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Silver Spoon

Silver Spoon
By TeraS

 

A silver spoon …

…a tool whose existence, in most cases, is barely given a second thought …

… an implement designed for the purpose of moving something from one place to another by means of scooping and lifting. Perhaps it is to be used in stirring sugar, or cream, into one’s coffee, or in the enjoyment of soup, being used to raise a small portion to one’s lips, then blowing over the liquid to cool it slightly before then touching the spoon to one’s lips and enjoying.

But a silver spoon can be used, if one is so inclined, to seduce another.

Imagine, if you will, a certain ebon-haired, green-eyed woman sitting at a table. Or perhaps she awaits you, resting comfortably, on a leather sofa, her long tanned legs curled beneath her. Or what if you encountered her in her kitchen?

She stands there, her hands placed on the countertop behind her, head tilted to the left, a bemused smile on her lips, regarding you as you enter. There is a lick of her tongue over her lips as a smile passes over them, her gaze not wavering as you return the look. The smile remains as she turns to her right, a slender hand tipped with red nails reaching for the door of the refrigerator that hums quietly in the background. You watch, spellbound, as her fingers wrap around the door handle, she looking over her shoulder as she moves that hand up and down the length of it before pulling the door open and revealing the freezer within.

She turns to look within the freezer, the cold air passing over her arm. As you move closer, you can almost make out the goosebumps that begin to form over her exposed skin, and you notice how the slightly-too-short, ever so tightly-fitting top reveals the curve of her back before her high cut panties cause your eyes to jump towards her long slender legs and dainty feet.

She reaches into the freezer, looking for something in particular and just before your mind forms the thought to ask what she is looking for, her voice purrs to you: “Would you fetch me a spoon, pet?”

The question isn’t so much a question of whether you would do so as it is a sensually spoken command. There is no hesitation in you; of course you need, so very much, to do as Mistress commands. You take the few steps more, arriving at the counter where she had been standing the moment before. A drawer is opened and there, all alone, is a single silver spoon.

You consider this for a moment, and you find your eyes tracing over the arc of the spoon the way they had traced the curve of Mistress’ back, and you notice how the light in the room glistens off its curves like the reflection of light against water. A flash of a memory takes you away from the moment, a remembrance of seeing Mistress showering, the rivulets of water cascading over her skin. Your hands soaping her curves, the light moan of pleasure she made which shook you to your core. You remember the light that shimmered over her skin, how it seemed to radiate from her, offering a bare hint of the power she held within herself.

The sound of the freezer door being closed with a soft thunk brings you back to the here and now. She is leaning against the freezer door and regarding you. In her left hand she holds a small container of ice cream, not much taller than the width of her hand. She tilts her head to the right, baring her throat, then placing the curve of the container against the tanned nape of her neck. You are frozen there, every bit as much as the ice cream she holds, as she shivers from the cold of it, her nipples now raised against the fabric of her top, making little bumps against the tightness, clearly showing her arousal. She licks her full, red lips, soft and just slightly pouty, as she whispers, in the barest of purrs: “Have you the spoon, pet?”

Her question drives you out of your daze and you grope for the spoon where it lies, still waiting to be used. Your hand scrambles into the drawer to find it and then, embarrassed that you didn’t complete the task Mistress set for you, you encircle the spoon with your fingers. Raising it from the drawer, you turn to face her again, forgetting to close it as you do.

She still leans against the fridge, but her attention is now focused upon the tub of ice cream. You watch as she rests one hand over the lid and starts to peel it aside. She licks her tongue over her lips again, then clicks it against the roof of her mouth as the top comes free. At that same moment, she raises her eyes to look at you under the bangs of her hair, her so-green eyes sparkling, a hint of the mischievousness she offers quite clear. Her eyes shift to look at the spoon in your hand, then into your eyes as she raises her chin to look at you. Casually, though you know full well that she isn’t, she offers her right hand to you, palm up, waiting for the spoon to be given. She doesn’t say a word, simply waiting for you to perform the simple task she asked of you.

The spoon moves through space as if it desires to be in her hand, in the same way that you ache for her fingers against your skin, her breath hot against you, her scent mixing with yours. You cannot be sure if the spoon is taken from your fingers, given by you, or if it leaps from your fingertips to hers. Whatever the means, you watch as she now holds the spoon so daintily.

