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."

the next bed post is tomorrow.

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.

a maiden's monologue.

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bed post is tonight!

the next bed post is tonight!

next bed post is this friday.

bed post is this friday.

happy ho ho ho to you.

"Do you want to go first?" I ask, from my spot, kneeling on the carpet.  

Jonathan joins me.  The fresh smell of Evergreen dances in the air, to the smooth tones of Harry Connick Jr's Christmas album.  I squirm excitedly in my seat.  So far, the holidays have been perfect.  Two full days off together, with no family commitments up until later on this evening.  Never have we indulged in each other's company so completely.  And, of course, our generous holiday moods have found us in the bedroom on more than one occasion.  He even tied me up like a pretty little present.  So, needless to say, We're currently savouring the last of our alone time together before a big dinner with his family tonight.
"You go," Jonathan smiles, handing me my gift.  
"Ok," I concede, taking the square shaped, light weighted present in my hands.  "Hmm," I wonder, aloud, turning the box this way and that, even shaking it slightly; but nothing betrays its mystery.  I hope it's something sexy, I think to myself.  Perhaps some lingerie, a blindfold, some handcuffs, anything to further the role play we've been experimenting with this holiday season.  I bite my lip saucily and suddenly rip off a strip of shimmery paper.  He smiles handsomely in anticipation; even winks, flirting with me.  I turn my gaze towards the gift, squinting to find and read some of the fanciful text. "Personal massager," I read aloud.  My eyes go wide for a moment.  "A vibrator?"  I tear the rest of the gift open.  The picture displays a discreet bullet vibrator with an attractively smooth finish.  My mouth hangs open, unable to form words.  I've always wanted one.  I don't even know what vibration feels like down there.  I'm beside myself with excitement.
"Yes. However, there's a catch..." Jonathan begins, as I anxiously root through the packaging.  But, I immediately notice the seal is broken.  I quickly compare the picture on the box with the product inside.  
"Wait a minute. It looks like there's a part missing. The remote.  Aww, that's too bad," I pout.  "We'll have to take it back." When my eyes once again reach his, he smiles devilishly, producing the remote from his pocket.  My eyes narrow.  
"Listening now?" He asks, playfully.  "This part, will stay in my possession.  To use whenever and wherever I see fit.  That part," he states, gesturing to the vibrator, "will stay in your panties."  I lick my lips, the muscles in between my legs sympathetically flexing.  Not only does his authoritative tone make me wet, but the thought of carrying out his sexy task.  
"Ok..." I seductively smile, waiting for more instructions.  "And where and when exactly will I wear this?"
"Glad you asked," he smiles, matter of factly.  "Tonight, at Christmas dinner."
"With your parents? And sister?" I gasp.  No.  Could I? I picture myself at the table, discreetly carrying the dormant vibrator in my pants, waiting anxiously for it to erupt with movement.  A smile creeping across my face, half expecting it to turn on at any minute, making eyes at Jonathan from across the Christmas spread, at our little secret.  Perhaps I forget about its existence for a moment, answering a question about my job to his mother, and suddenly feel the vibrator come to life between my legs.  I stop mid-sentence, trying to compose myself, coughing to cover my reaction, pressing my napkin into my lap, apologizing.  My breathing becomes laboured as I pretend to be listening to the rest of the conversation, as I retreat further and further into my world of erotic pleasure.  I imagine myself catching Jonathan's eye, who is finding pleasure in watching me squirm.  I feel a bead of sweat break my hairline, and my face flushes in embarrassment, to be vulnerable in this way in front of his family.  Yet, I feel the flutter of an orgasm approaching.  I deny it, but the vibrator pulses relentlessly.  I deny it again and again, each time my will is weaker than the last.  I feel the climax building within me, and I close my eyes, bite my lip, trying to hide.  At which point... I imagine him turning it off.  A wicked grin emanating from his seat across the table. 

Snapped back from the daydream, Harry Connick croons, "Happy ho ho ho to you."  
My eyebrow raises with a thought.  "Alright.  Now, you open your present.  

But, there's a catch."

the next bed post is nov 18th.

monkey man.

"When are we leaving?" My husband asks from the next room.

