My sweet Babycat, I had a veeerrry nice dream with you last night. We were just home from a Renaissance feast, as in just walked in the door. I was in my Graham of Mentieth kilt and cape, the latter being a deep olive green over black, and wearing black, high suede boots with daggers, and a long sword. Under my kilt I wore the traditional accouterments.
You, however, were stunning. A deep burgundy-ish-purple dress with black bodice and greenish-black blouse, both trimmed in silver, and a Graham of Menteith sash to snug in certain areas set your complexion and hair off. Tucked conspicuously into the sash were two daggers matching my boot daggers. Your eyes were heavily kohled, and you wore a long mantilla and matching choker of purple-based black accented with silver bells. Your nails were of the same color. Under the dress, you wore nothing but black fishnets, yes with the seam, and a garter belt. Your shoes, now, your shoes caused comment; they were six inch stilettos of a wonderously supple burgundy black leather, deep-shined so they near glowed. Maybe not Renaissance, but, we cared little for that.
In the dream, we had been somewhat bored at the feast and fiddling with each other under the table. In the car, we had not done anything but talk about mundane things. I knew, however, that my hardness was matched by your wetness.
But then we walked in the door. I sat in our chair, a padded wooden chair with plenty of places for restraints... You knelt before me, eyes meeting mine. You take the daggers out of my boots, unlace them, and take them off me. You rub my feet briefly, and run your hands up my legs slowly. You remove my sword, belt, sash, and sporran off, then untuck my shirt, running your hands over my torso and entwining your fingers in my chest hairs. Your lips join your hands, and my cock nestles in your cleavage. As you kiss and fondle my chest, your body rocks back and forth, your bosom stroking cock.
I put my hand on your head and trace the lovely curves of your face with my fingers as I raise your mouth to kiss. You slide back down on to your knees and put your hands behind your back and in to the sash. Your head is under the kilt, your breathe hot and eager on my balls as you tease them and lick my shaft.
As I grip the arms of the chair and groan, you swirl your tongue around the head then just barely part your lips and slide me in. The long, slow trip of your encircling lips causes me to throb and seep in your mouth, a foretaste of what is to cum. You begin to moan around my cock, wanting and needing my cum. My hands pet you through the covering of my kilt and you whisper "please, my Lord". I lift my kilt, our eyes meet, a frisson of pleasure passes through us.
After seeing you dressed like this all evening and the flirting and innuendoes, I do not last long in your mouth after I see your eyes. I cum heavily, while you eagerly and frantically suck it all down. But, uh - oh, a drop runs down your chin and lands on the inside of my kilt. You finish drinking and lap at the drop, but I know it is there.
"Oh, Babycat. Now, is that anyway to be? Wasting my cum when you could be getting it fresh and hot? Now I have to punish you, and not kiss you yet."
