Glad You Came. (Erotica)

She gets up before the alarm, just as she does every morning. She bathes, puts on her morning outfit and fixes her copper-coloured hair before entering the kitchen to prepare the breakfast, just as she does every morning. She cooks up two eggs, two sausages, two pieces of toast and finishes by brewing a pot of fresh coffee, just as she does every morning. She places the pot of orange marmalade on the table, to the exact right of the plate, just as she does every morning. She spoons an exact circle of cranberry chutney onto the plate, to the right of the sausages. Nothing on the plate touches another item, just as it has not touched another item since that honeymoon night when by accident the beans got a bit fresh with the eggs. She remembers the shame and the humiliation of that episode quite clearly. THAT must not happen again, not under any circumstances. So, she double checks everything, then checks every detail again with care to make sure, just as she does every morning.

She hears movement coming from the bedroom. She tenses at first then relaxes a bit once she hears the shower running. That means the bathroom has passed inspection this morning, thank goodness. She moves quickly to fold the napkins just so. She double checks the silverware to ensure no fingerprints. She goes to the kitchen window and opens it exactly four inches wide, just as she must do every morning, rain or shine. Whilst there, she sneaks a peek at her reflection. Every hair must be in place-or else. She cannot stand the staring, the slow, patient tone, the words heavy with disappointment and disgust. She cannot bear it. Better to ensure that all is perfect. Better to just do as she is told. Better to brush this stray hair into place than to risk the alternative. Quickly, she takes the miniature brush from her pocket and smooths back the stray flyaway.

She personally loves the fact that she has brilliantly red hair with curls and waves, but one stern look at the beginning of their relationship withered that idea away completely. After a trip to the hairdresser, she was firmly shown the “proper” way to wear her hair at all times: a sleek, high ponytail with the under curve for every day wear. Pert bow attached above the bangs, like the blonde girl from that old television show. The bow MUST match whatever colour outfit she wears that day. For sex, the ponytail is to be absolutely straight, caught back in a black hair elastic, hanging down her back, suitable for wrapping around a fist. She goes to the hairdresser’s every three weeks to get a trim. No exceptions. Split ends are not tolerated.

Not tolerated at all.

This is the law. It is decreed. It is written. No arguments. No exceptions without express permission. Express permission.

Snapping out of her reverie, she tenses again. The shower has stopped. That means the dressing session has begun. She smooths her corset, adjusts her stockings (she had a run last week; the horror, the horror) and crosses the kitchen to stand by the coffee pot. She runs her fingers over her teeth; no stray lip stain on the teeth today. That was the day before yesterday; best not to let that happen again. She waits until she hears the door to the bedroom open, the familiar footsteps coming down the stairs, the jingle of keys being placed on the table by the front door, the small scrape of the briefcase being placed on the floor.

She waits. Once the footsteps are just about at the kitchen, she switches on her best face. With a brilliant smile, she comes forward to receive the perfunctory kiss. With a brilliant smile, she pulls out the chair, proffers the napkin, and pushes the chair beneath the flawlessly creased pants at just the right moment. With that same painted-on smile she pours the coffee, adds cream and sugar, and stirs it thrice. With that same fixed smile, she stands, hands clasped behind her, ramrod straight in her new black and red laced-back Butterfly Corset, seams straight, garters level, no knickers, ladyscaped, Louboutins together. With that same never-changing smile she stares ahead, inwardly praying that this time every thing is perfect, that there are no complaints. She stares ahead, listening intently to the chime of the silverware as the food is consumed. The coffee is drunk in silence. Only when the napkin has attended to the straight, uncompromising mouth does she again whisper forward to remove the dishes to the sink for hand-washing. She then turns around after giving them a quick rinse. With a deep curtsy done in the Russian manner, she holds the position until the blue pinstripe suit with the elegant red tie and hand-crafted platinum pin with matching cuff links passes by, pausing just outside the doorway, silent and erect. This is her cue.

Head bowed, she goes through the doorway, and moves in front of the suit. Bending over from the waist, she waits patiently in front of the immobile figure. Soft, manicured hands, with strong fingers slick with lubricant, work themselves into her buttocks. She moans, but softly, as the fingers, so gentle, so sweet, coax her anus to open like a flower in the sun. Bent over, she trembles with excitement and desire, wanting those fingers to caress her intimately, needing the love and affection she craves from the one she loves to travel from those sensitive fingers to her intimate parts. Wet now, she is fairly panting as the fingers drolly, with total control, tease her, torment her, inch in tentatively, slide out all too quickly, then suddenly and pleasurably crowd into her.

