His Turn - Part 2 of Discovery in BDSM

 His Turn

Part 2 of Discovery in BDSM

Story by Lisa

Story Idea by Kith

This story has 2 young friends engaging in Fellatio (oral sex). If that offends you or you are not to read then do not read. 

NOTE - If you have not read part one please click the link and read it first - "Best Friends First Domination"

https://lisa-fiction.blogspot.com/2026/08/best-friends-first-domination.html

The phone stopped buzzing. The screen went dark. Jonathan's hand was still on my face, his thumb frozen mid-stroke against my cheekbone, and for a long moment neither of us moved.

"It can wait," he said finally.

I shook my head. "It's your internship."

"It's Saturday night." His voice had that new roughness in it, the one that made my stomach flip. "It can wait."

But the spell was broken. Or maybe not broken—shifted. The frantic heat of the last hour had settled into something slower, deeper, like embers after a fire. I was still naked, still trembling faintly, still pressed against his chest. He was still fully clothed, still hard, making no move to leave.

We ended up on my bed, not in the positions either of us might have imagined, but sitting cross-legged facing each other, my comforter wrapped around my shoulders. He'd insisted on that. The vulnerability of being naked had been thrilling, but now the thrill had faded into a different kind of exposure—emotional, not physical. The blanket was his doing. Practical.

"How long have you known?" he asked. "About the... being embarrassed thing."

The question should have been strange, considering everything we'd just done. But it felt natural. Like we were picking up a conversation that had started years ago and simply never been spoken aloud.

"High school," I admitted. "Maybe before. I don't know." I pulled the blanket tighter. "There was this thing I used to do. With the dictionary."

He tilted his head, waiting.

"Mrs. Patterson's class, actually." A laugh bubbled up, strange and light. "I used to look up words. During study hall. Not for any real reason. Just... some words. And one day I looked up—" I stopped. The word caught in my throat.

"Spanking," Jonathan said quietly. Not mocking. Not even surprised.

I nodded. "I dog-eared the page. So I could find it again. Over and over."

"Liv." His voice was soft.

"I know. It's weird."

"It's not weird." He shifted closer, his knee brushing mine through the blanket. "I told you about Melissa Chen and the desk. That's not weird either. It's just what our brains do."

I studied his face in the low light from the window—the sharp line of his jaw, the way his hazel eyes held mine without flinching. "There was more," I said. "I used to imagine getting in trouble. At school. Like, really getting in trouble. Detention, maybe. And a teacher—" My face went hot despite everything. "A male teacher. Who would... handle it. That way."

Jonathan's breath came out slow, controlled. "Like Mr. Henderson?"

The name hit me like a physical blow. My mouth opened, closed. "How did you—"

"You told me about that crush in tenth grade." A small smile played at the corner of his mouth. "I remember everything you've ever told me, Olivia."

That did something to my chest—a warm bloom of feeling that had nothing to do with arousal and everything to do with the sheer overwhelming reality of being known this completely by another person. "I didn't tell you about the fantasies."

"No. But I'm not surprised." He paused. "Substitute teacher with a warm smile. Younger. Approachable. It makes sense."

I buried my face in my hands. "Oh God. This is so embarrassing."

"Good." The word was deliberate. "Isn't that the point?"

The hours after that dissolved into the kind of conversation I'd wanted my whole life without knowing it. We talked about what we liked, what we didn't know yet, what we were curious about. He told me about the first time he'd realized he wanted control—not in a rough way, but in a way that let him set the pace, direct the action, and take responsibility for someone else's pleasure. I told him about the shame I'd carried for years, the fear that something was wrong with me. He listened. He always listened.

At some point I put on panties and an oversized t-shirt. Not because the moment demanded it, but because the vulnerability had served its purpose and now I needed to feel grounded again. Jonathan didn't comment. He just kept talking, his voice low and warm, the two of us stretched out on my bed in the dark like we'd done a hundred times before. Except everything was different now.

It was past midnight when he finally stood, stretched, and looked at his phone. Three missed calls from Dr. Reyes. He didn't mention them.

"Drive safe," I said, walking him to the back door.

