The days go by… part of our lifestyle is the turn-over of routine; we hardly live constantly on the cusp of endless excitement as we are obviously not super-human. But that’s not a problem; I –we- don’t find routine a chore because it is built into The Lifestyle, and therefore a constant source of inner satisfaction. It’s called having your cake and eating it.
We go through days sticking to a meticulous schedule and it gives me comfort. It is wonderful to know exactly what I am supposed to be doing and precisely when- and then know I will get rewarded in some way for whatever I do. And I mean whatever. If My Lord is pleased with one of my completed tasks- say a sparklingly clean cooking hob- then he may treat me to a [small] box of fine Belgian chocolates or some particularly expensive lingerie, although of course arguably the latter is as much as a treat for him as it is for me!
If I perform the task poorly- say my cleaning of the blinds in the bathroom has been particularly slapdash due to airheaded daydreaming- I may end up chained to the bathroom plumbing, gagged, with pegs on my nipples an iron clamp on my vaginal lips, with my buttocks red and sore after a severe spanking. Needless to say, I often deliberately under-perform in my domestic duties…
Just a quick note on my master- he decided last weekend that I should now address him as My Lord. ‘Master’ can still be used in an informal manner but his full title is to be ‘My Lord and Protector’ and he even has me doing a cross-stitch sampler in the evening with those very words on it; he tells me it will focus my mind on his position and mine to his, and when finished, I am to hang it in the bedroom. The whole process pleases and soothes me; and it also keeps my hands occupied rather than itching all of the time to fondle his cock.
So quite often the days can go by without any serious action. This can be deliciously frustrating because, although it is short term vexation and sometimes even agony, I know eventually the pressure cooker will blow and I will be in for a good old fashioned seeing to. Other times though, we may have an intensive period of domination and submission and, say, spending a couple of hours in the garage naked but for my high heels bent forward over a bench with my wrists chained to the wall, a ball gag across my mouth and a large black vibrator wedged firmly up my backside, is the norm.
Today, we went out to our local garden centre for some R&R. We love the place and it has featured a couple of times in our gentler role-playing routines which I’ll share with you some other day in more detail but I’ll give you a little taster. For example: I am browsing the roses and My Lord is now a stranger who suddenly appears by side chatting to me, before inviting me for a coffee in the café, before taking me to the toilets where it’s knickers down as he roughly fucks me- you get the picture- but today it is, so far as I know, a straightforward visit to pick up some plants and maybe some new decorations for Christmas, which is looming ever closer.
The garden centre is a lovely, particularly relaxing place full of good quality flowers and plants as well as interesting, arty bits and pieces for the home. It has a large open area at the back and seeing as the weather isn’t too cold we spend some time looking at the carp in the aquarium area and wondering whether to invest in one of the small but expensive, vert-de-gris fountains for the garden next spring.
We then stroll further out into the large rear garden area and yard. It’s a weekday morning and unseasonably warm but there are very few other customers around; in fact there seems to be more staff than anyone else. I’m wearing a tight, red, just above the knee skirt which rides up nicely when I’m sat in the car to show a hint of my stocking tops, just like my Lord likes it, with red high heels and a white silk blouse, buttoned at my wrists but left tantalizingly open over my cleavage.
However this is only an ‘ordinary’ visit in a surface detail sense. Today I am being taken out of the house strictly as a slave to My Lord. I can only speak when spoken to and only allowed to pick up things or go places under strict permission from My Lord. This also means that I must wear a discreet but visible symbol of my thraldom to Him; they vary, from special, significant bracelets to neck chains but is usually, as it is today, a thin gold anklet chain.
That’s the visual clue. There are hidden ones as well. I also have a butt-plug lodged in my arse and the weighty, metal bulb that fits snugly in my anus feels smooth, cool and wonderful. The butt-plug has an emerald in its outer plug head, my birthstone. The butt-plug is a handy, constant reminder of my position as a slave when we are out, constantly nestling as it does in my anus.
I enjoy the attention I get from other men when I’m out and well dressed. Particularly from the young men; when My Lord is in the mood for some voyeurism, getting off watching me being fucked by other men, he nearly always provides young men to service me and believe me, this girl is not complaining, and as I look at some candles I allow myself some pleasurable little reminiscences about past drillings I’ve had from some very enthusiastic young bucks.
As usual we eventually gravitate towards the sheds and summer houses towards the back of the centre and much to my [pleasant] surprise My Lord suddenly pulls me behind one of the larger structures. I put up a show of resistance but in no time he has me turned around away from him and my hands are pressed up against the timber panelling at the back of the large summer house. We are in a narrow patch of unkempt yard, full of wheelbarrows, bags of cement, small piles of bricks and broken paving slabs. His hand tugs up my skirt and I am pleased by his grunt of pleasure as he sees my stocking tops then the suspenders and finally my red lace panties.
Skirt around my waist now, he wastes no time snaking a finger into the small front pouch of my knickers and fondles my clit, sparking pleasure through my stomach and the top of my thighs. My clitoris is entirely his, and only he can touch it unless others- including myself- are sanctioned to do so. I can for example only pleasure myself, if My Lord gives me permission to do so and is able to watch.
