cheeky, anxious, bisexual, and painfully obedient once you earn it. i have an oral fixation and a thing for rules, rituals, and the word good.
call me ally—until you earn pet, slut (affectionate), or something sweeter. don’t call me princess or angel.
this blog is full of smut, submission, and the occasional tender unraveling.
this is where i spiral through subby brainrot and write slutty little posts and stories about obedience, denial, control, and the pussy that betrays me.
Main blog: @ally-sauce Backup blog: @ally0sauce
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you can expect:
• d/s dynamics
• emotional wreckage
• clit conspiracies
• filthy prose from the sub’s POV
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minors dni…age in bio or get blocked…no dick pics, thanks
He is already standing when he tells you, calmly, to go wait for him in the bathroom. There is no escort. No theatrics. Just instruction and expectation.
You go immediately.
The bathroom light is bright and honest, illuminating more than the softer glow of the bedroom ever would. The counter is clear. The mirror spotless. The stool waiting in front of the counter is not low and tucked away, but tall enough that when you climb onto it, you are elevated into the full frame of the mirror. It does not diminish you. It presents you.
“Take your position,” he says as he walks in, shutting the door behind him before rolling up his sleeves.
You climb up carefully, aware of the height, aware of how exposed you will be. Your knees settle onto the flat surface of the stool, spaced apart for balance and access both. The elevation forces your hips higher than if you were kneeling on the floor, and you lean forward, as trained, placing your palms flat against the cool countertop.
Your fingers spread automatically. Your arms straighten, but don't lock. Shoulders align over wrists and you feel your spine lengthen as you settle into the long, sloping line that he prefers. Not arched in performance. Not slouched in shame. Neutral. Controlled. Responsive.
In the mirror, you are fully framed. There is nowhere for your eyes to drift without meeting yourself.
You adjust your spine into neutral alignment, lengthening through the crown of your head. The height makes you feel displayed rather than diminished. You are not folded at someone’s feet. You are elevated. Presented.
A pet on display.
You hear his footsteps approach behind you, steady and unhurried. He does not touch you immediately. In the reflection, you see him take in the full picture first. Your posture. The set of your mouth. The careful stillness in your shoulders.
“You’re holding your breath,” he observes quietly.
You hadn’t realized you were.
“Fix it.”
You inhale slowly through your nose and let it out in a controlled stream, allowing your ribcage to expand and settle. Your breathing evens out.
“Better,” he says.
His gaze lingers on your body. “Nervous is fine. Anticipation sharpens you. But don’t let it make you brittle.”
There is no accusation in it. Just calibration.
“Yes Sir,” you answer softly.
His eyes lift to meet yours in the mirror, sharp and assessing. “That was your last unprompted sound,” he says evenly. “If you forget, I’ll solve it for you.”
The implication settles immediately.
He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. The image is simple and efficient: a gag retrieved from the drawer, fitted without fuss, not as punishment but as a corrective tool. You know he would do it calmly. Methodically. And then continue his work without distraction.
Your lips press together in quiet understanding.
Silence settles properly this time.
His hands come to your hips first, steadying you on the stool. He shifts you slightly, just enough that you feel the adjustment more than see it.
“A touch to the right,” he says, voice even. “I want symmetry.”
The correction isn’t sharp. It’s thoughtful, almost aesthetic, like aligning a frame until it hangs perfectly level.
You adjust carefully, redistributing your weight until both knees and both hands bear you evenly.
He studies the reflection again.
“There,” he murmurs. “That’s clean.”
His palm glides lightly along your spine, mapping the line of it, feeling for unnecessary tension.
When you instinctively stiffen further under his touch, trying to perfect the posture, his tone shifts just slightly.
“Don’t brace against me,” he says, not displeased, just precise. “I need you responsive, not rigid.”
You ease the excess tension, allowing your muscles to remain engaged but supple, steady without locking.
“Good,” he says quietly.
And the word feels earned.
You came prepared, as expected. Plugged. Clean. Ready. He does not need to ask.
He removes the first plug with deliberate slowness, watching your face in the mirror rather than the motion of his hands. The sensation draws a quiet tension through your body, but your expression remains composed. Your fingers press more firmly into the countertop, knuckles whitening slightly.
He notices.
“Ease your hands,” he says calmly. “The counter isn’t going anywhere.”
You consciously relax your grip, flattening your palms again.
The second plug follows, larger, more demanding. The stretch is sharper, more invasive, and for a moment your shoulders threaten to rise.