"I told you, I'm not going tonight," I remind him, as I hurriedly chop the veggies for the crudité platter we promised to bring.
"Party pooper."
"I'm sorry.  I didn't have time to find a costume."  He doesn't respond. "It's your thing, anyway," I continue. "And you can visit better with your friends.  You won't have to babysit me."  Silent, expect more chopping.  I stop. "Chris?  Are you listening?"
"Gahhh!!"  He screams, leaping out from the hallway, wearing a latex monkey mask.  
"Jesus," I gasp. "You're terrible.  The mask is kind of an improvement, though," I joke.  He rips it off, immediately.  
"Oh really?  You like Monkey Man?"  He flirts, approaching me.
"Careful, I'm brandishing a weapon."
"Then, I better stay on your good side," he winks, moving behind me.  His hands grasp my hips, pulling me towards his pelvis.  I feel his bulge against my backside, and I place the knife down to free up my hands. Grasping the edge of the counter, I lean into him, arching my back, a smile crossing my lips.  His strong hands move up my body to my breasts, which he kneads through my sweater, encouraging me to straighten.  I relax into him, my neck slackening, releasing a soft moan.  This is what I want.  Not some Halloween party.  My hair falls to the side, and I'm almost his, as he wetly kisses my neck and ear.  
"You know, we could both just stay in tonight," he breathes, and I feel the muscles in between my legs engage.  But my conscience thinks it knows better.  
"No, you should go," I say, separating from him. I retrieve the knife to finish the last of the vegetables. "Can you tell Jen I wasn't feeling well?" 
"Ooo oo ah ah!"  I look up.  He has once again donned the latex mask.  
"Here are your vegetables, Monkey Man," I say with sarcasm, handing him the Tupperware.
"I won't be late," he says, muffled by the mask.  He grabs his wallet and keys, and lifts the mask to give me a peck on the cheek.  I place the knife and cutting board in the sink as he disappears down the hallway.  More echoed monkey sounds, followed by the slam of the front door.  I smile and shake my head as I turn on the warm water.  I let it run over my hands, soaping up the sponge.  Perhaps I'll take a bath tonight.  I close my eyes, picturing it, but a noise startles me, and I cut my ring finger on the knife in the sink.  "Ah," I gasp.  The front door.  "Did you forget something?"
I grab a paper towel and wrap my finger.  When I look up, Monkey Man is standing in the archway of the kitchen.  "I gave you the dip, right?"  I open the fridge.  No, I did.  I turn around.  He hasn't moved a muscle.  Weirdo.
"Do I have to call you Monkey Man before you'll answer?"  He nods.  I smile.  We're no strangers to role play. "Have you decided to stay after all?"  I flirt, approaching him.  "Or at least, another couple minutes?"  The mask nods again.  
Paper towel clutched in one hand, I fumble with his belt.   I examine the small slits in the mask, but there is only darkness behind them.  The anonymity gives me confidence, as I unbutton his jeans, and reach down his the front of his pants.  He feels warm in my hand, as I begin to stroke him to life.  Bent forward, my hair falls to one side, first tickling, then exposing my neck.  It feels naked, and I close my eyes, longing for him to kiss me there like he did before.  I hear his breathing become laboured beneath the mask.  My injured hand unzips his fly, giving him room to grow.  Feeling him harden in my grip, I sexily bite my lip, desiring to taste him.  I look up once more to the mask, as I kneel on the cool tile.  He appears to look down at me, and I imagine an expression of desire beneath the latex.  I take his cock completely out of his pants, eyes still locked with the small slits of the mask.  I lick my lips, ready to take him in my mouth, when my eyes wander down to a completely... unfamiliar cock.  I freeze.  This is not my husband.  I look up at the mask, only to see the intruder swing.  A sharp pain in my head, and I collapse onto the cool tile.  I struggle for consciousness, still gripping the bloodied paper towel in my hand.  The last thing I see is the stranger retrieving the knife from the sink.  

Then, lights out.  

next bed post is oct 21st.

for the men.

For The Men.

Out in e-book and audiobook today.

https://www.amazon.com/Men-Women-Who-Love-Them-ebook/dp/B01M17CLMC/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8

next bed post is sept 30th.

next bed post is aug 19th.

yes, sir.

