As submissives go, she was as high functioning as they get. Her observational skills were extraordinary and she often noted things without disclosing them to him. She would use those notes to generate responses that were, well let’s just say they were predictive and deliberate. She knew that wearing pink or yellow would often get a very caring, nurturing response. Still playful, and sometimes with expectations, but typically soothing and gentle. Purple, on the other hand, was his favorite and she knew it had a more primal effect. In the days leading up to Halloween, she would trot out her notes, colors, costumes, and new ideas almost as a means of intelligence gathering.
She had been feeling a little daring that day, not bratty or defiant, but she had a little itch and desperately wanted it scratched. And so, she endeavored to have her hair dyed purple while he was at work. It was ten days until Halloween, but she wanted a protracted response, and the color purple was a very reliable trigger. And so it was that as his arrival time approached that day, she had a few butterfly sensations and imbibed a glass of red wine to calm her nerves.
When he arrived home from work, she called out from the kitchen “Coming Sir” and moved swiftly to the front door to take his coat and briefcase. As he caught his first glimpse of her, she saw the look of surprise in his eyes. His eyebrow crooked as he uttered, “Oh my little one, I see you have reached into your bag of tricks again. Perhaps you are looking for an early Halloween treat?”
She paused, almost still, and said, “Yes Sir, I … ummm… would like that very much.”
As he reached around her in his typical bear-hug fashion, she felt him take both her hands back to the small of her back and hold them there. Her training kicked in immediately and as he loosened his arms, she turned her back to him without moving her hands… his grip remained there, secure and strong, as he guided her to the parlor.
When they entered the room, she felt a brief tug downward as he said, “On your knees now, little one.” She kneeled there with her torso upright and her hands firmly buried in the small of her back. She knew this position all too well and was not surprised when he left her to go to His closet. She heard the rattle and shuffles and he returned quickly with a length of purple rope, the exact same color as her newly dyed hair. She smirked shyly having expected that rope to make its appearance.
He kneeled down behind her now, reaching around to firmly embrace her beautiful titties. He called them her “Hollywood Titties” as they were one of his favorite features. His hands moved deftly to unbutton her silky blouse and then drop the strap on her bra. All the while he pressed his body against her back, her hands located perfectly to feel his cock becoming flush and full against her lower back. He unsnapped the bra and in a single motion, like pulling a tablecloth from beneath a full set of china and crystal, her blouse and bra we flung onto the chair in front of her.
He had come to enjoy this position immensely and he had practiced the arms-back binding many times. He paused only for moments to reach around to see if he could get her nipples to present as the same color purple. His strong hands and fingers tortured her and she was drifting into a sensory space she knew and loved. This was precisely the itch, the space she yearned for.
As he completed his ties, he stood up and stretched a bit. She could hear his hands rustling his clothing, unbuttoning, unzipping, and then his belt buckle hit the floor. His erection was full and he was not in the mood to waste time. As he stood in front of her, she gazed up coyly and nuzzled his cock, feeling it pressed against her face, throbbing and engorged. His tempo, however, grew quickly and he grasped her head, feeding her with his swollen gift. His stokes were demanding and within a minute she was dizzy, gagging as he skull-fucked her, all the while gazing down at her purple hair and the rope that held her arms in place behind her. He withheld nothing, shoving himself well past her tonsils. He stroked and held, and continued as she gasped for air and her mascara began to trickle down her cheeks. He thrust again, over and over until that final quivering moment when she felt him unload his seed, well beyond her mouth, seemingly straight into her stomach.
As he held her head, pulsing every last drop into her, he finally relinquished control and she gasped for breath, overwhelmed with joyful tears now falling onto her thighs. She knew how much she had pleased him that day, but she kept her secrets. The secret joy. The secret of being his “little one”. The perfect scratch for her secret itch.
