Apology

She didn't like it. We were going to be in different towns that night. Actually, we lived in different towns – two established professionals with our own gigs and beats – but the towns weren't very far apart and over the two years we'd managed to spend one or two nights together per week, in one town or the other. Sometimes, of course, we spent longer periods together, in one town or other or on vacation elsewhere. Anyway, it was working. We were rubbing along fine and enjoying the journey, so to speak. But tonight was one of those when we had planned to be together, in my town, but couldn't. So we'd joked about doing phone sex. Something we'd done a few times but not in recent months. And I called her and put the phone on speaker, starting up a couple minute vid of internet porn.

She didn't like it. It had unsettled her. So after a few minutes of awkward conversation, something we never experienced, or at least rarely experienced, she'd said "you've thrown me off." So I'd said, "Okay, then why don't we try again later. You phone me when you're ready. I'll be here."

"Hi."

"Hi." I slipped the Bluetooth earpiece and activated it, suddenly channeling the sound from the speaker into my right ear.

"I'm fresh out of the shower," she said, her voice quiet.

I perked up. Well, sat up against the headboard of my king-sized bed. "Still wet?"

"Uh-hmm."

"Dressed?"

"Sort of."

This was more her. The basically discreet but not really prudish her. As I said, we were both professionals, and neither of us was a kid. This was the her that had accepted in good spirit the blindfold and cuffs tucked under the pillow on Valentines Day, and we'd had a serious conversation – a conversation to the effect that this wasn't critical and that if she felt like exploring all she had to do was produce the cuffs and blindfold one day , but that if she never did that would be okay too. And it would, by the way. Truly. "So do you want to tell me what you are wearing?"

"Maybe." She hesitated, the teasing little coy girl sound coming into her voice. "But first I think you owe me an apology."

Ridiculous, of course, but women are women, so, "Well, I certainly didn't mean to..."

"No-no, not a spoken apology. You know I think actions speak louder than words."

"Fair enough. And what actions would you like me...?"

"What are you wearing?" she interrupted me, voice still quiet, emphasis on the word 'you'.

"One of my teeshirts." These are outsized teeshirts of assorted colours, etc. I don't often sleep completely nude but I loathe pajamas and absolutely can't have my balls covered at night.

"Why don't you take it off?"

"Sure." I started to peel it off, had to work it around the Bluetooth.

"Where are you by the way?" I told her, freeing the earpiece and tossing the teeshirt across the room. "Hmm, that new bluetooth is great. I could actually here the teeshirt hitting the carpet. Are you hard?"

"Getting there." And I was. Using my left leg to clear the duvet and expose my semi-erect cock, I said, "keep this up and it won't take long."

She chuckled, deep and rich in my ear. "I don't quite know what happened actually. I think for a moment I must've imagined it was real...anyway," she continued on, her voice deep and rich and sexy, "I'm going to get a glass of wine. Do you have any in?"

"Of course." Wine was something I always had.

She chuckled. I swung my legs out of the king-sized bed and started down the stairs to the main floor where the kitchen was. I could hear her moving around, carrying her cordless phone, opening cupboard doors...could visualize the scene exactly, actually. No doubt she could do the same, knowing exactly which doors I opened, both hands free because of the Bluetooth, probably guessing exactly which glass I would choose, and, no doubt, just as I could from her end, was listening as I opened the fridge and uncorked the bottle to pour the wine. (Thereby, of course, exposing my nude body to the chill air from the fridge. Chill air which seemed to wash over me completely, at least from chest to feet.)

"Don't close the fridge door, " she said simply. "In fact, push it wide open and stay right where you are. You can put the bottle back but that's all." She might have even heard the bottle return to the shelf because her timing was immaculate. "Cheers!"

"Cheers!" It was cold. Not the first time I'd been naked in my own kitchen. But different this time, a bit. And then there was the bite of chill air. It was settling around my cock and balls and, contrary to mythology, causing me to harden.

And again she might have been watching. "Are you hard?"

"Getting there," I admitted.

Then she slipped easily into her interrogation technique. All women can do this, ever noticed? Those quick, way too candid questions. "Are you sure you naked...?"

..."Yes..."

..."Completely naked...?"

..."Yes..."

...."Not even socks or anything...?"

..."No, completely naked..."

...."Must be getting chilled by now...?"

..."A bit, yes

"Ahh, poor baby...getting harder or not...?"

