Tales of a Submissive Housewife

History Lesson 2

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara) — Tue, 27 Nov 2012 12:51:00 +0000

‘Everything in the house décor-wise,’ the Rev. Preston is saying as I scribble in my notebook, ‘is a little jaded. In some rooms, it hasn’t even had a lick of paint in…decades… it seems. As such, I’ve managed to wheedle some money out of the Church Estates Office to do the place up a bit. So what I’m after really, is some pointers on colour, wallpapers, carpets, other finishes, that sort of thing. The furniture, on the whole, is pretty sound although as you will see, the kitchen needs a radical update.’

Already the swatches and sample books were swimming around in my mind’s eye. I was in serious design mode. The Drawing Room we were in was a good size- in fact it was more like two rooms combined into one stretching from the front to the back of the house. It had sofas and armchairs at one end, at the other a large oak dining table in front of some elegant but time-worn French doors. and as we stood there in the middle of the large room, it was time now to ask the question.

‘…and, err… is there anyone else living in the house…?’

‘No,’ he replied, hands in pockets, glaring at me. ‘I live alone.’

I allowed myself an inside grin.

He gives me a tour of the house- its bathroom that was so old-fashioned it was now almost retro-chic, the four bedrooms- his was a large front room with a bay window and a battered old chaise lounge in it, and a big double bed but otherwise sparsely furnished apart from a scary old oil painting of some bishop bloke on the wall opposite the door in- the kitchen that was not retro-stylish, just so utterly past it as if it had never really accepted there was no rationing anymore, then back to the Drawing-come-Dining Room. The highlight of the tour had been one point when he’d asked me to climb some sturdy loft ladders to look into the attic to quickly assess its conversion prospects [though why he’d need more room was beyond me]. He did however use it as an opportunity to blatantly look up my short skirt, which I happily milked for all it was worth, pushing out my backside and making sure he got a good eyeful of my knickers. Then there was the basement, an unexpected treat of a space, all dark corners and stark brick walls, a table covered in unfathomable contraptions and cupboards full of God knows what, lit by low voltage bare bulbs, and another opportunity to wriggle my bottom at him as I clicked up the stone stairs ahead of him up to the ground floor of the house and the basement door beneath the hallway staircase.

In no time I am following him back into what he calls the Drawing Room. I stifle a giggle as I suddenly think of Cluedo- Rev Preston in the Drawing Room with the copper piping- and them I am standing by the table as he fixes himself a drink from a trolley next to the door.

I stand there with a finger on the old oak table twizzling my left leg on the toe of my sharp toed pixie boot. I have for some reason become increasingly coy and girlie during my time with the vicar- don’t ask me why- but I seemed to slip into it very easily, it seemed appropriate, so who was I to fight it.

He finished mixing his drink- looked like whiskey and soda- and walked away from the trolley clearly not going to offer me one. I suddenly felt extremely disgruntled. The rude bastard! I didn’t particularly want an alcoholic drink at that time of the day- it was mid-afternoon and still too early for me to be honest- but it would have bloody nice to have been bloody well asked.

The sun suddenly shone through the French windows at the head of the big table, and thousands of motes of dust glittered in the broken rays.

‘Do you believe in God?’ he suddenly asked me, before taking a slug of Scotch.

‘Err…yes and no,’ I replied. He just glared at me. I probably deserved that glare which suddenly changed to one of utter contempt; it was a pathetic non-answer. I felt like a silly little girl under that fiery glare.

‘Don’t you have a single coherent thought or are you a complete airhead?’ he spat at me, before pulling out a high backed chair from the table. I was taken aback and hurt by his sudden change in mood but something, something, held me there before him, held in his contemptuous gaze as it were some sort of inescapable, controlling beam of energy.

‘Sorry,’ I said softly, ‘it was just a sudden Big Question that’s all; I really wasn’t expecting it.’

‘My dear, you have to be ready for the unexpected at all times,’ he replied, sitting down on the dining chair now facing me down the table, and placing his drink beside him. ‘You cannot rely on your tits and legs all of the time to get you through, although more than most young women can probably get by more often than not.’

He kept staring at me. It became unclear whether he intended to say anything else. a silence set in.

I swallowed hard, still stood there before him, neither offered a drink or the chance to sit down myself- if he wanted to see legs, he hadn’t seen me sat demurely flashing my thighs and stocking tops yet- but still stood there in front of him lik, like…a naughty schoolgirl.

Bloody hell that was it! I felt like a naughty, errant school girl. Was that why I was putting up with his comments and insults? Was I actually enjoying this process of being suddenly, unexpectedly, made subordinate to this peculiar man of the cloth?

Something inside of me was undeniably tingling…

‘Do you want to talk about colours and fabrics?’ I say, trying to break the silence.I have some ideas…’

‘No I do not want to talk ‘colours and fabrics,’ he snaps back. ‘I’ll leave all that up to you. It’s what you are getting paid for. I have no worries about your abilities when it comes of ‘colours and fabrics. My concern is for more rounded development.’

‘Rev. Preston I can assure you…’

But I am stopped by a raised hand.

‘Could you pick up a couple of those books for me please, in pile over there by the drinks trolley.’

I glanced over to a neat stack of maybe half a dozen books by the gold brass, bottle –full trolley. Wishing my heart to stop pounding, I made my way over to it and instinctively smoothing my short skirt down over my bottom knelt down to pick up the books.

‘Good God not like that you silly little tart!’ he shouted and I started, standing up straight again. ‘Like a proper woman. Bending down from the waist: legs and back straight.’

Pouting I looked back at him. He had his legs crossed now, and was nursing his tumbler of Scotch. Suddenly, no matter the hour, I definitely felt like a drink myself.

I breathed in deeply and did as he asked. I bent over from the waist, my arms outstretched down to the books, my little skirt riding high up my arse, my panties on full display to him, my legs straight and shapely…for him.

The sexual charge in the air had become thick enough to slice. My mind was in turmoil; one part of my mind was screaming ‘how dare you let him treat you like this! You are a modern, independent woman!’ Another part was telling just how nasty and obnoxious this man was, and a bloody vicar to boot! Get out of there, now! And then…

…the confusion, the numbed lostness, the wetness in my slit…

Because as I bent over in front of this man my skirt high up over my bottom baring my stocking tops and arse and little white panties to a man I hadn’t even met much more than an hour ago, I felt… empowered. I felt a yearning energy in my damp snatch with my tingling sex lips barely covered from his view by a slither of thin silk.

‘Do you want me to bring all of the books to you,’ I said over my shoulder to him, ‘or any in particular.’

‘Just the top two. And be careful with them, I don’t want you smudging make up on them or god forbid, smearing bloody nail varnish across their covers.’

I did as he said and lifted to top two books off the pile. They were hardback books of a conventional size but it did not register with me what the books were called; my vision at that moment was pretty much a blur.

I straightened, turned and walked over to him with them. He gestured to me to put them near him on the table and I leaned across to do so, before straightening and standing before him again.

He just glared at me- that bloody glare- with a slight smile on his pursed, shapely lips. I imagined his cock in my mouth, I could taste it, I could feel his come spurting in the back of my throat as I sucked and licked and sucked…

He uncrossed his legs. I couldn’t help but stare at his crotch. I involuntarily put my hands behind my back, I was being that naughty school girl to a tee.

‘Do you like grapes?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Louder Miss Smiles please.’

Yes, I like grapes,’ I said louder, clearer. I dragged my eyes away from his crotch where I was sure there was a discernible bulge, to the table where there was a large bowl of fruit. The Reverend Preston was reaching across and pulling the large silver bowl towards him. The electricity in the room was now driving me nuts. What next? Is he going to fuck me or what? If he wanted to, was I going to let him? If he wanted to, did I have any choice?

I bit my bottom lip, wondering if I was out of my depth here. I was a new scary world, one where I was actually very turned on by the thought of having no choice in whether he fucked me or not.

He opened his legs and gestured to the floor in front of him between his widened thighs.

‘Kneel there, and you can have some grapes,’ he said. I did as I was told, sinking to my knees in front of him, staring up at him, my hands behind my back.

‘You are a very pretty little slut,’ he said, lifting my chin with a long, firm finger. ‘Most delectable. Open wide.’

I opened my mouth and he popped a green grape in. I held it on my tongue, not daring to close my lips. This seemed to please him and I felt a charge of satisfaction at his pleasure.

‘You may close your mouth now young lady,’ he says and I do as I’m told. I crunch the grape between my teeth, and the flesh rips open, the juice shooting into my mouth.

‘Good girl,’ he says, with more of a sneer than a smile. I swallow what’s left of the grape.

With me still kneeling between his knees, he reaches to the fruit bowlagain and starts pulling grape after grape off the large bunch in the middle of it. He then throws the grapes onto the floor around us. They bounce on the old thread bare carpet and roll around a little. He keeps throwing them until there are tens of green grapes scattered around us.

‘There are the rest of your grapes. Now go and eat them.’

He stands up and towers over me. His crotch is inches from my face, shrouded by austere, thick black trouser cotton. I can sense his cock there, hardened, ready, mine. But when? I licked my lips slightly in anticipation. Then he reaches down and without warning pushes me hard on my right shoulder away from him. I sprawl with silly girly yelp onto the carpet, my left cheek grazing the ratty old carpet which I think in a fleeting moment of detachedness smells stale and beery like an old pub.

‘The grapes,’ he barks towering over me, ‘eat them.’

I push myself up on all fours and stare at a green grape a foot or so in front of me on the carpet. I feel intensely vulnerable in this position and not for the first time my rationale mind is screaming: ‘Barbara Smiles how the fuck did you manage to get in this situation?’

But I also know I can do nothing about it now; I’m in too deep. A potent mixture of fear, trepidation, curiosity and arousal is going to keep me down here, on all fours, my arse in the air with my short skirt displaying my knickers for the world to see as I bend down and clasp my lips around the first grape, until he allows me to get up.

I lift my head and my teeth sink into the grape. Again the juice shoots into my mouth, across my tongue.

‘The next one,’ I hear him say as he is now out of my vision, he is moving around somewhere behind me. I shuffle forward towards the next one, dragging my stockinged knees across the old carpet and this time without being told, bend down to take a grape between my teeth. Then he is suddenly in front of me with his hands behind his back, very close as I raise my face from the floor. He is looming above me, his crotch inches from my face. There is a discernible bulge there and I involuntarily lick my lips as I look up at him above me with I know are big, doleful eyes and I realise then that he has me, I am his and he is mine, in that electric nanosecond of our eyes locking and exchanging our very inner most forces our life courses fundamentally changed.

And all I can think about is having that hard cock in my mouth; my thoughts are entirely prick-o-centric. I can imagine his big, hard balls and I want to suck on them. After licking off the first drop of spunk oozing from the tip of his prick I want to run the tip of tongue down the long shaft of his cock and then lick and suck on those tight, ready to burst balls. I am sticky with the thought of it, my cunt feels electrified, I want to suck him and then I want to be fucked, hard, very hard, the world really had become as simple as that.

‘You really are a slut,’ he barks and I shiver, desperately needing to be impaled on manhood.

‘Please….’ I croak and he just sneers down at me before moving away behind me again. Then I am aware of my short skirt being pushed up to my hips and then I feel my panties being pulled down and left to rest on my thighs, my bottom bare in full naked glory. Instinctively I push my hips upward, slightly raising my arse up to him, unashamedly offering my snatch to him, offering his hard cock no questions asked straightforward access to my cunt.

I dare not look over my shoulder. I am desperate to, I want to so much, but even though he has not told me I mustn’t, I still just know that I cannot.

Then I hear a sudden whoosh!! and without warning there is an intense painful thwack across my buttocks and an all mighty, searing pain. I squeal out in pain, my long fingernails clawing on the old carpet. I now know what he had in hi hands behind his back when he was stop before me: a cane.

The pain is intense, red hot and I feel my eyes water. A spanking had not been part of the plan. A fucking, yes, but a bloody caning?

