I Could Get Used to This (She Thinks, Part One)


Chopping and stirring, she shuffled about the small kitchen, readying dinner. “Come away with me, in the night, come away with me, and I will wri-i-ite you so-o-o-ongs,” she sang along with Norah Jones, swaying her supple hips to the sultry rhythm. There was something about Norah’s voice that electrified her, made her want to close her eyes and feel every note, made her daydream about arms wrapped tightly around her, flesh gripping kisses, and fists tangled around her curls. It fit this evening perfectly.

She sang and danced her way around the kitchen, grabbing the last few things she needed. Bending to reach the bottom cabinet, she smiled, the cool air on exposed flesh reminding her she was wearing no panties with the nighty he’d chosen, just as he’d asked. As she shimmied and shuffled, there was the constant grip of the soft, black leather around her neck, and the tinking of metal on metal, as the o-ring of her collar sung a crisp, comforting tune with every movement.

The blissful song of ownership.

And all she could think was, I could get used to this.

The Quiet Game


The vibrator wasn’t uncomfortable, it was just odd feeling. Shaped like the letter C, the flatter part was inserted and resting on her g-spot, while the other end looped up to rest tightly on her clit. It was snug against both spots, a lovely reminder, even as it was turned off, that he was there, that she belonged to him. As Eva stood there before him, she didn’t really know what to think of it, but her heart was thumping. There was no denying her excitement – the thrill of wearing it in public. The possibilities……

“There are a few rules. You must stay quiet, no matter what I do with this remote, no matter where we are,” Jay said, with an evil smirk. “And, if I allow you to come, I want your eyes open, looking into mine, the entire time. Understand?”

“Yes, Master.”

“I’ll allow panties this evening, given the circumstances. You’re going to be a dripping mess and I don’t want this to fall out. You’ll wear these.”

Jay held the panties open by the band as he sat on the edge of the soft, paisley chair. They were the sheer, cream colored panties with toffee lace on the front, the ones that matched the bra he had laid out for her to wear earlier. Eva stepped carefully into the leg openings, first her left, then the right, holding onto Jay’s shoulder, leaning on him a little. She was trying so hard to concentrate, grasping the hem of her little black dress and pulling it upward a bit to see her feet as she stepped into the panties, revealing the tops of the Cuban stockings he had also laid out.

As Jay slid those sheer panties on, his fingers traced the soft curves of her calves, traveling to graze the backs of her knees, and she hissed, his touch sending a shiver up through her entire body, her nipples taut against that lace, toffee colored bra. When they finally came to rest, his hands came around to cup both ass cheeks and squeeze. Hard. Eva looked up from her feet, feeling Jay’s eyes on her, watching her face, looking into her eyes, and there was that coy grin again. He knew what he did to her; he knew she was putty in his hands.

Leaning over, Jay scooped up one heel, a beautiful six inch, black patent leather with a red bottom. He gripped her calf gently, prompting her to lift her foot, and slid his other hand down to her heel, guiding it forward to slip her foot into the shoe.

Eva wasn’t sure how she’d react to the vibrator in public, but she was already so fucking turned on and they hadn’t even left the apartment. He hadn’t even turned it on yet! She could feel those damn panties getting wet and she had only been wearing them for maybe two minutes.

Repeating the same for the other foot, Jay sat upright, leaned back in his chair and admired her. She was a masterpiece.

“You are so fucking gorgeous, Eva. And you’re all mine.”

“Yes, Master, I am,” Eva replied, blushing a little. That word did something to her, and it probably always would. Mine. Oof.

“While we are out, you are to stay by my side at all times, unless you ask first or are told otherwise. I will take very good care of you, as always. I want you to relax, no fidgeting.”

“Yes, Master.”

“And don’t forget – stay quiet when I turn this on, or there will be consequences.”

Jay pulled the egg-shaped remote out of the pocket of his slim fitting, black suit pants and held it up. As his thumb pushed a small, white button, Eva’s panties ever-so-slightly hummed. Her clit and gspot felt the faintest of vibration. Eyes wide with surprise, Eva was just about to make a sound, then bit her lip instead. Jay just stood there, watching her. And that fucking grin, oh, God.

This is going to be the longest night of my life…

-image found on Tumblr

One Entity

Thwap, slap. Thwap, slap. She’s acutely aware of the smell of the leather in the air, of the changing sounds of instruments measured by the differing displacement of the air around her. Landing across her ass cheeks, one, then the other, sometimes both at once, up her back and down her thighs, the implements create a cacophony of sensation – prickly strings of heat, lingering, deep, sweltering aches made from the ricochet, vibrations traveling wood as it strikes, the pulsing waves of pain that reach each and every nerve ending, culminating in the wetness between her legs. Then the warmth of his palm caressing the stinging burn.

