theplayfulsadist:

‘I have never come across anyone in whom the moral sense was dominant who was not heartless, cruel, vindictive, log stupid, and entirely lacking in the smallest sense of humanity. Moral people, as they are termed, are simple beasts. I would sooner have fifty unnatural vices than one unnatural vitrue’

-Oscar Wilde

lanymphomanenoir:

thepoeticsir:

lanymphomanenoir:

That was one heck of a story—I mean, museum visit…

Well my dear

Do you have a different recollection?

---

The Story of Minette and Sir
Or, “Wherein A Cup of Coffee And a Museum Bring About A Partnership of the Purest and Most Deviant Kind”

thepoeticsir:

Well, the whole thing was a curious, secret sordid affair. 

It all began when she lured me into the Udvar Hazy Air & Space Museum in D.C., a nice public spot for sure. But before you knew it I was distracted by her subterfuge, hidden by a Beck-Mahoney Sorceress, lost in her charms well after closing. Her dazzling beauty caused me to lose all track of time and well… we spent the whole night like the Mixed up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler looking for fountains to play in and engaged in shenanigans in and on historic air and spacecraft. I mean, who can think of anything but penetration in a Dornier Pfeil Arrow, or oral in the Enola Gay, or administering well deserved spanks looking for Sputnik.  I spread her wings in the SR-71A Blackbird… such a tight cockpit, but we managed. But ultimately the Grumman Conquest was boring compared to my Discovery with a bewitching Space Shuttle payload specialist. Exhausted, we fell asleep in a Stratoliner Clipper Flying Cloud and in the morning left with the early crowds. It all seemed apropos, our first meeting was quite an adventure, a storybook introduction of her Kittyhawk to my Focke-Wulf…

At least that’s how I remember it…

Though her gaze was transfixed to the backlit map of the mildly dirty train station, she wasn’t really looking for directions.

She was waiting.

Up to this point she’d had plenty of time to think it over, plenty of time to change her mind, and she knew that once she turned around from the color-plotted plastic board, it would be a split second before she knew what her real decision was. So there she stood, not really looking at the blue and grey lines with their little pinprick stops. No strategizing here. Before long, she heard the disembarking passengers shuffling through the gates behind her, and she kept her eyes on the board. Don’t turn around.

There was a reflection in the signage in front of her, and she stubbornly refused to look around. To anyone else, she was just another passenger idly studying the map with disinterest; but it wasn’t the map she was looking at now.

She saw the reflection of him in the glare before she heard his voice. Her heart didn’t pound; her breathing didn’t constrict. None of that.

But her hands trembled as she turned and produced a smile that became genuine the moment his face came into full view.

His voice was warm. His greeting was calm. Basic, nervous pleasantries were exchanged as he extended his arm in a gentleman’s gesture and she accepted with a shyness she hadn’t felt in years.

Was this really what she wanted? Once on the train, she took a seat across the aisle from him and realized a few minutes later that she was too far away. He wasn’t threatening, nor was he the type to be anything but kind. The next line they transferred to, she danced around on the platform as the cold slipped through the thin denim she wore over the intentionally red dress. He surprised her by wrapping his arms around her, and before she could think twice, a feeling of foreign emotion filled her throat. When had someone held her like that? How long had it been since she could feel the raw beauty in someone else just through a simple gesture?

When they finally wandered off the train and through the leaf-sprinkled city streets, she couldn’t find a single doubt in her mind. When they sat down for coffee, three hours later, she couldn’t remember when she’d revealed her heart so readily to someone else.

It was a trip through the portraiture gallery that sealed their fate. Though he swears today that her scarf was five miles long, it never kept him from cornering her in a blue-painted room while the eyes of seventeenth century busts nearly burst when he wrapped a firm hand around the fabric covering her pert little breast.

Her breathing did constrict then.

When they’d had their fill and the sky had dimmed with the sun’s decrescendo, he took her arm outside on the marble steps. There, he caressed her ear with his lips, whispered to her, and took hold of her delicate under-thing, pulling it taut to make her squirm.

“Tell me you’ll be a good girl,” he murmured.
“I’ll be a good girl,” she replied in a swift, shuddery whisper.

The moment she knew she wanted him was the same moment she knew she had him. On the cool steps where they were sitting and enjoying the remarkable warmth that had descended in the city center, he drew her close under his coat (that thin denim jacket she wore, of course, being impossible as a good insulator for someone as thin as her) and he sighed deeply. One of his hands found the silken strands of the baby-soft hairs that littered the back of her pale neck. Before she knew it, his fingers had entangled themselves in the roots of her hair and he was close to growling with desire.

“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath.

And with that one soft word, she knew he was hers.
And on the train, returning from the city, she curled in his warm chest, realizing, with complete surety

that she was his.

Does this sound familiar to you at all, Daddy?