Then quickly without warning again another whoosh!! and the cane is hard against the cheeks of my arse and the pain doubles and this time I start sobbing and resting on one arm put my other hand behind me to rub my stinging buttocks.

‘You really are a pathetic, weak little tart aren’t you,’ he spits and I can hear real anger and spite in his voice and I suddenly wonder where this is all going end, real fear grips me, but, but, but…. confusion floods my senses too, a mix-up of an intense sexual excitement that is undeniably fired by his anger, by his albeit dangerous, frightening but erotic masculine posturing and… the pleasure in the pain he has inflicted on me. The intense stinging pain across my buttocks translating into what? Tough love?

Still, although I am rubbing my sore arse, I dare not look behind me, now even more fearful of what he will do I wear to so much as dare to sneak a peek.

‘You come here,’ he says brusquely, danger still strong in his raised voice, ‘all legs and tits and pouts, flashing your knickers, and what do expect, hmmm? What do you really expect?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I sobbed and I must say now, looking back, I had an inkling there that I was going to get very used to that ‘hmmm’ over the years to come.

‘Take your hand away from your arse,’ he snaps. ‘Reach round and fiddle with yourself, I know that’s what dirty little bitches like you like to do. So: finger yourself.’

Well I don’t need to be told twice to do that, as despite the throbbing smarting sting across by buttocks- which in my mind’s eye must have two very red streaks across them- I am very aroused and despite the -or perhaps because of?- the pain I very much want to rub hard at my clit, because another thing I have unexpectedly found out this afternoon, is that a vicar wielding a cane over me with my knickers down dispensing a ritual beating of my arse is very, very sexy and has made me very, very horny.

I rub at my clit with relief; there is no need for tender coaxing, I am way beyond that as I pressure it against my pubic bone pushing hard on it then two fingers roughly massaging my it and I am so wet down there I am glopping over my own fingers and those fingers begin to probe my slit and enter my cunt and then the ‘whoosh!!!’ and another hard thwack on my arse and the sharp pain is intense and the after throb undeniably delicious as I continue to wank myself off my right arm holding me up fingers grasping at the threadbare carpet nail varnish flaking long nails splintering my other hand at my crotch my knuckles now kneading my hard, explosive clit and I can still I dare not look around but I am desperate too, so desperate to as I can sense the reverend now has his cock out and he is wanking himself I know it, I can tell by his breathing and my knuckles and fingers are making me come and I do as I feel what I know is his spunk shoot onto my buttocks and then again with even more intensity as the next strike of his cane hits my arse even harder than any previously and my whole body shudders with both pain and pleasure as my orgasm sparks through me and I cry out in an unseemly mixture of moans sobs anguished pain and intense sexual pleasure and my right arm gives and my face is on the floor cheek pressed hard against the old carpet my arse still high in the air and I am well and truly spent.

There is a silence behind. I faintly here the sound of a zipper being pulled up and then I am aware of him walking around in front of me and then sitting back down at the nearby chair by the large dining table.

I push myself up and look at him. I imagine what he sees as he looks down on me: a young woman on all fours, face deeply flushed hair all over the place knickers around her knees red lipsticked mouth parted in post-orgasm panting mascara running from tears eyes bright with pleasure nose flared in pain bare arse red raw from a caning.

The Reverend Preston reaches for the nearby newspaper by the fruit bowl.

‘Pull your knickers up and get out,’ he says flatly, crossing his legs, not looking at me. I stumble to my feet and one hand resting on the dining room table do as I am told, pulling my panties up with my other hand. I suddenly worry that I should not be touching the table without his permission- shit! - and so I pull my hand away and sway a little unsteadily in my heels and he still doesn’t look at me, so I appear to have got away with it. I smooth down skirt and stand there uncertainly, knowing I shouldn’t do as it will probably only make him angry again, although another part of me is hoping he will do just that.

‘You know where the door is,’ he says opening his paper, still not even bothering to look at me. ‘you don’t need me to show you out, do you know. A week should be enough for you to put something together. We will meet same time next week. I will phone you the day before, to clarify details.’

And that was it. I knew he wasn’t going to say let alone do anything more to me from that point. Silently I picked up my bag, throw it over my shoulder, and with my arse feeling like it is glowing, make my out of the dining room and I click as nonchalantly as I can across the hall floor and, eventually, out of the front door finally free of the house, but not really sure anymore what freedom actually was.

Secretarial Services

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara) — Thu, 20 Sep 2012 15:32:00 +0000

History Lesson 1

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara) — Thu, 20 Sep 2012 15:24:00 +0000

Time passes, but the routine goes on. Been away from my diary for a few months but I’ll report events back to eventually over the next month or so.

However you may well be wondering how did I first meet my delectable Mr Robson?

Time for a little history lesson perhaps.

It was over twenty years ago and I was a free-spirited twenty-something girl about town. I’d graduated from Art School and was running my own little interior design business and it was doing very well too. I had enough commissions to keep me busy five sometimes six days a week and although I wasn’t making a fortune, there was enough cash coming to not just keep the wolf at the door, but firmly down the path and outside the garden gate.

I had independence and a great deal of sexual freedom. I had plenty of fun and boyfriends but never anybody serious and although that sounds great, personally, I still had a bit of an emptiness in me and a great deal of uncertainty about what I actually wanted out of life and, specifically, a relationship. At the time I met the Reverend Alistair Preston I was in a semi-serious relationship with a guy called Rick, a fellow Art School graduate who was working as a photographer for some fledgling start-up business based on a nondescript industrial estate way out on the edge of town. I say semi-serious in that Jonah was serious about us, but although he was a nice enough bloke, I wasn’t. You get the picture.

And so entirely oblivious to how my life was about to drastically change I made my way towards St. Delilah’s vicarage in one of the city’s ordinary western suburbs.

I remember driving out the increasingly quieter streets to this day; to some inane music on Radio One, wondering whether to see my friend Karen in the local wine bar for a bit of a tipple that night and do some man-watching, the usual, normal musings of cloudy autumn afternoon.

The vicarage wasn’t the archetypical sort that I was expecting- you know, imposing Victorian villa covered in wisteria with a huge imposing front door and an Adam’s Family style bell on a chain to summons the housekeeper- but a pretty ordinary looking thirties detached town house with a bay windows, a yellow front door, a gravel drive and roses around a well-manicured lawn out front. In fact if there hadn’t of been a small notice board with a church newsletter pinned in it next to the a small brass plaque saying ‘St. Delilah’s Vicarage’ I really wouldn’t have thought I was in the right place and our dippy half-day secretary back at the office had fed me the wrong address.

Whatever I parked the car in the drive and folded my long legs out of the motor. I was wearing one of my typical work-combat outfits: short light brown suede skirt, thick, mustard coloured hold up stockings that were more like very long socks when combined with such a short skirt than stockings to tell the truth, mocha high heeled pixie boots, a nice tight melon coloured tee-shirt and by favourite, battered leather jacket. My hair was a wild perm of blond waves and backcombing- remember this was still a hangover time from the eighties- and my make-up was bold and assertive. I looked fantastic, and I knew it.

After crunching up the driveway I rang the very ordinary door bell and I heard a distant buzz within the house. To my surprise a housekeeper didn’t open the door-I thought all vicars and priests had housekeepers- but the vicar himself! And to my further surprise [and I have to admit, sudden spark of delight] he wasn’t some doddery old bloke clutching some huge to me he’d been engrossed in, a youngish thirty something bloke who was good-looking in a bookish way, well built without being over-developed, chiselled without being cartoonish and for some reason, he suited his dog-collar down to a tee. And I even got a sudden, unexpected tingle in my cunt-where the hell had that come from?- which returned as he looked me up and down. Now I was more than used to being scoped by men and being mentally undressed by them, I loved it in fact, but something about the way he drank me in, the way he seemed to scan me, was entirely different. Disturbing, spooky and -I have to admit- arousing, all at the same time.

‘Good,’ he eventually said with a slight smile before I had managed to say anything.

‘Barbara Smiles.’ I said holding out my hand. To my intense relief he didn’t come out with the now deadly boring predictable retort ‘oh I see you do!’ or one of the many other various tedious variations. So he immediately went up in my estimation by merely taking my hand, briefly squeezing it then letting go.

‘Come in,’ he said holding the door wider and I did so still smiling, walking past him into a large hallway, unashamedly wiggling my bum [old habits die hard].

I stood in the hallway looking around me, hitching my bag further upon my shoulder. To the right a wide staircase went up to the next floor, all dark wood blood red carpet. The floor of the hall though was parquet wood and I looked down at my heels.

‘Ooops sorry,’ I said, ’do you mind heels on this floor? They can leave marks…’

Firmly closing the front door he walked towards me and said enigmatically:

‘Whenever you come here, I expect you to wear nothing but heels.’

Now this took me aback a little. On so many levels as a thing to say it was just…weird. Particularly for a vicar.

But it gave me the chance to look at him in more detail. He wasn’t a conventionally good looking man- he also had a very off-putting sense of aloofness- but there was something about him, some strange allure that really confused me. His face was craggy but not weather-beaten; his black hair was thick but swept back in a neat cut. The fact that his bright, penetrating blue eyes seemed so deep - a maelstrom of analysis and suppressed passion were my first impression- yet at the same time so empty was, I must say, disturbing.

But…definitely fascinating. And what more can I say; for a vicar, he had an unusually sinister air and as he stood close to me, I had what I can only describe as a sense of dark nastiness within him. I felt my lips quiver a little; it all added up to a lot of sexiness to my mind and to my shame I dampened a little. Looking back, I do believe it was at that point, he knew I was his.

‘Let me take your jacket,’ he said with a half-smile. I snapped out of my reverie and smiled back, dropping my bag to the parquet floor.

‘Yes, of course,’ I replied slipping the leather jacket off my shoulders. He reached behind me and helped to slide it off my arms. I instinctively pushed my tits out and smiled-oh yes, tits and teeth, my speciality- as he took the jacket from me then walked across to door to our left opposite the staircase. It was a small coats cupboard and has he hung my jacket up, I had the chance to look around the hall and through a nearby open door into what I took to be the sitting room a little bit more. I picked up my bag again and pulled out my notebook and pen. The house on the whole from what I could see looked okay; certainly a little tired, it looked like very little had been done in terms of interior decoration since the fifties, but otherwise I suspected it was a pretty solid canvas to work too.

‘It’s a very grand hallway,’ I say brightly. ‘I like this space. It’s a good start!’

The Rev. Robson returns from hanging up my jacket.

‘Yes it is, and I too enjoy this space. It makes for a good introduction to the vicarage, does it not’ he says but with a sudden air of distraction, looking past me through the door into the nearby room at the foot of the staircase. I suddenly feel an intense stab of irritation at no longer being the centre of his attention. As you will have gathered already though, that is of course me all over.

‘Well,’ I say moving towards him determined to wrest his attention back to as he stared off into the other room, ‘if you can give me a bit of tour, then we can talk about what you want me to do for you.’

‘Yes,’ he says his attention immediately returned to but it is not so much what I want you to do, but what I want to do.’

‘Oh, of course,’ I say smiling. ‘It is all about what you as the client wants done, at the end of the day, I will only be doing as you say.’

‘More like as I command,’ he says and before I can become indignant at this- I am after all a professional, here to advise not be dictated to like a decorator skivvy- I am immediately disarmed by his first genuine smile since we first met. I then irritate myself by going suddenly coy.

‘Well I would like to think I am able to interpret your basic ideas and wishes and perhaps even enhance them,’ I pout.

‘No doubt,’ he says simply, still smiling. Let’s go into the Drawing Room.’ He holds out his hand in front of me to the open doorway. I followed it and walked ahead of him into the room, feeling his eyes burning into my legs, arse, hair. It suddenly dawned on me that I didn’t just want this vicar to eventually fuck me, I needed him to. That thought both disturbed and excited me in equal measure.

