It’s been awhile since delving into fantasy writing, and I am definitely rusty.  I think I’ve lost the rhythm of this one…so I am inviting you, my dear readers, to write your own ending!  Feel free to finish the story off in a comment or via my contact form.  I would love to see how you’d end the night!

Sitting in the living room, legs tucked under and a book balanced on an arm of the sofa, she tried not to notice the faint but unmistakable tick as the digital clock beside her showed ten o’clock.  She knew what ten o’clock meant; it struck deeper than just everyday routine, firmly embedded in her biological clock.

Of course, it hadn’t always been that way.

She pushed away the mild irritation she felt at having to stop midway through a chapter – had to stop mid-sentence, even.  Because as soon as the clock turned ten, she knew his eyes had looked up from his newspaper.  Knew it, but did not acknowledge that awareness.  Instead she slid her bookmark into the crease of the open book, closed it, and slid the book onto the table beside her.  Only then did she raise her eyes to meet his, to see expectation and anticipation alighting within them.

She got up to walk over to him.

Even in that short distance her knees wanted to bend, to feel the floorboards along her calves.  But she couldn’t get ahead of herself or, more importantly, him.

He got up as well, silently took her hand, engulfing it in his long, callused fingers.  Together they moved towards the bedroom.

To say they walked together was not altogether accurate, as she could already feel herself – that is, her whole sense of self, which did not always align with the contours of her physical body – shifting, shrinking, expanding, to beat in sync with him, becoming an extension of his will.

It started with a simple white ceramic bowl.  It was one they had picked together, for its simple beauty and minimal flowing lines along the rim that let the bowl disguise as bedroom decor (for polite company).  He led her to the side of the bed, picked up the bowl, and left to fill it with water from the kitchen.  In his absence she finally let herself sink to the floor, positioning herself with practiced, fluid movement.

He returned, bowl filled halfway with cool water, and set it down in front of her.  Straightening up, he smoothed back her hair and cupped a finger under her chin to tilt her face up.  From the other hand he revealed a thin collar.  She felt as if some internal metamorphosis had completed as the leather slid across her throat and around her neck.

“I’m going to take a shower.  Drink up.”  And with that he disappeared into the bathroom.

From her kneeling position, she leaned forward, placed her arms on each side of the bowl, elbow to palm pressed against the floor.  And she started lapping.

It really was not a sensual experience.  It was hard to get much water by tongue lapping, and slurping was noisy and messy, which embarassed her plenty without his presence.  Water dripped down her chin, strands of hair fell into the bowl, and, once the water got below a certain threshold, it was simply difficult to maneuver her face down to lick off the remaining drops.

And yet.

She was fully aware of her ass raised high in the air, of the heat slowly coalescing below her waist, most of all of the warm slickness radiating its own heat from between her thighs.  By the time she had licked away the final stray drops of water, she could feel the sporadic tremors of arousal coursing through her body.  And just in time – she heard the shower being turned off and the door sliding open.  She dared a glance upwards, and saw him standing there, towel around his neck as he dried his hair.  Looking at her with approval.  And lust.

“Good.  Good girl.”  He placed the empty bowl back on the vanity.  Then he went over to her and pulled her slowly up by her hair.  He kissed her roughly and leaned her back into the bed, all lust and hard flesh now.  His hands pulled her thighs apart, dipped knowingly between the lips of her sex – lips now swollen and glossy from her arousal.  Her obvious lust made him groan – a low, throaty sound that only heightened her senses.  His hand grasped for her collar, and he pulled her body into his as his cock sank inside her.

Categories: fantasy, submission, writing
  1. J
    March 21, 2009 at 12:45 pm

    Well. That’s a tale I would love to help you finish…

    • March 21, 2009 at 2:12 pm

      J – do feel free. The story, for me, was more about the ritual than the sex, anyway…

  1. April 2, 2009 at 1:36 am
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