She next raises the spoon in her hand, the curved end, the end meant to hold whatever it is dipped into, pointing towards you. That bemused smile you know so well is there as she lightly presses the tip against your skin, just above your navel, guiding you to step away from the counter, to be moved just far enough so that she can come between you and the open drawer you so carelessly—or was it by design?—neglected to close. Her steps are smooth, regal, mesmerizing. As she stands there between the open drawer and you, she takes a single step backwards before pushing out her shapely rear towards the drawer. As you watch, a long, sinuous, heart-tipped, red tail rises into the air behind her, then the tip touches against the drawer and begins to push it closed as she continues to move backwards, her eyes never leaving yours. The drawer almost, but not quite, closes, and it takes a bump with her soft rear to close it the rest of the way before she presses herself against the countertop’s edge. Her tail moves slowly behind her, the light from the window casting a glow about her form … or was that glow always there? She raises the spoon to her lips, her breath slightly fogging its metal, as your own thoughts are captivated by her.

Her hand moves the spoon away, her eyes looking away from you to the dessert she holds in her hand, your thoughts hoping the ice cream is an appetizer and you are the dessert instead. The shiver that thought brings goes through to your core and you stifle a moan of anticipation.

She looks up as the spoon has taken a small portion of the ice cream, her hand bringing it towards her soft, smooth lips. The spoon is paused just before completing its journey. A stray thought comes to you, wondering if the spoon is crying out in need to be kissed by those luscious lips. Knowing you are watching, she parts her lips, the spoon passes between them and then she presses her lips against it. There is a moan—whether from you remembering how her lips feel against your sex or from her enjoying the ice cream really doesn’t matter: the sound alone is desire, passion, and need. As the moan ends, you can clearly see her shapely red horns in her ebon locks of hair, the light from the window—or is it?—making what seems to be a halo all about her. She draws the spoon from her lips, which are drawn out slightly as the spoon escapes her. Yet even though it leaves her lips, she still controls it every bit as much as she does her pet, who cannot move or look away. The tip of the spoon is pointing upwards, her fingers curled still around the stem, the end of which you suddenly realize has a tip shaped exactly like Mistress’ own tail. She crooks a finger towards you, your will obeys, and you cannot help but move closer to her. As you do, she returns the spoon back to her lips, the curve meant to contain what she desires upside down, then pressing her lips against the spoon before drawing it out once more. She still holds the ice cream in her other hand as she then parts her lips and then moves the spoon towards you as you close the space between you both. She taps the spoon against your chest, the cold of the ice cream still upon it, making you shiver once more. The spoon, you realize now, is you. She controls you and the spoon without any effort at all. The spoon obeys her will and desire in the same way that her pet does. Her touch upon you both is firm and sensual, a reflection of her will and seduction. The taste of her lips upon you both is erotic, and you both ache for it so utterly. You are both in your place, the spoon in its drawer, you in her orbit. Neither of you can escape, not that either of you would want to. Your hands move to touch her hips and, as you do, you realize that, somehow, you missed that she is leaning against the counter nude. Her hand rubs the container of ice cream against your chest as the spoon taps your collarbone lightly. She pours the now melted confection down your chest before licking her lips and pushing you back slightly with the spoon. You find yourself gasping for breath as she then licks you clean in one swift, sensual move. Your head spins, and, the next thing you are aware of outside your overwhelming ecstasy is Mistress reaching behind herself, placing the spoon and ice cream container on the countertop.

Her long, red tail wraps around your waist, holding you as she begins to walk from the kitchen, her pet drawn along, awash in anticipation of what Mistress’ desires will be.

The spoon on the countertop witnesses from afar as the sounds of pet becoming Mistress’ pleasure fill every room.

For the spoon … it finds itself placed in another container of ice cream, captured by it, slowly sinking into the velvety mixture, surrendering itself to its simultaneous fulfillment and fate.

For pet … well, you have been captured since Mistress first smiled and, as for your surrender, that came when the silver spoon of Mistress’ tongue caressed you while you imagined her first lick.