Birthday Wishes?
It was the Friday before my birthday weekend. I was home with Sir. He sat on the sofa; I was sitting at his feet in his favorite position: nude, on my knees (spread wide), my arms tightly bound behind me, back arched so that my breasts are up, with my head resting (if you can call it that) on the edge of the sofa cushion as Sir held my hair — looped around his wrist twice then held in his right hand.
In this position, I have very little range of movement (and over time, even less comfort); Sir has full access & control. I knew he had something in mind because I was also wearing the larger ballgag — something he usually reserves for very unreserved plans (or in hotel rooms etc., when we travel, to keep my noise down).
He sat, rather ignoring me, lazily playing with a riding crop in his left hand, keeping me on edge. There was a knock at the door. I jumped. As well as I could in my position anyway. I turned my head the inch I could and rolled my eyes at him, asking if he was expecting anyone. He steadily looked me in the eyes and said, “Marc is coming by to drop off some papers.”
Marc is a young guy Sir and I met at a bar recently. Sir noticed Marc had been staring at me and invited him over to sit with us at our table. I didn’t find Marc attractive at all. I fact, I thought he was arrogant, and deluded enough to think he had charisma. Sir has enjoyed my irritation every time our paths have crossed with Marc since, taking delight in making me be polite while Marc drooled all over me. Now Sir was claiming Marc was here, at our home? Invited even?
I thought he must be joking. If there was any mirth in my eyes, Sir stoically watched as it faded.
“It’s open, Marc,” Sir called.
Instinctively I tried to move, even though I knew I couldn’t. I felt Sir’s grip on my hair tighten just a second before he yanked it soundly.
Marc appeared out of the small foyer. He stopped dead in his tracks, drinking in the scene. “Damn,” he said, trying to reinstate his air of faux cool.
“Did you bring them?” Sir asked.
“Got ‘em right here,” he said, striding fulling into the room and proffering some papers to Sir, who waved them away dismissively. “I’ve got copies already.”
“Yeah?” Marc replied, who still couldn’t take his eyes off me, a miserable blush of a mess at Sir’s feet.
“Yeah, so why don’t you tell little Miss here what you’ve brought,” Sir commanded more than asked.
Marc took a few steps forward, so that he was right before me, towering over me, and placed some pages in front of me. They were at an angle, so I couldn’t read them — not that my addled brain could have made sense of even Mother Goose at that time.
“What I’ve got here,” he said, “are papers to fuck you — and fuck with you.”
I think I shook my head — to clear it, or in denial, I don’t know — but I felt the hairs strained in Sir’’s grip.
“Happy birthday, baby,” Sir breathed onto my neck, taking a nip of my left earlobe.