Humiliation Parade Continued

She is right at the edge, ready to fall, desperate for the slightest breath whispered on the back of her neck to push her into the abyss of her own deepest, most fearsome desire. She is constantly relieved to discover that it seemed bottomless; as deeply as she dove each time, there were still murkier, lower waters to reach.

She was nervous, so nervous driving to him. Palms moist, fingers shaking, heart racing, stomach quaking, mind pacing, nail-biting, chain smoking, senses heightening, breath choking in her throat, thoughts afloat on the boat of memories of last time, eagerness for this time. In this moment, she was enlightened, suddenly aware and appreciative of the beauty of being ignored for a torturous period of time; perception and realization shone down on her, astounding her with their simplicity, the obviousness to which she had been so oblivious. The painful weight of worry and wonder was released by its counterweight of appetizing anticipation, an aroma of apprehension arousing her as if it were her first time seeing him, serving him.

She arrived and followed his order to walk to the tennis court after parking her car by his apartment. Hitting balls against the wall with his tennis racket, he was shiny and wet with sweat. The exchange of casual niceties she found lightly entertaining, considering how shiny and wet she would soon be with one or more of his bodily fluids before long. Actually, the little dialogue- his questions about her son, of all things- disoriented her somewhat, but she played along. She struggled to remember if she had licked the sweat off his chest or played fetch with the tennis ball first. She struggled to remember the exact timing between the moment her tongue was soaking the perspiration from the tip of his nose in relation to the moment his new friend walked onto the tennis court inviting him to hit across the net. Well, things were okay; she was just a cousin anyway.

And yes, she did wonder how public things could become... but no worries, nothing of concern. Nothing until the final moment of goodbye, they walking away from him, she carrying the basket of balls at his... suggestion. She should have been wearing nothing but a loincloth... or nothing at all really... with a big jug of water on her head....

Nervousness tickled her tummy again, she licked her lips with the pleasure of it, brushed her tit inconspicuously with her upper arm, her nipple tingling.

And soon enough, she had been right, her face was his sweat rag, her pores soaking in the dripping drops of perspiration from his chest, belly, and back. As if her skin wasn’t fucked up enough already with its own issues. She laughed. Her tongue lapped it all up, sucked it hard off his skin. There was mostly no taste- she was surprised, was he really so clean? Only a few spots here and there on the sides with any flavor... salty of course. The answer was no, he was not really so clean, she found out when she took his socks and shoes off. Aromatic yes.

He told her to dry his back with the towel- but she could see it was dry already! So she told him and found herself deliciously backing away from the threatening overture, the preface to a slap on her face- and she was honestly clueless as to her misdeed. Obedience was hers to give, nothing more- no extra tidbits of information that might seem critical to her, but would be impertinently useless to him. In fact, if he gave her the ludicrous order to “lick his wings”, she should find a way to do so. She wondered what he read in her eyes as he educated her thus; did he see the astounded delight she felt? That was what it was- a surprised joy, a joyful surprise... reminiscent of how she felt when he had let her know how particular he was about the particulars. And to be sure now, there was no surprise that this lesson’s conclusion found her creatively “licking his wings.”

The sequence of events will forever be lost to her memory. But she can close her eyes and slide into comforting capsules, like cozy, warm armchairs holding her tightly, of squishy, wet, and utterly arousing flashes of the many uses to which he put her...

When she bathed him, he had her wear a pair of his denim jeans because he “did not want to see her body”- oh it was so hideous, to be sure (dear reader, envision a wink from the storyteller here). Oh but she had to remember the moment before that- he was standing in the tub, water running, waiting for her to enter and she slipped from his view, just outside the bathroom door, to slip off her shoe. More unexpected chastisement- most likely accompanied with a beautiful slap, no she cannot quite remember- the absolute audacity she had to move, especially out of his sight, she guessed, without asking his permission! Next time she had to scratch her nose, she would ask first! She felt shocked, but more deeply inside, she was disappointed in herself, because she knew such things. It was always a matter of not knowing how far she could let herself go with such things; how far they wanted to take it. She was ready, desirous, and hungry to be completely micromanaged, but it seemed like most people thought it was a drag, so she held back. But she should know already, should have known that with certain people who are equally eager, this move just backfires and makes her look like such a terribly misbehaved slavegirl.

So, back to his bathing- she wearing his denim jeans that were sadly almost too tight on her. It seemed like a small thing- this wet discomfort he gave her. But he made a point of it at some point, pointing at the soaked pants she wore, pointedly, “It must be so uncomfortable wearing wet jeans. That never feels good.” And it made it all worthwhile- how silly she felt wearing them... he let her know he enjoyed her discomfort and she felt so grateful that he did. She smiled inside warmly.

She bounces into another little bubble of recollection...

The denim jeans were off, but a gray tank top was on. Again in the shower. But just her now. He pissed on her and left her there, with the coldest water spraying down on her. He left the bathroom altogether, turning out the light as he went.

Should she have been scared? Bored? Happy? Wondering what he was doing? Wondering his purpose? If there even had been one... or was he just busy doing something he felt she had no business knowing about?

He didn’t leave her very long. He came back to have her remove the wet shirt and hand it to him so he could throw it at her face. He put his hand out for her to give it to him again. This cycle repeated a few times and she laughed a little. It was comical, but still humiliating and wonderful.

She thinks to herself she probably didn’t show as much gratitude (or any really) as she should have... as she felt.

She wanders on to the next little warm cocoon of memory...

A zipper of clothespins beaten off with one blow by a.. cat’o’nine? or was it a single-tail? dragon tail? It did hurt. Yes it did.

Bondage and more bondage. She was actually a little impressed. She did not expect much of people, especially when it came to bondage. But his was not bad. Not exactly symmetrical, but close. Practice, practice, practice. She would be a willing mannequin if he desired.

Onward, her mind races, one half (the left or the right? that was probably too much thinking for her to attempt... it might lead her into using big words she did not understand.. tsk tsk) trying to slow itself down to savor the memories the other half is delving into multiples at a time...