Side One
I enter the room where you are. As I close the door I look up,
and lose my poise, even my breath at the sight of you. You are sitting
on the padded ottoman like you are on a throne, and even the way you carry
yourself makes me weak in the knees. You wear that tight corset,
heels, and jewelry. Oh, that sweet glint of jewelry between your
spread legs. I want. It makes my mouth dry to think of that corset
squeezing your breasts; I envy it, want to rip it off you and use my mouth
instead. But at the same time, I want to just fall down and worship
at your feet. Fortunately for my sanity, the decision isn't mine to make.
You've dressed me in little but chains tonight, decorative ones draped
across my breasts and hips, and pretty but very functional ones around
my wrists and ankles. They jingle softly as I walk across the floor
to you, my hair braided up and out of my face, trailing down my back. I
kneel in front of you between your parted legs. So close . . . .
You pet my hair, tell me I'm a good girl, and then order me to go back
over to the door again. "Yes, Mistress Faith," I say as I cock my
head questioningly, but rise and obey. I walk slowly to the door
and turn around, then look into your eyes and wait for instructions.
"Crawl to me, tart."
My obedience is instant; I drop to my knees, though I'm not sure how
much of it is because you just melted the bones right out of my legs.
I'm gasping for breath before my hands hit the floor. It's funny
how a few simple words can overwhelm me with lust and love and longing.
So I look up at you as I crawl, slowly, hips swaying, my chains swinging
as they hang from my body. One chain on each side is draped so that it
brushes across my nipple with each swing, and the feel of it is about to
drive me wild. But the look in your eyes is so approving, it drives
me more.
Having reached your feet in those lovely high heels, I stop and sit
back with my knees precisely six inches apart and the toes of my right
foot settled neatly beside the left, just touching. I want so much to touch
you, and most times I'd do that, rub my cheek against your thigh just to
feel it, or reach down and stroke the skin of your foot between the straps
on your shoes. But we are obviously in formal play tonight.
Tonight is for 'yes Ma'am,' and 'no, Mistress Faith,' and not taking unauthorized
liberties.
Authorized ones, though . . . . On my knees in front of you,
looking up, smiling, eyes pleading, I beg permission: "Please Mistress
Faith, may I touch you?"
Your eyes dance, and I know you want to say yes. But you make
a show of thinking about it first.
"Yes, pet, you may kiss the inside of each thigh once. Quickly.
No tongue."
I am a little disappointed, I want so much more. But leaning forward
to kiss each thigh carefully is good, feels so good, smells so good.
And there is the thrill of you denying me as well. I find it incredibly
erotic to have you so much in control of our activities.
"Mmm, nice. Now stand and turn your back to me, tartlet."
"Yes Mistress Faith," I say as I turn.
You move my hands where you want them, put my wrists down together
and I hear a click, and then another, as you link the rings in my chain
wrist cuffs. You turn me around again, directing me with your hands rather
than words, and direct me down to my knees again, in close, between your
legs. You move a foot to nudge my knees wide apart. I'm quiet, working
hard to calm my breathing.
"Up," you say, motioning that I should be up on my knees rather than
sitting back on my heels. I quickly comply; you pull a blindfold
from behind your back, and the surprise makes me flinch. You tie
it around my head, making sure the pads over the eyes are positioned to
keep my eyes securely closed, tying it securely. I take deep breaths,
breathing out through my nose, luxuriating in the feel of your body brushing
against mine as you move. You slide a finger against my lower lips,
latex slick and cool against my skin, and I shiver with pleasure.
I try not to move against your hand, you haven't given me permission, and
in this
formal play mood I know it's not allowed. You tease at
my body, drawing attention to how wet I am. I feel a second finger
slide into me; your body brushes against mine and the chains on my body
sway against my skin. You withdraw your fingers and I stifle a whimper
at losing your touch; then your hand presses down on my shoulder so that
I am forced to sit back on my heels. I am surprised to encounter an obstacle
there, a stiff presence against my sex. Your hands are still pushing
me down, so I wriggle to get the fit right and impale myself on it. It's
big; it fills me, warming to my body heat, a small nub rubbing against
my clit.
