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As the car idles in front of the school, in line with all the other parents waiting to pick up their children, I take out my phone and call you. “Hi, baby,” you say, the tension in your voice coming through the line clearly. “Do you need something?”
“I was just about to pick up the kids and thought I’d see how your day is going and if you wanted something special for dinner. Is Michaels still breathing down your neck?”
“Yeah. Every time I try to get something done, he’s there handing me a whole new list of bullshit to do. And if it’s not that, I’ve had emergency meetings with three different clients today. I’m going to be late, so you and the kids just go ahead and eat without me.”
“Sweetheart, why don’t I just do something simple, like steak and green beans. Just call when you leave and it’ll be ready for you when you get home, okay?”
“Yeah,” you say with a sigh. You sound so exhausted. “That sounds wonderful.”
“Will you need to work tomorrow?” I ask, knowing that you need a full weekend to recover from the extra workload you’ve been under.
“I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure I can catch up on everything urgent if I stay a bit late tonight. Everything else will hold until Monday. Hey, I’ve gotta go, baby. I love you and I’ll see you tonight.”
“I love you, too,” I say before pressing end. As the line of cars begins to move, a plan starts to take shape in my mind. You’ve been too stressed out these last few weeks and it’s past time I did something to help with that. A quick call to my mom doesn’t help. She’s still in Ohio visiting my sister and her family. So I call your mom instead. She gladly agrees to watch the kids for the night. Her sly innuendo and comments about ‘needing time for the two of us’ makes it clear that she knows what I’m planning. Or at least she thinks she does. After a quick trip home to get bags for the kids, we’re soon on our way to your mom’s. Again, she tells me we can take our time coming to pick them up.
With a hug and a kiss and a reminder to be good for grandma, I wave goodbye to our little ones and head back to the house. Going into the kitchen, I do some advance prep for dinner, getting a thick steak out of the fridge and salting it liberally before leaving it on the counter. It’s going to be a light meal tonight as too much food on our stomachs would be a very bad thing for the activities I have in mind. Feeling hungry, I also pull out some cheese and cut a slice off the French loaf I’d picked up that afternoon and have a small snack before checking the time. Five fifteen. Plenty of time, I think, but it wouldn’t hurt to get things ready just in case you don’t have to work as late as you thought.
I go upstairs to our room and undress, tossing my dress in the direction of the hamper in the corner of the room, followed shortly by my panties and bra. I reach into the dresser and pull out a pair of black lace bikini panties and slip them on, making sure the lace waistband lies just so on my hips. I stand in the closet debating what I’m going to wear tonight for a few minutes, struggling to decide between the dark green corset with the black lace or the black brocade, I finally settle on the latter. Years of practice have made me rather competent at putting on a corset alone, though not nearly as quickly as when I have your help. I decide to pair it with the boots that have never failed to make your mouth go dry, soft black leather with a four inch heel that lace all the way up to my smooth, toned thighs.
Now dressed, more or less, I go to the locked cabinet in the back of our closet and open it. I remove the items I think we’ll need and step back into the bedroom, placing some of them on the bed, arranging them for the best visual impact, before going downstairs with the rest of them. I place the remaining items in a neat row on the dining room table, knowing the impact they’ll make on you when you see them, all lined up and waiting for you. All I can do now is wait for you to call so I can start dinner. I turn on some music, a collection of Vivaldi. For some reason, baroque music always feels like the perfect accompaniment to these evenings, something about the light, airy strains of the harpsichord serves as the perfect contrast to what will be happening in just a few hours. As the music is piped through the house, I settle into the couch with a book and wait for your call.
A few hours later, you walk through the door, dropping your keys on the sideboard the metal thunking against the wood. I hear your heels clicking against the floor as you walk towards the kitchen. As you pass through the dining room, you stop, your breath catching in your throat as you see me sitting at the table, an open book and a glass of beer immediately in front of me, the plate of cheese and bread sitting to the side, clearly picked at. Further down, you see the items I laid out, letting you know that I have an interesting night planned.
“You’re late,” I say, my voice deceptively halkalı escort soft.
