A Halloween story for you all, beloveds. I'm almost at, what, nine hundred hits to this site? A thousand? Dear god.
Please enjoy, and have a wonderful holiday.
Unmasked
"It's time to get you ready," he tells me.
Halloween night. It's actually so close to our anniversary - the day I became His - we've taken to celebrating a few days early. He konws so many people, something is always planned...
This time, I know, the plans are different. I haven't gotten any explanations; only instructions. And as always with tasks he sets me, the promise of indescribable pleasure if I please him, of nameless, threatening "punishment" if I fail. Punishment that could never be felt more keenly than the shame of disappointing Him. That doesn't happen anymore. It won't happen this time, either.
Dressing me for the party takes almost an hour. The costume he'd chosen was elaborate, an Elizabethan confection in rose and gold. Padding in specific places - and lacing in others - swells my hips and breasts, shrinks my waist. The wig, glorious with ash blonde curls. Stockings and gloves, makeup and jewelry, a garter belt with cream lace and tiny pearls; adorable shoes with a low heel to help my balance and comfort under pounds of clothes.
His special touches lie under everything, of course, and they aren't contributing to my comfort at all.
Both ready at last - my Master darkly compelling, a caped swordsman in black and silver - we set out. His car is comfortable, but tonight, bound by my costume and stuffed at my core with the fitted plugs he'd given me... the first part of our anniversary present, cool thick metal filling my pussy and stretching my poor little ass, keeping my attention there as they slowly warm with my body heat...every bump in the road makes me shiver. Trying so hard not to writhe or beg, not to disappoint him. Tiny matching clamps hold my nipples erect, just barely loose enough to allow circulation; flat enough to be hidden by the clothes. Unless you know.
We enter the party together. A glittering mass of adults swirls around us, filling a golden stretch of ballroom rented by our hosts. Sparkling bejewelled webs descend from the chandeliers, carrying tiny onyx spiders. Shimmering champagne light gives everyone an etherial glow. Master holds my arm, solicitously guiding me through the throng, greeting friends, being sociable. I try. Hopefully anyone who notices my flush, my dark distracted eyes, thinks I've been at the cider early.
Suddenly we're waltzing, swept up in the dancefloor's gravity. I lean into His arms, try to concentrate on the steps, on following His lead. Trying with hopeless desperation to not come in the middle of the party, surrounded by all our friends. Each step, each turn pushes me closer, taking away all breath and reason; I can feel myself dripping onto my upper thighs...and as I tremble on the edge, Master leads me from the floor and helps me to a soft chair. Gratitude and frustration war within me and I can tell, by His smile, by the tone in His voice as He offers me a cool drink, that He knows.
He always knows. He revels in the knowing.
I sip my drink, lean back into the chair as well as I can in this costume. I've come to that wonderful place in my head that He always brings me to, where everything is soft as cotton and thought comes slow as honey. My presence here is for His pleasure, my secret torment for His amusement, my beauty His ornament. In this place, those things are not wrong or evil. They are beautiful, like forgiveness, like redemption.
For a while I drift in the sweet-thick haze of my submission; then, gradually, I realize someone is standing before me.
He is tall, more slender than Master, and all in red; crimson, carmine, deepest burgundy wine. The vest under his full-length cloak is embroidered with black in mesmerising swirls, and his gloves are black suede. They are soft when he takes my hand, presses a kiss to the palm, the contact sending a warm shiver through me, what they call a frisson. I blink up into his masked gaze and belatedly remember my instructions.
"He will be all in red," Master told me earlier, while he was dressing me for our outing. "He'll kiss your hand, and you will go with him."
Drink set aside, I rise, leaving my hand in his. Caught in that soft suede with the hand beneath it firm and unyeilding. Even the ostrich feather in his broad-brimmed hat is red. He leads me across the ballroom, to a series of curtained doorways at the far end, and before we pass through I've remembered where I know that costume from.
"A Poe fan," I ask him quietly as we slip through one of the heavy velvet curtains, "Or are you the Phantom tonight?"
