“Is everything all right?” he asked solicitously. “You seem subdued.”

“I’m fine,” I assured him.

But I had noticed it too, and not just on this occasion. Often, when I’ve been waiting for something a long time, or really looking forward to it, or concocting all kinds of elaborate schemes to obtain it, I can be so determined to avoid disappointment that I don’t allow myself to fully enjoy it until it’s almost over, and I know that it can’t be snatched away from me.‎

There’s also the fact that I spend so much of the time when we’re apart hiding my thoughts and emotions from everyone around me, unveiling them only in writing, that it takes a while for me to transition to my more expansive, free-flowing self. And until then, everything I say sounds kind of fake, or forced, to me. Not that I could say much with my mouth stuffed full of his dick as he pushed down on me from above, lying on top of me with his weight bearing down on me, forcing himself deep into my mouth. I choked and struggled – an involuntary reflex as my lungs emptied of oxygen – but I was trapped, powerless beneath him. He slammed into me, impervious, holding my upper body still while my legs flailed wildly. Just when things were becoming desperate, he thrust deep into my mouth one last time, and shot his come straight down my throat. I coughed and spluttered, almost sending some of it up my nose, but I gulped it all down in the end. And by the time he had rolled off me, laughing a little as he released me, well, I was back to normal already.

“See you again in a few hours,” he said, as he kissed me good-bye. I loafed about the flat for a while, reluctant to leave, but I had some errands to run before dinner.

Traipsing around Regent Street, I began to curse my high cork heels which had given me a painful blister. I considered taking a taxi home, but I still had to buy groceries for dinner. I had spent hours thumbing through the pages of all my recipe books, trying to compose exactly the right menu – something which could be prepared in a woefully ill-equipped kitchen, wouldn’t raise the already sweltering ambiant temperature, went well with pink champagne, and would leave him dazzled and delighted by my culinary genius. (“And – don’t forget – something you can prepare while naked,” he had helpfully added.) After extensive research, I had come to the conclusion that there was nothing which could possibly fulfil all these criteria. I wondered if I could dissuade him from this silly dinner idea. How much did he actually want me to cook him dinner? What if it were no more than a whim – an arbitrary fancy which he had just happened to put into words? But I gritted my teeth and headed to Tesco.

I couldn’t believe it, really. That I should spend one of my rare, child-free nights in this manner – stumbling home with several bags of groceries and the now-excruciating blister on my foot, to get ready for an evening spent slaving over a hot stove! It seemed grossly unjust. And I was seething inside, not so much at him – as I was now almost convinced that this whole idea had been no more than a passing caprice – as at myself for so rigidly adhering to his every utterance. What an idiot!

I got back to the flat and, angrily setting down the bags, began to tear a bunch of leeks apart. I took a break to disrobe, remembering that I was supposed to be cooking naked, but defiantly left my underwear on. I felt that I needed to strike back a little, in some small way, at least.

I was rolling out pastry when he walked through the door, looking disarmingly sexy. I cursed myself for being so shallow, but I could feel some of my anger already dissipating. And anyway, a little anger might not be such a bad thing. I found it easier to speak to him in this petulant mood, so different from my usual dumb-struck silence in his presence.

“Let’s open a bottle of champagne while we discuss this,” he suggested, and, of course, one thing led to another and soon I was standing in the kitchen trying not to spill champagne everywhere while he ran his fingers gently over my naked breasts. He stopped to tug harshly on my nipples. I yelped in protest, and almost pulled away. But I knew – as he did – that the sharp burst of pain was what “primed” me to climax. It was as though all my nerves were suddenly super-sensitised, and even the slightest touch, after that, sent an uninterrupted impulse all the way down to my throbbing G-spot.

I was ashamed of myself, really, for being so predictable, so… malleable. But I couldn’t deny that I felt a lot better after he had made me come. I loved the sight of him, standing there in the kitchen doorway, offering me advice on how to blind-bake pastry. That alone was almost worth the torturous slog home from Tesco.

