There is a trap when you fuck up. You are the one who is wrong, the person you love didn’t deserve the things you did, could never do the things you were so afraid they would do you never gave them the chance. When you pull your head out of your ass and realize they would never have screwed you over, that you ran for no reason without giving them the chance, now you can’t bear to face them.
I got sick. The army got pulled in to help with those senior centers that were understaffed or dealing with outbreaks. We got away with it for a long time, we were the interface to make sure that no one other than us had contact with the seniors, so if any mistakes were made with protection, it would be a soldier not a senior that got exposed. It worked.
My husband and daughters pretty much let me know that they relied on me to be strong for them, as I always was when anyone else had a problem, and they were threatened by my having feelings or needs, wanting care when I wasn’t up to it. They pretty much left me alone to live or die, as long as I didn’t ruin their mood by being anything less than 100% cheerful and unconcerned for the minimal conversation required to make them feel good about leaving me basically to die offstage.
My Lady didn’t get the chance to let me down. I took it from her. I ran. I cut off contact like a coward, because she was the only one to see me as a woman, not a machine or a monster, a machine to make their world run on time and a monster to deal with the bad things they couldn’t be bothered to.
She never was anything but honest with me, never promised more than she was offering, and always let me know where the limits were. She never lied, never failed me, never betrayed me, yet I treated her like she would break faith with me.
She texted, but I couldn’t read them. She emailed, but I wouldn’t open them. How could I? I was unworthy, I had betrayed her, failed her, and now honestly I wasn’t half as energetic, creative, or joyful as I had been. Partly the after effects of Covid, half being betrayed by those I loved the most and gave everything for.
I replied to her last email. Confessing my failures, my sins. The whole ugly truth. I didn’t give her the chance to fail me, to desert me, I ran first. I broke my commitment to trust her, I told her by my actions that I did not trust her commitment to care and protect me. I broke my oath as her property, and by my deeds told the world I didn’t trust she would keep her oath as Mistress. I had no right, no justification. She had never by act, by omission, implication or hesitation shown anything but perfect care for me, and I crapped on that in my cowardice.
How could I face her?
After the whole hot mess, she contacted me one more time. She told me to meet her at a coffee shop we used to frequent. Didn’t ask. Told me. She was done leaving it up to me, my fears, my failings. Now it was hers to command, mine to obey, or not. That would be my choice.
She was composed. Cool. Her eyes were understanding. Her auburn hair shone in the sunlight through the blinds like a halo. I stood in front of her table and tried half a dozen times to speak. She finally gestured me gruffly to the table. I sat.
We ordered our drinks. I looked up at her and fumbled my way into an apology that wasn’t much of an apology, more of a list of reasons she shouldn’t bother with me. She stopped me with a very rare public slap across my face.
I was shocked. She looked at me and said very sternly. “That is enough of that. We are done with that subject.”
I caught her hand and kissed it. It would have been a more romantic gesture if I hadn’t already begun to ugly cry. There is pretty crying you see in movies. This was not that kind. I shook, I couldn’t even sob. Tears and snot covered her hand but she did not pull it away.
I was rocking back and forth, probably in some danger of falling out of my chair. I couldn’t see, could hardly breathe. My face was the kind of hot mess you need to be a pale redhead to make. I pushed ugly cry to the text book limit, but My Lady didn’t walk out. No matter how embarrassed she doubtless felt, she did not leave.
She got up. It was abrupt. One moment I was slowly winding down, beginning to worry about wiping my face and looking around to see how much of a spectacle I had made of myself, the next there was a scrape and she was standing up. Standing she is only a little taller than me sitting, so it shouldn’t have been that regal, but she could have made Game of Thrones with that look.
“I am taking you home, and we are done talking.” Her voice was hot, firm, and sent a shock of submissive lust rolling through me that short circuited the toxic spiral in my head.
She let me get the door, then snapped her fingers and pointed beside and behind her half a step. I heeled like a dog, but she simply explained her own feelings in an almost disinterested tone as we walked to her car.
“I was hurt that you left, even more hurt you thought I would abandon you. I understand a bit more now about your position, and I think it will be some time before either of us is really over it. There is nothing more that can be said, so we are done with talking about it. Now, be a good pet and open my door.”
I opened her car door, waited until she folded herself in, then closed it for her. It would have suited a limousine, that entrance, but her battered old compact managed to get a temporary class upgrade just from the grace of her entry.
