The Deal Is Struck
Games are fun to play, aren’t they? For me they are. Especially if they involve anything sexual with Mister.
We spent today lounging around, my friend who had stayed overnight had left us and so it was just the two of us once more. He had recently showered and that always will perk me right up into the naughtier side of things. That fresh smell of washed Man, the wet hair he will possess, coupled with the clean clothes – I don’t know, it just catches me unawares sometimes and I find myself wrapped around him somehow. Hands running all over his body. Treating him like a piece of meat ready to be devoured by the Minx. Can’t help it. He’s irresistible.
Alone again, I drew him to me, kissed his neck and ran my fingers through his damp hair. He told me I was a naughty LadyP to which I promptly asked him what it was, exactly, that made my actions ‘naughty’. I was only loving him, after all. Seems to me to be the most innocent, natural thing for me to do. I pulled him into me as we lay on the bed and touched his chest, bracing my palm against him. Nothing wrong with this at all in my view.
It felt as though it was going to be a long day for me to try and resist him long enough to get anything done without jumping on him.
We went out. Looked around an old castle (very riveting, I hadn’t been since I was a little girl with my older sister and I love old buildings, the architecture and the history). That seemed to occupy my mind for a couple of hours.
We then returned home, watched the last half hour of an old film that was playing on Film4 (The Riddle of the Sands, if curious) before I noticed Mister was looking slightly sleepy. We had had a busy weekend partying (brilliant fun catching up with old friends) and a late, fitful night in which he had woken up far too early for one who was not working the following morning. With complete honesty I told him ‘You need a nap’. Taking both his hands in mine, I gestured for him to follow me to the bedroom. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked, to which I simply repeated my last statement. He didn’t need much persuading. He did look tired.
Once there, I cuddled into him as is my custom when wanting to sleep. I noticed he didn’t move much. Almost as if he was thinking intently. Turned out he was.
You want to have sex with me.
What?!
You brought me to bed so that you could have sex with me, didn’t you? It felt like an accusation. Like he had caught me out or something.
No, I honestly think you need a nap, and as I am sleepy too, it’s an excuse to cuddle up to you. I meant it.
You could, you know.
What?
Have sex with me.
I don’t want to. Not now that you will think that I have been plotting to get you into bed.
Silence.
I wouldn’t even want to give you a lazy handjob as you might accuse me of it.
More silence.
You could give me a blowjob?
What? He knows that to order me to do so can sometimes put me right off it. I don’t quite know why.
I wouldn’t want to give you a blowjob for exactly the same reason as the handjob. I could tell that all this talk of sex and getting Mister off was having an effect. The duvet was slightly raised.
What about you give me a blowjob…and tonight I’ll do something extra special for you?
Silence once more.
Like I tie you up. On the bed. Or tie you to the door. He was thinking on his feet.
My breathing noticeably altered at this proposition. It heightened, became shallow in thought and titillation. He did notice.
Like bribery? You would blackmail me into giving you a blowjob? The incredulity was evident in my tone.
Yes.
That is not what giving you a blowjob is about. I protested. It should be about me wanting to give you one, not because you think I was bribed into it. I was getting a little torn at this point. I have been craving him shackle me up lately, but at the cost of letting him think it was as an obligation to him? I was undecided.
You know I would take great pleasure in getting you turned on. I may think about letting you wear your new suspenders. I might even spank you.
Thinking time.
How? I wanted to lead him on a little now, to see what he would give. Just out of curiosity.
With my hand. He noticed the silence. Or maybe something else. The whip if I can find it.
I knew exactly where it was in the cupboard.
You know I would get you so very wet.
He was completely, utterly, hopelessly correct.
I looked up at him from where my head had been resting on him shoulder throughout this whole exchange. I kissed him, saw into his eyes and recognised that look of eagerness. I knew he would stay true to his word. He was desperate for me to go down on him now, his eyes were wanting. That look of tenderness, tinged slightly with the look of the Rogue I love.
That kiss might just as well have been a handshake, for now I sit here, desperate myself for the evening to come so that he, too, will uphold his end of the deal, as I have upheld mine. Valiantly, and with flair, might I add.
Wander I Go
I had a whole afternoon to myself. No one around to interrupt me. I can’t remember the last time that happened and I was in the mood for some personal playtime. And so I wanted to make the utmost of the situation.
Another week and another three days I had spent gallivanting away from my lovely man. Darned work taking me away from Mister.