I ring the doorbell.  The house looks so normal from the outside; seemingly not the house of a Sir, at all.  I wonder where your wife is tonight, where that little man of yours is, that you always seem to be putting down before chatting to me online.  
You answer the door, and instantly I feel the cumulative arousal of all our previous interactions.  The tasks you've given me over text messages, the videos and pictures we exchange via email, but most recently, our trip to the sex club, Oasis.  My bare pussy, which I've freshly shorn for tonight, grows suddenly slick.  
"Hello, Slut," you greet warmly, though with your signature confident power.  One of your large hands rests near my shoulder, then wanders towards my neck, caressing it.  Just the weight of it arouses me, knowing that you could engulf it completely in just one of your mighty fists.  Already, you put me in a submissive mind set, just by the way you assert yourself, naturally towering over me, and petting me like a dog.  "Come in."
The interior of the house seems unassuming as well, certainly not the house of avid swingers, of a polyamorous couple who play separately, and with both men and women, at that.  I step over a children's toy, on my way up the stairs to the bedroom.  
"Strip, Slut.  I want you completely naked.  Except the heels," you add.
"Yes, Sir."  Another power play.  You stay fully dressed for this part, while I remove any physical shred of protection I brought along with me.  Usually people react positively when they see my figure, but you almost completely ignore it.  My porcelain skin, shapely hips, and small round breasts are all but lost on you, while you set up the bed harness.  My face burns in shame.  I can't help but thinking that this is the bed that you are your loving wife share, and I search for a framed photograph to sharpen the mental image.  Before I find one, you turn back to me, square jaw tight, and brow furrowed with intensity.   She probably wouldn't want to see what we're going to do, anyway.  
"Hands behind your back, Slut."
"Yes, Sir."  You reach around me to fasten them together, rather than having me face away from you, which I take as a secret act of affection.  Your button down shirt grazes my bare breasts as your thick arms envelop me, in what very nearly is an embrace.  I look up to your delicious neck, and discreetly breathe in your aftershave.  My eyes close in an ecstatic daydream, in which I am worthy of your true adoration, and I get to touch and kiss the skin I now admire from afar.  A testing tug on the restraints snaps me out of it.  This is what I deserve, and I want you to administer it to me.  
You retreat to a chest of drawers, housing many toys, unlike the one I stepped over in the hallway moments ago.  Tools accumulated from years of dominating women and men, but more recently, a couple that I particularly inspired you to purchase.  As a task, you asked me to send you a list of three toys that I do not own, but would desperately like to try.  Knowing your inclination for domination, I chose accordingly.  One, you already had in your possession.  You remove the second one from the list, now, and walk it back over to me.  I feel a bead of sweat break my hairline.  
"Look familiar, Slut?"  You ask sternly, smirking.  You display them in front of me in one of your large palms.
"Yes, Sir."
"Are you going to be a good girl for me today?" 
"Yes, Sir," I answer, pussy contracting at the phrase.  I feel myself flood a little bit.  
"Keep still."  I do, in fact, I stand straighter than I've ever stood, so that you have unhindered access to my breasts.  I long for you to compliment them, caress them, devour them, but you stay focussed at the task at hand.  You go to work, fastening the two suction cups to my nipples.  
I feel each one grab as you squeeze the bulbs between your thick fingers, activating the suction.  The tug at each nipple is almost as erotic as wearing the ridiculous devices is humiliating.          I long to adjust them, but my restrained wrists leave the control squarely in your hands.
"Shake your tits for me, Slut."
I do, shimmying my shoulders slightly, and the heavy bulbs sway slightly, tugging tightly at my nipples.  I feel my bare pussy stream, and my chest redden in embarrassment.  Your eyes finally take me in, and you do so as you unbutton your shirt.  I avert my gaze, but feel the intensity of your stare on my skin.  You take your time, ogling your good little Slut, licking your lips while methodically removing your clothing.  I suppress the urge to smile, imaging your warm, wet mouth on my breasts.  But, I don't deserve it.  Instead, I get this.  
