He said he brought dessert, indicating the unmarked, paper bag.
Of course I let him in and greeted him in my usual way, on my knees, my lips placed reverently against his hand. He asked for a paring knife and said he had to prepare the dessert. By now I suspected what he had in mind. I’d been craving this dessert lately, and haven’t made any secret about it.
He told me to go to my room, strip, and wait for him.
I did as instructed and left him in the kitchen with the mysterious bag. As I waited with my hips over the pillows, I could hear him running water and whistling. I was there for a long time – 10 minutes or so, feeling exposed and apprehensive. The water would turn off, and I’d shudder in anticipation, only to be met with the sound of more running water and more of the same, happy tune pushed from his unworried lips. The man is meticulous, particularly when he knows that I’m waiting.
Finally, he entered the room.
He commended me on my positioning even as he began spanking my bottom, gently at first and then quite firmly. He asked if I knew what was for dessert. My shoulders indicated “maybe”. I could not say it out loud. From the bag, he confirmed my guess: peeled ginger, shaped like a crooked finger with a wide base.
He asked if I was ready.
I was not.
My heart was racing and I had been enjoying the hand spanking. I said, “Yes, Sir”, anyway. He retrieved the soft restraints from under my bed and tethered my wrists to the head-board. He spread my cheeks and probed with his fingers first, which made me push back, eager for more.
Taking the place of his finger, I felt the cool ginger press against me. It was still wet from when he’d washed it. He slowly eased it in. I blinked…nothing. It didn’t burn at all. He wiggled it around while I took deep breaths, expecting to feel the infamous burn.
Then his hand, which can be just as painful as a paddle, went to work again, and I found myself involuntarily clenching against the root. It started to burn then. Slowly at first, but the burn gained momentum. By the time he pulled the cane out of his duffel bag, I was writhing against the pillows, wanting the root out but at the same time craving it deeper.
Clenching is irresistible after each cane stroke. But each time I did, each time I moved at all, the burn was intense. I willed myself to relax around the root, but even then I couldn’t forget that it was there. By the 20th stroke, I was crying but begging him to fuck me.
I was desperation defined.
By the time he gingerly removed it, it had stopped its intense burn. Finally, we both took what we needed, he from behind and me still restrained over the disheveled pillows.