As the cane landed on my backside for what I thought was the eleventh stroke I heard a girlish giggle behind me say that she’d lost the count.
I’d come home from work to find her in the bedroom finishing a glass of wine.
That she looked something like a third world dictator was my fault. Some time back I’d ordered a vaguely military jacket: broad shoulders, epaulets, it came with a cap and riding crop. She didn’t like it and said I’d confused her with Ilsa She-Wolf of the SS. Normally the outfit stayed buried in the back of the closet save for the rare times when she felt like vamping up a bit to please me.
That she was looking like a wicked warden now meant that hadn’t been her first glass of wine.
Holding out the glass, “Hello trifle why don’t you serve me another glass.”
I bent to the bottle on the bed stand.
“I said serve me.”
I dropped all thoughts of work from my mind and to my knees. She’d moved away so I had to walk/crawl on my knees to offer her the refreshed glass. Feeling better safe than sorry I kept head titled down just a little. I was surprised to realize her legs and feet were clad only in stockings. Black and thigh high, she must be a very good mood to be obliging what she had once called my “cheap, obvious” tastes. To be fair I try to keep things interesting for her but sometimes am just a commonplace old perv.
“Be a good boy and get the black boots at the end of the bed. No hands.”
Crawling over I picked up one boot with my teeth. Very gently, I knew how she felt about tooth marks.
Once I had the pair at her side, “Now put them on me and try to do it right for once.”
Practice is supposed to make perfect but I’d never really gotten good at this. She usually didn’t ask anymore and when she did it was just a pretext for what she called “training.”
Surprisingly this time I didn’t bollix it.
I knelt there admiring her legs.
“You are just a little boot whore aren’t you? Are you licking your tongue?”
True enough, I didn’t need to be on my knees or she in a costume. We could’ve been sitting together in the living room, she in her pretty green ensemble. I never got tired of how she looked in boots. Any boots, any time.
“You’re an ungrateful little boot whore though. You wish I was in those awful thigh highs.”
Another on of my fashion mistakes. Even though I knew she didn’t care for those I bought a pair anyway. She rarely wore them. When she did they all but said “On your knees slave” and I knew that I’d spend a couple of days recovering from what she’d do while wearing them. Yes, I’d have been happy to see them on her but when you are on your knees you aren’t being asked for an honest exchange of opinion.
“Before I allow you to lick them clean I think you need another lesson in appreciation. Get on the bed, drop your pants and bend over.”
As I knelt there while she meditated along on whether to use cane, whip or riding crop I thought back to the time she told me I looked my best in pink and red stripes. Her mood made clear I’d be getting a few now.
That was how I found myself waiting for the next stroke wondering whether she’d decide it was the first or the eleventh. The number of stokes is never as important as the hand that deals them.