Tryst, Take 2

There will NOT be an emergency this weekend.

We WILL use the hotel reservation I just made.

I WILL wear my little black dress for him, even though it will be totally inappropriate for either a sports bar or a casual restaurant. After all, as he said: "Fuck 'em. I want to see you in it. "


And so he will.
He'll see me 
in it.
And out of it.

Damn, that turns me on.
I think of it
and my pussy starts to scream.

Can you hear it?
Can you?
Can you smell it?
Can you taste it?


It's all his...

Mistress? Whore? Or just a very lucky girl?

Daddy bought me a present.
A dress.
A little black dress.

Not very expensive for many people. But expensive for me. From Lord & Taylor's. I normally do NOT shop at Lord & Taylor's. And the best part is, it actually suits me!

I do think it's sexy.
I do think he'll like it.
But I'll also feel like me in it.
Which will make me feel exceptionally bubbly.

And there are still those heels to keep me feeling...
under control.
Obedient.
Chained.

We didn't get to have our tryst. On the Wednesday just before, as we were making ourselves crazy aroused with anticipation, my mom had a stroke. Not a really terrible stroke. But she's 91, prone to depression, and NOT prone to working at what needs to be done to get better. She was already showing some signs of dementia beforehand, and my dad had been doing a lot of caregiving over the last few years after she took a bad fall, so I don't expect her to bounce back far.

Anyway, the Wednesday afternoon before our hotly-awaited tryst, I got the call. Bye-bye tryst. The next morning I was on my way up to Connecticut, to help my dad more than anything else.

We were both horribly disappointed, but the fiend was very sweet about it. And now there's a chance of something special at the end of the month. No promises. But a chance.

So.
The dress.
He wanted me in a little black dress.
Last fall he had visualized me in a little black dress.
I wore a darling green sweater dress.
Looked great.
*I* thought.
But he was disappointed.
It didn't fit his fantasy.

Hence, the shopping trip.

And it was
SO
MUCH
FUN!!!

Me shopping,
consulting with a sweet young saleswoman,
and emailing Daddy of my progress.

Great fun.

So there it is.
He buys me things.

Occasionally.

Books.
Shoes.
A dress.
A hotel room in which he can enjoy me.
Use me.
Be served by me.

But it's for both of us.
It's a relationship.
It's the interactions.
It's shared joy.
And it's just part of who and what we are.

And -
I must admit -
that fiercely independent as I can be,
I do love the feeling.
The feeling of being owned.
The feeling of being controlled.
Of being ordered to buy things.
To wear things.
To do things.
To feeling like his mistress.
Like his whore.
His poet
and his pet
and his own baby girl.

I love it.
I love it all.

And they are all part of who we are.
What we are.
Together.
A rich, full tapestry of a relationship.

Plus it's a darling dress.
And now
I'm horny as hell.

Thank you, Daddy.
I love you a lot.
With or without the presents.

The limits of Google when arranging an illicit tryst

I have an assignment.
A research assignment.
A multi-part project, researching possibilities.
For next weekend.

For a clandestine getaway.

Hotels.
Bars.
Restaurants.

But for the town we'll be visiting, I'm not coming up with what we need. At least, not when I try to search for it according to our true parameters.

Google does not recognize the word "tryst."
Nor does it want to consider "illicit."
The closest Google gets is "illegal."
And "trust."
Not quite what I was after.

"Clandestine"?
Nothing.

What I really want is a restaurant with small private rooms... red velvet drapes... a fainting couch... privacy and discretion. A place thick with atmosphere for a man whose cock is thick with desire in which he can enjoy an assortment of sensual pleasures.

Where we could count on not being disturbed if he decided to drink his champagne from the trough formed by his pet's back. And if by chance he were disturbed, he could count on the offender stealing silently away and making no comment to anyone.

If he were disturbed.

For I, of course, will be expected to maintain my focus on serving his pleasure no matter where we are or who might join us or what might happen. I will be merely one of the objects assembled to assure him a pleasurable weekend of self-indulgence.

Sometimes it is hard to really believe that. But then, when he wraps his belt around my neck, this man who isn't really into leather but likes it on me takes me to a place, to a time, to a condition... more Roman than antebellum, really, where owning another person was... I'm slipping away now as I write this... slipping back to where I was a mere 4 hours ago, as I knelt naked before him, the belt wrapped round and round my neck... my pussy is convulsing now... I can't think... can't focus... we had been apart for three weeks due to this and that... and then... I'm not supposed to use that word now... the "s" word... but I was there.

The belt around my neck, the leather, it took me there.

Tomorrow, I will be with S--.
Daddy wants me to be.
I'm to fuck him.
Please him.
Make him feel good.
And all the time see the man who owns me standing there.
Watching.
Listening.
Enjoying.

And should S-- comment on the welts left by Daddy's belt on my pale, round ass... I am to say "He whips me."