Friday, October 27, 2017

the doctor is in.

I grab the chart by the door, and enter Examination Room Three, my eyes scanning over my assistant's messy handwriting.  He's new, Eric is his name, and I don't know if I'll ever get used to his bizarre mix of cursive and block letters.  He also has the annoying habit of interrupting appointments to ask tedious questions, which is completely unprofessional.  I sit in my chair, preoccupied for moment, thinking of his buffoonery, without introducing myself or announcing my presence to my patient.  Only when I'm properly seated and feel grounded enough to continue, do I glance up.
"Now, what seems to be the matter?" I ask the young, nervous woman sitting on the examination bed.  I peg her at 30.  Good job, boyfriend, new home owner, perhaps.  She adjusts herself, and the paper underneath her crinkles.    
"Lately, I seem to have trouble..."  She trails off, eyes averted down towards her hands.  Mine follow, and I watch her pick something out from under a freshly manicured nail, and flick it onto the linoleum floor.  I take a moment to notice her perfectly professional attire: a knee length skirt, pristine pantyhose, fitted button down shirt, her hair tightly pulled into a slick ponytail. Except for one flaw: a button carelessly left undone at her breast.  As her chest is too small to pop the button, I attribute it either to something she fidgets with when nervous, or the window to her newly undone state.  
"No reason to be nervous," I encourage.  "There is no judgment, here."
"Right," she breathes.  "Nothing you haven't heard before, I'm sure."  I smile, and wait.  There is an obvious internal struggle she's having. Either shame about the problem, or the condition is somehow tied up with her emotions... something heavily loaded or layered perhaps?  Something that is in part, psychological?  The woman crosses, then uncrosses her stockinged legs.  I glance at the clipboard in my hand for her name, and lean forward emphatically.
"What seems to be the problem, Janet?"
"I'm having trouble orgasming," she stammers.
"I see," I say, trying to suppress a smile.  Sometimes I really consider myself a healer.  "Well, there's could be several reasons surrounding an inability to..."
"It all started when I broke up with my boyfriend," She says. "He would always... do it... for me?  Now, I don't really know... how."
"Well, it's important to remember that our bodies can take time to adjust to a new type of stimulation.  There could be a period of adjustment between moving from his mouth, for example, to your hand, or a toy."
"A toy?"  She asks, perking up.  She's either very naive, or a great actress.  
"Yes.  Something of a phallic shape, or with vibration or a thrusting action."  Her blank stare tells me she's overwhelmed.  "Why don't I show you what I mean," I say to an enthusiastic nod.  I get up from my chair, and walk toward the cabinet, my heels clicking in the quiet, anxious room.  My hand dances across the doctor-ly looking implements; a speculum among them, syringes and pumps, measuring devices, and the classic stethoscope and head flashlight.
I place a pair of latex gloves on my hands, before removing a lovely replica of one of the first vibrators ever made, to treat hysteria in women.  It's an ancient looking thing, a metal plug in wand, that looks more like a fifties style microphone than something you would put on your genitals.  I feel powerful, just holding the weight of it in my hands.  I place it on the tray beside the examination bed, and my patient's eyes are already dilating.  
"Why don't you remove your clothing, and I'll do a quick exam.  Before we get to the tutorial," I smile.  I flip open the stirrups, watching her face turn the most attractive shade of pink.  She begins to unbutton her shirt, when ...

There's a frantic knock at the door.  "Head Mistress?"
Just as I was dreading.  "Eric. What?"
"Someone says they have a session booked in the dungeon, but Mistress Heather's using it until 5pm."
I glance at the clock on the wall.  "It's only ten minutes from now.  Ask them to wait."
"Ok.  Thanks."  He addresses my patient.  "Sorry."  

I take a deep breath, suppressing my annoyance.  "Would you like to continue?"  I ask, giving her the out, since the fantasy has now been completely shattered.
"Oh, yes," she breathes.  "Very much so."

Friday, September 15, 2017

st. andrew.

Every time we play, I see it there.  His St. Andrew's Cross.

It's usually hidden behind a floor to ceiling abstract painting, for when platonic, non-sexual house guests come over. The large canvas is on a track, which can be rolled aside to reveal the cross behind it. The St. Andrew's Cross.  

