The wall was cool against my aching tits. My forehead was pressed tight, the way He likes, my feet aching a bit now, in my high, high heels.
I felt incredibly sexy.
My tits loose from my clothing, my nipples caught in the grip of the clamps, the heavy chain swinging, pendulous, from them. If I moved, they scraped the wall, or clattered against it. A sexy sound.
Don’t let anyone tell YOU that you aren’t sexy because you’re a certain size. Even carrying more weight than I’m really happy with, He made me feel wanted, wanton.
He was moving around the room in that way He has, making noise only when He wanted me to know where He was. I forget what I was doing there, waving my hand out in space, thinking He was in the bathroom, swinging my hips, waving my fat butt around…being silly nilla.
He blew in my ear and scared the *fuck* right outta me!
I shrieked, and jumped a mile.
“Head on the fucking wall, nilla,” He growls, His voice so sexy when He talks that way to me. Not just the swearing, but the intimidation factor. Hot. Hawt. Hawt! His hand presses my head onto the wall in a quick swat, but I’m already there, thank heaven. (I did get a little forehead bruise from that.) Quickly I slap my palms to the wall, before He does something dastardly to them.
I listen for Him.
I hear nothing but the pre-football-game commentary on the t.v. The hum of a motor from the bathroom fan in the wall. Nothing of Him, the sneaky bastard. He’s slick, and mean, and can come up behind me and wale one on my butt without warning. That was around the time that He pulled out one of Wolf’s toys and belted me across the back with it.
Holy fuck on a stick, that hurt!
Tears in my eyes, breath caught in my gut somewhere, tangled with the scream that was trying to get out as the breath was trying to get in.
He loves those moments.
He calls them “You don’t know whether to shit or go blind” moments.
Then He is beside me again. I feel Him there, and then He has moved away. He is very like a cat, I just can’t hear a sound. And from a distance…
My heart jumps into my throat.
Something in His tone has set my “I’m Prey” alarm onto hyperdrive and I’m fighting the urge to look. To see what is coming next.
“Where’s my little pink friend?”
And I know what He wants.
The night before, as I was packing my things carefully for our adventure, I debated. He had told me what to bring…but He didn’t mention that. Yet, it is a long, no-longer-spoken-but-understood rule that I must ALWAYS have the Fucking Pink Brush with me for playtime.
Yet, I stood there in front of my mirror, holding it in my hand, squishing the squishable handle in my fingers…and actually debated about putting the fucking thing into my handbag.
It’s terrific at taking out the tangles in my hair post-Master…but it is also such a weapon of ass destruction.
After a long pause I answer Him. He doesn’t interrupt my musing, or tell me to hurry it up, slut, He waits. He does that, that
waiting, until I answer Him.
“It’s in my bag on the bathroom counter,” I say at last my voice a mere whisper.
I hear nothing, not even the sound of a man going through a woman’s handbag. You know how they can be, rooting around like a dog in a garbage can, right? *giggling*
I hear nothing, sense nothing.
Which is why I tried to pass through the wall when He smacked my left ass cheek with the fucking thing.
Because I knew it would take mere seconds for Him to reposition and attack the right side.
I was right.
Two weeks later and I’m still wearing the marks from those two single *BAM*’s on my ass, about the only thing left of our play time, other than wicked memories.
You know I’ll be tracing them with my fingers tonight as I head to bed.
Oh, the way He does me.
Does me so bad…which of course, is soo000 good.
I really *do* hate that fucking pink brush.
I just like the *afterwards* part.
Wonder if there’s a way to skip the OUCH and go straight to the bruise?
Nah, didn’t think so.