Degustation is a culinary term meaning "a careful, appreciative tasting of various foods" and focusing on the gustatory system, the senses, high culinary art and good company. (with thanks to wiki, full definition here)
The phone rings. It is Sir. He is here. They are here.
I race downstairs and walk up through the garage, peeking around the corner. He is standing at the car and beside him is her. We are not permitted to see each other so I step back waiting. She has on a pair of black stilettos, stockings, I think a long coat and has gorgeous bright red curly hair. I do not see her face and do not try. I hear him stride towards me. He smiles and all at once all of my 'what the fuck am I doings' are gone, swept up in his cool, calm and collected wake. I hand him the keys and give him the room number.
I go back to the elevator and up to the room, waiting in the master bedroom. I hear the door. I call out to Sir. He comes in and bids me kneel on the edge of the bed. He is gone again to the other room. I can scarcely breathe. He is back again, speaking. He smacks my arse hard with his hand. The sound ricochets around the walls like gunfire. His hand finds its mark over and over. 'Stay'. He is gone again. I hear the same sound coming from the other room. I can not describe how much it turns me on. The familiar sound - thwack, thwack, thwack. I feel myself brimming with lust. I am trembling. He is back. I am undressed. I hear him speak to her. She is in the room. I lift my head and for a second I see her standing, face against the wall, her sweet, fair skin sheathed in thigh high stockings and a black thong, then she is gone - blacked out by the blindfold.
As commanded, we lay on the bed beside each other, face down. As if an afterthought he pulls our hands together. I am clasping her hand. He is wielding the whip. Now comes the nervy part.
I know she can take a hiding - 200 cane strokes in fact. Sir tells me this partly I think as an inspirational story, a "this too can be you" and I am sure in part because he is proud of her and his training. I hear the immense joy in his voice when he speaks of her - almost awe - and it is beautiful.
I am in my head trying to have a rational conversation with myself - who, I might add at this point, is not a very rational person. I think: I haven't been caned in a while and I kind of miss it. I don't like it particularly but I love the marks. I remember the ones I had after our very first session - across the top of my back and arse...sigh...I do prefer the feel of the whip but...anyway this is the hardly the time for contemplating cane vs whip discussions with Sir. I don't know that I get much of a choice anyway. No that isn't true. I do. Fuck. I am lying naked on a bed next to someone I don't know, I can't see and Sir is about to whip me. Because she is here, will he push me? I hope not. Fuck. Back comes 'what the fuck am I doing'. I am not sure where this is going. Why the hell do I keep doing this? All of this inundates my head in about 3.2 seconds.
I feel the leather bite into my skin and it is delicious. All thinking is done for the day. One, two, three, four, five. I am fairly still and quiet, (considering I apparently whine). I hear them raining down on her. I note they sound harder. I have gotten to know the different sounds the whip makes. She does not move, I do not hear her breathe. Her hand does not twitch. She is perfectly still. He is right to be impressed. I am amazed. He moves between us, according lashings as he sees fit. He is kind. They are none too hard to endure though one or two make me twist and complain. Perhaps I do whinge - just a bit.
"Kiss her." We blindly find each other and she is there and soft and warm, her tongue firm and searching. I have not been directed to but I take a chance and reach my hands up around the back of her neck, kissing her mouth with more fervor. Her lips are soft. Her tongue slips in and out of my mouth. I suck her lip. I want very much to pull her to me, to lie her back, to drink her in, slowly and with abandon. Sir is there. I am waiting for him to speak. I am waiting desperately for his direction. My hands start to explore her body, touch the shape of her breasts, slip between her thighs.
I am waiting direction but I will not wait long - nor as it turns out do I have to.
Monday
Oh. My. God.
So folks, I am struggling at the moment to paint an adequate picture of my weekend dalliances. My head is filled with fragments of time all rolling together then I get stuck in a moment.
Right now the kids are here. They got here early Sunday afternoon. My lovely little two bed unit instantly filled with the sounds of Scooby-Doo and squabbling. I went to have a shower last night, walked into my ensuite and stood on wet, salty, sandy jeans and t-shirts from their sand-castle building exercise. I felt a huge amount of joy watching my youngest career around the grass on his bike for the first time without training wheels. We checked out the cool toys in the garage, the two Ducattis, the jet-skis, the Porsche and a vintage Holden (my boys - sigh!). There is Sponge-Bob Monopoly layed out for hours of play on my dining table (I might add it is looking like my token - Squidward - is going to cop a beating). We had roast chicken by candle light on the balcony, drank water from wine glasses and got gelatos eating them out the front of the shop. We walked up the hill to the look-out and danced on the tables well after 'normal' bed-time in the crisp salty air and bright moonlight. I felt and feel truly present.
