Friday, February 27, 2015

D/s play-time: EXPLORATIONS files

I'm re-running the stories that serve as deep background forEXPLORATIONS. The story continues from this post.

So Friday afternoon to Sunday morning was our play-time. 

When I got home from class at around 3pm Friday, I went to my room (though we were an engaged couple sharing an apartment, it was important to our domestic-disciplinary regime, as well as useful for some of our ageplay scenarios, that I should have my own room) and ceremonially removed whatever I was wearing. I say "ceremonially" because I delighted in treating it as a ceremony, playing at reluctance, playing at shame, taking off each article and laying it in its place and thinking about what taking it off meant, about the way I was making myself ready for Charles to use me.
I would take off my bra, and think about what it meant to be a young woman with breasts uncovered, about the salacious thoughts men have about topless young women. I considered what Elizabeth Bennet might have felt, had Mr. Darcy required that her own little breasts (of course they were little, since mine are) be left bare, so that he might fondle them to his heart's content. Purely for learning's sake (I told myself, pretending to be the said Miss Elizabeth Bennet), I touched mine, and allowed my thumbs to explore my little pink nipples, just to prepare myself for Mr. Darcy's arrival. If I spent longer doing this than Mr. Darcy would truly have approved of, I blamed my inexperience and want of knowledge of a husband's desires.

I would take off my jeans, and my everyday cotton panties, and think about what it meant that I was shaved for Charles, that now it was time for my pussy and my ass to belong to him, that I was going to put on underwear that was meant not for my comfort, but for his enjoyment in seeing my cunt and bottom dressed in it, and above all in taking it off. Thinking about Jane Austen at this point (that is, when completely naked and deliciously conscious of my freshly shaved pussy [I shave every Friday morning without fail]) tended just to make me laugh, so instead I thought about O. And I (as a salutary training-exercise, you understand) would generally practice assuming Charles' favorite submissive positions, on my bed and over various articles of furniture. To make the training authentic, of course, I would have to work one or two fingers into my asshole, so that I could practice my submissive moans and whimpers at the sensation of being mastered there.

I then donned (usually) a lace thong, and went to wait for Charles to return from teaching at 4. I knelt next to his throne, in the living-room (not unlike the way my character Chuck Auberge , dominant polygamous Prophettown husband, commands that his youngest junior-wife position herself every day, in Emily and the Training-Shed of Prophettown) and tried, very often unsuccessfully, not to play with myself more than I inevitably had already. Charles always took care of dinner on Fridays, and asked nothing of me but my erotic submission, leaving me this time for meditation (as I soon began to think of it). He had proposed this part of the system based on the long periods O spends tied up, or just waiting to be enjoyed, especially at Anne-Marie's; he'd proposed it really just to see what I'd say, and I'd jumped at the idea, having always been fascinated with that part of Story of O.

I'm not going to claim that what seemed to me the spiritual insights I gained, kneeling in my thong next to my beloved's chair, waiting to pleasure him, were on the level of those to be gained in Ignatius of Loyola's Spiritual Exercises, but I will always maintain that for me it was a lovely way to end the week, and a lovely way to take stock of my good fortune, BDSM-related or not. Knowing that that was where I was supposed to be, that if the phone rang I didn't have to answer it, that the man I loved would be happy to see me there, even if his class had gone terribly, that this was a full and perfect offering of my erotic self to him, which was my reasonable erotic worship of him, all of that seemed to take the tension from me so thoroughly that I often actually drifted off to sleep, my head pillowed on Charles' throne's seat, to be awakened by his tender kiss.

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