"I will." He hesitated on the threshold, then leaned in and pressed a kiss to my forehead—so soft, so unlike everything we'd done hours before, that my eyes stung. He looked over his shoulder and said, "Text me tomorrow. Let me know you're okay."

"I'm okay now."

"I know." Another pause. "But still."

He left. The door clicked shut. I stood in my quiet apartment, surrounded by the aftermath—the rope still coiled on the bed, the silk scarf draped over the chair, the wooden spoon on the kitchen counter where he'd left it. The evidence of what we'd done. Of what I'd asked for.

The evidence of what I wanted still.

---

He didn't text me the next day. Or the day after that. I know he had told me to text him but I wanted him to reach out to me. Two weeks passed in a strange, suspended silence.

I told myself it was fine. We'd broken something—not the friendship, I didn't believe that, but the ease of it. The casual rhythm of two people who'd known each other so long that silence wasn't awkward. Now the silence felt weighted. Like every day that passed without a message was a message itself.

But I couldn't stop thinking about it.

The thinking was the worst part. Or the best part. I couldn't decide. Every spare moment my mind drifted back to that night—the sting of his palm, the rope around my ankles, the hum of the vibrator, the sound of his voice saying good girl like it had been carved from something ancient and true. I replayed it so often the details started to feel like a second skin.

The shame was gone. Or not gone—transformed. The shame had become part of the pleasure, and the pleasure had become something I could finally breathe around.

But the silence from Jonathan was unbearable.

Did he regret it? That was the question that kept me up at night, my hand pressed to my chest to quiet the anxious rhythm of my heart. Maybe he'd gone home and realized what a mistake it had been. Maybe the spell had broken the moment he left my apartment and he'd realized he could never see me the same way again. Maybe friendship had been the sacrifice we'd made without knowing it.

I checked my phone constantly. Nothing. He posted a photo of his desk one day—blueprints and a coffee mug—and I stared at it for five full minutes, trying to read something in the angle of the lamplight.

He was probably busy. The internship. Dr. Reyes. The demands of a normal life that didn't include tying your best friend to a bed and unraveling her with a vibrator.

But the silence stretched.

By the third Saturday, I was a wreck.

---

The morning light came through my cheap blinds in pale gold stripes, cutting across my bed, my legs, the tangle of sheets I'd kicked off in the night. I lay there in nothing but an old t-shirt and the cotton panties I'd slept in, staring at the ceiling.

Ten a.m. I'd been awake for an hour, maybe more. The memory had been with me since the moment I opened my eyes—his hand on my upper arm, the command in his voice, the way my body had answered before my mind could catch up.

I reached for my phone.

The screen lit up. His name sat in my messages, the conversation thread stale and silent. My thumb hovered over the keyboard.

Can we talk?

Three words. I typed them, deleted them, typed them again. My heart was hammering against my ribs so hard I could feel it in my throat.

What if he didn't answer? What if he answered and said it was a mistake? What if he answered and said he never wanted to see me again?

The old voice—the one that had kept me silent for years—whispered that I should put the phone down. Summon the familiar shame. Pretend nothing had happened.

But a newer voice, one that had started speaking the night Jonathan's palm came down on my bare skin, said: You know what you want. Ask for it.

I hit send.

The message fluttered into the thread, small and terrifying. Can we talk?

I set the phone face-down on the bed. Then picked it up again. Then set it down. Thirty seconds passed. A minute. The phone buzzed.

Read, the indicator said. Read 10:04 a.m.

Nothing. Another twenty seconds. My chest was a tight, painful knot.

Then the screen lit up with an incoming call. His name glowed in the center.

I answered on the second ring, pulse roaring in my ears. "Hey."

"Hey." His voice was neutral. Careful. "What's up?"

The knot in my chest twisted tighter. "I just—" The words jammed. Everything I'd rehearsed for two weeks evaporated under the reality of his voice in my ear, close and familiar and tinged with something I couldn't name. "I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm okay." A pause. "Are you?"