“Shoulders,” he reminds you.
You lower them and take in a grounding breath.
“Good.”
He sets the plugs aside and steps closer, his body aligned directly behind yours. Because of the stool’s height, your faces are nearly level in the mirror. He does not have to bend to read you. You are the one elevated into his field of vision.
Then he begins the assessment.
Light pressure first. A baseline. You feel your body respond instinctively, the subtle tightening that wants to occur.
He pauses.
“Let it open,” he instructs quietly.
You breathe into the sensation and consciously override the reflex.
He increases the pressure gradually, methodically, each increment held long enough for him to study your reaction. The height of the stool makes the posture more demanding; your thighs tremble faintly under the sustained tension, and your core works to keep you balanced.
In the mirror, you watch your own composure.
The pressure edges toward your threshold, bright and controlled. Your breath stutters once before you smooth it.
“Too much?” he asks.
“No Sir” you answer when permitted. “I can take it.”
He studies your pupils, your jawline, the pulse at your neck.
He pushes slightly further, testing that boundary. Your fingers spread wide against the counter. Your knees press into the stool’s surface. You do not shift your hips back. You do not collapse forward.
“Stay with it,” he says.
And you do.
Seconds stretch long enough to feel deliberate. Your muscles tremble, then steady. The initial flare of pain settles into something contained, something you can bear without fracturing.
“Good control,” he murmurs.
He changes angle, testing responsiveness from a different direction, observing how quickly you adapt. This is not frantic. It is incremental. Analytical. He is mapping the edges of what he owns, measuring progress against last week’s data stored in his mind.
When he withdraws slightly, the absence of pressure feels almost disorienting. He watches your recovery time carefully, noting how quickly your breathing returns to baseline.
Then, without warning but not without intention, his hand lands sharply against your bare bottom.
The sound cracks clean in the tiled room, amplified by the hard surfaces. The sting blooms instantly, bright and spreading, a different category of sensation than the controlled stretch before it.
Your body jolts.
“Still,” he says calmly.
You fight the instinct to recoil, to clench, to gasp. Your fingers press harder into the counter but you do not move your hips. The burn lingers, radiating outward in hot waves.
Another strike follows, measured in strength, not wild. He watches your face in the mirror as it lands. The flush deepens across your cheeks. Your pupils flare. Your jaw tightens, but you do not make a sound.
A third, slightly slower this time, testing recovery between impacts. Not punishment. Not anger. Just data.
The sting settles into a steady heat, layering over the ache he already created. Your breathing threatens to break rhythm, but you pull it back under control, smoothing each inhale, each exhale.
He rests his palm briefly against the marked skin afterward, not soothing, not apologizing. Just feeling the warmth, the responsiveness beneath it.
When he withdraws his hand again, the room feels charged but not chaotic.
“Look at my pet,” he instructs.
And you do. Your cheeks are flushed, and although your eyes just glisten with the hint of tears, they are clear. Determined.
“You’re proud,” he observes.
He has not phrased it as a question.
“Speak.”
“Yes Sir,” you admit. “I worked for it.”
His hand comes to the back of your neck, firm and grounding, thumb resting at your pulse.
“That’s what inspection is for,” he says quietly. “Not to catch you failing. To measure growth.”
He replaces the plugs with the same deliberate care, watching your expression as your body accepts them again. The sensation is easier now, your muscles more responsive, less startled by the intrusion. You manage it smoothly.
When he steps back, folding his arms, you remain in position until told otherwise.
“You may relax. You've done well.”
Only then do your shoulders lower slightly. Your breath deepens. You do not collapse. You descend from display to person gradually, carefully.
In the mirror, your reflection looks different than it did when you first climbed onto the stool. Less anxious. More grounded. Elevated, yes, but not exposed in a way that feels unsafe.
You were placed on a pedestal to be evaluated, not to be admired.
And you held your position.
“Go write your reflection,” he says.
Because this, too, becomes data. Becomes structure. Becomes the quieting of the noise in your head.
You climb down from the stool carefully, feeling the lingering ache, the subtle fullness, the awareness of your body as something trained and measured rather than chaotic.
As you leave the bathroom, you understand something steady and solid:
He doesn't call it inspection until you are already inside the room.
That is deliberate.
He tells you earlier in the day that he wants to “review your week.” His tone is even, almost academic, and that is what sets your nerves humming. When he is clinical, he is most focused. When he is focused, you are seen in ways that feel both terrifying and exquisitely relieving.