Now and again, fingers from the other hand touch her clitoris, massaging it, bathing it with her own wetness. These fingers are on her hips now, showing her how to move, how to involve her body fully and completely into the finger play. She rotates, flexing her backside; she bends further forward to expand access to those fingers that know her so well, those fingers which now accelerate in a frenzied, penetrating rhythm. She moans and gives herself over to that pleasure beyond pleasures, that clenching and throbbing and tingling rising up from her toes to the very tip of her head. She cries out and leans on her knees. Her legs are trembling. She is allowed to lean against the towel-barrier between her secretions and the Savile Row suit for five minutes before a warning hand is placed firmly on her right buttock.

She stands up promptly, turns around to face the suit, and curtseys deeply. She applies her lips fervently to the ring held out for her to kiss. She hurries to get the washbowl, flannel, and a cake of sandalwood soap. With soft, gentle strokes, she cleans the liquidity of her sex from those hands which have just brought her the deep pleasure she hungers for. Drying those hands she secretly loves so much, she steps back when finished with her task. Again, her head is down, allowing “the suit” to pass in a wafting of sandalwood. A short pause; one hand caresses her caramel-coloured skin, followed by one finger tracing her full lips. The fingers withdraw. Now keys jingle into the pocket, the closet opens briefly for the retrieval of the overcoat before closing again.

She places the bowl with the soap inside on the table, laying the towel to the side. Picking up the briefcase she hurries towards the waiting figure and hands the briefcase over with a straight-armed gesture. “The suit” gives her a neutral look before turning and opening the door. She stands at the door, waving, until the company car pulls up to the front and collects the suit. After a moment, ensuring that “the suit” has actually departed, she steps backwards and closes the door, locking it.
Her face lights up with inner relief and a release of tension as she leans upon the door for a moment. Joy upon joys, she has the entire day to herself, no rules. This prospect is sweeter than treacle.

After a few moments, she pries herself away from the door and practically skips into the kitchen where she cleans up, humming and singing to herself. Finishing all her tasks there (and shutting the window with a brisk snap) she cleans away the washbowl from the hall, taking care to remove the ring from the varnished wooden table. Whirling through the remainder of her tasks leaves her with plenty of free time, and she races upstairs to take full advantage of the solitude. She twirls into the bedroom, more than ready for a bath and a luxurious stretch.

Everything is in order leaving her free to commence her own pursuits.

Entering the bathroom, she runs the water in the bath, happily adding a bon bomb bath bomb. She brings in her shower basket and clothes. She pins up her hair carefully then covers it. She applies a firming masque to her face, strips off her clothes, and sinks beneath the foam and bubbles, grateful for the heat of the water, the citrus aroma of the bomb bubbles and the solitude of the bath. She leans back, feeling relaxed and at ease. Putting the cooling gel-filled bath mask on her eyes, she settles in for an hour’s soak.

She must have dozed off; the next thing she knows she hears some small sound. Instantly alert, she pulls off the mask and listens tensely. Nothing. After a few moments, she leans back, closing her eyes again. She feels herself drifting off into a technicolour world, a world where the hands she craves and wants so desperately are touching her, pleasing her, assertively inserting themselves into her, romping about her flesh, squeezing, tickling, pleasantly scratching. She moans and stirs; her nipples fiercely erect, the tingle between her legs going from light to medium, her toes curling in delight.

She moans again, eyes still closed and this time her legs aren’t open wide enough for the delicious sensation of fingers touching her pussy, gently pulling open the lips and thumbing the pearl within. She puts her legs out to either side of the detached Victorian bathtub. Water splashes on the floor but she is beyond caring. Arching her back, she yields to the fingers, to those wicked fingers that know exactly what she needs. She shudders and pants, as with pressure and touch alone she is made to climax, to release the thunderstorm whirling around inside her.
When she opens her eyes, she is not surprised one bit to see that she is no longer alone in the bathtub. What is a bit surprising is that it is not the person she expects to see.
She regards this stranger calmly, without fear. The stranger stares at her in open admiration. His eyes, dark without any pupils whatsoever, bore into her, eliminating any pretense  The silence between them is intense but not unpleasantly so.

“Who are you, then?” she begins.

“Your dreams come true” he returns.

“You don’t look like any dream I have ever had. Now who are you really?”