Valentine’s Hat-Trick Part 4

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara) — Wed, 09 May 2012 10:41:00 +0000

After I have showered I am allowed a little bit of pampering as Mr Robson leaves a warm towel by the bath for me and a gift- a small pack of my favourite- and very expensive- perfume and toiletries with I apply to my now clean, warm soothed skin with unashamed pleasure. Well that’s not to be unexpected really…I am a not backward at coming forward at enjoying unashamed pleasure. I appreciate the gift from Mr Robson though, it is a sign of his love for me, and I feel content and [almost] fully satisfied as I prepare for the rest of the morning, knowing that Mr Robson’s show of affection for me, will not however affect his command- and demands- of me over the next couple of hours, that he will be as strict and where necessary painfully controlling of me as and how he sees fit without any compromise, and that is exactly how I want it to be.

I eventually leave the bathroom and go into our bedroom. He is nowhere to be seen and must have gone downstairs. He has however left out the clothes I am to wear. They are efficient and secretarial but suitably sexy. A black jacket, small white blouse and a tight, short black skirt that barely covers the tops of the sheer, honey coloured stockings I am to wear, with black, very high but business-like pointy high heels. My underwear will be a red lace thong and bra. Also on the bed is a small black box and I know what is inside it; it is my gold ankle bracelet, I am being taken outside as Mr Robson’s slave, in the role of his secretary.

Tingling with excitement- and apprehension- I put on my clothes. Apprehension, because he is taking me out in such a short skirt but the apprehension is mixed up with an intense shiver of excited anticipation at what lay ahead.

Now I know I have excellent legs- I’m not being immodest about that, I just have. So there’s nothing to worry about displaying them and I do so often enough- I hate the dowdy-ness of knee length skirts and according to mood, my hemline is invariably well above that in varying degrees- but not usually in a skirt this short which is a bona fide mini-skirt. Being forty-something, and no stranger in the past to high hem-lines, it’s something I’ve thought best left as a fashion choice for younger women now, but as a trial Mr Robson does make me go out in skirts that flaunt more than the usual expanse of –admittedly shapely- leg, in situations like this. It is of course to show me who is boss, and who am I to question his wishes. And to be fair, he usually allows me to wear a black coat that has a hem just above knee level when dressed like this, so that only he knows what I am wearing underneath when we are completely in the public eye. He does though occasionally- but not always- tell me take the coat off. This often happens in a pub or restaurant we are in. He will make me walk to the bar or toilet displaying my legs for all to see for five minutes or so.

As I say he doesn’t always do this; and so I never know when he is going to spring this parade on me. This of course adds to the- often stomach churning- unpredictable stimulation of it all.

So I slip on my lacy red underwear and sexy secretary clothes and admire myself in the wardrobes full length mirror- not bad- then make my way downstairs. Mr Robson is waiting for me sat in the lounge, legs crossed, reading a newspaper.

‘Ah, good,’ he says looking up. He tries to remain nonchalant but I can see him drinking me in, scanning my long legs, my firm tits pressed pneumatically against the small, tight white blouse, a hint of red brassiere showing in my cleavage. ‘We have business to do, but first I think we deserve a spot of lunch. Get your coat, and we’ll get going.’

I put on my black coat; it’s longer than my little skirt but still shows plenty of leg. Nonetheless it’s a length I’m more comfortable with. We go out to the car and Mr Robson opens the passenger door for me. I slide in and onto down onto the car seat, my high heels scrunching over the small stones on the drive, showing him a good display of my legs as the coat opens and the short skirt rides up showing the top of stocking tops and- I hope- as I part my legs, he gets a quick glimpse of my red panties. I settle into the seat pulling my skirt down a little but leaving the coat open as he slams shut the car door.

We are soon driving out to the country and pleasingly Mr Robson cannot stop glancing down at my long, stockinged legs. I’ve managed to show hints of my stocking tops below the hem of my black mini-skirt, but not too much. I make a show of occasionally pulling down the hem in an awkward way, trying to cover them up, but of course the little skirt quickly rides up again.

Mr Robson goes completely into role play- he is my boss and talks about office issues and I reply as any good little secretary would, in a combination of coy reticence, knowing gossipiness and outright flirtation. By the time we reach the pub in a small village called The Cleaver he is now firmly my office boss in my mind’s eye, rather than Mr Robson, although he still of course as complete command of me, which the small gold ankle chain constantly reminds me.

The only thing I’m slightly disappointed with is that he’s not wearing his dog-collar. He sometimes takes me out to obscure country pubs like this- or a city centre bar more often than not- in his work clothes and me as the wayward, tarty agency secretary. But today he is just as sexy in a dark grey suit and crisp white, open neck shirt. And my crack is aching; I’ve already had two injections of his lovely come so far today, but they haven’t been in the place where, in my old fashioned way, I still think is the most important: my needy, wet snatch.

We enter the smallish, quant pub in the middle of nowhere; fields of corn and rape stretch out around it, the distant spire of the nearest villages church- St Edmund’s I think- pokes up above a full, green belt of trees and the sky is a perfect, clear blue with small, wispy cotton wool clouds drifting languidly across it, like they would in a children’s painting.

It’s lunchtime and there’s more people in there than I had expected. Other- but no doubt more authentic- business people stopping off for a spot of lunch between whatever ‘important business’ appointments they have today, a couple of old dears talking demurely over a glass of Chardonnay and a Ploughman’s, and what a clearly a few locals stood and sat at the bar with pints and packets of crisps in front of them. these men in particular turn and look at us both as we enter, Mr Robson holding open the large, battered old oak door for me as I slinked in, then back at me to whom they kept their attention as I slicked my way over the bare but tastefully distressed wooden floor in my black high heels. I wriggle my arse giving it all I’ve got and it’s not difficult; I love this attention, this crackle of male excitement when I enter a room, the electric spark of sudden heightened testosterone levels in the room generated by me, it’s a truly delicious feeling of importance and, let’s face it, power. I may by the one in a submissive role here, with a small gold anklet continually reminding me of the fact that Mr Robson could bend me over a table in here, unceremoniously tug down my knickers and fuck me up the arse in front of all these people if he so wished, and I couldn’t stop him, but it’s not as simple as all that, because I too, wield my own form of power here and Mr Robson of course understands that and so, a balance of desires and wills are maintained.

One of the [real] businessmen with a small laptop open in front of him gazes over at me too and I make sure he gets a good display of leg as I sit down across the pub from him, my coat falling aside over my long, stockinged legs and I languidly cross my legs, giving everyone but him in particular, a good view of some very shapely thigh.

And I of course have some ‘very important business of my own;’ I am in need of being fucked hard and rough for the third time in as many hours. I won’t be happy and complete today, until I can feel fresh come trickling out of my cunt, because I am not in any way whole until that happens on this fine Valentine’s Day.

I look around the pub thinking on that as Mr Robson goes to the bar for some drinks [usually in situations like this he tells me to do that, but not generally for the first drink, that is more often than not his preserve]. Apparently no Valentine couples; unless of course the old dears in the corner are an ageing lesbian couple which, believe me, is more than possible because particularly in supposedly gentile areas of respectable England such as this, I have found such things to be rather more common than you would first suspect.

No, the evening is the place for valentine lovers in this establishment it would appear, apart from of course, Mr Robson and I, but we always enjoy being the exception to the rule.

I sit back as Mr Robson brings back a glass of Chablis for me, and a deep red burgundy for himself. I feel a little tingle of excitement, hoping he kisses me before he fucks me later- there is something intensely erotic about the taste of red wine on Mr Robson’s lips and breath, it can almost make me come even before his cock touches my sex lips before being slid into me, never mind anything else. He sits on down next to me. I make a show of pulling my coat round to cover up the top of my legs but only partially succeed; it’s not a particularly long coat in itself, and whilst sitting down, it does even less of a job of covering my legs but it does a bit, still leaving though a good expanse of thigh and calf for the business man [the bloke with him must be gay, he’s barely looked at me] and the three yokels at the bar to have a- continual- good look at. Yes this is turning out to be potentially a very satisfying lunch, because a girl cannot get enough attention to my mind, and in here today, I am the centre of attention which is just how I like it….for the moment, anyway. I know, eventually, Mr Robson is going to tell me to either go the bar or the toilet without my coat on, displaying my legs below my black mini-skirt for all to see as a parade before them, which he knows is something I am always apprehensive about- one of my greatest fears is being thought of as mutton dressed as lamb, I can hear my mother’s voice in the dim and distant voice berating a neighbour, who I actually got on very well with and liked, for just that.

So a small niggle of apprehension needles away at me as I sip my wine but that of course only adds to the excitement of it; and it is tempered by the image of a number of cocks standing suddenly to attention as I do it; I’m sure there’s a few semi-erections on the go as it is at the moment, so it wouldn’t take much to get a row off full-on hard cocks on the go at all.

Then I have a little naughty thought as my eye catches the businessman’s at the other table and he catches it and although he looks away quickly, he doesn’t do it straight away, shyly, self-consciously. He had the nerve to hold it for long enough to make real contact, eye to eye, and I allow myself a little smile, I wonder if I dare wait until he goes to the toilet and if I dare excuse myself from Mr Robson and follow him out the back of the pub, and capture a quickie with him, enjoy one of those rapid two minute fucks with a stranger in either one of the toilet cubicles or behind a recycling skip outside, panties down and shafted urgently by a hard, anonymous cock against a wall?

Believe me, it has its thrills and I am dampening at the thought but pull in my raging fantasies which have moved on to the anonymous business man coming in a hot torrent in my mouth as I kneel before him next to his car out in the car park.

No, I must stay focussed. today, of all days, I must remain completely Mr Robson’s in action, if not in thought…well what can I do, I have such a vivid imagination…

Mr Robson asks me if I would like anything to eat and I say no- I am too excited and nervy from expectation to have any appetite whatsoever, and Mr Robson skips lunch too and launches himself deeper into the role play. He chats about me and asks me questions and expertly flirts with me. This has always been one of great strengths for me and something that attracted me to him from the outset, all those years ago. he can flirt and be sexually suggestive with such charm…a charm that can quickly morph into the most filthiest of things being whispered into your ear and he is doing that to me now and my panties- what little there is of them of course- dampen even more.

He tells me that he has been watching me in the office for weeks now and that I truly am amazing. He tells me how he hardens every time he sees me, and fantasises about fucking me all of the time; fantasises about bending me over the photocopier and fucking me hard from behind when its late and there’s no one else in the office. And he tells me my skirts are always too short and I’m always teasing me and other men when I bend over and flash my arse and knickers and how my legs are so long and likeable and how he’d like to come over them, and rub the spunk into my thighs and knees and calves. How he sometimes gets annoyed by my sloppy filing and combined with an muted anger he feels when he sees me flirting with other no-marks in the office, he has to stifle the urge to bend me over his desk and fuck me hard in the arse to teach me a lesson.

I sit there, my now uncrossed legs warm, my thigh involuntary parted, the hem of my skirt teasingly showing a sliver of stocking top and I swallow hard and my lips slightly part as he tells me last night, rather than have sex with his wife, he preferred to wank in the shower, thinking of me, dreaming of when he finally was able to ram his big, throbbing, needy cock into my wet slit.

Now personally, being told a man is wanking whilst thinking of you is the greatest turn-on for me and Mr Robson knows it. I love the thought that a man would masturbate over me; I find it a huge turn on when a man actually, masturbates in front of and then over me, boy does it get me working on my own, enthusiastic button-rubbing. How aware the suit on the nearby table that can’t take his eyes off me is of my heightened arousal is anybody’s guess; I feel electrified and so very sexy with a gnawing, yearning desire in my cunt that is at the moment so eager, I feel as if it is more than capable of biting off any man’s cock that dares to enter it.

This wonderful yearning is of course also deliciously mixed up with a fair degree of trepidation which is compound by my sense of silliness; here I am, a good looking confident woman, but I get butterfly-nerves thinking about doing what Mr Robson is about to do any time soon. It’s crazy really but we all have our weaknesses, and Mr Robson knows exactly what mine are and exploits them mercilessly when he has a mind to.

