Friday, September 15, 2017

st. andrew.

Every time we play, I see it there.  His St. Andrew's Cross.

It's usually hidden behind a floor to ceiling abstract painting, for when platonic, non-sexual house guests come over. The large canvas is on a track, which can be rolled aside to reveal the cross behind it. The St. Andrew's Cross.  

Let me explain.  It's more of an "X", really.  A massive, eight foot high frame, with two restraining points at the top for the wrists, two at the bottom for each ankle, and sometimes one at the center, for the waist.  The lucky person being chained to it is held in a majestic, standing, spread eagle position.  If you're facing the wall, you're most likely getting flogged, spanked, or whipped.  Being restrained outwards is reserved to sexual teasing and sensory play.  At least, that's what I understand in theory.

Yes, he rolls the painting aside to reveal the x-shaped cross, every time I come over.  But, no, I've never had the pleasure of being tied to it.  It occupies my mind.  Sometimes, during other sex acts, in the same room.  Hard fucking, deep throating, pussy worship... I look over, longingly, at it's polished, dark wood, thinking how everything we do could be just a little better if I was tied to that thing while we were doing it. He seems to read my mind in every other way, except this one.  It feels deliberate; the way he presents The St. Andrew's cross, but doesn't let me indulge.  Does he think me too fragile? Does he mean to tease me?  Does he want me to beg for it?  He usually owns me right from the moment I step in the door, so I scarcely get a chance to speak up during play.  Not that he doesn't encourage me to communicate my wants and needs outside of scenes.  He most certainly does.  But, this particular desire just seems to get lost.

I think I'm scared.  I don't know if I'm ready.  Am I really kinky enough to be restrained to a St. Andrew's Cross?  It's seems so hardcore.  Do I really like pain all that much?  I think it's more the psychological power dynamic that I'm into.  The fantasy is definitely titillating, but some things are better left as vivid mental pictures you furiously jerk off to.  But, you never know until you try.   

"You will knock at 8pm.  You're mine as soon as you step in."  I stand in the hall of his condo, reading his text.  I check the time.  A couple minutes early.  Always better than a couple minutes late.  I take a deep breath.  Usually I get so immersed in the submissive experience that I have a hard time looking him in the eye, let alone speaking when I'm not being directly spoken to.  Just do it right away, I pep talk myself.  Say it before you get to that delightfully surrendered place.  Immediately.  Right when you step beyond the threshold.  Let it be the first thing that happens. Yes. Be a good communicator.  Hold space for yourself.  

The timer for 8 o'clock goes off on my phone, startling me.  My heart accelerates in my chest, and I shove my phone in my purse.  I do some last minute adjustments on my presentation, like it matters.  My clothes will be ripped off before the door even has a chance to catch behind me, and not long after that, his hands will be in my hair, my lipstick smeared all over his dick. I nervously tug at my skirt, and realize how desperately wet I am.  A smile crosses my face.

I raise my fist towards the door, and knock.  One, two, three. 

the next bed post is tonight.


Friday, August 18, 2017

a maiden's monologue.

Good morrow indeed, I ponder, as I feel my knight's morning woodness press against my fair lady's thigh. 

Perchance I should wake him from his slumber, so that he might go down on me like he neglected to last night. I fondle his beauteous manhood through his cotton skivvies, as he begins to stir from his dreams no doubt about The Legend of Zelda: The Breath of the Wild or other maidens fair from his job at EB Games. Grammarcy! He awakens with a kiss tasting only slightly of last night's pot brownie.
Come hither, I beckon, grabbing onto his rod with the enthusiasm of a freshly drawn sword. His hardness inspires wetness in me, of the biblical sense. "Prithee, do me the favour of eating me out this morning."
"Anon," he moans, turning away in an exhausted fit of slumber. "Wake me at noon o'clock."
"Pray love, mayhap when you tease my lady's bits with yonder tongue it might inspire me to return the favour twofold. I would lick the tip so delicately as to produce a subtle leaking from your member, then bathe the shaft with lips and mouth moist enough, you would think I was dining on roast beast."
"If you're horny, go use your vibrator," he states.  Quite rightly, I ponder, but that's besides the point.
I brashly take his hand thither  and place it hither, on my fair uncorsetted breast.  I squeeze it purposefully, as if encouraging him to squeeze wine from a handful of grapes. I feel my bosom become blush.  Quite blush indeed.
"The privy?" He inquires. "Methinks, I'm still pissing out the Bud Light Platinums".
Zounds! What a pitchkettling man, I scoff, as he exits the warmth of our noble bed chamber. What nose of wax has he!  What a hufty-tufty countenance! A devil's tongue with a serpent's heart that never shall touch ...yonder...teet...

Ugh. Fuck this.  "Jim, I'm leaving."
"Don't you mean, Sir James the Fourth of Bedfordshire?"
"No, I don't."

One can only do so much Medieval roleplay. 

bed post is tonight!