It was a tiring, exhausting first half of the week in which I didn’t get much sleep on Tuesday night. Not for the right reasons either. Grr. (Ah..vague references to my super secret work identity). But return I did on Wednesday afternoon back to Mister’s loving arms. He carried the heavy heavy bag in those loving arms. Unfortunately I was unable to jump him as I had been dying to do right there and then as he had to depart for Band Practice in the next city. So I had to compensate. I showered and promptly took myself to bed to catch up on sleep.
Only despite my fraught and tired state, I was ultimately and undeniably very aroused. Sleep was not on the cards at that moment. More pressing matters needed to be addressed. We had not had sex for over a week and a half – when you are there living with your partner and you know you have regular access to sex, when you don’t have it, you miss it as much as when you live apart. Believe me. It had been the Monthly Visit and prior to that we went through a few days without and so I had spent most of the previous, sleepless night thinking about what I would do to Mister upon my return. What he would do to me. What we would do together. I keep in my mind’s eye a montage of images that keep me warm on cold nights. Usually saved for when we are apart, or if I have that private, alone time to myself. These began to stream through my head now. More a series of close-ups and long shots, really. It seems porn has affected my style of fantasising.
It usually begins with the two of us in the bedroom, or even when I give myself more time to construct a narrative, us meeting somewhere. We’ve been apart and this is the moment of our reunion. We catch eachother’s glance from across the room. Immediately, that fire rekindles and blazes anew. The butterflies float a little higher.
If the montage begins in the bedroom, it is me who takes the lead. He is already on the bed, waiting for me as I enter to look down at him – the visual dynamic already suggests that I will be calling the shots. But if we meet anywhere else, somewhere public, it is he who take the initiative, he walks over to me, pulls me into him making me elicit a slight gasp. If there is a wall, no doubt I imagine he pushes me back against it and stares deeply into my eyes with those penetrating blue eyes he possesses. The element of exhibitionism, the lack of care of who sees us, thrills me, excites me. In reality, he is generally restrained in public, but if we are at a location where we know there is no-one around we recognise, surrounded by strangers, then his dominant side will shine through.
These images, these stirrings of feeling, sensation, the thrills bubbles up inside me as I delve into my sensual thoughts. I never fantasise about anyone else but him and me (and the occasional faceless lady if that’s the fantasy I’m after). He is what gets me off, no-one else specifically really. What we do together and the possibilities of what we could do together in the future, the next time we fuck, gets me off. That ghosting memory of the first thrust he presses into me. The gasp it makes me emit every time. Not to bookend sex, but the first thrust and the final climax are two highpoints for me of equal merit.
I lost myself that afternoon this week. I had my toys, the favourite buzzing bullet that never leaves my bedside table as well as a few extras and the anal toy. I am still trying to push myself in that particular area and by God I came hard using that along with the bullet. I always smile to myself when I end up moaning and writhing and swearing under my own hand.
Mister came home a few hours later and found me curled up in the linen, hair fuzzed around my head slightly. He was mildly surprised to find me naked under the covers and soon joined me. I was still wet from my own excursions and gladly welcomed his hands to seek out that fact. After nearly two weeks without him inside me, I don’t think wild horses would have prevented me from screwing that man.
As we lay together after some tension-relieving, homecoming-reunion sex, holding me to him, he told me he had missed me.
No words needed to be said after that. Not for a long time. So we just lay there, drifting.
Homecoming
Three days.
Nothing compared to what we have endured. Nothing to the month without contact. Nothing compared to the distance in time others have spent apart and others still do. It felt at times like a chasm filled with minutes, to be without him. Bereft of Mister. Lacking.
All I did was go on a little trip to London. Silly, really.
I wonder. Should I really be feeling so rent in two? That invisible tie he has over me pulling, fraying by a fibre. Is it healthy that I should be so completely unmade by this being apart from him?
Then I consider.
The times that this emotion of heartache were only fleeting. A heartbeat of pain. Then I returned to normal. A swift pang of loss, and then all was well. I guess that’s alright? I don’t know. I haven’t been in love before.
This was never in the books. I’ve never read of this…this tearing sensation that like a rip in fabric, is sharp, quick and over in a flash. Searing. Cauterising? I go too far.
