With eager anticipation, I tore open the bright, festive wrapping paper. The package was small enough to hold the gift I had hoped for, with the whispered hope of promise it taunted me. Sheepishly, he looked at me, watching as I slid off the last of the ribbons revealing its contents. My hopes crumbled as I fingered the tiny key chain reading the word over and over. "I hope you're not mad," he said, as he tried to interpret my reaction. Grinning, he whispered, "It's a joke."
I have always believed that there is a hint of truth behind even the most harmless of jokes. The meaning behind this joke was anything but humorous. Smiling a fake smile, I closed the box and sat his message of truth on the floor amidst the heap of festive rubble. After some light conversation, I kissed him goodnight and locked the door behind him. As I gathered up the crinkly sentiments of Christmas cheer, I uttered the word over and over, "mistress." Sinking to the floor, I thought about the night I earned my newly found position in his life.
I was nervous about fulfilling his request, but it was a fantasy of mine too. After weeks of deliberation, I decided to bring this request out of the realms of fiction into the much narrower universe of reality. Taking a deep breath, I slid on the black stockings fastening them to the tiny, sleek, straps of the red satin garter. I took a moment to smooth the rough lace of the camisole, applied a thick layer of lipstick, also red, and practiced my role.
When I felt prepared, I sighed and assumed my character, the mistress. Teetering recklessly in the tiny, spiked, red, velvet heels, I entered the room, ordering him to undress. Obligingly, he stripped, standing naked in front of me. I wondered if he could sense my nervousness. Snapping my fingers, I commanded him to look down. My heels made light tapping noises against the wood floor as I circled around him, pretending to assess him for worthiness. I pinched, slapped, and patted him judging his reactions of pleasure to my onslaught. My mind reeled as I tried to plan what to do next.
The idea came to me, balancing gingerly on one foot; I slid off my shoe. Forcing him spread eagle gripping the doorframe; I slapped him with the shoe. Lightly pushing the heel into the base of his spine I guided the shoe upwards, leaving a trail of reddened skin. He cried out in sheer desire at the act, shivering against the revere of pain.
I pushed him onto the bed and tied his hands with the silk red scarf I had bought earlier that day. I teased him with my tongue, lapping at him, trying to hide my own arousal and eagerness. I ordered him not to get an erection, he cried out against the assault from my tongue, unable to comply with my command. Pinching his tiny nipples I lowered myself onto him, no longer able to maintain my role as mistress, entering the entrapment of his slave.
I tried to hold back, but could no longer contain myself. Moaning with delight, I succumbed. Appraising me, he grinned, "I think someone likes being in charge," he whispered teasingly. Easily, he loosened his hands from their soft, satiny bounds sliding them into the wetness we had created. I rocked against him, grabbing at his hips urging him to enter. "Not yet, love," he whispered. I cried out in the agony of lust under the skillful stroking of his fingers.
I was still reeling in waves of pleasure when he granted my request. Fast at first, then slower and slower savoring the moment of his passion. We lay exhausted arm in arm, simply enjoying the feel of each other. When it was time to go, I returned the shoes to their box, leaving them under his bed, in the hopes that the opportunity would come to wear them again.
A short while later, the winter chill set in and Christmas was close at hand. His gift, his joke, made me realize that the fiction was more pleasant than the cold harshness of reality. My reality was that I loved him. His reality was that I was a mistress. The role was one that I could no longer play. The shoes lay abandoned under the bed.
Time passed and winter snows gave way to spring warmth. From him, hardly a word, I felt as abandoned as the shoes. I kept his gift, for a while. When I felt able, I let it go along with the hope I had in him. Did he remember the shoes that yearned to be worn? Had he found someone else to fill them?
When he called, I hardly knew what to say. Precariously, I offered the invite, unsure of what to expect. On the exterior, he hadn't changed, but somehow I didn't look at him through the same eyes. We engaged in polite exchanges, updating each other on the happenings of the months that passed since we last spoke. We shared a bottle of wine, enjoying the memory of one another. Shyly, he presented the box, "You left this," he whispered, his eyes cast down. The shoes had returned home. I thanked him. I was at a loss for what else to say.
His lips landed on mine with a longing, which startled me. My response was one of passion and lust. Eagerly, I accepted the invitation. Perhaps, we did it for old times sake, perhaps to explore the lost lands of possibility, maybe we were both feeling lonely and lost. Whatever the reason was, it ended with a kiss and a promise to keep in touch.
I finished the last droughts of my wine, savoring its taste. I inhaled deeply, his scent still on my skin. I took the shoes out of their box turning them over and over in my hands, relishing their scent, enjoying their softness under my fingertips. I knew I would never wear the shoes again. I was no longer a mistress; time had changed me. I returned them to their box and without a backward glance, tossed them into the trash. The moment, as bitter and sweet as it was, was lost forever. What was once both fiction and reality had passed into a memory.
