins to crawl slowly in my direction.

"That's it," I murmur, guiding him toward the chair by his tie. By the time we reach that chair, I can see he's shaking with shame, see the tears falling from his eyes. It looks so perfect. I kneel down again to him and stroke his hair gently. "Mine," I tell him quietly as I stroke. "My pet."

He whines deep in his throat and leans closer to me. I pat him for a little while, and then say, "Now, stand up."

He's seen the chair and seen the restraints already arranged. He knows what's coming and although he starts to tremble, he stands up obediently. I stand in front of him, position him right in front of the chair and run my hands over his chest and shoulders, indulging myself for a minute before giving him a little push. He falls easily into the chair and I stand over him, before him, grinning hungrily.

I take his right wrist and strap it firmly to the chair arm, pulling it tight and making sure there's virtually no slack. He doesn't look at me while I continue tying him down, wrists to the chair arms, ankles to the chair legs. I don't really care one way or the other.

I've got exactly what I want.

I lean over him, my hands on the back of the chair on either side of him, and lick my lips slowly. He groans breathlessly and I can see him trying to wriggle out of the restraints. It never fails; no matter how many times we've gone through this, no matter how many times I've tied him up, he still tries to get free. It borders on pathetic and I always have to steel myself against the sight.

At long last, he stops struggling and collapses against the back of the chair, breathing a little more heavily than he has been. I just stand there and watch him. He will always try to get free, but he always gives in, in the end.

His lower lip is quivering just a bit, knowing that he's absolutely helpless and that the things I plan to do to him will be unbearable.

But he has a way out.

He always has a way out, I make sure of that. Nevertheless, out of all the times we've done this, he's used it twice. And both of those times were extremes on my part.

Tonight, though, he stays quiet, willing to go along with whatever I decide.

I kneel down in front of him, a change from what we're used to. Most times, it's Sergei who does the kneeling. But I kneel just the same, positioning one of the pillows from the couch under my knees and staring up at him for a minute. He knows what's coming, and he begins to whimper and twist in his chair again.

I reach my right hand out toward him and brush my fingers up his cock lightly. I can see him actually relax at that touch, surprised, expecting me to be far more ruthless. But right now, I just want to get him hard again. He lost a little excitement while bargaining with me about crawling, but while I trail my fingers along the length of his shaft, he again becomes rock hard, moaning just a little every now and then. Just to make sure, I wrap my hand around him and give him a few strong strokes, and his head falls back.

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