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NSFW: Pigtails Please
By Tonya Jone Miller | September 10, 2008
Inspired by my lovers, both phone and physical…
The text message is short and effective. “Pigtails please.” The two words act instantly on my body. I feel my gut clench and I know if I were to slip my hand into my panties, I would find wetness. I stand before the bathroom mirror in a black cotton babydoll dress and part my hair down the middle, pulling it up into perky pigtails. The simple act of obedience makes me flush warm. I am afraid to drive with the platform patent leather maryjanes on, fearing the mammoth heels might get stuck under the brake or gas pedal. So instead I go barefoot, the obscene shoes dangling off one finger and then tossed in the passenger seat.
I remember reading somewhere that driving barefoot is illegal. I have no idea if it’s true now, or if it ever was, but I have always believed it to be. Coupled with a Bad Lieutenant experience when I was sixteen, a little thrill shoots through me at the thought of being pulled over. But I stay just beneath the speed limit and slow for every yellow light. It wouldn’t do to keep him waiting. I pride myself on punctuality- never inconveniently early, but never late.
I park and check myself in the mirror one last time before slipping into the impossibly high heels. Work on the house across the street screeches to a halt as I walk from my car to his front porch, but there are no catcalls. None that I can hear anyway. It seems like he always keeps me waiting at the door for an extra minute, the anticipation making me shake just a little. Or maybe it’s the shoes. Either way, when I am finally granted admittance to his home, the swell of relief and familiarity is instantly comforting.
We spend some time getting reacquainted and reconnected before moving into his play space. I scan the array of implements designed for one reason alone- to inflict varying degrees and kinds of pain. “Which one do you want?” The decision is too much pressure, and I start to shut down. What if I choose poorly? What if I upset him? Or worse, what if I disappoint him? I start to talk. Needless, useless words. He silences me with a sharp jerk of my nipples that doubles me over. Somehow I can bring myself to say everything but the truth- I want to not have a choice.
One thing I have learned is that it is, as “they” say, always the ones you least expect. And if you were to judge by his kind smile, attentive conversation, and solicitous manner, “they” would be so right. It would be unsettling if it weren’t exactly what I want. I want. I know empty, and it’s not a bad sensation sometimes, being ready to be filled. But he will not accept emptiness or detachment from me. He can sense when I’m withdrawing and knows exactly what to say, how to strike. The blows rain down on my body, lightly at first, and then with increasing pressure and intensity. They will leave marks for days, welts and bruises will spring to life and age over time, changing shape and color before fading into a sweet ache. They are my badge of honor I wear proudly, reveling in my delicious, scandalous secret.
Each time, I take more than I think I can and it is proof that I am stronger than even I know. I like almost everything but the intense heaviness of the flogger. I adore the leathery lick of the cat-o-nine, the sting of his open hand, and surprisingly, the radiating, inescapable heat of a cane. But it is the single tail that seduces me. He is adept at inflicting with it a gentle kiss, a light flick, a hard welt. The softest, almost-silken caress to a slicing razor’s cut. From now on, when I see the pretzel stand at the mall, it will make me hungry for the small knot of leather at the end of his whip.
I am close. I want him to stop but not enough to conjure the safeword onto my lips. I don’t think I can take anymore. He knows I can. Ten more. I do not count them, I can only cry out as each lash strikes the tender pink flesh of my ass and thighs. And then the explosion of emotion is everywhere and I sob and it is wonderful and terrifying and finally finally finally I feel. Good enough, pretty enough, skinny enough, smart enough, sexy enough, enough. Wanted. Accepted. Loved. It is an orgasm of myself and a gift he gives, taking only my tears in payment. Later, on my knees, I will attempt to show my appreciation. Yet still when I leave, I feel as though I owe him.
Topics: My Life | 3 Comments »
September 11th, 2008 at 8:03 pm
Oh dear… this is good.
And given that my lover sent me a message to read it, I think I’m in delicious trouble…
September 14th, 2008 at 10:55 pm
[...] the other day I wrote a short piece of erotica on my personal blog, and I must say it’s really quite hot. *grins* One of the best things [...]
September 18th, 2008 at 1:04 pm
Hope Opening Night was a success! I’m sure it was! Continue to “Break A Leg”. From one theatre friend to another!
Melody