‘I think it’s time for another drink, don’t you?’ he says now siting back away from my ear settling back into his seat and reaching inside his jacket pocket. The three men at the bar glance over to us, as if telepathically sensing what’s coming next.

Mr Robson pulls out his wallet and produces a tenner.

‘My, you must be warm in that coat Barbara, why don’t you slip it off.’

of course I cannot refuse, and let the black coat slip off my shoulders and I pull my arms out through the sleeves. It’s a bit of an awkward manoeuvre and I deliberately open my thighs a bit flashing I hope a tantalising triangle of red silk towards the trio of locals stood at the bar. And it works because of the two that are surreptitiously looking at me; one keeps staring at my knickers whilst the other, after briefly enjoying the view, quickly, nervously looks quickly away. I allow myself a little smile- I love it when that happens. The shy ones always give the greatest of tease satisfactions.

‘Let’s have one for the road,’ Mr Robson says, handing me the money. ‘Same again; you do the honours, as I need to make a call.’

I take the note as he pulls out his mobile and starts punching numbers with his thumb. Oh well, I might as well get this over and done with. Involuntarily primping up my thick perm of blond hair I push myself up to my feet and deliberately totter a little in my high heels. I smooth down my very short black skirt; it barely covers the top of my stockings but of course that’s the whole idea. I nonetheless feel very efficient in my little black jacket and white blouse, with my red silk clad tits trying to burst out of it and so I launch myself away from the table towards the bar, all legs and tits and hair, trying to look nonchalant.

It has the desired effect on the men there, of course. They cannot resist a look- in varying degrees of directness- at this display as I totter my way to the bar.

All male eyes are on me. Even the apparently gay one sat at his laptop- he is looking at me with a detached air of- I like to think- aesthetic appreciation. Perhaps he’s wondering if it’s a look he can pull off in private, if dressing up is his sort of thing. I take my mind off the walk across to the bar, these albeit long, shapely but forty-something legs being flashed and flaunted for all to see- trying to think about a nice chat I could have with him, giving him advice [I’ve done it plenty of times before; our parish, like all others, has its fair share of cross-dressers and gay men who like to let out their drag-side for a laugh- and of course more- in the privacy of a club or their home], trying to keep my mind distracted and on the level.

I reach the bar and make my order, giving my sexiest smile to the barman, so sexy in fact he probably thinks that with the minimum of effort he would be able to cork my bottle with his cock, down in the cellar bent backwards over a barrel in two minutes flat.

If he’d have been a bit younger and not so fat in a gone to seed sort of way- and of course Mr Robson didn’t have me on such a strong lead- that might have been entirely possible as well I’m feeling so bloody horny ,but not today.

Stood at the bar I glance back at Mr Robson. He is chatting on his phone but, as I knew he would be, he was looking at me. he was drinking in my legs, he was getting his own special sort of excitement from the slight display of nerves in my face, the flickering lips, the darting eyes. he loved this in particular and he once described the joys he felt, the complex and wonderful mixture of sensations he had making me do this simple- and pretty innocuous display in the great scheme of things.

It was one of base arousal at seeing me dressed like this, mixed- and heightened he told me- by a deep pride that I was so sexy and attractive, and that it was him, and no one else, that was with meat that particular time. That I was all his, to enjoy the look of, to enjoy talking to, basking in the knowledge that he was going to fuck me any which way he wished at any time he wished, after we had left the pub.

he was also deeply aroused by my obvious awkwardness at such a display; he knew I knew I looked good, that I was slim and shapely with great tits and legs, but still worried about wearing a mini-skirt and high heels in such a public way ‘at my age.’ he very much enjoyed exploiting my vulnerability- which was all the more enjoyable when it occurred in such unexpected, often silly ways- but at the same time appreciated that ability he had- and that essentially I allowed to do so in fact- and loved me very deeply for that privilege.

I get the drinks then leisurely- almost enjoying it now- sashay my way back to the table, wiggling my arse now, giving the assembled men a good view of one pert little bottom they’re never going to be lifting the skirt up to have a better look at [well not today, anyway, who knows when our paths will cross again under different circumstances- I’m a girl who optimistically always likes to keep her options open]. I can image a number of erections straining in a few pairs of trousers though, and I like the thought of that a lot.

As a finale I bend over more than strictly necessary at the table, feeling the tight black skirt stretching over my shapely buttocks and knowing that the trio of blokes at the bar in particular, will be getting a good view of at least a hint of my stocking tops. I smile at Mr Robson but the smile is primarily for myself; I’m hoping a good number of those erections, have converted from dribbling semen to a full-blown spurt now.

Having placed the drinks on the table, I turn, run my hands over my bottom smoothing down the negligible skirt. Part of me heaves a huge phew!! So that’s done. It’s not something I would volunteer to do, but now it’s done, another part of me is pleased with itself and even more turned on than before. And so now, as I take a healthy glug of my wine, I’m done with the games. Now, I want to be fucked, hard.

Mr Robson clearly feels the same way too, as he makes short work of his drink and soon we are leaving the pub by the back door into the car park. The sun is shining as we make our way across the car park, my heels scrunching the gravel below, a soft breeze moving through the band of trees standing along one side of the car park, the open fields around us bright in the clear air.

When we get to the car Mr Robson suddenly grabs me by the waist and I let out a little surprised yelp. He pushes me against the side of the car and pushes himself hard up against me. his mouth becomes clamped to mine, his tongue wasting no time probing it, flicking with a confident zeal around mine. His hand is up between my thighs and in no time pushing up the short hem of my skirt. My skirt, little more than a belt in the first place, is soon up around my waist and his hand is pressed hard on the front of my red lace panties. He rubs, the pressure on my pubis wonderful and electrifying, the stretching of my sending shivers through me.

His mouth unclamped from mine I groan, looking around the car park. there is no one around, it’s empty, but at any moment someone could come out of that back door or leave the kitchens at the back to throw some stuff into the waste skips, and I’d be in full view, my skirt up around my waist with Mr Robson now moving the small triangle of red lace sideways and snaking his finger into my sodden slit. He massages my crack as I gloop my sex juices onto him; he finds my hard, screaming clit and rubs it hard in a circular motion and I gasp, beside myself, my hands clasped into his shoulders, if anybody were to come out, if anybody were to come out….

Then his finger leaves my slit, it slides out as quickly as it had entered and before I know it I am tugging my skirt down as he barks a command to get into the car. He holds the door open for me as I slide in. I am beside myself with longing now as he slides the door shut and I can only wonder where he is going to fuck me, whether he will find somewhere on the way home, or whether he will wait till we get back to our house. I’m so fired up at the moment I can’t help praying it’s the former of the two.

So we are quickly in the car and away from the country pub’s car park. We whizz down sparse but sunny lanes crisp and clean in the bright winter light. My thoughts and desires however, are far from that. I sit with my thighs parted, the hem of my skirt high showing my stocking tops. I touch up my make-up as we drive along. I try to control my breathing, trying not to look too expectant and desperate which is of course, exactly what I am.

Mr Robson has gone back into business mode. He says how he has been asked to take a look at the possibility of being commissioned for some work nearby that he’d like to have a quick look at if I didn’t mind. I just reply with an almost whispered ‘yes okay,’ as if I was able to reply with anything else.

We are right at the edge of town when the country lane passes some cottages then turns into a wider, straighter urban road. Mr Robson slows as we drive down a shallow hill and I can see a roundabout ahead. This is part of the town that was supposed to be developed with houses ages ago, but it never happened. All the roads and footpaths, even bus stops and proper street lighting, were in place, but the people never arrived. It was now home to dog walkers, drunk teenagers, the occasional stray drug addict, and so I believe, a small group of breakaway, adventurous doggers.

Mr Robson pulls over into a parking bay that was obviously meant originally as a bus stop, before the large roundabout to nowhere except straight on, just ahead. There’s no one around and the area has an air of the semi-derelict; green, with trees and bushes and areas of long, unkempt grass between them, but full of casually discarded rubbish and the occasional plié of rubble and fly-tipping.

‘It’s just down here,’ he says matter-of-factly, nodding out of the passenger window to my left. I glance in that direction; a path- still discernible but covered in weeds and broken here and therefrom probably never being maintained since it was built, curves down to the left and out of sight in a grassed hollow. Mr Robson turns off the ignition and starts to climb out of the car.

I do so as well and I am stood unsteadily in my heels on the grass by the side of the car. ‘This way, come on,’ he says efficiently heading away from the car towards the path, and I follow him.

The path has a number of steps leading down into the hollow and I have to in places carefully pick my way down them amongst the weeds and occasional, discarded fast food wrappers and plastic pop bottles and sweets wrappers. The usual suspects- empty cheap vodka and roach stubs- were also in plentiful supply.

Mr Robson stays a few steps ahead of me and occasional asks me if I’m okay, but never offers to help me as I wobble now and then in my high heels, concentrating hard on staying on my feet although if I did fall on my back maybe the opportunity for him to jump me and spread my legs and fuck me there and then would be too much for him to resist.

Whatever, I manage to stay on my feet despite the temptation of a faux stumble and fall and I know Mr Robson is enjoying this spectacle, my awkwardness out here in the middle of nowhere, picking my way warily down an overgrown footpath in my office clothes, my tits bursting out of a blouse two sizes too small for me, my tight mini-skirt and black, high heels.

Eventually I make it down the long, stepped path and we are at the mouth of a long, derelict subway. It had obviously been built to connect two areas of housing that never got built. The gloomy tunnel is now damp and full of rubbish- everything from shopping trollies to broken bit of furniture to a sea of bottles, food wrappers and the charred remains of small burnt out fires on the filthy, puddled concrete floor. The cracked and chipped concrete walls are covered in the obligatory graffiti, some of it probably a couple of decades old.

I yelp as Mr Robson grabs me roughly by the wrist and tugs me into the subway. I totter in my heels, nearly stumbling to my knees but I manage to stay up-right, helped by his firm, twisting grip of my arm.

‘This is the place I wanted us to have a look at,’ he snarls. ‘This is the place where I need to do my assessment.’

He pulls me further into the murk, my heels crunching down on the rubbish strewn across the cold, dirty concrete slabs.

‘Do you want me to take notes?’ I say nervously as he pulls me towards him.

‘That won’t be necessary,’ he hisses into my face. My lips twitching, hoping he’ll kiss me, praying for his tongue to urgently push its way between my tips and forcibly connect with my own pulsing, yearning, but he denies me that, because he knows that’s precisely what I want.

‘What you can do though,’ he adds, is pay very careful attention to what I am going to do to you, and file it away for future reference.’

With that he turns me around to face the graffiti scarred concrete wall. Its not a flat wall as such- it backs away to the floor about a third of the way down into a narrow, tiled ramp and it against this the toes of my heels end up pushed against as he grabs my hair and bends me over in front of him.

My hands end up pressed against the dirty concrete wall and I am acutely aware that this is still for all it’s dereliction, a very public place. A dog walker could appear at either end of the subway at any time, or a group of kids looking for somewhere to drink or score could suddenly discover us. But the latter, Mr Robson I feel, wouldn’t bother him at all. He’d enjoy the audience and I’m sure if he was in the mood, he’d let a couple of them join in…

The thought of gang rape by a bunch of teenagers whilst Mr Robson watched shouldn’t, but inevitably, arouses me all the more and my cunt is awash. I whimper as he pushes up what little there is of skirt to my hips and tugs down my red lace panties. Mr Robson’s breath rasps behind me now and I can tell he is himself highly aroused and I glace over my shoulder as he releases the clasp on his belt and his trousers slide down then his shorts. His erection is huge and angry. That wonderful, hard, throbbing cock is inches away from my arse and I stare at it whimpering all the more, the tight purple-red helmet already slick with the first oozing of semen and I know, very soon, there’s going to more of where that comes from and it’s going to be injected deep into my cunt.