The end result was still somewhat disastrous, but he endeared himself to me forever when he finished it all. We rushed into the bedroom – “did you set up the restraints?” “I did” – but I had forgotten the cuffs, and we were in too much of a hurry for that, so he just pushed me onto my back and fucked me, with my legs raised over his shoulders, and his dick in my cunt, deep and slow. When he pulled out, I was relaxed and happy, basking in the afterglow. He pulled my legs apart, bent down, and began to explore my cunt – oh, so gently, with the tip of his fluttering tongue, teasing me, as I got wetter and wetter, and then flicking the hood of my clitoris ever so lightly, feeling it swell and tremble at his touch, but waiting, making me wait, until my whole body ached and strained for release. The orgasm itself, when it came, was almost like a continuation of the build-up to it, rather than something distinct, as though I had been coming little by little, the whole time his lips were down there.

“I’m going to fuck you now – how do you want it?” he asked.

“On my knees,” I told him, getting into position, with my ass in the air and my head pressed down into the mattress. He mounted me, first in my cunt, and then in my ass, holding me down, fucking me hard, telling me what a slut I was to enjoy it, and to come from it. Then he flipped me over on to my back and, holding my legs up, entered my ass again. It was one of those days when it didn’t hurt at all, and so there was nothing to distract me from the indirect pressure on my G-spot slowly building, nothing except his voice in my ear, whispering crude insults at me and forcing me to repeat them. I felt overwhelmed – I wanted to please him, by uttering these foul words, but I just couldn’t. And still that pressure inside me kept building, building… and soon I was clenching, spasming, feeling that delicious burst of oxytocin flooding through me… but there was no rest for me – he held me down, with his hands on my shoulders, slamming his hard dick into me, until finally he had unloaded his hot sperm deep inside me, and we fell apart.

“Did you come when I was fucking you from behind, as well?” he asked.

“I did,” I answered, softly licking the last few drops of come from his dick.

“Good,” he smiled. “I always like to keep you somewhat entertained.”

‎I giggled in delight at this preposterous statement.

‎”Now let’s have dessert,” he said.

We had dessert in the moonlight, and played around a little more – I sat on his lap while he fed me strawberries dipped into my cunt – and then, sadly, it was time for him to leave. I pouted playfully, and hovered around him while he got dressed, hoping to distract him with my nakedness.

“Oooh, I like your belt,” I told him, as he held it in his hands. He paused, eyeing my smooth, unmarked skin, and then turned me around and held me against the wall, with my face to the wall, while he swung the belt at my bare ass and thighs. I struggled, but only to twist around slightly, so I could see how he drew his arm all the way back to send the belt flying viciously against my skin. It filled me with pride and admiration to watch, but I tried to hide my smile, so that he wouldn’t think it didn’t hurt.

Finally, it really was time for him to leave, and we kissed good-bye, knowing that we would meet again the next morning. I spent an hour or so clearing up, as the place was a mess, and we were planning to vacate it the next day. How quickly our time there had passed! And how marvellous it had been. I couldn’t have asked for more.

I won’t mention the painful walk to my parents’ flat, limping along with a growing pool of blood in my shoe and my arms laden with bags, nor should I confess that I stayed up until 4 am, alone, watching old movies on my computer. I had originally thought that I might spend this night cruising the streets of London, looking for a date… but I didn’t have it in me. Also, I had an early appointment with him the next morning.

I set two different alarms before I went to bed, but I still woke up with a start at 6 a.m., terrified that I had overslept, and again every 20 minutes after that, until it was actually time to get up. I had also been racking my brain about what to wear. This would be his last sight of me for a long while… but I knew I shouldn’t think like that, it was too silly. I chose the pink and white striped dress which I had worn on my famous underwearless Breakfast Excursion, the morning after our night at the dungeon, hoping to remind him of that happy time.

I had just set off when I got his message asking if he should pick me up. I wrote back saying that I had already left, but he didn’t reply. Perhaps he was on his way to collect me? I turned back to the secret entrance on the other side of the building, where we usually met, but it was deserted. Thinking that I had misunderstood, I hurried back the way I had been going, cursing my stupidity, for we had only an hour that morning, and now I would be late. And then I got his message saying that he was waiting at the usual place!

