There was a gleam in your eye when you told me to undress. I'd known all along that this moment would come, but part of me was irritated. It had been a fun and relaxed day, and despite the nap that afternoon, I was tired again. It showed in my face because you asked me about it, asking what I was afraid of. Yes, I was feeling tender and shallow...you offered that I was afraid of getting emotional. Perhaps that was exactly it...words are so difficult for me sometimes. But I trust you, sometimes in ways I don't understand and want to deny, so you got up and gathered rope and cuffs and a spanker. You teased me gently with them...”See? Nothing hidden.” I asked to escape to the bathroom...just another moment of delay. I did in fact murmur a pray while I stood in the dark, before I undressed and returned to you.
I haven't gotten used to the firmness, to the Dom. Your voice leaves less to question, and I only swallowed when you told me to get my toys out. You arranged them, and then selected the thickest of the plugs. Did I whimper? Did my face betray my discomfort with your selection? I don't know. Instead, I knelt on the bed, head down, ass up. I wasn't expecting the rope about my waist, couldn't fathom where you were going...especially when you left it as a simple belt.
Your fingers were insistent, and I felt myself flush as being found drier than you usually find me. I was unsure, unnerved...still not entirely surrendering, even if I was submitting. Your caresses and touches changed that and I almost felt myself melting under your hands, until you landed a couple of sharp slaps on my ass and thighs. I gasped and grit my teeth, not wanting to cry so easily.
Then your hands spread my ass open to you, lubing me. I wanted to relax against your touch...maybe I did a bit, but you quickly switched to the plug. My whimper became a cry as you were firm and pressed the plug in past the tight resistance. I buried my face in the blankets, stifling my cries, angry at my rebellion with the situation.
But even that didn't last as you laced the rope over the flared end of the plug, lacing it between my legs. A sense of wonder and understanding filled me...THIS was the belt described in “The Story of O”...I had indeed wondered what it would feel like. Now I knew.
You kissed me, caressed me, and your fingers found new wetness. I was burning with shame, and you knew it. You asked questions...did I like it? Did nice girls like feeling like this? You made me speak, and I hated you for it. I didn't want to believe you as you told me that nice girls DO like it...that they might not experience it but they wonder and fantasize about it. Part of me still wonders if that's true...if nice girls...innocent girls...can even fathom such experiences. I look at my friend N and shake my head...she'd NEVER consider such things...
Then you made me stand up so you could look at me. Was I able to wipe the sullen look off my face by the time I faced you? Your eyes wandered my body and I was terribly self-conscious...the rope emphasized my pregnant pudge and I felt ungainly. You say I'm beautiful, and I don't believe you...any more than I believe Beloved...but there is no denying you both physically react to the sight of me.
But then you asked me to walk out to the living room, to imagine others...strangers...watching me. I protested...I don't remember if it was in my eyes alone or if I used words. You had to prod me...and only the need to submit to you...to prove I COULD do this...let me walk though the cool kitchen and to the far end of the living room. Deny “their” presence...deny the cold...deny the humility. But when I returned to you, you were lounging on the bed and wanted me to TALK about it. Could you see the tears, feel the mild panic? You asked if I had shown “them” how proud you were of me. No...if “they” saw anything, it was stubbornness and resentment. And then you told me to walk out to them again, this time, to show them how proud you were.
Walking through the kitchen...to the end of the living room...turn... Now what? Am I suppose to preen? What demonstrates your pride and not mine? I don't know. Would it have been easier if there were REAL people there? Maybe. As it was, I had to imagine their reactions, and it's hard to imagine a different reaction from my own... Focus on the chill of the room rather than it's emptiness.
This time, I returned, and you kissed me and told me I was a good girl, and that YOU were going to show me off this time. My stomach dropped...for all you must know my hesitations in the living room, I didn't want you to SEE them! Leave me the illusion...that despite knowing you know, let me pretend you think I'm prefect. But your hand is tight in my hair and you walk a step behind me, holding my head up. I want to close my eyes, but I don't want to trip...
Your hands are running over my skin, and you are telling me how beautiful I am, how they comment and are jealous. You bent me over and show "them" the plug in my ass, and I feel the heat in my cheeks. Pressing me to my knees is almost a mercy, and pushing your clothed cock between my lips is a blessing. I can exist just for you...nothing...no one else matters...for the minute that I try to pleasure you through the cotton, gagging on the dryness. Then you help me to my feet, and tell me you are proud of me.
Proud of me? Proud? The rush of relief...of wonder...of grateful love make me want to fall to my knees and weep. How can I explain that feeling...Sir is proud of me!
You walking me back to the bedroom, lay me down, and cuddling me...trying to drag words from my lips. Why can't you read my mind??? Don't you know? Don't you understand? You are proud of me. The base experience and confusing excitement are nothing compared to hearing those words.
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