Mistress Peach: Collar of Control Part 1

The executive office was bathed in the golden glow of dimmed recessed lighting, the floor-to-ceiling privacy glass casting long, sinuous shadows across the polished oak floors. The scent of cedarwood and vanilla curled through the air, thick and intoxicating, clinging to every breath like a promise. Mistress Peach reclined on the deep black leather sofa, one leg crossed over the other, her thigh-high boots gleaming under the low light. The corset hugged her torso like a second skin, the boning pressing her breasts upward until they threatened to spill over the lace-edged cups. Her fingers drummed idly against the armrest, the sharp click-click of her nails against leather the only sound in the room—until the door opened.

He stepped inside, his presence filling the space before he’d even fully entered. Tall, broad-shouldered, still dressed in the tailored suit that marked him as her superior in the cold fluorescence of the corporate world. But here? Here, he was nothing more than her pet, his dark eyes already hooded with the kind of hunger that made her thighs clench. The door shut behind him with a quiet snick, and the lock engaged. His breath hitched—just slightly—but she caught it. Oh, she always caught it.

“Kneel,” she murmured, her Irish lilt wrapping around the word like silk.

He didn’t hesitate. The expensive fabric of his suit whispered against the floor as he sank to his knees, his hands resting on his thighs, his posture perfect. Submissive. Hers. Mistress Peach uncrossed her legs, letting her boots plant firmly on the ground as she leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees. The movement made her corset strain, the swell of her cleavage deepening, and his gaze flickered—just for a second—before he forced his eyes back to the floor.

“Good boy,” she purred, reaching out to trail a single fingernail along his jawline. His skin was warm, the faintest stubble prickling against her touch. “But we both know you’re not here to be good, don’t we?”

His throat worked, his voice hoarse with need as he answered. “No, Mistress.”

She smirked, standing in one fluid motion, her boots clicking against the wood as she circled him. The leather of her corset creaked softly with each step, the sound obscene in the quiet room. “Strip. Slowly.” Her voice was velvet, but the command beneath it was steel.

His fingers trembled—just barely—as he began to undo his tie, the silk sliding through his collar with a quiet hiss. The jacket followed, draped over the back of a nearby chair, then the cufflinks, the buttons of his shirt, each one revealed more of the taut, muscular plane of his chest. By the time he reached his belt, his cock was already straining against his trousers, the outline thick and obvious. Mistress Peach hummed in approval, stepping closer as he pushed the fabric down his hips, his briefs following a second later.

Naked. Finally.

She let her gaze rake over him, from the broad expanse of his shoulders down to the heavy, flushed length of his cock, already leaking at the tip. Precum glistened, a silver thread stretching from his slit to the dark hair at the base. Her mouth watered. “Hands behind your back,” she ordered, and he obeyed instantly, lacing his fingers together at the small of his back, his chest lifting with each sharp inhale.

Mistress Peach reached into the hidden compartment beneath the sofa’s side table, withdrawing the collar—a supple band of black leather, lined with soft suede, the silver O-ring already attached. She stepped closer, close enough that the heat of his body radiated against her, close enough that she could smell the musk of his arousal, the faintest hint of his cologne beneath it. “Lower your head,” she whispered.

He dipped his chin to his chest, exposing the strong column of his throat. She fastened the collar around his neck, the buckle snapping into place with a finality that made his cock jerk. Her fingers lingered, tracing the line of the leather, then gripping the O-ring to give a sharp, testing tug. His breath stuttered, a quiet gasp escaping him, and she felt the way his pulse hammered beneath her touch.

“Mine,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. Then louder, firmer: “On your hands and knees, pet.”

The command sent a visible shiver through him. He sank forward, his palms pressing into the plush rug beneath them, his ass lifting just enough to put himself on display. The position stretched him out, his cock swinging heavy between his legs, his balls drawn up tight. Mistress Peach retrieved the leash—a matching black leather lead with a silver clasp—and hooked it to his collar with a quiet click. The sound made his shoulders tense, his breath coming faster now, shallow little pants that betrayed just how badly he wanted this.

She gave the leash an experimental tug, and he crawled forward, his movements eager but controlled. The muscles in his back rippled with each shift, the dim lighting casting shadows into the dips of his spine. Mistress Peach circled him, the leash held loosely in one hand, her boots clicking with each step. “Such a pretty pet,” she mused, reaching out to trail her fingers down the curve of his ass. He shuddered, his cock twitching, a fresh bead of precum welling at the tip. “Look at you, already dripping for me.”

He groaned, the sound low and rough, his forehead pressing into the rug. “Mistress, please—”

“Please, what?” She crouched beside him, her corset straining with the movement, her breasts threatening to spill free. She cupped his chin, forcing his gaze to meet hers. His pupils were blown, his lips parted, his need written across every inch of his face. “Use your words, pet. Tell me what you want.”

His voice was a rasp. “I want to serve you.”

She smiled, slow and dangerous, before standing again. The leash tightened as she guided him in a slow circle around the room, parading him like the prize he was. His cock bobbed with each movement, his breath coming in sharp little gasps every time the leather tugged at his throat. The windows reflected them—a goddess in black leather, her pet crawling at her feet, his body flushed and trembling with restraint.

