…the day is not nearly over…
It is about 3pm, and we find our way back home. We take the shopping inside (yes, we bought things for dinner!), you are, I think, all expectant and edgy now, which makes me laugh. I make idle chit chat about what you are making for dinner while you put the shopping away, you are nodding at me, but really, you are waiting. What are you waiting for?
I go and sit down while you finish putting things away, snap my fingers and point to the floor at my feet. You look… relieved? Quick strides have you kneeling on the wooden boards between my legs. I cup your face up to me, kissing, to see what is there. Is there anything there?
Gentle nudging at your mouth to see what you are bringing to me. If it is good, you can make me rabid with it, crazy-aggressive, to that point where it barely resembles kissing anymore, it is more like some smashing thing, awkward and fucked up and I will forget that I intended to have you take my shoes off, to have you bring me your collar.
I will be shuffling to the edge of the couch, wrapping legs, grabbing at your shirt, shoving at you, I know it is hard to figure out what I want, I really just want to bang into you harder than that. Mouth open and trying to grab at you, biting at your lips, at your tongue as it enters my mouth, you know better than to pull away when it hurts, when you think I must be drawing blood. Holding your head in the crook of my arm, bending you over, pulling you against me, feeling your ribs against my legs, I want my cunt against your body, I widen my legs and move further into you to get it.
Then a hand at your throat to push you away from me and look at you, to see what is going on there, both of us breathing hard at the other, my fingers splayed on either side of your neck. I wonder if you will push against the pressure at your throat to get at my mouth, or if you will retreat quietly and wait. I expect to see any number of things, what I see will determine how it goes.
I might shove you away, just to see the disappointment on your face, I like it when you don’t get what you want. I like it when you want things, when you want me, when you want more, less, something else, this, that, the other thing, it really doesn’t matter. It’s the wanting that matters, and then the getting or not getting.
“Go and get your collar, boy.”
“… and the blindfold.” I like blindfolds.
We have a spot for the collar, of course, and I wear the key to the lock around my neck. Maybe an anklet would be a good place for it, then I would have to put my foot on your neck to take it off. There is a little ritual for putting on the collar. Every time, you have to ask me to please put my collar on you and you lay your head in my lap while I do it up, and I get to pat you. It is sweet.
This time, though, when you return, I am rough with you, squashing your head against my thighs pushing your face between them, shoving it between my knees and squeezing, push-pulling you by the collar before it is even fully on, telling you to keep still, while shoving you around. When it is on, I push your face down to my feet.
“Why are my fucking shoes still on?”
You start to say something reasonable even as you fumble to undo them, and I laugh and tell you to shut up because I don’t care.
I tell you to kiss my feet once the shoes are off, I am lovely to you. I feel your lips against my skin and tongue lapping at my toes…
… continued here: Later that afternoon – Part IV…