Then without any further ado that long, thick spear of cock is being thrust deep into me and I let out a loud cry, at last, at last, holding my head up, my eyes swivelling up the graffiti-ed wall, my lips pulled back over my teeth as the pounds into me from behind, his prick violently rubbing and stretching my clit, his cock filling me. His hands are clutching my hips his fingers digging into my flesh as he bucks me harder and harder almost lifting my heels off the dirty concrete as he thrusts, thrusts thrusts….

And then my hands are down on the tiled wall/ramp further down and I am almost doubled over, my hair hanging down over my face my arse stretched taunt my snatch as open and as willing as it could ever be as Mr Robson’s huge prick completes its reckoning with me, his own hips are pounding against my arse and I can feel his balls pressed hard against my own, slick yearning sex lips and he reaches round as he doubles himself over me, his long fingers find my clit, hard, electric, crazed with need, and he rubs me, he pushes my clit hard against my pubic bone and rubs, rubs, with his cock filling my cunt and I come, I shudder, the release at last is upon me, my stockinged legs quiver, my own fingers scratch at the grubby concrete and I groan I squeal and he comes inside of me, at last, the hat-trick complete with his spunk here it matters most, shooting into and filling my cunt and I tremble with another orgasm, I can feel my slit tightening ever more around his cock as he thrusts in again, his body pressed hard against my arse and he reaches forward and pulls my head up by the hair as he keeps coming, keeps pumping snarling:

‘This is all you need to take note of, you little fucking slut.’

And then, the final pulse and he’s spent and so am I. I deflate a little and although he keeps his cock inside me, I can feel my vagina’s grip on it loosen as it too softens. Eventually it slips out of me, leaving behind though, I’m sure, of delicious, warm sticky come. I lift my head; yes, I can feel it on my sex lips, I can feel it beginning to ooze out of me and as I straighten, legs apart and knickers around my ankles a dollop of it drips out of me and lands on the grubby concrete slab below, Now that’s what I call a result.

His Slave for The Day

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara) — Wed, 09 May 2012 10:15:00 +0000

Valentine’s Hat-Trick part 3

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara) — Thu, 22 Mar 2012 21:03:00 +0000

Buggery always takes it out of you. It’s quite exhausting in an excitingly debauched way but I am running on oodles of nervous energy this morning and I soon feel fully re-charged.

My Lord after his dick had slipped out of my arse just grunted and slapped me hard on my left buttock and barked a command to me to get some coffee.

The single sharp hard slap tingled across my bottom as I smoothed down my little skirt and tottered over to the kettle. I hoped it was a taste of where things might go later as I was well overdue a good spanking.

I clicked on the kettle, not daring to speak. I could feel My Lord’s ire dark and thick behind me, his anger deliciously palpable. I knew I was in for a rough time this morning and all my senses prickled with a nervous, wanton excitement.

So I waited for the kettle to boil, daring not to look round at him. I knew he was standing there, leaning back against the table where I had just been unceremoniously fucked in the arse and I could physically feel his eyes tracking my legs and bottom and back, gauging, appraising lasers coveting what belonged to him.

The kettle clicked. My hands were trembling a little as I reached for it and poured hot water into a coffee mug. The belt was still around my neck, the long loose end dangling down my back. My arse still felt a little sore but not uncomfortably; in fact it felt quite deliciously violated and his come was already seeping out of my anus into my panties.

I dared to turn round with the mug and eyes cast down to the floor, moved towards My Lord and offered him the mug which he took. I stood in front of him, biting my lip, my eyes still cast downward.

‘It’s upstairs for you, right now,’ he suddenly barked, grabbing the end of the belt. He tugged hard at my neck as he walked away from the table and I stumbled in my heels, almost falling over again but managing to stay upright clicking after him as he led me out of the kitchen.

I followed him up the stairs with him still firmly tugging me along with the belt tight around my throat. I make it to the top of the stairs after a few stumbles and he leads me into our bedroom. There he turns and scowls at me, his face like thunder and I feel a charge of apprehensive want spark through my snatch.

He undoes the belt around my neck, standing close to me, his face inches from mine but I dare not reach out and touch him.

‘Undress,’ he snaps in to my face.

I do as I am told, taking off my top and slipping my pink skirt down to my ankles so I stood there wearing only my bra, panties, hold-up stockings and high heels.

‘Now put on what is on the bed and change your shoes.’

Obediently I kick off my pink high heels and step into the nearby pair of gold high heeled sandals. I bend to fasten them, making sure my arse is on full, stretched display to him as I did so. I then reach to the bed and put on what is there: a very short, white smock-like silk dress with think bands of gold sequins around the neck and hem. It is my slave outfit. Then when I am dressed, he slips another nose around my neck- this time of thick, silver chain link like a dog lead- tightens it, then on a long leash of chain he directs me out of the bathroom to the bathroom.

‘Get to work in here,’ he snarls. I want this place spic and span. It’s a bloody disgrace, you’ve let it become an absolute tip, but what do I expect from a little slut like you.’

He then hooks the end of the chain onto a small hook in the tiled wall by the door and I am finally tethered.

Saying no more he leaves the bathroom slamming the door behind him. I get to work with the cleaning products cleaning the sink, toilet, bath and shower and tidying any loose washing away into the laundry basket.

He comes back in about twenty minutes after leaving me and I feel as if I’ve done a good job, the place is quite sparkly, but I know it will not be up to his exacting standards.

In fact he is thoroughly pissed off with what he finds. He grabs me by the hair again and pushes my face over the bath…’see, there, the hairs? The stains? Haven’t I got eyes? Don’t you have a single domestic bone in your body, you useless little tart? Good for fucking delivery boys though, aren’t you. You’re very good and dropping your knickers spreading your legs and letting strangers fill your wet cunt with spunk, aren’t you. Is that all you’re good for, you filthy bitch?’

He roughly pulls me over to the basin by the chain around my neck and I squeal as he pushes my face into it, telling me what a fucking disgrace I am, what a pathetic woman, can’t even clean a sink properly, would rather be fucking delivery boys wouldn’t I, would rather bend over to take some strangers cock into my pussy rather serve her husband properly, rather than do some decent housework for him, wouldn’t I? wouldn’t I?

He is very angry now, whipping himself up into an indignant frenzy and I am making excuses, I am whimpering, I start to beg for him to be lenient with me as he pushes me across the bathroom, as he very roughly grabs my hair again and pushes my face over the toilet bowl and tells me what a dirty, slovenly tart I was, happy enough to take a big cock up my arse, but incapable of cleaning sanitary ware to any level of acceptability.

Standing over me he yanks the chain around my neck and pulls me up from out of the toilet and up onto my feet. The cold metal chain biting into my throat, he pulls me over to the shower cubicle. There, he pulls down the shoulder straps of my smock dress and bra and pulls the cups of my bra down exposing my tits. My nipples are hard, erect, on fire.

He pushes me back into the shower. It’s a large, tiled cubicle big enough for two people [three even…it has been done under other quite, different circumstances which I will no doubt share with you one day], and I stumble and crumple onto its tiled floor. His cock is then out of his trousers but although showing signs of hardening it is still pretty flaccid. I can sense what is coming next. Calling me all of the disgusting names under the sun he stands over me and begins to piss on me. His warm, golden urine flows out with a strong manly force over me, shooting down over my tits then up to my face where I open my mouth to drink some and then it over my hair soaking into my thick hairs and I am covered in his warm, fresh piss, it soaks into my hair, my face, my dress, my stockings.

As soon as he is finished he hardens very quickly and I know it is at the sight of me at his feet, covered in his piss, my tits full my nipples like bullets my red lipsticked lips parted, ready, ready, ready….

And so his hand his behind my head again with a handful of hair and the big tight purple bulb of his cock is an inch from my lips and then rammed in my mouth without any warning he pushes my face onto his cock and it pushes its way to the back of my throat and I gag a little on the huge shaft of man meat in my mouth, his hard cock filling my mouth then it slides back a little and my tongue flickers over the pulsing, hot bulb my teeth nibble gently around his shaft and I suck and he comes in my mouth, spurts of come shoot to the back of my mouth as he spasms with a long moan ejaculating into my willing mouth as I drink down his spunk, my Lord’s spunk and he has now completed the second strike of his hat-trick, orifice number two has been entered and marked and his cock then slips out from between my lips, still semi-hard, and without saying a word, My Lord turns on the shower, and a fresh stream of water cascades down onto me, soaking me, cleansing me and he steps out of the cubicle as I take off my clothes in the shower below the thick flow of water and he stands there,watching me, as I rub the water and soap all over me, and is still watching intently as I eventually snake a finger down to my slit, as I massage my nub of pleasure, as I masturbate myself rubbing and stroking my vagina until I come, remembering that delicious piss cascading over me and then being fucked in the mouth and I then feel the familiar yearning deep in my snatch, the need in there, the need for it it to be rammed by a long, hard cock and as I enjoy my orgasm, as my Lord watches me intently, I know that that relief is not now too far away.

Admin

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara) — Wed, 07 Mar 2012 20:57:00 +0000

J587MKNSDJNC

Valentine’s hat-Trick Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara) — Fri, 02 Mar 2012 17:14:00 +0000

….and so I stood in the kitchen feeling wonderfully vulnerable. I know I am in trouble.

I look over my shoulder and see him standing there. Shoeless, his dark hair sexily unkempt, he is wearing a white tee-shirt and black business trousers, the belt unbuckled, and I stare at it, breathing heavily, my thighs bare below my little skirt tingling, my slit a gloop of need, my whole vagina a wonderful, throbbing zone of anxious, expectant desire. A desire to be opened and taken and…yes…hurt. Even my anus was alive with a delicious pulse of dread and excitement and I allowed myself a thought: which orifice was he going to fill with his come first? The answer I knew, now, would come soon enough.

His scowl makes me shiver as I stand back against the kitchen counter. He is taking in my legs, then my tits, then his eyes lock on mine.

I was watching you,’ he spits moving into the kitchen. ‘You dirty little bitch. I saw you you flirting with that delivery boy. ‘

He now stands right in front of me and reaches forward and roughly grabs my thick, permed hair at sharply pulls back my head. I yelp at the stab of pain. He just puts his face closer to mine and scowls all the more; my cherry red lipsticked lips quiver and my long neck is taunt with a fraught but eager tension.

‘Flouncing around in front of him like that,’ she snaps into my face. Flashing those legs and wearing that little skirt leaving hardly anything to the imagination. I bet you managed to bend over as well to flash him your knickers, didn’t you, you fucking slut.’

‘N-n-n-no My Lord,’ I stutter back, ‘I wouldn’t dare do such a course thing.’

‘Yes you would because you are a horny cock teasing little cow, aren’t you?’

‘No, I’m…’

‘Yes you are….DON’T ARGUE WITH ME!!’

He scrunches up my hair ever tighter and yanks my head back further pressing me against the kitchen cabinet, my hands splayed behind me on the worktop.

‘If I hadn’t of been around,’ he spits, ‘that boy would have been in here at a moment’s notice, wouldn’t he. I’d have been out at work, and you with your juices flowing in that needy tight little crack of yours would have had him in here, in my kitchen, and your tits would be out and your knickers down in no time and he would be sucking those tits wouldn’t he, and licking those long legs before bending you over and fucking you on the kitchen table- my kitchen table, wouldn’t he? Admit it, WOULDN’T HE!!’

I whimper from the sharp pain in my scalp from the crushed up handful of hair.

‘Because you don’t care, do you, you bitch. You’d let him fuck you, you’d let his spunk drip out of you onto the kitchen table where it would dry, and you would then be happy for me to come home from work, and sit at that table- even eat at table- where a young man’s spunk stain had seeped into the wood, a spunk stain created by him after lifting up the short skirt and pulling down the knickers of my wife. And you’d secretly fucking laugh at the sight wouldn’t you.’

‘No My lord, I would never, never….’