I still see him once in a while. I listen to his stories and he listens to mine. We are both friend and foe. Time has molded and changed us, in ways for the better and in ways for the worse. Sometimes when the nights are cold and Christmas draws near, I lay with the memory of my love for him. I wonder if he thinks of me. Does he miss the love that he never knew? I wonder if he will ever find someone who will fill the shoes that I left behind.
I have always believed that there is a hint of truth behind even the most harmless of jokes. The meaning behind this joke was anything but humorous. Smiling a fake smile, I closed the box and sat his message of truth on the floor amidst the heap of festive rubble. After some light conversation, I kissed him goodnight and locked the door behind him. As I gathered up the crinkly sentiments of Christmas cheer, I uttered the word over and over, "mistress." Sinking to the floor, I thought about the night I earned my newly found position in his life.
I was nervous about fulfilling his request, but it was a fantasy of mine too. After weeks of deliberation, I decided to bring this request out of the realms of fiction into the much narrower universe of reality. Taking a deep breath, I slid on the black stockings fastening them to the tiny, sleek, straps of the red satin garter. I took a moment to smooth the rough lace of the camisole, applied a thick layer of lipstick, also red, and practiced my role.
When I felt prepared, I sighed and assumed my character, the mistress. Teetering recklessly in the tiny, spiked, red, velvet heels, I entered the room, ordering him to undress. Obligingly, he stripped, standing naked in front of me. I wondered if he could sense my nervousness. Snapping my fingers, I commanded him to look down. My heels made light tapping noises against the wood floor as I circled around him, pretending to assess him for worthiness. I pinched, slapped, and patted him judging his reactions of pleasure to my onslaught. My mind reeled as I tried to plan what to do next.
The idea came to me, balancing gingerly on one foot; I slid off my shoe. Forcing him spread eagle gripping the doorframe; I slapped him with the shoe. Lightly pushing the heel into the base of his spine I guided the shoe upwards, leaving a trail of reddened skin. He cried out in sheer desire at the act, shivering against the revere of pain.
I pushed him onto the bed and tied his hands with the silk red scarf I had bought earlier that day. I teased him with my tongue, lapping at him, trying to hide my own arousal and eagerness. I ordered him not to get an erection, he cried out against the assault from my tongue, unable to comply with my command. Pinching his tiny nipples I lowered myself onto him, no longer able to maintain my role as mistress, entering the entrapment of his slave.
I tried to hold back, but could no longer contain myself. Moaning with delight, I succumbed. Appraising me, he grinned, "I think someone likes being in charge," he whispered teasingly. Easily, he loosened his hands from their soft, satiny bounds sliding them into the wetness we had created. I rocked against him, grabbing at his hips urging him to enter. "Not yet, love," he whispered. I cried out in the agony of lust under the skillful stroking of his fingers.
I was still reeling in waves of pleasure when he granted my request. Fast at first, then slower and slower savoring the moment of his passion. We lay exhausted arm in arm, simply enjoying the feel of each other. When it was time to go, I returned the shoes to their box, leaving them under his bed, in the hopes that the opportunity would come to wear them again.
A short while later, the winter chill set in and Christmas was close at hand. His gift, his joke, made me realize that the fiction was more pleasant than the cold harshness of reality. My reality was that I loved him. His reality was that I was a mistress. The role was one that I could no longer play. The shoes lay abandoned under the bed.
Time passed and winter snows gave way to spring warmth. From him, hardly a word, I felt as abandoned as the shoes. I kept his gift, for a while. When I felt able, I let it go along with the hope I had in him. Did he remember the shoes that yearned to be worn? Had he found someone else to fill them?
When he called, I hardly knew what to say. Precariously, I offered the invite, unsure of what to expect. On the exterior, he hadn't changed, but somehow I didn't look at him through the same eyes. We engaged in polite exchanges, updating each other on the happenings of the months that passed since we last spoke. We shared a bottle of wine, enjoying the memory of one another. Shyly, he presented the box, "You left this," he whispered, his eyes cast down. The shoes had returned home. I thanked him. I was at a loss for what else to say.
His lips landed on mine with a longing, which startled me. My response was one of passion and lust. Eagerly, I accepted the invitation. Perhaps, we did it for old times sake, perhaps to explore the lost lands of possibility, maybe we were both feeling lonely and lost. Whatever the reason was, it ended with a kiss and a promise to keep in touch.
I finished the last droughts of my wine, savoring its taste. I inhaled deeply, his scent still on my skin. I took the shoes out of their box turning them over and over in my hands, relishing their scent, enjoying their softness under my fingertips. I knew I would never wear the shoes again. I was no longer a mistress; time had changed me. I returned them to their box and without a backward glance, tossed them into the trash. The moment, as bitter and sweet as it was, was lost forever. What was once both fiction and reality had passed into a memory.
I still see him once in a while. I listen to his stories and he listens to mine. We are both friend and foe. Time has molded and changed us, in ways for the better and in ways for the worse. Sometimes when the nights are cold and Christmas draws near, I lay with the memory of my love for him. I wonder if he thinks of me. Does he miss the love that he never knew? I wonder if he will ever find someone who will fill the shoes that I left behind.