The Lovers: A new Fern for my garden of delights… (part 2)

A few moments later, Fern was fastened into the silver framed girdle. With a soft click, the latch was fastened around her pale white hips. She shook herself in it,  amused by the tiny tinkle of the lock, her soft breasts heaving above her cinch belt.

“How is it?”

“I’m surprised…  it’s more comfortable than I’d expected. Paulo often complains…”

“Yes, I know. I probably hear more whining from him than I do from the old ceiling fan in the kitchen. Us women, of course, we know how to bear discomfort with grace, don’t we?”

“We do.” She smiled.

We glanced at each other for a few moments. I said nothing. Allowing her mind to spin a little. Of course, she expected me to lead her – everyone does. But sometimes I like to see what my submissive has to say when I step back a little. Of course, she wasn’t my submissive. Not yet. Yet, I had a hunch that that may change. She shrank under my gaze, turning a deeper shade of crimson, making little sounds of unease.

“So… uh. What should we do now?”

“What would you like to do, Fern? I could put on a cup of tea for us.”

“What about Paulo?”

“Paulo can wait. Patience is a virtue he has yet to perfect.”

“I’m… a little hot.” she said. “Could you turn on that fan?”

I mentioned, as I said before, it was in poor shape. All stuff and no substance. Much like Paulo. But perhaps, I mentioned, she might take off her clothes and try sitting on the red velvet chaise in the hallway. There was something so sensual, I informed her, about the feel of velvet against the skin. If she wanted the full effect of the sensuality of my accommodation, she absolutely had to try it.

So she did as she was told. I helped her out of her belt and blouse, “accidentally” running a finger over one of the stiff pills on her chest.

“Not so hot, it would seem.” I remarked. Fern giggled as her blouse fell to the floor. I slid around her, hands on her rib cage, like a pole, to the back fastening of her bra. Why these three simple fastenings confound and fascinate men so much is a mystery to me. Gently I released all three, and her bosoms spilled from the retreating fabric.

“You’ll wait here, my dear. Take a seat on the chaise. I’ll be back shortly.”

I clipped swiftly back down the hallway to the door of my dungeon to find, when I opened it, Paulo sitting like Rodin’s “The Thinker”, chin poised against his fist, seated glumly on the toilet chair.

“AND WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?” I roared, scaring him to his feet, “DID I TELL YOU TO SIT?”

“No Mistress!”

“That’s right. I did not. I think you are getting a little too comfortable in here. Perhaps that cage should stay on for another week.”

“No Mistress. Please! I’ll do anything.”

I picked up a paddle from the wall, automatically promting him to drop to his hands and knees before me. Placing a stiletto heel on his trembling back, I crouched and drew the paddle back for a resounding swing.

Healthy competition.

In the Chariot tarot card, a black horse and a white horse sit ahead of a chariot in which a figure sits, a magician’s wand (rather than a whip) in his hand, directing to opposites towards a common goal. These opposites could refer to many things: head versus heart, discipline versus passion, or – in this case – Paulo versus Marcus.

Marcus had come in to see Paulo kneeling on the floor naked in the middle of the room.

“So glad you could join us, Marcus.”

“But you said 11, Mistress.”

“I did.”

“So why’s he here?”

Marcus’ face curled in consternation at the Latino kneeling patiently, looking straight ahead. I pointed to the spot beside Paulo.

“Strip.”

“But…”

“Kneel beside him.”

“But I…”

“Kneel.”

Marcus stroppily complied, like a petulant toddler. He took off his clothes and dropped them to the floor in a huff. Startled by the metal button of Marcus’ jean jacket hitting the skirting board, Paulo looked up curiously – causing Marcus to stop, sock in hand.

Continue reading “Healthy competition.”