1. Packing for the weekend


    Date: 10/11/2014, Categories: BDSM, Author: MidnightTypist, Rating: 0, Source: LushStories

    codpieces. You asked me to book tickets for Friday evening, and I think your plan was for us to get all dressed up, enjoy the performance and pretend we're proper grown-ups for a few hours. I lied to you though. On Friday night you're going to be perfumed and prettified in your best clothes, ready to leave our hotel room with the expectation of an evening show followed by drinks in a bar full of theatre-goers. I'll play along, get my good clothes on, and get myself ready for an evening out. When you're ready to go, poised, and perfectly dressed and made up, I will grab you, force you down on the bed and use you in every way I see fit. I will tear off your clothes and fuck you everywhere I want, and you will do nothing but gasp and beg and shake and accept it. I am bigger and stronger than you are, and I will use it against you when I'll enjoy it. I will cuff your hands behind your back, grab a fistful of your hair and force my cock between your pretty, pouting, scarlet lips and you will gag and drool and suck, just like you know you should. I want to ruin your carefully made-up look. I want to see your mascara ruined and your lipstick mixed with cum and smeared across your face. To take you from the peak of poise and sophistication, strip your clothes and your defenses from you, and leave you naked and begging to be fucked is an enormous pleasure, and one I intend to enjoy to the full. Now that I think about it, the gag needs to come. When it's not full of my cock, the ...
    only things I want coming out your mouth are muffled squeals and drool. I pull it out, wrap up the straps, and stow it in my case. I tuck the theatre tickets in next to it. I'll happily lie to you, but I won't disappoint you. I booked seats for Saturday night, not Friday. I reach into the toybox again, feel something hard and heavy at the bottom and pull out the surgical shears. Big, solid, blunt nosed, and sharp bladed; they've been in there since the beginning but have only been used occasionally, usually on a particularly stubborn knot. There's a smear of paint on the blades and it takes me a moment to remember how it got there. A few months ago I'd asked you over to help me decorate the spare bedroom; you came, changed into your paint spattered jogging bottoms and saggy old t-shirt and got to work. We spent several hours coating the walls in fifty shades of inoffensive magnolia and once it was finished I told you I'd head to the kitchen and make coffee. Your were picking dry paint off a brush when I came up behind you, put one hand over your eyes, my other arm around your body and pulled you back against me. Your arms did that thing they always do, the momentary fight-or-flight tremble before you relax into what I'm doing with you. I guided you through to my bedroom, and made you kneel at the end of the bed. You nodded briefly and obeyed when I warned you to keep your eyes closed and stay still. The blindfold was black and silky, and left you utterly sightless once I'd ...
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