“I’m sorry, I told you…”
I slap the table with a black riding crop, the sharp slapping sound reverberating off the walls. “Did I ask for your pathetic excuses?”
I stand up and you notice for the first time what I’m wearing, the corset hugging my curves, pushing my breasts up and together. I slowly walk around the table to where you stand. I see your throat flex as you swallow against your suddenly dry mouth. I walk up to you, towering over your five and half feet, tapping the crop against my thigh in time with the concerto playing softly in the background. I run my left hand up your chest and over your throat, finally cupping your chin.
“No, what?” I whisper in your ear, my voice hard and my fingers squeezing your jaw.
I hear you gulp, desperately trying to get saliva into your dry mouth. “No, mistress,” you manage to say.
“That’s better,” I say, patting your cheek. “What’s our word?”
“Cayenne, mistress,” you say, your brown eyes sliding shut in surrender, only to shoot open as I swiftly step back.
“Good, pet. Now, strip,” I command, and watch, my eyes hooded as you slowly begin to undo the buttons of your blouse with shaking fingers. I lash out with the crop, striking your thigh. “When I give you an order, I want it obeyed quickly.” Your fingers move faster and soon the blue silk falls from your shoulders. With a quick zip, your skirt joins it on the floor. In seconds, your bra follows, a faint red line remaining under your breasts from the underwire.
As you reach down to begin unclasping your garters, I slap your hand sharply with the crop. You flinch back and lock your eyes on mine. “Leave them on. Panties off, though.”
You shift nervously and I notice that you wore your panties UNDER your belt. This is going to be fun. I reach up and pinch the bridge of my nose, sighing deeply. “You stupid girl. Everything I do for you and all I ask is that you obey a few simple, easily remembered rules. And yet you constantly disappoint me. Bend over the table.”
You step forward and bend at the waist, placing your hands on the table, your long, delicate fingers flexing against the cold, dark wood. I walk behind you, your eyes following me nervously. I slap your ass hard with the crop, a faint red welt rising on your smooth, pale skin. “Eyes forward. Bend more.” Your hands stretch out in front of you, your breasts just barely touching the table. Let’s make this a bit more interesting. “Hands behind your back.” Between your heels and how far you were already leaning, there’s no way you can do anything except lie on the table without the use of your hands. You turn your head so your cheek is pressed against the cool surface and look at me out of the corner of your eye.
I pick up the length of rope sitting on the table and run it through my hands before swiftly and with a practiced touch tying your wrists together. I tie off the excess around your waist. I lean over, the rough material of my corset rubbing against your skin. “Keep those legs straight,” I whisper in your ear before turning and walking into the kitchen. I fill a glass with ice water and grab a straw, as well as the foil covered plate sitting on the counter, a knife, and fork.
As I walk back into the dining room, I smile at the sight of your ass in the air, framed by your garter and stockings, the welt from earlier now shining proudly. I walk around the table and sit in the chair directly across from you. I make a show of setting the knife down in front of you, relishing the mingled fear, helplessness, and curiosity in your eyes. I peel the foil back from the plate, the smell of the steak and green beans filling the air between us. I slowly and deliberately take the knife and begin to cut the steak into bite sized pieces, your stomach emitting an audible growl as you see and smell the dark pink, almost red flesh.
I eat slowly, taking my time to chew each bite, occasionally moaning as I enjoy the rich flavor of my meal. Once the steak and beans are half gone, I finally deign to notice you. “Drink,” I order, placing the straw of the water glass in your mouth. I let you take a handful of sips before I pull the glass away and pick up one of the green beans with my fingers. “Open.” We go on like this, silent, feeding you by hand until the plate has been cleared. “Are you still hungry, pet?” I ask, more than ready to move on to the next phase of our evening. Even more, I don’t know how you’re still standing there. This is the longest I’ve made you stay in such an awkward position and I can see your legs shaking with the strain.
“Then there’s the matter of your disobedience.” I pick up the knife and make a show of wiping it clean, the juices from the steak leaving pink stains on the white linen napkin. Thank god for bleach. “I want those panties off and I want the şirinevler escort stockings to stay on.” I stand up, moving behind you. I place my hands on your soft shoulders and order you to stand, helping you up. I turn you to face me and stand inches in front of you. I reach behind you and pick the knife back up, slowly raising it to place it against your flushed cheek, carefully angling it so that the edge doesn’t touch your delicate skin. “How do you suggest I do that?”
