Sunday Afternoon
Just me passing time on a Sunday. Not real, probably! This is for Miss Molly
He sits in his armchair reading the papers, mug of tea near at hand, along with an overflowing ashtray. You are kneeling by his side, forehead to the ground, motionless. You have been there for some time.
Of all the punishments he can devise for you, ignoring you is the worse. You hate that more than anything. But appearances are deceptive.
This is not a punishment. He is in tune with your every movement, every twitch, even the slightest fidget. You edge a bit closer, touching his bare foot and he leans down and pets you, toying with your collar. Then returns to his paper.
Time goes by and you ache with want for him. You know he is hungry for you too, but you know he won’t hurry his reading. Finally he turns his attention to you. He is pleased, you can feel it, don’t need words to hear his pleasure. Standing up he stretches; nudging you with his foot.
You crawl in front of him, arse high. Now it’s time for your reward.
He sits in his armchair reading the papers, mug of tea near at hand, along with an overflowing ashtray. You are kneeling by his side, forehead to the ground, motionless. You have been there for some time.
Of all the punishments he can devise for you, ignoring you is the worse. You hate that more than anything. But appearances are deceptive.
This is not a punishment. He is in tune with your every movement, every twitch, even the slightest fidget. You edge a bit closer, touching his bare foot and he leans down and pets you, toying with your collar. Then returns to his paper.
Time goes by and you ache with want for him. You know he is hungry for you too, but you know he won’t hurry his reading. Finally he turns his attention to you. He is pleased, you can feel it, don’t need words to hear his pleasure. Standing up he stretches; nudging you with his foot.
You crawl in front of him, arse high. Now it’s time for your reward.