"Good girl," you say, soft and low. "That's my good girl." I can hear
the smile in your voice. Suddenly you grab my hair and pull me off balance,
forward, into you. You are much closer than my memory says you should be;
you've moved your seat closer to me. You use the braid to direct
my face; off balance from my hands being restrained, I fall into you, bumping
your jewelry with my upper lip.
"Now you may touch me, tartlet. Now you may taste."
Ahh . . . finally, finally. I place a gentle kiss on your ring,
then softly lick around the outside edges of you, feeling my way, exploring
in my dark. I suck you into my mouth and listen to your gasps and
sighs. I nearly scream in frustration at not being able to hold onto your
thighs, dig my nails in, penetrate you. I use my tongue to slide inside
you, savoring the taste of you in my mouth. You have such a soft and delicate
flavor. I'm fierce with my mouth against you, pressing and licking. I suck
you into my mouth, hard, playing my tongue over your most sensitive places,
feeling your body jump against my mouth. And every move I make,
I'm rubbed by the dildo inside me. I suck you gently, licking you again
and again and again, sucking your clit into my mouth and I can't resist
rubbing myself against the dildo for stimulation. You are moving against
my face, driving me wild with lust, and just as you push over the edge
you pull my hair hard, arching as your body pulses around my invading tongue
and then I am coming too as you scream once and then call my name, over
and over. . . .
Side Two
As I prepare myself mentally for carrying out the special plan I've
devised for tonight, I muse that the hand holding the leash is just as
captive as the neck encircled by the collar. Tonight's game . . . I love
it of course, love putting my beloved through her paces, but I do it because
she needs it. I check to see that I'm her Mistress in high style tonight,
my hair is perfect, my corset is properly laced, and my strappy high-heeled
shoes are buckled around my ankles. Ah, yes, she's going to love that Brazilian
wax I had done earlier. It shows off my new ring beautifully; I'd bet anything
that I'll have to let her get one, too, or she'll pout. I can never resist
her when she pouts.
She'll be along any second now; she's always punctual.
Showtime.
She walks into the room softly, demurely. She's so soft and feminine,
so beautiful; my chains dimple her white skin, and she takes my breath
away. I had intended . . . but I can't speak as she walks, swaying, across
the floor. The thought that my incapacity will easily pass for some Mistress
whim makes me almost smile, restoring a little bit of control. And then
she gracefully kneels between my parted knees. My control might slip again,
if it were not so obvious that she can hardly decide whether to look at
my face or between my legs. I allow myself to stroke her hair a few times;
I love her hair, ember red, soft like everything about her is soft.
"Good girl."
Closing my eyes and taking one deep breath of the scent of her hair,
I order her to return to the door. She doesn't know what she's done wrong,
but she's not afraid, she trusts me. She hasn't done anything wrong; she
seldom does. I just want to watch her walk away. But now a little something
for her . . . .
"Crawl to me, tart."
Oh, she's perfect, on her knees almost instantly. She responds so well
to my voice that I have to be careful. If I'm careless, I can hurt her
feelings, make her question the quality of her service, and that is never
what I want.
She crawls toward me, which of itself does not excite me, but the chains
brushing lightly against her nipples are another story. She has the loveliest
breasts, with large, ripe raspberry nipples; the cool chains and her anticipation
have made them stand out, plump and erect. She looks up at me, and I'm
sure she can see how much I want her.
She reaches my feet and stops. As much as I want her to rub her face
on my thigh with the affection we both love, I can't let her; we both need
a little formality now and then. It keeps things . . . proper. And in the
end, it makes her scream. She knows that she is not permitted to touch
Me without permission, so she begs it most prettily: "Please Mistress Faith,
may I touch you?"
How could I possibly say no to her? She's irresistible. I can't imagine
anyone denying her anything. Such a sweet, obedient pet deserves abundant
generosity . . . but not immediate gratification.
