The Bud Vase: A Verbal Vignette
by Iron Rodd
My publisher and I are discussing art for my upcoming collection of erotic bondage stories. We still haven’t settled on a cover image, or if we’re going to put any art on the cover at all (perhaps a piece in the interior). I’ve got this verbal vignette which I think might describe a great picture (either a photo or a drawing) for the book, and I’m looking for someone who can provide the imagery to go with it. The publisher doesn’t have much money for it, but we may be able to get some honorarium for the artist. So if anyone can come up with the illustration this story describes, and is interested in submitting it, please email me at firstname.lastname@example.org. Thanks!
“I have an idea for a photo. Could you change into your long black peasant skirt?”
“And what else?”
“Nothing else, please.”
She quirked an eyebrow at me, but headed to the bedroom. She’s a sport.
While she was gone, I positioned the St. Andrew’s Cross in front of a black backdrop, dimmed the room’s lights, adjusted the spotlights to highlight my soon-to-be-present object of desire, and grabbed a few props.
“Okay, how do you want me,” she asked, as she sashayed back in.
For starters, I just wanted to ogle and admire her, but I knew she wouldn’t stand for just standing there too long. “If you’ll just step this way, my dear,” I took her hand and led her to the cross.
She was compliant, neither helping nor hindering, as I fastened her wrists to the cuffs on the upper arms of the cross, and her ankles to the lowers.
I popped a small ball gag into her mouth. It wasn’t enough to silence her if she wanted to be heard, but she understood I meant her to remain quiet.
Then I released the locking pin and rotated the cross a hundred and eighty degrees, so her legs were up and her arms were down. I relocked the cross, and stepped back to see that, just as I’d planned, her skirt had flipped down, covering her upper body, and leaving her bare from the waist up to her toes. I smoothed out the skirt where it was bunched up behind her body, and then admired the half of her that had been hidden under the skirt when she was standing upright.
Stepping close to her, I licked between her legs, bringing up some moisture, which sparkled in the spotlights.
Grabbing the test tube I’d prepared, I rubbed it in my palms to make sure it was warm. Then I gently inserted it into her now-glistening pussy. It was far smaller than many of the things we’ve played with, so I knew it wouldn’t cause her any distress, other than unfamiliarity. When the test tube was properly seated, I put the rosebud into my new little bud vase. (I’d made sure to remove the thorns.)
I stepped back to admire the tableau: perfect. A bright red rose atop a green stem between milky white thighs on a black background. The ultimate flower vase. I took the picture I’d been dreaming of. I took several. I made sure I had a great shot, something much prettier than an actual flower in a vase on my desk.
As I removed all the props, and then rotated her back to a head-up, non-vase position, I was torn between telling her what I’d done, showing her the picture, or not telling her. I eventually settled on only showing her the picture after I’d printed it out and framed it for my desk.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. “But where’s my copy?”
Copyright© 2013 by Iron Rodd. All rights reserved. I welcome your comments. Email me at email@example.com