The Apple of her Eye
The Master I told him about hates apples, and yet he’ll eat one if it’s covered in his sub’s cum, but I want him to need more spanking. He’ll like that—if I tell him about more spanking. Maybe not just spanking, but fucking as well. I’ve been turned on all day; he said he wanted to fuck me when I awoke and saw him there, in my bed, this morning, but I had to go to a meeting instead, and I’m worked up. I had to go work myself up, in fact. It didn’t help. I’d rolled over onto my back with two fingers thrusting in and out of my pussy, and he’d appeared in a mist of whirling desire somewhere between the bed and the ceiling, sitting at a kitchen table in a pair of faded jeans and an old hoodie, eating porridge, and I came to the thought of him eating his fill while I knelt between his legs and took out his cock and sucked until I, too, had mine.
I’ve been worked up since I invented my Master, all so I can tell him bedtime stories, all the made-up adventures of my latest new creation. The things I do for him! Will it turn him on? I want it to. So he’ll roll me over and pull me up by my hips onto my knees and take me, there, on the bed, as I’m telling him all about the Master and the cum. But I don’t know whether I should add in more spanking. What would a Master do? I think that, maybe, there would be lots of spanking, but I’ll sleep on it.
I close my eyes and imagine I’m sitting there, watching, smoke curling above his head and working up to the ceiling, as he drains the last of his whisky, stubs out his cigarette, and tells me it’s time for bed. What would happen, I wonder, if I could make him know that I undress and slide into my sheets with that thought in my head? That thought of what he might do next. My skin makes contact with the cool cotton beneath me, and a surge of excitement engulfs the space between my legs. But I’m tired, and that’s why he’s not in bed with me tonight; why he’s not arching my body up to meet his mouth as he trails his tongue between my tits and down until he finds what he wants to take. And I let him have anything he wants, even if it takes all night. I haven’t been sleeping very well, of course.
I think of my Master and the apples; apple peel. How he could peel off my clothes, how he could take his nibbles, and suck on me, right down to my core. Then what does he do? Is he one who eats up all his apple? Does he recycle my core—make use of it again? And again? Or does he throw me away? Discard me? I don’t know. My eyelids are fighting gravity now; my head nestles itself in my pillow, as my hand lays itself on my pussy for comfort. Is this my core? Or is it somewhere much deeper? Will he find it? Am I worth investing the time in to find out? I’m not going to sleep well—again.
My phone makes a funny little noise; wakes me up. I think that, maybe, he’s started sending me texts, and I laugh at myself for even considering it. A social media sound—a message. A follower. I follow back. And I start to drift off again. But then there it is once more, this time a personal message: “I’m Terry. I’m 52. What are you into?”
And I’m half asleep, and imagining I’m talking to him, not some random stranger, so I answer: “D/s, spanking”.
Then another: “Do you just want to chat about it, or have you got real experience?”
Reply: “Bit of both.” And there’s no more noise coming from my phone now, so I try to go to sleep, but I imagine him smoking right now, and the cigarette smoke curls around me, wraps me in its wisps, pulls me close, and my cunt throbs.
Message: “I think I could give you some experience.”
And I wonder what the hell I’m getting myself into, but I roll with it, because I’m asleep now and it’s just a dream. I don’t want a Dom, a Master. But this is a dream. Isn’t it? I concentrate, fix all the details in my mind, so I can tell him all about it, when I awake.
Message from me: “I have no doubt you could. I’d like some advice on what to do, actually, if you don’t mind?”
Reply is immediate: “Sure.”
And we discuss the finer points of flogging, which he seems to like a lot, and how it might be nice being tied to a tree, legs spread apart, so the Master can satisfy himself right up between my legs; and how to use kitchen utensils as punishment for a naughty sub who needs her backside made raw by the thwack of a wooden spoon, and he describes how he would like my arse chewing on the wooden handle, as well as my cunt. And the way I imagine his voice to sound, deep and with a certain degree of seriousness and quiet urgency, as he tells me he would make sure I work hard to satisfy my Master’s cock with my mouth and my pussy and my arse, lets my dreaming head fill out the details, and my imagination do its work. I’m aroused, drenched between my thighs, but not at the conversation, not at the subtext going on here—at the thought that I’m going to tell him all this, and I wish I could imagine right now what it will be like when I do. Will he blow smoke ringlets at the ceiling from the bed, while he listens? Will his cock be hard? Just for a moment, I wonder if he could be jealous that I’m discussing my creation with someone else. With another invisible man. One who wants to fuck me. But that’s stupid, because I’m dreaming, and it doesn’t matter.
But it does matter, somehow, and I become restless, and my hands are clammy and all over me because I want him to take my tits in his mouth and suck and graze my nipples with his teeth before he says goodnight, but I’ve already decided I’m not going to let him in tonight; then I see him in my bedsheets, his head nestled contentedly between my legs. He looks up at me and I fix my eyes on his wide, grey ones, staring in devotion at me through his eyelashes, as he begins lapping at my pussy, gently at first, flicking at its folds, nipping my clit between his lips, then tentatively circling my cunt as another message comes in: “I still think I could give you practical experience.”
Reply—as his tongue tip pushes its way into my entrance and I feel how hot it is against my tender flesh, and I let out a moan: “Cheeky.”
And his tongue is inside me, moving in and out, and there’s a message: “I’m serious.”
And the way he licks his way up my body, kissing up one leg to the inner thigh and back down the other, and nibbling and sucking at my navel; how he flicks at my nipples that stand to the attention of his mouth, until he finds my lips, and he presses his tongue into my mouth; how the velvety maroon of his cockhead slides against my wet pussy lips, working its way to my entrance; how all of this—this—tells me that it’s very serious indeed.
But when he hears me tell him all about the real dream adventures with a Master, I know he’ll want to punish me. I’ll make him. I want him to punish me. I want to be spanked. I want him to tell me to bend over the bed and pull down my knickers to my knees while he fondles my pussy and brings his other hand down hard against my backside. I want to tell him all about it while he makes me grip my vibrator with my pussy and spanks me, over and over, because then I always let him fuck me, and he kisses me, and tells me how much he enjoys releasing himself inside me, but the words won’t come. Am I still dreaming? Come—I want to come. But all I have is my imagined vision of him, sucking my clit, pushing his fingers into my cunt, except they’re not, they’re my fingers, and I’m rubbing hard on the ball that sticks up and offers itself to his lips, if only they would suck. And I’m hot and writhing on the pillow, and I don’t know if he’ll be mad with me and it makes me cry because I don’t want him to be mad with me, and I want him to punish me, and I want him…and I come, there, in my bed, alone.
I can’t sleep. I have to write it down to remember it all. Do I tell him all about it? I think—yes. I want his hand on my arse. Even if I do have to imagine it. All of it.