Dear Sir Wolf,
My Master is deeply appreciative yet again of your SO generous gift. I, on the other hand, am far less…enamored of it. Or them. Or…*flaps hand in the air*…whatever. The thing is, that little green bag seemed so innocuous. Those lovely handles. The seductive curve of the rubber straps. The smell of them, even.
oh HELL no.
Those fuckers…my GAWD, Sir. Those fuckers….*shakes head, looks skyward for words to describe them better*…yeah, fuckers it is.
There i am, you see, face to the wall. Forehead must stay there, per Masters “orders” (orders being His hand shoving my head against the wall and saying “stay there” in that mean terse voice that’s so annoying–and a damn turn on too, damn Him–). He pulls my head off the wall, slaps on the blindfold, then shoves my head back. Thunk.
I hear the sounds behind me. I have no idea what He’s doing back there on the bed. Sleeping? No, there is the sound of things being moved in His wicked bag of tricks.
“You know, nilla, someday you will have to write another letter to Wolf and let him know how very grateful I am for this bag of implements.”
There is nothing but silence then.
You know, Sir Wolf, that when you Marines want to, you can
be too fucking quiet move so silently. I didn’t answer because…well, I know what’s coming. Or think I do. He puffs a hard breath into my right ear, which means He has moved from the 2nd bed all the way across the room, behind me by less than 5 inches, and I never heard a thing. And trust me Sir Wolf, I’m listening for all I’m worth. The fucker Master is just that good. I jump at least 3 inches into the air (quite a feat in 6.5″ heels) and shriek.
Like a fucking girl.
Yes, Sir, I know I’m a girl, but I don’t usually react to being startled that way. Shrieking. Sheesh.
He has blown in my ear, and laughs at my discomfiture. I’m holding onto the wall and trying to slow my racing heart and not call Him the fucking Bastard that He is.
“You will, won’t you slut? Write Him a note for me? Let’s see, what should you say to show your deep gratitude for this gift?”
I think to myself “Dear Sir Wolf. You are a stinking rat bastard. Love nilla” but wisely do not say this aloud.
He taps me on the ass with one toy, not too hard.
“No, nevermind. Here’s something else. We’re going to play name that implement.”
He pauses again.
“No, no, that’s too easy for you. I think we’ll play ‘name the color of the implement. Specifically the handle of the impliment.”
My heart has fallen to my knees. He’ll keep hitting me until I guess it correctly. And some of those fuckers hurt like…like…well, like the tormentors they were created to be.
By you, Sir Wolf (you bastard).
He takes up the toy and whacks my butt with it.
AH FUCK…I try to climb the wall, unsuccessfully. I try to catch my breath. At this I am successful, finally slumping forward and gasping.
“Let’s do both sides so that you can get the full idea.”
And before I can yay or nay this (I know, not that I *ever* had a choice in that! but one slut can dream, right?) there is a harsh WHACK WHACK on the other side of my ass.
Now, I don’t remember which one He started with but I called out what I thought it was…and damned if I wasn’t right. He was kind of startled by that, thought it was a lucky guess. I am leaning more towards “subliminal learning” since the whips have been my header for over a week, and I see it every time I proofread something that I have written.
He strikes me with the next one…and I got that one too. First blow, even. Now He’s a bit amazed.
Third go, and I got that one. And the next…almost…I thought there were some that were bi-colored, but not the handles (tricky, Mr. Wolf. Verrah tricky, damn you.) He whacked me again and asked me to be more specific.
“WHITE!!” I yelp as it bites into my tender backside again.
“Well nilla,” He says, His voice a combination of proud and bemused. “I have no idea how you did that but you did very well. Very well indeed.”
And that, Sir Wolf, is how I freed my ass from the tyranny of that dastardly little green bag of yours. His. Whatever.
And thank you. No really, Sir, thank you. Master definitely appreciates the bag and all it’s rotten contents. Maybe next time we play, my ass will write you a letter. It will sound like “Poot”…it will smell foul, and mean “fuck you, Sir”. With love, of course. 😉