"Yeah. No. I don't know." I squeezed my eyes shut. The phone was hot against my cheek. "I've been thinking about you a lot. About that night. I can't stop thinking about it. And I've been going over everything, trying to figure out if I did something wrong or if I freaked you out or—"

"Liv."

"—e said I should text, and I didn't, and then it had been a week and I felt weird texting, and then it was two weeks and I thought maybe you hated me or maybe you regretted—"

"Olivia." His voice sharpened, cutting through the spiral. "Breathe."

I breathed. In through my nose, out through my mouth. The panic receded a fraction.

"I didn't text because I didn't want to pressure you," he said slowly. "I thought you might need space. Time to process. I was trying to be respectful."

A sound escaped me—half laugh, half sob. "I thought you regretted it."

"Regretted it?" Something shifted in his voice. "I've thought about it every single day since. I can't close my eyes without seeing you in that corner." A beat. "I've been losing my mind, Liv."

The relief hit so hard I nearly dropped the phone. "Me too. And I wanted to ask you to come over, but I couldn't— the words—" I pressed my free hand to my face. "I'm too embarrassed to say it out loud."

The silence on the line stretched. I could hear him breathing.

Then his voice came back, different now. Lower. Firmer.

"Girl," he said, and the word settled into the phone like a stone dropping through water. "I will be over in ten minutes. I want you in the corner waiting for me. Leave the back door unlocked."

Heat bloomed through my stomach, my chest, my thighs. The change hit me so fast I felt dizzy. "Okay."

"Do you understand me?"

"Yes." The word came out breathless. "Yes, I understand."

He hung up without saying goodbye.

---

The next ten minutes were chaotic.

I vaulted out of bed, my feet tangling in the sheets before I found the floor. The back door—I practically flew through the kitchen, fumbled with the lock on the deadbolt, yanked the door open to confirm it was actually unlatched, then pulled it shut again. My hands were shaking.

Dishes. There were dishes in the sink from last night. I stacked them into the dishwasher at a pace that would have been comical under other circumstances—bowls clattering, a fork skittering onto the floor.

The mirror by the door caught my reflection. My hair was a mess from sleep, tangled and wild around my shoulders. I dragged a brush through it, wincing, until it lay long and halfway presentable. My face was flushed—no fixing that. The t-shirt had a hole in the hem. I pulled it off, grabbed a cleaner one, yanked it over my head.

Panties. I hadn't forgotten the panties. I peeled off the damp cotton with a shiver of something that was mostly anticipation, then stepped into a fresh pair. Not lingerie—I didn't own lingerie. But clean, simple, the kind I'd been wearing the night he'd peeled them off and left me bare.

That thought sent another pulse of heat through me.

Then I was in the corner. The one he'd used before.

My forehead pressed to the cool wall, my hands clasped behind my back, bare feet on the floor. My breathing was fast and shallow. The apartment held its breath around me.

I waited.

The minutes stretched. Ten passed, then fifteen, then more. My calves started to ache. My mind raced through every possibility—maybe he'd hit traffic, maybe he'd changed his mind, maybe he'd driven past the house and kept going. But I didn't leave the corner. I didn't dare.

Because I knew—with the same certainty that had told me to hit send this morning—that if I left the corner, that would be the moment he walked through the door.

So I waited.

---

The back door opened at 10:23 a.m. The sound of it clicked through the apartment, and my whole body went rigid.

Footsteps. Slow, deliberate, moving through the kitchen. A pause—he was looking at the living room, the neat counters, the absence of clutter. The dishwasher's quiet hum. I'd gotten it running with minutes to spare.

The footsteps came closer. Stopped behind me.

I could feel him there, just behind my shoulder, close enough that the air stirred. I didn't turn. Didn't move. Didn't breathe.

"How have you been doing for the past two weeks?" His voice was quiet, stern. Not the careful tone from the phone call—the dominant one from that first night.

The question landed like a command. My mouth was dry. "Not great, sir."

"Not great." He repeated the words slowly. "Why not?"

"I couldn't stop thinking about—" A shaky breath. "About what we did. About the way you... handled me."

"Go on."

"I let some school things slip." The admission came out small, shameful. "I missed a reading. Got behind on a paper. I couldn't focus. I kept thinking about that night."

