31. A Day in the Flesh

     It was the comfortable, lazy morning of a day on which nothing in particular had to get done. You have to remember to appreciate those, when they happen. Groping is a pretty good way to do that. He had his hands all over me, and there really aren’t a lot of things on this earth that I like better than that. Unless I’ve had dirty dreams and stayed in bed far longer than is reasonable, I am not generally good for morning sex. I have trouble reaching orgasm at that hour. But he was touching me, and his body was pressed against mine, and there was a slow, deliberate mobility to all things tactile, and he brought me to an impressively explosive clitoral orgasm before we’d said five words to each other. Points to the husband; that’s hard to do to me. As I started to reach for him, he offered me a proposition. How about I start making the preparations for major event-sex now, from tip to toes and all points in between, and then maintain the state of readiness and anticipation all day long? I could change as often as I liked and play with myself at will, and luxuriate in the slow approach of a sure thing, in whatever way I felt like. I hand my hand on his cock, hard as ever.
     “So I’m just supposed to leave you like this, now?”
     “Yes.” He told me later that he’d wanted to come on my ass so badly that his balls hurt all day. I guess I’m not the only one who plays at deprivation.
     So I put on a negligee at 8:30am, and went to make coffee. Halfway to the kitchen, I noticed the familiar coolness of my bare feet on the floor, and went back for a pair of those slutty, lace, high heeled mules you can get for twelve dollars at Frederick’s. He’d already made a mental note of it as Infraction #1, but I redeemed it quickly enough to please him. So I made him coffee and then went to do hair and eyeliner and some of the more delicate, hygienic preparations for a no-holds-barred kind of encounter. I stopped short of honey dusting, because my next stop was going to be the pool. I haven’t mentioned the pool before, because it’s brand new – finished just in time for the weather to turn cold - but today was bright and sunny, and I had a book to finish. I was all set to go outside, gathering my things, when I discovered that my We-Vibe had died. This put a crimp in my plans, as it’s the only waterproof vibrator I own, but I set it to charge and went ahead anyway; I still had fingers, after all.
     I slid out of the negligee and stretched out on a lounge chair, with my thighs spread enough for easy, casual, self-inflicted teasing, and read for awhile while the sun toasted me. The book had been frustrating me for days. It had been recommended as a good, BDSM fantasy story, but it turned out to be unfortunate that the plot was decent, because by the time I figured out there was no actual porn in it, I’d already become involved. Kushiel’s Dart. It’s full of open reference to full-on kink, but reference is all you get. It walks right up to a scene with a swinging, curvy gait, trailing a whip and beckoning you over one shoulder, and then the chapter ends with only implications of all the action that followed. There’s no sex on the page. And it’s 900 pages long. I was considering throwing it into the pool when I was done. In the meantime though, I read and played with myself until the smell of sun-warmed skin wafted off of me, then I left my shoes on the top step and slipped into the water to watch my nipples tighten just under the surface. What is it about being submerged in water? There’s nothing quite like the sensation of swimming naked. I’m not a huge fan of the ocean (I‘m overcome by a healthy fear of Poseidon when faced with that kind of vastness), but a pond or a lake or a river or a pool will have me shucking clothes right into Autumn. So I floated about with my hands on my body, feeling wet flesh with wet fingers, tightened skin and the lift of breasts magically made lighter. Then I slid up onto a raft and spent the next hour finishing the book, with the sun drying and warming and toasting my ass, to match the work it had already done on my chest and belly.
     Back inside, I did a little primping and fixing, and changed for “lunch” (not sure I actually ate anything). I put on a white bustier and the tiny black hot pants, to match the good, black and white striped shoes. We lounged on the bed, watching porn and talking about sex. I got my We-Vibe off the charger and played with that while we talked, until the partial charge wore off. Kiss a little, play a little, suck a little cock. He held my face in both hands, and then slid them down to my throat, just looking at me without pressing, both of us knowing he might at any moment. I did a little more prep (because while I’m pretty casual about things like ass to mouth, it’s partially because I’m pretty fastidious about ass play in the first place). I returned and sat on my cone next to him while we discussed the potential directions the next several hours might take. He trailed his fingers down my underarm, teased my pussy, groped my ass. He watched me bring myself to orgasm in a conflicted state of desire and jealousy that he has come to enjoy.
