Tuesday, April 8, 2008

Play

by the philosopher
Friday, 9 February 2007

[a birthday gift 6 days after we met, from the man who now owns me.]

Cats, they say, don't like water. "They" have obviously never seen my little kitten in the shower.

The hot water beats down on your soft flesh, soaking into your tired muscles, and melting away the tension and the stress. The scented lather, in great fluffy mountains, works its way across your body, herded by your wicked hands, until every intimate corner has been touched. . .

touched. . .

touched. . .

You snap to. No time for this now. . .no time to linger under the sensuous cascade. . .no time to stroke and pet and bring yourself to ecstasy. No, tonight is special.

Stepping out of the shower, you grab a large fluffy towel and begin drying yourself. You lay the towel out on the floor. . .it is VERY large. . .and kneel in the center. You start applying baby oil, taking huge gobs of it from a nearby bottle, and applying it liberally to your body. You twist and flex like a pretzel, making sure that every part of you is kissably soft. . .after all, every part of you will be kissed. . .and stroked. . .and explored.

Finished, finally (you were VERY thorough), you now stand before a three-part mirror, one that gives you access to every part of your body. Time to dress.

This is the hard part. You are not merely dressing yourself. . .not merely grooming. You are offering yourself to eyes. . . and lips. . . and brazen hands of another. This is not about what you want. . . about what you think looks good.

You must learn to see yourself as an object. . .an object of leering attention, of unrestrained lust. An object to be possessed. . . owned. . . used.

You let your eyes wander over your reflection. Will you satisfy?

You smile as you realize the answer is yes. . . yes. . . a million times yes. . .

Reaching into a jewelry box, you take out a wide necklace that fits snugly around your throat. More of a choker really. . .at least that's what it's called. But you and I know what it really is. . .

A collar. . .

You stand there, gazing at yourself in the mirror, fingering the collar at your neck, letting its full meaning sink into you. . .penetrate you. . .warm you. . .

Your hand starts to creep down your body, but you catch yourself. That's not for you. . .not tonight.

You select a pair of panties, pink, frilly, very fetching. You put them on, and carefully scrutinize your reflection, from all angles, turning this way and that, to get the full effect. Panties are difficult. . .sometimes they are a bother, to be simply ripped away; it's better to go without.

But sometimes. . .sometimes. . .they are a joy to peel off, like the wrapping being removed from a present, a special gift. As they make their way down your slightly parted thighs. . .glacially. . . torturously. . .slowly revealing the treasure they conceal. . .it drives me wild, and you know it . . . sometimes I remove them using only my teeth, like a dog tugging on a rope, playful and determined. . .the panties are important. . .

But the pair you are wearing are now soaked through, you naughty girl.

You seem completely unable to control your thoughts tonight. . .

- - - - - - - -

If I close my eyes, I can see my kitten, posing in front of her mirror, preening and grooming, anxious to please.

I can smell her fragrance, the sweat that glistens on her skin when she gets excited (and she's always excited. . .and exciting). I can see her rub the oil all over. . .and I can see her when she's naughty, touching herself without permission.

I see her remove her panties, damp and scent-filled.

I see her select another pair, a mere thong that conceals nothing, but emphasizes the soft curve of her hip, and draws the eye down, past her belly. . .

My kitten has chosen well. She poses again, turns this way, then that, as if she knows I can see, and wants me to look.

Then a dress, form fitting, scooped in the back, low-cut in front. The naughty girl has foregone a bra, and her insolent nipples are plainly visible, daring me to suck them.

Finally, a pair of shoes. Impossibly high heels. . .she teeters precariously, almost on tiptoe. I know she hates such shoes, finds them uncomfortable. . .but I also know that she appreciates what they do: thrust her breasts out, make her buttocks more prominent, her legs seem even longer and sleeker. She walks back and forth a bit. . .she is forced to sway, and she can't run. Her feet are essentially bound. . .she is rendered exposed and vulnerable.

Just as she finishes, and gives herself one final examination, the doorbell rings.

She struts over, fast as she can. . .and I can almost see the surprise on her face when she opens the door. . .

It's not me, but a large man in a driver's uniform. She starts to stammer that there must be some mistake, but he hands her a card. It says: OBEY.

She understand and nods.

She follows him down, riding the elevator in silence.

He opens the door of a long black car, holding it for her, waiting.

She looks around. I am nowhere in sight. She takes one deep breath, to calm her nerves. . .

and then enters the car.

The door is closed behind her.

- - - - - - - -

The windows of the car are tinted. . .you can see out, but no one can see in. There is a partition between you and the driver. It is opaque. No one can see you, you are quite safe. . .from everyone but me.

The driver has his instructions. You will know what they are soon enough.

A phone rings. You jump at the sound, and a quick search turns up the cell phone.

You answer. A voice, deep and familiar responds. "Hello, kitten. Are you ready?"

You can hardly speak, the blood rushes through your ears, pounds in your head, but you manage a breathy "Y. . .Yes."

"Good. I can tell by the sound that you are getting close. Are you wearing that scoop back dress I like? Take it off. Strip for me, sexy."

Your heart flutters as you realize I knew exactly what dress you chose, but you comply. Soon you are in nothing but your panties and your shoes. . .and your collar.

But what did I mean by "close", and what did I hear? The only thing you can hear is a crowd of people outside. The driver has parked near a stadium, and a game of some kind must be letting out. The home team has won, and the crowd is drunk and raucous.

"You may touch yourself now, kitten." From the tone of voice, you understand that you are required to. You look nervously out the window. Can you be seen? The glass is tinted. . .but. . .

The crowd is swirling around the car now. Revellers are climbing on the hood, pounding on the roof. . .pressing up against the glass, trying to see in.

Can they? You reach for your dress, try to cover yourself with your hands.

"No, kitten. . .I want you to masturbate. . .do it. . .for me. . .now!"

You reach down and are surprised by your wetness. You begin to stroke, to rub. . .and your breathing is rough and ragged . . .

The crowd is cheering, shouting. . .and as far as you know they are cheering for you . . .

4 comments:

Phil said...

Hmmmm....hot little fantasy and fantastic writing.

oatmeal girl said...

mmm... he IS a fantastic writer, isn't he... i love to show him off... he wooed me with his words, it was supposed to be all in fun but our words got the better of us, they laid their own traps, and we both fell in.

marianne said...

ohhh... I wanted more. What happened next? ;)

oatmeal girl said...

marianne, i had the exact same reaction when he first sent it to me. the stadium was just a stop on the way. what happens when i get to his house?

he has other stories of displaying me. i haven't yet posted my favorite. but he always stops short of sharing me. he's frightfully sweet for a sadist...