"You decide," he murmurs into my ear. We continue. The curtain hides a dark hallway and he leads me onward, past several turns, and finally to a simple, unmarked door. It opens under his hand, but he does not compel, merely watching to see what I will do.
I hesitate...acutely aware of his presense, of the sensation of delicate femininity created by my costume; the perverse violation hidden beneath. Anything could happen behind that door.
"If he wants to have you," my Master had said, softly growling the words into my ear as he laced my corset, "Give yourself to him."
I bow my head, unable to look at his face even with the mask, and step through the door.
He follows and locks it behind us.
We're in a dressing room. Large, well-lit, with a vanity and a bench, one wall full of hanging costumes, wigs, shoe boxes stacked on the floor beneath. The Red Death removes his hat and sets it on the vanity, hangs up the massive crimson cloak. He is no longer seductive and mysterious. Now he is businesslike, brusque, the way Master can be brusque when he is giving me orders.
"We don't have long to change you," he says and turns me so that my back is to him. The wig is carefully taken away; then the outer garments, one by one, rapidly unbuttoned and slipped off. He takes no liberties and is very careful with the clothing.
In quick succession I am uncorseted, underskirts removed - I am particularly happy to be able to breathe deep again. The ex-Red Death moves with the speed of an expert, someone who has done this many times for many women. Soon I am naked, shivering in the cooler air of this unused room, and now he takes a moment, pays more attention. Smiling as his long, delicate fingers first trace the metal clips encircling my nipples - so plump and red now from the pressure - and then tug at them, making me whine.
"You are so lovely," he tells me; "We are both going to enjoy this very, very much. I promise you."
It starts again. He slides a panel aside in the wall, revealing a small washroom, and has me wash off the makeup Master so carefully applied earlier. Afterwards I take a moment, stare at myself in the mirror - my flushed unpainted face, eyes still wide and dark with arousal, wet eyelashes sticking together, water running down my neck and breasts. Red brings a towel and dries me, quick but careful, then leads me back into the dressing room, sets me before the vanity. On its surface lie a pair of exquisitely long black gloves, delicate leather straps around the wrists fastened with silver buckles. Beside the low bench, a pair of high boots, platforms, glossy black.
Red kneels before me. With gentle but insistent hands he presses my thighs apart. I am suddenly exposed to this man, my shame revealed. His thumb traces my labia, waxed smooth and dripping wet, and gently nudges the metal toy buried inside me, making me gasp. The sound pleases him, and he makes me repeat it several times, grasping the toy's base and ever so gently fucking me with it. Tilting it back so the front edge rubs against me inside.
Then it is sliding out of me, leaving me empty there, bereft; he pulls me forward and presses the blood-warm toy against my mouth. "Clean it," he says, and I do. I cannot stop trembling in his arms and I suckle at the toy pretending it is my Master's cock, that I can taste myself because He was fucking me. Comforting image, soothing, so different from being given to this stranger.
"Good girl," he murmurs as I suck. "Good slut. He was absolutely right about you. What a treasure."
And that is when I cry. Not sobbing, but softly, tears rolling down, the sheer emotion and tension and perversion of the moment overwhelming me. He wipes the tears away, he is very gentle with me.
"That's all right," he says, "I understand. But there's more to come. Breathe."
While I calm myself he is sliding my legs into the high boots; they fit as if they were made for me, reaching all the way up my thighs, almost to my hips. High platforms; he will have to help me stand. The gloves are next, soft and smooth, up to the shoulder; then he smooths back my hair into its little wig-friendly bun, finds a large complicated makeup box beneath the vanity, paints my face. His touch is extremely delicate, professional. "It won't matter if you cry," he tells me as he works, "these are designed not to run. But save your tears for a while. There will be time later."
Another wig; this one red; port red, almost matching his cloak. Pinned and spirit-gummed into place very securely. I wonder what he's going to do with me, that the wig must be so secure.
He helps me stand, turns me toward the full-length mirror on the back of the door.
This can't possibly be me.
I look...alien. Inhuman. Extraordinarily tall; in the boots I am as tall as he is. His artifice with the makeup has given me almond eyes, smoky eyes, practically Asian; changed my brow line, the depth of shadow beneath my jaw.