By the time evening settles, you have already replayed every interaction you’ve had with him since last Sunday. Since your last inspection. The decisions you made that were not yours to make. The moments you corrected yourself. The places where you caught your own tone and smoothed it. You have been editing yourself for hours.
When he finally says, “Come here,” you go.
The room is not dramatic. No props, no spectacle. Just the quiet gravity of his attention. He sits in a chair angled toward the center of the space, feet planted, hands resting loosely on his thighs. There is no hurry in him. There never is when he intends to assess you.
“Stand” he says, gesturing to a place about three feet in front of him.
You take your position without asking for clarification. He notices that. Your spine lengthens instinctively. Shoulders settle back. Chin level. Hands clasped behind you, not because you were told tonight, but because that is the posture he expects when you are being evaluated. That is the posture he trained into you. You feel the shift inside yourself as you take it, the quiet internal click of slipping into alignment.
He studies you first without moving. The silence stretches, not oppressive, but deliberate. He is cataloging. He does not skim. He collects data.
“You’ve been thinking about this all day,” he says finally.
It is not accusatory. It is observational.
“Yes Sir” you admit. Your voice is steady, but you can feel the effort it takes to keep it that way.
“Why?”
Because I don’t want to disappoint you. Because I made a decision earlier this week without checking. Because my orgasms belong to you and sometimes my body forgets that faster than my mind does. Because structure makes me calm and without it I spin.
You choose carefully, because this is part of the inspection.
“I wanted to come prepared,” you say. “I wanted to be accurate.”
His head tilts slightly. That small shift means he’s interested.
“Accurate how?”
“In my self-assessment, Sir.”
He stands then, unhurried, and closes the distance between you. The air changes when he’s this close. He does not crowd you immediately; he circles first, the way he does when he is thinking. His hand brushes lightly against your shoulder as he passes, not lingering, just testing whether you flinch.
You don’t.
“Hands at your sides,” he says.
You release them smoothly.
He adjusts your left wrist, turning it outward slightly. “When you’re nervous, you curl inward. I want you open.”
“Yes Sir.”
The correction is small, but it lands deeper than the physical movement. Open means visible. Visible means accountable.
He steps behind you and presses his palm between your shoulder blades. “Engage your core.”
You tighten instinctively.
“Not rigid,” he corrects, his voice closer to your ear now. “Responsive.”
You soften just enough to be steady rather than braced. He hums quietly in approval.
“Better.”
His fingers trail down the length of your spine, mapping you. Not sexual. Not indulgent. Evaluative. He feels for tension, for tremor, for that subtle clench that betrays anticipation. When he reaches your hips, he pauses.
“You’ve been training,” he notes.
There’s the faintest warmth in his tone. Plug training has made you more aware of your body, more conscious of how you hold yourself, how you prepare. You nod softly.
“Yes Sir.”
“Speak.”
“I’ve been wearing my plugs and maintaining my training as instructed, Sir. Shaping my body to what pleases you. I’ve been… mindful of who my pleasure belongs to.”
He moves back into your line of sight, standing directly in front of you now. His eyes are sharp, focused in that particular way that means he is parsing not only your words but the cadence behind them.
“And did you forget that at any point this week?”
Your pulse jumps. Here is the mental portion. The part that makes you swallow.
“I almost did,” you admit. “On Thursday. As I was doing my required edges, I wanted relief and I reached for it without thinking. I stopped.”
“How far did you get?”
The question is calm, precise.
“Not far enough to disobey, Sir. I didn't steal an orgasm from you. But far enough to recognize the impulse.”
He studies your face for a long moment. When he inspects you like this, you feel like a system under diagnostic review.
“What stopped you?” he asks.
“You."
It slips out without embellishment. He doesn’t smile, but his gaze softens just slightly.
“Speak. Explain."
“Your rule. The edge before any permitted orgasm. The understanding that it serves your pleasure, not mine. That it's symbolic of your pleasure taking precedent. I didn’t want to take something that wasn’t mine to take. That wouldn't have pleased you.”
His hand lifts to your chin, thumb pressing lightly beneath it to angle your face upward. He searches your eyes, looking for defiance, resentment, shame. Finding none.
“Good,” he says quietly. “Ownership only works if it is honored when it would be easier not to.”
He releases you and steps back, increasing the distance so that the inspection shifts again.
“Kneel.”