Naked now, with your erection bobbing in front of you, you relieve my hands from their binding, and instruct me to climb into place on the bed.  From the harness projecting from each corner, I assume that you want me on my back, spread eagle, but you quickly correct me.  I feel a sting across my right breast, as you flick one of the suction cups.  I gasp.
"Ass in the air, Slut."
"Yes, Sir."
"Don't move unless I tell you to, Slut.  Understand?"  Another flick, this time on my left nipple.  
"Yes, Sir," I redden further.  
"I thought you said you were going to be good for me, today."  
"Sorry, Sir."  
"You better be, Slut," you bark, finishing with one sweeping motion that hits both devices.  I clench my teeth.  I hate to be corrected.  I hate it, and at the same time, intensely desire it.  "Onto your stomach."
You expertly fasten my wrists and ankles to the bed.  Now, I feel truly vulnerable to you.  With my arms and legs bound, you now have full, unrestricted access to my body.  My glistening pussy strains, leaking uselessly. The nipple devices press uncomfortably into the mattress, but, at least I can press my mound into it, as well.  Unfortunately, you catch me, and smack me clean across my backside.  I groan.
"Don't you dare pleasure yourself, Slut.  Understand?"
"Yes, Sir."  Another smack.  My breath catches.
"You haven't demonstrated yourself to be worthy of it, yet tonight.  I'm looking for you to change my mind on that," you continue.  You hit me a third time, harder.  I moan into the mattress.  I long for you to rub the spot, no doubt growing red by now. 
"Yes, Sir."
"Now, are you going to be a good girl for me, or not?"  I prepare for another beating, but it doesn't come.  Instead you retire once more to the toy cabinet.  This time removing another object I immediately recognize, and almost as immediately regret mentioning as the third item on the list.  An anal plug with a pump attached.  The fantasy is intoxicating, but can I handle it for real?
"You've shown me some of your anal prowess online.  Isn't that right, Slut?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Now, you're going to show me what you can do, in person.  Understand?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Now, this is your big chance to please me.  To redeem everything you've done.  If you do this for me, I'll be very, very impressed with you.  Do you understand?"
"Yes, Sir," I answer, growing nervous yet excited at the thought of being stretched open, and pleasing my Sir so completely.  My pussy has created a little pool beneath me, and I crave the ability to press it into the mattress.  You squeeze the lube over my bare ass, and it clenches with each drip.  
"Now just relax, and be a good Slut," you coo, probing my opening with the plug.  Now, I've had regular anal plugs enter me before, and it goes in easily, resting just beyond my asshole comfortably.  But the hardest part is yet to come.  "Are you ready, Slut?"
"Yes, Sir."
"You'd better be."  One squeeze of the pump, and I feel it inflate inside me.  A little fuller, sure, but nothing I can't handle.  But, I have no idea how big this thing can get.  I'm laying all my trust squarely in my Sir.  
I see you press the pump in your large fist, and again the plug inflates, testing the walls of my ass.  It's getting bigger now, and I yearn now more than ever, to pleasure my clit against the bedding.  Usually when I take this much in my ass, I'm orgasming pretty soon after, and then the girth is removed.  I can't say I've ever taken it further, and I have no idea what lies ahead.  My pussy drips freely down my legs, as I anxiously wait for the next gauge.  The sheet underneath my face is also growing damp with drool and sweat.  
Another pump, and I really feel the stretch.  I want to see; I want to see how big it is.  It feels bigger than anything I've ever had in there, and I don't know how much more I can take.  I groan wildly into the sheets.  
"Good girl," I hear you say, and I feel encouraged to continue.  I want nothing more than to please you.  It satisfies the deepest, darkest part of myself to do this for you.  
Another pump.  I moan, feeling as I might explode.  I reach for your hand, for anything, and the restraints jostle in response.  Then, I feel a hand.  On my ass cheek.  
"It's okay.  Just relax.  You're doing great.  I'm very, very impressed.  You're making Sir very proud."  My pussy creams so completely onto the mattress.  I'm a total sloppy, gorgeous mess.  Everything is so overly sensitive and tense, all you have to do is brush your hand across my ass softly, and suddenly I feel myself buck, muscles contracting, and I come loudly and desperately onto the bed. 
You free my wrists and ankles, and I am grateful.  And, I am equally as grateful for the sperm you shoot all over my face.  

