I liked -- no, that is far too gentle a term: I was consumed with how she looked, consuming me. My fingers laced in her hair, gripping her scalp tight. Her wrists in leather, cuffed behind her back. Gods, how I loved seeing her in leather. On her knees before me, the precarious balance, straining to lean into, onto my cock; straining not to fall over, crash into my thighs, impale herself too deep and choke. Her beautiful body. Her mouth stretched around my erection. Wetness: her juices glistening in the soft light, on my cock, on her lips, between her legs. Running down her thigh...
Before I explode, I should start at the beginning.
It has always been a dance between us, even when we were still just correspondents. It was a good thing we both loved music -- how we met, actually: trading song lyrics on the same folkie site. A casual meeting at a session at the pub -- bit of a drive for both of us, but it turned out worth it. The craic was grand. And she was glorious. I couldn't sleep that night, for thinking of her. My hand kept drifting to my cock, lightly stroking myself, seeing her face in my mind, the feel of her hair in my hand as we hugged goodbye. Her heat.
It was a dance. Wee gods and fishies -- she is a semi-pro singer, has a degree, is a teacher. What did she see in me? An old, balding, perverted bugger. No collage. Bluest of collars.
Ok, aye -- the kilt helped. And the fact I was also a professional musician. And tall, blue eyed, thin. Shaped by work, working out and running. Mensan, engaging smile. Smelled good. Gave great hugs. And, she later told me, projected lust: a lust for life, a lust for learning. A lust for her.
Also, the term is 'kinky', it seems, now a days. Well, bugger that -- I'm old (hey, don't laugh! 43 is old -- my six year old niece told me so, so it must be true...), and us old buggers get to use the terms we grew up with. I'm a perv, luv.
The gods know how we got into talk of sex. She was just so easy to talk to, in letters or at the pub for pints & pies. Somewhere along the way, I was too tired or drunk and was indiscrete enough to confess my lust for her. Some confession: she knew from day one. Just was gently waiting for me to catch up to her. We went to bed that night. It was glorious. No, I'll not tell you -- this is about *this* night, now. And our first night would take a whole separate story.
But suffice to say, it also involved inventive bondage, spanking and cuddling.
Tonight, she came over to my apartment. We probably should just move in together, but I'm old -- I move at a slower pace. Still the waltz, not yet the tango. And I am the dance-master.
"Wear a skirt and a buttoned blouse tonight, love. No pantyhose, I hate those. And bring a belt, love. Leather. Choose well -- I'll be using it on you tonight. Something worn-in will be.... gentler."
I can hear her sometimes.
"Oh shit," she thinks, and "oh god does that turn me on." Both thoughts jumbling together in her voice as she says "Yes sir." I laugh and say good-bye.
I have a belt I could use, or a cane for that matter. My hands do a fine job of spanking, and they are always with me. A flogger is on the list of projects -- they are easy enough to make, for a starter. But it amuses me to make her pick her own instrument. Maybe I'll have her make her own flogger.
When she arrives, I spend suspended time just looking at her. Time is often suspended when we are together. Flowing slowly, racing by, stopped for an eon of a second, measured in pounding heartbeats and soft, sleepy breathing.
She is beautiful. And hot. Comes just to my lips when we hug, a tight body, naturally fit but also well taken care of. Nut-brown hair, with streaks of gray. Warm skin of cream and sun, classically refined face. A smile of promise, that lights up her whole body.
My fingers are already fiddling with the buttons of her embroidered blouse before I am conscious I moved. Her eyes captivate me -- sometimes I have to stare at her tits just to avoid potentially embarrassing her in public with the naked lust in my gaze.
And she has gorgeous tits. Not huge wobbly masses, but inviting hills, beckoning me to climb them, and rest at the peak. Far too gorgeous to be trapped in a bra. I laugh with delight as the buttons come apart: she thought the same thing. Soft, lovely flesh exposed to my sight, my fingers.
"No, just stand still, my love. Have I ever told you how much fun I get out of undressing you?" I slip the blouse off her shoulders and it falls to the floor.
She laughed. "Yes, dear. About a dozen times."
"Only dozen? I'm slipping."
"That's just this week, Sir. My younger kids are doing fractions, so I'm keeping simple counts. Ahhh...oohh....yes, slip there, Sir."
My fingers are on her nipples and she leans into the contact. I can't help but smile, she looks so happy. Content, wanting, wonton, enjoying the sensations. Her hands drift up, and start caressing my hips, working at my belt. That reminds me.
I grip her nipples,and pull her in for a quick kiss, then step back, disengaging.
"So, love. Lets see your choice." There is a smile in my voice and my eyes. She says it is a cruel smile, but her eyes glaze as she says that.
Sometimes I fear I am moving too fast. Much of this is new to her, something she has only thought of in fantasies. Me, I've been playing such games for years. Then I hear the lust in her cries as I spank her, feel the quivering eagerness in her body as I buckle on the cuffs, or lay her over my lap. I see the look in her eyes -- and she stills all my insecurities and fears. They say a Dom should be confident, sure, in control of himself as much as any partner he might have. My outer shell projects that. When I am with her, my inner self reflects that as well. But she knows the truth -- I am human and fallible. Mayhaps this is why it works so well between us. Why she is the best playmate, sparing partner, dance partner -- the best lover -- I've ever had.
She reached down to her purse -- she must have dropped it when she came in the door, I never noticed: her tits really are distracting in such a wonderful way -- and pulled out a belt. She presented it to me, coiled on her palms, her eyes cast down, a blush on her face. She's so cute like that, when she is slightly embarrassed at her desires, but oh so obviously aroused by them. It is a bog standard black leather belt, inch and a quarter wide, bevelled edges, solid leather. The inner face is smooth, the outer has a woven pattern stamped into it. It is well worn, but equally well taken care of. It has her scent, and her aura.
"My husband gave it to me," she says, with a slightly wistful voice. "I don't think he ever would have thought of using it like this." She laughed. "I don't think *I* would have ever thought of using it like this, when he was still alive."
"Oh, I dunno. You'll probably have come to it eventually," I reply, taking the belt into my hands. "It is lovely. Just right. It feels of you." Then it's my turn to laugh. "And you, my dear toy, shall feel of it."
She says my laugh is cruel in these times too -- and she says that with the same glazed look and quickening of breath. No, I don't have to worry if she truly likes our games.
As I run the belt through my hands, I tell her: "Strip, love."
She quickly complies. Some would say the 'scene' started then, or the game began when I ordered her to bring a belt, or that she entered subspace when entering my apartment. It is not like that, really. It is an ongoing dance, with the steps and tempos evolving, flowing from one to the other. A relationship, in fullness.
But now, now it is fully engaged in erotic, kinky play.
I double the belt up and lightly smack my palm to test it. She shivers at the sound, and I smile. I let the end fall free, holding the buckle in my hand. Yes, the distance is just about right... I flick the end up, around her waist, and grab it with my free hand as it wraps around her, then jerk her hard against me. She is caught off guard, stumbles and slams into my body. I give her no time to recover, but trap her tighter against me with the belt, pulling with main strength.
"Look up." I command.
She does, and I kiss her savagely. She grips me just as hard with her arms, and returns the kiss just as greedily. I can not take but what she gives freely. Nor can she give, but what I take, with need and lust and greed and desire. With love. A strange love, mayhaps, to her mundane world and life, yet it is our world and we can have both.
I release her from the leather embrace.
"Go fetch the cuffs."
