Marking My Men Read online

  MARKING MY MEN

  Bink Cummings

  Copyright © 2018 by: Bink Cummings

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

  Editor- Mary Bevinger

  Proofreader- Judy Zweifel

  Beta reader- Heather Hendrickson

  Cover Designer- Bink Cummings

  Photo provided from: Big Stock

  Ebook Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to the Author and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Blurb

  CHAPTER 1 – Meet the Mistress

  CHAPTER 2 – The Artistry Of Masochism

  CHAPTER 3 – Colors Of Submission

  CHAPTER 4 – Friendship & Fuckery

  CHAPTER 5 – Textual Encounters Of The Hot Kind

  CHAPTER 6 – Demons & Domination

  CHAPTER 7 – May the Truth Set You Free

  EPILOGUE – Forever is What You Make It

  Author Note

  Other Works by Bink Cummings:

  Bink Cummings Social Media

  BLURB

  ________

  Two days a week I meet my men in the dungeon-separately.

  Where we play and indulge in our deepest desires.

  Where we fall in love not only with pleasure, but each other.

  For years, it's been enough for us.

  Until, it's not.

  Somebody wants more.

  With the demons one of us harbors and the pain another craves...can love truly conquer all?

  Warning: Contains heavy sexual content not suitable for everyone. Including: BDSM, femdom, and bisexual themes. Proceed with caution. You have been warned.

  For ages 18+.

  Stand-alone novel.

  This book doesn’t represent BDSM lifestyles as a whole. Only a small piece of the world that is oftentimes misunderstood.

  Remember to practice- safe, sane, and consensual sex, in all forms.

  To Deb, the initiator of this massive kink fest.

  Marking My Men would’ve never been possible without

  your wild imagination first drilling the idea into mine.

  You created a monster of filthy proportions.

  Thanks for being you.

  1

  ________

  MEET THE MISTRESS

  “My milkshake brings all the naughty subs to my yard,” I belt my own lyrical rendition at the top of my lungs, swiveling my wide hips to the beat in a black lace thong, and simple spaghetti strap tank top. It’s cleaning day, for now. In about an hour I get to meet up with one of my most favorite people in the entire world. I’m giddy with anticipation.

  Shoving a piece of onyx-colored hair out of my face; I pull the freshly laundered roleplay garments from my dryer, and rest the heaping pile on top to hang. To avoid wrinkles, I have to do it right away. The French maid costume is a pain in the ass to keep crisp. With my luck, I’ll have to iron the ruffles this time. The slutty nurse outfit isn’t much better. You don’t realize how tedious caring for fetish wear is until you have to wash it twice a week. Faux leather and latex outfits are done by hand, as is lace. Then they hang to dry in my spacious laundry room. I had this area gutted and expanded five years ago to service all my needs in one central location. The biggest addition was the stainless steel sink with marble countertop on the opposite side of where my washer and dryer sit. There’s a wall of cupboards above it that houses all sorts of kinky stuff. I also had them build a closet to store typical household cleaning tools, like my mop, broom, and vacuum. The bright Playboy Bunny pink walls are my favorite part, aside from the drawer dishwasher under the counter. I know a dishwasher in your laundry room, weird, right? Not for me. Where else do you clean dildos and butt plugs? In your kitchen dishwasher? By hand? Over my dead body. It’s hard enough scrubbing dried cum from lace. Sanitizing sex toys I leave to the machines, for the most part, but those damn vibes have to be done by hand. Another thing I’m not fond of. But it’s part of the job description.

  Twirling on my tippy toes, shakin’ what my mama gave me, I separate the need-to-fold from the need-to-hang garments.

  I guess this is the portion of our introduction where I say “Hi,” like we’re in an AA meeting, then confess I’m a sex worker. Pish posh. Don’t you even think for one second that I’m a prostitute, I’m not. I’m what people in my industry call a ProDomme. In simpler terms, a professional mistress. Basically, I fulfill men’s deepest, filthiest, dick-rubbing fantasies without engaging in sex. We explore kinks most men are too afraid to admit to anyone besides themselves. That’s where I come in. To free their wily ways, so to speak.

