The Kilt

Chapter 1: Ra's Elf the Younger

Seer/Domme admitted me and immediately placed the sole garment I was to wear in my slightly shaking hands. Her eyes measured me with cool appraise, a subtle sharpening to Her features that touched me deeply. She was both full-bodied and purposeful in Her presence, and I took care not to allow my own eyes to wander carelessly down over Her abundant and latticed-in-leather splendors. I was filled with feelings that were not unlike fear, yet fear was not precisely what I was feeling ... something momentous was about to occur, which is how it always is with Her ... I was trembling and apprehensive, as ever, but with what could only be called ecstatic anticipatory humility.

She led me forth without delay to my fate as the humbly serving male underling to Her all-encompassing Manifest Goddess Destiny. It was this way each and every day with Her – - each and every day a miracle of Her own cunning and generous devising.

That Seer/Domme would elicit grunts and groans from me was to be expected. I knew She would take me unmercifully, that She would not only usurp my male pride, but that She would command my every physical limit, keeping my limbs and flesh in a state of constantly increasing stress. It was only later that I learned it was not the mere grunts and groans She relished – - mostly, She was much more fascinated by my male moaning, an aural accompaniment which She never tired of causing ...

She very much approved of my manly muscularity, and She required I be bare-chested at all times. And, to complement the upper body display, She also acquired for me the aforementioned sole garment of my apparel – - a Scottish kilt! The shapely strength in my calves and thighs was something She constantly enjoyed seeing, and the revealing manliness of the kilt gave Her pleasure. Not at all unexpectedly, She also immensely approved of how vulnerable and accessible I always was beneath it ...

The kilt was hemmed so that it rode high, up close to my lower buttocks, which were revealed whenever I bent forward. Seer/Domme had utmost affection for my hindquarters, and She felt that to keep them so readily at hand and visible was just exactly what Her lustful preoccupations needed. I could feel Her eyes upon me when I busied myself about Her home, bending and reaching, my back toward Her gaze. Truth to tell, I loved showing myself to Her in this way, loved to sense Her interest, and my skin would tingle as I moved under Her ever-watchful glancing awareness.

Additionally, the tailoring was such that the hemline rode even higher in front, exposing my bare and naked genitals, which, since I was typically forbidden to wear underbriefs, were always uncovered while kilted. Seer/Domme said She liked to be able to ascertain at a glance my states of arousal, or lack thereof. The male organ was a shape- shifting antenna that gave away all of a male's secrets, She maintained, and I could not see any fault in that logic ... my dangling maleness was Hers to monitor as She wished, gladly and at length throughout our times together.

And if, for instance, I were flaccid and tucked, timidly nestled up against my own lower abdomen, She thought that cute, a sign that my mind needed to be needled and shaped subtly by Her more silken demands. It was at times like these that She would slip smoothly into one of Her endless role-playing scenarios, inviting my participation. I could become the Plumber, on his knees beneath Her grumpy sink, or I'd be the handy guy, high upon on the stepladder adjusting Her blinds, or even a Visiting Minister, come to sing Her praises on my knees, straight out of the Book of Solomon. I might end up for Her as a dutiful census taker, there to count Her innumerable fetishes, yet again upon my knees! We would improvise said dialogues throughout the slow and prurient afternoon, finding ourselves wrapped up in the most ingenious of predicaments. More often than not, these inventions would end with Seer/Domme having to take matters sternly into Her own eminently capable hands, in the form of a spanking ... rare was the long afternoon that didn't end up with some manner of spanking! It was a painful delight greatly to be wished for, so that when red dusk befell the town, my own enflamed and blushing cheeks would supply the hour's visual echo, just to make m'Lady smile . . .

But if She beheld my limb in a state of semi-tumescence, She frequently took that as a sign I was being lubricious but lazy in my thinking, a sign that maybe it was high time to bring matters to a head, so to speak. It would be as if She suspected I was harboring lubricious mental devilments from which She was absent, and no plea I could make could possibly dissuade Her from seeking Her retribution. These were the times She would bind me, spread-eagled to the bedposts. Whether I was face up or face down, Her pleasure was guaranteed. Whether She chose milking or face-sitting or tightly tethered nipple and cock torture, my devotion was fixed and constant and without relief. She would combine and re-combine the many modes and flavors, and scenes like this with Her could go on for hours. She would insinuate Her compelling intent into every nook and cranny of my supple libido, having me weeping from combined gratitude, distress, and the willingness never again to leave the dynamics of Her image out of my fantasies, even for an instant.

Should I be in a state of outstretched, full-blown erection, however, She would laugh at me and demand I assume the position on all fours – - when She espied such a full-blown salute, I could expect the full range of Her stressful maneuverings, to include, typically, floggings and strap-on invasions, often administered simultaneously. She would reduce me to hissing breathlessness in a matter of moments. I would break into copious sweating as She then settled in with a strong and repetitious rhythm, both across my back and deeply up into my proferred bowels, which would soon enough cause my moaning. Seer/Domme was proud of Her own stamina and could keep me breathlessly moaning for long periods of time this way. And when She finally grew weary, Her own sweaty limbs ready for less rigorous expression, I could expect to be taken to Her tub for a spate of hotly burst-full champagne dousing – - oh to quaff at that spring, to ingest Her deeply personal reigning elixirs! And that to be followed by a long, hot, very soapy shared shower, after which She would decide whether or not to allow my aching privates release ... or whether or not to require even further divinely compliant attention! Not at all infrequently, She'd choose the latter. After all, orgasm denial was but another of Her deliciously applied specialties.

Thus it was that I was usually very deliberate in taking care to control the erect display of my male member, for although I adored Her every ingenious use and usurpation, the extraordinary testicular build-up could get extremely uncomfortable. At such times, Her vigor could be so taxing I would fall to begging Her for more tender mercies, although my begging was not as pleasing to Her as my moaning. But then, She typically used my begging as the segue into allowing me to pleasure Her most intimate moist regions with my lips and tongue ... such actually was what we both most cherished after all, the exquisite intimacy of it and how that most greedy of the forms of my worship could make the perfect end to a very long and spellbinding scene.

I would willingly remain with my lips and tongue deftly and longingly pressed with active abandon into Her warm enveloping hungers through repeated orgasmic throes on Her part. Only with the most exhausted exhilaration would I again don the kilt at last, and go about preparing our evening meal. A happy man indeed, my own sweetmeats finally shyly nestled once more up against my lower belly, although still and evermore ever so visible and sightly and so very accessible to my magnificent Seer/Domme's Queenly appraise.