| Straight: BDSM: Egg (1/3) |
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There was a time when I traveled a lot, and my apartment is full of things I brought back from foreign countries. I have a lot of these artifacts out; I like looking at them, and they make good conversation pieces. The far wall of my living room has an inlaid bookshelf, and I keep some of the smaller pieces on the shelf in front of the books. So it was partly my fault when Megan broke the egg. It was on the same shelf as a book she wanted to look at. Likely she just barely brushed it with her wrist, but the egg tumbled to the floor and shattered. I heard a small crash and walked into the room, where Megan stood, book in hand, eyes wide and fixed on the delicate rubble. A little while ago we’d been back in the bedroom, and she was wearing only an old sweater of mine, a roll-neck with broad black and yellow stripes. She’s a tall woman but the sweater is large, and there was enough of it to just cover the tops of her thighs, and I took a moment to drink her in before addressing the problem. There was no question of putting the egg back together, so the real issue was finding the dozen small rubies that had been mounted on the shell. I helped Megan look. We got on our hands and knees and crawled around, and eventually we turned up ten of them. Two were gone. The apartment is old, and I’m sure one fell into a crack on the floor under the couch; the other probably bounced into the heating register and landed in the building’s furnace. Megan felt terrible about the whole thing. She cried a little and I held her and kissed her forehead and told her that it was bound to happen. I’d put the egg in a precarious place. I wiped away the tears from one eye and swiped with my tongue at the others. Megan laughed and then turned serious. “But it was valuable, right? Didn’t you say you got it in Europe?” I nodded. “I was in Poland for a couple of weeks. I found a neat shop in Cracow. The shopkeeper was Russian.” “Those rubies,” Megan said. “I mean, it must have been pretty valuable.” “Was,” I said, and smiled. “Not so much now.” “I wish I could pay for the two that are gone,” she said. She couldn’t. Megan had just started a new life as a graduate student, and was poor as a church mouse. “I don’t want your money,” I said, and reached under her sweater to tweak a nipple. It grew thick between my fingers and Megan began to smile. The book Megan had been holding was something I’d found in a comics store. It was a graphic version of a well-known collection of D/s stories. The illustrations had been done with pencil and were very representational, especially the shadowing, which is hard for even good artists to get right. She was embarrassed that this was the book in her hand when I came into the room. Not Steinbeck or Ehrenreich or Yeats’s poetry, but The Education of Wendy and Other Tales. She’d set it down when I walked in, but now I made her show me what she’d pulled off the shelf. Her face turned red and she put it down on the coffee table. “No,” I said. “Go ahead and |
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will...u devil u..!