You lower yourself carefully, controlled, mindful of your posture. Knees apart at the angle he prefers, hands resting on your thighs, palms up. You're open for him. You feel exposed like this, but also contained. The kneeling protocol is familiar, almost comforting in its structure. He walks around you slowly, observing from every angle. When he reaches your side, he presses two fingers beneath your chin again.
“Eye contact.”
You lift your gaze. Holding eye contact while kneeling is always the hardest part. It forces vulnerability into something active. You are not hiding in submission; you are present within it.
“Report your week,” he says.
You take a breath and begin. You tell him about the moment you hesitated before responding to him because you were anxious about saying the wrong thing. You tell him about catching yourself before swearing, about rewriting a message to be more precise. You tell him about how you struggled with making a small decision that you knew should have been his and how you corrected yourself by asking instead.
He does not interrupt. When you finish, he crouches in front of you so that your faces are level.
“You are afraid of failing me,” he says.
It is not cruel. It is simply true.
“Yes Sir.”
“Why?”
Your throat tightens. The answer is bigger than the room.
“Because I chose this. Because I asked you to lead me. If I fail, it feels like I’m failing at something I wanted. Because I respect you and your authority. I want to please you. I want to be perfect for you.”
He studies that carefully.
“You are not graded on perfection,” he says, echoing something he has told you before. “You are evaluated on effort, honesty, and correction. Do you understand that?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Say it.”
“I am evaluated on effort, honesty, and correction. Not perfection.”
"Do you crave this structure?"
You nod. "Yes Sir. Deeply."
"Why?"
Because it quiets the constant analysis in your head. Because being measured is cleaner than guessing. Because when you know the criteria, you can meet them.
“It makes the world quieter, calmer,” you say carefully. “Clearer, Sir.”
He is quiet for a long moment.
Finally, he steps in front of you again and cups the back of your neck, thumb resting at your pulse point.
“You met expectations this week,” he says. “With refinement needed in decisiveness.”
Relief spreads through you like warmth, but you do not sag into it. You hold yourself steady.
“And you will address that how?”
“I will pause before acting. I will ask when unsure. I will remember that my instincts do not outrank your authority.”
His grip tightens just slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to ground.
“Good.”
The room feels different now. Lighter. Not because you were perfect, but because you were seen and measured and not found lacking. He leans forward just enough that his forehead nearly touches yours.
“You are not inspected because you are fragile,” he says quietly. “You are inspected because you asked to be trained. And I take that seriously.”
There is something in his voice then that feels almost tender, though he would not use that word. His thumb traces once along your jaw, deliberate, claiming your attention fully before he lets you have your breath back.
“Yes Sir.”
He watches you absorb that. Watches the relief settle without letting it soften your posture too much. He does not reward collapse. He rewards control.
“You asked to be trained,” he says quietly. “And I do not separate the mental from the physical. If your mind belongs in alignment, your body will reflect it.”
Your pulse stutters once.
He steps back, giving you space not as dismissal, but as transition. His gaze shifts, not warmer, not colder. Sharper.
“This was the review,” he says.
The air stills.
“Now we inspect.”
The word lands differently when he says it like that. Not as threat. Not as spectacle. As procedure. He adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves with absent precision, already shifting modes.
“Go take your place in the bathroom.”
Your stomach tightens, not with fear, but with that precise awareness that comes when you are about to be seen without distraction. Without narrative. Without explanation.
There will be no talking unless commanded. No interpretation. No framing. Only assessment.
“Already prepared,” he adds, a reminder, not a question.
“Yes Sir.”
He holds your eyes one last moment, measuring your steadiness.
His book was open in one hand, the other idly resting in my hair. I was curled across the couch with my head in his lap, legs tucked under me, quiet and content in that kind of soft silence that doesn’t need to be filled.
He was reading. I was thinking.
Thinking about something we’d talked about days ago. Something that hadn’t left me since.
I didn’t mean to break the silence. But I think he could feel it—how still I’d gone. How quiet my breathing was when I was turning something over in my head.
“Tell me,” he said, eyes still on the page.
I hesitated. “It’s dumb.”
“Mmm. Try me.”
So I did.
“I’ve just… been thinking about what I said the other day. About denial. About how it makes me feel like I’m a bad sub for wanting too much. It’s still sitting heavy.”
He closed the book—not abruptly, just with intention—and looked down at me, fingers threading deeper into my hair.
“It’s not dumb,” he said, and there was nothing casual in his voice anymore. “You were honest.”
