So yeah, we’re getting back into our routine. :-) Part of our routine, is, of course (however) having a certain amount of flexibility on our part, to account for the many unexpected things that can come up in a day/week.
For instance, a cold.
W and I both caught some kind of throaty-chesty-cough thing while we were on vacation (only manifesting after we got back though, thank goodness.) But that meant that Wednesday night at W’s was kind of quiet (well except for our fits of oh-so-sexy coughing.) After a yummy pre-Cinco de Mayo dinner and margarita and some good catch-up talk, we retired early. Here’s a secret though: he may be The Mean Guy, but he’s not always mean. Laying in bed that night with him, he pulled me close and his hands roamed all over my body. Not grasping, pinching, slapping or mauling, just…stroking. Touching. Caressing.
That’s right. The Mean Guy lay in bed next to me and caressed me (and I him) until we both fell asleep, wrapped tight in each other’s arms. And slept that way all night. Unused to sleeping there, I woke several times to find, each time, that he still had a tight hold on me. I love it that he holds me all night, even in his sleep.
The cold also prompted W to declare that we were both on “light-duty” for my Work from Home day on Thursday. I was a bit relieved. I’ve been jonesing for some heavy play for days (weeks) but I was not physically up to it and I knew it. I was happy to work in my new red satin robe and zebra stripe heels, and just enjoy being with W for the day.
Of course things didn’t turn out quite that way. As the cold medicine I had taken started to kick in, I started to feel better. Not up to “hard play,” but up to some picture-taking, maybe. I loved the scarlet robe against my barely-tan skin, and the red heels on my not-yet-photographed, bought-on-a-whim and oh-so-trashy zebra heels (W, later: “I shouldn’t like them, but…I do…”) and wanted a to try some pics with the sash tied around my wrists.
And so it began.
Pictures first, at my request and direction, but the feel of his hands on me, binding me, however simply, and I start the slow slide into that space with him that I love best: his to use, to direct and command. I was soon on my knees with his cock in my mouth, and then grinding myself against his thigh, heedless of the fact that I had a conference call in ten minutes.
Being a good Boss, he reminded me of my work duties, and, legs shaking, I made my way back downstairs to be a Working Girl of another sort.
“Keep me hard during the call,” he instructed.
I did as he directed, sucking and stroking him while trying to follow along on the call. I did fairly well, too, actually contributing a few times before putting the phone back to mute and turning back to what I really wanted to be paying attention to. He laughed at me.
In still more necessary flexibility, our plans to have me stay over and play that night were also unexpectedly altered. Again, we adapted. “When do you have to leave?” he asked. “By 4:45,” I said. “Okay, after lunch you’ll check your email and do anything that needs doing, and then I’m going to take you upstairs and beat you up.
“Nothing dangerous,” he continued, a concession to our cold-medicine-addled brains, “but that doesn’t mean it won’t be violent.”
God I love The Mean Guy.
But before that, he took me to lunch.
From my post in my writings on Fetlife:
Conference call over.
“You need a palate cleanser before we go to lunch, ” W says.
Yay! I think, dropping eagerly to my knees. He’s going to come in my mouth! Oh, happy day!
I grin up at him. “Like the lemon sherbert on the boat?” I say.
“Kinda like that,” he says. Then, as I wrap my mouth around his cock, “Four swallows.”
I suck happily away for a moment. W’s going to come in my mouth! Hooray! I think. Until a moment later, when another thought occurs to me. ‘Four swallows’? How does he know he’s going to come that exact–
And I realize suddenly what he’s REALLY going to use to “cleanse” my palate. I pull abruptly away. “Oh no, no no no…” I plead. “That’s not what you meant, is it??”
That’s exactly what he meant.
Damn I’m slow on the uptake.
Lunch is really going to taste good.
Here’s the kicker: he wouldn’t let me wash my mouth out before we left. I rode to the restaurant and had to wait for my food to arrive to wash away the musky taste of his piss from my mouth. Goddamn he’s perverted. And so am I, apparently, sitting here getting wet all over again as I write about it. And I don’t like drinking piss. But my body reacts, each and every time, to his hands, to his rope, to his voice, to his demands, even when he makes them sounds like requests. Even when he makes me drink his piss.
And yes, in answer to your question, the food was about the best I’d ever tasted.
When we got home I did as I was told, checking my email and taking care of a couple things, and then we headed upstairs.
Enter another instance of flexibility: I’d taken his cane & whip bag home with me accidentally. So the beating he’d been planning instantly became something else…
Face down, our beautiful new blue rope binding my wrists and ankles tightly, just the feel of his hands, his rope enough to make me a squirming wet mess on the floor.
Well maybe not just his rope and hands. There’d been his hand in my hair, shoving my mouth down on his cock as I knelt in front of his chair while he tied the ropes around each arm, his cock gagging me, his manner hard and unrelenting. There was the way he pushed me to the floor, and came around in front of me after he’d tied my ankles, dragging my head up, forcing me to take his cock again, fucking my mouth and throat while I struggled to breathe. There was the way he fucked my cunt with one hand, so hard and deep, while he fucked my mouth with his cock (I couldn’t believe I could bend that way.) And later, the way he sat on me backwards, his fingers digging into my cunt, driving me to a frenzied, twisting orgasm as I strained against him and the ropes, panting, my voice hoarse and weird-sounding from my cold.
Later, sprawled on the floor across his legs, my mouth wrapped around his cock once more, I got what I’d been wanting all day: he came, pumping hot, sticky semen into my mouth and finally washing away the last remnants of his piss.