Pegging Confession: I Loved It Too Much

Okay, confession time, because I have a reputation to protect and this story is going to ruin it in the best way. I am the brat. I am the one in charge. I do not get flustered, I do not get needy, and I absolutely do not lose control. That is the rule. Except for the night I broke every single one of those rules, and I would do it again tomorrow.

It started at a rooftop party a friend of mine threw. I was in this little red dress that barely qualified as clothing, doing what I do best, which is holding court and making every guy in a ten-foot radius nervous. And there was this guy, cute in that nervous-puppy way, who kept orbiting me all night until he finally worked up the courage to talk to me. We hit it off. He was funny, he bought me drinks without being weird about it, and when he walked me to my car he kissed me like he meant it.

A few dates later we ended up back at his place, and somewhere between the couch and the bedroom, with his hands shaking a little as he unzipped my dress, he told me his secret. He had never told anyone. He wanted to be pegged. He said it like he was confessing to a crime, all red-faced and stammering, waiting for me to laugh at him or walk out.

Here is my pegging confession, the real one: I laughed. Not at him, exactly. I laughed because I was delighted. I leaned back on his couch, crossed my legs nice and slow so he could see exactly what he was missing, and told him that if he wanted it that badly, he was going to have to earn it. You should have seen his face. Like Christmas came early and Santa was wearing a red dress.

I made him wait a whole week. That was rule number one. If he could behave himself and be sweet to me for seven days, no whining, no rushing, then I would consider it. He texted me every morning like a good boy. He took me to dinner and didn't even try to rush dessert. By the time the night came, he was practically vibrating.

I showed up at his apartment with a bag, and I let him watch me unpack it on his bed. The harness. The lube. A couple of toys in different sizes because I am thorough and I like options. He just sat there on the edge of the mattress, already hard, watching me lay everything out like I was setting a table. I told him to strip and get on all fours, and the way he scrambled to obey told me everything I needed to know about how long he had been waiting for someone to take charge of him.

I started slow because I am a brat, not a monster. I teased him with my fingers first, one, then two, stretching him out while I whispered the filthiest things I could think of right against his ear. He was moaning into his own pillow, his whole body trembling, and I had not even put the harness on yet. When I finally strapped in and pressed against him, he made this sound, this broken little whimper, that went straight through me.

And that is when it happened. That is the part I am confessing. I was supposed to be doing him a favor. I was supposed to be the cool, detached domme indulging her boy toy. But the second I was inside him, the second I felt how completely he had surrendered to me, something lit up in my spine like a struck match. I started moving faster. Harder. I grabbed his hair and pulled his head back and told him he belonged to me tonight, and I meant it in a way that scared me a little.

He was leaking all over his own sheets without anyone touching him. I could feel him getting close just from the rhythm, from being taken so completely, and I decided I was not done with him yet. I slowed down to a cruel, shallow tease and made him beg. Actually beg, out loud, for me to finish him. He did. He begged so pretty I almost felt bad. Almost.

When I finally let him come, it was the most intense thing I had ever watched. His whole body seized up, he cried out into the mattress, and I kept going through every aftershock because I could, because he was mine until I said otherwise. Afterward he just collapsed, shaking, and curled up against me like I was the only solid thing in the room.

Here is the part that still gets me. I was soaked. Not a little. Completely, embarrassingly soaked, and he had barely touched me all night. Taking him like that, owning every sound he made, had wound me up tighter than I had been in months. So I climbed on top of him, still wearing the harness, and rode his face until I came so hard I saw stars. He didn't complain. He held my hips and did exactly what he was told, because he had learned his lesson.

Now he texts me every week asking when he can have it again, and I make him wait, because waiting is good for him. But between you and me? I am counting the days too. I just can't let him know that. A brat has to keep some secrets, and this one is my favorite.