Steak & BJ After Decades Of Neglect - Sex Stories

Steak & BJ After Decades Of Neglect

... of the main door closing: perhaps the girl had closed it on her way out, or perhaps Violet had pushed it shut with her back.

Here again, was the delicious sound of her heels. Violet was gorgeous: her tits were taut and her nipples erect, both from the excitement of being seen by another person and from the tension caused by the belt tightened above her elbows.

She walked slowly, to give me time to get a good look at her. I will never forget that magnificent gait, majestic and humble, fit for a queen but also a slave: for a queen who had agreed to be my slave for a day.

Violet's lips were half-open. Yes, lips: the two labia that encircled the clitoris. Violet also smiled at me with her delicious mouth: the lips, the other ones, the top ones. Very calmly, she placed her right foot on the coffee table, allowing me to closely contemplate her beautiful pussy.

She wore black lace-up shoes covering only her toes. Tiny laces showed her beautiful ankle in stockings. I didn't remember her ever buying those shoes: they were very elegant, perhaps she had worn them to a friend's wedding. I had given her the stockings but she had never worn them. The thought that Violet had prepared this whole show for me made my heart melt like snow under the sun.

Then, slowly, Violet rested her right knee on the couch, and gently slid into the same position as before, with her knees wide open, her pussy rubbed against my cock, and her tits stretched forward by her elbows tightened by ...

... the belt.

With voice matter of fact, I established some corrections to the proposal she had made, both in the note and in the options just enunciated.

"Here are the rules of the New Tradition. Every March 14, or any immediately available date in case of a natural disaster, the two of us will celebrate Steak & BJ.

The celebration will begin at 7 p.m.

You, the wife, are to be decked out in this way at all times, or in other even skimpier lingerie. And you will be handcuffed at all times, at the very least with these Velcro manacles, or with other, more constrictive handcuffs, such as a gibbet or a belt that holds your forearms and neck in place. And heels. Nothing to impede my free access to nipples or pussy.

No conversation. Elegant conversation is a conventional Valentine's Day ritual. Here we are in the cave of the Primitive Man, I don't want to hear talk, I want only moans, grunts, and monosyllables.

I, the husband, will watch television. But not porn, or anything exciting. Your punishment, for denying me twenty years of valentines, will be to blow job me all evening while I watch a sports channel. And as you have never reciprocated me at parties, I will do with you: you will have no orgasm until midnight on March 15.

You wrote that I have had to swallow several boring things over the years. You will have to swallow at least two cumshots or even three. With handcuffs, you will not be able to eat freely: you will have to beg me to feed you, like a small ...