Archive: Expensive Tastes
story with photos (109 photos) starring Jessica Wood
Tags: ballgag, barefoot, handcuffs, humiliation, leather bondage, chains, spreader bar, nude
Ladies like this have expensive tastes. Perfume by Chanel, clothes by Dior, apartment in the city, villa on the coast. A nice new fur coat to celebrate her birthday, and a trip to Cannes to show it off. It is nice to have a lover who gives you a taste of the good things, isn't it? But what about the taste of things that you can't buy in Harrods? Like you lover's body after making love? Or the kiss of the lash skillfully applied? Or the strong, if delicate, hand of domination? She's a girl of expensive tastes, and she has a hunger to try the whole menu!
A luxury here, a pleasure there... but life can be so booooring when you have anything! When you have so much money that you can pay someone a million dollars to crawl at your feet or pretend to be your poodle for the evening. Even dominatrices get tired of using spineless worms as ashtrays and footstools. Sometimes all a girl really wants is someone to pick her up, strip her naked and make her howl at the moon in sexual agony/ecstasy. Now I wonder where I can find someone like that? He's have to be tall, dark and handsome of course. Nice tight bum, muscular arms, strong but silent. And while I'm dreaming maybe he should be a lion in bed but a pussycat the rest of the time- don't want to make life too hard for myself after all!
My mystery man would treat me like a lady when we go out, but like a total whore when we were alone. He wouldn't let me get away with moods and tantrums. At the first sign of dissent he'd strip off my expensive fur coat, chain my wrists above my head and leave me there to dangle. Maybe I'd be whining (I do do that sometimes, it isn't very attractive I know but hey when you are a spoilt rich girl you get used to doing it), so maybe he'd have to stop my complaints with a big bright red rubber ball gag? He'd leave me there hanging out to dry while he went off to do things. Leave me on my own to think about what will be in store for me when he comes back. Will it be the whip? The blindfold? A vibrator? A butt-plug? Maybe he'll bring back another slave girl for me to service, or a male slave to grind and bump and thrust into me? Maybe he'll run his hands over my backside and my breasts and tease and torment me until his hand slips in between my thighs to find the heat and welcoming warmth there and.... oooh! I hope he comes back soon!
But no. He leaves me here, dangling from the ceiling, my legs spread but my arms raised so there is no way to pleasure myself. The ballgag is not comfortable, and I start to drool. It is not the only source of moistness, a twin trickle of my wetness slicks my thighs despite the impossibility of stimulation. He leaves me here for hours sometimes. Today he sends a serving girl to strap my knees together after an hour and a half, my wet thighs sticking together and my posture become even less ladylike. How long must I wait? It is not for me to decide.