Well I wasn’t exactly begging when Mistress strolled into my office last evening, after a long day at work. But I was ready for some worship. And she seemed ready too.
She had a relatively short black dress on, that showed off long and muscular bare legs, and some opened toed shoes that showed off her colorfully painted nails.
Mistress had been so busy – going from one meeting to another all day – that she’d not had time to read all of your juicy comments yesterday about her violation of Switch Day protocol and M’s deliberation on her sad fate.
I spread the blanket, pressed the chair up against the door, and let her settle in, taking my time to use by lips and tongue to reduce the stress level that I could tell had built up during the course of the day.
Ultimately she succumbed to my attention, using her fingers to grab my scalp, pressing me home, as her hips lurched up off the chair in the final throws of her orgasm.
We had an evening out planned – first a Sushi dinner, then a concert by one of Slave’s favorite aging rock stars at a local theatre venue.
Over dinner, Mistress finally had a chance to review comments on her I-phone.
“So Donna thinks maybe I suffered from Marzipan withdrawal….”
“It’s possible, Mistress….”
“Oh look, Brooke commented… that’s pretty rare, and she seems to get what the problem was…..”
She seemed particularly amused by M’s comments in his “hanging judge” persona, and decided to dial him up, as we finished off our “bait”, as some folks call it here in the heartland.
“I don’t think you guys understand how much those things hurt in that position, M.”
She was already beginning what no doubt will become a week long appeal for mercy.
And Mistress also asked when they might arrange for a date this week – Slave is going off to DC for the weekend with Sullen Teen #2, so Mistress will have a little more solo time than she is used to. Hopefully she will have a chance to engage in some ex parte lobbying with her “personal trainer” to see if she can get the severity of the sentence reduced to something palatable for her and for those sensitive nipples.
I must confess that I was feeling a little bad after all was said and done. While we have used those clothespins before without intolerable consequences, they clearly hirt more than normal this time. Maybe it was the position, with Mistress, breasts hanging down, and all that blood flowing to the place where the pressure was most severe.
And although I tried to expedite things once it became clear that Mistress seemed to be in more anguish than “normal”, I should have removed the pegs myself rather than force Mistress to use self-help.
I’ve learned my lesson, and won’t do that again.
I suppose we need a “code red” word that would have allowed Mistress to abort the exercise at that point. That way she would not risk getting into trouble for disobedience during her two hour / week switch shift.
And I better watch my own back here, since Slave is probably due some punishment from Mistress for some real or imagined slight that would allow her to take her pound of flesh back.
After we both chatted up M for a bit, it was off to our concert. (The quote in the title is from one. A free UCTMW coffee mug to anyone who can guess the author or song, employees of UCTMW Enterprises or their family members, excluded).
We had primo seats (I’m on the dude’s email list), and it was fun to enjoy the evening with Mistress, away from work and family duties. For some reason I kept getting the musky aroma of sex from her as I leaned into her, muzzling her neck. Was it residue of her juices still clinging to my face. Or did she just exude the pheromones that drive her Slave nuts.
By the time we got home, it was 11 m or so, and we were both beat, so settled for some snuggling and sleep.
“Wake me for sex at 7, Slave….”
Better get moving….