..."Harder, yes..."

..."How hard...?"

..."Quite hard..."

..."So you like the chill then...?"

..How do you answer that one?

..."Never mind, I don't really believe you..."

..."Why would I lie...?"

..."Because you're a guy. Guys always lie and everyone knows guys and cold don't add up to erections..."

...."Well then I must be weird because..."

..."Prove it,"she interrupted.

Bloody women. "How?"

"I don't know. Figure it out."

I suggested Skype. She hated Skype, repeated the fact the voices were always out of synch etc and added, "Besides how would you do Skype in front of the open fridge?"

..."I don't know, clear a shelf and..."

..."No, think of something else."

I actually checked my pockets for my mobile. Only of course I didn't have pockets and my mobile was upstairs because I had the Bluetooth. "I could take a pic with my blackberry..."

..."How would I know it was tonight...?"

I had sent pix before, that was true..."I'd be in front of the fridge and it would be time and date stamped..."

..."Okay...."

..."But I couldn't send it while we talk..."

...."That's okay, we can talk while you set up and take the pic then you could send it and when I have it I'd phone you back..."

So that was arranged. Well, sort of. While I padded up the stairs to get the phone, she started down a whole new track. "You do realize I'm completely dressed, while you're naked. Well, I'm not completely dressed, I have bare feet. Stand still and listen for a moment...."

I actually did

...."Can you hear my bare feet on the kitchen tile?"

..."Yes..."

She chuckled, "But otherwise I'm completely dressed while you're completely naked – go on, get the phone for the pic..."

I finished climbing the stairs

..."I'm quite enjoying being dressed while you're naked...turned on a bit by it, how about you? Getting hard?"

I was now bobbing and jouncing, the way you do..."Yes..."

..."Thumb to baby..."...A standard unit of measurement, from thumb to baby finger with the hand spread: hers or mine, mine of course being the bigger spread.

I chuckled...and after quickly unplugging the phone, put down the wine to test..."Yes...

"Goood," she also chuckled, "maybe we're on to something here, maybe I'll keep you naked all weekend..."

Of course part of me knew she wasn't dressed. She was fresh from the shower—she'd said so -- probably wearing one of her silk nightgowns and her black, or maybe her white, dressinggown. But she was certainly more dressed than I was...and more importantly, part of me knew absolutely that she was fully dressed except for her bare padding feet. Isn't sex a wonderful thing with the right partner????!

I was going down the stairs, completely naked, and acutely aware of the fact, erection swaying, glass of wine in one hand and phone in the other. "I thought we were going skiing."

"Oh now there's an idea." She was positively purring. "Me fully dressed all weekend, you completely naked all weekend. And when we go skiing...how are you doing by the way...?" The only way to get a pic of your erection and the open fridge – at least the only way I could think of—was to lay down on the floor, using one knee to prop open the door and propping the other foot against the opposite doorframe about two shelves up – she hadn't really waited for a reply, just carried on, and the cold from the fridge lent texture to her words, "And when we go skiing I'd let you wear only the minimum, maybe ski pants and a jacket but that's all, nothing underneath, and when we got way out the back I'd make you strip..." the pic came up with my erection fully engorged against a background of skinless boneless chicken breasts, " completely naked, well, except your boots...would your pants fit over your boots do you think?...I think they would...are you jacking off? If so, stop it right now..."

I did.

Her tone had been that sharp despite the low volume.

My right hand still encircled my cock.

"Don't move. Don't change the pose. Just send the pic and wait til I get back to you..."

That was a very long 3 minutes. Well, 3 minutes and 27 seconds according to the old style circular clock on the wall behind where I lay with my knee propping open the fridge door and the other foot up on the opposite doorframe so my legs were apart, erection and balls fully exposed to the now searing cold. "Hello?"

"Hello Ms Sexy to you and apology not accepted."

I felt completely deflated and humiliated. Don't ask me why. I just did. "Sorry..."

"No, action not words. Here I am, upset by your behavior earlier and instead getting the apology I expected you insult me. How dare you touch yourself while you're taking a pic for tribute?" My hand literally jumped away from my erection of it's own accord. "I can touch myself, as I am now through my clothes but you're naked for a reason and I now expect not only an apology but penance. Take a vid. At least 6 or 8 seconds. And you better be hard, thinking about me. Take the vid and email it to me then wait, as you are...now get on with it."

6 minutes later my phone rang. "Hello?"

