Panties and petroleum.

At the King Street border between the pretentious, yuppie, upstart Liberty Village and the historic, downtrodden, depressed Parkdale 'hoods of Toronto stands a high-walled, gated, ominous compound. It's the city's Road Operations and Transportation Services building, where the heavy machinery and working vehicles that maintain the city's streets are kept. Inside, boiler room dispatch offices respond to emergency calls regarding flooding, fallen trees, and other city problems.

My current work routine takes me past this building several times a day. And every single time, I'm reminded of the Grrl. It isn't just because the West Queen West pad that we shared is only a few blocks away; that happened later. It's because of the dark evening when we were inside that compound together and where I first saw her (mostly) bare body.

Flute was a friend of mine. A sometime handyman and fulltime freespirit, he played a charming First Nations flute when he wasn't helping someone put up drywall. He worked inside this compound at the time, handling dispatch calls to ferry emergency repair vehicles to Toronto homeowners who were freaking out over this thing or another. And he had access to city vehicles.

My situation was different then. I didn't own a car at the time. For reasons that escape me, I was unable to pick the Grrl up from the airport, and Flute was more than happy to offer me a ride with a van that he was using regularly. He and I had a bond about the women in our lives, and he was totally cool with helping me out when it came to Someone Important Coming To Visit.

It was the first time she had come to Canada, the first time we would be together. After our first meeting, we were touch-and-go for a while as she mediated matters with a previous partner. By the time we were planning her visit, she had left that boyfriend and I was excited to pieces about the all-clear signal.

I remember watching her stroll down the walkway at the airport. The roses I gave her. Our first, real kiss. Taking her and her luggage to That Van.

That Van was not exactly a chartered limousine. A bluecollar working vehicle, it was an awful shade of sky blue with countless scuffs and dents and marks and stains. The interior was packed with plumbing and electrical equipment, used rags, safety gear, hardhats. Flute was a smoker, so on the grimy dash was a mayhem of crushed Du Maurier boxes and snubbed filters along with the old Pepsi cans and dozens of torn road maps, fuel receipts, work orders, and the like. Both the seats and flooring were stained and worn. A side mirror was cracked. Rust bordered the double panel doors on the side. And throughout it all, the lingering, dense odor of old oil, gasoline, kerosine. It was a scent that was so deep that it almost had a texture, as if you could feel it entering into the pores on your face if you found yourself around it for too long.

Romantic, no?

I loaded the Grrl's luggage into a reasonably clean spot in the back, she found some acceptable space on the rear benchseat, and the three of us laughed as we pulled away from the airport.

She was hungry. I already planned on taking her to dinner, but as it turned out, traffic had kept Flute away from his duties longer than he had hoped. It became necessary for him to stop by the Road Operations compound for a short while. The Grrl smiled through the minor inconvenience. We decided to do dinner first, after this detour, and go back to my pad later.

It was growing dark. After we pulled into the compound, Flute secured a gate behind us and parked That Van in a small alley before he dashed into an office for almost an hour.

The Grrl and I relaxed, talked, passed the time. We kissed some more. I was feeling the first stirrings of what would become one of the deepest love affairs of my life.

Practical-minded, the Grrl asked me to fetch a few things from her luggage. Since we were doing dinner first, she decided to change clothes. Here and now. Then and there. In a dirty van that was parked in a narrow alley between two foreboding municipal buildings, on a stained and cruddy backbench. I fumbled a little in the twilight, but found and returned with some fresh pants and a very bohemian sweater.

Still seated, she smiled. Both of the van's center doors were wide open as I then watched her slowly remove the black Tshirt she was wearing to reveal a tight sportsbra. We talked, casually. She kept smiling. She removed her Doc Martens to lower the khaki camoflage pants she had on, leaning back into the seat as she reached for her belt buckle. She kept looking into my eyes, smiling as I listened to the clink of metal clasps, the zing of a lowering zipper. I smiled back as she raised her beautiful, broad ass from the dingy seat and started to wiggle the pants down her legs.

