I love boots, and I’ve always loved boots. The second item I bought, after getting my first job, was a pair of knee high boots (not terribly different from the ones in the picture).
The Professor had me naked faster than I’d expected, and there’s something deliciously disconcerting about being the only naked person. He was still fully clothed, still in his classroom suit. The only concession to being home he had made was to take off his coat. So we talked literature and academia, as if I wasn’t naked with nipples pointing at him. He invites me to bed before I finally give in and drag him into the bedroom.
I look forward to reading and writing for all of these prompts every week.
Masturbation Monday picks:
“At the Office” by Elliot Henry
“The Concert” by Cimmerian Sentiment
Wicked Wednesday picks:
From “Texting to Sex” by Livvy Libertine
“Very Pretty Stripes” Jerusalem Mortimer
Kink of the Week Picks:
“Kink of the Week: The Cutting Edge” on The Fox in the Flowers
“Torn Bloomers” on Pleasure as Pain
Whose work did you love this week? Share and use the hashtag #soss
(it doesn’t even need to be Saturday)
I was bound, tied fast to the metal web. My arms extended over my head, and my legs were spread wide, ankles securely tied. My lace bra and panties, pink as he ordered, only served to make me feel more exposed. I waited in the spider’s parlor.
Natalie self-consciously smoothed her dress down, tugging at the hem. The dress, with its flared skirt, sat comfortably just above her knees, hardly immodestly short. Nevertheless, she felt immodest. She couldn’t believe that she’d agreed to this, but she admitted to herself that the daring of it had her already turned on.
The bar was loud and crowded for a weeknight. Des was already there. She wove her way through the crowded bar, dodging patrons and servers alike, to the booth where he waited. She slid into the booth next to him, carefully tugging her dress down. He noticed; she just knew that he noticed.
I like being on my knees. I love kneeling before a man and taking his cock in my mouth. I love that he is standing at attention twice. He stands and sways and fights the weakness his knees. I love that power, that control. In that moment, I own him.
But there’s another side of being on my knees. There’s crawling. For me, crawling isn’t about power. Crawling is about humiliation, about desperation. It brings to my mind a million songs that talk about crawling back, crawling through something dreadful to return. But crawling as a penance…
To be ordered to crawl, to feel the carpet bite into my knees or maybe the hard smooth press of wood or rough drag of concrete. To be on both hands and knees, not in control but the one controlled. I want my breasts to hang down heavy and sway with each movement, while I know that my ass is raised and on display. To crawl to make amends, to show devotion, to find transcendence. Yes, I think I like that idea.
I want to crawl to you, as you sit comfortably on a chair or sofa. You, sitting at ease, fully clothed. Perhaps wearing a suit and tie, perhaps wearing some sort of vestment to preside over me.
want you to watch me move slowly, deliberately across the floor. I want to reach your feet, your legs and finish my penance. Only to be ordered to crawl, to crawl back across the room, out of the room. To crawl to the toy box and select a paddle or crop. To carry it back, yes in my mouth, yes, still on my hands and knees. I want to crawl, not back to you in shame, but through shame. To return with the tool of my punishment, and to offer it and myself to you, so I may reach transcendence. To stay on my hands and knees, and with each crack of the paddle feel myself shift forward. To feel my heavy breasts sway and shake with each smack.
I want to stay on my knees, until I feel purged. Until I have submitted fully and totally…