Every Tuesday my favorite submissive, George, comes to my dungeon for his session. He always comes bearing tribute presents, and he always has a new excuse for why he needs to be punished. However, two weeks ago, he’d missed his regular session and hadn’t bothered to call in advance to cancel. It was unlike him to be so disrespectful, so I was concerned and thought something had happened to him. However, when he called two days later to make his appointment for the following week and failed to mention his error, I knew that it had been a careless mistake—and that I had to make him pay.
George was on his best behavior from the moment I answered the door right up until we were inside the dungeon. He clearly knew that he was in trouble for flaking the week before, and he seemed to think that ignoring the problem would make it go away. I was going to make sure he knew that wasn’t the case.
As he knelt on the floor, I paced back and forth in front of him, letting the clicking of my heels against the stone floor send him into a panic. The longer I made him wait, the more worried he got, and he started whimpering, begging me to begin his punishment. “Please, Mistress,” he whined. “Please punish me for what I did wrong!”
When Steve and I married, I did not realize he was a football addict. That meant he and his buddies watched football in our media room every day possible. There were college games on Saturday, and pro games on Sunday and Monday. Not only did I feel like a football widow, but I was also being run ragged as their hostess. I found myself buying goodies and drinks for the game days, making sandwiches and dips, and serving snacks all the time. It was annoying, not only because it filled up my free time, but also because it interfered with my preparations for my weekly book club.
The book club I belong to meets at our home. Since we have a spacious house, I had volunteered to host. That turned out to be a mistake. It was a chore preparing and serving snacks and refreshments for ten to sixteen women every week. Yes, the women chipped in to help with the cost, but I was the one constantly running to and from the kitchen. Realizing I was frazzled between his football gatherings and the book club meetings, Steve offered to reciprocate by serving my guests so I could enjoy time with my friends. I did not hesitate to accept his generous offer.
The new house was stressing us out. It was one of the hardest times we’d had in our marriage. Tension ran high and sex ran low. It was week four during renovations when we finally snapped—simultaneously. But sometimes snapping is good. It wipes the board clean, if you will.
“I don’t know why it’s so messy,” Amy said.
“It’s a renovation. They’re messy.”
My wife rested her head against the screen door that led out to our small, dilapidated porch. I couldn’t help letting my gaze roam to her ass. It had been more than two weeks since I’d had a piece of that ass. We mostly talked about money, budget overages, and the house.
She turned and caught me looking. “Stop it.”
The way she said it—somewhat petulant but also vulnerable—really got me. I realized how much I missed her, and how much I wanted her. It was fucking unreal how strong the urge to take her seemed.
Johnny’s had a thing for boots since we first got together. I know some men prefer high heels, the way they make a woman’s legs look longer and sexier with every single click-clacking step, but Johnny craves boots. He adores the way I look in any type of boot, from combat to thigh-high, but his favorites are the ones I wore last night.
“Oh, Dora,” he sighed as soon as he opened the door. I was standing in our hallway, naked except for fishnet stockings and boots. “Naughty” doesn’t even begin to describe this particular pair. They are, for want of a better word, stripper boots—glossy, patent leather with heels that make the perfect sound on a hardwood floor, and we have hardwood floors.
I stalked closer. Johnny’s blue eyes got that glazed look in them.
“Baby,” he said. “You love me.”
I do. How much do I love Johnny? Well, listen to this. These boots come in sixteen different colors, and I own all sixteen. Last night, I was wearing Johnny’s favorite color of the favorite boots—the cherry-red ones.
I don’t always have the greatest luck with women. It’s not that I’m bad-looking; my female friends say I’m a catch. The problem is that I’m shy and get tongue-tied whenever I meet an attractive member of the opposite sex. But thanks to the Internet—and social networking—I can now meet a girl and break the ice before we’re actually face-to-face, which reduces my apprehension.
Julianne was a friend of a friend, and she’d commented on something I’d posted online. She looked really cute in her profile picture, so I requested a connection and we began exchanging e-mails. Then we started flirting through cyberspace, and it wasn’t long before she invited me to meet her at her favorite bar.
She was easy to find in the dimly lit lounge because it was otherwise pretty empty. She was as cute as her pictures suggested, and I hoped I also measured up; it was obvious she was checking me out, too. I prayed she wouldn’t notice my bulging jeans as my cock swelled at the first sight of her extra-large tits, which were almost entirely bared by the deeply V-necked t-shirt she wore.
We sat side-by-side in a corner booth and shared a bottle of wine. She seemed very friendly with the bartender, and I wondered how often she brought her online conquests to this place. Maybe she just likes to drink, I mused, but it stopped mattering as both the wine and my companion’s warm nature had me feeling amorous.
Strange things happen when your in-laws give you two very expensive bottles of wine for your birthday. You do things like drink them both with your gorgeous wife and end up spilling sexual fantasies on your back deck under the cover of moonlight.
