Damn! It Feels Good To Be Called “boy”

Last night was my and my husband’s anniversary. We’re not much for pomp so as usual we just spent the day together. My plan was to simply go to a nice dinner, then come home, share a shower and have him fuck me (never an easy task, he’s got a huge cock). So before we left, I cleaned out, cleaned up, got dressed and off we went. Dinner was lovely, the drinks at the place were great. We tried walking to our favorite bookstore, but it was closed. So was the hookah bar. So we decided it would be fun to get sloshed at home and really go at each other.

We got home, he pushed me against the wall and unbuttoned my shirt. It stayed that way while we had a smoke out on the porch. We mixed a new favorite cocktail and imbibed, chatted, and had a great time together. Done with that we went inside to watch Game of Thrones. I told him I was going to put a butt plug in my ass to get ready. I came out in my underwear and robe and he’d changed into nothing but his lace-up jock (my favorite). He told me to make him a drink. I did, and we cuddled on the couch.

After a little while, he started to tweak my nipples pretty damn hard. He reached into my underwear to start beating on the butt plug. He started to order me around, sending me on little tasks. Get him a drink, get him the nail clippers, get his phone. And he started to call me “boy.”

Almost immediately on hearing that moniker, what little training I’ve had kicked in. “Yes Sir,” and “thank you, Sir,” started to flow from my lips. When I retrieved something, I waited by the couch to be given permission to sit back down. It felt so natural, so normal, so right.

Ordered to the shower, we cleaned each other up. He took out the butt plug and put his cock in its place. He scrubbed his boy clean, like a piece of property. I didn’t need to be told to get a towel and dry him off. He went to the bedroom while I dried myself.

In bed, it was “eat my ass, boy” and “suck on that cock, boy.” He had my sit on his face (he loves to eat me out), and then turn around and sit on his cock. It normally hurts like a bitch, but he slid right in. It was amazing.

The details are actually a little hazy, now. We had been drinking, after all (and I rarely drink, so it hit me hard). But the flashes of memory just give him happy, fulfilled shivers. I sat on his giant cock, I rode it like a horse. He slapped my ass, I counted out loud (12 times) and thanked him every time. He told me to cum on his chest. I jacked off with his cock in my ass, with him watching me, objectifying me, thrusting in me. He put me on my knees, my face buried in a pillow, and fucked me hard. I screamed and shouted at the pleasure and pain. I said “thank you, Sir” with almost every thrust. He put the ball gag in my mouth, and I screamed some more. He pulled out and had me make out with him while he finished.

And he called me “boy” the whole time. Afterwards, the orders continued. Clean him up. Get him water. Take care of the dog. “boy.” I was melting.

Being called “boy” was like soaking in a warm pool. It enveloped me, it felt right. I would already do anything for my man, but when he called me boy, it flipped from serving just because I love him, to serving because I’m wired to serve – because service is a big part of my identity. The change was automatic, like a light switch in my psyche. I forgot everything else, I forgot any shame, any shyness. There was no hesitation. It was my pleasure to take the pain, because it was pleasing my Sir, and I was his boy.

This morning, it still feels so damn good to have been called “boy.” For my husband, it’s not much more than a fun little sexy game. He’s not wired as a Dom. But last night made it all that much clearer: I am a boy who lives to serve.

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  1. […] are lots of little vignettes of how I know – I mean how I truly know – that I’m a “boy.” I guess […]

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