  If you’re a guy who wants to dress up as a maid and be spanked with a wooden spoon ’til you come your brains out, I’m your woman. If you hate your peen so much you tape it between your legs and need to punish it with a flogger, I’m the one you give a ring-a-ding. Want to roll around in garlic buttered noodles dressed up as a slutty chef? Need to be spanked by a high heel while a plug vibrates in your pert little bum? How about tied to a St. Andrew’s Cross while I pour hot wax down your body and recite verses from the Bible in a seductive tone? If you have a penis and any portion of what I mentioned gets you horny, then I’m your gal—Mistress Ronan, if you wanna get technical. Anything less respectful and I’ll see you under my boot heel.

  Full disclosure, those scenes are merely the tippy top of the iceberg where my job is concerned. I bet you’re wondering, did you really do all those crazy things? The answer is hell yes. Sometimes more than once. For reference, soy candles are the way to go during play. They have a lower melting point and are easier to remove from chest hair. You know, in case you’re ever in the mood to experiment.

  Belting out the last verse of Milkshake, I shake out the maid costume that a client donned yesterday, slip it onto a hanger, and hook it on one of the two fancy ladders suspended from the ceiling. The idea to use these as drying racks came from Pinterest. What a nifty site that is. Next, I shake out a pair of cotton pleasure shorts and fold them into fourths. I love these wannabe boxers. They’re the simplest way to let your submissive dress up while keeping their dick and asshole readily available. That’s imperative in my dungeon. I tend to have a lot of clients who crave anal play. More so than friends of mine who are also in the business. I must attract those type of guys. Not that I mind. Prostate stimulation is mighty fun. You’ve never truly lived until you’ve had a man sob to come when you’re pegging his man-g and nothing else. It’s the ultimate power. Not to mention it makes me super wet—like Niagara Falls.

  Before we go any further, I feel it’s necessary I dispel any sort of bullshit misconceptions you might have about my profession. First and foremost, you need to understand that this is a job. Where you might go to the office every day to your boring desk job, no offense, I go to my basement. Which I converted into the dungeon of my dreams eight years ago, complete with a separate entrance. I work set hours. My potential clients fill out applications to be considered a submissi
ve. I conduct interviews with each candidate before accepting them as a client. Yes, I might fulfill men’s desires, or act as a quasi-therapist for $300 an hour. But I don’t give blowjobs, have sex with clients in any capacity, or allow them to touch me above the knee. Ready to quit your job and become a ProDomme yet? All of my toys, aside from plugs, are covered in condoms when in use—safety first. The plugs themselves are client owned, and I have individual boxes for each one. That trusty label maker has to come in handy sometime. At the core of it all… every single thing we do is safe, sane, and one hundred percent consensual. Right down to the jelly-filled donuts men like to eat off my toes. They are kinda cute—my toes. Not that I’m into foot fetishes myself.

  Finishing the laundry, another upbeat song blares through my speakers as I dance, sing, and let loose until the task is complete. Then I go about the handful of other things I need done before Tyler arrives. The colorful array of dildos are removed from the dishwasher and placed in a wire basket that my assistant uses to carry them down to the basement. My dungeon isn’t a single large space like one might think. It’s split into various fetish rooms that all serve different purposes. Kendra, my loyal, albeit feisty assistant, who books my appointments alongside performing maid duties, is the cornerstone of my operation. She oversees the scenes, prepares for them ahead of time, even wipes up the cum mess afterward. She’s worth every penny I pay her, and then some.

