Fetch!

Now, when I close my eyes, I can only imagine how she looked: on her hands and knees, crawling as fast as she could, knowing that each second over the limit meant a stroke with the crop. Attired in a red bra and matching garter with black stockings, her focus then was not on her image but rather on the four small balls thrown around the room.

"Go fetch!", he'd call, starting the timer. He allowed her only 30 seconds to cover the large area in the master bedroom, her long legs and arms working quickly to retrieve each ball in her mouth, carrying two at a time, to bring them back to him.

"Oh, look at that hot ass!", he'd say but the words barely registered. "Good girl," he'd praise, and her spirits soared.

And when she wasn't good enough? She'd present herself to him, on all fours still, bottom high in the air to receive her earned strokes with the crop, feeling as many as 10 at one time. The sting of the crop was more a blow to her competitive spirit than to her reddened cheeks, although both hurt.

Now, as my fingers circle the rugburn on my knees, my thoughts linger on the image of a lusty woman, and every inch that must have been revealed during her game-play. He must have seen the bounce of her breasts as they freed themselves from the confines of her bra; he must have enjoyed the jiggle of her pinkened bottom as her knees connected with the carpet. He couldn't help but notice the swell of her pussy lips as she lowered her mouth to each ball, her bottom in the air leaving every area wantonly exposed.

"My balls look good in your mouth," he said, with a wink.

"Well, obviously," she thought, with a blush.