The rewards of disloyalty
They sat at lunch, two friends sat next to two knowing friends, a jolly foursome chatting and eating and drinking. The rope master, his girlfriend, his apprentice and the polite younger man that his passed on skill had won her. All four knowing the score, knowing ourselves, knowing our secrets. Two master binders. Two hopeless rope sluts. Two happy submissives both being occasionally, surreptitiously, but very surely pawed.
Each couple had plans after. Miss had refrained from her usual Friday pleasure of pumping her toy to a series of crushing climaxes. Now scant days later she planned to rectify that by taking him home, breaking out the baby oil and taking a firm grip on the knoblet to pump and twist and grind his nuts and keep him waiting snd guessing whether she'd let him blow at all. Even though she almost certainly would. She enjoyed feeling him tremble and shake too much.
Before that though some Miss time. Tender caresses and lotion. Kisses under the covers and teasing little strokes on the smallest of spaces. Her obedient toy, eager to please and granted that privilege.
But before that some penance. Not because she really cared about his dalliance with his other Mistress. She was too pragmatic and sensible. She recognised his need to atone though. So when they got in, after a bath to soften his skin and tidy his chest of hair (the better for biting later) she ordered him upstairs to dress in his thin red satin nightie and select the implement of his own chastisement.
He returned to the lounge, and took position at the fireplace, hands spread on the mantelpiece, head hanging in both shame at his disloyalty and to avoid the eye of the better man watching down from the picture frames placed there. The strokes that came whistling in hurt but were not full blooded. He was marked but unblooded. His tears were mopped, and fresh tears milked with consoling mauling of his chest and knoblet between the strokes. Cared for but corrected. Marked in a way that would teach him and also make him jealously peer back at his bottom and see the marks there complementing the bruises on his torso and arms from the biting after...
All this depended only on his Miss to read it, to make it happen.
Just a simple text to confirm.
'Okay'. Not 'ok'. Not 'yes'. Just - 'okay'. Just so to confirm that all that was outlined would happen just as he'd suggested. He published and hoped. The message that would set it all in train. The terror and anticipation of pre-knowledge.
He waited
Each couple had plans after. Miss had refrained from her usual Friday pleasure of pumping her toy to a series of crushing climaxes. Now scant days later she planned to rectify that by taking him home, breaking out the baby oil and taking a firm grip on the knoblet to pump and twist and grind his nuts and keep him waiting snd guessing whether she'd let him blow at all. Even though she almost certainly would. She enjoyed feeling him tremble and shake too much.
Before that though some Miss time. Tender caresses and lotion. Kisses under the covers and teasing little strokes on the smallest of spaces. Her obedient toy, eager to please and granted that privilege.
But before that some penance. Not because she really cared about his dalliance with his other Mistress. She was too pragmatic and sensible. She recognised his need to atone though. So when they got in, after a bath to soften his skin and tidy his chest of hair (the better for biting later) she ordered him upstairs to dress in his thin red satin nightie and select the implement of his own chastisement.
He returned to the lounge, and took position at the fireplace, hands spread on the mantelpiece, head hanging in both shame at his disloyalty and to avoid the eye of the better man watching down from the picture frames placed there. The strokes that came whistling in hurt but were not full blooded. He was marked but unblooded. His tears were mopped, and fresh tears milked with consoling mauling of his chest and knoblet between the strokes. Cared for but corrected. Marked in a way that would teach him and also make him jealously peer back at his bottom and see the marks there complementing the bruises on his torso and arms from the biting after...
All this depended only on his Miss to read it, to make it happen.
Just a simple text to confirm.
'Okay'. Not 'ok'. Not 'yes'. Just - 'okay'. Just so to confirm that all that was outlined would happen just as he'd suggested. He published and hoped. The message that would set it all in train. The terror and anticipation of pre-knowledge.
He waited
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