Quick & Dirty - F/f - D/s - S/M - bondage - whipping - cumming. Fantasy, not reality.
*****
You throw yourself boyishly into the armchair and lounge across its arms, tossing your coat onto the sofa. Your biker boots kick heavily up and down on the end of long, strong legs, textured by tight black jeans. Your skinny black vest is a second skin, and your small breasts are nonchalantly bold. You peer at me from under that short choppy black fringe.
You're amused by me already, because I'm frantically tearing off my clothes.
"Slow down, young lady," you chuckle. "It is worth savouring, I promise you."
This morning we jogged in the park. I was sleek and futuristic in my Lycra suit, its panels flattering me and making me feel like a heroine from a sci-fi movie. I ran with consuming exhilaration, wringing myself out with the exertion. You were in your scuffed old gym shoes, your washed-out old t-shirt and baggy shorts. You ran in slow, loping, effortless strides, devouring the ground beneath you.
I looked like a golden retriever scampering around a wolf.
Here and now, I try to slow down. I try to striptease, but I'm transfixed. I mean I'm pinned. I'm clumsy. And you are amused.
Behind the hand across your mouth you're laughing, as you look me up and down. As ever, you have that leather strap wound around your wrist. I stand and blush. I feel the weight of my breasts, and I try not to hunch forward, so I stand stiffly upright. I feel the weight of my knickers, still dangling foolishly from my fingertips. I drop them. I feel the coolness of nudity, and I squeeze my thighs together. I look at you as I burn with embarrassment, and you're smiling in that lazy way.
"Okay," you whisper, soothingly. "Okay, beautiful. Come here and beg."
From the park, we jogged home, where we stopped just long enough to shower and dress. If your elegantly tattooed limbs and lithe torso looked majestic, shimmering and wet, I didn't notice.
I take half a step, then I remember to drop to my knees. I shuffle towards your encouraging smile, until my face is beside the thick, patterned sole of your boot. You raise an eyebrow, and I blush some more. I'm so absurd. My lips feel hopelessly soft as I begin to peck kisses on your toecap.
"Please," I whisper, "may I have my... punishment?" My lips squash against the unyielding leather on the P in Punishment, and I savour it. My lips and tongue find buckles and eyelets and seams. I know you need more from me.
"Please," with more certainty now, "may I be tied up? And whipped? Please?" Begging is important, now, while I'm at liberty and still have some self-control. Before I yowl and squirm under your lash, you need me to be specific and sincere.
You have unwound the leather strap from your wrist, and you lean forward with it between your fingers. I shiver as you brush aside my ponytail and buckle the leather around my neck. I'm collared. You sit back and watch me and I gaze up at you. I savour the weight of the collar and land a few more kisses on your sole.
"I can smell your scent," you smile, tilting your head a little. "As soon as you undressed, it hit me. You smell horny. When did that start?"
We left the house holding hands, still a little damp. We reached the bus-stop just in time, and sat on a front seat, holding hands. You leaned against the window, and I leaned against you. We talked mundanely about the shops we would go to in town. Your breath fogged the window. You put your arm around me, and the leather strap on your wrist brushed my neck, and it meant nothing to anybody, maybe even to you. I began to feel horny.
"All day," I answer. You laugh kindly and my hands clench between my thighs. "Please will you hurt me?"
"Okay," you murmur. "We can do that. Go and make me a cup of tea, then bring it upstairs."
I nod and turn away. I know you're watching me as I crawl from the room, so I try to be alluring. You laugh, and that's good too.
In the kitchen my bare feet patter on the tiles. I'm wonderfully naked as I perform the tasks of tea-making with slow solemnity: measure the dark leaves into the infuser, pour the precisely boiling water, turn the hourglass to measure three minutes. I feel my nipples graze my arm, feel my hips bump against the cutlery drawer.
I lift the steaming mug, heady with its exotic aroma, and walk with ceremonial care to the hallway. I hear your boots up in the attic, and I climb the stairs.
At the top of the house, I sink to my knees. I push the door open with my fingertips. I shuffle slowly and carefully, the tea quivering. I make my way into the attic room.
There's the heavy iron bed. There's the wooden chest, packed with wicked toys. There's the rack hung with chains and straps. There are the whips mounted on the wall like rifles in a hunting lodge.
There's you, lounging across another armchair, like some callously beautiful emperor. Hanging from the little finger of one hand you have a pair of padded chrome handcuffs.
I'm hurrying, wriggling my knees across the rug. You notice that I'm eager, desperate to be at your feet.
"Don't spill it, worm" you growl, and I take better care. Finally I reach you, and I begin to kiss those unyielding boots again, holding up the tea like a solemn offering. You take the mug and hang the handcuffs over my unresisting fingers.