There are of course moments where my presence is compromised by a wistful smiling gaze into the distance. Fortunately my children just think I am mad and my husband just shakes his head.
I drove down to the beach with husband Friday night. We bought a pizza and sat looking out over the ocean. The moon sat full and low, the air still and cool. It was lovely and relaxing. We stretched out in bed and had slow, deliberate sex, taking our time. It is so nice to be removed from our usual mess and busyness for a time.
He left on Saturday morning at around 11 to collect the children and look after them for the night.
I went back to the unit to wait. I hadn't been feeling well. I had a migraine the day before. I read and slept intermittently, every noise roused me instantly. I paced. I drank copious amounts of water and had a couple of panadol. I was nervous and squeemish and excited. I salt scrubbed my freshly waxed legs which always relaxes me and then showered and bathed, brought myself to cumming twice (also relaxing) and showered again. I had a small "what the fuck am I doing" moment. I had a cigarette. I cleaned my teeth. I had a big "what the fuck am I doing" moment. I checked my phone. I cleaned my teeth again. I dressed and repositioned the pillows on the bed. At about three-thirty my phone rang. SHIT. What the fuck am I doing?
*****
I got up Sunday morning at 7. The total silence of no-one else around was bliss. I went straight in to have a shower. I had thought about showering before I went to bed but I wanted to keep the smell and the taste of the night with me as long as I could. My muscles ached. My thighs burned. My cunt still throbbed. The warm water made all of the juicy fucking from the night before turn into a slick film on my skin. I felt it over my face and chest, my shoulders, my legs, my stomach. I reveled in it. The water ran through my hair. It is long, thick and dark brown. It takes all day to dry (best case scenario) so washing it is a task best left for mornings. I was running my fingers through pulling any stray whisps when I found a thin tendril, a curly cherry-red strand tangled in amongst my hair. My heart skipped a beat. My chest felt like it would burst. I dissolved into giggles and deep sighs. Then I leaned in against the wall and came.
The night before. Oh. My. God. She was like some sort of divine being.
Oh.
My.
God.
Right now the kids are here. They got here early Sunday afternoon. My lovely little two bed unit instantly filled with the sounds of Scooby-Doo and squabbling. I went to have a shower last night, walked into my ensuite and stood on wet, salty, sandy jeans and t-shirts from their sand-castle building exercise. I felt a huge amount of joy watching my youngest career around the grass on his bike for the first time without training wheels. We checked out the cool toys in the garage, the two Ducattis, the jet-skis, the Porsche and a vintage Holden (my boys - sigh!). There is Sponge-Bob Monopoly layed out for hours of play on my dining table (I might add it is looking like my token - Squidward - is going to cop a beating). We had roast chicken by candle light on the balcony, drank water from wine glasses and got gelatos eating them out the front of the shop. We walked up the hill to the look-out and danced on the tables well after 'normal' bed-time in the crisp salty air and bright moonlight. I felt and feel truly present.
There are of course moments where my presence is compromised by a wistful smiling gaze into the distance. Fortunately my children just think I am mad and my husband just shakes his head.
I drove down to the beach with husband Friday night. We bought a pizza and sat looking out over the ocean. The moon sat full and low, the air still and cool. It was lovely and relaxing. We stretched out in bed and had slow, deliberate sex, taking our time. It is so nice to be removed from our usual mess and busyness for a time.
He left on Saturday morning at around 11 to collect the children and look after them for the night.
I went back to the unit to wait. I hadn't been feeling well. I had a migraine the day before. I read and slept intermittently, every noise roused me instantly. I paced. I drank copious amounts of water and had a couple of panadol. I was nervous and squeemish and excited. I salt scrubbed my freshly waxed legs which always relaxes me and then showered and bathed, brought myself to cumming twice (also relaxing) and showered again. I had a small "what the fuck am I doing" moment. I had a cigarette. I cleaned my teeth. I had a big "what the fuck am I doing" moment. I checked my phone. I cleaned my teeth again. I dressed and repositioned the pillows on the bed. At about three-thirty my phone rang. SHIT. What the fuck am I doing?