I swallowed, heart suddenly thudding harder against my ribs. “It’s just—when denial is the default, it makes me feel broken. Like I have to apologize for needing to cum. Like I’m greedy. Messy. Wrong.”
He didn’t say anything for a long moment. He just kept looking at me with that steady, thoughtful focus that always makes me feel like I’ve just been read.
Then, quietly but firmly, he said: “‘Good girls don’t cum’ is a load of crap.” His fingers tightened slightly in my hair. “Good girls cum when they’re told.”
My breath caught—half shock, half relief, half arousal. (Yes, I know that’s too many halves, but that’s how it felt.) He set the book aside completely now, both hands on me, grounded and deliberate.
“Your orgasms live inside you,” he continued, voice low and sure, “but they don’t belong to you anymore. You gave them to me.”
I shifted, sat up, legs folding under me as I faced him fully now. Eye to eye. He didn’t let go of my hair.
“They’re yours to command,” I said, voice barely above a whisper.
“And yours to surrender,” he replied. “You don’t have to want it. You don’t even have to understand it in the moment. If I tell you to cum, you do.”
I nodded, already feeling that ache start to bloom between my legs. The one that came not from being denied, but from being claimed.
“I don’t cum for me anymore,” I said quietly.
His lips curled in the barest smile.
“No, pet. You cum for me. Because I say so. Because it pleases me. Because you’re a good girl.”
A quiet evening, a full mouth, a soft sort of belonging.
————
You’re curled up on the couch, blanket draped loosely over your legs, the gentle hum of the television casting flickering light across the room. One of those shows neither of you are really watching—just background noise to the kind of evening that doesn’t need a plan.
Your head is in his lap. Exactly where it should be. One of his hands strokes absentmindedly through your hair, fingertips brushing your temple, your jaw, the soft corners of your cheek. The other hand holds the remote, flipping channels with little interest.
You’re not speaking. You haven’t in a while. You’ve just…been here. Pressed close. Content. But there’s this quiet ache blooming behind your lips—something slow and patient and familiar.
You nuzzle against his thigh, turning your face slightly. You can feel the shape of him beneath his sweatpants. Warm. Heavy. Waiting.
You press a small kiss there. Then another. You don’t beg. You don’t even ask. You just keep kissing.
And he lets you.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just tilts the remote slightly, pauses the screen, and shifts his hips so your mouth has better access. His fingers tighten in your hair—not demanding. Just present.
You feel the waistband slide down. He brings himself out slowly, letting his cock rest thick and warm against your cheek.
“Go on, then,” he murmurs. “You’ve been waiting.”
And you have.
You start slow. No urgency. No pattern. Just little puppy licks to the head, your tongue flicking out lazily. Soft kisses down the shaft. You press your nose to the base and inhale—content, grounded.
His hand stays in your hair, stroking lightly. Not guiding you. Not holding you down. Just claiming.
You suck him in a little deeper, enough to feel the weight of him on your tongue. You’re not bobbing your head. You’re not working toward anything. You’re just… serving. Existing in the quiet act of giving.
He leans back against the couch and watches you with something between amusement and reverence. “This,” he says quietly, “is how it should be.”
Not because you’re pleasing him toward orgasm. Not because he’s fucking your throat or using your mouth. But because this—your head in his lap, your tongue worshiping him without being told, without an end—this is what submission looks like.
It’s the stillness. The devotion. The way you wrap your mouth around him like there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. Because there isn’t.
He exhales softly, chest rising and falling with your rhythm. “I could sit like this all night,” he murmurs, voice deep with something more than lust. “You. Quiet. Full. Focused.”
He strokes your cheek with his thumb while your lips circle the head of his cock again, sucking just enough to feel the weight of his control settle between your ribs.
No one’s in a hurry. There’s no goal. No permission to earn. No finish line to cross. Just the slow, patient rhythm of your mouth and his hand, and the warmth that settles deep in your belly at the realization that this is enough.
You don’t need praise. You don’t need climax. You don’t even need a reason. You just need to serve.
And he lets you. As long as he wants. As long as he needs.
The show continues playing in the background, forgotten. You stay right where you are. Because this—his hand, your mouth, the quiet in between—this is a microcosm of everything that feels right.
And he knows it. Which is why he smiles, just faintly, and whispers,
You’re sitting in his lap, straddling him in the tub.
His cock is inside you—thick, slow, heavy—but unmoving.
