Tea For Two

"Tea. Now", she barks at me, holding out the empty teapot. Never mind that I haven’t finished mine, that this is the third cup she has demanded from me and that I am tired from cooking her supper and bathing her. I rise instantly and move rapidly across the room to where she sits on the sofa. She’s wearing the smallest skirt and the silkiest blouse. Had I not dressed her earlier, you wouldn’t be able to tell that she’s wearing no underwear. I can’t disguise my urgency, my rush to please her. And she likes it that way – loves to see me so selflessly submissive. There is the resident gleam of power on her face: no smile, her gaze unflinching and direct. "Yes, Ma’am", I chirp, happy to do any small thing for her. I almost want to flick a salute in her direction, or a wink, but I resist the urge to give the frivolity in my heart free reign. My thoughts are whirling – I know this is a prelude, setting the scene. As I leave the room, I bump into the doorframe, rattling the teapot lid into the silence.

In the kitchen, I wait for the kettle. She will be sitting unconcerned, twiddling her thumbs, humming, twirling her hair through her fingers. And smirking. I know she’ll be smirking, for she has such plans for me, is going to humiliate me so lovingly today. The prospect sends little shivers from my belly throughout my body, making me moan gently and involuntarily. Hurry up, kettle…

"Serve me", she instructs, when I re-enter the room. The tea things are on the low table in front of her and as I bend over to pick up the pot, she sighs: "And for goodness sake, get yourself down on your knees to pour. I can’t bear to have you looming near me". I slip quickly to the floor and prepare a cup for her. But not for myself. I am so awash with tea already that I can feel the familiar pressure behind the waistband of my knickers. While this is only as it should be, I’m pushing her. And she bites. "Do you want to annoy me?" she says. "Are you being deliberately badly behaved? When I have tea, you have tea. Now do it properly or I shall tire of you".

The last thing I want is tea. I want the fulfilment of her assurances. "But Mistress, you promised…" I can’t stop the whine in my voice – it’s a product of my need, my desire for her ministrations. She has promised me some time on her lap, over her knee, her hand on my arse, oh god, don’t make me wait any longer; I have been so patient… "Just pour the tea", she drawls, supremely unconcerned. We finish the pot. I am aroused by so many things by this point that it is hard to differentiate between them. Her mere presence always has me in a state of heightened awareness, the muscles in my belly tight and my nerve endings flickering. Serving her, my deference and her responding coolness – these things as ever have me alive with longing. But the need to piss is the biggest thing, the hugest, most pervading sensation. It doesn’t hurt. Yet. This last, coupled with the longing for my pledged spanking, makes me forget myself. I start to beg her. It’s a little soon to be begging but I am past caring. "Please, Mistress, let me lay in your lap. I won’t wriggle, I’ll lay still, I’ll be good…"

I sound quite pathetic and I know it. She reaches down beside the sofa and pulls forth a riding crop, swishing it gently in front of her, then leaning slightly forward and flicking it oh-so gently against my arm. "Stand", she says. And I do, imagining my pleasure is about to be granted. But she is a very cruel woman. Getting to her feet, she extends the crop towards me and her wrist twitches it against my thighs so tauntingly gently that I want to grab the damned thing from her grasp and throw it to the ground in frustration. Naturally, I remain where I am and listen with my head bowed while she makes a mockery of me, tapping me with the whip in time to her words: "I will not have you make demands of me, bitch. You are privileged to serve me and that should be sufficient for you. I spank for my own enjoyment, not yours. If you forget your manners one more time, you will have to leave. I cannot abide such blatant neediness. Is that quite clear?" I can only nod. Tears are prickling my closed eyelids and I can feel myself shudder with anxiety. I think she sees this for she seems to take some small pity on me. While I remain standing, objectified before her, she settles herself back onto the sofa and beckons to me with one finger. "Come. Lie down. Don’t look so miserable, girl". I know how to do this, know that she is inviting me to adorn her lap, at last.

