I realize this is play: I can be what I want as long as I don't hurt him.I realize this is play: I can be what I want as long as I don't hurt him. I feel like a goddess dispensing a sacrament. Holding the gag against his lips, I might as well have said, "Take this and eat, in remembrance of me." That's the embarrassing part. It was an ego thing. I was suddenly benevolent and forgiving, caring for a fragile mortal that worshiped me, looking down at him, holding him, controlling his destiny if I wanted. He was mine, all mine. I felt an unbecoming and certainly unladylike sense of power, maybe like those Hollywood socialites that kept a panther on a leash years ago. They controlled a powerful, dangerous animal, with gentle- ness and subtlety, and probably felt compassion for the animal that they had taken freedom from. I tightened the chains so he was stretched out full length. And then, and then .... Oh No! Could this be a cliffhanger? Tune in next week, for Nurse Jones, in nothing but four inch heels, for whom brevity is the soul of lingerie. and lingerie the soul of wit. But wait ... (!) Is there more? Yes! Just kidding. I couldn't really do that to my knights in shining armor. Then I shaved him. Lovingly. Intentionally, carefully, I avoided any hint of the sense of humiliation and embarrassment that I felt when he had shaved me months earlier. (Don't get me wrong. It was erotic humiliation when he shaved me. And later, well ... in retrospect, if there wasn't such a long recovery period, and if I didn't want to keep my job, I'd do it for him again. Or let him do it to me. Whatever. But I'd have to think about it.) I held myself against him while I did it, stroking his body with mine. I dangled my nipple pendants against him. I caressed him with the razor, using skin conditioner as shaving cream and working in little patches rather than covering him all at once. And I kissed every inch of him, testing with my lips for stubble as I worked him over. Over him. Whatever. I sat astride his chest, my boots against his ribs and, pressing my--nether self?--against his abdomen, I shaved his face. He had just shaved in the shower anyway, but I did it again, just for the chance to be near his face, to work (and kiss) around the gag, and look into his eyes, searching for reassurance, giving it to him, showing my concern. |