"Hello Ms Sexy."

"Hello Ms Sexy," I repeated hopefully.

"Stay exactly as you are. .." I settled back from the elbow I had risen to on to my back, again, still fully exposed to the cold seemingly enveloping cloud of air from the fridge . Those chicken breasts looked positively warm by comparison to me and the milk container seemed to be perspiring "...I'm still not satisfied with the apology let alone prepared to move on to give thought to the penance. Instead through my clothes I'm going to touch myself, in fact I'm going to bring myself off...while you lie there naked and cold and frustrated and hard...you are hard...?"

"Yes, Ms Sexy..."

..."You better not be lying to me..."

..."I'm not, Ms Sexy. I'm hard, very hard..."

..."Describe your erection to me..." She was breathing heavily now. I recognized the pattern, the sounds and spaces between the sounds—soon, if it was my fingers touching her, she would be squeezing, tightening her firm oh so muscular thighs until she would very nearly break my fingers like twigs..."it's hard, quivering, purple and there's pre-cum in the tip..."

..."Hmmm! Don't touch that pre-cum," she was gasping now, very close, "any cum from your cock is mine – oh god oh Christ," and then she went silent, only her breathing was audible and I could clearly visualize, even feel, her taut arch as she went into full spasm, and would hang there, seemingly levitated, every sinew stretched to breaking point.

While I could only lie there, imagining her in the throes, making me feel even more cold, even more naked, even more frustrated and humiliated and – I had to sit up abruptly, prop myself on an elbow, and breathe, slowly, carefully, think about non –sexual things, like the milk, and then the clock on the wall, and finally, carefully, judiciously, consciously pulling back from the brink of orgasm myself until I could lie back in the pose from the pic and vid...gaining final control over myself, and my breathing...

Listening to her starting to regain her own senses at the other end of the phone

"Are you still naked?" Her breathing was growing more normal, her soft voice still husky from the orgasm.

"Yes, Ms Sexy." Not that I had to be, really, of course.

"Did you cum?"

"No, Ms Sexy." And of course I could've actually cum. I didn't have to be naked, and still hard, and frustrated and humiliated – let alone lying on my kitchen floor with the fridge door open and my legs spread and raised so the cold had free range over every part of me, including, seemingly especially including, my quivering erection and heavy full balls.

She was, after all, in another town. At the end of a phone line.

But that's hindsight.

"Do I have to demand another pic for proof?"

"No, Ms Sexy." But I hastened to add, anxiously, "but of course if you want one I can arrange it. I could take another vid. "

I could always just slip off whatever I was wearing, had I not been silly enough to actually be naked, in order to take the pic or vid. Mind you, I would have to have been very careful and quiet because the audio through the Bluetooth was exceptional and she was picking up every sound. But again, all of that was hindsight.

At the time, in that moment, while I lay very still, listening for her instruction, sex being the non-sequential non-logical thing that it is, she was indeed fully dressed – even though she was wearing a nightgown and dressing-gown, at most – while I was indeed completely and utterly naked – which I in fact was – and she was in full, absolute control. Because even though I was frustrated and humiliated, I wanted her to be in control and part of me was thoroughly enjoying the experience of groveling around like a household pet. A naked household pet, groveling for a fully clothed mistress.

That too is hindsight.

At the time, truth to tell, I was too horny to think through any of that.

"No, I think I'll take your word, this time."

"Thank you, Ms Sexy." Genuine relief and gratitude, equally mixed, spread through my entire body.

"But that's only because I choose to. I'm still displeased. I still don't feel you've apologized adequately and then there's the penance and I might just have to keep you naked all weekend. I might keep you naked from this moment on...I might talk to you on the drive over in the morning, just to keep you on your toes, on your naked toes, completely naked toes, feet, legs, torso and of course your naked balls and cock...how are your balls and cock, by the way?"

"Full, Ms Sexy. Hard, Ms Sexy."

"So your cock is full and your balls are hard?"

'Trap', my mind screamed. "Both my cock and my balls are full of cum, Ms Sexy, and therefore both are hard, Ms Sexy."

"And sensitive and tender?"

I believe I may have groaned softly. "Yes, Ms Sexy."

"Good." She chuckled, the low purring chuckle, and I felt it like fingertips running gently up and down my stiff cock before settling in the base of my chilled balls. "Because every bit of that cum is mine."

"Yes, Ms Sexy."