"Ah." The single syllable hung in the air. "You've been distracted."

"Yes, sir."

A long pause. I could hear him breathing, slow and even. "And when you're distracted, you fall behind." Another pause. "That disappoints me, Olivia."

The word “disappoints” hit me harder than a physical blow. My eyes stung. "I'm sorry, sir."

"I know you are." His footsteps shifted. "But sorry isn't enough. Come here."

I turned. Jonathan stood in the center of my living room, broad and solid, wearing a dark t-shirt and jeans. His jaw was tight, his hazel eyes sharp, and the authority in his posture was absolute. My knees went weak.

He took me by the upper arm—firm, exactly like before—and led me toward the couch.

He reached down and hooked his fingers into the waistband of my panties. One sharp tug, and they were at my ankles. He pulled them over my feet, tossed them aside, then sat on the couch and pulled me forward.

Over his lap. My stomach hit his thighs, my bottom lifted, my face inches from the cushion. The position was shockingly familiar. The vulnerability was absolute.

His hand flipped my t-shirt up, baring me completely.

And then he started to spank.

The first smack landed hard and fast on the crest of my right cheek. The second followed before I could process the sting, then the third, the fourth, a relentless rhythm that had me gasping, then yelping, then crying out. His palm was steady, methodical, covering every inch of my bottom with stinging heat.

"Nine," he said—wait, he'd been counting? I'd lost track entirely. "Ten. Eleven. Twelve."

At thirteen, my legs started to kick. I couldn't help it—my feet drumming against the floor, my toes curling, every nerve ending screaming. At twenty, tears stung my eyes and my yelps had turned to ragged sobs.

He stopped.

The absence of his hand was almost more shocking than the blows. I lay there, draped over his lap, my bottom blazing with heat, my face wet with tears, my whole body trembling.

Then his palm came down again—but different now. Gentle. Rubbing slow circles over my burning skin, tracing the curve of my hip, soothing the hurt he'd just given me. His other hand pressed warm against my lower back.

"You did good," he murmured. "So good, Liv. But it's not over."

I let out a broken sound—half protest, half plea. I didn't know which.

"Stand up." He helped me rise on unsteady legs. "Go get the hairbrush."

The hairbrush. The one from my bathroom, wooden with a wide, flat back. I stared at him. My fresh tears and my raw bottom and my bare legs all seemed to revolt at the thought—

"Now, Olivia." He pulled me around and delivered a crisp smack to my already-tender ass. I yelped and scrambled toward the bathroom.

The brush was on the counter where I'd left it just a while ago, after taking care of last night's tangles. I grabbed it, my fingers closing around the handle, and the weight of it in my palm made a fresh wave of heat pool between my legs.

When I returned, he was in front of the couch again. Waiting.

He reached out and pulled the t-shirt over my head and let it fall. The air was cool against my bare skin. I stood there, completely naked in the morning light, holding the hairbrush, my face still damp with tears.

He sat and then held out his hand. I gave him the brush.

Then I was over his lap again, this time without the shield of clothing, and the hairbrush came down on my burning skin with a sound like a gunshot.

The pain was different—sharper, deeper, a fierce concentrated sting that made his palm feel like mercy by comparison. I kicked. I squirmed. I begged, words tumbling out of me in a stream I couldn't control. But his arm was a bar across my back, holding me in place, and his other hand brought the brush down again and again, every stroke precise, every stroke unavoidable.

"Hold still," he commanded.

"I can't—please—"

"You can." Another swat. "And you will."

He was right. I did. The fight drained out of me gradually, replaced by something else—a strange, floaty acceptance that existed beyond the pain. My kicks subsided. My cries quieted. I lay over his lap and took what he gave me, and somewhere beneath the heat and the burn, a deep, pulsing arousal began to build.

At last, he stopped.

The brush set on the couch in front of my face. His hand returned to my bottom—not spanking, but stroking, fingertips feather-light over the raised welts his blows had left.

"Good girl," he said softly. "Let me see how wet you are."

