The Kennedys, 3.5: The Doctor Makes Housecalls.

So me and Kiki settled into our domestic bliss. Lots of sex as usual, and now Kiki was infectiously enthusiastic about the kinky stiff, I enjoyed that as well. Weird that, enjoying it.

But there was something missing, eventually I had to do something about it. I sent a text, just “?” to Kennedy.

It wasn’t too long before a terse reply came, “You want something?”

I thought that was obvious, “Yes.”

Kennedy’s next reply cut to the heart of the matter, “Doesn’t the slut do that for you?” Kennedy never did seem to like Kiki, calling her “the slut,” the feeling seemed to be mutual, Kiki called her “The Bitch” (on the rare occasions they acknowledged each other’s existence).

It took me a while to come up with an answer for that, which was, “She loves me.” That was what’s missing, or rather what wasn’t missing, heart. Kiki loved me, and I loved Kiki, we had fun even when doing things I shouldn’t like. I missed the heartless impersonal treatment from Kennedy, and yes humiliation. Kiki didn’t humiliate me, and as much as I don’t admit to it, that’s what I like. There, I admitted it, I like being humiliated.

I didn’t hear anything back. I didn’t know if that was a good or a bad thing, one thing Kennedy is is unpredictable, she’s most likely to appear when I least expect it. I wasn’t expecting it a couple of days later when Kennedy walked through the front door.

I was lounging on the sofa, working away, I do most of my work on my laptop, so I can work anywhere; the sofa is a good place. I was wrapped up in the work, so I didn’t notice until I heard the door close. Kennedy was standing there, she had her dominatrix leather jacket on, the one which hardly covered her pussy. She was unzipping it, once unzipped it was obvious that was all she was wearing, just the jacket. That was hot!

It obviously wasn’t Kiki, she was wearing her glasses, and her hair was messily done up, she had the swagger and a sneer. She was also carrying the horse whip, the totem of power. She stepped over to the center of the room and pointed to the floor with the whip. I jumped off the sofa and knelt where she pointed. A smile flickered across her face at that, before the sneer came back.

She addressed me with her most stentorian, intimidating voice, waving the whip at me, “Lets be clear, I’m here because I want to be, not because you want it. Right?”

I nodded.

“So none of this pussyfooting around, you tell me what you want, or I’m out of here.” If you think about it, she just contradicted herself, but I didn’t notice, and I wouldn’t have pointed that out. She was scaring me (which I like), I didn’t know what I wanted, so I didn’t know what to say, but she helped me out. “You want to be beaten, and abused, and humiliated, and generally used for my pleasure, don’t you?”

I couldn’t have put it better myself, I groaned, and said, very breathlessly, “Yes.” Then added, “Please.”

She laughed at my reaction, but she was being just what my fantasy Kennedy should be, cruel and heartless. She upped the ante. “So to be clear, I’m doing this for my pleasure not yours.” It sounded perfect, I nodded enthusiastically, “and I can’t be bothered with this safeword nonsense,” I wasn’t sure where that was going, she continued, “If you use the safeword, I’m out of here.” I groaned again, I wasn’t being allowed a way out, perfect.

That seemed to be the ground rules set, so she flourished the whip, and said, “Off!” That was my cue, I divested myself of clothes as fast as possible, and knelt in front of her again.