*****
I got up Sunday morning at 7. The total silence of no-one else around was bliss. I went straight in to have a shower. I had thought about showering before I went to bed but I wanted to keep the smell and the taste of the night with me as long as I could. My muscles ached. My thighs burned. My cunt still throbbed. The warm water made all of the juicy fucking from the night before turn into a slick film on my skin. I felt it over my face and chest, my shoulders, my legs, my stomach. I reveled in it. The water ran through my hair. It is long, thick and dark brown. It takes all day to dry (best case scenario) so washing it is a task best left for mornings. I was running my fingers through pulling any stray whisps when I found a thin tendril, a curly cherry-red strand tangled in amongst my hair. My heart skipped a beat. My chest felt like it would burst. I dissolved into giggles and deep sighs. Then I leaned in against the wall and came.
The night before. Oh. My. God. She was like some sort of divine being.
Oh.
My.
God.
Sunday
We Are Not Real
We are not real.
My husband, my children, school runs, making dinner, laughing with friends, holidays, paying bills, running late, rainy-PJ-days, swimming-at-the-beach-weekends, grocery shopping, bathing the dog - that is real.
We are not real.
When my nails rake down your back, you borrow the lines for a time and then they are gone. When I speak with you on the phone - moments of time snatched away from my life, my real life. When you respond "Yes, Mistress" in desperate, strangled whispers. When you beg for more, for less, for something, for everything. I know your wife is in the other room - your wife is real.
We are not real.
When you pull me to you and I am on my knees, your hand wound in my hair, sweat and cum dripping. When I lay splayed across the floor, my back burning feeling the whip bite into my skin. When you are there with your cock inside me, driving me home, pulsing in my mouth. When my eyes roll and I shudder and grab at you with my cunt and we are lost, I am lost, that is a fantasy - a longing. When your eyes lock with mine and we move in sync, we touch the core of each other and do not have to look away because we are there only for that moment. It does not exist before or after, only then and once you have touched it, it is gone
We are not real.
When you are with her and you think of me, tracing the lines of her face remembering mine. When you feel yourself slide into her and you can almost taste my scent. When I am with someone else I close my eyes and see you staring into me. When I feel that I am with you with them in that moment and that moment is gone - they are just imaginings.
We are not real.
When I see you stretched out above me, the curve of your breasts, your hair falling softly over your shoulders, my mouth over yours. When I watch you sleep and kiss your belly. When I wake I see your shadow has not etched into my wall by candle light, your arching back, your gorgeous thrusting hips, your lips calling my name. When I smell you on my sheets but you are gone I smile softly - a midnight apparition.
We are not real.
I will carve myself into your soul, burn my touch onto your skin, leave my taste on your tongue and you will cherish it, wrap it inside your mind and keep it safe. We hold our imagined-together-dreams and they sustain us. While you touch yourself you are there in those moments.
Then they are gone because we are not real.
My husband, my children, school runs, making dinner, laughing with friends, holidays, paying bills, running late, rainy-PJ-days, swimming-at-the-beach-weekends, grocery shopping, bathing the dog - that is real.
We are not real.
When my nails rake down your back, you borrow the lines for a time and then they are gone. When I speak with you on the phone - moments of time snatched away from my life, my real life. When you respond "Yes, Mistress" in desperate, strangled whispers. When you beg for more, for less, for something, for everything. I know your wife is in the other room - your wife is real.
We are not real.
When you pull me to you and I am on my knees, your hand wound in my hair, sweat and cum dripping. When I lay splayed across the floor, my back burning feeling the whip bite into my skin. When you are there with your cock inside me, driving me home, pulsing in my mouth. When my eyes roll and I shudder and grab at you with my cunt and we are lost, I am lost, that is a fantasy - a longing. When your eyes lock with mine and we move in sync, we touch the core of each other and do not have to look away because we are there only for that moment. It does not exist before or after, only then and once you have touched it, it is gone
We are not real.
When you are with her and you think of me, tracing the lines of her face remembering mine. When you feel yourself slide into her and you can almost taste my scent. When I am with someone else I close my eyes and see you staring into me. When I feel that I am with you with them in that moment and that moment is gone - they are just imaginings.
