Or: A Happy Homemaker makes for a Happy Home.
Live from WordPress, It’s the Fatal and Sir show!
SIR sits in a chair while FATAL unbuttons just the first few buttons of his shirt. She wets and warms his face with a hot hand towel. When she is done, FATAL slings the towel over her forearm and she lathers his face from cheekbones to chin to throat, making sure that the lather is thick and fully covers his face. FATAL grabs a fresh, sharp razor from the sink and proceeds to shave SIR’s face carefully and meticulously. FATAL uses just the very tips of her fingers to tilt his head this way and that, watching him all the while, for signs of pain or discomfort. SIR sits serenely with his eyes closed.
When FATAL is done, she returns to the sink for a clean, hot towel and proceeds to pat SIR’s face clean. FATAL goes about cleaning up the shaving supplies, throwing the towels into the hamper for the morning laundry and wiping down the sink. When she returns to his side he is running his fingers over his cheeks.
FATAL: Yes. You approve?
SIR seems unsure but a smile slowly spreads across his lips. SIR taps his cheek.
SIR: A peck here, for approval.
FATAL smiles demurely and leans in close to SIR and plants a little peck against his cheek.
SIR: Your thoughts?
FATAL smacks her lips playfully.
FATAL: Feels perfectly fine to me.
SIR: How very good. I think I need a few more though.
FATAL: Some kisses?
SIR nods. FATAL perches on his knee, and SIR wraps his arms loosely about her waist. FATAL plants a kiss on each cheek, and small and quick kisses just along the very edge of his jawline, ending at his earlobe. SIR chuckles at the last. FATAL swoops in a steals a kiss from his lips. SIR returns the kiss in kind, stealing a second, less chaste kiss.
SIR: Anything that needs doing around the house, dear?
FATAL leans in to give SIR’s ear a quick nip of her teeth and whispers very quietly: Nothing but me.
SIR pats FATAL’s thigh and FATAL blushes profusely.
SIR: Is that so?
FATAL blushes a deeper shade of red and SIR walks his fingertips up the inside of her thighs, past the tops of her nylons, toying with the garters. FATAL eases her knees apart just so. SIR clucks his tongue at her brazenness. FATAL presses her face to SIR’s shoulder and he continues to move his fingers, up and down, back and forth, from knee to the tip-top of thigh and back again.
SIR: Come now, what dirty little desires are lurking in your head?
FATAL presses her hips forward, just once, when SIR’s fingertips are near, and slides her fingers into his hair, massaging and tugging and caressing it.
FATAL: Nothing too dirty, dear. Just a desire to please you… and to beg to be pleased.
SIR pinches FATAL just on the inner thigh, just hard enough to make her yelp.
SIR: Go to the bed.
FATAL climbs off of his lap, unties her apron and leaves it on the side of the sink before heading into the bedroom and climbing atop the large bed, until she just sits right in the center of it, her heels pressed against the edge.
And we can’t show you this part, folks! The NAB would have our hides! Next time, on the Fatal and Sir show…
But I can tell you this part, my lovely little voyeurs. I sat on the bed, again, the perfect picture of 1950s poise and elegance, this time in a peach coloured dress that zipped down the back, complete with petticoat and all, and I waited for him to join me. I waited and marveled at the man who would indulge me in all of my strangest fantasies, who would treat me like so much property, like his little woman, like his little housewife. The man who let me play dress up, and who let me shed off, even just for hours, the armor of the modern woman: liberated, educated, opinionated, gainfully employed, self-sufficient, dominant. The man who respects women, who loves women, who enjoys all of these modern truths about women–but is willing to indulge me for our greater mutual pleasure. I waited for him, and when he stepped inside the bedroom, shirt a mess from his shave, with the hunt so deep in his eyes, I wanted to melt beneath him.
His hands wrapped around my ankles and he yanked me closer to the edge, reminding me of his physicality, of the brute strength of man. His touch was far gentler as he again kneaded and pressed and massaged my feet: toes, pads, arches, heel. When my toes curled, he made the delightful journey beneath them, tickling out more sensation. I don’t have a foot fetish, but I am a glutton for sensation, and my feet, those strong appendages that daily carry me throughout life, are full of tiny little nerve endings that make me jump and tremble with pleasure. Sir took full advantage. And when I was squirming beneath his fingertips he gazed into my eyes and asked me very quietly: “Do you want to touch yourself for me?”