I can feel his hard cock pressing through his trousers against my buttocks. I wonder- hope- whether he will pull the small strip of red lace aside and fuck me from behind as I am pressed closer to the timber wall. However his finger just does it’s work, massaging my clit in a circular motion, rubbing my juices around and around then there are two fingers, they slip down and push aside the lips of my vagina and then moving purposefully into my cunt, rubbing roughly exciting spreading and I’m moaning now, although I know I shouldn’t and My Lord clamps a hand tightly over my mouth as he hisses ‘be quiet you silly little tart’ and then his fingers are out again, squeezing my clit then stroking it, massaging it hard against my pubic bone and it’s beginning to get too much, my legs are sagging, my knees loosening, I’m going to come I can’t help myself and I reach round in reflex to his crotch, trying to massage his hard, eager cock and only manage to feel it’s tantalizing outline pushing against his trouser fly as his hand tightens across my mouth and I writhe and buckle with orgasm, the pressure on my clit and public bone too much now, the possibility of released ecstasy too close to suppress any longer and I come with an electric climax, trying to bite his hand [knowing that if I managed to do so, I would be in serious trouble when we got home- wishful thinking again] his own hand now clasping my vagina clutching my snatch with an ever forceful grip a relentless grip scrunching my cunt in an intensely pleasurable pain and I am spent, finished, the orgasms rippling through me with decreasing intensity, one of My Lord’s hands still clamped across my mouth, the other on my smooth, shaved vagina.
Eventually he releases me and I sag against the wooden wall inches now from my face. With my skirt still around my waist I turn slightly and look adoringly at My Lord. I want to suck him off, I want his cock in my mouth and my eyes plead, I motion to go down on my knees, I want to be on my knees before him, gobbling on his cock sucking out his spunk, my spunk, but frustratingly he stops me, he holds me up by my arms and I crumple against him and I can feel his face in my thick hair can feel his hot breath against my scalp and I sense a kiss.
‘You’re not going to ruin those stockings kneeling out here on this rough ground,’ he says sharply pulling his face out of my hair and pushing me upright again, holding me steady as I wobble a little in my heels. ‘What on Earth are you thinking?’
‘I’m sorry My Lord,’ I say weakly, knowing my face is still imploring him to let me suck his cock, to kiss his big tight balls, to lick the taunt, purple bulb of his lovely prick, but knowing that here, right now, there is no chance.
He has his frugal head on today; he does not want my expensive stockings ruined just for an al fresco blow job. Not today, anyway. As a saving grace though, I suspect I may have over stepped the mark as an obedient slave by trying to grab him and beg him with my eyes for the chance to taste him and, as such, may well be in for some correction when we get home later.
Also, I can see in his eyes a lustful need of his own, he has a need for his own release and, looking down as I rearrange my panties and push down the hem of my skirt, I allow myself a little, hidden smile.
We walk back through the garden centre as if nothing had happened. I buy an azalea, and in the jolly Christmas shop, some Save The Children Christmas cards, some lovely golden baubles shaped like Arabian lanterns, and with the permission of My Lord, a new Le Cruset casserole dish for our Boxing Day Beef.
Carrying our shopping, we head back out to the car park and I wait for My Lord to open the car day before I get in. He always does this, even when I am in slave mode- particularly when I am in slave mode- and I give him a display of my stockings and the bare flesh above as I slide into the seat. The same ritual will happen when I get out of the car at our destination; I will swivel my legs out of the car whilst opening my thighs, giving him a full view up my skirt, displaying all that is his, my legs and thighs and lace sheathed snatch.
As we drive home through the autumn-bound countryside, winter now only a cold, arctic breath away, I can still sense his need, he is not going to be able to wait until we get home, particularly as I have mercilessly put my stocking tops on full display as I sit in the car seat with my thighs wide.
So we pull over into a layby with a bin overflowing with MacDonald’s wrappers and boxes and he allows me to pull down his zipper and bury my head in his crotch. One of his hands grips my hair forcefully, holding my face firmly where it should be, in his lap, the other kneading my left breast as I finally envelope the tight hot helmet of his cock in my mouth, it fills my mouth and I slip my lips further down the shaft, nipping it with my teeth and then rhythmically pulling and sucking as his hands grip ever more tightly my hair and breast and he starts to come. I withdraw quickly forcing my head back up against his now weakened hold on me and his first shot arcs up over the steering wheel. Another shot lands on my face, some of it in my hair, and then I take him in mouth again as the rest of his spunk pumps out into my throat. Eager and aroused again myself, I drink him in then pull off, and lick the thick creamy come off the head of his prick, my tongue darting and cleaning.
Breathing heavily, we sit back in our seats as it begins to rain lightly outside. When we get home, I find to my satisfaction his passion has been unleashed and there is still plenty of spunk in his balls that needs to find a home inside me. He pushes me back onto the living room couch where he mounts me from the front, one strong arm pinning me down by my shoulder and unceremoniously he parts my thighs with his other hand before tugging aside the red lace covering my wet vaginal lips before roughly shoving his cock into me, pounding me, his big hard prick grinding in its welcoming sleeve next to the metal plug filled anus behind it, giving myself another dimension of surging, wonderful pleasure.
He quickly fills me with more of spunk and I’m a happy bunny.
Who said visits to the garden centre were for the bored middle classes with nothing better to do?
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