Let me explain.  It's more of an "X", really.  A massive, eight foot high frame, with two restraining points at the top for the wrists, two at the bottom for each ankle, and sometimes one at the center, for the waist.  The lucky person being chained to it is held in a majestic, standing, spread eagle position.  If you're facing the wall, you're most likely getting flogged, spanked, or whipped.  Being restrained outwards is reserved to sexual teasing and sensory play.  At least, that's what I understand in theory.

Yes, he rolls the painting aside to reveal the x-shaped cross, every time I come over.  But, no, I've never had the pleasure of being tied to it.  It occupies my mind.  Sometimes, during other sex acts, in the same room.  Hard fucking, deep throating, pussy worship... I look over, longingly, at it's polished, dark wood, thinking how everything we do could be just a little better if I was tied to that thing while we were doing it. He seems to read my mind in every other way, except this one.  It feels deliberate; the way he presents The St. Andrew's cross, but doesn't let me indulge.  Does he think me too fragile? Does he mean to tease me?  Does he want me to beg for it?  He usually owns me right from the moment I step in the door, so I scarcely get a chance to speak up during play.  Not that he doesn't encourage me to communicate my wants and needs outside of scenes.  He most certainly does.  But, this particular desire just seems to get lost.

I think I'm scared.  I don't know if I'm ready.  Am I really kinky enough to be restrained to a St. Andrew's Cross?  It's seems so hardcore.  Do I really like pain all that much?  I think it's more the psychological power dynamic that I'm into.  The fantasy is definitely titillating, but some things are better left as vivid mental pictures you furiously jerk off to.  But, you never know until you try.   

"You will knock at 8pm.  You're mine as soon as you step in."  I stand in the hall of his condo, reading his text.  I check the time.  A couple minutes early.  Always better than a couple minutes late.  I take a deep breath.  Usually I get so immersed in the submissive experience that I have a hard time looking him in the eye, let alone speaking when I'm not being directly spoken to.  Just do it right away, I pep talk myself.  Say it before you get to that delightfully surrendered place.  Immediately.  Right when you step beyond the threshold.  Let it be the first thing that happens. Yes. Be a good communicator.  Hold space for yourself.  

The timer for 8 o'clock goes off on my phone, startling me.  My heart accelerates in my chest, and I shove my phone in my purse.  I do some last minute adjustments on my presentation, like it matters.  My clothes will be ripped off before the door even has a chance to catch behind me, and not long after that, his hands will be in my hair, my lipstick smeared all over his dick. I nervously tug at my skirt, and realize how desperately wet I am.  A smile crosses my face.

I raise my fist towards the door, and knock.  One, two, three. 

the next bed post is tonight.

Friday, August 18, 2017

a maiden's monologue.

Good morrow indeed, I ponder, as I feel my knight's morning woodness press against my fair lady's thigh. 

Perchance I should wake him from his slumber, so that he might go down on me like he neglected to last night. I fondle his beauteous manhood through his cotton skivvies, as he begins to stir from his dreams no doubt about The Legend of Zelda: The Breath of the Wild or other maidens fair from his job at EB Games. Grammarcy! He awakens with a kiss tasting only slightly of last night's pot brownie.
Come hither, I beckon, grabbing onto his rod with the enthusiasm of a freshly drawn sword. His hardness inspires wetness in me, of the biblical sense. "Prithee, do me the favour of eating me out this morning."
"Anon," he moans, turning away in an exhausted fit of slumber. "Wake me at noon o'clock."
"Pray love, mayhap when you tease my lady's bits with yonder tongue it might inspire me to return the favour twofold. I would lick the tip so delicately as to produce a subtle leaking from your member, then bathe the shaft with lips and mouth moist enough, you would think I was dining on roast beast."
"If you're horny, go use your vibrator," he states.  Quite rightly, I ponder, but that's besides the point.
I brashly take his hand thither  and place it hither, on my fair uncorsetted breast.  I squeeze it purposefully, as if encouraging him to squeeze wine from a handful of grapes. I feel my bosom become blush.  Quite blush indeed.
"The privy?" He inquires. "Methinks, I'm still pissing out the Bud Light Platinums".
Zounds! What a pitchkettling man, I scoff, as he exits the warmth of our noble bed chamber. What nose of wax has he!  What a hufty-tufty countenance! A devil's tongue with a serpent's heart that never shall touch ...yonder...teet...

Ugh. Fuck this.  "Jim, I'm leaving."
"Don't you mean, Sir James the Fourth of Bedfordshire?"
"No, I don't."

One can only do so much Medieval roleplay. 

bed post is tonight!