Marcel and I had small, intimate, public and private codes, phrases that we would use to communicate our special needs and desires.
On occasion, seated across from him at a restaurant, I would say, "Is it me, or is it a bit chilly in here?" Which meant that I had slipped off my panties beneath the tablecloth.
He would then remove his shoe, and raise his foot between my legs. I would grasp it, press it against me. He always wore silk hose, and the feeling was incredible! He would wiggle his toes as I guided his foot here and there. He would take my other hand in his, run his thumb across my palm, and study my face as I reacted to my ministrations below the table. Sometimes this brought me to orgasm, and he would have to endure a damp sock until we returned to the apartment. Oh, how I would have to pay for that bit of mischief!
In the privacy our boudoir there was an equally provocative message that I would occasionally deliver. There came a point in our relationship when my cunt-there's that word again! I get wet just making these few keystokes! Anyway, my-you-know-what- became a bit too accomodating to his cock. I'd been thoroughly stretched by his thickness, and his prick began to slip in with more ease than I desired. So I took charge of the physical situation, so to speak.
When he returns, after days of doing his impresario thing, I appear, backlit from the bathroom, light shining between my legs from behind, outlining my sex. My shoulders, breasts, face are dimly illumined by reflected light. I say to him, very softly, with just the faintest hint of a catch in my voice, "Are you going to f-fuck me, Daddy?"
This, of course, preceeded by the following: The room is lit by a myriad of candles that I have arranged before he enters. The soft, flickering lights rebound from the many mirrors that are strategically placed about the room. The French doors are open to the small wrought iron balcony that overlooks the harbor. The scent of jasmine is thick in the summer night. I have rouged my nipples.
As I said, my sex had become used to his invasions; slackened, relaxed, too easily accommodating his increasingly frequent invasions.
So I corrected the problem by employing an alum douche. I rummaged through the kitchen spice cabinet, mixed a small amount of alum with a litre of warm water, and repaired to the bathroom. A solution that, once infused into my most private regions, served to tighten, constrict, and shrink my internal passages, until I could barely penetrate myself with a slim forefinger.