During the drive to her house, she let her hands play over my legs, hiking my skirt up to reveal my stocking tops. It didn’t matter that I was absolutely sure she was going to tear a strip off of me and disown me. I was going to meet My Lady, and that meant I was in stockings, I was not wearing panties or a bra. On my wrist and ankles were the cords she had awarded me, slowly, as I earned them.
As her fingers slid over my stocking tops, I found myself spreading my legs, and grabbing on to the seat with both hands. My Lady let her fingers slide up to confirm that indeed I was wearing no panties as instructed. This is where I should say something sexy like I had a Brazilian done that morning, but she never asked, so I never bothered. My hair is so light as to be little more than fire coloured lace down their anyway.
I knew what to expect. My Lady had taught me to accept spanking, whipping with a belt, with a crop. She was a lot more careful than I was about never leaving permanent marks or doing actual damage. I have a high pain threshold and the degree that she drives me into submission does leave me hungering for her to mark me in permanent ways.
I had never really failed her like this. Never really insulted her at all. I had been punished, even staked out in the snow, for offenses so minor as to be trivial if they had not been failures of her instructions. I had no idea what hell awaited me, only that I would accept it with humility as no less than I deserved.
When we entered, she demanded that I strip. I did so.
I thought she was preparing to punish me, but again, I was the lesser of us.
“You have lost weight, and muscle too. You are greyer, and your eyes look like you haven’t slept in months.”
She was on me in a flash, probably she didn’t move that fast, it is just that processing what she said pretty much took my brain offline. I came back to reality with her pressed against me, pulling my head down into a kiss.
She started gently, then when I tried to get fierce, she pulled my hair back to break lip contact, then began slowly, gently, kissing my face, my neck, my ears. Letting my head down, she kissed my cheeks, my eyelids, the tip of my nose.
I was crying again, hugging her fiercely.
She let me kiss her again, and this time it was soft.
“You gave up.” The accused me, rightly of course. “That angers me.” She nipped my nipple, not hard, but enough to give me a shot of pain and arch my back in reflex.
“These are mine.” My Lady said as she kissed and sucked on my breasts leaving little marks on the pale white surface.
“This is mine.” She said, brining her hand down in a ringing blow on my arse. I could feel the heat.
“This is mine.” She said, letting her fingers caress from my belly to my mound. I began to rock into her fingers, trying to push myself into her teasing fingers.
Her hand went to my throat, I froze. She was staring into me now. Eyes burning into me.
“You are mine. You have NO RIGHT TO DIE. You have NO RIGHT to give up. LOOK AT ME!” She wasn’t shouting, her words were hot, intense, but not shouted or screamed as someone who was faking dominant would need to.
I whimpered, helpless in her gaze and her grip.
She held me by the throat and began to slide her fingers down my mound, around the outside of my lips. Teasing, light touches, grazing the inner lips so lightly. Up the mound, down, grazing the thigh, tracing the line of the hip, just lightly grazing the labia no matter how I squirm. Controlling the touch, eyes burning into mine as she makes me stop fighting her, and accept her rhythm, her pace.
“I am going to give you what you need.” She said. My blood burned, my skin went cold. I was terrified, she was going to punish me, and I had no idea how bad it would be for what I had done. I was in ecstasy. After so long, she was going to make me hers again.
She let her fingers slide into me, just one inside, the others spreading my lips. Taking my own moisture, she circled my clit, then dipped in again.
She slid her fingers in a second time, and raised them to my lips, painting my lips with my own juices, then kissed me, licking my pussy juice of my own lips with hers. She fingered me for perhaps a half minute, slowly letting me start to rock against her fingers, then teasingly pulled out again, this time to paint my left nipple.
She sucked my nipple and a good portion of my breast into her mouth, tongue swirling as she sucked. Fingers now rubbing outside my clit, grazing it, pinching it lightly as she pressed my lower lips together before resuming teasing my clit directly.
I was kissing the top of her head, caressing her hair her back. She was still dressed, blouse and skirt, shoes even. I was naked and writhing like some sort of tart, and she looked like she stepped out of an office meeting.
Her fingers flicked across my clit in tight little circles, matching the time of her tongue on my nipples. My breath was ragged, shards of lightning blasted at random from my nipple, my clit, my mind. My stomach bunched and hips pumped as my core and glutes waged random wars as the sensation looked to make me flail about like a fish out of water.
My Lady pressed me into the wall, hand at my throat pinning me to the wall, leg between mine holding my own spread, but keeping me from falling as well. Her hands rubbed faster, my clit was a raw jagged camera flash, as every passage of her fingers blazed white fire across my mind, stealing my sight and breath.