She is stroking my back, running her hand down over my buttocks and onto my thighs. The skin of her palm is cool against my flaming body and she intersperses the fluttery touches of her fingers with sadistic little pinches and scratches. I am struggling to lie immobile, knowing that any slight wriggle will cause her to stop. "What a pretty arse you have, my little slut." I am quivering to her tone – so gentle and appraising yet belying an edge of venom. "I shall have to spank you presently. Ask me nicely…" So I begin my litany of cajoling coupled with praise, need mixed with joy. And after only a couple of sentences, she begins. Her hand is so shockingly swift that my voice catches in my throat like a squeak, but I lay still. My belly is over one of her thighs, my crotch over the other. I try to be imperceptible as I press down hard against her, shifting a little so that the underside of my pussy is pressed against her right leg and my lower belly is prodded by her left knee. If it looks a little awkward, I don’t care – it feels like paradise.

She is smacking me and the sound is like a heartbeat; a loud, thwacking heartbeat. Every stroke presses me more firmly against her. The combination of my smarting arse and thighs with my aching, bursting, ready-to-flood bladder is making me dizzy. I am losing myself. The pain is so sweet that I could cry. It reaches a point where it is no longer recognisable as pain – it has transformed into pleasure and takes me rising up and up, my soul bare and free. My hips are bucking against her, trying to get a purchase against her body. My clit is against her knee and with every stroke, I rock and arch and gasp. I want to come; the feeling of want doubles with every slap but she can read me – she slows her hand every time I reach the brink and murmurs into my fuddled mind "When I tell you, bitch."

There is a spreading wetness between my legs and a burning ache in my lower belly. My cunt has been melting onto her lap, my juice unstoppable. But now, I am aware of a different wetness, thinner and brighter and harsher. And so hot. In small jets, I feel it pulse out of my bladder and trickle down my lips towards her thighs. I have lost control; have pissed on myself and on her. But her hand does not cease yet and I am brought up sharp by her voice "You dirty (smack), filthy (smack), naughty girl. Did I permit you any form of release yet?" By way of a moan, I acknowledge that she did not. We continue; the smacking relentless and so beautifully perfect, the wetness stinging and humiliating, the pleasure intense and bright.

At last, she brings me down. With such skilful care, she makes sure I return with grace and dignity. She can be so sensitive to my needs. And when finally her hand stills against me, I flop – not having been aware of how tightly wound I was. She bends her head down and spits gently on me, her saliva like a balm. When it has mingled with my sweat and dried in the warm air, she begins again with cream – cold and light and perfect for my marks.

I lay replete upon her. But she is not finished with me yet. Her hand trails its way towards the cleft of my cheeks and pries them apart. Sliding her fingers down between them, she finds my cunt, so slippery and open. Briskly, almost shoving, she puts two of her perfect fingers inside me and begins to fuck. I am not sure how much more of this I can stand. I want to let my bladder go, want the gushing to start now. But I know I may not until she tells me. So I must endure the pleasure of her fingers curling inside me, palm down and almost grabbing my bladder. Every thrust she makes intensifies the sensation, which is fast approaching pain. It is completely beyond my control to stop a little escaping – the sensation makes me judder deeply; I clench my muscles tight, the effort of controlling myself a sweet agony.

"Squeeze hard now; don’t you piss on me, bitch", she growls, and I almost let go at her tone – so menacing, so arousing. She slips her fingers out of me, draws her hand away and then tells me to rise. I am astonished – I don’t think I can open my eyes, much less get up. But I comply, as she knew I would. She guides me out of the room and I stumble with her to the bathroom. She helps me into the bath and I stand on the cold cast iron, swaying slightly and feeling dazed. "You will piss for me now – spread your legs and hold your pussy wide open for me so that I can see". I am so wet that it is difficult to grasp my lips in my fingers but I get a hold. I am quickly afraid that I won’t be able to perform for her, for me, but I bear down fractionally and like a torrent, it streams out – splashing wildly onto the whiteness of the bath. I am moaning and whimpering like a baby, abandoned to the relief. She reaches over to me and presses one cool finger against my clit. That is all it takes and before we know it, I am convulsing with such intensity, coming so hard on her hand, the juice mixing with the piss all over my pussy and her precious fingers. I buckle against the wall – completely spent and released. "Come, baby", she croons, "come and sit down. I’ll bring you some tea"…