We are not real.
When I see you stretched out above me, the curve of your breasts, your hair falling softly over your shoulders, my mouth over yours. When I watch you sleep and kiss your belly. When I wake I see your shadow has not etched into my wall by candle light, your arching back, your gorgeous thrusting hips, your lips calling my name. When I smell you on my sheets but you are gone I smile softly - a midnight apparition.
We are not real.
I will carve myself into your soul, burn my touch onto your skin, leave my taste on your tongue and you will cherish it, wrap it inside your mind and keep it safe. We hold our imagined-together-dreams and they sustain us. While you touch yourself you are there in those moments.
Then they are gone because we are not real.
Thursday
Patience - a dish served cold
I was wanting to patiently (impatiently) wait until the weekend. I was wanting a quiet visit. I had no idea what patient meant...no idea at all...
He pulled them from me over and over until the floor was wet, my thighs wet, my cunt swollen. He grabbed my hair, pulling me to him, pulling it as I came. He thrust his fingers in and out then, intensifying my cumming. I was literally in a puddle. He had to get a towel to mop up. All of a sudden it stopped. I was not permitted to cum anymore. I was sucking his cock and had to keep stopping, bringing myself down, my begging to cum met each time with a no. I knelt between his knees, shaking, holding off the orgasm. I begged again and again and again. He cupped one hand under my chin and angled my face towards his. Eyes locked, I could not turn away.
He lifts his hand and brings it down, slapping my left breast. I try to be quiet. I know I am not. I am whimpering. Please, Sir. Whack. Each time bringing my orgasm closer to the surface. I push my breasts forward wanting more. Please, Sir may I..? Whack. I shake my head. I feel my eyes wide. My cunt is throbbing, dripping on the floor. I am going to cum. God what is going to happen if I cum having been expressly told not to... Please Sir? He shakes his head, eyes flash, NO. Whack. Whack. Whack. Oh God oh God oh God I have never been this close and not tipped over the edge. If I move I am going to cum. Tears roll down my cheeks, our eyes still locked. The tears are from the desperate need to cum. I want him to slap me again and to release me to cum with it. Tears tears more tears. He never lets me cum when I am being whipped or slapped. I needed it so badly. I am shaking, sobbing. He traces my face with his finger, drinking in my distress. My breath sticks in my throat. I have to look away. He stops.
I am sucking his cock again. Victorious. I did not cum. It does not feel victorious. Perhaps he will allow me to take my fill. Perhaps he will cum. He stands. No. I will not cum until the weekend. Until.....(I am still not spilling)....You though, I can see you need more. Sit over the towel and cum until I say to stop. The towel is thrust at me and I cum over and over. He leaves the room and comes back. There, that is enough for you. No more. I tell you it was not what I needed. It was far from it and he knew it. I needed in those moments to cum, not after. Fuck him. Fuck him and the goddamn horse he rode in on.
And that was how the true test of patience began.
He held out his hands and helped me to my feet. We walked outside and had a cigarette. The air was fresh and the wind ripped through me, cooling my damp and overheated skin. My dress was soaked through in sweat and cum, mainly cum - my cum. My hair washed fresh that morning was just dry and now stuck in thick, sweaty, teary chunks to my neck and face. I tied it back, loosely with some pins. I would have to wash it again and it takes all damn day to dry. I stand to leave and present him with the meals I had carefully packed, frozen and labeled.
I had prepared him a meal for each night of the week. All organic and every single thing was handmade, the pastry on the pie, the pasta sheets, the sauces. Everything was touched by my hands.
I pour everything I am into my food. Into my food and into my fucking but maybe moreso into the food.
He walks me to the door and hugs me. He wants me to really feel how grateful he is. I can't stand in it. I can't own it. I want to look away, run out the door. He holds me there and hugs me. "...no. As a person to another person, I really want you to get it. I really want you to get what this means to me..." He is saying. I am nodding, looking at the floor mumbling "I get it" and dying to be in my car. Why am I so uncomfortable?
Finally I escape. I arrive home, shower, husband and I play a bit then we curl up on the couch to eat chinese and watch a movie. The weekend rolls on and is filled in with friends, family, birthdays, backyard soccer, food and laughing.