I try to look away from him. His anger is intense now, his eyes are boring through my skull. He had caught me flirting with the delivery boy- a delivery boy with flowers sent to me by My Lord no less- and he had read my mind, tracking my thoughts about the young man’s cock, how hard and virile it would be, how his strokes in my cunt would have been firm and deep, how my cunt would have tightened around that young shaft of flesh in depraved, unfaithful pleasure, if only My Lord had been out at work this morning…

With his free hand he reaches up to a wall cupboard behind me and flings open the door. It was a cupboard full of household stuff and he pulls out a short piece rough twine. He roughly turned me around so that I faced the tiled wall and I could feel his erection pressed hard into my buttocks. He deftly pulled my arms behind my back and I involuntarily bend a little over the worktop as with practised precision he bound my wrists behind my back with the twine. The course material burnt my skin as he tightened the bond around my wrists and I whimpered. My retribution was coming soon and as he reached up again and pulled down a large tub of Vaseline I now knew exactly what form it was going to take…

My hair still scrunched in his fist he pulls me upright and away from the kitchen counter. I stumble in my high heels as he man-handles me around to face into the kitchen. He pushes me towards the large oak table in the middle of the room. Sunlight suddenly fills the kitchen, bright morning sunlight on this February day. My heels click and scrape on the tiled floor as I struggle and whimper ‘no, no, please I’ll be better, I’ll be a better wife…’ but it makes no difference and I stumble and sink downward, my knees rubbing through the nylon of my stockings on the cold ceramic floor.

Then his crotch is in my face and once again I am in the position where I just wish his eager cock out there in front of me I want it free and bare and an inch from my darting tongue but instead there is just the usual [impressive] bulge in his trousers, his erection straining at his zipper.

His big hands go under my armpits and he pulls me back up to my feet and he is still scowling and I wonder for a moment whether he is going to slap me and I wait for the sharp sting with the usual mixture of thrill and dread but he doesn’t, he just calls me a filthy slag and tells me I’ve well and truly got what’s coming to me and he pushes me the short distance to the table.

He is behind me in no time and bending me frontwards over it. My tits push down hard into the bare oak and I struggle, trying to wriggle out of my bondage, trying to ease my wrists out of the bind behind my back, trying to stand-up right again but My Lord is even more forceful with his response, pushing my face down onto the table top, my right cheek pushed hard and painfully against the table surface as he bangs down the tub of Vaseline inches from my face.

It’s then that he tugs down my knickers. The small black panties are pulled ruthlessly off my bottom and down to my knees. He has one hand firmly between my shoulders as he holds me in place and he is growling, cursing. I hear the zipper of his fly and know that his cock must now be out and primed. I struggle to lift my head and look over my shoulder; I want to see that cock, I know it is big and angry and pulsing, I know its tight purple head will be straining to be inside of me and I want to see it but he won’t let me. I revel in its size: when he’s fucking me it fills my snatch it is so big I can feel it pressing the underside of my stomach when he is thrusting it fills my cunt it parts that sleeve with delicious ease and I surround him envelope him with all my need. He pushes my face down again onto the cool surface of the oak table then I can feel his cock resting in the crease of my arse and I begin to tremble.

But there is more: I’ve lost all fight now I just want it over and done with I just want to be fucked and I don’t try to wriggle away I just stay there bent over the table, my knickers around my knees my short skirt up around my waist, my arse high and ready on full display waiting, ready to be skewered by his big prick, and I can sense that he is taking off his belt and I am right, because in no time it is around my throat. The black leather is a noose around my neck as My Lord tightens it. It constrains me considerably but not so that I find it difficult to breath; but I am now totally at the mercy of My Lord and completely under his control. He tugs hard on the belt, the end of which is clenched in his fist and painfully my head is pulled up off the table. The black leather is tight on my neck, digging into my throat. The tip of My Lord’s cock is firm against my left buttock as he holds my head up by the belt with one hand, and dips his other into the tub of Vaseline.

In no time it is being smeared onto my anus, his lubricated fingers teasing and invading my aching, loosening hole. My cunt is also on fire, sparking with desire and I pull my arse up, trying to direct his fingers downwards, hoping they will slip into my snatch and rub the desire there, sate the need and push apart my soaked sex lips and widen and probe but he is having nothing of it, his fingers stay around my anus, teasing and one occasionally slipping into the hole taunting me, loosening me, and then his other hand is in the tub and then lifted away out of my sight and I know he is now covering his dick with the lubricant, he is glooping it on to his big hard cock and again I strain to see I want to have a look but he just snarls nastily, he shouts ‘keep your eyes straight ahead, you filthy fucking bitch!’ and grabs my chin and squeezes and it hurts as he pushes my face away from my backward glance then releases my jaw and grabs a handful of my hair again and pushes my wide-eyed now terrified stare downwards back to the table surface.

‘This is all you’re good for you smutty little slag, this, a hot hard cock rammed in your arse, rammed all the way in.’

And I let out a low wail as I feel the hard bulb of his knob ease its way into my anus. My arsehole yields and envelopes it then the whole shaft is sliding in and I claw at the table top and squeal with the delicious pain delighting in the obscene invasion of my arse his hard prick enveloped by my tight flesh and my cunt is still crying out to entered too, I fantasise about him thrusting the fingers of one of his hands in there but I think he knows I am desperate for this and so to intensify the agony for me, doesn’t do it.

‘Take this you fucking bitch!’ he shouts, half sliding out then ramming his cock back to me twice in rapid succession. ‘I’m going to teach you a lesson for flirting with that boy, I’m going to fill your arse with my own hot, fucking come, you over-sexed little slag…’

Still I claw at the table whimpering, writhing below him, impaled on his cock, my mouth trembling. Both his hands are now on my hips and he is bucking me, ramming his cock into my arse, pumping, pumping, his balls pushed hard against my arse with each thrust and he’s found that special spot inside me and I quiver and flood with pleasure, a painful delicious gratification, the pain of feeling his big cock hard within my anus, my arsehole tight around the grinding, violent thrusts of that wonderful rock hard dick and I feel him come, I feel his spunk flood into me, his fingernails digging deep into my bare hips and he spasms as do I, balanced now on the toe tips of my high heels as his come pulses into me.

Breathless, I sag with his last powerful stroke. My knees buckle and sated, he leans over my back, his cock still rammed in my anus but now unmoving and already starting to deflate.

Well, hole one has been filled and it’s not 9.00 a.m. yet. It’s going to a long- and eventful- morning, but believe me, this girl for one is not complaining, and I am already allowing myself a rye little smile, looking forward to the first seepage of his come out of my arse, and into my back-in-place knickers…

Valentine Hat-Trick Part 1

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara) — Tue, 28 Feb 2012 20:25:00 +0000

January is a very quiet time. The month just seems to slip by in a blur; the New Year invariably is a busy period at work for Alistair and I go almost into automatic mood, being the good efficient housewife, happy to keep the household in order with the expectation of any particularly nefarious thrills in the near future.

Having a ‘quiet’ period is quite nice actually. A bit of uneventful ennui for a few weeks can be soothing in a funny sort of way. After the hectic and full-on events of Christmas and New Year, it’s good to have a time when you can re-charge the batteries.

But by the time January is over and February is upon us, that period of relative uneventful quietness does start to get a bit boring; the humdrum- and largely sex-free it must be admitted, which is perhaps the most difficult part- starts to become a bit wearing. The chance to rest and hunker down with a book in the evening is a regular, enjoyable experience that starts to wear quite thin. So Valentine’s Day in mid-February comes as a welcome relief. We have our Lenten period of reflective denial over and done with early; by V-Day, it’s time to get back into the swing of some good old fashioned lust, general debauchery and energetic spanking again.

And so it usual for this time of year for Alistair to enjoy his ‘hat-trick’ routine. This quite simply involves a sustained day of me being a totally submissive housewife, and him depositing his spunk in my main three orifices, namely cunt, arse and mouth in the space of a few hours.

It starts a couple of days before when Alastair becomes My Lord. It’s a pretty straightforward routine whereby I become a traditional housewife in 1950s mode. I wear flouncy patterned dresses, sturdy Play-Tex bras that make my tits look like torpedoes, stockings and even a girdle which I know drives My Lord mad with passion but it is a passion he suppresses and doesn’t satisfy which of course builds up a –usually impressive- head of lustful steam.

And so I potter about the house at My Lord’s beg and call. It’s all simple routine, but nonetheless also builds up healthy levels of need within myself and I often feel myself becoming wet as I gaze down at my marigolds, washing up the dinner plates in the sink [the dishwasher is strictly out of bounds during these times]. The need to be quite roughly fucked in a number of holes grows ever stronger and the sense of denial over those few preceding days, only intensifies that need.

Finally, it is Valentine’s Day. The routine for me starts early. I dress in a short, flowery pink skirt, shocking pink high heels, sheer gloss hold up stockings, a tight white blouse and the obligatory little white lace pinnie. My hair is pulled back with an Alice band. My nipples are hard with anticipation. I provide My Lord with breakfast in bed at 8.00.a.m. He grumbles but I can tell he approves of my dress and drinks in my legs. I leave the bedroom happy, but of course not yet fully satisfied.

I then get down to some cleaning, dusting the living room with a little flounce in my step.
At 8.20 a.m. there is a knock on the door and I open it. It is a bouquet of flowers for me from My Lord and I flounce and flutter my eyes at the young man delivering them. I feel a pleasant little thrill as he looks wantonly at my tits in the tight, almost bursting white cotton blouse and appreciatively at my legs as I coo over the flowers.

Then I am back in the kitchen arranging them in a large vase. I can hear My Lord coming down the stairs. I busy myself with the flowers, humming quietly to myself. Then I can sense him stood in the doorway of the kitchen. He was more than merely watching me; I can feel his eyes appraising me and I can also feel the increasingly torrid waves of anger coming from him. He is very displeased with me and I dampen at the thought that it is about to start…

Find out what was in store for me in Part 2....

New Year Chores

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara) — Sat, 25 Feb 2012 16:37:00 +0000

It’s that time of year to get down on your knees and just scrub scrub scrub….

Had a treat in store for Valentine’s though…a full report coming very soon :)

An Explanation of ‘The Lifestyle’

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara) — Sat, 07 Jan 2012 19:25:00 +0000

You might be wondering, with good, reason, if I am such a submissive housewife, how am I able to write all this down? Do I do it with the express approval of My Lord and Master, does he vet everything before it is allowed to be published?

Well I’ll let you into a little secret…this log is my very own, secret place. This is my very own diary, my very own record of the relationship I maintain with my husband, and the lifestyle we have chosen to adopt and. as you will see, although much of it is directly controlled by My Lord, not everything within it is, and I have my own- sometimes illicit- freedoms within it.

I probably need to describe the mechanics of our relationship a little more. We operate as a partnership; I am the submissive part of the relationship and My Lord is the dominant one, but we work in an inter-related way- a ‘symbiotic’ one he’s told me, and that’s pretty much true.

My Lord for example may have the final say in all of the decisions that affect our household, but that doesn’t mean he makes those decisions alone. Sure he has that final decision, but he makes it after fully consulting with me and considering my opinion.

I am also allowed some leeway in my own life. I can keep a diary like this for example, without having to ask his permission although to be honest, as I have deliberated neglected to tell him about it, and were he found out about it somehow, I might well be in line for some serious punishment. You see we are supposed to have a completely open relationship in all senses. But a girl has to have her secrets, doesn’t she? Isn’t it what makes her alluring, a little mysterious, and mystery can’t be achieved through being a goody two-shoes all of the time, can it now?

Our relationship within ‘The Lifestyle’ isn’t consistently of one nature, either. It operates in degrees of domination/submission. We may go through periods where I am an abject slave, as the recent episode at the garden centre. It may last for a few hours, more as a ‘play’ device, or it can go on for a week or two, during which I live totally at the whims and command of My Lord. I cannot speak unless spoken too, cannot go to the toilet without his permission, I attend to all his needs no matter how menial or- sometimes- disgusting- and I am completely his sex toy. I am nothing but a play-thing for him to do anything he wishes to short of I must add, drawing blood, injuring me in any way or putting myself or anyone else in serious danger, as we do have a strict charter drawn up between us that is kept to stringently with regard to that sort of thing.