Her radiant, slate eyes. Her thighs. Black thong. Her facing me, her legs open as her knees were level to my eyes as she took the pants from my hand.

The mound between her thighs. The bulge and the faint hint of seam, barely made out in the dark.

She put on the pants. Flute would return shortly after.

Changing into dinner clothes on the stained seat of a workhorse van, and all the while beaming with a wide, toothy smile as she watched me watch her. That's the kind of woman she is, and why it became so easy for me to go crazy over her.

Later, I would learn all about that mound, that bulge, that seam. I would learn all about the way the Grrl's outer labia would flush several shades of red when she got excited, hot, wet, and how that labia would swell like two crescent-shaped pillows. I would learn all about the way the flesh of her cunt would resemble a short-stemmed tulip, as if the flower were simply laid upon her body, the petals ensconcing the tender clitoris that I would enslave myself to for the next several years.

I really miss giving her head. And how she would do me too.

The sex we shared that night was extraordinary. We simply kissed and caressed for longer than I could remember. We smoked some dope, listened to soothing yoga music, and entwined for hours upon hours. I relished in her joy to be taken in her ass, and loved how she moaned deeply as she had me, her eyes crushed tight and her teeth biting her lower lip as she felt my calves to her thighs while I slowly and deeply thrust. She would breathe deeply and groan when I would stop to lay still on top of her back. I remember the soothing, complete pleasure I felt to have my bodyweight on her, holding her, my legs snaked around hers, my fingers massaging her scalp through her short, auburn hair as her opened sphincter gripped the very root of me tightly, snugly, warmly when I filled her with my total all.

Between wine and cannabis and sensuality and beauty, we didn't simply "see God." We became God. Kali and Shiva.

And it began with that moment of seeing her bare legs, her thigh, her underwear in that most unsexy of places. That unsexiest of places that, of late, I pass every day, several times a day.

Wow. That was at least seven or eight years ago.

Yeah. I miss her. Still.

My foolish sweet tooth.

Once again, I didn't follow my instincts.

She was a reader of the blog, a sexblogger herself, and found me through a fetish networking site. She was going through a breakup at the time and had moved nearby from another city to the west, and she approached me to see if I'd be willing to escort her around the Toronto fetish scene. It sounded like fun, and I've come to really enjoy meeting blogreaders lately. She wanted an opportunity to make new friends, start over, and move beyond whatever it was that her previous Top partner had apparently stung her with. She was missing "kinky submissive goodness."

Me, I expected that we'd make platonic good friends, and having her on my arm would give me an excuse to go to all those local fetnights that I've allowed other elements in my world to keep me from lately. Win-win.

For eight months, off and on, we chatted through the fetish networking site. She was full of compliments about my writing, and eventually the flirting began. It became more personal. I already knew that she had also connected with a new Top Daddy, and since both my being largely poly and the fact that she hadn't really become Serious on my radar yet, I had no issue with that and told her so. After all, if nothing clikked, there was no reason why we couldn't stick with the original plan and just be buds exploring the local vibe, right? Sure. We set up a date for drinks.

Over a perfectly pleasant Indian meal, we discussed ourselves, our desires, mutual interests... the usual on-a-date thing. We talked about her past experiences amid the fetscene in her previous city, and she bemoaned the drama in her post-breakup experience there.

(Oh, the irony. ...But I digress.)

Gradually, our datetalk seemed to shift from comrades-in-kinkdom-looking-to-attend-stuff-together to potentialities-in-seeking-primary-partnership-in-life. Was she asking me if I was interested in pursuing a partnership with her? I rolled with it, enjoying myself.

Cupcakes is an early30s mulatto brunette BBW with a passion for shoes but yet, curiously, is also hugely podophobic. (I would later tease her that the worst BDSM punishment I could ever put her through would be to blindfold and restrain her as a circle of men and women gently touched her body with their bare feet.) I was initially intrigued with her background in French literature, her mixed race status, her desire to submit.

And, yes, it's true: the possibility that maybe there might be something here beyond dating, beyond even fucking, appealed to me. I do enjoy being single. But it's also not been since Kara since I had the compatible opportunity for More. Cupcakes appealed to that sweet tooth.