You gulp, the muscles of your throat flexing under your skin, the fear evident in your eyes. We’ve never added a knife to our play before, particularly one so sharp. There’s nothing more worthless than a dull knife and you know I would never allow one in my kitchen. “I don’t know, mistress,” you whisper.
“So once again, you prove to be completely useless,” I say, running the heel of the cold steel down over your throat towards your breasts. I step behind you and set the knife on the table. You exhale, your shoulders sagging with relief as I slide my hands down your sides over the garter belt to the tops of your thighs then back up over your ass, sliding my fingers under the straps holding up your stockings and I grab the lace waistband of your thong. With a few quick tugs, first one side then the other is shredded. I grab the back and slowly pull it up through your ass and off of you, your low moan as the rough lace drags your overheated pussy making my own throb in sympathy.
“Turn around,” I whisper. You turn to face me and I cup your chin with one hand, pressing against your cheeks to force open your mouth before shoving the destroyed, wadded up lace between your lips. You’re breathing heavily through your nose now, your breasts rising and falling with each inhale and exhale, your skin flushed and beaded with sweat, your eyes black with lust. I take the free length of rope from where I’d tucked it under and begin to wrap it around your breasts, guiding you to turn as needed and pulling the soft hemp tight around your breasts, causing them to engorge with blood.
I walk around you, trailing my fingers over the taut rope and your hot skin, confirming that you are fine in the ropes. I pick up the soft, well worn leather collar from the table. Its black surface had lost some of the reflective luster it had when we bought it, and the notch used to buckle it around your throat had developed a slight crease through much use, but it still served its purpose perfectly. I gather your hair in my hands and gently drape it over your shoulder as I buckle the collar in place. You make a noise that’s not a moan or a whimper, but something in between. My pussy is throbbing now and I feel a surge of heat rush through my body.
Picking up the last item from the table, I clip the leash to the D ring on your collar. “Come along, pet, it’s time for you to be punished for forgetting the rules.”
I slowly lead you toward the bedroom, going behind you on the staircase and keeping a hand on your back to help you with your balance. “Kneel, pet,” I order once we’re in our room. Seeing the surrender and arousal in your expression, I decide I’ve earned a small reward and slide my finger under my panties and through my slick folds. I sigh as I tease myself briefly, making sure that my fingers are fully coated in my wetness. I withdraw my hand and pull the panties from your mouth, tossing them aside. I hold my hand in front of your lips and order you to clean my fingers. Your eyes slide closed and an expression of bliss comes over your face as you moan around my fingers, taking your time in sucking every bit of my essence clean.
I pull my hand away and with a few quick tugs of the rope, I untie you. Your overly sensitized breasts, the blood now freely circulating, become targets, each receiving a sharp slap from the flogger I had picked up off the bed before I pick up the nipple clamps and place them on you, delighting in your gasps and whimpers. “Now pet, I don’t care how you do it, but I want you in plow pose. And you’re going to be there for a little while. Would you like a pillow for your shoulders?”
“Yes, please, mistress.”
I pull one of the pillows off the bed and set it on the floor. I watch as you maneuver your lithe, lean body in the pose, your shoulders and head resting on the pillow, your torso pointing towards the ceiling, arms straight out behind you with your fingers locked together, and your legs straight and at an angle to your body, your toes, still in your pumps, just barely touching the floor. The glorious sight makes me thank whatever fortune was smiling on me the day we met at yoga class.
“Close your eyes, pet.” I move to the nightstand and listen to your steady breathing as I select the toy I want, a smooth, heavy steel plug. I squirt lube on my fingers and slowly begin to prep your puckered asshole, clearly displayed to me by the position you’re in. Your breaths become moans as my finger easily slips escort istanbul inside you. I pump in and out a few times before adding another finger. You whimper as I pull my fingers free from your ass, missing the feeling of fullness. I squirt a bit more lube on the plug then press it against your flexing asshole, sliding it inside easily to the accompaniment of another throaty moan.