I know Sir is not alone when he eats because a little bit of me is there too. I get a message about the delicious food and a "good girl". Smiling, I send back a cheeky "aren't I just?" and get away with it too - because I am, aren't I?
He pulled them from me over and over until the floor was wet, my thighs wet, my cunt swollen. He grabbed my hair, pulling me to him, pulling it as I came. He thrust his fingers in and out then, intensifying my cumming. I was literally in a puddle. He had to get a towel to mop up. All of a sudden it stopped. I was not permitted to cum anymore. I was sucking his cock and had to keep stopping, bringing myself down, my begging to cum met each time with a no. I knelt between his knees, shaking, holding off the orgasm. I begged again and again and again. He cupped one hand under my chin and angled my face towards his. Eyes locked, I could not turn away.
He lifts his hand and brings it down, slapping my left breast. I try to be quiet. I know I am not. I am whimpering. Please, Sir. Whack. Each time bringing my orgasm closer to the surface. I push my breasts forward wanting more. Please, Sir may I..? Whack. I shake my head. I feel my eyes wide. My cunt is throbbing, dripping on the floor. I am going to cum. God what is going to happen if I cum having been expressly told not to... Please Sir? He shakes his head, eyes flash, NO. Whack. Whack. Whack. Oh God oh God oh God I have never been this close and not tipped over the edge. If I move I am going to cum. Tears roll down my cheeks, our eyes still locked. The tears are from the desperate need to cum. I want him to slap me again and to release me to cum with it. Tears tears more tears. He never lets me cum when I am being whipped or slapped. I needed it so badly. I am shaking, sobbing. He traces my face with his finger, drinking in my distress. My breath sticks in my throat. I have to look away. He stops.
I am sucking his cock again. Victorious. I did not cum. It does not feel victorious. Perhaps he will allow me to take my fill. Perhaps he will cum. He stands. No. I will not cum until the weekend. Until.....(I am still not spilling)....You though, I can see you need more. Sit over the towel and cum until I say to stop. The towel is thrust at me and I cum over and over. He leaves the room and comes back. There, that is enough for you. No more. I tell you it was not what I needed. It was far from it and he knew it. I needed in those moments to cum, not after. Fuck him. Fuck him and the goddamn horse he rode in on.
And that was how the true test of patience began.
He held out his hands and helped me to my feet. We walked outside and had a cigarette. The air was fresh and the wind ripped through me, cooling my damp and overheated skin. My dress was soaked through in sweat and cum, mainly cum - my cum. My hair washed fresh that morning was just dry and now stuck in thick, sweaty, teary chunks to my neck and face. I tied it back, loosely with some pins. I would have to wash it again and it takes all damn day to dry. I stand to leave and present him with the meals I had carefully packed, frozen and labeled.
I had prepared him a meal for each night of the week. All organic and every single thing was handmade, the pastry on the pie, the pasta sheets, the sauces. Everything was touched by my hands.
I pour everything I am into my food. Into my food and into my fucking but maybe moreso into the food.
He walks me to the door and hugs me. He wants me to really feel how grateful he is. I can't stand in it. I can't own it. I want to look away, run out the door. He holds me there and hugs me. "...no. As a person to another person, I really want you to get it. I really want you to get what this means to me..." He is saying. I am nodding, looking at the floor mumbling "I get it" and dying to be in my car. Why am I so uncomfortable?
Finally I escape. I arrive home, shower, husband and I play a bit then we curl up on the couch to eat chinese and watch a movie. The weekend rolls on and is filled in with friends, family, birthdays, backyard soccer, food and laughing.
I know Sir is not alone when he eats because a little bit of me is there too. I get a message about the delicious food and a "good girl". Smiling, I send back a cheeky "aren't I just?" and get away with it too - because I am, aren't I?
Monday
A quiet visit
I got there Friday afternoon. As is normal practice the door is key-locked behind me. I always gulp when the key turns in the lock. It is a very difficult thing to get used to - one that I am not sure I will get used to. The only way I can leave is when he unlocks the door. I was planning a short visit - discussing future deviant plans and small talk. I had brought some of my things but thought to leave them in the car. I felt it far better to have them at the ready if requested than to get in trouble for not bringing them. Instead of being directed straight up to his room I was invited (directed/invited - it is all so closely linked, no?) to sit and chat in one of the downstairs lounge rooms. I settled back into the giant L-shaped couch on one side and he sat on the other.