  By the time I’ve completed the necessary duties one must tolerate when running your own kink-based business, I head to my bedroom that’s way down yonder in my 1950s brick ranch, here in good ole Charlotteton, Kentucky. Half of my mansion-quality walk-in closet houses what I refer to as my street clothes, the other half is where my play garb hangs. For Tyler, I select a pair of black thigh-highs that have a stripe up the back and bow adorning the top. They pair nicely with my black, bandage-style bustier, complete with strappy neckline, built-in garter straps, and O-ring details for an overall saucy dominatrix vibe. To finish off the look, I slip on a sheer, crotchless thong. For my usual clients, I wear entirely different attire that encompasses the stereotypical Mistress feel—leather, vinyl, corsets, and thigh-high boots. Tonight, I opt for simple black pumps. They’re Tyler’s favorite, thus making them a favorite of mine.

  In the bathroom, I remove my old-school Caboodle of makeup from the cupboard and paint my face on. Red lips, black kohl around my hazel eyes, smoky eyeshadow, falsies, and gloss to make my lips gleam under the dim lights of the dungeon. Untying my long, black hair, I comb my fingers through the unruly curls to tame them. It’s pointless. They never want to comply. To make them yield, I apply hair product to my palms and work it through the thick strands. Brushes do nothing but worsen the curls, so I try to avoid them at all costs. When I’m satisfied with the results, I sweep my fingers into the top of my head and begin the task of French braiding this wild beast of mine.

  “Ronan.” Kendra pokes her head into the bathroom.

  “Yeah?” I meet her gaze through the mirror above my double vanity.

  She leans a shoulder against the doorjamb, arms tucked loosely across her perky breasts. “He’s here.”

  Hanging my head, I grip the marble top and take a deep breath, willing my heart not to go berserk. A pointless endeavor on my part. The heart wants what it wants, and Tyler is hers, through and through. Half faithful to him, the other to Rob—the two men who make up my entire world, beyond job, reason, or mundane life. They’re my better halves. The two souls on this planet who’ve bonded with mine. Five years ago, I would’ve said falling in love was impossible. That is… until Rob came into my life. Two years after, Tyler fell into our life, fitting seamlessly. Now’s not the time to go over this thing we share. He’s here, in my house, and I’m already growing wet at the mere thought. Damn, my pulse is thrumming. Mouth salivating. I cannot wait to see him, even if I have to pretend I’m not overjoyed by his presence.

  Another cleansing breath in and out before the Domme veil drops over my face. “Already?” I ask, tone casual. Kendra can see straight through my façade. We’ve been friends long enough. My composure isn’t for her, though. It’s for me to keep a clear mind. Being a giddy schoolgirl doesn’t work well for what I’m about to do.

  “He’s only ten minutes early. That’s better than last week,” she supplies, pretending she doesn’t see my inner struggle. I adore her for that.

  Tyler was an hour early last Monday. He got the flogging of his life for it, too. Rules are rules. If you don’t obey your Mistress’s word, you get punished. Not that I mind my man being a bit overeager to see me. It’s flattering as hell. Still, my rules are not meant to be broken. You toe the line or suffer the consequences.

  “Did he—”

  “Closer is already playing,” she cuts in.

  “Is he—”

  “Yes. Naked.”

  “Did you—”

  “You know I wouldn’t do that.”

  Right. Duh. I know she wouldn’t, but that doesn’t stop me from asking. Anyone seeing my man nude besides me, as illogical as it sounds, makes me itch to mark him. To brand his perfect pale skin for all to see. I know he already bears the marks of our love every single day. Ones that are special to only us. But the deep, almost seductive craving to mar him shoots fire through my veins. My fingers twitch in anticipation. Pussy, desperate for release.

  Tyler isn’t like other clients. He’s not really a client at all. He’s my submissive. The rules do not apply to him. None of them do. Aside from the most basic one—that I’m his Domme and he’s mine.

  It’s time to play.

  2

  ________

  THE ARTISTRY OF MASOCHISM

  Sauntering up the dimly lit hallway of my dungeon, as the solid click-click of my heels resonate underfoot, I mentally prepare for our session. Tyler is unlike anyone I’ve met before. Not only is he gorgeous inside and out, he’s nine years my junior, a world-renowned artist, and… deaf. That’s why his playlist of rock music rattles the walls, the seductive pulse threading its way through your skin, claiming your heartbeat. He needs to feel the inflections since he can’t hear it.