While we were relaxing on the couch in her small apartment, I was looking into her dark eyes when I moved closer for the first kiss. Her lips responded lightly, and as I brought my hands upward to her head and nipped at her ear, she began to slowly melt under me.

I enjoyed the texture of her tight, small, black curls as I held her head and nibbled upon her neck. Her gasps were moist in my ear. Her groans were soft as I tugged her hair from behind. Her nipples began to harden under her lacy top, and when her round, firm breasts were revealed to me, they were capped attentively.

When I found myself kneeling on the floor before her couch, tugging her jeans down to reveal the equally lacy black panties under them, my cock was straining inside my jeans. I removed my shirt, parted her thick legs, and began to taste her. The panties were tugged aside, and I nipped at her thigh as a very lightly sparsed mound opened itself up before me. I swabbed her with my tongue. She gasped and cooed appreciatively.

After a short while, I was eager to see her ass. Turning her down and around, she rested her knees to the floor and bent comfortably with her tummy on the couch. I tugged the panties down and off an ankle, and knelt back as I enjoyed the sight her her womanly round derriere. Opening her up, I continued to taste her from behind, but soon switched to lay down on the floor itself with her thighs to the sides of my head, holding her hips gently as I lowered her pouty cunny toward my mouth. She was warm and rich and definitely moist, and her scent soaked my light beard and lips as she gently rode me.

Soon, I knelt up. I caressed her broad back, massaging her shoulders as she whimpered into the cushions. I moistened and began sliding my fingers inside her, probing her Gspot as I fucked her with my hands. My fingers teased, slid, twisted, cupped, fucked. When she finally came, I was stroking ribbed flesh within her body as she shuddered and quaked beautifully.

I stood and stepped to her bedside table, where a small stack of condoms already awaited me. Selecting one, I tore the package open with my teeth and continued to watch her, on hands and knees over the couch, as I rolled it down the length of me. I brought my knees to the carpet, held the base of my cock with my fist, and slowly guided it inside her thick body. She looked at me from over her shoulder, her mouth open, her breathing heavy. I ran my nails along her spine. I massaged her shoulders more as I started thrusting inside her. I gripped her wide hips and pumped, feeling her phat ass against me. When I started to grip her coiled hair and tug her head backward slightly, she cried out and shook once more.

I brought my pace down, smiled, stood up, and peeled the latex from my cock. She was still shaking gently and panting into the cushions when I reached for the wineglass on the floor and drained it.

Bringing ourselves up to the couch again, I coiled my arm around her waist and lay her across my lap. Her arms and head lay on the armrest of the couch as she realized what was about to come. She had already confessed to me that among her needs was to be spanked regularly, for "maintenance," so I saw no reason to let a fair opportunity like this go to waste.

I held her as we had a Time-Out moment to discuss what would be coming next. I gave her her safeword for the evening.

Once she was comfortably settled, my caresses to her bum shifted to gentle pats. Gradually, pats become slaps. Slaps became strikes. Upon one asscheek, then the other, I alternated and changed where I brought my palm to her submitting body. But knowing that she already had experience and desire in this kind of play, I didn't linger on gentility for very long. Soon, my palm was noisily striking across her seam in crisp, short strokes, and I smiled to myself as I felt it across my fingers. It had been a while.

She began to shudder again, and so my grip around her waist tightened as my other arm continued to alternate the intensity of my strikes. But this time, it wasn't an orgasm that was swelling up inside her, but tears. When the sniffling little thing was reduced to soft sobs, I gradually came to a stop.

The energy shifted. My first thought was that, like other subbies I've enjoyed back in the day at the BDSM clubs, she was of the kind to desire this sort of release. But, no. A nerve had been struck, she had been brought to a place she didn't necessarily want, and so the only thing left to do was to hold her and caress her and try to help her feel safe. Listening. Confirming the thought that, ok, this didn't go right. More listening.

This happens sometimes. And, in my experience, a healthy Top endeavors to handle it as gently as possible, as nurturingly as possible, especially with a new partner.