"Excellent." This time I got the full throaty chuckle. The one that felt as though she had closed her warm wet mouth over my cold, exposed to the fridge air, quivering cock – and the contrast was very nearly enough to push me over the edge. Might well have done so, had her timing not been immaculate. As always. "Still have your wine?"

"Yes, Ms Sexy." I sat enough to collect it, still half full.

"Finish it off for me."

"Yes, Ms Sexy." I drained it, no time to savour...but it was nice, warming.

"Now masturbate. Masturbate and shoot every drop of cum into that wineglass."

I froze. Having trouble, to be honest, comprehending.

"Spank yourself. Now. Let me hear your hand slapping your ass. Now."

Again with the tone. Hard, but quiet. I can't describe it any better. It was like a whiplash in itself. I'd never heard that tone before – not in the 2 years we'd been together. But it was not a tone I could ignore. I had to roll face down on the kitchen floor to expose my ass for the blow but I found myself over in a flash and felt and heard the slap. Echoing.

"Again." Another slap, echoing. "Again." Yet another slap, echoing. "Again. Is that fridge door still open?" Another echo.

"Yes, Ms Sexy..."

..."Again..."

...."Again. And are you grinding your cock and balls into that carpet on the floor?"

..."Yes, Ms Sexy..." It was thin coarse hard-wearing carpet and it was rough against my cock and balls as I writhed against it...

"Again..."

...."Again. And is your hand getting sore and your ass getting hot and sore...."

... "Yes, Ms Sexy..."

..."Again..."

..."Again..."

..."Again..."

"Now masturbate for me. Every drop of cum in the wineglass. Do it. Now."

It was an instantaneous molten explosion. Roll over...one stroke, two, maybe three...wham. I almost forgot the wineglass, was surprised afterwards that I'd remembered it at all, but a lot of the cum missed the glass and even in the midst of the maelstrom I could clearly feel it hitting my chest and my chin and I knew it was cum because with the tip of my tongue I could taste a drop of the fluid at the corner of my mouth...

"Say thank you."

"Thank you, Ms Sexy." Bereft now that my system was settling and my breath was returning to normal. Suffering that post-coital everything-dropped-the-entire-elevator-shaft nausea-almost-to-the-point-of-vomiting that I recalled from being a teenage guy doing what teenage guys do and...

"Mean it, please."

"Thank you, Ms Sexy."

"Louder."

"Thank you, Ms Sexy!"

Switching tacks yet again, her tone laced with sarcasm: "Bet you've gone soft now?"

I had to look. "No, Ms Sexy." The glance down had reminded me, and, sensing it was important, I began to scoop glistening cum from my chest and belly with an index finger, intending it for the glass.

"...Old fart like you...?"

..."I've not gone entirely soft, Ms Sexy..."

..."...Must have, surely..."

..."Does Ms Sexy not remember the headboard contest...?"

..."I certainly do. Are you implying I'm losing my memory?"

..."No, Ms Sexy..."

..."I remember very clearly that our headboard was banging outrageously long after the adjoining room had gone silent and I recall meeting that much younger couple by chance in the doorways next morning..."

..."Yes, Ms Sexy..."

..."...And I recall that young slut eyeing you up as potential replacement meat..."

....the heat had risen on my cheeks and elsewhere as well...

"...Have you met secretly with that little bitch by any chance?..."

..."NO, Ms Sexy..."

....she paused here, letting it extend, "No, you're too old. That was a year ago now, probably couldn't keep up now anyway..."

Being female, she knew just which buttons to push. The age card. Perfect. Too old to keep up and certainly, of course, too old to be sitting naked in my own cum on the floor of my own kitchen.

"How hard are you?"

"Thumb to baby, Ms Sexy." I was proud of that. The distance between thumb and baby finger of an extended hand. It was one of our special good natured measurements. Usually good natured.

Her sniff was pure disdain, dismissive. "And the wineglass is full, right?"

Instant shame. Total deflation and humiliation...and even more erect, if possible, quivering, and my balls taut and twitching.

"I don't believe I heard that?"

"No, Ms Sexy."

"No what?"

"The glass is not full, Ms Sexy."

She rang off. Just like that...

I'd been sitting there – how long? – no idea to be truthful – my mind a jumble of thoughts and my cock hard and my balls aching while the pit of my stomach battled to stave off the nausea. So you can imagine how elated I was when the call came in.