We chatted for a few minutes. I wanted so badly to be out-of-control. I wanted also to be patient and wait for the upcoming weekend. To build anticipation. I said as much.
He nodded in agreement and then said quietly, "But first you must cum now."
I said "no." Small but firm. Our gaze was locked. He raised his eyebrows. I needed him to take them from me. I needed for him to know I had no choice, that my body responds to him of its own accord.
"I said cum - NOW."
I shook my head and said "no" again. I could feel the warmth in my belly, the tingle in my cunt and I knew I could not win this battle but boy was I enjoying it. I came in a small little wave. It washed through quickly, not betraying itself.
"What did you say to me?" He did not move from his seat. "I said cum!"
I shook my head, keeping my eyes locked on his and said "No - I - will - not". Trying my very hardest to appear controlled I could feel all of my muscles clenching. My cunt tighten, my stomach knot. I was trying to keep my breathing calm and even.
His look grew slightly more fierce for just a moment. I could see he was about to speak again, to walk over, when I came for the third time. This time with more weight behind it. I am not quiet at the best of times and my tell-tale gasp coupled with the biting of my lip and eyes losing focus - even in the dim light of the television he could see his victory.
"Again slut, now."
Sitting in the room with him, faster and faster they came. Staring into his eyes I gulp them down like air, like he is breathing for me and I suck at the oxygen he gives me. He was pulling them out of me one by one. I was on the floor, kneeling at his feet. As I came he wound his hand through my hair and pulled my head back demanding my silence. It only intensified my cumming. I was on all fours, panting. He stepped around behind me and lifted my dress. I could hear his smile. Despite my petitioning for a quiet chat, my pantie-less state was a blatant disclosure of my true desire.
"Good girl..." He breathes as he dips his fingers between my thighs.
Sunday
Public Humiliating Humor
So I went to see Sir on Friday. It was quite different - a brief albeit pleasurable and entirely satisfying visit. Well not entirely satisfying but that is because (under sufferance) I am apparently learning to be patient. Patience is a virtue I have been working on for quite some time. It is fair to say of all of the virtues I have few downpat - unless nihilism or hedonism have recently made the list and someone forgot to drop me the note.
We have an up coming plan that I am drooling over, waiting, counting minutes. I will not bore you with the details until after as, well, that would just spoil it now, wouldn't it? So I am waiting patiently.
Last week was hard. There were several days where I thought homicide was a realistic possibility. I needed the release. After Friday (phew) this week is shaping up to be a big, tingly, giggling mass of anticipation.
So, (you say) where is the public humiliating humor? Did you notice that I said public humiliating - not publicly humiliating? That was on purpose.
Let me take you back to Friday afternoon. Lets just presume I was feeling particularly subbie. I dressed simply in a black, v-neck, knit dress, lacy black panties, a good strapless pushup bra and some patent red mary-janes (I love mary-janes). I had my hair in two long plaits draping down over my shoulders that day but that was just a little too much. I decided to wear it down....much easier for him to wrap his fist in, no? Half way to Sir's place I had an idea. While stopped at the traffic lights I quickly removed my underwear and shoved them in my handbag. I am pretty certain the guy in the car next to me knew what I was doing. I winked at him just incase he had any doubt and beat him at the lights (dragging boys off at the lights is one of my many vices...). The visit was going to be short and I was not asked to bring any of my things, though I had stashed my handcuffs and gag incase I was asked. I got to Sir's and left an hour or two later, soaked in sweat and cum, blissed up to my eyeballs.
The next morning I went shopping. On my way out of the first store I was bag checked. I rarely am (must give off just the right level of the 'don't fuck with me' vibe). Being still sweet tempered from the night before must take the edge off so I sauntered over to the cutsie 17 year old boy with his lightly plucked eyebrows and swooshed hair covering one eye. I unzipped the bag as I was walking over and looking in realised my dilemma. I decided I had to either run, refuse (I know my rights) or suck it up. In half a second I had discovered another option - enjoy it. I made hard eye contact with him, smiled and opened my bag. The lace panties were sitting high ontop, leather cuffs underneath. The poor boy. He stammered a quick "ah that's ah fine ma'am" and blushed a thousand shades of red. I nearly asked him if he wanted me to unzip the middle pockets or if he wanted receipts but I am not that mean.