"Perfect..." he whispers into my ear; "Almost perfect."
He opens a small case, bids me open my eyes wide, and places a colored contact lens in each. Now I am a redhead with eyes the color of malachite, rich dark green.
From another pocket or pouch, two tiny silver bells. I flush; one final indignity, one more shame, one more ornament taking me from a strong, autonomous woman to this...object, this exotic gracile sex toy.
The bells attach easily to small loops on my nipple jewelry. The chime as I move is soft, but audible.
And as always, I find that I am wrong. There is always one more thing He can do to me.
The collar is, at least, physically comfortable; suede-lined, like Red's gloves against my skin.
"There," he says, and kisses my forehead delicately. "Now, we go."
He opens the door...
*********************
There has never been, in all my life, anything like the overwhelming terror of stepping back through that curtain into the ballroom.
Three hundred people there that night? Four? All adults, yes, all prepared for the 'exotic' entertainments the hosts are wont to provide. This would not be the first time a naked woman would parade through one of these midnight galas. But now, it's different.
Now, it's me.
Red presses me forward gently when I balk, stopped dead just behind the curtain, feeling simultaneously frozen and melted, poised on a knife's edge. Covered toe to hip, fingertip to shoulder; expertly disguised; my identity more hidden now than it was when I walked in with my Master less than two hours ago. And yet. Cool air raises gooseflesh on my exposed skin, tightens my nipples in their silver clips; the bells ringing with every shallow, unsatisfying gasp for breath. I feel my eyes are huge, and sweat is rising on the back of my neck.
Hopelessly I look to Red for escape. There is none.
There is only his gloved hand at my throat, the other resting on the curve of my hip; only his soft mouth brushing my ear as he murmurs to me.
"Let it go. You have no idea how beautiful it will be, how proud he will be of you. Let go your pride, your fear. Be what you are."
He nips at my earlobe once.
"Be His."
The curtain is swept aside and, before I can think, dazzled by the lights, Red leads me out onto the floor.
******************
Something breaks inside me when I walk out into the light; some wall of ice, shattering like Spring come early. The warmth flooding me afterward is like nothing I have ever felt before. It is as strong as the terror was, stronger; but I could bask in this feeling forever, I could lose myself in it.
From around me, there are gasps, murmurs, a low appreciative whistle. Slowly, applause begins and grows, bouncing off my skin as Red leads me through the crowd.
As the people back away to give us space, Red brings me to a low stage, a dais near the center of the front wall. Framed prettily between fluted columns. We climb three steps up and I am turned to face the crowd, who erupt in applause once again; and as I look out at them from my height, hidden and revealed, I see my Master.
I am beside him.
...No, obviously, not me. Another woman, roughly my size, in my costume, peering at me over the edge of the delicate ivory fan I carried when we entered the party. Mine, or near enough. With the mask and the wig and the paint and the clothes, no one could really tell who was underneath.
I stare, and while I am so distracted, Red lifts my wrists above my head. There is a clicking, and when he steps away...I am bound. The delicate-looking straps around my wrists, what I had thought a decorative touch to the long gloves, hold me securely.
The swelling warmth overwhelms me and for a moment I sway, dizzy. Red slips an arm around me from behind; the crowd sees him fondle me possessively, his gloved hand sliding down my stomach to curl between my legs, but he is allowing me to lean against him, murmuring encouragement into my ear. I breathe slow and deep, soaking in his warmth, feeling those sueded fingers find and caress my swollen clit.
He holds me, supports me, tells me how lovely and perfect I am, how everyone in the crowd wants me; kisses my throat, and brings me to a sudden, bucking, moaning climax there in the center of the room, spotlit, truly naked at last.
I hang exhausted in my chains and he steps away. Sound is distant and unclear, rising and falling like ocean waves; I concentrate on catching my breath, my balance, regaining composure in the face of all these glittering people...
And then, when I can finally hear and think again, the ominous, unmistakeable hiss of a cane. I meet my Master's eyes, shocked, and then the slender rod meets my flesh and I am awash in fire.