I could only nod.
“Do it. But you can’t strip… leave your pretty dress on.”
I pulled my dress and my petticoat up, very unladylike. I bared my nylons and my garters as I slid a hand between the belt and the satin panties. He watched my every movement, studying the subtle pressures I placed against my cunt, and the inward and outward motion of my fingertips beneath the fabric. He studied my face; the abandoned composure, lips slackening, eyes fluttering, lip biting, teeth sucking, small moans and loud sighs. He moved between my feet and ankles and calves and thighs, never letting his fingers rest while he watched me.
“Talk to me, babydoll,” he finally uttered.
“I want something else, Sir.”
“Mmhm, keep talking.”
I laid back on the bed, and bent a knee, pulling a foot back and away, pulling my panties tight across my hand so he could see my hand straining against the satin, my touch growing rougher.
“Makes me… want your cock, Sir.”
“Beg for it. Nicely.”
His words made me ache. I moved my hips against my hand in slow, tight circles, my tiny fingers pumping in and out of my body. I moaned out loud and had to close my eyes.
“Please, Daddy… please. Give me your cock. I want it inside of me.”
He pinched my big toe and my eyes flew open. There was a smirk on his lips and a hungry look in his eyes.
“May I strip?”
I lift my hips up from the bed and peel my panties down. I kick them off to somewhere and clamor to my knees quickly. My fingers reach the zipper and I contort and bend until I can pull it all the way down. The dress slides off easily, and not a moment too soon. My skin feels like fire and when I look at him, he is unbutton his shirt, his trousers, peels away his layers, revealing his beautiful body to me. I lay on my back before him, in nothing more than matching garter belt and nylons,; the bra and panties since gone. He steps out of his silky boxers and he is already hard and thick.
He presses against me, and for a moment, I think he means to tease me. The head of his cock slips just inside and he changes his mind, or perhaps, cannot help himself. His hips move and he thrusts deep inside of me. I press up to meet him; my legs spread wider to accommodate him between them. He moves against me in hard, quick thrusts and I meet him, blow for blow. My hands reach out greedily to grasp at his hips, to get a hold, some leverage, and I work my hips in small, tight circles. I feel desperate and I feel so naked before him, stripped so bare when he looks in my eyes.
He doubles over and covers me in warm kisses, making a journey across my shoulders and my collarbones, spending time at my neck, and finally my breasts. When he pulls my nipple deep into his mouth, I become wanton, I become a little unhinged. My fingers scramble and claw their way up his back and shoulders and into his hair, and my knees lock around his hips, dragging him in deeper to me. He suckles the little nub until it is achingly hard in his mouth. The motion of his hips slam me into the bed every time, but my body keeps coming back for more. I hang onto him roughly, forcing my hips up, trying to climb inside of him with every thrust. I can taste my orgasm on my tongue, in my throat, it beats within my breast, it lives in my womb, but I don’t ask for it, I don’t even desire it. I want nothing but the rhythmic press and pulse of our bodies, the animal hunger of teeth and nails and sweaty skin.
He is wicked and he bites down sharply on my over sensitized nipple. I cry like a woman undone and dig my nails deep, deep into his shoulders and back, hanging on for dear life through pain and pleasure and need and the pounding of our bodies. He arches his back and groans.
“I’m going to come,” he grunts out.
I lock my knees behind his back, criss-cross apple sauce and hold him deep within my convulsing cunt. I wriggle and squirm and writhe and close my eyes to fight the tears.
My voice begins as a wavering, pleading murmur, but rises in volume and power, “yes, yes, please, Daddy, fill me up, please, please, please!”
When he does, it’s like I have my own orgasm, even though I haven’t asked permission, even though I don’t allow myself to. I don’t want the destination when the journey is… so much. He fills me up, and I feel so thoroughly his and so thoroughly spent. I ride him from beneath through his climax, until I milk the very last drops from him.
When we are done, he lies beside me, pulls me into the circle of his arms. He strokes my hair and hugs me and holds me. I feel like a little part of me is flayed and open and vulnerable. I feel very shy but so comfortable. I feel a bone-deep satisfaction.