“You win. I am a daemon.”

“You are a what?” Now she stares at him, unabashedly open-mouthed.

“I am, to put it in quite simple terms, a daemon” comes the calmly modulated response. His eyes, multifaceted like black diamonds, never leave her face.

A candy floss of silence spins out of between the pair of them.

She stares, unsure as to how to proceed next. She certainly has no idea of what to say to a daemon that invites itself into the bath. The etiquette on that procedure seems to be a bit unclear at the moment.

“Perhaps you can say ‘thank you’” prompts the daemon.

“You’re reading my mind now?” she says in surprise.

“I can always read your mind. That’s why I am here. You need me and I want to fuck you so it’s a promising match, you’ll find.” The daemon grins at her so openly and with such ebullient lewdness that she can fail to do little else but respond in kind.

“Plus,” the daemon continues, “this is a total no-risk situation for both of us. No one else can see me. We can hide in the spaces between time and I can fuck you whenever, wherever, with total impunity, teaching you the wonders of the worlds that exist between your legs. You can still serve “the suit” without fear of discovery or of losing this plush life, and please” here — he holds up his well-manicured hand — “don’t bother to waste any time by denying that having to give up this house in Chelsea, or new Louboutins or custom Butterfly Corsets would absolutely kill you.” The daemon leans back at his end of the tub, long dark hair flowing past his shoulders, saturnine face placidly looking at her while inserting one of his big toes into her vagina.
She automatically rolls her hips forward so he can insert his toe into her more fully. This, of course, makes it quite difficult, nay, even impossible to have a clear thought. But one thing does occur to her.

“Don’t daemons and devils and that sort usually ask for something in return?” she stammers out. Who knew that a big toe could be so agile and so thrilling?

“Of course we do. Something for nothing is not good for business. The Boss would personally spit roast me.” This last is said with an easy laugh and a brilliant smile while his other big toe rotates around her clitoris with gusto. She squirms in happy anticipation of future lessons; her mind is being clouded by the sexual energy aroused by the amazing dexterity now being demonstrated between her very legs. Still, she struggles to pull herself together.

“But what do you want of me? I mean,” she holds up a hand, “besides the obvious enticement of ravishing my all too eager body.” This last was barely intelligible as the daemon now employees his tail in the most alarmingly dexterous fashion upon her nipples while his toes whirl away beneath the water.

“A favour,” he says smartly while his eyes with no pupils watch her intently.

“A favour? What sort of favour?” This last is muffled as the daemon’s long tail wraps itself around her breasts, binding them tightly. Remarkably fashioned much like a tentacle, the tail begins to gently suckle the nipples of her newly engorged breasts. This is no time for any conversation of any consequence.

“Just a favour, my love,” he responds. Coming closer to her he uses his long index finger to probe her belly button with happy interest. “Just be sure that you are prepared to grant me this favour when the time comes,” he whispers while nibbling on her ear.

“Sure,” she gasps. “If you promise me three things in return.”

Surprised that she has any capacity left to reason, he is wary. “Yes, darling?”

“That I am not harmed in any way. That no matter what happens I am accommodated with enough money to keep me to this lifestyle for the rest of my life and” here she has to utter an oath of desire as his hands travel to her buttocks — “that you and I keep up these lessons at least twice daily.”

Delighted with her answer, the daemon agrees enthusiastically.

“No one else can see you?”

The daemon reaffirms that he makes himself visible at will and shall be sure to do so only to her.

“Well, then” here — she pulls herself towards him, all the better to ogle the amazing sight of two penises and four swollen balls — “what are we waiting for, then?”

Two hours later, when the water has long since been drained from the tub and they are lying together in each others’ arms in the bathtub, she looks at him, smiling with happiness.

“I’m ever so glad you came,” she says to him candidly.

Mistress Raeven

Mistress Raeven , London's Dark Secret, is a professional dominatrix, sex educator, writer of erotica and fashion stylist/designer. Her versatile,eclectic outlook encompasses the worlds of Vampyre, Goth, Fetish as well as more “mainstream” sectors. Embracing the chaos and change of both her natal Death card as well as the powers of the Dragon/Serpent, this London mistress opens up lively dialogue in order to promote sex-positivity across various media. “Sex is on my mind quite often, so why not share?” is the basis of her philosophy. The Black Rose of England regularly offers sessions, classes, workshops, events and appearances.

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1 Response

  1. nitin says:

    very erotic