Filled and brimming

Water cooler goddess, filling up for the overlit ordeal ahead of slides, greige and company so dull they need electroshock. Pity them for their vanillity, she smiles to
herself as she fuels up her desire ahead of the meeting. Cup and gulp, cup and gulp. Cup and gulp soon to turn to clench and grip, her sphincter will shortly be grabbing into itself tightly enough to snatch the cork out of a champagne bottle, legs flexing hard under her skirt - how lovely it is when Master has her do that under His bindings! Limbs jamming each other togther in her private festival of self-induced discomfort. Discomfort, then the wild rush of relief, perhaps today dressed with a spot of cubicle masturbation. Yes, today’s the day to treat herself. Fluid retention superstar, her thoughts are turning inwards, protecting her heart from the forthcoming trial-by-banality.

Pale flesh. Bright reflection

It all starts with an image of metal on flesh, so let me set the scene. Starting with a detail, let’s take this idea for a walk.

I see: pale white thighs, of a body which amply reflects its owner’s appetite. Plump, plumpcious, even. Then a silver teaspoon, bright metal gliding carefully over the woman’s abundant pinkness. Smooth mysterious fleshtones and the sharp curving flashes of light reflected in the tiny metal bowl. I see also a stone floor, plain whitewashed walls and an oak beam running from wall to wall. The room is lit by a single window, outside the sky is that dead grey that winter does so well. The room centrally heated by a strange kind of unspoken intensity, the emotional space here is very far away indeed from the world outside. But just about reachable, if you try hard enough. If you have the imagination, I mean.

She who is here inspires her Master to his greatest feats. Let‘s call her Foodmuse, passively in charge of absolutely everything. The oak beam’s a giveaway is it not? Come on, try and guess what all this is about...

Naked, but for ballet heels, attached by her wrists to the beam, she’s looking down on to him. Not quite smiling though: the effort of listening to his touch over every inch of her surface is too much of an effort to waste her energy on anything else. Master tries to not let himself get too distracted by the way she totters around her centrepoint in her heels, delicate en-pointing around, loving the muscle-ripples in her legs. She’s in repose, nearly. She’s working, nearly. Whatever. Enjoying her tiny tip-toed struggling, they both are.

Get the picture so far? She’s standing, he’s ministering to her. An inventory of the essential equipment at this point reveals: rope, ballet heels, teaspoon, honey. And fruit, lots of it. My word, yes.

What I like about this fantasy is the idea of patiently working over Slave’s flesh, the way in which the Master must carefully attend to every square inch of it as he drizzles His slave all the shades of honey you could ever imagine. At once time pouring the honey dramatically over her shoulders, letting her enjoy the rivulets slowly rolling down her back, over her breasts, around her shoulders. Then carefully dripping it over her nipples, rolling the golden thread of his proxy ejaculate till it wraps tighly over her suckbuttons. Jamming the spoon hard into her navel: tugging the stickiness out for it to spill over her belly. Slave’s natural paleness slowly passes into a variegated pink-with-golden-smears, her gorgeously abundant body showing off its every curve under the attentive gloss of the repeated venerations of Master’s patient cumshots.

‘You’re working well today’

‘How can I fail to, with such materials as this?’