The silly tart hadn't used her safeword, and this elicited a strong but nurturing response from me. Lesson learned. "I need to trust that you'll alert Me when you've gone into an uncomfortable place, because I may be thinking that you're otherwise enjoying everything that's happening. I observe, I see, I'll make a call if it doesn't look like fun for you, but that doesn't mean I expect to do without your responses, baby."

Cuddles. Relaxation. Wine. Talking. Soon, we were discussing more about our shared interest in having Primary Partnership in our lives, and we each opened up about our respective backgrounds. The time went by enjoyably.

I would be spending the night. Her luxurious bed awaited us, and I smirked as I saw the Hitachi wand still tussled amongst burgundy sheets. Stripping, we slid under the duvet together and held one another.

She wanted me to read to her.

But that's another story.

And to my even later surprise, this otherwise lovely "night out for drinks" wouldn't become what it seemed like it could have been.

And that's another story too.

Goooood morning.

You know you're going to be in for an interesting week when, as you walk down your driveway on an early Monday morning, you're greeted by a pair of teeny black panties right in your path.

Bu iç çamaşırı ve seks oyuncak.

The things that amuse me.

To make a little extra cash while enjoying a healthy workout, lately I've been moonlighting with a large moving company run by a group of Turks. Occasionally, it also affords me a chance to drive a rig back home to New York or elsewhere, which is always fun.

But imagine the smirk on my face when, while unloading a truck of its contents, I spied something interesting affixed to the support beams in the storage warehouse. Yep, a pair of delicious, medium-sized magenta panties with black lacy trim. Oh, those wacky Turks.

And later that same day, I found myself moving the home of an award-winning Toronto documentary film-maker and his live-in, rail-thin, statuesque, raven-haired niece. While loading a bedside table from her boudour, I couldn't help but notice that the drawers had not been completely emptied and its contents packed elsewhere. I was about to notify her of this when, while absent-mindedly opening the drawers, I gasped in cock-hardening appreciation instead.

Inside, along with a small electric blanket and a paperback, was a Hitachi Magic Wand. It wasn't difficult at all to picture her long, slender legs splayed wide on the same mattress that I would later bag and carry into the truck. It made the heavy lifting so much more endurable.

Women and television.

Playing with the balls.

Oh, the things I do to keep my mind occupied.

In a bizarre trick of fate, lately I find myself helping a friend in his sports supply business. As he helps local youth soccer teams embrace World Cup enthusiasm, I've found myself getting some extra upper-body workouts in his warehouse as he deals with several major product orders. It's been a fun and relaxing source of extra income, and I actually get a kick out of it. (Ow. Sorry.)

But it's also given me a new venue lately to engage in a little friendly teasing. I've just finished emptying a truck when I text her in a blue-collar persona.



Me: Mm... Hey baby. Yo, you're cute!

Kara: :)

Me: Yeah, yeah. So, hey, lookit, whatya think about coming in the back with me, huh? There's a nice, secluded spot over there between the boxes... c'mon, no one will see...

Kara: Oh, sure! Cuz the smell of cardboard just makes me so wet! ;)

Me: Mmmm... yeah... that's right... bend over just like that for me...

Kara: You mean like this? *wiggle*



Helda, one of the women who works there, sees me texting with a smile on my face. She smirks and asks me what I'm up to. Do I tell her? After all, I hardly know the woman.

"Uh, just something naughty to my girlfriend," I shrug with a grin. But Helda's face tells me that details aren't unwelcome. I laugh and go on.

"I was teasing her about taking her into the back of the warehouse, and she poked me to say just how much the smell of cardboard turns her on." Helda's dark eyes smile as she nods and goes back to the shipment of British-style soccer uniforms that she was working on.

Helda and Holly are the women of the sports supply warehouse. They're co-workers (inasfar as I can say I'm 'working' there), and only co-workers, but they've also been a source of personal amusement for me as I go about doing this extra bit of effort lately.

