Comfort eating

I'm curled up on some cushions at The Photographer's feet, wearing a kimono and in leather collar and cuffs (both ankles and wrists). We're having dinner and watching a film. I've cooked and served him a meal, passing him his glass of wine when he needs it, topping up when required and leaning back to have my hair and neck played with.

He paused the film for a while to have his cock sucked for a few minutes before it was time for dessert. I think we're both very content, in general and at this particular moment. Happy, certainly and very much at ease with each other. Used to the other's body and generally enjoying the company. We've been chatting a little about how we're doing, in a mild self-congratulatory way: our compatibility did take me by surprise, and we've both grown more confident in our play, our pleasure and the relationship itself. Which has become a relationship.

I've been playing with my pudding in an absent minded-way, as I often do, wiping the remains of the raspberries, yoghurt and baklava from my plate with my fingers and licking them. In a very relaxed but firm movement he takes the plate from me and presses my face against it, gently, I don't resist and bow my head.

I feel a shiver of excitement run up my spine as my nose makes contact with the china and I lick the remnants of the food from the plate. The action seems so right, so much in place and welcome. The touches of D/s in something otherwise so daily. After a few moments he lets go and I continue for a while until the traces of honeyed fruit are sadly gone. I turn around to look at him and he's smiling, I grin back, then look quizzical:

"I think there's yoghurt on my nose"

I've always had a wonderful sense of timing.