15 minutes between when I leave the office and when my Master arrives at the house. I rush home from work and take everything 0ff. Shoes, shirt, slacks, underpants, bra, socks, support knee-hi's for the surgery and medication-instigated swelling in my legs... I take the combs from my hair, the silver from my ears, watch and ring from my arm and hand...
And I leave the glasses
I greet my Master in my glasses.
I offer him my mouth while wearing my glasses.
I suck on his cock, glasses pressed against his belly.
The world grows a little vague.
I fight not to lose focus as I swim in the joy of his presence and his body and his sweetness and his cruelty and the amazing, complex bond between us. I fight not to lose focus and at that I am more or less successful. At least it is something I have a chance at controlling.
Keeping my glasses clean is a lost cause.
Occasionally, recently, he has removed them. Perhaps twice. I see reasonably well without them as long as I don't have to read. And without them the world is not obscured by the fog of passion and the smudges of sweat.
Actually, except for their inconvenient interference with certain angles of kisses, my glasses don't bother me. My eyes are not one of my better features. One is bigger than the other, and not very big even then, one doesn't move properly, both have short, thin lashes... surrounding them with thin purple frames can only help, I think.
But that's not why he makes me keep them on. Men have obsessions. They all have their own obsessions. And lately, it seems, I have been blessed or cursed with men who have a thing for glasses.
Perhaps it goes with an attraction to intelligence.
In which case I'm in good shape.
In any case, what I think is irrelevant.
Bra, glasses, panties - on or off -
Whatever he wants,
Which makes us both very happy.
(And yes, his visit on Wednesday made us both very happy.)