Both are tall athletes, and impossibly rail-thin with adorably teeny titties. Helda is a mid20s longhaired German brunette with a strong, squarish jaw, dark eyeglasses and a background in competitive soccer. Both her accent and attitude are subtle.

Holly is an early20s, longhaired dirtyblonde Canadian who looks as though she had just walked out the pages of a child's bedtime fairytale. Her innocent-as-pie, cornfed good looks and charmingly polite demeanor are instantly dashed however when, in a moment of constraint, she utters her favourite expletive: "Oh, ballsack!"

Usually, these women are engaged in the business office while I'm tossing heavy boxes around in the back, but from time to time they can be found in my temporary, helpful domain. These moments often afford me pleasantly enjoyable moments of corner-of-the-eye voyeurism, and lately I've been especially amusing myself when (ass man that I am) I'm on a high scaffold and one or both of them are far below me, squatting or bending over somethingorother.

Now, truth be told, for all my rogueishness, I like to think that I'm completely pleasant, respectful, and appropriately distant in the workplace. I am not the dude who's leering at the woman nearby. Yet, on the other hand, even a fox in a Zenga suit remains a fox... and so, for me, ever subtly, taking personal note of their choice of panties for the day has become a silly bit of sport. Lately, it's certainly given me more reason to update my Twitter with my cell. After all, one can empty so many trucks and fill so many orders before the mind wanders...

Cornfed blonde Holly possesses a delectably heart-shaped derriere with just the nicest bubble, and seems to be an all g-string girl. I particularly enjoyed the brief view she lent today when she squatted near the silkscreening rotunda in her low-rise jeans and revealed a generous eyeful of youthfully tender ass seam. Nice.

Teutonic Helda, on the other hand, with her smallish, boyish, perpetually black-denim-covered butt seems to prefer comfy panties. And I must admit, as appealing and as fashionable as gstrings are these days, more often than not I do remain a loyal panties fan. Somehow, to me, the idea that More Is Yet To Come when I'm slowly lowering my lover's jeans from behind her just teases my mental cockhead all the more.

Helda and I haven't really been flirting as much as just being playfully adult on occasion. Asking what other tasks needed doing one day, for example, she sighed and looked me over before requesting a back massage... and then promptly suggested a more realistic thing that cold be done around the place. It was cute.

"I'm worn out," she said during a rough day of unloading a truck of soccer balls coming in from Pakistan.

"Nothing a shot of scotch and a hot tub wouldn't cure," says I. It's something I say a lot. She shot me a smirking glance.

"Ok! Over there?" she asked, pointing to a large space between stacks of boxd uniform jerseys. Instantly, I was reminded of the recent, teasing textmessage between Kara and me hat I had told her about.

"Uh, yeah," I caught up, just slightly surprised. "But this isn't necesarily the sort of ambience I would have sought for."

She winks and smiles. "And you're girlfriend might not like it, huh?"

Yeah. Leave it to her to reaffirm that I happily have a partner. Typical, no? But then, maybe she's never heard of polyamory...

No. I'm not seeking to pursue something with Helda the German soccer girl with the boyish butt, or with Holly the only-slightly-innocent, pertly-bummed gstring babe. But as I go through a few days of helping my friend out and pocketing some extra pre-summer cash, my eyes and scandalously beating heart remain nicely entertained.

Eager to enroll.

Delightful.

At the risk of sounding like Humbert Humbert, I smirked to myself when, recently, the afternoon downtown rush hour found me in a sea of bobbysoxed, tartaned young ladies freshly released from various local parochial schools. It wasn't their age bracket that spied my wandering eye (I enjoy my wine with a few notable years within it as well, thank you), but the fantasy thereof and its relationship to innocence, submission, and proper training protocol.

That is to say, the uniforms, and in observing the sway of wool over tight, cotton socks and with classy, crisp white shirts, my thoughts drifted to Kara's recent and tawdry efforts to please her man. This is what made me smirk.

She'd done some shopping, you see. She's realizing how much fun is possible with Us. She likes it.