My hands clenched around the chains binding me, I close my eyes, grit my teeth, wait for the next one. Feet apart, back arched, every muscle taut, I know it's coming, I can't possibly stand it, and there is the hiss again, it's coming...
This has been done to me before. Master has quite the collection of striking implements, whips, paddles; there is no real danger...and I know that there is bliss in this pain, I know that it will come. Regardless, by the third strike I am sobbing like a child, and by the fifth I am screaming. The crowd is silent; my ragged cries echo through the enormous room.
After a while, the blows stop; I hear voices near the edge of the podium, footsteps; and then my Master is before me. He cups my chin in one hand, raises my face; looks at me as though I were a stranger. But deep in his eyes I can see the approval, the love and lust that are for me alone, and everything is all right.
He steps back from me; in his hand is a thin rod, flexible. I have felt this before, too.
The blows begin to fall and under this barrage, no matter how I try, there is no standing still. The cane leaves deeper marks that last for days, bruising, and can damage if the wielder doesn't understand what they're doing; the rod is kinder in the long run, and safer, but oh God, it stings. He avoids the previous caning marks, at least; there is that mercy. But when he is done - minutes? Hours later? Thin red welts rise on my ass, my hips, across my breasts. He seemed to particularly enjoy the music of the bells when the rod shook them.
I hang in my chains, conscious, but so deep in that emotional haze, I may as well have fainted. Master may continue hitting me, if he likes, I think dazedly. Master may fuck me, or give me to Red, or to the entire crowd, just let this go on...
His hand, my Master's comforting hand, is curled around the back of my neck, holding me close. "I love you," he whispers, and I lean my head against his shoulder and cry. He allows me that luxury for a moment before stepping away again.
"Shall I cool her off?" I hear him ask the crowd; they erupt in cheers. Red curls his fingers through the wig, his other hand under my chin, tilting my head up and back; "Enjoy the champagne," he whispers to me, and then I am showered in cold. The liquid strikes me with force, spraying over my nakedness, splattering on my whipped flesh; champagne right out of the bottle, chill and stinging, covering me, making me howl and writhe. Red holds me still until it is over. Liquid runs from my body in streams, soaking the boots, puddling between my legs on the stage floor.
Master cups his hand between my thighs, palm against my mound, two fingers sliding easily into my wet, exquisitely swollen pussy; I rock my hips into the caress as he works me, and again I am brought to a shuddering, gasping climax before the crowd.
He slides those fingers into my mouth, makes me suck them clean; then he captures me, kissing deep and rough. Red is behind me, reaching up to untie my hands; he bends his head and bites at the side of my throat, cupping his still-gloved hands around my breasts to play with the clamps on my poor, tormented nipples. Trapped between then, I beg softly to be fucked... here in front of everyone, I don't care, just please, I can't stand it any longer...
"Right here," Master promises me, and pushes me back into Red's arms.
And I realize, as I am lowered onto the slick stage floor with this stranger in red between my thighs, that he means it.
31 October 2007
Sugasm 103, or OMGWTF I MADE THE LIST!
Sugasm #103
The best of this week's blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #104? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you're all set.
This Week's Picks
Urgent
“Feel the electricity from my fingers as I peel the damp cotton of your panties away from your sex, as I ease them to one side.”
The Man From Del Monte Says…Yes, Yes, Oh God! YESSS!
“She let her lips and tongue explore me all over.”
Traveling the road, Sharing a load, Side by side
“I guess this is not very sexy, my ranting about politics while playing with your cock.â€
Mr. Sugasm Himself
The US Constitution Erotic Coloring Book
Editor's Choice
Dinner Date: Part 1
See also: Fleshbot's Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above within a week. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)
Sex Poetry
It’s about priorities…
Orgasm - O-Vision
Erotic Writing and Experiences
Fantasy Football
Halloween…
In Need - Original Illustrated Erotica
Indian Summer
New Underpants
The Pied Piper
Tight
Touch Me Babe
A walk in the Woods
Sex & Politics
Love Your Body
Abstinence Only Sex Ed On the Ropes?
NSFW Pics & Videos
Emilia
Happy HNT!