     I still had some grooming to do – touch up the trim job and I wanted to wash off the taste of the pool – when he offered up another little proposition. He might just run out to the adult store and pick up a flogger, while I finished getting ready. We’ve never had a flogger. Their effects have always seemed a little frivolous and aesthetically they’re kind of stupid looking. We’ve had a little paddle/slapper thing for ages that we never use, because it’s more about the sound it makes than the impact it has. Pointless. Floggers seemed like the sort of things that would end up similarly collecting dust. Recently though, we’d had a conversation about the fact that we may have been judging them too harshly and based on almost nothing. It seemed a novel idea, so I kissed him and watched him go, and set about the rest of the girly stuff.
     The adult store is only a few minutes away, so I was still filling the tub when he returned. He had two floggers: One narrow one, with red accents on black leather and long, thin tails; the other shorter, fatter and all black, with tails that were thicker, heavier. He told me he’d been leaning toward the long, thin one, but knowing my dislike of the color red, had gone ahead with both. For science, you understand. I turned off the water and stood, and then kneeled and crawled onto the bed while he tested them against my thighs, then my back, then my ass. I liked it immediately. Enough so that I couldn’t tell which was better, the thud and burn of the fat black one, or the whip and sting of the red. They both felt… Good. I went undecided into the bath, with an early glass of wine and some responsibly graphic porn.
     We continued talking about sex and porn while I shaved my legs and my husband perused the movie library. Once out of the tub and mindful of the morning’s directive to keep all things just-so all day, I tweaked the hair and eyeliner until there was no evidence of my bath. Then I got out the good lotion and took up my perch on top of the backrest at the foot of the bed. Naked and still soft and steamy from the hot water, I made sure he had a good view while I overused it, until I smelled of warm cake from neck to boobs to snatch to toes. Someone once told me I had an ass like French vanilla ice cream, and though I suspect he stole that line from a movie, it does good things to my ego while I’m doing something like making a spectacle of rubbing lotion into it. I had a plan for what I wanted to ultimately end up wearing, but I wasn’t sure it was late enough in the day to put it on. My husband confirmed my hesitation with the suggestion that we spend a little time outside, while it was still light. He wanted to do a little mutual look-no-touch, and I quickly thought of a way to put a bit of a twist in that, while injecting a touch of pink into the affair that might just make him want to defile me that much more. I have a pair of panties that look exactly (deceptively) like the stretch lace ones that I have in several different colors. I’d had them for some time, but only worn them once and briefly, and I put my money on the likelihood that he wouldn’t remember them. They are deep pink, with a little purple woven in, and I put them on and got them adjusted to maximum disguise without his noticing anything. I slipped into a tight, nettie little white camisole, and a pair of ankle-strap heels that I never wear (too pink). On our way out, I grabbed a fat, pink make-up stick that triples as blush, eye shadow, and lipstick, and smells like lemonade flavored bubblegum.
     We went out by the pool, and he set himself up on a barstool, looking down on me, while I stretched out on a lounge chair turned to face him. There were people over the wall behind us, and our neighbors in their yard to one side, and we listed to them talking while he stroked himself for my viewing pleasure, and I propped one leg over the arm of my chair and did the same for his. He had cigarettes for me (two! – that must have been what he was up to while I was concealing the nature of my panties), and I smoked one of them while I played with my boobs and my nipples, and traced the fingers of one hand over the fabric at my crotch. Understand that I fully intended to defy the no-touch condition of the exercise, but I knew I had to wind him up a little before he’d let me get away with it. So I waited for his gaze to narrow from a full-body survey and ogle, to a visual devouring between my legs, accompanied by the increase of intensity in the stroking of his cock, and then I carefully revealed the split crotch of the panties. I was rewarded with a low, animal sound from the back of his throat. I teased both of us with a finger to my labia, splitting them like the crotch of the panties, just the tip inside and sliding from the bottom to the top, slow circle around the clit… Then I paused, took my hand away. He looked up at me and I smiled and uncapped the make-up stick. I looked back at him while I applied it first to the lips on my mouth, and then carefully, slowly to the lips of my pussy. I lit the other cigarette and hoped he could still smell the candy scented make-up from where he sat. I don’t know if that’s what did it, but that’s when he stood and offered me his cock. I abandoned the smoke and crawled forward, squatted in my high heels, at his feet. I tried briefly to maintain the integrity of my lipstick for the slutty Barbie effect of it, but before long I was on my knees on the deck, and his cock matched the color of my shoes and my panties and my pussy, and smelled like lemonade flavored bubblegum. He put his hand at the back of my neck and pushed his cock into my throat, just once, then he held me off of him and met my eyes when I looked up from the ground.