“Come on. Tell me your number-one sex dream,” she’d said, rubbing my leg.
So I told her. My wife is amazing. It only took her a week to make it come true.
On the appointed night, I found myself in our chilly, usually unused basement, with my ear pressed to the cool glass of the back door. The glass was old and thin, and I could hear everything going on outside—even the subtle catch in her voice when Marianne said, “Shh, I don’t know when my husband will be home. But we’re out of sight here.”
Earlier in the day, we’d moved the curtains, taking a good half hour to arrange them so that they looked carelessly mussed from the outside, when in fact they were artfully arranged for my viewing pleasure. Looking out, I saw this man—a stranger—grab my wife’s breast and squeeze. My arms broke out in goose bumps. She was actually doing it. She was going to fuck a stranger while I watched!
There are many different, perfectly appropriate places to give and receive spankings. I should know. I’m in a relationship in which I am erotically bent over (chairs, the sofa, our bed, his lap) many times a week, if not every day. But there are also places in which finding yourself with your skirt up and your panties down might be awkward. Perhaps I got bold last night because I thought Jay would never spank me in a location where we might get caught. Maybe this is why I was extra sassy at the grocery store.
Sometimes I like to see if I can get a rise out of Jay. He’s such a calm man. He is not someone I would consider easily riled. But that doesn’t stop me from being a tease. From the moment we stepped into the store, I started messing with him. First, I stopped at the magazine rack and pointed out the different cover models who I thought could use a spanking. “Look at her,” I said. “She’s hardly got any clothes on at all. You’d never let me out of the house looking like that.”
Jay raised his eyebrows. I wasn’t actually wearing much more than the model. I had on a short flirty skirt and a tiny t-shirt without a bra. Even though it was after 11 p.m., I wasn’t cold. We’d had a late-season heat wave, which was why we were at the store in the first place. I’d wanted to make hard lemonade, and we’d been out of all the ingredients.
Our exhibitionism began innocently, as most things do. Laurel and I were feeling playful one night, while dancing in our favorite club. We had always been an affectionate couple—we still held hands after six years together and delighted in maintaining constant physical contact—but we kept our sex life to ourselves. We rarely kissed in public, other than the occasional peck on the cheek, but the music was perfect on this particular night, and we’d had a few drinks. Laurel looked fetching in her tan dress, her dark hair falling against her bare shoulders as she danced, her hips grinding against me in the most suggestive manner. Guys were looking at her, and I liked it. Overwhelmed by her beauty, and emboldened by the margaritas we’d had, I planted one on her. The kiss was soft and sensual, and lasted a nice long time. A few people were staring at us, but all I could see was the look in Laurel’s eyes afterward.
I kissed her again a few moments later, and as I brushed my lips against hers in passionate exploration, Laurel pressed her crotch against my thigh. Her voice in my ear was unmistakable: “We need to get home.”
“Either that, or we fuck right here, in front of everybody.”
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, hungry for a snack. However, it isn’t potato chips or mint-chocolate chip ice cream that I find myself craving. Rather, it’s the treat nestled between my girlfriend’s legs.
Lucky for me, we have an understanding that if I’m jonesing for some pussy, it’s okay to wake her, regardless of the hour. After all, Dayna benefits from my expert cunnilingus just as much—if not more—than I do. And, of course, it doesn’t hurt that I wake her in the best way possible: with my mouth. Best yet, she always returns the favor—sometimes even while I’m still eating her pussy—in the form of a sexy sixty-nine.
Last night, I woke up at 3 a.m. with a raging hard-on and one thing on my mind: Dayna’s cunt. For a moment, I contemplated letting her sleep and jerking off to relieve myself, but the demands of my cock and my growing hunger for her were far too great. So I quietly crept beneath the sheets down to her feet and ran my tongue along one delicate arch. In response, she shifted slightly but didn’t awake; I guess she was pretty tired. That didn’t deter me. I just wrapped my lips around her big toe and gave it a thorough suck.
Even though the clock hadn’t yet chimed six, I’d been up for a few hours. Insomnia tends to eat my nights, especially when I’m working on a deadline. I’m a writer, and I find that although the early morning can be lonely, my best work often occurs while most of the world is asleep. But coffee makes the darkness sublime, and I like to spend an hour or so before dawn sitting on our front deck and sipping French Roast.
When Michael’s at home, he sleeps in. He’s a long-distance trucker who loves his marital bed. As far as I can tell, insomnia never plagues him. He has no demon characters to worry his mind. But he has a sprite—me—who sometimes makes her way into his dreams.
Generally, he opens his sleepy eyes to a cup of coffee waiting for him at the side of his bed. I leave his favorite mug there as soon as I hear him start to stir. When he’s ready for conversation, he calls out, “Freshen that up, love?” and I come into the room and sit on the foot of his bed and talk about where he’ll be driving to next.