  I poise my hand on the cool knob, forming my fingers around the brass. Behind the door is our place. The room I share only with Tyler and Rob, no one else. Here is where the music resides. Where bonds are formed. Inside, will be Tyler, naked and waiting, his cock hard. Although we can speak back and forth like you and me, words will not be spoken in our place. Tyler’s lip-reading is second to none. But there will be no need for that, either. Sign is our language of love when in session. Three years ago when I first met the fun, enthusiastic man I fell for, the barrier between the hearing and deaf didn’t really exist. If he didn’t have a habit of signing alongside his talking, you couldn’t tell the man before you was any different. So, for a while, that’s how we played. Learning each other’s nuances. Until I needed more. Six months into our S&M relationship, I started taking night classes to learn ASL. Thanks to that, along with Tyler’s help, I’ve become fluent in sign. In my humble opinion, it’s that extra step that brought us closer and subsequently together as a couple, no longer client and ProDomme, but lovers in the purest form.

  Shoulders pushed back, I adjust my average boobs for optimal oomph, wiggle my toes inside these heels to center myself, and enter our kinkdom. Not wanting Tyler to discern my enthusiasm, my expression remains neutral as I slowly take in the room, not the body standing in the middle. The recessed lighting overhead provides ideal ambiance, illuminating sporadic spotlights on the hardwood floor. They are perfect to place your sub in should you wish to watch them perform. The brightness blinds their ability to see you well, much like an actor on stage. The heather-gray walls are romantic. Yet, the variety of instruments hanging from floor to ceiling on one wall illustrates the room’s purpose. Cat o' nine tails, whips, floggers, paddles, shackles, among many other tools of my trade are purposely hung in plain view—meant to entice my men, not scare them into submission. The black St. An
drew’s Cross serves as the focal point of the space. I eye the top half above Tyler’s head, refusing to reward him with a direct perusal of his form. Like any good sub, he has to wait. In the furthest corner is a plush, velvet chair with arms. I call it my throne—the perfect spot for my men to worship me. Across from it is Tyler’s makeshift painting studio, complete with easel and small cart for his essentials. You’ll see why this matters later. On the opposite side of the room, closest to where I stand, is a matte black, four-poster bed. Evidently, Kendra decided red silk sheets were ideal for tonight’s events, and I couldn’t agree more. I’m wet just imagining what’s to come.

  One leisurely step at a time, I enter and shut the door with seductive grace. My back to Tyler, I run both palms down the front of my not-so-flat stomach, wicking away the sweat that’s gathered on them. This is not a job where you can be self-conscious about your body. You either embrace what you have, or you fake it. I do a bit of both. My mama didn’t give me model good looks, height, or a lithe body. The last time I saw single digits in clothing sizes was in middle school. Sure, I might not have stretch marks, but I have a spot or two of cellulite. I’m painfully average in height, coming in at five foot five barefoot. In the world of Judgey McJudgersons, my body type would be considered pear. These hips and ass are what my submissives call luscious. At least the two that are mine do. And that’s good enough for me. Life’s too short to worry about body composition. Some women are lucky to be hourglasses, while I’m over here rockin’ junk in the trunk with a pair of grapefruits to keep me company up top. It could be worse.

  Expelling a rushed breath, I briefly close my eyes and willfully uncage the rabid depravity from my inner sanctum. It’s at the deepest part of me that I keep hidden on a daily basis. The dirtiest pieces of my soul. The ones that latched on to Tyler during our first session, recognizing him as a kindred spirit. I may not be a sadist at heart, but there’s part of me that craves something as equally addictive—marking. To see what my mastery has inflicted gives me the greatest pleasure. To have a man proudly wear my brand is the highest of highs. So I must prepare myself to view the gift of marred flesh that Tyler carries from our last scene.