At other times, I am allowed to operate on a gentler, but no less strenuous level of dutiful, attentive housewife, which to be honest is the majority of the time. I still attend to his every need and am to a large extent his sexual plaything, but I have more freedom than when in slave mode. I can speak without being spoken to first, I am allowed to express opinions [within reason and respectfully] and enjoy a relatively flexible life where I can go and do as I please- again within reason of course, and under the strict understanding that My Lord is told at all times just what those movements are, and who I am seeing [if anyone].

I suppose the closest correlation I can think of is that of your archetypal fifties housewife. I even dress that way much of the time, although my form of dress does vary as demanded by My Lord. Sometimes it is dresses in pastels or gingham, but always of course with pointy high heels [usually slingbacks], stockings, traditional suspenders, and appropriate, matching lingerie.

Other times, I wear shorter skirts, often flouncy, flirty little skirts with hems that barely cover my stocking tops, the obligatory high heels and revealing, tight plunging neckline tops that barely hold my tits in place. I also, always wear a small lace pinny over my skirt. I vacuum, dust and polished dressed like this, although I am always, always if My Lord is around, very quickly bent over the kitchen table or back of a living room settee and given a good hard fuck, which of course always puts me in a better mood for finished the chores afterwards, although the countdown in my head has inevitably started towards my next servicing.

Ah, the sex. This is of course central the whole Lifestyle. Sex has always been very important to me, and in Alistair I have found the perfect foil for my often ferocious sexual appetite, that has of course its own twist of a thirst for domination- and, of course- the delicious swish, thwack and ache of pain. The intense pleasure of a complex, many-faceted orgasm is central to my life. It means everything, and finding ways of channelling pain and pleasure towards achieving that orgasm, is to me the very essence of my existence.

Does this sound over the top? perhaps,but this is a personal diary, my very own testament, and as I promised I am determined to tell it as it is, so there are no apologies from me on that count.

However…2012…a new year. Can’t wait to see what lies ahead!!! And for the first time, it is going to be recorded here…:))

Slavery, Submissiveness and Becoming Unexpectedly Aroused in Tesco's Car Park

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara) — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 19:34:00 +0000

It's probably clear now that our lifestyle has a number of different 'levels' that I, in particular, live within for certain periods of time. So it's probably worth a quick note on names and things just to clarify matters so you don’t get too confused!

When I’m in slave mode- that lowliest, but often most satisfying and, to be honest, most securest mode as I pretty much relinquish all responsibility for myself- which is paradoxically, fabulously liberating- I call my husband My Lord, and will refer to him as such in this diary. Out of slave mode and into a standard submissive [but still flirty] housewife one, I refer to him usually as Alistair or, if I am feeling or of course being made to be particularly submissive, I call him ‘Sir.’ ‘Master’ was used from the outset by me, and for old times I sometimes slip back into using that title for him.to him, and it now adds an extra bit of nostalgic ‘frisson’ to our relationship at any particular time and I use it to my own ends I must admit, usually when I am being caned or spanked, and I need that extra bit of enthusiasm put into his swipes at my bottom.

I was out shopping this morning and went down to the High Street for some bits and bobs. It’s still not that cold despite being the end of December and I put on a yellow and white small checked cotton dress, a little denim jacket topped off with a Hermes scarf Alistair had got me for by birthday a couple of years ago and of course the obligatory, yellow high heels. I love those shoes- shiny canary yellow, you can spot me a mile off in them, just how I like it.

It may be warmi[ish] for the time year but it is also very windy, and I never learn; as I walked away from the car in the supermarket car park a gust of wind blew up my skirt- it’s length was lower thigh just above the knee, not too short but still showing a good bit of leg, and before I knew it the up draft had put my skirt up above my stocking tops. It was in many ways a welcome gust; it was a lovely cold blow of air on my pussy, which I’d just shaved early to maintain its smooth, hairless sheen and so was still a little bit tingly, I made a show of struggling a little to push it down, thinking inevitably about this being my Marilyn Munroe moment and how I wished it was happening somewhere a bit more glamorous than Tesco’s car park, when suddenly Adam Reeve is stood in front of me and I think: well this is a turn up for the books.

So I go all girly and coy and pretend to be embarrassed by the unfortunate display whilst secretly thinking what perfect timing. Adam is gorgeous; late twenties and he’s already a junior executive in Alistair’s firm and, according to Alistair, should make Partner in a couple of years, so he is definitely going places.

However his executive talents were not high on the list of things I fantasied about him being good at, and I instinctively- as I do with all attractive men- glanced at the bulge in his trousers. He had to have a big cock, a good looking young man like him couldn’t have a small one, that would really just be way too unfair.

‘Ah, Mrs. Easton, are you okay there?’ he said, grinning at me and I smiled back. I wondered if he was mentally undressing me in the same way I was he; I definitely hoped so,

‘Just this bloody wind,’ I purred. ‘Catches you when you least expect it!’

And we laughed together and a minute or so of inane conversation followed. Adam has a touch of the Romany about him, I’m sure it’s in his blood, his his thick black hair, the warm glow to his skin and the trace of an accent that would at first strike you as Irish but which I think hints of some place else, some naughty, deliciously dangerous some place else.

Needless to say I was soon fantasising about lying before him with my legs spread, and him stood before me with his big cock erect and twitching against his belly, before he descended on me, pushing my thighs ever wider with welcome pain in my groin, as wide as they can go, my wet cunt spread wide, it’s lips opening, yearning, before he rams it into me and I scream as he fucks me senseless.

And so i stood in the gusty car park, my hair blowing around my face, having very arousing thoughts of his come dribbling from my mouth; I found myself breathing heavily, desperate to feel his young, thick prick tight in my snatch his body heavy on mine, my tits pressed into his chest, my thighs wrapped around his hips.

Well such thoughts liven up a morning’s shopping, do they not. And like I told you, I can be a very naughty girl as well, you know, and I may be a submissive wife, but that doesn’t mean I can’t have a little fun of my own, and I always promise myself to do just that, as and when I can… and I am thinking that with Adam, I may well just have to work at making the daydream a reality, one day...

Well Santa's Little Helper Gets a Mouthful [and more]

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara) — Tue, 27 Dec 2011 18:38:00 +0000

Christmas Eve went as planned, anyway! It's always nice when a plan goes to..well...plan :))

Not that it's particularly difficult to get what I want from Alistair during the Festive Season. He usually hunkers down into tired but lovable hubbie mode; it must be something to do with mulled wine, mince pies and the world stopping- for a little while anyway, not that it stops for very long these days, not like it did when we were younger. Now everything is closed for just one day, Christmas Day, then everything returns to that endless shopping opportunity routine. Don't get me wrong, I'm not adverse to shopping- what girl is- but I must admit I like that feeling when everything seems to have ground to a halt, the world outside has slowed down a little and life is that little bit simpler.

Probably explains why I enjoy the role of being a submissive wife. It makes things simpler, but as I've said before, not necessarily less interesting....

That said, I always get my way on Christmas Eve. I wear my little Santa's Helper outfit- red pixie boots, white stockings, little red velvet skirt and jacket, floppy red Santa hat with a small golden bell on it's tip and put the Christmas presents around the tree, making sure I bend over a lot giving Alastair a good view of my bottom and red lace thong and it doesn't take much to get him interested, even if he does at first feign it to try and frustrate me, but when I accidentally on purpose drop a few packages and get into a girly tizz about my butter fingers, he is soon on his feet taking his belt off, and that is just sooooo sexy, that action of his, pulling off his belt scowling at me telling me to be more careful, that I'm such a clumsy cow, then as I wobble in my spike heeled boots he puts the belt around my throat and tightens it- not a lot, just enough to secure me- and drags me down to my knees. His cock is big and hard and soon rammed in my throat and I lick and suck with all my little heart, and intense satisfaction at having my mouth filled by my masters hot, ready cock.

He doesn't come in my mouth though; I am tugged back up onto my feet and the belt is loosened and pulled off my neck. Roughly he turns me around and bends me over the back of the nearby sofa. With my face pushed down in the warm leather, from behind I get another form of leathering as my arse is whipped by his belt. The snapping thwacks send a juddering, blissful pain through my body, there are at least a dozen of them, growing in intensity as his anger mounts at my appalling lack of skill on the present delivery front, my failure, yet again, to be one of Santa's more accomplished little helpers and then after his cursing and the smacks of his belt have stopped, I can feel the lube being rubbed into my anus and I know his cock is slicked up too and then, then...bliss as his cock is rammed hard into my arse and I am well and truly buggered. With bells on. Quite literally actually, as the little bell on my hat tinkles away with each hard thrust of my Master's cock into my arse.

He takes his time to come but I don't mind- orgasm has already rippled through me a couple of times, a combination of having my clit pressed hard against the back of the sofa and the striking, ramming of his prick inside that other passage. A very satisfying way to see in Christmas Day if ever there was one.... well it's nice to have traditional festive season routine's, is it not :)))

Santa Baby

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara) — Sat, 24 Dec 2011 15:39:00 +0000

Trying to get my blog to look just right hen I have a chance...I think it's coming together. Busy time at the moment, with it being Christmas Eve, although alistair isn't being overly demanding of me at the moment. I'm hoping for a good seeing to later this evening though, when I do my Santa Baby routine for him, I'll let you know how that turns out!

The 'pin-up' template I was using for a week or so was fun, but i wanted to keep this blog relatively 'business-like,' but I liked it so much I'm going to use that other template for a blog I'm going to associate with this one- a more 'girly' place- which I'll probably call the'Naughty Housewife' or something. I'll put a link up to it as soon as it takes shape.

I hope you like the photo in my header- I'm wearing a pair of my favourite blue shoes and my panties are just where I like them...around my ankles! Ah, I'm such a happy little slut :)

Meanwhile, Merry Christmas and, for those of such a persuasion, I wish you a spankingly good New Year!

Garden Centre Treats

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara) — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 11:47:00 +0000

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?

Play Room Barbie

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara) — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 20:57:00 +0000

Friday night and Alistair came home cranky. Long week. I made a nice Beef Wellington and he opened a bottle of Merlot. He was tense but I was alive with anticipation; the worse his mood, the more chance I had of some rough- but very sexy- treatment, and I felt as if I had deserved that, I needed to be chastised and the gruffer and more off hand he became through dinner, the wetter I became.

I’ve already mentioned the play room. All manner of things go on in there, but one of its main functions is, simply, as a ‘toy’ playroom. My name is Barbara and guess what that reduces nicely down to? That’s right, Barbie, and one of my master’s favourite games is just that- I am his Barbie doll, his very own little fuck dolly and, of course, I dress to suit.

Pink is always the theme, well what else could it be? As I am filling the dishwasher the possibilities of what lies ahead jostle for attention across my mind’s eye. Will he be quick or take his time? Will it involve mechanical bondage, or just his own considerable, physical, brute force? Both hold their own special allure; although being pinned down by his strong arms, or his strong grip on my hair pulling my head back as he fucks me in the arse have a very delicious appeal to my senses today.

But back to the play room. I had our children- Daniel and Daisy- quite close to each other when I was in my twenties and they are now both away at university and, I don’t mean to sound as if I’m glad not to see them, but that’s where they stay most of the time, only visiting home periodically for a time during term breaks. That is, they are not tied to us and this house, forever feeling the need to return to it. They’ve found their own lives now in different regions of the country, and to my mind that is very healthy.

The up side to it is of course Alistair and I have plenty of freedom to live our chosen lifestyle, and to get the maximum of pleasure out of it. This includes having this play room- a relatively conventional room in the house- and a more heavy duty, darker ‘prison’ cell in the garage.

