There are many Saturday evenings when Master and I are able to hook up for a brief kiss, pinch and then I head on home, on my way from work. This week I got to have a “starbucks dinner” while with him.
Unfortunately, He’d “picked up” a “new best friend”…some guy who was hanging there while his wife and daughter were shopping.
Because I didn’t know the back story when I came in, I played it cool, didn’t call him Master (or anything), just sat, ate, joked with Him–I wasn’t sure if it was Master’s son, until He made a comment (for my benefit, I think) that took that out of the way …but it still could have been a client or a coworker…I had no idea.
So I ate, and read the paper, and sat across the table and not beside him and it was all proper and vanilla and…
and it’s always good to be with Him. He walked me out to my car and I had a few pinchy-tickles, a kiss or two, and then I was on my way. It would be dishonest to say that I wasn’t disappointed to only have had that little bit of time to be with Him, but not be “with Him.” I told him later that I would have gone the whole sub-route had I known the guy was just a stranger making conversation. I’d have slid to my knees at His feet, kissed His palm…the whole nine yards.
Self-restraint is an amazing thing for this slut, after all! Yet—I wasn’t sure until He walked me to my car, just what was up with “that guy”.
So ….imagine my surprise to get a text Sunday (the very next day!) morning asking how my day was shaping up…this is Master code for “are you available to meet at all”. (Yes Master, I’ve clued into that!)
And I made it work.
And we spent just over 90 minutes together, getting “properly” tortured by Him…hair pulled, pinched, tickled.
He’s amazingly good at sucking me into complacency, before I’m very surprisingly (to me, anyway) slammed back into the reality of life with a Dominant Master.
He is a shoe guy-that’s His fetish. I’m not. I could give a fuck about shoes, most of the time. I recently got a decent pair of boots. They’re cute, brown slouchy boots.
They have a little demi-zipper on the inside so that one can slide one’s foot into the base of the boot.
He tips his head, looks at my feet.
“Nice boots,” He says. He signals me to lift my foot up so He can better inspect the material, the construction. Taps the heel, feels the suede. Nods sagely.
“Nice boots,” says He once more, and I’m pleased that He approves.
“What’s the zipper for?” He asks.
“So I can get my foot in. It’s got a narrow neck.”
“No it doesn’t. I don’t get that?” He says. He measures around my ankle with His two hands, a somewhat quizzical look on His face.
(I don’t feel the sharp bite of the hook in my mouth, not even here. I’m a good little fishie and swim right up and swallow the fucking thing whole.)
(and He has an immensely good poker face)
I slide the zipper up and down.
“Yeah, but you should still be able to get your foot out zipped up…” and He wiggles the boot on my foot.
“no Master, like this,” I say, unzipping my boot, and tugging it off my foot.
He takes the boot, and my foot….and I, gullible wench that I am, expect Him to put it back on.
Instead, He drops the boot to the floor, peels off my sock and attacks my toes! Holding my ankle in a firm grip, he tickles, he tugs, the slides his finger up and down the bottom of my foot.
He laughs, He shakes His head, He chortles to Himself about my absolute naiveté.
I’m nilla, and I am one gullible slut. He is constantly amazed that I’m still as gullible as I am. So of course, this little scenario became instantly “bloggable stuff, nilla!” He smiles, shaking His head.
He’s takin’ bets to see which of you will try to sell me a certain NYC bridge….