It is her Birthday. While Miss sleeps, I lie supine on the living room floor, waiting. I am naked, or nearly so.
It is her rule. When at home, I am to be naked at all times. Miss likes me to feel exposed, vulnerable, and defenseless, lest I otherwise become presumptuous, provocative, or even sassy. Being naked for her reminds me that I should not become too comfortable; that I must remember my place.
Being au naturel in her presence keeps me timorous and assailable. I am rarely afforded the illusory aegis that even scant undergarments might provide. There is no faux armor for my body… or for my mind; nothing that permits even the remotest distraction from my station and purpose.
Today I am violating her rule. But I do not think Miss will mind. I’ve only barely adorned my birthday suit by tying thin red ribbons on my protuberant nipples, creating cute little bows. I’ve tied the ribbons so tight; my nipples are white from lack of perfusion. They throb dearly and my areolas are becoming inflamed. I pray Miss wakes before the pain becomes unbearable.
Several moments pass before I hear Miss stirring in the bedroom. My heart races. I’ve planned this surprise for days and now it seems so inadequate. I am very anxious, as I want her Birthday to be perfect.
I hear her approaching footsteps as she enters the room; the familiar padded slaps of her bare feet on the cool hardwood. As she approaches her prostrate whore, she is curiously silent.
She hesitates, beyond my view. “Oh my!” I wonder, “What is she thinking? What is she doing?”
Another moment quietly passes before I hear the familiar but faint sound of fingertips briskly buffeting delicate damp folds. I try not to squirm; I try to lie still…submissively still, with my eyes focusing on the ceiling. But I quiver with anticipation, my laced fingers resting on my mound. I take measured breaths… waiting.
She is standing close behind. The sacred scent of her pungent morning pussy wafts over me, filling my lungs, causing the nerves in my clit to detonate and my nub to engorge noticeably. I hear her pleased giggle, and I blush.
Again she advances, appearing in the periphery of my vision. She deliberately positions her feet on opposing sides of my head, straddling me. I turn my face toward her tanned foot, and breathe in the scent of her tangy toes, drawing deeply, willingly. As always, her aromas are intoxicating. Arousing. Invasive. Her airborne essences possess me, inhabit me.
My eyes track up her lithe legs. Her legs are unblemished, tanned and taut. Slim, yet muscular. Powerful. Like she is. My eyes slowly trace her body, savouring, relishing her beauty. Her thighs flare just before giving bloom to her glorious derriere.
The bottom of her tee billows slightly, giving me a glimpse of the undersides of her pendulant breasts. Her nipples tent her tee, perking as they graze the cotton fabric. As I scan, she leans forward, her taunting smile coming into view.
“Good Moring, Whore,” she sings as she peers down at me.
Her voice! I am afflicted and infected by the sound of her voice. The temptation to respond with playful impertinence evaporates. Her glowing countenance instantly melts me. I respond with an ebullient whimper and enthusiastically whisper: “Happy Birthday, Miss.”