It was the Friday before my birthday weekend. I was home with Blackie. He sat on the sofa; I was sitting at his feet in his favorite position: nude, on my knees (spread wide), my arms tightly bound behind me, back arched so that my breasts are up, with my head resting (if you can call it that) on the edge of the sofa cushion as Blackie held my hair — looped around his wrist twice then held in his right hand.
In this position, I have very little range of movement (and over time, even less comfort); Blackie has full access & control. I knew he had something in mind because I was also wearing the larger ballgag — something Blackie usually reserves for very unreserved plans (or in hotel rooms etc., when we travel, to keep my noise down).
He sat, rather ignoring me, lazily playing with a riding crop in his left hand, keeping me on edge.
There was a knock at the door. I jumped. As well as I could in my position anyway. I turned my head the inch I could and rolled my eyes at him, asking if he was expecting anyone. He steadily looked me in the eyes and said, “Marc is coming by to drop off some papers.”
Marc is this young guy, just a year or two older than I, who I actually met the same night I met Blackie. Both men were in the bar, both men were hitting on me, but Marc was just, well, a slick jerk who thought he had skills as a “playa” but didn’t. He’s annoyed — and creeped me out — ever since. Something Blackie has enjoyed every time our paths have crossed, taking delight in making me be polite while Marc drooled all over me. Now Blackie was claiming Marc was here, at our home? Invited even?
Incredulous, I thought he must be joking. If there was any mirth in my eyes, Blackie stoically watched as it faded.
“It’s open, Marc,” Blackie called.
Instinctively I tried to move, even though I knew I couldn’t. I felt Blackie’s grip on my hair tighten just a second before he yanked it soundly.
Marc appeared out of the small foyer. He stopped dead in his tracks, drinking in the scene. “Damn,” he said, trying to reinstate his air of faux cool.
“Did you bring them?” Blackie asked.
“Got ‘em right here,” he said, striding fulling into the room and proffering some papers to Blackie. Blackie, I gather, waved them away with a dismissive, “I received my copies by fax this afternoon.
“Yeah?” Marc replied, who still couldn’t take his eyes off me, a miserable blush of a mess at Blackie’s feet.
“Yeah, so why don’t you tell Pinkie here, what you’ve brought,” Blackie commanded more than asked.
Marc took a few steps forward, so that he was right before me, towering over me, and placed some pages in front of me. They were at an angle, so I couldn’t read them — not that my addled brain could have made sense of even Mother Goose at that time.
“What I’ve got here, Pinkie, are papers to fuck you — and fuck with you,” he said smugly.
I think I shook my head — to clear it, or in denial, I don’t know — but I felt the hairs strained in Blackie’s grip.
“Happy birthday, baby,” Blackie breathed onto my neck, taking a nip of my left earlobe.
Tags: BDSM relationships, humiliation
[...] Pinkie And Blackie The Colors Of Our Love; The Blossoming Of Our BDSM Relationship. « Birthday Wishes? [...]