Her face was close to mine, her face almost snarling, her eyes burning into me.
“I am not letting you go. YOU ARE MINE.” She almost growled the last, and I came. Helplessly, hopelessly, I came. I swore I could no longer feel that intensity, that I was no longer the woman she took and taught as a lover. In this, as in everything else, I was wrong. My Lady was right.
She held me and I cried again. Poor recompense for the best orgasm I have had in this god forsaken year. But she held me. This time when I tried to kiss her fiercely she did not pull me back. This time she allowed me to undress her, only slapping my hands when haste and overexcitement threatened the integrity of her last two blouse buttons.
I kissed her belly. It was no athlete’s six pack, no teenagers unmarked canvass. I circled my tongue around her belly button, then drove it in deep, feeling her laugh as I fumbled with her belt’s unfamiliar clasp. Once her skirt was released she stepped out of it.
She laughed at me as I carefully folded her skirt and hung her blouse before darting down to kneel before her in her stocking and shoe clad glory. I can’t let her clothes fall to the ground, My Lady’s things are to be treated with respect at all times. She teases me as the only OCD slut she knows. Only with her. Only My Lady’s things are that important. Only her.
I let my hands run over her stocking clad thighs, let my kisses trace their way up from each knee to her hip, following my fingers. I let my fingers remember her curves, the hollows and folds. I take in her scent, her taste. Sweat and the slight hint of the vanilla she likes to add to her bath.
I look up from between her legs, kneeling between them as he leans against the wall. I look up from beneath her glorious untamed bush.
“Please My Lady, may I pleasure you?” It is NEVER mine to take, but always to beg and hope to be blessed beyond my worth.
Her eyes were heavy lidded, unreadable. She said only “Do.”
I kissed her lips, the gesture as soft and hesitant as the first tentative kiss on the more northern lips.
Again, I drank in the scent of her, the taste. I rubbed my face against her like a kitten, I swear I probably purred. Kissing and licking so very gently, I let my fingers caress around her mound, around to the hollow of her hips, back around her apple shaped ass to grip her firmly as at last I could take it no more and began to trace the flower of her perfection with my tongue.
Twice I had to stop and remove hairs from my mouth and she laughed.
“No one has been tending my garden, I have most inconsiderate slaves.” She laughed.
She stopped laughing when my tongue drove inside her depths, I pushed my face into her, letting my tongue dance inside, letting her feel my hunger, my desire my need for her. I had great plans, but honestly Covid left my lungs a bit short of what they were, I had to come up for air faster than I had planned.
I teased my way up around her clit. Flicking around it, circling it, sucking it into my mouth as I worked her soft yet firm ass cheeks in my hands. Soon she dug her fingers into my hair and pulled my face into her pussy. I knew what that meant. I sucked her clit into my mouth, nursing on it like a baby on a mother’s breast, while my tongue whipped it light and fast as My Lady with a flogger.
Her breath was coming fast. She pulled my hair and right ear to pull me off her.
“On the couch, I don’t think I can finish standing.” She was not rejecting me, just wanting to let go and not worry about falling. Yay for no longer teenagers.
She sat on the edge of the couch, leaning back.
I crawled over to her, reaching up with my left hand I began to stroke her breast and lightly graze her nipple. With my right I began to gently work my finger inside her. My tongue began to trace her labia inside and out, darting down to let my tongue play over where my fingers slid into her. Lapping at her crème like a kitten on a saucer of milk.
My Lady grabbed my hair and pulled me to her clit, no longer willing to be teased. I let myself go and sucked her clit into my mouth again. I began to saw my fingers into her hot velvety depths, two fingers curling, arching, dragging back on every back stroke to caress as I explored. She began to grind into my face, her hips rolling as she started to pull my hair from side to side.
Growling, I shook my head like a terrier with a rat, sucking her clit into my mouth in time with my side to side tugging and letting my tongue dance a fandango on her clit. This time I didn’t care if I had any breath to spare, I was not going to relent.
She came with a guttural cry, both hands digging into my hair and curling over me in a breathless arch. I lapped at her, trying to swallow as much as I could, but she jumped beneath my tongue like it was a live wire.
Soon My Lady pulled me up on the couch beside her and I burrowed into her neck.
After a few minutes of just breathing together. She started stroking the side of my face, pulling my hair back behind my ear and out of my face.
“Are you done being stupid?” She asked.
I nodded, kissing her neck. “Yes My Lady.”
I’m probably not, but I am done trying to be stupid anyway. I may not be the woman she deserves, but she is worth my every effort to be close.