Letters to a Good Girl Ep. 02

Letters to a good girl: episode 2

16th March 2020

Herefordshire

Dearest O,

What a weekend! It has been such a treat to spend proper time with you- 2 whole days! I love your smile, your humour, and yes, the fact that you are embarrassingly better-informed on this coronavirus thing that I ought to be. And I actually love that we haven't always been Sir and fucktoy. I'll explain why; there's been so much to talk about, I didn't get a chance (and yes, you are right about South Korea, I checked).

I love that we're not always in Dom/Sub mode because we always could be. It's always there, as a potential space, to be stepped in and out of at will. Well, my will, anyway.

I love that with a look, a narrowing of the eyes, a brush of my hand on the back of your neck, we can go from friendly, fond interplay to whatever-sir-desires. I love that I interrupted that board game you brought by pinching your nipples (in fairness, they were showing deliciously through your top), and we ended up scattering the pieces so I could fuck you over the table (yes, I was losing, but that's irrelevant). I love that you interrupted my cooking for a kiss, and I made you get on your knees and suck me while I stirred the soup. I love that while we watched that trashy programme, I said that I would slowly spank you throughout the ad breaks, so that you were desperately willing the credits to come back up (especially when I chose to spank your pussy throughout the last break). And that walk in the woods...

Of course, there are limits. One day, I want to tie you to a tree and fuck your bruised ass, but in the early March drizzle I had to content myself with pressing you against the trunk and stroking the mound of your pussy through your jeans while I kissed you. But even this brief moment affected both of us- my blood was up, and scenarios for our return to the cottage were flashing through my mind. You, on the other hand, seemed to be discovering your inner brat, and teased me about my grey hairs and awkwardness over stiles- you knew, and I knew, why you were doing it and what the consequence would be.

What I think surprised you was how quickly those consequences arrived. I had planned ahead though: I had my scarf off by the time we were in the narrow hallway, and when your hands came up to remove yours, I seized your wrists and quickly looped the knitted fabric round them. Knotting it and pulling it tight, I had you. Your gorgeous eyes registered surprise, fear and arousal in a procession that got me hard immediately. I grabbed your hair and spat on your face.

I call you a lot of things, most of them approving: slut, whore, fucktoy. But in this case I was playing cross, so you were a cheeky fucking bitch, naturally. You know I never shout, but I do make you say things about yourself, and you were telling me how unworthy and disgraceful your behaviour was as I hung your wrists from the coat hook high on the wall. Still resisting a little as I pulled your jeans and underwear down, but you stilled as I reached into the umbrella stand and pulled out the riding crop. You see, I had it all worked out.

You've been cropped by me enough to know I like to take my time, and be precise- build up the intensity slowly, deliberately strike the same area over and over with the leather loop to amplify the pain, tease your most sensitive areas with the tip; but this was just a thrashing. Indiscriminate, furious, so fast you couldn't catch breath between blows. But brief. Your response afterwards was such a good example of what a good girl you are that it's worth repeating.

You controlled your ragged breathing, lifted you head so your pretty face looked at mine, and said "Thank you for punishing me Sir. I am a worthless little whore and I need to be taught". I couldn't help but smile, even as I slapped your face.

But I was hard, and you were helpless, your jeans round your ankles now, acting as an effective immobiliser over your heavy walking boots. I stepped behind you, pulled out my cock, and pressed it against the closed folds of your labia. I found, as expected, that they parted to reveal a wet, ready hole. I slid inside you with familiar ease and started to fuck my beautiful slut.

Your scarf was still around your neck. We had done some light choking before but the soft fabric presented an opportunity. You gasped as I took hold of both ends and started to tighten, but you are learning to trust me and nodded. "choke me, sir, choke your toy". Well, how could I refuse?

Neither of us spoke for a while. I enjoyed the sights and sounds of our pleasure: the soft sliding squelch as my cock slides into your cunt, your groans, quiet as you save your breath, my own quickening breathing. There was a mirror to our left, and it gave a nice side-on view of you, your caned ass, your arched back, the scarf tightening round your throat, your tied wrists either side of the hook. It amused me that you were still wearing your waterproof coat.

I quickened the pace a touch, and unconsciously tightened the scarf a touch. I could see that your face was becoming red with venous congestion, and your groans had become choking noises. These are the moments when we are skating along the very edge of our boundaries, and it's scary and exhilarating. I knew you wanted to push yourself as far as you could, but I also didn't want you to faint or hurt yourself. So I kept going, looking out for your safe gesture, or a guttural attempt at "RED". It was, I will admit, incredibly fucking sexy to be on the edge of disaster but having such an intense time; as you choked, your pussy tightened, and that was it for me- I came harder than any man on his 3rd orgasm in 24 hours has any right to expect. Especially one with grey hairs.

As I pulled out, and saw my cum leaking from your stretched pussy and down your thighs, and you craned round, winked and freed yourself from the hook with a grin, it suddenly struck me how insanely lucky I am to have you as a playmate, companion, and, most of all, fucktoy.