Eyes tightly closed, she feels the pill of the paisley fabric, soft against her exposed flesh. Her reddish brown curls cascade onto her shoulders, flowing over to rest on her jawline as she’s bent over the ottoman. Above her head on either side, her wrists rest, bound in the purple and black buttery softness of the cuffs, strung under the ottoman and held in place by the tie from her robe. Beneath her, her chest heaves in heavy breaths between quick hisses of inhaled air. The most intense pain/pleasure causes her to hold her breath in her body’s attempt to absorb and feel every bit of the impact, as her brain is challenging itself to relax and savor, to fully let go. To finally exhale. That’s what he desires.

Every few sets, she can feel his radiating warmth nearing her side, just before his breath reaches her cheek as he speaks, before his hands begin to roam her flesh. “Are you okay, Love?,” he always asks, this time gently moving her hair from her cheek with his finger so he can see into her eyes. As he does, her low moans escape lips unconsciously opened, forming an ‘O’ as she feels his fingers gliding over the ridges of the welts and tingling spots, again and again. Sliding down between her legs, his middle finger seeks evidence that he’s pushing her to a place he needs her to be. “You’re dripping wet. Do you want more?,” he asks. Eyes never leaving his, she replies, “Yes, Sir, I want more, please,” almost begging. Oh, God, she needs more.

Unrelenting, the strikes continue in rapid succession, intermingled with the brief, soft touch of his hands. Focused, she concentrates on the sharp, biting ribbons of pain. She’s on fire, a fast, increasingly fervent blaze taking over her entire being. Entirely in the moment, she is simply feeling him. As each instrument lands, instead of holding her breath, she feels the freedom to exhale with her voice, her screams echoing against the walls, her excited breaths filling the spaces between. It doesn’t take many more before her focus comes to a peak, and she internally slows. There is no more external sound. There’s only a rhythm she feels deep within her – the ga gong, ga gong of her heart beating against her chest, the musical thump and reverberation of implements absorbed through her skin, the comfort of the shift in the air behind her.

Now, she is truly alive in him; they are one entity. Control and complete surrender; love.

All and Nothing

Eyes cast downward and arms clasped gently behind my back, the dim light from the laundry room passes over me, reaching across the room. A soothing sound emanates from my iPad and I know there are words being sung, but I don’t hear them. I only hear him, his footsteps slow and methodical on the hard floor as he chooses his instruments from the drawer. I don’t care what he’s pulling from that drawer, but I know he can see my grin. I anticipate what is to come, the nervous excitement from the pit of my belly working it’s way to the outside. My grin tells it all. I know he will take me. Somewhere and nowhere, all at once. Our place.

I don’t need to see his face to know that his is reflective, thinking over his plans for me. Confident, but not arrogant. I know he’s wearing a slight grin, too, but his is different. He knows what is to come. His is the smile not unlike one would wear when the last card in your hand is trump. Except, this is no game.

Rigid and cool, the crop shaft presses against my lips and I part them, welcoming. No words, just a gentle push as it makes it’s way to rest on my bottom teeth and my jaw closes to hold it, as I know what he wishes. I watch as he pulls the homemade suede flogger out of drawer, one swift swing close to my body, a snap in the air, cool against my skin, my nipples responding to him. The lower part of me clenches and holds, not at the snap, but in response to his show of presence, my wetness flowing and tingling for him.

Not more than a few seconds later, his warmth radiates and the scent belonging purely to him sends chills through me, gooseflesh forming as his feet come to rest between my open legs, kneeling before him. Grasping the crop, he gently slides it from my teeth with a slight upward push, telling my head to follow, then letting the crop come to rest next to his thigh. Again, one quick swipe through the air next to me, but this time I twitch at the sound, at the whoosh made with that instrument I love to hate. “Do you really think I’d hit you near your face with this?,” he says with a coy grin. “No, Sir,” I say through a grin of my own. Then, with a chuckle as he speaks, he says, “Well, then that’s two for flinching,” and behind my back, with the flick of his wrist twice, I feel that crop land two whacks, one squarely placed on each cheek. We both giggle, eyes locked, something more than feeling passing between us.

I am his mercy. He is my control. And, in this moment, we are nothing else.