Three days. The quiet moments were hardest. Naturally. Travelling, no. Commuting – I was in London, after all – on trains, underground, the buses. Noise and bustling all around me. I alone, like everyone else there, thoughts stray to think of places anywhere you are not currently trapped. The countryside, home. Home where Mister is. London, for all the millions, is a lonely city for me. I could never live there. The poetry of TS Eliot and Blake spring to mind when I think of London, not Wordsworth or someone more salutary. Even in the beautiful sun we had there. Stifling in under the ground. And above it – I wanted to see the green and pleasant land, not just the clear blue sky.
Homesickness may have set in a little. Don’t get me wrong, the country mouse enjoyed her visit greatly; she visited the sights, she was quite pleased when she managed to get from A to B without getting lost once. An excursion, but not her way of life. My complete respect to those who live for the city and with it. I feel like I am fighting against it.
So to home. To Mister. He picked my up from our tiny local station with its two platforms. No waiting room. Not even a ticket office. Just two parallel plinths of concrete and some ancient wooden shelters. This is home. Simple, imperfect with my man waiting for me. It was 11.30 at night and I was ready for him, bed and sleep.
I fell into bed, he soon followed. I watched as he undressed. That sight of his topless torso and in only his jeans. My weakness. He dived in under the covers and found me, warm from my previous few minutes cuddled into the linen. It was all I wanted, needed, desired. His hands and arms sought out my frame and this was it. This was what I missed.
He pulled me into him.
Close to his body. I felt his warmth again. Him inhaling my scent in my hair. Clutching me closer with his inhale, loosening with his exhale.
Wherever that simple action is, that is Home.
With him.
Feeding the Minx
I sometimes spend my day at work lost in my thoughts. That is, when I have those rare quiet moments of breathing space in which I can find those minutes of private solace. Then I dream of him. I softly conspire in my mind of what I would do to him if I had enough energy that evening. What I would want him to do to me. These snippets I collect and catalogue away in the inner scrap-book I keep. This library of mine, for me only, serves me well. I dip in and out of the mental images, movements and emotions stored within. The overriding feeling I get when I do take a little trip away from my present physical location is one of burning desire. And it builds inside. Builds up and begins to smoulder, sizzling away beneath the cool surface of my appearance. The calm and collected individual I have been told I assume the guise of. If only they knew.
The adrenaline kicks in and feeds the Minx. She starts to stir and to move underneath my skin. She prickles at the back of my neck and the pit of my stomach. Calling, purring subtly to me. She will support me through a tough day at work, whispering to me that it’s only a few more hours before I can be back with him once more and all will be well then. The thought is at once soothing and electrifying. Placating and riling.
When I do arrive home, he awaits me. Always with a smile, always with a kiss. He picks me up from work on occasion and I see him smile as he pulls up to the kerb. I melt in an instant. His once again. The exterior of restrain slips away to be replaced with the softened edges of warmth towards another. Saving me. Don’t get me wrong, I love my job, it’s the best thing I could be in, but there is that certain distinction between who I am at work and who I am with him. Work feeds my mind; he feeds the Minx beneath. The instinctual part of myself. All desire and rage, passion and need. Stoking the fire that powers me.
And he knows the mood I am in when I get in this state of Minxiness. My movements are slow and heavy, but at a different mode than from mere tiredness. More deliberate in my connections between he and I. Each touch meaningful. A clear message to his inner Rogue. We smoulder together for the hours the evening presents us with. The tension increasing. My hand will creep under his clothes, swooping up his back, over his stomach. To feel his skin with the very tips of my fingers, the raised portions of my fingertips becoming extremely sensitive to any point of contact. When we first were dating in those years past and I was discovering the beauty of the male form for the first time, this simple act of touch would transform me into something of quiet ferocity in arousal. I like to revisit this way of trickling my hands over him, spidery in fashion, twisting and spreading their incantations of lust. Then it is his turn to purr.
When we haven’t set ourselves up for a planned session, it is mainly in his response that will decide whether I will fall to him or rise above and take the reins. In most cases, I want him to make me fall. Taking me over. Subsuming to his rule. The Minx, at heart, desires to be tamed. His natural dominance will emerge. His hand goes to clutch my hair and when it pulls back, I know. I know when he too moves his hand up under my work clothes, that corruption of who I am at work I know he adores. Taking the pillar of responsibility from under me and bringing me crashing back down. To the darkness where there is only me and him and that is all that matters. Who I am in the day is being ripped from me and I am left torn and his alone. His to use. His to misuse. The Minx flexes her muscles in satisfaction and in the knowledge of what will follow. Sated, but not quite.
That is what I live for. At times at least. Just something I like to muse on.