"Yes, pet, you may kiss the inside of each thigh once. Quickly.
No tongue."
Her face falls just a little. She's disappointed, but too good a submissive
to show it. I can see it only because I know her well. I know what she
wants; it's obvious in the tension in her face as she leans forward to
obey. Her lips linger on my skin as she takes a deep breath with each kiss.
She thinks I don't notice, thinks that maybe she is taking a slight liberty
by lingering for a second or two, but I want her to breathe me and want
me! I want her humming with desire.
"Mmm, nice. Now stand and turn your back to me, tartlet."
"Yes Mistress Faith," she says, with a catch in her voice.
She has no idea what I'm about to do. I link her cuffed wrists together
behind her back, directing her movements until she is kneeling at my feet,
legs spread widely. She doesn't make any noise, but her breathing is quick
and shallow. Oh, she's making me crazy. I want to fall on her and ravish
her, pull her to me with those pretty chains, consume her with kisses and
take her right there on the floor . . . but tonight I'm her imperious Mistress
Faith, not her unrestrained were-panther.
"Up." She rises to her knees. It's amazing how she knows what I want
when I say so little. I don't think I could do that.
I savor the little flinch of surprise she makes when she sees the blindfold.
I step behind her and place it over her eyes, leaning against her a little.
As I secure it, her breathing quickens. She doesn't quite move, but when
I touch her, she presses against me almost imperceptibly.
This is going to be fun.
Settling to my knees, I quietly slip my right hand into a black latex
glove and place the left on her hip. And then I touch her how I have longed
to touch her since I saw her walk through the door. I run one finger between
her legs, between those irresistibly slick, hot lips. God, shes so wet,
almost dripping. I want to bury my face in her, taste her, drink her .
.
.. but I only slip my finger into her, one and then two. Ahh, this is
simply killing me, but it won't be much longer. Her pussy grows impossibly
wetter. This is, of course, all to the good, because I have placed quite
a large dildo beneath her bottom. It's very arousing, but also the whimsical
domme's version of the whoopee cushion. She whimpers just a little as I
reluctantly withdraw my hand from her. I move back around in front of her
and sit down. I push her down, watching for the surprise on her face when
she encounters the dildo. I am amply rewarded. But she is my lusty, sexy,
juicy peach, and she obligingly twists and rocks until she can take all
of it.
"Good girl . . ."
I'm as wet as she is. I'm pleased and happy, but I can't take much
more of this, if she can't hear it in my voice, then she's not paying attention.
I stroke her hair one more time before suddenly grasping the braid she's
wearing. I wrap her hair around my hand and pull her off balance, toward
me; I'm sitting on the edge of the cushion, and her lips hit my clit, right
against the ring I wear. It's all I can do not to moan and thrust my hips,
not to grind my crotch against her mouth.
". . . that's my good girl."
"Now you may touch me, tartlet. Now you may taste."
Ahh, god, it feels so good it hurts. She's so good at this . . . she
makes me lose control every time. She licks and sucks at me, pulling my
clit into her hot mouth, entering me with her tongue; my clit is so erect
I can feel the ring through the hood even when she isn't licking at it.
Every time her tongue touches it, I get little spasms of pleasure, and
I know that I'm close to the edge. I'd like for it to last a bit longer,
but I don't have the will to ask her to stop, nor the voice even if I wanted
to. She's going to make me come, probably in just a few seconds. I can
feel her body swiveling between my legs as she fucks the dildo and then
I'm losing it, pulling her into me without mercy, forcing her face into
my cunt, rocking my hips, moaning, crying out as my muscles clench in an
intense, harrowing orgasm, arching my back. . . .
"Charity!" I gasp as far off I hear her moan loudly, her tongue still inside me as she comes, sucking at me even harder . . . just when I think it's over, she laves my clit with her tongue one more time, trying to drink all of me, and I come again, voicing one short, high scream as I sink into my cushions, fading, relaxing my grip on her hair.
"charity, love, my peach . . . charity."
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18.06.05