When she’d had her fill of the display, she led him back to the sofa, releasing the leash with a flick of her wrist. “Sit back on your heels,” she instructed, and he obeyed, his thighs spreading just enough to frame his erection. Mistress Peach reclined against the armrest, her legs parting slightly, the tiny lace knickers she wore doing little to hide the damp heat between her thighs. The scent of her arousal was unmistakable now, mingling with the cedarwood, rich and intoxicating.

“Start with your mouth,” she ordered, crooking a finger at him.

He didn’t need to be told twice.

His hands found her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh above her stockings as he leaned in, his breath hot through the lace. The first press of his lips against her cunt made her thighs tremble, a quiet moan slipping from her throat. He was good at this—his tongue flat and broad as he dragged it up the length of her, the lace growing damp beneath his attention. She arched into him, her head tilting back against the sofa, her fingers threading into his hair.

“That’s it,” she breathed, her voice already thickening with pleasure. “Just like that, pet. Worship me.”

He groaned against her, the vibration making her hips jerk, and then his tongue was slipping beneath the lace, finding her bare and soaked. The first proper stroke of his tongue against her clit wrenched a gasp from her, her back arching, her nails scraping against his scalp. He worked her with slow, deliberate laps, his fingers tightening on her hips as if he could pull her closer, deeper into his mouth. The sounds he made—wet, obscene little noises, the sloppy drag of his tongue, the quiet moan of satisfaction—filled the room, driving her higher.

She let him work her like that for long, luxurious minutes, her body growing heavier, her breaths shallower. But when her thighs began to tremble, when the coil of pleasure in her belly tightened almost to the point of snapping, she gripped his hair and pulled him back.

His lips were glossy with her, his chin wet, his eyes dark and desperate. “Mistress—”

“Not yet,” she murmured, her voice husky. She pushed him back until he was kneeling again, his cock jutting obscenely from his body, the tip swollen and dark with need. “Your hands now.”

He didn’t hesitate. His fingers slid up her thighs, pushing the lace aside, and then he was touching her—inside her—two thick fingers sinking into her cunt with a slow, deliberate curl. She gasped, her head falling back, her hips lifting off the sofa as he found that perfect, maddening spot inside her. His thumb circled her clit, the calloused pad rough against her sensitive flesh, and she moaned, her nails digging into the leather beneath her.

“Fuck, yes,” she hissed, her voice breaking. “Just like that, pet. Make me feel it.”

He obeyed, his fingers working her with a rhythm that bordered on brutal, his breath coming in sharp little pants as he watched her fall apart beneath his touch. Her walls clenched around his fingers, her body trembling, her orgasm building like a storm—

And then she stopped him.

Her hand shot out, gripping his wrist, stilling his movements. He whimpered, his cock twitching violently, his entire body strung tight with need. “Mistress, please—”

“Not yet,” she repeated, her voice a dark purr. She sat up, her chest heaving, her nipples hard points against the lace of her corset. “You’ve earned your reward, pet. But remember the rules.” She leaned forward, her lips brushing the shell of his ear as she whispered, “You don’t cum until I say so.”

His entire body shuddered, a broken sound tearing from his throat. “Yes, Mistress.”

She pushed him back onto the rug, her hands going to his chest, shoving him onto his back. His cock stood straight up, flushed and leaking, the head already slick with precum. She straddled him, her lace knickers pressed against his length, the heat of her cunt searing through the flimsy fabric. He groaned, his hands flying to her hips, his fingers digging in as she rocked against him, the friction maddening.

“Fuck me,” she commanded, rising up onto her knees.

He didn’t need to be told twice.

His hands gripped her waist, lifting her just enough to position himself beneath her, and then she was sinking down, her walls stretching around the thick, throbbing length of his cock. They both groaned in unison, the sound raw and filthy, her head falling forward as she took him to the hilt. He filled her so perfectly, the stretch burning in the best way, her cunt clenching around him as if she never wanted to let go.

“Fuck,” she gasped, her nails raking down his chest. “Just like that, pet. Fuck me.”

He obeyed, his hips snapping upward, driving into her with deep, punishing thrusts. The sofa creaked beneath them, the sound lost beneath the wet slap of skin, the obscene squelch of her cunt taking him over and over. His cock hit that perfect spot inside her with every thrust, his balls slapping against her ass, the lewd sounds filling the room, driving her higher, harder.

“Harder,” she demanded, her voice a whimper. “Fuck me harder, pet. Make me feel it.”

He growled, his hands gripping her hips tight as he pounded into her, his cock swelling inside her, his breath coming in ragged gasps. She could feel him getting closer, his thrusts growing erratic, his body tensing beneath her—

And then she stopped him.

Her hand snapped out, gripping the base of his cock, her fingers squeezing just tight enough to cut off his release. He cried out, his body jerking, his cock throbbing violently in her grip. “Mistress—fuck—”

“Not yet,” she whispered, her voice a dark, satisfied purr. She leaned down, her lips brushing his ear as she felt his cock pulse helplessly in her hand, his entire body trembling with the effort of holding back. “You don’t cum until I say so, remember?”

His breath came in sharp, desperate gasps, his fingers clawing at the rug beneath them. “Yes, Mistress.”

She released him, sitting back with a satisfied smirk as she watched him pant, his cock still rock-hard and dripping, his body strung tight with denied release. Her own orgasm hovered just out of reach, her cunt aching, her clit throbbing. But she wasn’t done with him yet.

Not by a long shot.

She leaned down, her lips brushing his in a slow, teasing kiss. “Such a good boy,” she murmured against his mouth. “But we’re far from finished.”