     “Go get dressed.”
     Now I could put on what I’d been waiting to wear. It’s an underbust corset I’d bought, after the night of Conflicts and Contradictions, when my good, black corset had proven to be in the way of the nefarious plans he’d had for my breasts. This one is of even better quality – it might, in fact, be the nicest thing I now own. You can feel how good it is just in the heavy quality of the fabric. It has vertical, black-on-black stripes (to go with the awesome shoes), and steel boning with visible steel closures down the front. It’s fucking beautiful. I put on the stripey shoes with appropriate ceremony, and they looked as perfect with it as I’d hoped they would. I went stockingless, so that my flesh was available for the floggers from my ankles to my hips and ass, and then above the corset from the underside my breasts, upward. The last piece was a little embellishment that I used to sport often, but hadn’t worn for probably years. Have you ever tried nipple bands? I highly recommend. Visually, it’s like dressing up your boobs, but without covering any part of them. Are you familiar with those thin, round, black rubber bracelets that Madonna had everybody wearing by the dozen, in the 80s? (I think they were really just vacuum seals, before they got popular enough to be mass produced.) These are the same thing, only nipple sized. They come with a rubber bulb, attached to a little glass nozzle that you slip over a nipple while you hold the bulb compressed. Let go of the bulb, and the suction pulls your nipple into the glass. Then you roll the nipple band off the outside of the glass tube, onto your areola, and remove the bulb and nozzle. Now your nipple is bound tight, erect and engorged and encircled, so the visual effect is topped only by the sensory one. Standing there admiring my breasts in the mirror and feeling the grip of those little rubber circles, I couldn’t fathom why I’d possibly abstained from wearing them for so long. Just the shoes, the corset, and the nipple bands, that (besides the not quite invisible personal climate of a full day of sexual tension), was all I wore, and the impression was killer, and I felt absolutely marvelous.
     Time for the true testing of the floggers.
     Standing, he took them by turns against the backs of my thighs and my calves, my shoulders and shoulder blades, my arms and my underarms. The differences between them were predictable: The long thin one has more sting to it, the kind that makes you suck in your breath through your teeth in a hiss, the shorter wider one has more weight, more blow to the blow, the kind that makes you lend voice to an involuntary exhale. The difference between both of them and the flogger or the switch was noticeable: Instead of a swat that cracks hard enough to make you gasp and cry out, and then deepens into a whole new type of pain that makes it hard to breathe at all, the floggers light a dozen little fires in your skin all at once, and then instead of fading or increasing, they simply stay lit. You can feel them for full minutes afterward, as though the tails are still coming down on your skin. As before, the way it presented itself to my mind was just that it felt good… Only there was a shadow of a but in the back of my head that was trying to get my attention. I knew what it was and tried to ignore it, because I really was having a lovely time of it. There were bright spots lingering, residing in my flesh as he summoned me onto the bed and cross-examined me on the merits of the thin one versus the fat. I sat on my feet, on my shoes, before him while he took them one at a time to my inner thighs, my outer thighs, my breasts, the undersides of my raised arms, my pussy. And here’s where the point came home. I like thud more than sting. That was clear by now, and (as everything has, for the last few years of sex becoming more and more based around dominance and submission), fell neatly into place with every erotic sensation and emotion I’d ever failed to pay proper attention to. So, when he told me to choose, when he made me voice a preference, select the flogger with which he would continue from under the blows that didn’t stop falling, why, why, why did I choose the evil, pointy slice of the long thin tails? I tried for a moment to suggest that it had something to do with the fact that it was the red one. I don’t like red, so I chose the red one. But that only made the point more obvious; I’d chosen the one I didn’t like. The whisper at the back of my head shifted quietly to the front: The floggers felt good… but they didn’t hurt. The lack of real pain in the sparks of leather raining on my flesh is fun at first, but then I miss it, and I can’t pretend I don’t. I did not voice this thought. I didn’t need to. I needed to know it and sit with it, and in the mean time give myself over to my husband, who had dropped one hand to the bed, palm up – a signal that I was to put my pussy in his hand, which I did, and let myself be carried away from introspection and analysis by the heady rush of g-spot orgasm.
