Happy Thursday everyone. This story has been lurking in my head for a few days, so I hope by writing it I’ll be able to continue working on the piece I should be writing. It also includes the term of endearment babygirl to describe a little of the Dom/sub dynamic between two consenting adults.
The fact the wind is laced with a thin mist of rain doesn’t stop my girl’s excitement to show me her home. Her eagerness is both adorable and infections, so I’m all too willing to fall in line with her plans. Of course, that doesn’t mean she can get away with being sassy. I don’t miss her smug smile when I put on more layers because she’s reminded me it will be colder than I’m used to, though I’m sure she thinks I don’t see it. When she rolls her eyes when I decline her offer of old wellie boots instead of my Docs, I remind her that she may be planning today, but she should have no misconceptions about who is in control.
She squirms when I tell her this, and I imagine she’s well aware that I’m watching her carefully as she finishes packing the rucksack for our adventure today. Sadly, the weather means that her skirts – which even with thick tights make my Babygirl ready for me to play with at any moment – have been replaced with thick jeans. She’s done her hair in tight French pleats, though, and it makes them look perfect to pull later. And I know that underneath everything else, she’s wearing the pretty white underwear I picked out for her a few weeks ago.
We manage to leave the cottage before I decide that I really must see if I can make her butt nice and red with a thorough spanking over the jeans. It is beautiful, if wild and untamed, and she lights up as she tells me about the times she walked here as a child and a teenager. In fact, watching her wind-whipped red cheeks and gleaming eyes is almost as good as looking at her arse as she shows me the best ways to scramble up the between the rocks and heather. I understand what she meant when she tells me that it makes her feel alive.
The wet mist has lifted by the time we reach the beach that she’d said would be our rest spot for lunch. I watch in awe as she builds a from drift wood, and sit by her side as we eat, captivated by the coloured flames that are made by the salt in the wood. It’s warm by the fire, and I remember I’d planned a new experience for her as a thank you for all those she’s giving me.
“You’re wearing far too many clothes,” I tell her, and she smiles.
“That’s because it’s cold.”
“Hmm, yes, but I think some of them need to come off, Babygirl.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t get my fingers inside you like this, and if I can’t get my fingers inside you then I can’t make you come by fucking you nice and deep. And I’ve decided, Babygirl, that if you want to come today you’re going to come right here.”
She looks at me, eyes wide in surprise.
“What?”
“If you want an orgasm today, you’re going to have it right here.”
“But why?” Her voice is incredulous and pleading. She’s so damn cute.
“Who controls your orgasms, Babygirl?”
“You do, Miss.”
“You’re a good girl for me, aren’t you Babygirl? You won’t come unless I give you permission, will you?”
“No, Miss.”
“So, Babygirl, if the only time I’ll give you permission to come today is right here, you should be a good girl and have an orgasm for me, shouldn’t you? You remember how desperate and needy I can make you? Do you want to be left dripping all night?”
“No, Miss. I’ll be a good girl for you, Miss.”
I smile. We spread a jacket on the sand by the fire, and I order her to lie back. She unzips her jeans, and I pull them down past her hips. Then a little further. I don’t want to take off her walking boots, but I want to be able to kiss her thighs. I bite and kiss until she’s trembling, and then tug down her panties. Fucking her is always a delight, and especially today when she is all too aware that we’re out in the open. The beach is deserted – I haven’t seen anyone else all day – but she blushes when I remind her that anyone could see her here, getting fucked. We shift positions so my fingers can fuck her more deeply; she makes the most delightful whimpers when I find her a-spot. It isn’t long until she’s panting, and begging for permission to come. I tell her she can hold on a bit longer for me, I tell her she really has to work for it, and then I tell her to come.
Her orgasm is powerful, and I tell her how proud I am of her, what a good girl she is for me. I kiss her forehead, and she opens her eyes to smile up at me. I pull my Babygirl close, and we watch the driftwood fire dance.
Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a freelance journalist, sex writer, and professional transsexual. His work focuses on dismantling shame and queering sex.