“Don’t move,” I order as I stand and move to the en suite to wash my hand. I have plans for your pussy still and I don’t take any chances with my possessions. I take a quick look in the mirror and note with satisfaction that apart from the flush of arousal covering my cheeks and chest, I still appear completely cool and collected. I walk back into the bedroom, my heel clicking against the tile for a few steps before sinking silently into the carpet. You’re still exactly as I left you, ass pointed toward the sky, the silver flange sticking out, appearing to glow in the soft light.
Stepping around you to the bed, I pick up the flogger, my pussy throbbing with the anticipation of bringing the heavy elk hide straps down against your soft, pale skin over and over again. I listen to your slow deep breaths, noting the occasional hitch in the otherwise steady pattern as you struggle to control your arousal.
“You’ve disappointed me tonight, pet. First you were late. I think that deserves ten lashes. Speaking without my permission, trying to explain your mistake warrants another five. Then there’s the matter of the panties. Ten lashes for disregarding my orders.” I pause for a moment, idly slapping the heavy straps against the side of my leg, “And another five for making me destroy an otherwise perfectly good pair of panties.”
Your body tenses in anticipation and I hear you take an extra deep breath to prepare yourself. Normally, for so many lashes, I’d have you tied to something to support you, or simply have you bent over the bed. Stepping over to your side, I swiftly draw my arm back and bring it down hard, the straps thudding against your ass, the glancing contact against the plug making you flinch and cry out in a scream of mingled pleasure and pain. “Open your eyes,” I say, squatting down next to your head and lovingly caressing your face, staring into your eyes. Seeing the love and surrender in them, I place a gentle kiss against your cheek and whisper, “Don’t forget to count, pet.”
As I stand, I hear you gasp out, “One, mistress.” I deliver the next few blows in a slow deliberate manner, waiting a silent five count between each one. I take care to alternate the lashes from one cheek to the other, making sure that the full brunt of the strike doesn’t come down on the piece of steel rising from the cleft of your ass. Until the sixth stroke. I’m more gentle than I have been so far, but I aim directly for the plug. You cry out, an animalistic scream of pain and lust and flinch with your entire body before you remember yourself, taking a few gasping breaths to reestablish control and stretch your arms and legs back out to where they were before. “Six, mistress,” you pant.
We continue, your ability to stay still and keep the count while being so terribly aroused makes me so proud of you. With each blow, you become wetter and wetter, your juices dripping out and sliding down toward your abs and coating the insides of your thighs. The smell of your arousal is overwhelming in our room. It takes every bit of willpower I possess to continue your punishment instead of simply bending down and plunging my tongue as far as I can get it into that fountain of ambrosia.
But continue I shall. The strike targeting the plug continue randomly, but with an increasing frequency. The last five all aim for the shining target, standing out coldly against the bright red skin surrounding it. The count comes now not as gasps, but as cries and sobs.
“Thirty, mistress!” you cry, your voice rough and ragged. “Please, mistress,” you beg incoherently. Tired of denying both of us, I answer your plea, rolling you forward out of the pose you’ve held so long and pushing you down on your back, the carpet scratching your flushed skin.
“Arms straight out over your head, pet,” I order, waiting for you to move them, surprised by the speed of your obedience before kneeling between your spread thighs. I take a deep breath, your scent filling my nostrils. I’ve always found this aroma to be more pleasing than the finest perfume and more appetizing than a deliciously fragrant meal. I’m no better than Pavlov’s dogs, I think with a grin as I lower my watering mouth to clean all around your open, swollen vulva with my tongue, moving in slow, flat strokes, trying to draw every drop of the thick, succulent fluid into my mouth. Your hips begin to thrust involuntarily, tempting me to come closer to where you need me. I wrap my left arm around your right thigh and throw my forearm over your hips, my hand pressing down firmly to still your movements.
I look up at your red face, covered in beads of sweat, your normally perfectly styled hair totally disheveled from your thrashing. “Patience, my pet,” I say in a firm voice. You groan and try to thrust against my grip a few more times before your writhing subsides and I hear you whisper, “Yes, mistress,” in a shaky voice.
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