Summer on the terrace

I stretch my legs out on the footstool. It is so splendidly warm on the terrace and the seat cushions had been heated by the sun before I put up the umbrella. In my hand I hold a mug of coffee. Surely a good cocktail would be more suitable now, but I’m certain that my slave can’t mix one and I don’t want to drink anyway in case I need my concentration for more demanding activities, such as perhaps giving a sound thrashing, that might take place later in the dungeon. But for now I will just stretch my legs out.

„Do you sun burn easily?“ I ask my slave.

“No, mistress.”

I’m delighted how naturally he says “mistress” and even means it.

“I mean, did you burn frequently in the past?”

“Actually I’ve never had sun burn.”

I feel reassured. “Then I can leave your behind sticking out in the full glare of the sun.”

Most of the slave is in shadow, only his ass is exposed to the sun which is acting like a spotlight, making it appear especially inviting in its position. I chuckle at the sight of the gradually warming buttocks that shine pink, not because of the sun, but for the almost tender spanking administered a quarter of an hour before.

I tuck my legs in for a moment and stretch them out again looking for the most comfortable position on my furniture. Have I mentioned that my slave is the foot stool? He kneels face to me, head to the floor ass protruding.

“I cannot tell you often enough how incredibly relaxing it is sitting with you like that. I think that there is nothing that puts me so readily in this state of complete relaxation.”

He is allowed to know that he is doing me good. I know that it makes him proud and that he enjoys these moments as much as I do. Besides it would be boring to me just sitting there in silence.

“You do like being my footstool?“

“Yes, very much, mistress.”

“Will you say it, then, slave!“ A well-placed blow with my bare heel to his ribcage. He pants in surprise.

“Yes, mistress.” Another blow, harder this time, and two more on the other side. I stare at the crouched meat beneath me and get eager for more discipline. The slave writhes.

“I like being your footstool, mistress.”

“That sounds nice.” It sounds so nice because he means it. How well he is able to identify with his role. That’s what makes these silent moments so precious and relaxing for me.

Now another mistress comes. No, she is not joining me for a cup of coffee. I recognize that by her proud smile that reaches me while her male toy is still invisible, following her on the leash. She guides him to the middle of the terrace right in my field of view.

“Another lady has just arrived with her slave. I have to watch and can’t talk with you anymore, slave“, I murmur sneakily and hold my foot out for a brief kiss. „What a pity that you can’t have a look yourself. But you know I need you down there so that I don’t get my feet dirty on the ground.“

The lady exercises a few simple obedience tests. I watch and am relaxed: My slave wears a blindfold and has his head out of sight, so the two men can’t recognize each other. At the same time I assume it’s a thrill for both of them to have witnesses.

I follow the mistress with my eyes. She is an eyecatcher with her obvious grace, prancing around her pupil and using the riding crop to discipline him as she sees fit. She appears lightfooted and regal and creates a scene that will probably be embedded in my memory as well as in her toy’s.

“Up, slave! On your knees, and come closer a bit!” I murmur almost silently towards my footstool in order not to disturb the other session.

I grab the man tightly at the collar and place a foot in his crotch to make him feel my claim. He pants. My eagerness to play is full on again, the empty coffee mug has to take care of itself.

“Hands behind your back…” I whisper.

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