I had such fun this weekend- I'm just waiting for a taxi now to take me to the bloody Birmingham conference. I'll have so many nice memories to think about during the tedious Powerpoints, so it won't be all bad.

See you next week I hope- maybe they will make us quarantine together?

Sir

16th April 2020

Buckinghamshire

Dearest O,

Well. That month hasn't gone as planned. I hate not being allowed to have you in the flat, not being able to touch you, even. But what I do love, and want to celebrate, is the inventiveness this awful time has bred in our relationship (yes, it is that).

The video calls have been great: I love choosing your outfit in advance, and the shy, apprehensive but excited expression on your face when you connect and say "Hello, Sir". I love your hesitant, awkward obedience when I tell you to remove an item, or touch a place, or pinch your nipples, or clit. I love watching you masturbate as I describe what I am going to do to you when we can be together. I love when we can cum together, timing our self-stimulation so we moan into the ether simultaneously. But I always, afterwards, miss the closeness of you as we recover, and there's a pang of nostalgia for the few weeks we had before all this, when we could enfold each other in our bodies.

What I've really loved is the social distanced walks. I guess it's not a surprise that we find having rules and restrictions imposed on us a little bit sexy- there's certainly something about the challenge of being with you, but unable to either touch you, or be properly alone with you, that has stimulated our creativity.

I loved walking through the park with you, chatting, but also specifying exactly where your hands are- I was predictably the biggest fan of making you put them behind your head, partly because that's the one that makes people look, and wonder, and partly because it emphasises your figure so beautifully. I was proud that you kept them there for a full circuit of the lake. Good girl.

When I found a stick that was around the same size as my cane, I suspect you knew what was coming. But it took a while to find a spot private enough for what I had planned, so I teased you by tapping my own palm with it while I talked or swishing it theatrically. After a while, I find one of those stone bench/shrubbery combos that the Victorians were so fond of. We sat, and I told you to hold your hands out, palm upwards. You looked so sweet, gazing at me and biting your lip, glancing again and again to see if anyone walked by. I didn't care. I kept eye contact as I brought the stick down on your palms, a dozen times in all, with a deliberate rhythm, alternating sides. You flinched but kept your hands out and your eyes on me. I'm sure, out of the corner of my eye, I saw an elderly lady pause her dog walk and smile knowingly- a little joy shared. Proud of my fucktoy.

I like to surprise you, and you are so good at taking them in your stride. You'd talked during our last video call about how you missed having me in your mouth, so I arranged a kind of alternative. Ok, it was a balloon full of water, but once in your mouth it gave you that feeling of fullness, as well as acting as a gag. So I had to do all the talking, and I quietly described a session of bondage, riding crop application and deep throat oral that I have planned for you, not pausing when people passed, but speaking mainly in metaphor. Lots of 'secured', 'cropping' and 'oral administration'. There were kids there, after all. But you got the gist.

Given the circumstances, I think I can accurately say: Best. Walk. Ever.

See you next week for the no touch picnic!

Sir

1st May

Dearest O

I never thanked you properly for the picnic. It was delicious, as I said at the time, and you made a real effort with the amazing salads. But the thing I didn't properly give you credit for was wearing your butt plug throughout.

We met nearer to yours than usual, so you didn't need to travel the Umderground with 4 inches of rubber nestled in your anus. But you had to walk a little way, and knowing what you had in you, having chosen it myself, it was nice to see you try to keep your gait as light and elegant as usual. To the untrained eye, I think you managed- but I noticed.

I'm sure you chose tight jeans to help you keep it in for the duration, but equally, you would have known that, when you stretched out on your front, I could make it the little stump of it protruding through the fabric.

The outfit was perfect, really- I love the top, showing little when you're upright, but loose enough that it moves around as you change position, giving me lovely glimpses of your torso and bra. You teasing little slut.

I'm not going to see you for a while- I wish they hadn't redeployed me to the wards, but I guess I need to do my bit. What I love about us, though, is that I don't need to see you to be Sir.

I love that you love rules- controlling when you masturbate is such a privilege, and whenever a WhatsApp notification pops up, I hope that it's a plaintive 'can I?' from you. I like to make you beg, and promise, and wait. You break the rules sometimes- a three-day ban is, it seems, too much for your insatiable slut mind to bear. But I'm keeping track, and once I can cane you again, well, you'll need an extra cushion for a while.

I love when you send me evidence of your self-pleasure. A photo of your wet fingers, a voice note recorded while you play with the vibrator I bought you, or just what you were thinking about when you came (anal seems a bit of a theme, given you've never done it). I also love that you send me photos after you have been caught in the rain, or when you're excited by new nail varnish.

But my birthday pictures were the best. You, kneeling in front of the camera in my favourite outfit: sheer, almost see-through shirt, black stockings, and black, simple but sexy underwear glimpsed through that. And of course, your collar. You in bed, naked, your breasts cupped under your forearm and mouth slightly open, looking insanely beautiful. But, best of all, as you knew it would be, was the photo that was not of you at all. It was an arrangement of daisies, set against lush grass, and spelling out "I belong to Sir".

You do, my gorgeous slut. And I couldn't be happier about it.

Sir