Baby, baby, I hear a symphony…

I really tried to write for this Wednesday’s prompt, “Symphony.” I even had the beginnings of a story…

He was a lover of the symphony; she was not.

“It’s so boring,” she would say, her voice perilously close to a whine.

“You need some culture,” he’d reply. “Honestly, give it a try, you’ll like it.”

For three years it had been like that, and every year he had insisted, and she had gone, and he had loved it and she had been bored. Really, he should have just left her home, but he truly was convinced that she would learn to love it.

And besides, it was an excuse to see and be seen with the beautiful woman he had married.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said this year. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

She raised an eyebrow sceptically. “Oh? And how’s that?”

“We’ll make it a game,” he said. “I have a list of the music they will be playing. If you can learn to recognize each song, enough to name it when you hear it at the symphony without looking at the program…”


“Wait, I’m trying to think of something good enough,” he said.

“You’re not going to bribe me with a pair of shoes or a new dress.”

“How about this,” he said, leaning toward her, a gleam in his eye. “You know those things we’ve been…sharing…with each other?”

Her face flushed scarlet immediately. “Wha–?” But he could see she knew what he was talking about. He saw the way she swallowed nervously; how she wouldn’t meet his eyes. At night, in their bedroom, in the dark, she could whisper all her salacious fantasies to him, and he to her. But here, in the light of day, she was flustered and tongue-tied. He found it adorable.

And also felt his penis twitch and begin to stir.


But, alas, work got in the way of smut.

Work was brutal today, and especially so when all I wanted to do was dream of the tropics, and of playing games, and of…well.


It was hard not to think of sex when I had been told this morning of a certain person’s fantasy that morning in the shower:

“You are tied in a way I have not tied you before. Face down on a bed, spread-eagle, ropes only on wrists and ankles. And I…I am whipping you. Harder than I ever have before. Into that space where you are limp, and compliant, floating so that you don’t react at all to pain or pleasure. And it is in that moment, when you are laying there insensible, that I toss away the flogger or the whip, crouch behind you, and push my cock into your ass…”


It is harder still when the Owner says, “Be ready to put your nipple collars on the next time you request to pee. You do have your nipple collars with you, don’t you?” (Thankfully, I do.)

And even more difficult when he instructs (after clamping my nipples in my (oh-so-lovely silver collars, then taking a picture to ascertain that they can’t *really* be detected…) that I insert one of my more “comfortable” buttplugs, before I go out to my walk at lunch; and that, once there, I find a way to rub my clit surreptitiously. All the while thinking of the above scenario.

Did I mention that the day was challenging on multiple levels?

So yeah. The story didn’t get finished. But, perhaps that is not so bad. Where would you have gone with it?


  1. Posy Churchgate

    I like the way the second story is going, but what if that is also the wife (who doesn’t like classical music’s) fantasy? So you could neatly turn both endings into 1!!

    PS I dont like most types of classical music – it makes me grumpy! Especially as I feel I ought to be more cultured and enjoy it.

    1. Jade Post author

      I feel that way about some art! Like, I know I am supposed to think this is amazing – but I don’t – what’s wrong with me? lol

  2. Pingback: Sharing our Shizzle, Deal with It!! - Posy Churchgate : Pillow Talk

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