It’s strange how much harder I find writing about real sex as opposed to fantasy sex, even when a lot of my stories incorporate real sex. Having said that, this post doesn’t actually have much sex in it at all. Sorry 🙂 I do have a lot of photos that I’ll be sharing over the coming days though – a picture paints a thousand words as the saying goes. Anyhoo, here’s part of what happened last Friday.
I’d been nervous about this visit, letting my imagination run wild, as usual. I hadn’t been to his house since the start of July and that had only been for a night, plus since then we’d come a long way in our relationship. We’d talked a lot about the different things we wanted to try, things that it wasn’t possible to do at mine. Things like using the nipple clamps, caning, and being tied up properly, so I couldn’t move, so he could hurt me, and I wouldn’t have to be quiet.
I had even been able to do some shopping before I went. We’d gone to Killarney the weekend before and I’d bought some underwear but I’d also wanted to find things he could rip. I wanted him to be able to just tear the clothes from my body, and I really wanted a new pair of ‘fuck me’ shoes. I love heels, but I can’t walk in them, sometimes I even have trouble standing in the damn things, but I still love for Sir to bend me over and fuck me when all I’m wearing is stockings and heels. This may be a small town but we still have a couple of charity shops, and a lot of the stuff is either new or barely worn. A few weeks back there had been a pair of shoes in the window that caught my eye, and luckily when I finally got around to going in they were still there. I’d say they’d been worn once by some other poor girl who’d fallen in love with them and then probably been crippled by them on a night out. I also found the perfect dress, and with a little alteration it would be easy for Sir to rip it. So with my nearly new purchases, new lacy knickers and a couple of other bits and pieces I was set.
As Sir lives 300kms from me I fly to Dublin and he picks me up. It always seems decadent, even extravagant to me, flying across the country. It’s not something I do very often, but when you live in the arsehole of nowhere, in a country with a shitty transport infrastructure and you don’t drive there really isn’t much choice.
I knew exactly what I was going to wear for the trip up, usually I’m a practical traveller, jeans, docs, hoodies, but this time I wore the dress. Sir likes sexy underwear but he also has a thing for my ‘big knickers’, although the ones I was wearing weren’t that big, they were white, and definitely not lacy. I’d also worn over-the-knee socks, more practical than stockings but still something I thought Sir would like (I was still wearing my Docs though). The problem was that Friday was so bloody windy, when I got out of the car at Kerry airport the dress nearly blew over my head. I don’t mind people seeing me naked online but I wasn’t going to flash my knickers there at the airport, so I put on a pair of leggings too – sexy, I know. As nervous as I’d been beforehand, now I was actually on my way I felt better, no turning back now.
Sir picked me up from the airport and because I haven’t been to one for about 15 years, since I moved to Ireland, we went to Ikea – more sexiness! And it’s funny, because it hasn’t changed at all. It was nice to wander around though, actually doing things that couples do, talking about beds, seeing how sturdy they were, tie points, that sort of thing (I need a new one).
After we’d had dinner and were driving to his, Sir put his hand on my thigh as he likes to do when he’s driving and felt the knee-highs. He asks if I’m wearing stockings and I explain about the wind, I tell him I was planning on taking the leggings off when we get to his. His response? “Take them off now.” So, off come the boots and the leggings, and his hand goes back between my legs. As nice as that is, I’m worrying more about the fact that it’s dark, it’s raining and we’re on twisty, Irish roads. Not that Sir is driving fast, but I really would prefer him to concentrate on driving, he rips the knickers and sticks a finger in my cunt. Then he tries to take the knickers off, tells me to give them to him but I won’t. He tells me he wants to throw them out of the car, it’s getting slightly ridiculous now. I am not giving him my knickers, but every so often he tells me to give them to him and again I refuse. I tell him I want him to worry about the road.
Ten minutes later I lose the knickers anyway when I have to walk around Tesco.
And this is how I spent much of the rest of the evening.