In a week or so, The Photographer is coming to stay with me for a couple of months, I've been idly toying with various ideas for things we could do when our lives are no longer restricted to weekends (and the need to fit in dates with other people at the same time). I like the idea of always been ready, always available, easy access skirts and shirts. Of being grabbed by the hair when I get in the door, a hand closing around my mouth, pushed into the bedroom and over onto the bed. Fucked on all fours, rough and ready fashion. No words, just an expression of want and ownership. His.
And then the switch in me flips, and I think of things I'd like to do to him, how I'd like him to serve me - oral sex as an alarm clock, towel at the ready when I step from the shower, wearing a chastity device so no-one else can touch him but me. I want to take him out, show him off then take him home and indulge myself. Mine.
I catch myself grinning at the thought of it, the dailiness of it, being able to incorporate these little kinks and quirks into a routine, into a life. Everyday reminders of my connection to him, and his to me. Ours.
Abandoned to his fate in inescapable rope
3 months ago