sex club.

Though I'm blinded temporarily by the headlights, I think I see your thick silhouette behind the wheel, approaching the curb of my apartment building.  I shift in my heels, and adjust my short skirt.

Already, I feel the muscles in between my legs engage.  I'm beyond excited to meet you for the first time, and apparently, in more ways than one.  I don't know exactly what the night is going to hold, but I have a pretty good idea.  The car stops promptly in front of me, and a tinted window rolls down just enough for you to deliver the command, "Get in, Slut."
Before long, we pull up to Oasis Aqualounge.  I knew it.  I knew it, and yet, I still wonder if I'm really ready.  You lead the way with authority, as if you've been here many times before, as I follow sheepishly, though curiously, behind.  We walk through several poorly attended rooms, in which people are just having drinks and chatting, as I start to gain some confidence, thinking that this place isn't all it's cracked up to be.  
"This way, Slut."  You lead me upstairs, as I realize where the real party is.  Everywhere I look, there's various bodies in various states of undress, engaged in various types of sex, and my hungry eyes quickly lap it up as we keep pace towards our destination.  An attractive, slim girl is receiving oral beneath a latex skirt, as she bends deeply over the back of a couch.  Two older woman kiss passionately while groping each others' lace covered, falling breasts.  A hunky, tanned man grinds against an equally tanned woman with fake tits, which barely move as they fuck.  Several men hold themselves in their own hands, pants spayed open at the hips, stroking off while they watch.  We pass by them all too quickly for my mind to process the shock of what I'm seeing.  
"Keep up, Slut," I hear, a little far away.  I realize I'm falling behind, but I mange to spot your intimidating figure one room ahead.  And, the room is completely red. 
Red vinyl couches, red walls, and in the room's epicentre, an oversized red bed, complete with red plastic sheets.  You sit, fully clothed, amongst several writhing bodies.  As I realize that this is our final destination, my face begins to burn in renewed nervousness, matching the scarlet decor perfectly.  
"Come here, Slut.  Show me what you've got."  My pussy starts to clench, throbbing with my accelerating pulse, as I walk towards you, the clicking of my heels barely audible over the moans of pleasure and squeaking latex.  You spread your knees so that I can slot myself in between them, and you place your large hands on my hips.  They drift down slightly to my naked thighs, then back up to my skirt to feel up my naked ass.  You clench it in your powerful grip, and I feel the pull of pleasure in my pussy.  I glance around the room, relieved and encouraged that no one seems to be paying attention.  Most people are invested in their own interactions, I think, confidently, wondering what the big deal is anyhow.  You lift my skirt, putting my ass on display, and I feel a rush.  You continue to knead it in your fists, and my pussy aches to be touched next.  Luckily, you let me have it.  
You encourage me to get on top, so that I straddle you, standing over you with a heel digging into the couch on either side of your lap.  With my skirt lifted up over my hips, you pull my pussy towards your face, as I relax onto it.  I feel your warm, wet tongue probes my folds, and I feel myself drip onto your cleanly shaven face.  I see you unzip your fly beneath me, and begin to openly stroke yourself as you suck me.  You smack my ass suddenly, loudly.  If they weren't looking before, they most certainly are now.  
You continue to drive your face into my pussy, and in act of total abandon, I remove my shirt.  You reach up to grab my naked breasts, making me join the chorus, sending an ecstatic moan up into the room.  I feel the urge to bear down, as you mercilessly flick your tongue against my clit.  You want me to come.  You want me to come in front of all these people, and it strikes me both as incredibly hot, and painfully cruel.  
Knowing my weakness, one of your large fingers starts to probe my asshole, using the combination of lube and spit to coat them before going in.  I feel my face flush scarlet again, at the thought of someone, multiple people, watching me come.  I clench my eyes shut, feeling the flutter, but completely unable to stop it.  I groan wildly through gritted teeth, trying to stifle the sound of me coming all over your face.  In a public place.

"You've been a good girl tonight, Slut," you say out the car window, after you drop me off at my apartment.  
"Thank you, Sir," I respond obediently.  I want to ask when we can do it again, which club we'll try next... So many ideas flood my mind.  But, I know a good sub shouldn't ask questions, so I just bite my lip, and wave goodbye.  I see your car turn the corner, and suddenly, it's gone.  

next bed post is july 15th.

instruction manual.

How to assemble your new IKEA bookshelf.


Contents: Allen key, four shelves, twelve shelving pegs, one back piece, left, right and top panel.

Place back piece flat on the bed, or other surface.  This will allow you to attach the side with ease. You might cause stress to the joints or warping to the panels, though IKEA particle board can be quite soft and flexible if you treat it properly.  Pick up the Allen key, and allow it to become like an extension of your own hand.  You may need to apply a small amount of oil or lubricant to the tip, to facilitate easy entry into the shelving pegs.  Retrieve the lonely left panel, and place it so that it lies parallel to the back piece, softly caressing the side while it waits anxiously for entry.  Take care to align the key into the waiting orifice at a perpendicular angle and begin at a slow, steady pace.  Only when the groove is ready to catch the instrument, you may begin to thoughtfully rotate your glistening key, and feel the panels  begin to move together in an intoxicating, deliberate rhythm.  Repeat with the right side panel until the throbbing three are joined in a perfect, ecstatic union.  Turn, turn, turn, until you can't possibly turn any more.  When you're satisfied with the tightness and closeness of the each part, your bookshelf is ready to stand erect.