Just When You Thought...

The plug and the lube were out. Chris, thoroughly into the plan to hold me down and torment me with it until he could stand it no longer, push me to my knees in front of him, and orgasm happily (either in my mouth or on my face) had just gone to wash his hands.

I was fluttering nervously, with no directed purpose or activity except knowing what was coming. Part of me was of course eager; my body had lustfully, unmistakably and repeatedly betrayed any anxiety my rational brain could conjure. The physical evidence remained on the duvet cover even then.

I wondered what I could say to convince him to be gentle. Or, you know, to distract him altogether, and counted the odds as highly unlikely, since it was going to end with his cock between my lips anyway. I swallowed, contemplating how sore I'd be. How much I would whimper. How thrilled I'd been when he'd locked the door earlier. How suddenly and unexpectedly - sore, fatigued and three orgasms later - I was not so lustful. Or so eager. Nervousness forced me to engage in a fruitless conversation in which Chris assured me that I would be held quite firmly over his lap and that he would enjoy it if I struggled. Indeed, he wanted me to.

"I'd be more comfortable on the bed," I pointed out, still pacing.

"You're not expected to be comfortable," he returned, drying his hands in the next room.

And then the phone rang.

Now, it was 9:30 PM and we live on the West Coast. That meant that it was either Chris's mother or somebody who should be asleep. I felt my heart sinking, the nervous anxiety shifting to a different kind of worry as I dived across the bed to answer the phone.

The number was unfamiliar, but the CallerID offered clues - why had Chris given out our unlisted, FCC-protected phone number to someone called CityWatch? I knew I hadn't. He came out of the bathroom, I tossed him the phone, mentally trying to place the area code.

I felt sure he would hang up after five seconds, but he listened intently. I couldn't understand all of the automated message, generated by a call service in some other part of the country but it took only a moment to realize that the call had been originated by our own county. When I heard "burglary suspect" my eyes turned immediately toward the patio doors in our bedroom that lead to a very dark and narrow corridor from the driveway to the hot tub behind the house. It's a pleasantly cool space in the daytime, covered by a second-story deck, with just enough room for a table and chairs I intend to move there soon (next weekend). Indeed, it's private enough that the evening before, Chris had ordered me out onto that patio naked, for no other reason than to make me uncomfortable.

Right then, I was only concerned that the drapes completely blocked anyone from peering inside - suspect or, heaven forbid, sheriff's deputy. The flogger, after all, was still draped over the end of the bed and I was certain my body bore marks from what had transpired after the flogger.

Chris, after hanging up, grabbed a flashlight and went upstairs to turn on the outside lights and be sure the patio doors were locked.

"Well, that was fun," I muttered, as I put away the plug and lube fifteen minutes later. Chris had gone to watch the news, after we'd stood in the dark and watched the outside lights in our neighborhood - usually all dark - flicker on one at a time.

"It must suck to go last," I mentioned off-hand, much much later.

"Oh, it will," he assured me.

I couldn't help it. I laughed.