Waiting for Her
I can hear her filling the kettle. “I’ll just make a cuppa
to bring up,” Martha said when I announced I was heading for bed. “Want one?”
“No thanks,” I said. “I’ll be waiting...” We were still
sitting on the couch at this point and I nuzzled into her a little closer to
reinforce my hint. I think she understood.
So I go upstairs and strip naked. I do the necessary bedtime
ablutions quickly so I can go and be ready for her. I kneel on the bedroom
floor, feeling the pattern of the woven rug start to imprint on my knees. I
shift a little, opening my thighs wider so my cock and balls are fully exposed
for her. I can hear the kettle working itself up to a boil downstairs and I can’t
help but think of coming, my balls bubbling over. Or even better, being kept at
a slow simmer while she teases me relentlessly, not allowing me any release.
I should confess these thoughts. I place my hands behind my
back while I consider how I might seek to explain myself. I imagine her closing
cold steel around my wrists, locking them in place there so that instead of
grasping them at my back, I would feel the hard metal holding them still. “Mistress,
I’ve had bad thoughts,” I’d say. “Naughty thoughts.” Such a silly word, naughty,
like something from a Carry On film. I don’t like it. But that’s why she’d make
me use it. Make me feel silly, make the blood rush to my face, make me keep my
head firmly bowed, eyes fixed on the floor.
“Look at me,” she’d say. I’d only be allowed to look at her
with permission, of course, and she’d only give it when she knows I don’t want
to. “Tell me about these naughty thoughts.”
“I imagined myself coming. In you. Without permission. I’m
sorry, mistress.”
“Thank you for telling me, little one. But you know that
saying ‘sorry’ isn’t enough, don’t you? You know that I will have to punish you,
don’t you?”
“Yes, mistress.” My voice would be all contrition, but of
course I long for punishment. I wonder what the back of her wooden hairbrush
would feel like across the back of my thighs, or how she might drag her
fingernails up the underside of my stiff cock.
But she wouldn’t spank me, or scrape those nails up my
sensitive flesh. No, she would come up with something I hadn’t expected, something
to throw me off balance, upset this cosy little scene. Perhaps she’d lock my
balls into a humbler and have me kneel beside the bed while she places her
teacup on my back. Perhaps she’d slide one of those plastic cock cages over my
dick, lock it tight around my balls and refuse to tell me how long I’d have to
wear it. Oh, there are so many things she could surprise me with.
Downstairs, I can hear the fridge door open, close, open,
close. The tinkle of a teaspoon as she stirs in the milk. I close my eyes for a
moment, the better to hear her movements as she walks towards the stairs. I
think about her drawing a blindfold across my eyes so that I don’t know whether
her next touch will be a kiss, or a slap. My mouth falls open a little, seeking
the kiss that may never come. Or is it a gag that it seeks?
She’s coming up. I open my eyes and suddenly I’m on my feet,
grabbing my boxer shorts and a fresh T. I pull them on quickly, slide into bed
and try to arrange myself in a relaxed manner.
“You okay Tom?” she asks as she sets her cup down on the
bedside table. “You look tense.”
“Fine, Martha. I’m fine.” What a word. Fine. “Just waiting
for you.”
But it’s a lie. One I should confess. It’s not my wife I’m
waiting for. It’s myself. Waiting for the right moment to tell her what I want,
what I crave, what runs through my mind after we’ve put the lights out.
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