It slipped in so easily with the warm water and the way your cunt was already aching to take him. You gasped, breath catching in your throat, waiting for him to thrust.
But he didn’t move. And he didn’t let you.
“This isn’t about fucking,” he murmured, his hands dragging slowly over your soapy skin. “It’s about staying full.”
He holds you there, hips flush, his cock buried to the base inside you as he washes you like you’re an object that belongs to him.
His hands are deliberate. Sensual, but clinical. One slides up to squeeze your breast, thumb flicking your nipple. The other rests against your ass, grounding you in place.
Every now and then, he grips a little tighter. Just to remind you who owns your body. Who’s inside you. Who gets to decide when you get to move.
“You squirm,” he says, “and we’re done.”
So you don’t.You try to be still.
But the water ripples when he shifts. Your muscles tense when he rolls your nipple between his fingers. And the longer he holds you in place—filled, wet, stretched—the harder it gets to obey.
You clench without meaning to. His cock twitches in response. You both feel it.
He smirks.
“Slippery little hole,” he murmurs. “Trying so hard to behave.”
His hand lifts. Fingers curl around your throat. Not to choke. Not even to control. Just to feel—to measure every swallow, every trembling breath, every twitch of submission that betrays your need.
“Stillness is a skill,” he says again. “And I want you to master it.”
Not for you. Not for praise. For him. To prove you can hold him inside you and not ask for more.
To show that you’re not a needy slut today. You’re a vessel. A possession. A thing he uses and washes and fills—and you’re proud to be used that way.
You try to stay calm. You try not to squirm. You try not to clench. But she keeps fluttering. Pulsing. Desperate for more than this…
And he just chuckles.
“You’re going to make this bath take a very long time, aren’t you?”
His cock is buried in your ass, thick and hot, and you’re perched in his lap like a pretty little seat warmer—nothing more, nothing less.
“Don’t clench,” he murmured when he slid into you. “Don’t twitch. Don’t squirm.”
Your whole body is on high alert, trembling from restraint, breath held hostage in your throat.
Because he feels everything.
His hands are roaming. Squeezing your tits, your hips, your thighs—gripping and groping like your body is just something he owns and is idly checking the quality of.
And every time you flinch? Every time your hole tightens even a little around his cock?
Slap.
His hand snaps up between your legs, lands hard against your cunt. You yelp. She pulses.
“Still means still, pet.”
You nod, eyes wide, teeth digging into your lip.
But his fingers are teasing your nipples now—rough, then gentle, then rough again—and the ache between your legs is building. She’s needy. You’re obedient.
And you don’t know which one will win.
He chuckles behind you, his breath hot against your shoulder.
“You keep tightening around me, like you want to be punished.”
Another twitch.
Slap. This one harder. Wet.
Your clit throbs. Your pussy aches.
But your ass stays full. Stretched. Stuffed.
“You’re not here for pleasure,” he growls against your neck. “You’re here to hold me. Still. Useful.”
And you try.
God, you try.
But it’s getting harder and harder not to clench around him just to feel something.
this scene has played out SO many times in my head:
just on a whim you grab my chin and make me face you. you tell me that you just really want to slap me. you don’t have a reason other than you want to, you just have the urge to hurt me.
you make sure that i know it’s not a punishment, it’s just thing that’s going to happen. you’re going to slap me, over and over and over again, till the urge subsides…and i’m going to choose to sit perfectly still, without moving flinching or wincing, and take it for you.
“Open your mouth, pet. Wider. Tsk, wider still. There you go, good girl.”
You smile lovingly as you rub your thumb over my pretty tongue. “It stays like this till I say otherwise. I want you open and available for me today, pet. Unfettered access.”
As you’re sitting at your desk working, or in your chair reading, have me stop what I’m doing to come over and kneel next to you. You tell me to present a hole of your choosing, just something pretty to look at while you’re busy. After a while, your fingers softly and absentmindedly tease it a bit. Then work gets busy and you go back to it, leaving me there exposed as some pretty office art.
Nipple checks throughout the day to make sure they’re always hard for you, in their most pleasing form. Having to play with them quite often to keep them that way for you.
In the evening as you’re in your chair reading, i’m sitting at your feet, leaned against your legs, reading as well. You’re, of course, reading something of worth…and i’m, of course, reading smut.
You interrupt me here and there to fill your drink…or let your hand down as your fingers idly play with hair, my mouth, my nipples…distracting me from my book.
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