We have an up coming plan that I am drooling over, waiting, counting minutes. I will not bore you with the details until after as, well, that would just spoil it now, wouldn't it? So I am waiting patiently.
Last week was hard. There were several days where I thought homicide was a realistic possibility. I needed the release. After Friday (phew) this week is shaping up to be a big, tingly, giggling mass of anticipation.
So, (you say) where is the public humiliating humor? Did you notice that I said public humiliating - not publicly humiliating? That was on purpose.
Let me take you back to Friday afternoon. Lets just presume I was feeling particularly subbie. I dressed simply in a black, v-neck, knit dress, lacy black panties, a good strapless pushup bra and some patent red mary-janes (I love mary-janes). I had my hair in two long plaits draping down over my shoulders that day but that was just a little too much. I decided to wear it down....much easier for him to wrap his fist in, no? Half way to Sir's place I had an idea. While stopped at the traffic lights I quickly removed my underwear and shoved them in my handbag. I am pretty certain the guy in the car next to me knew what I was doing. I winked at him just incase he had any doubt and beat him at the lights (dragging boys off at the lights is one of my many vices...). The visit was going to be short and I was not asked to bring any of my things, though I had stashed my handcuffs and gag incase I was asked. I got to Sir's and left an hour or two later, soaked in sweat and cum, blissed up to my eyeballs.
The next morning I went shopping. On my way out of the first store I was bag checked. I rarely am (must give off just the right level of the 'don't fuck with me' vibe). Being still sweet tempered from the night before must take the edge off so I sauntered over to the cutsie 17 year old boy with his lightly plucked eyebrows and swooshed hair covering one eye. I unzipped the bag as I was walking over and looking in realised my dilemma. I decided I had to either run, refuse (I know my rights) or suck it up. In half a second I had discovered another option - enjoy it. I made hard eye contact with him, smiled and opened my bag. The lace panties were sitting high ontop, leather cuffs underneath. The poor boy. He stammered a quick "ah that's ah fine ma'am" and blushed a thousand shades of red. I nearly asked him if he wanted me to unzip the middle pockets or if he wanted receipts but I am not that mean.
Tuesday
Cooking
So I have been trying my very hardest not to do it. As the urge has pulled me I have pushed back. I have tried to back out, back away. I have used every excuse I could throw out there. I have been sad and mad and everything in between.
Now here I am in my kitchen, happier than the proverbial pig in shit.
I make lashings of beautiful lasagna. Out of necessity I am trialing gluten free things at the moment. I make beef and guiness pies, pork ribs, pastas, Moroccan chicken, apple strudel, chocolate puddings, shepards pie, lamb shanks, cheese cakes. I make all of the pastries and pastas from scratch, trialing the new flours. They feel different. This will take me a while to get used to it and I don't pretend to like it.
I think I love the cheese cakes the most. They are cute little ones.
I use smooth ricotta, cream cheese, egg yolks, eggs, vanilla and brown sugar in my cheese cakes. It gives them the soft glow of caramel. They are rich and sweet and of course I use salted butter in the base. Dollops of softly whipped cream, a few strawberries and it is bliss.
I look at my failed attempts of avoiding doing this thing and I can't remember why because it is exactly what I want to be doing. It is what I love. I am cooking - with purpose. I am cooking for him.
Now here I am in my kitchen, happier than the proverbial pig in shit.
I make lashings of beautiful lasagna. Out of necessity I am trialing gluten free things at the moment. I make beef and guiness pies, pork ribs, pastas, Moroccan chicken, apple strudel, chocolate puddings, shepards pie, lamb shanks, cheese cakes. I make all of the pastries and pastas from scratch, trialing the new flours. They feel different. This will take me a while to get used to it and I don't pretend to like it.
I think I love the cheese cakes the most. They are cute little ones.
I use smooth ricotta, cream cheese, egg yolks, eggs, vanilla and brown sugar in my cheese cakes. It gives them the soft glow of caramel. They are rich and sweet and of course I use salted butter in the base. Dollops of softly whipped cream, a few strawberries and it is bliss.
I look at my failed attempts of avoiding doing this thing and I can't remember why because it is exactly what I want to be doing. It is what I love. I am cooking - with purpose. I am cooking for him.
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