With her previous background in theatre, she tells me how sh's thoroughly enjoying fashioning "her new costume." I had intended to buy this for her, and as she cutely apologizes for "taking the wind out of (my) sails," it's clear to see that the little waif is having her fun. Now how could I deny her?

Standing with a sly smile and giggling eyes, she modelled the plaid skirt, the smart little steel clasp pin, and a tight white top. At my instruction, she bent over her stairwell to reveal the lace-trimmed white panties she wore underneath that so delicately framed her amazing little ass.

The same amazing little ass that I made certain to spank a blushing red later that evening. And the same amazing little ass that I intend to bare and punish during an upcoming playparty as she experiences her newfound wardrobe. A few days later, she modelled a pair of Mary Jane shoes that so aptly worked for the ensemble.


Her innocence melts before me. Truly delightful. I am having so much fun corrupting her.

Bettie Page 1923 - 2008

Thank you Bettie for your courage,
which for you simply meant doing what came natural to you.

It sends waves of pleasure to the back of my brain.

I just love the scent of the Grrl upon her clothes. Her jeans, her panties. Mmmmmm.

She's taking a trip. Possibly a very long trip. I'm missing her deeply already. Her touch, her warmth, her contented sighs and smiling groans have long been sustenance to my spirit. One never truly knows what one has until it's all placed at risk.

Things with my beloved Grrl may be over. If so, I know she will be remembered for many things, wonderful and challenging, but also for the sensually rewarding vistas that she introduced to me, and me to her. I will love her always.

Like Ethiopian cuisine.

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Half-hitches down her arms.

Our lives become so busy, sometimes it feels like forever between moments of walking on the street together, arms entwined around our backs. It felt good to be together.

We had already shopped for lingerie for her, where she teased me with views of her breasts while comparing various elegant tops. A sumptuous a la carte dinner of oysters, sliced pork in brandied white sauce with sangria, and completed with banana crepes with chocolate and ice cream followed. At home, small glasses of Frangelico awaited us, along with my collection of rope.

She changed when we got home, and reappeared in her lovely striped black teddy with gloves, fishnets, and her high, hard leather boots featuring an endless ladder of silver hooks. I mused how perfect her ensemble was for when we visit the New York clubs during our coming vacation. I mused how perfect her delightful ass looked as the teddy draped her skin.

We began playfully, me smirking as I experimented with various ways to bind her wrists. The white ropes looked striking against her gloves, and it wasn't long before I knew her leather boots would looked even more so after her ankles would be bound. Bringing a wooden chair into our playspace, she mewled her disapproval for placing her virtually bare bottom against the hard, cold wood. I was unconcerned, and knew that discomfort would soon be greatly overshadowed for her.

After securing her ankles with coils finished with square knots, I brought her arms downward and against the frame of the chair, her palms inward and almost under its seat. Half-hitches down the lengths of her arms secured her in place as she spoke of how much fun she was having. The knots looked delicious against her skin. I blindfolded her.

She gasped tenderly as she felt my kisses on her shoulders, the nape of her neck, her face. My tiny bites and soft whispers had her shaking. Her legs had parted and I learned that no panties could be found under her teddy, and saw the clear and moist evidence testifying to how much fun she was having. Her inner thighs were wet, either sides of her legs connected by spiderwebs of glistening juice. She shot her head backward and sucked a lungful of air when my fingers began to softly explore her tender, reddening pussy.

Repeated knots in the center of another length of silky rope made for a perfectly enjoyable gag, but when I first moistened the center knot with her juice and slipped the knot into her mouth, it was just that much more fun. In this condition, bound in the chair and tasting her own arousal while being deprived of sight, her hearing assailed by the strains of the Berlin Philharmonic, she was now my toy.


She received my caresses, my kisses, still. She received my nails gently scratching across the top of her chest, and downward as I cupped and stroked and pinched her breasts. Bites on her earlobes. The occasional dribble of Frangelico on the knot in her mouth, or slowly dribbling on her skin. My hands grasping and smacking her thighs. Her teddy being tugged from her bottom as she sat in the chair, the material set aside and draped into the chair frame in such a way that I could enjoy teasing the soft seam of her ass with my fingers. A fourth length of rope coiled around her breasts, held in place with her own teeth. The wooden clamps at the edges of her breasts. The tiniest, cute marks they left when removed. Her squirmings. Her yielding. Her shaken spasms when I deigned to flick a gentle fingertip across her engorged clit. How puffy her labia had become for me.

