She sits at the desk, hands above the keyboard. Her wrists are cuffed together, but not fastened to the dog collar around her neck or the belt around her waist. Her hands are free to write, and she has been ordered to write. Her hands are also free to remove the plastic clips biting into her pubic triangle, drawing her blood and her attention to her mound and the clitoris throbbing just below. She is free to remove the clips, but he wants her to wait as long as possible, as long as she can stand it, and to note in writing the elapsed time. He wants to know how long she can withstand the bites and the excitement -- planning ahead for future discipline sessions. Can she make it with the clips through dinner with their two teenage sons – can he hold her in domination even in that mundane setting, even with two levels of dialog going on in a non-private setting?
Of course none of their setting is totally private. While the boys are in school, they can let the machine answer the phone and close the blinds. But now that the eldest has a car and two free periods, he may show up anytime. They have to be more careful about moving around the house. Bondage and discipline in the study and kitchen are more at risk than they used to be. So they are colonizing the second floor. The toys are spread around, and the mattress from the trundle bed is T'd to the single bed.
He'd told her that of course she'd be punished for removing the plastic clips, but that she'd be punished anyway for his pleasure in her pain. So whether or not she'd "earned" punishment, he would have it for its own sake.
Earlier, she'd been on her back on that foam mattress on the floor, ankles Velcro-cuffed to the tops of the red bars of the single bed's head- and foot-boards. He had dripped hot wax in a spiral around her navel and down to her clitoris in a long slow hour interspersed with carving on her breasts light lines with his knife. She'd been blindfolded then, lost in the surprises of the two entirely different kinds of burns – the knife, the hot wax. Not knowing what was coming where... Waiting... Surrendered to the not knowing and then the pain. He knows she loves the blindfold most of all – it is the clearest representation of lost control. The ideal metaphor and the ideal reality for her.
Now she was without the blindfold and working at the keyboard, getting some of it down for his reading pleasure. She's got to be easily as good and hopefully better than much of what he reads on the internet.
She knows he'll be in soon with making marks in mind. The beautiful red lines on her breasts inflame thoughts of more marks to come. She has a weekly massage and he is very aware that her ass and thighs are subject to inspection on Tuesdays. The massage therapist never sees her breasts, so they are his to mark whenever. But her breasts can't take the serious pressure he likes to lay on with the crop... The crop is reserved for her ass and thighs, though sometimes he is tempted up her back with it – she screaming into her ball gag if he's been aware enough to jam it in her mouth.