His hand slid lower, between my legs, parting the slick folds. A ragged sound escaped me as his fingers found me—soaked, swollen, aching.

He made a low noise of approval. Then he lifted me upright, pulled me into his arms, and held me against his chest. I melted into him, naked and raw and utterly exposed, my face buried in his shirt, his arms wrapped around me like a wall against the world.

"Olivia," he murmured against my hair. "Such a good girl. You're doing so well."

---

The hug lasted a long minute, maybe more. Then his lips brushed my forehead, and he pulled back just enough to look at me.

"It's my turn now," he said quietly. The words settled into my chest, heavy and inevitable.

He guided me downward. Not roughly—firmly, his hands on my shoulders, pressing me to kneel on the thick rug in front of the couch. The fibers were soft under my knees. I looked up at him, and the height difference in this position was staggering. He seemed massive above me, his broad shoulders blocking the window light, his eyes dark and intent.

He reached for his belt, unbuckled it, let his jeans fall to his knees. The sound of the zipper was loud in the quiet room.

"Take me out," he said.

My hands trembled as I reached for the waistband of his boxers. I hooked my fingers under the elastic, pulled it forward and down, and his cock sprang free—fully erect, thick and flushed, bobbing slightly with the rush of blood.

I'd imagined this. God, I'd imagined it so many times, in so many private moments. But the reality was different. Hotter. Heavier. The sight of him like this, hard and wanting, because of me—

"Take me in your mouth," he said.

I leaned forward, parted my lips, and took him in.

The first sensation was the heat of him against my tongue, the smooth skin sliding over slick muscle. I took him about halfway, then paused, uncertain of the rhythm. I'd only done this once before, years ago, a fumbled encounter behind the gym that had lasted all of ninety seconds.

My hand wrapped around the base of his shaft, and I moved my head, trying to find a pace. It was awkward—too fast, then too slow, my jaw already aching.

His hand came to rest on the back of my head. "Let me guide you," he murmured, and the tension in my body eased. His fingers threaded through my hair, tightening gently, and he began to move me—a slow, deliberate rhythm that matched the roll of his hips.

The rhythm was better. Much better. I stopped thinking about technique and let him use my mouth, my tongue flattening against him, my lips sealed tight. His breathing deepened. His fingers flexed in my hair.

Without warning, he pulled me off.

I sat back, gasping, my chest heaving. Saliva and pre-cum slicked my lips, my chin. I stared up at him, dazed.

"Have you ever done this before?" he asked.

"I—once." I swallowed. "Just once."

"Then I'll ask you." His thumb traced my lower lip, smearing wetness. "I'd like to finish in your mouth. Are you up for that?"

The question—the care in it, even now, even in the middle of everything—made my chest hurt. I nodded.

"Say it," he said.

"I want you to." My voice came out rough, urgent. "In my mouth. Please."

He gave me a smile—not the dominant mask, but something warmer, Jonathan under the role. "Good girl."

Then he pulled me back onto him.

This time there was no hesitation. He was much more aggressive and set a feverish pace, his hips driving forward as he held my head still as he pumped, his cock hitting the back of my throat with each thrust. My eyes watered. My jaw screamed. But I didn't stop—didn't want to stop—and the sounds he made, low and ragged and utterly undone, were the most beautiful thing I'd ever heard.

He drove deeper. Harder. The pace became desperate. And then, with one final thrust, he slammed all the way in and held.

The first pulse hit the back of my throat, hot and thick and so much more than I'd expected. My eyes flew wide. My hands clutched at his thighs. But I didn't pull away—I swallowed, my throat working around him, drawing out every last drop as he shuddered above me.

It seemed endless. Wave after wave, his cock throbbing against my tongue, his fingers clenched in my hair, his breathing harsh and fractured. Gosh did he not climax that whole 2 weeks. He must have been saving it for me. 

At last, he pulled back. His hand cradled my jaw with impossible tenderness.

I looked up at him with huge eyes, my lips red and swollen, the taste of him still on my tongue. I felt dazed. Triumphant. Utterly, completely claimed.

"God," he breathed. "Olivia."

And for the first time in two weeks, the silence between us felt alive.