Tuesday nights have a ritual.
Get home from work, get naked, and slide into a hot bath. I breathe in lemon-scented candlelight while my hands glide along the curves of my body. Eyes closed, playing with my breasts. Squeeze, squeeze. The rubber ducky nudges my knee as it floats, and I smile at the absurdity of it, this cute little ritual before what comes next.
I work myself up until warmth purrs low in my belly, a subtle prickling sensation crawling across my pussy and clit, making me shift in the water.
Stepping out of the bath, dripping wet, I pat myself dry with a fluffy towel, then move through my usual lotion routine, keeping my skin smooth, soft. I finish with a playful slap to my ass.
Whack!
The sound echoes in my little apartment, the gentle sting, a taste of what’s coming.
I grab the rubber ducky in its little choker and ball gag, placing him back in his corner of the bathroom. Then I move into my bedroom, skin still flushed and loose from the heat.
I part the black sheer curtains just enough to open the window. A delicate breeze sweeps in, licking at my bare skin. My nipples, already tight, harden to an exquisite ache. My fingers find my nipples, pinching and rolling until I’m gasping.
I bite my bottom lip as heat streaks from my nipples straight to my clit, making my thighs clench.
I draw the curtain mostly closed, leaving just a sliver of night visible. I may be an exhibitionist, but even I have limits.
Turning on the balls of my feet, I step to my nightstand. I pull open the drawer to my carefully curated collection. I grab a white hair tie first, twisting my blonde, wavy hair into a haphazard bun.
My fingers trace along the white leather strap of my ball gag next, the gag itself, a pink heart. I stuff it between my lips. My pulse picks up immediately, pussy wetting in anticipation.
I save the best for last: sliding open the mirrored closet door. There, hanging with infinite patience, is my white leather riding crop with a pink heart.
I slide the door closed and look at myself in the mirror. Gagged, crop in hand. I smile or attempt to. The ball gag makes it more of a stretched grimace, but I’ll take it. I bounce on my toes, watching my body jiggle, then turn and jump into bed.
Lying on my back, knees up, feet flat on the mattress. The crop licks across my inner thigh, then crosses to the other. Slow and steady, making its way toward my waiting pussy.
Smack!
The crop kisses my inner thigh. The sting pushes my legs wider apart. The pink leather heart drags along the crease where thigh meets cunt, teasing. It slithers up my stomach, digs under the swell of my breast, lifting and letting go. A wobble, then—
Thwick, barely there, just a flick of leather teasing my nipple.
A moan escapes around the gag.
Thwack!
The crop bites my cunt in response. I whimper. Good girls don’t moan at such simple flicks to the nipple. Am I a good girl? I’d like to think so.
The crop returns to my other nipple. Thwick, thwick. My body shudders, but I bite down, refusing to make a sound.
The crop takes a leisurely stroll along my body, stopping just shy of my buzzing clit. It leaves, only to return with a soft tap at the base of my hole, drawing up in one long, unhurried stroke. I feel my wetness spreading over every fold, slick and hot.
Tap, tap, tap, SMACK!
My hips jerk, my free hand grabs a fistful of sheets. Not a sound. The crop returns.
Tap, tap, tap…
It pauses, and the ache is unbearable, my hips straining upward, chasing the crop that won’t come. No. I’m a good slut. And good sluts wait.
Smack!
The heart-shaped bite digs into my cunt. The sting is bright, then turns to a smolder as the crop presses against the pain. Fuck, it’s delectable.
I flip onto my stomach, lifting my ass in the air. The crop trails up and down my spine, then follows the curve of my ass. My hips start swaying side to side.
My free hand shoots toward my cunt, desperate for a touch. For release.
Smack!
My lower back twinges with pain. I haven’t earned the right to touch my own pussy. I whimper into the gag, pitiful. My hand claws at my inner thigh instead, pink chipped nails leaving crescent marks in the tender skin.
The crop begins to circle, teasing the edges of my ass, over the crest, around the curve, under the cleft, between my cheeks.
Smack!
I sigh.
Smack, smack!
I bounce. I’m a good slut, I huff into the gag.
Smack, smack, smack!
My legs turn to jelly, trembling.
The crop sneaks underneath me. Thwack! It bites my cunt, giving me permission.
My fingers leap from my thigh to my pussy. I rub my clit with no hesitation, no grace, no dignity. My body burns from the strikes. My hips grind against my hand, riding the motion, chasing the building heat. The sounds are filthy. Muffled moans and the wet squelch of my greedy cunt.
I’m a good girl.
The orgasm that’s been building, smoldering in my core, finally erupts, absolute and consuming. My body shakes, convulses, the crop forgotten. I swear into my gag, strangled groans spilling out. I flatten against the bed, riding the last waves.
Lying on my hand. The crop at my side. Breathing heavily, collecting my thoughts as the orgasm crackles beneath the surface, fading slowly.
After a moment, I push myself up onto my knees, then sit back on my burning ass, perched on the balls of my feet. A gentle breeze sweeps in and cools the sweat at my temples.
That’s when I see it.
The curtains blew open.
Across the street, in the other apartment complex, stands a man. Coffee cup in hand, looking directly at me.
My heart leaps into my throat, blocked by the heart-shaped gag still in my mouth. I can’t stop the nervous giggle that bubbles up.
I raise the crop and give him a sheepish wave.
He raises his mug.
I’m a naughty girl.
