It’s late and we’re wandering around, just taking in the incredible weather, chatting, playfully grabbing at each other as we go. It’s so dark it’s spooky, but I guess that’s a good thing; it’s Halloween! The different yard decorations, or at least those that are still lit at this early morning hour, are such fun to look at and as we’re wandering you keep teasing and I keep grabbing and in no time we’re both a hot mess of wanting to call it quits, but wanting it to go on for a bit as well… the tease is delicious.
“Turn off your flashlight,” you tell me…
You pin me against a tree and look around to make sure no one is around (they aren’t — it’s 2am!) and lean into me, kissing first, then nibbling at my lip enough to make me work hard to not yelp. You stop, put a finger over my lips to say “be quiet” and then move to my collarbone, sucking in sharply, almost grinding into me.
These are the times when I know that I need to just feed that change in you. If I pull away, it stops (and often there are repercussions!) and if I can let you do what you like, I’m in for both delicious marks and for seeing that more animal side of you.
I can feel blood rushing to where you are biting and pulling at me – it runs hot, then cold, then hot again as you focus more and more on a single spot in the moment.
I also feel you reach down and grab my cage, squeezing hard enough to make me whimper, showing you know exactly who’s controlling this situation. As you pull back, you never release your grip on the cage, but almost lick your lips – it strikes me on this evening of all evenings, that you look like a vampire a bit, that’s having a meal. My body feels like a little fire at the spot you were working and you pull me down, kiss me, the move to the other side.
A muted growl escapes me, I’m trying to not to make too much noise, but the sharpness of your teeth is on the edge of my tolerance at times as you start to grind again. I can almost hear you as you pull all of my nerves to attention, and I know you can feel me pressing the cage out, making it twitch every time you increase or release pressure. It’s a tell-tale sign I can’t cover up.
You look around again – we’re in a quiet place, nothing going on – clearly people are not around – you sit me down, open my shirt and work on your artwork by dragging your nails across my chest, hitting on my new bruises, pressing harder, softer, almost gauging my reaction by the jerks in my cage and my breathing.
I feel a lot like I’m being played like some sort of instrument.
In the dark, you tell me to get up on this box that happens to be there. I lay back and you continue your handiwork, almost drawing on me, making odd connect-the-dot designs of hickeys, bruises and bite marks. You seem fully lost in making sure you push me to the edge each and every time you start. I can feel you roaming through this sadist Domme-space that you love to exploit.
After the last mark, you pull back a bit and lean up against this rock behind you. You’re almost licking your lips again. You tell me I should leave my shirt open – I fit the night now with my wounds and marks! We both break out laughing a bit at the absurdity of sneaking around like this. I help you up, and just as we’re about to continue our walk, you and I both stop and look back at where we were.
Apparently, the family had indeed decorated. The box I’d been laid out on was actually a prop crypt, and the rock you were leaning against was a prop headstone. Again we burst out laughing and wandered off to head home and pick up where we left off.