My leather slapper, loud and insistent when meeting naked flesh, teased her drenched inner thighs into opening ever wider. Her leather boots creaked against the ropes securing them. Her folds opened like an orchid, and they widened even more after experiencing the slapper's kisses upon them. Her juices drenched the black leather, and I smirked as I dried my tool by brushing it against her face. She had been brought to the edge and pushed away from it several times by now, and was desperate to have a release.

You need permission, she was told. Her impertinence, normally a natural and endearing trait in her, lasted very, very briefly as she tried to remain silent. But her orgasm was at stake, and she knew it, although she hasn't yet discovered the full extent of my wrath when pushed by too much impertinence.

Slowly, she began to ask for permission to cum, but forgot something most necessary. Repeating her words back to her, she received a sound smack on her thigh from the slapper with each word that came from my mouth.

"May. I. Please. Cum," I repeated to her, adding with a final and firmer smack, "What?" Her breathed deeply, embracing another important step in her submission. She finished the request properly.

"Sir," she whimpered. "May I please cum, Sir?"

Rewarded with a kiss, I then pressed the slapper against her folds, swirling it slowly, alternating with gentle and rapid smacks, until she quickly began straining against her bonds and shaking uncontrollably. I held her head to my chest as I stood beside her, feeling her gasps against my skin, continuing to use the slapper on her flesh until she was spent.

A repast. I remove the gag, and bring the crystalware to her lips and give her a generous mouthful of Frangelico. She swallows gratefully. I increase the volume for the Philharmonic, adjust her bonds so that she kneels on the chair now, and toss the teddy's material over her spine to reveal her ass in its sensual completeness. For my own entertainment, I proceed to spank her firmly, patting and caressing her between rounds of echoing slaps. She's moaning now, and her juices have soaked her legs. Her rosebud is crinkling as she yelps.


The slapper against her ass echoes even louder, and her skin is reddening. By the time I move to the small wooden paddle, she's about as tender as she's experienced yet, and even the slightest smack has her quivering. My toy is ready for me to finish our little game.

By now, her boots must be straining her ankles, so they're removed as are their bonds. I replace the ropes with a handsomely thick set of leather restraints that will snugly and comfortably keeps her ankles close together. I untie her arms from the chair, and reaching for the decorative chain around her neck, set her on her knees on the pillow on the floor. The blindfold is still on. She knows the pillow rests right before my seat. I am certain that her instinct has clued in her in to what will be coming next.

Grasping the chain, I sit down and relax, tugging her gently and silently downward. My tip of my hard cock brushes against her face, and I'm reaching for my own crystalware and sipping liqueur as her licking moves on to hungry, sloppy, wet sucking. Her mouth engulfs me, and she whimpers as I urge her on with softspoken commands to service me. Her gloved hand is holding my sac and pumping me as she fills her mouth with my thickness and swabs me with her saliva. Her enthusiasm shows me how much fun she's had thus far, and how deeply her need to submit rests in her otherwise sarcastic soul. I'm feeling the back of her throat as she bobs her head, her lips tightening around me, her tongue coiling around the head as she sucks. I enjoy my drink, the strains of the contralto and bass as the opera proceeds, and I enjoy the wet, naughty slurping that my lover is making between my legs. I'm caressing her head, spiraling strands of her short hair between my fingers as I feel my abdomen tighten, and she knows that I'm about to cum. When I do, I hear the metal clasps to her ankle restraints, her muffled moans, her suckling, and feel her accepting my essence with passion.

She continues nursing on me for a while, and soon her head is in my lap. We caress. I tell her how I love her. She tells me how she loves me, and how she enjoys how I taste. The Berlin Philharmonic concludes the allegro.