I'd get a room for the evening. Text you the location and time. Lets say...6:30 PM. And what my whim for the night is. Tonight, I want Victorian, I think. Wear a long skirt, long-sleeved white or cream blouse, high necked. Put your hair up. Boots with heels. Underwear?
do you even have to ask? Do wear a bra, though. I like playing with them.
A knock. "Come in, please." Some people are harsh and rude, trying to establish their authority with force and bluster. Me, I never found that was needed. One either is, or is not: does, or does not. You will come in, give me a civil greeting, and wait quietly. Oh, and the term is "Sir." It's not a Master/slave piece of nonsense -- just more common civil courtesy.
"Stand in the centre of the room, luv. I want to look at you." Ok, these rooms are not exactly made to have a "centre" and allow one to walk around. I just twirl my finger, motioning you to spin in place. Slowly. I do rather like what I see. A step, and I am before you, staring down into your eyes. Reaching up to caress the back of your neck. Then to take hold of your hair-bun, pull your head back and kiss you. Hard. Pull your head back a bit more, and softly lick along side of your neck, where your pulse beats passion under your flesh.
"Turn around. Put your hands on the edge of the bed. Spread your legs." I raise your skirts, leaving it draped well above your waist, your delicious arse exposed. An ass made to be caressed (I do).... and spanked (and I do that, as well.) Lightly at first, just the fingers, a slow rhythm. Mmmm...you really do have a lovely arse. Do you like that? Sightly harder slaps, now, but still just warming you up.
"Stand up again, luv. Unbutton your blouse." Sometimes, I like to strip you myself. Others, to sit back and watch as you show off for me. Tonight, as much as I do like watching you undress, I am after the glory inside.
With your blouse un-buttoned and pulled free just enough, I caress your tits with both hands. Yes, you can see the dreamy smile on my face -- you have lovely tits, too. I take them into my hands, one each, and squeeze. Hard. Still that smile, but less dreamy and more evil. Oh yes...I do like playing with your body. Hard.
You've worn a back-hook bra. Not surprising -- that is normally what I like, even though tonight a front-hook might have worked better. Or mayhaps not, for then I wouldn't have as much fun with it. I have to grin to myself -- you also chose to wear a cheap bra. One you can afford to loose. I suspect you know how my mind works.
The knife is black, a skeleton handle. A real knife, not some play toy gussied up for a scene. Flash is for putting on a show. (we might do that sometime, as well.) The boot-knife is for really doing things. Like cutting off your bra. I trail the point down your chest, from the hollow of your throat to the fabric between your breasts. Then slide the knife between flesh and cloth, and slice outwards. The cups fall away, and your tits are open to the air, my fingers, my greedy gaze and the edge of my knife.
"Put your hands up, behind your head, luv." You lift and position, thrusting your chest out. Keeping your eyes on mine, as I trace pattens on your flesh with the sharp point of my knife. From behind the earlobes, to your belly, where your skirt halts my teasing. Over the globes of your breasts, using the edge to lightly scrape the flesh. Then you feel the cold steel under a nipple -- it slashes across. A cold black point, suddenly under your chin prevents you looking down to see. The knife at your throat holding you still, your hands laced behind your head, all you can do it stare into my eyes....
...as you slowly realize there isn't any pain. I take the knife from your chin, and run the back edge across my neck, and you figure out what I did. I just laugh, as you sputter and call me names. Do you really think I would cut such a fine nipple? Well...ok...I confess it is a thought. But some other time -- we'll talk first.
"Enough." You have enough sense to shut up. And probably, you're smiling inside. Who wants boring predictability? You probably expect the nipple clamps, though. Not very tight -- not the crushing pain of clover clamps, or the insidious bite of cloths-pins. Just the gentle squeeze of tweezer clamps. Almost as much because I like the look, and have fun tugging on the chain between them, as much as to stimulate your nipples. That happy smile again, as I look at your clipped tits, the shiny chain between your nipples leading the eye to the dark red tips. Tap the timer.
"Put your hand the edge of the bed again, my dear."