So the play room has a small bed in it, is full of light colours and fabrics and cutesy lacy curtains but also full of innocuous, jolly wooden boxes from IKEA full of decidedly darker toys and implements. This is where Barbie lives, and is regularly fucked enthusiastically in all available orifices, because this Barbie is never happier than when having semen dripping from her lips, or an aching cunt from a good, hard pounding by an eager cock.

So. I am dressed in a playful, flouncy short pink skirt. I have on my favourite pink, pointy high heels. Glossy hold ups, a tight pink top and immaculate, bimbo makeup. I am in my room, humming a Lady Gaga tune, bending over a box playfully arranging my collection of lacy underwear, which includes an inordinate number of negligible g-strings and baby dolls. Now then, a pretty standard, quickie routine goes something like this.

My lord and master enters the room and wastes no time grabbing hold of me from behind, pulling me upright by my hair. His other hand pushes up my short skirt and snakes its way purposefully into the small pink front pouch of panties. His finger rubs my clit and I struggle to resist, wriggle against his firm grip, the pain as he scrunches and pulls my hair tighter making me yelp. But he knows he has me, I am already wet as he gloops two fingers into my cunt. I can feel his hard cock pressed against my arse; I am going to be impaled on it soon, I know that, I know this is not going to be a slow burn of a fuck, it is going to be rough and hard and hot and I can’t wait.

He tugs me around to face him and pushes me down to my knees, my hair pulled excruciatingly tight, still in his hand. I kneel before him as he flips out his big, hard cock. It is twitching with need, pulsing with a barely restrained anger, semen already seeping out and I lick it off the top of the taunt helmet of his prick before wrapping my lips around it, and taking it fully into my mouth. I suck and he moans, his grip on my hair loosening but still firm. I can sense that I am soothing his savagery a little which has its pros and cons. I need some rough treatment tonight, I need to be told I’m a hopeless, dirty bitch, a filthy, stupid little slut, I need to be forcefully held down and fucked until the cows come home.

And of course something along these lines does happen. I slip my mouth off his cock and run the tip of my tongue down it’s shaft and then suck on his tight balls. I take it full into my mouth and tug and nip with my teeth and I sense him wince a little and I like this, as it reminds him that he may dominate me sexually, but we are still a partnership and I still can exert my own degree of power if I should wish to do so.

Then he is pulling my face away from his crotch and I am wobbling up to my feet again, a little unsteady in my high heels. He pushes me towards the corner of the room where I stumble and collapse to the floor. My back is wedged into the corner of the two walls and I sit with my legs open, my thighs wide, a negligible strip of silk covering my shaved snatch, his prize on full display, skirt around my waist the straps of my top having fallen off my shoulders. I can see in his eyes that tonight it’s going to short, sharp, very hard; his cock is pulsing, it’s tip hard against his belly as he pulls of his shirt then pushes down his trousers and steps out of them. I’m for it now and can’t wait. Snarling he approaches me then drags me to my feet. He tells me I am nothing but a pathetic whore, a plastic bimbo made to be fucked, that’s all I’m worth, that’s my only purpose, a doll to be crudely shafted until my cunt is red raw, I am nothing but a hole to take his spunk and all he has to decide is which hole to violate tonight, which hole to force his big hard cock into and fill with his sticky come.

He turns me around so that I am facing the other way and bends me over. I rest my hands on the soft, velvety wall paper covered in Disney princess motifs. With both hands on my hips he pulls my arse further out towards him, pushes my short skirt further up my hips and tugs down my panties. A kick to both my ankles opens my legs further and I’m breathing heavily now with anticipation; just where is his cock going to go tonight?

I can then feel it cradled in the crack of my arse. One of his hands slides round to my front and roughly grabs my left breast. He kneads it whilst rubbing his cock slowly up and down the crevice in my backside. Then grunting, he puts his hand into my top and pulls my tit out. He tweaks my hard, wanting nipple and an exquisite pain shots through me, sparking between nipple and wet, increasingly desperate cunt. His voice is rasping filth into my ear and then he releases his grip on my tit and his cock is sliding further down ever closer to its destination now, as he straightens up and puts both hands again on my hips.

If he’d wanted a longer play, he would of toyed with me and eventually have dipped into one of the boxes and pulled out a vibrator or a whip or a cane, or some rope which he would have hog-tied me with, perhaps even leaving me alone in the room for some time tied up on the floor with a vibrator up my arse, desperate in my desire to be degraded some more and fucked, denied my release with a delicious delayed need, but tonight we are both going to be united in a mutual frenzy of satisfaction.
The hard bulb of his prick teases the aching lips of my vagina. It lubricates itself with the flowing sex juices there, I can no longer control myself, I am moaning with a course, urgent craving.

I am pushing my arse instinctively towards him, urging him to stick it into me, trying to impale myself on his rod then I feel his thumb dipping down into my snatch, rubbing me above where his cock has teasingly just, barely, entered my slit and it is wallowing in the juices there. Then it is away a short distance to my anus, which he teases with his now wet thumb. My anus instinctively relaxes with my growing excitement and he slips his thumb into my arsehole at the same time he plunges in his cock, that wonderful cock that is all mine, deep into me and I scream with satisfaction. Now that he’s in there he wastes no more time. He pounds at my arse, his thumb pushed roughly ever further into my anus, and his strokes are urgent now, I can feel his big tight balls pounding against my cunt as he bangs into me almost lifting my heels off the floor as I press my palms hard against the wall. Then his thumb is out of my arse and he reaching forward to grab my hair again. He violently jerks back my head, my long neck straining and crying, my crimson lips pulled back over my teeth, I am close now to climaxing, so close keeping one hand on the wall and putting the other behind me, finding his hand on my hip and I grab it as I cry out again with painful pleasure as he rams me, pulling my head even further back as he slices into me and I cannot help myself I can only let go as his cock rubs my clit with demanding pressure and his hand on my hip releases my hand and he reaches round, his body now arched over mine as he fingers my clit and I spark into orgasm, I tremble and constrict around his cock, holding it an ever tightening grip as he straightens again letting go of my hair and my clit his hands back on my hips and he comes, he bucks and shoots his spunk into me, I can feel the thick hot come shooting deep into me and he thrusts, thrusts and empties his balls with a deep, triumphant growl.

I sag at my knees as he pulls out of me. Breathless, my cunt and insides on fire, I slump forward a little, still bent over, both hands back on the wall, spunk dripping out of my cunt.
Wordlessly he leaves the room. I have been well and truly seen to. Maybe, just maybe there may be more later if I play my cards right…all I can do is wait, and see, although I am sure of one thing: I am in for an eventful weekend…

Edith and the Kingpin

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara) — Sun, 20 Nov 2011 21:10:00 +0000

We live in typical suburbia. A nice brick detached house built in the thirties. It is nothing too showy; it’s perfectly ordinary and thoroughly respectable; well on the outside, anyway.

In fact I suppose the house we live in and our outward appearance is the cliché that proves the rule that clichés are the essence of truth. Behind the proverbial net curtains and the newish German company car on the driveway, perversities romp rampant.

So I’m sorry if I disappoint you with my predictability, but it’s no point pretending I am someone I’m not. I’m a tall, slim forty-something, middle class [well now, anyway] housewife with a carefully coiffured blond perm regularly maintained by Chloe at Mandy’s in town. I have nice tits, a neat arse and great legs. I am the consummate company wife, although I haven’t always been such, but more of that at some other time. I’m happy with my stereotypical image though, because it makes the sexual deviance and delicious depravity that goes on behind closed doors all the sweeter.

Do you know Joni Mitchell’s song ‘Edith and the Kingpin?’ It’s on ‘The Hissing of Summer Lawns.’ I always thought of myself as Edith; in fact as a young girl I would fantasise about being her, an attractive woman falling under the spell of a powerful man and I would take my fantasy further, I would be entirely in thrall to him, I would do his every bidding and allow him to do what he wished to me within the limits of relationship in return for his care and protection.

Don’t get me wrong; I am not a shrinking violet or a weak willed woman who would do anything just to be loved. Far from it. I used to be a career woman and a successful one at that. But that doesn’t necessarily mean I found it a ‘full’ existence; it was in fact quite empty, and in many ways the exact opposite to what I feel today, beneath the hand and kneeling in front of the hard, twitching cock of my Master, which stands a few inches from my face as the ultimate compliment, the ultimate statement of need.

Us

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara) — Thu, 17 Nov 2011 16:30:00 +0000

My husband is my master and I am to all intents and purposes in thrall to him but that is the lifestyle we have chosen and we may have clearly defined dominant and submissive roles- I am more than happy to be the submissive housewife- but we are also equal companions.

Our sexual relationship is electric and, I’m not ashamed to say, our relationship is based deeply within the sexual energy we generate between each other. That exhilarating sense of love, lust and emotional need we embody, as much ‘gland in gland’ as hand in hand, as my husband describes it more often than not. I of course always smile as this favourite little saying of his, although if I have had a tiresome day and I am in need of a severe spanking, I will raise a mocking eyebrow and purse my lips in faux mockery at the triteness of his witticism, and smiling inside will prepare myself for panties down in the Play Room.

Nature is based in balance. It is always seeking to find a balance, and will even create one if an imbalance persists. It’s a basic law of the universe and the Holy Grail of all human quest: to find emotional balance, and someone else to achieve that balance with.

I have my own blissful balance here, in this house, with my husband and master. I may be controlled and subjugated and privately [willingly] degraded and debased but I am also protected, cherished and loved without question. What more does anyone need, really?

Our relationship is our own religion. We need no other. I’ve read a lot about this submissive wife concept being a ‘Christian’ thing but we do not fall within the orbit of that or any other creed, well not in the goodie-two shoes Bible quoting fashion anyway. That’s not to say my husband isn’t connected to the church- he is, in a rather fundamental way, but more on that when the time is right- we do however have our own moral framework based in pleasure and pain. And if you want to get philosophical about it, it is perhaps not that different from what is found in the Bible really, because when it comes down to it, what is Christianity, if not a torture and death cult? Nothing wrong with that, but it’s a bit prissy to try and believe otherwise.

So my husband/master and I, we are enjoined as soul mates, but that doesn’t for example exclude my husband and master enjoying watching me being fucked by another man, if that so pleases him. The beauty in our relationship lies in its complexity, and one of the aims of this blog is to explain the various strands of that interweave to make up that relationship in its entirety.

A Snapshot

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara) — Wed, 16 Nov 2011 12:35:00 +0000

It’s always daunting starting something like this. It’s something I want share though….something I need to share. It’s something sublimely pleasurable, painful, humiliating, uplifting, tortuous and self-affirming in one sweet maelstrom of delicious submission.

Well one has to dive in somewhere and this is as good a place as any. Alistair my husband and master has just returned from work and I am in the kitchen preparing his supper as usual. I’m wearing nothing special, just the usual day wear as demanded- a simple blue shift dress, matching high heels, gloss tan stockings- and as he steps purposefully into the kitchen I am overwhelmed by the need to sink to my knees before him and wordless I do so. He doesn’t say a word, he doesn’t need to, as I pull down the zipper of his trousers and his already hard cock springs out and I waste no time in enveloping it with my lips and mouth and it’s there where it should be, firm in mouth. His hand are in my think, permed hair and this is bliss, this is how it should be, as he shoots into my mouth and, gratefully, I swallow my masters come. His seed, my nourishment.

I expect more later. Maybe bent over the back of the sofa he will fuck me till I scream, perhaps he will drag me out to the summer house and bind me then defile me, or maybe he will do nothing but sit in his study and ignore me, watching me squirm, enjoying my anxiety, my own frustration at being neglected, my own needs rejected…

…yet still there is pleasure in being denied. And of not being certain what he will do. The unexpected has a fascination of it’s very own and if it means I must at the end of the day pleasure myself with my fingers instead of enjoying being impaled on his hard cock then so be it. Because there’s always tomorrow.

Beginnings

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara) — Tue, 15 Nov 2011 21:26:00 +0000

It's a start. My story soon...