As I settled my head onto the cushioned seat, closed my eyes and slipped my hands through the gap between the armrest and the chair leg my furrowed brow began to loosen and the tensions of the day eased.
The day before, the roles had been reversed. He was the one to call me that hypnotic name, Mistress. Yesterday, he had been pandering to my every whim. But not today. Now he would call the shots and so I found myself kneeling on the floor in front of The Chair, leaning my front forward to lie my chest flat on the seat. He was securing me in place, the soft shackles of the two differently sized spreader bars wrapped around my ankles that lay behind me and wrists before me. Picture, if you will, a position of being on all fours on the ground, but with a chair supporting my torso’s weight. After each restraint had been placed, a gentle stroke of my wrist or foot was given. Still sweet.
It was a curious combination of comfort and vulnerability. My head was as though resting on a pillow but there was no escape, and my legs were widely held in place giving him a superb view. A year or so ago I would have been nervous at being so…open in front of him but recently my anxieties have been melting away and, with such encouragement and appreciation from Mister, the worry disappeared.
It had been another day that had done its best to try to break me with its intensity and he saw I needed a release. I craved it. I requested the riding crop knowing the bite it would give. I called on his own neat, freshly cut nails to haul my mind back to him with their dry rasp over my skin. I wanted all of this, knowing his care would be intertwined within the welts and yelps. We have played with the crop enough times now that he has learned that when I seem to reach my breaking point he can push me further with his distraction technique to split my attention between the sting of the crop and his hand slickly working my pussy. It’s quite a challenge to get overwhelmed with the pain when it’s being cancelled out by strong orgasms rushing their way through my body.
He made me his ragdoll once more, pausing in his marking of me to sweep my hair aside time and again to press his lips on mine following the burying of my head to sound my voice into the cushion. He wanted to gauge my state on my face. As the light grew sensitive to my eyes, they closed but the smile remained. A satisfied, sated and side-ways smile that momentarily would grimace, show teeth before regaining the strangely relaxed, dream-like composure. On occasion I would wince and try to crawl away, but I always got back into position, a glutton wanting more.
There was much more to this early evening’s attentions, but this episode remains vivid in the forefront of my memories.
As for the rest of the evening, I was shifting in my seat on the sofa with awkward tenderness. A point of great pride for Mister as I cuddled in to the crook of his arm, notifying him of my gentle discomfort. His voice, low, quiet and soothing,
Good…good.
I simply settled into him further, sighing with content.
