#478) Formal

It occurs to me, as I step into the sublimely elegant gown, that there aren’t enough formal occasions in this life. When I was about fourteen, my father said that I should have been born into royalty. I’m not sure if it was a compliment, but I bet Kate Middleton doesn’t have to think what I just did as I dressed.
I thought about “going commando” underneath this exquisite, emerald green velvet creation, but decided against it. I hope that Charlie will want to fuck me tonight, after the formal dinner, and I want him to have to take his time baring me.
Charlie looks as elegantly regal as I feel when he comes into my walk-in closet in his tuxedo. I put my arms around his neck.
“Let’s not drink too much at the party,” I whisper, “I want the party to continue late into the night, back here, after…”
“It’s a promise,” he says.
The food is fantastic, all five courses. A different wine is served with each course. If we had been drinking the full glass that was poured for each of us each time, I would’ve been face-down in my dessert. I restrict myself to just a sip with each service, to let it flavor and embellish the food, to let me savor and enjoy each mouthful to the fullest. The night itself was intoxicating enough. I got drunk on the opulence, delirious on thoughts of what affairs like this on a regular basis would be like. But then this sweet thought sickened me, like one would feel if gluttonous on rich food. Living the work-a-day life full-time made this special occasion stand out all the more prominently.
So we are both pleasantly buzzed, but not drunk, on our way home from this memorable night. We’d cleared our minds by dancing after dinner to an excellent jazz band.
“This whole evening seems like something out of The Great Gatsby, doesn’t it?” Charlie remarks.
I nod. “Remember what I said earlier? I really want the evening to continue… in the same formal tone…” One of the things I love most about Charlie is that he doesn’t miss little things, like this comment.
As we walk through our front door, Charlie gives me instructions, “Go put your diaphragm in,” he whispers in my ear, “but don’t remove any of your clothes as you do. I want to do that.”
“Yes, sir,” I reply. By the time I go upstairs and get ready for sex and then come back down, Charlie has our dining room all prepared. It looks like he’d gathered and lit every candle we had. It was enchanting.
“You look beautiful in this light, my dear,” he says.
I blush. I feel beautiful. We make-out on the floor. When he thought I was ready, he asks, “Are you ready for the formal evening to evolve to the next step?”
“Yes, sir,” I breathe.
Charlie has one straight-backed armless chair set-up in the dining room; everything else except for all the candles has been cleared away. He sits, and while looking me in the eye, he takes out the cuff-link of his right French cuff, rolls that shirt sleeve up, then offers this hand out to me. Charlie had heard me. He was doing every little act in the ritual of a formal spanking that he knew turned me on.
I accept his hand, and he helps me into position lying across his lap. As he pats the seat of my gown, he says, “I’m going to spank you in stages, gradually disrobe you as I increasingly warm you. Are you ready to start?”
My voice catches in my throat as I answer the only thing that’s appropriate, “Yes, sir…”
Charlie spanks me across the velvet seat of my gown. It barely hurts, but is so sexy, I swoon. He stands me up, helps me out of my gown, then helps me back over his knee. He spanks the seat of my satin panties. These swats sting a good deal more, but I was warmed-up and ready. He stands me on my high heels again, and I lean on his shoulder as he peels this garment down and off me.
“The gusset of your panties is all wet with your arousal!” he says, inspecting the tiny garment. I hang my head in shame, reveling in the humiliation. Over his knee I go once more. He spanks my now-bared butt between the ribbons of my garters. My bottom is getting really warm, I am ready to burst into flames. After a stinging set of swats, I am raised again, and the garter belt, stockings, and high heels come off. I now stand before my Top as naked as the day I was born. I practically dive across his knee, so eager was I for this next set of seductive spanks. He gives them to me as I wriggle and moan. “Now you’re leaking all over my trouser leg!” Charlie exclaimed. “You lascivious little whore! I can’t even spank you without you getting all wet, getting me all wet!”
He stands, bends me over the chair, and enters me from behind. The next set of spanks is administered while he fucks me. I loved that he’s still in white, pleated shirt and bow tie, with his rampant erection protruding from the fly of his satin-trimmed slacks, while I am stark naked.
“I’m going… to… cum!” I announce loudly, feeling like that whore he described, reduced to being just a fuck-toy.
“You better,” he growls in my ear. “I want the hardest, most gut-wrenching climax out of you, or I’ll march you outside into the front yard and spank you and fuck you in front of the whole neighborhood…!”
He knows this is a potent fantasy of mine, to be exposed, to be exposed as a spanko, to be exposed as a sexual submissive, to be exposed as a sexual nymphomaniac. It does the trick; I cum. I cum hard, and long, and loudly. My pussy clenching climax pulls the orgasm out of my lover. He growls more as spurt after spurt of ejaculate fills me.
We recover, but it takes long minutes until we’re no longer groaning or panting.
As soon as I’m able, I nonchalantly remark, “Well… that was… a pleasant evening’s… entertainment… what do you… think we ought… to do tomorrow?”

2 responses to “#478) Formal”

    • Meaning my story left you speechless? Emotionally spent? Sexually spent? Or does this ambiguous comment mean that you aren’t speaking to me, that you’ll let your right hand do the talking…?


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