     He made me sit immobile, arms clasped over my head, hands to elbows, while he let me try to recover and brought me off again before I’d succeeded. I was sitting in a puddle of my own come at this point, a pool of it in his palm, and his fingers at work and then at rest and then at work inside me. I was too caught up in the whirl my head becomes during recurring orgasms, to recognize that he was working left handed, and then the red flogger came down on me from his right. He flogged my breasts with their tight banded nipples, my thighs from the outside, sufficiently hard that I could lose myself in the loathsome sting. Then he pulled his hand out from under me, motioned me to lean back, and went to work on my inner thighs and my pussy. He flogged them pink and hot and then reached in and made me come again, and before I could recover the long thin lashes were back in play. He brought my nipples into it then, developing his skill at aiming with the new toy, to ensure that several of the very tips of the leather tails connected with the swollen raspberries they had become. He traded the flogger for squeezing my whole breasts, did their current state of constriction impede their ability to give milk? No, no it did not. Now my breasts were wet, and flogged again, splashing. He reached under me again, and watched my face while he slipped one finger into my ass and made me come.
     Finally, I was allowed to move, and of course I went straight to the cock sucking. I didn’t stay there as long as I usually do. I went slow and deep and decadent, and the overly wet state I left him in made me unable to resist rubbing his cock against my clit, my clit against his cock. He lay back and let me climb up to ride him, flogging me at irregular intervals so that I rose to the lip of a vaginal orgasm, and then just stayed there, not tipping over or falling back from it, as he curled the lashes around my sides and shoulders to whip against my back and my ass. I rode him hard and felt that cervix bashing like a wicked/wonderful deepening bruise. It was so good that it wasn’t even frustrating when the crest of the orgasm never spilled over. I didn’t want it to end. I wanted to stay in that brink-of-climax state as long as he’d let me. And he let me go so long that the bruised cervix sensation stayed with me for the rest of the night.
     He told me to lick my pussy off his cock, and while I did it, he put his fingers in my snatch, and in my ass at the same time. He fucked me like that while I sucked him, and then he produced my pink glass toy and turned me to face away from him. He flogged me while he worked it into my ass, alternating lashes against my ass and my hips with the motion of the slippery, smooth head pushing into me, pulling out. Again the stinging tails were only sting, but still they stayed alight in my skin and the sting was enough. He pulled me back up onto him and flogged me while I rode him again, but this time working the toy in my ass while he did it. Back and forth, riding, flogging, ass fucking, and then sucking his cock again and him flogging me more, breasts, thighs, abdomen below the corset. Finally he was close enough to orgasm that I could have brought him off in my mouth, but I didn’t want to. I slipped the toy out of my ass and replaced it with his cock, sinking back onto the full length of him. Three times I came with his cock buried in me, slowing down between each and leaning back, rising up onto my feet so that he could watch the ass fucking. We looked at each other and slow-fucked, while he talked dirty to me, describing it in all the graphic detail my book had been lacking, wondering aloud if he would choose to come in my ass or in my mouth. The talking, talking, talking pours like hot molasses into my ears, down through my insides, to my pussy, and back up into my brain. It always does. There is nothing I would not do for him, then. He called for ass to mouth, probably just for the pleasure of watching me do as I was told. I did, all too eagerly, and he came against the roof of my mouth and down my throat.
     And so the day ended, morning light to dark of night, and all that. It’s possible I kept his cock in my mouth longer than was necessary, I was so sorry to see it go.

(I have no idea who this chick is, but she’s got a new twist on The Kinks, and I love a remake that departs from the original.)