K is for Kilt Belt

“Jackpot!” repeats my marvelous mind reader, Nick McDreamson, and claps his hands twice, both from the excitement and to get Mistress Kat’s attention. 

“You,” Nick points at her. “Your job here is almost done, just light taps on these beautiful lips and mound, and keep it quiet. I will do the talking.”

“Darling, can you hear me?” Nick’s voice changes into volcanic molasses when he refers to me. Rambling, burning, steadfast.

How can I not hear him? “Yes, Sir,” I breathe out.

“Just listen to my voice, will you? And I will get you there,” Nick purrs.

“What the fuck are doing, mate?” Aldous explodes. “You can’t talk to her! Get a room, when we’re done. What is it, some perverted phone sex?”

When we’re done, the words register in my foggy brain. When we’re done, I want Nick to do all the things you can’t do on stage, the private things. Then why am I showcased, tied up, whipped, and forced to come? The continued argument between the two men rudely interrupts my moment of curiosity.

“Read the fine print, you nonce!” Nick rebuffs with an audible annoyance. “Neither of us can touch her but via this Mistress Kat. But it is nowhere in the contract that speech is off-limits. Now, do not interrupt me when I talk to my wife.” He enunciates the last word, and I jerk at his white lie. 

And so does provoked Aldous, screeching at the top of his lungs. “Ha-ha! Wife? Did I miss on a wedding invitation, dear? Oh wait, I do not recall divorcing you!” 

Aldous’s falsetto bounces off the walls, a jarring contrast to Nick’s newfound bass. I’m inside one of Mozart’s operas, getting lulled into oblivion by Mistress Kat’s relentless metronome. Tap, tap, tap. Come back, Nick, I need your voice.

“Semantics, Aldous, you lost. Now, skedaddle.”

“Oh no, Nicholas. She will fail, she will make a mistake, and it will be my turn again, to teach her a lesson!” shrieks Aldous.

“Don’t mind him, darling, you know the drill,” Nick’s voice oozes with the morning nectar from the forest wildflowers and the sunset song of the ocean waves, crushing and slithering away on the sandy shore. “It’s you and me and the riding crop. You don’t need my hands or tongue, my good girl, only my voice.”

I close my eyes and squeeze my core in between the riding crop taps. I’m on the beach, in a crumpled white wedding dress, on all four. The veil tied around my head, covering my eyes like a blindfold. My breasts hang free, released from the unlaced corset, the wet lace skirt hiked at the waist. Nick’s fingers buried inside me to the last knuckle, I bear against his hand, ready to let it go.

 “All pink and puffed from the crop,” Nick goes on, “from the tiny bites into your tenderest, blood pulsing in your lips, in your mound. Squeeze it, I want to see you drip. There we go, sticking out your ass, coming on all four. Oh, you love it so much, my good girl.”

“Can I please come?” I yowl for permission, the last coherent words, and the long-awaited release crushes and twists my core like an unstoppable painful cramp, leaking the precious drops on the towel under me.

“Aha!” yelps Aldous. “She didn’t get the permission.”

“But…but she just asked for it,” stutters Nick.

“But-but-but you didn’t give it to her!” Aldous mocks him. “Guess what? It’s kilt belt time!”