Knowing that we now had more road behind us than ahead, both of us were committed to wresting as much pleasure from life as possible. When the stars aligned and my body allowed me to move into forgotten positions and when Fredrik could maintain an erection without the chemical intermediary that he has so far shunned for reasons of pride or embarrassment, we got on like the youth we once were. I knew then that the young could teach us nothing, however smug they were with their toned bodies and cloying self-assurance. There was likely not an inch of us that the other hadn’t explored in countless ways many times over — an image, I’m sure, that would send the young screaming into celibacy.
That evening, as he was preparing supper, Fredrik asked, “When do you see the doctor?”
“Not for months. Why? Do you have some ideas?”
It was always safer to ask. I bruised easily even when Fredrik remained on the right side of my limits. Bringing bruises to a doctor was never a good idea, particularly for a woman. You could talk all you wanted about safe, sane, and consensual until you invited someone else to make that determination and they decided that none of those terms could possibly apply to what they were seeing.
“I always have ideas,” he said. Then he asked me to get changed.
I had hoped that he would have asked much later. Later, when the lights were dim and I’d have less time to look ridiculous. Evidently he wanted me dolled up for dinner. As I stood before the mirror, I felt young and stupid in the outfit but knew that Fredrik wouldn’t see me that way. Maybe he had a point. The top did wonders for my cleavage. And the bottom was a screaming, wanton invitation. I paired the ensemble with garters, stockings, and the kind of high heels I only wore when I felt they would spend more time pointing at the ceiling than walking on the ground.
Fredrik looked up as the percussion of heels on hardwood announced my return. His eyebrows shot up and that blessed, familiar look of hunger crossed his face as his gaze raked over me. That he could still lust after me and that I could arouse that feeling gave me a momentary rush. I felt young again.
I settled into my usual spot at the dining room table and he poured us glasses of red wine.
Halfway through the meal, he set his cutlery aside and asked, “What are young Catholic girls allowed to do?”
“Nothing fun unfortunately.”
“What about naughty Catholic girls?”
“You mean like me?”
He nodded hopefully.
“Blowjobs,” I answered. “Anal if they have a misguided notion of virginity. All else if they don’t believe.”
“What do you believe?”
“I believe in pleasure.”
“That’s my girl,” he said. “And what kind of naughtiness have you been up to?”
“Aren’t you more interested in seeing what kind of naughtiness I’m capable of?”
“I am.”
“Good. That list is longer.”
He laughed and my heart warmed. Humor had always factored into our intimate lives, certainly more than the look of earnest constipation that graced the faces of the porn actors we sometimes watched.
After the dishes had been cleared, a task made all the more time-consuming by the shameless groping he engaged in, Fredrik poured us both a healthy measure of port and led me to the living room.
He tossed a cushion to the floor in front of him and sat down.
I stood there feigning incomprehension.
“Show me how you kneel. Pretend you’re praying for good grades.”
From between the armrest and the cushion, he retrieved a leather-wrapped cane. He had been planning, I thought. “We could deal with sin and penance at the same time.”
I knew what he had in mind. “That would certainly be more efficient.”
As gracefully as I could, I knelt in front of him, my knees on the cushion. I knew he liked to watch, particularly from this vantage point. A guy thing certainly, but I could understand. I got off on seeing his head between my legs. I eased my hands up his thighs and unbuttoned his jeans. He raised his hips and I slid his pants and underwear from him.
It was a good sign that he was already at half mast before I’d even started in earnest.
Like a promise, he rubbed the cane against my ass as I licked the head of his cock.
Tonight at least, tartan seemed to be his thing, or maybe caning my ass, or maybe caning my tartan ass, because half mast became appreciably fuller.
“Ooh,” I exclaimed as a schoolgirl might, touching his cock tentatively. “I don’t think I can possibly manage.”
“Try.”
I stroked him, exploring his cock though I knew it like the back of my hand. I traced the veins with my fingertips as though they were routes on a map. I teased the little slit. I weighed his balls. Pressed a knuckle between them and his anus because that always made him weak. Through it all, he rested the cane on my shoulder.
Full mast.
I shuffled a little closer to him and he leaned forward. The cane left my shoulder and eased down my back, coming to rest just below the hem of the skirt.
I licked his balls for a while before drawing one into my mouth and playing my tongue over its surface.
The cane tapped. Not hard. Just enough to remind me that it was there.
My hand cradled the top of his shaft and I licked the underside from balls to tip. Then I reached for my glass and took a healthy sip of port. Before swallowing, I descended on him, splashing my tongue around the glans, baptizing it the best I knew how.
Another tap, a little harder this time, indicated his approval.
“Tuck the hem of the skirt into the waistband,” he said.
I did without releasing him from my mouth. He wanted more of a canvas to paint on.
At that point, I swallowed the port and started in earnest. So did he, taps coming harder and more frequently. He swelled in my mouth, his hardness a compliment.
I didn’t do that sloppy spit play that seemed so popular on the internet. Instead, I kept things nice and tidy, focussed on the act rather than pretending I was some kind of slobbering Pavlovian dog.
Soon the room filled with the percussion of the cane on my ass. It would only get louder. I wondered how parents with children or inquisitive teenagers managed this. The more I got him going, the harder he struck me, the louder the noise. Interesting feedback to a point.
I gazed up at him, the head of his cock trapped between my teeth. I wanted him to know that while he might be wielding the crop, my teeth weren’t exactly harmless either.
There were definite advantages to having fellated the same man for decades. I knew the size, the texture, the girth, the taste. I knew the tells. I’d long ago vanquished the gag reflex. I could go down all the way and stay there. What Catholic schoolgirl could do that? Well, the popular ones, probably.
Although he wasn’t into inflicting pain or humiliation, he did like my reddened ass cheeks and the cross-hatching that the cane imparted on my skin. I liked the reminder every time I sat in the days that followed. It often inspired me for when I would next lead the play day. He knew that he was often repaid in kind, yet that seldom discouraged him.
I alternated my technique in the way he liked — teeth followed by lips and tongue, slow and sensual followed by fast and intense. All the while, the cane provided its increasingly intense feedback. He was an emphatic conductor at times.