By the time I had regained the usual place, even more of our precious time had elapsed, but the moment I stepped into his car and looked shyly across at him, my stress and anxiety all seemed to slip away. He looked so cool and unruffled, sitting there behind the wheel in his pale blue linen shirt. It made me feel like a star, just to ride beside him. And it seemed, as it so often does with him, that everything had happened in the best possible way. But when I apologised to him and he told me softly not to worry about it, I could tell that he was disappointed, too.

The walk down the long, red-carpeted corridors seemed interminable this time, and I flung myself into his arms as soon as we had shut the door behind us, kissing him with passion as I pressed my body against his, holding him as close as I could. He rubbed my breasts through my dress, but I was beginning to feel emotional again, and barely noticed. And yet it would certainly be a shame not to come with his hands on my breasts, as that had become such a standard feature of all our meetings!

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” he told me, so I pulled off my dress and underwear, and now, standing naked before him, with his fingers stroking the underside of my breasts, I felt at once the difference, the tingle of excitement all across the surface of my skin, and when he tugged at my nipples, it was as though he were pressing a button to set my gears in motion. And I loved to be under his control, with his hands on the wheel.

After he had made me come standing naked before him in the living room, he let me undress him, crouching down at his feet to untie his laces, unbuttoning his beautiful pale blue shirt, and then I took him into my mouth, and he took me into the bedroom and fucked me, and every moment was so magical, I didn’t even think about how long it would be until we did it again. No, but there was something else at the back of my mind.

I could tell what he was thinking as he ran his fingers over the surface of my engorged breasts; they were like melons ripe for picking.

“I still haven’t given you your little souvenir,” he remarked, stroking them thoughtfully. “Something to remind you of me over the next three weeks…”

I shivered with fear, and delightful anticipation, as he grasped my right breast in his hand, and, lowering his head, sank his teeth into the underside of it. I closed my eyes – I couldn’t bear to look – and squealed, more in terror than in pain. He turned his attentions to my other breast, leaving the same imprint upon it. But I knew this wouldn’t be all, for I had seen the Delrin cane lying on the desk the night before, and then again this morning, when we arrived. So I knew it was coming. I bent down over the desk, closing my eyes and gritting my teeth, steeling myself against the trial to come. I had to make up for the last time, when I had been so cowardly. The stomach-churning impact of the first stroke threw me into a blind panic, and it was all I could do not to jump up and run for cover. Luckily, I had a few moments to compose myself, while he got into position on my other side. I held my breath, waiting for the second. It was not so bad. I knew I could endure this. After all, it was the last thing we would do together for such a long time.

Finally, we stood face to face in the centre of the living room, my bottom smarting, my breasts swollen and aching, and my cunt puffy and content. I pressed my lips to his, wishing that I never had to let him go.

“No other woman’s lips shall touch my dick while you are gone,” he told me. “Nor any other woman’s cunt…”

Tears sprang to my eyes when I heard those words – tears of gratitude, and passion. But I turned quickly, so he couldn’t see. Who was I to exact such a price from him? And it seemed too high a price, when I thought of the ranks of painted harlots, the kisses of their bought red lips, his hands upon their smooth flesh, how he would make them undress, and I wondered if he would interrogate them too, about their boundaries, their likes and dislikes… after all, he did it with me, when we first met. But I didn’t want to dwell too much on that, not today, with my heart flowing over…

He had put his shoes on now, and hoisted his large black bag upon his shoulder. I knew the time had come. But he kissed me lightly, as casually as if we might meet again the very next morning, and then, with his usual calm smile, he turned and slipped wordlessly down the corridor. And I smiled too, knowing he had done this, like so many other things, for me.


7 thoughts on “Starlight and Dewdrops

  1. I really don’t know how you can remember all these details. You are one for that, aren’t you! But that was naughty, not preparing dinner naked as instructed.


  2. And rightly punished, too. Good fellow, that.
    I hope the marks stick around for a while. They’re a very romantic gift to give a girl: “your body remembers me”.


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