HNT the Menstrual Edition
I Feel Myself
Sinful Invitation
Sugar and Spice
Sex News & Reviews
2257 No More? Let the amateur porn flow!
Asian Woman Bound, Tickled and Forced To Cum
DamNation w/ The Reverend Bob Levy
NEW Super Sexy Designs!
Sex Toy Review : Under the Bed Restraints
Welcome to “Birds are smart” by Penny
BDSM & Fetish
Anal Training Part 2 -The Entering
Anniversary Present: A Fantasy
Cyber or real!?
Disobedience
Don't stop until I stop you
Face Slapping II
Flying
Hand Signals
L is for Look it Up
The Petting Zoo: Sex Camp, Day Two
Princess or Pervert?
Stiletto Mistress
Sex Work
Reality Check: Getting Sick
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
The Disclosure Dilemma
HNT - Half Naked Thighs
I Want to Fuck All of My Friends
A Prelude to an Eclectic Slut
Some Things Are Not Possible
Why was the sex so good?
Why We Aren’t Really Swingers (part 1)
29 October 2007
Meta: Bi-Indifferent
Sometimes I wonder about the concept of sexual orientation. In general, and my own, specifically. Well - really I think it's a very subjective thing, and affects each person in a different way. I'm not saying that my feelings about gender and orientation are going to be relevant for anyone else, that it works this way for everyone.
Thinking about being with another woman...well, women are beautiful. Women are graceful, lovely, smooth and soft, each curve and angle so unique and so compelling. Tiny, delicate, elfin women; big lush gorgeous women; every variation, every style of dress, a thousand different skin colors, a million haircolors and styles. The warm scent of skin and perfume. I imagine the way a woman would kiss, how it would feel to lie with another, bodies twined, losing myself in the indescribable pleasure of that feeling.
But it's all nerve endings, yes? The physical sensation of being touched, of playing with another person. The emotional connection of lovemaking.
There's something different about men.
For one thing, it's not so visual. While I find many men attractive - and a woman certanly doesn't have to be a supermodel or even 'conventionally' pretty for me to find them attractive - the reaction I have to men, in a sexual way, is very different. Visceral. An emotion or a feeling that goes beyond an admiration of form or an imagining of pleasure.
I suppose it's all bound up with being submissive. That may explain the instant subconscious awareness of Man, the masculine aura, the way I feel their presense around me. They way that even just hanging out with a male friend, someone whose relationship with me is entirely platonic, will make me feel safe and warm and just...aware of them. This is a man, and he is possessed of a penis, and I catch myself daydreaming about fucking him, about how his kiss would feel, his hands on my lower back pulling me against him. Would he be rough with me, or gentle? Aggressive, or would I have to pursue him, pulling off each piece of clothing with intent? Things that would never actually happen. Sometimes I have to concentrate not to think about it.
When I am with a man sexually...it's like being on fire. Like I'm a hard drive set down a little too close to a powerful magnet. Everything is jumbled, confused; mental cohesion and moral self-control are broken up like ice floes in spring by the hot rush of lustshamedesiresubmission.
And the voices, of course. God, I'm a sucker for a man's voice. Voices with character, deep and rough, or melodic, accented, educated and precise...everything. Donald Sutherland. Tim Curry. Ron Perlman, Tommy Lee Jones, Laurence Fishburne...
Yeah.
I don't have the same reaction to women. Even the thought of being topped by a woman is different. Not unpleasant. I'm sure it would be extremely enjoyable. But there isn't that...id-reaction, that other-mind. It would be fun, pleasurable, beautiful even. But not the same.
Thus, I'm not certain if I'm bi-sexual, or not. If the designation even matters.
I'm just...versatile.
Thinking about being with another woman...well, women are beautiful. Women are graceful, lovely, smooth and soft, each curve and angle so unique and so compelling. Tiny, delicate, elfin women; big lush gorgeous women; every variation, every style of dress, a thousand different skin colors, a million haircolors and styles. The warm scent of skin and perfume. I imagine the way a woman would kiss, how it would feel to lie with another, bodies twined, losing myself in the indescribable pleasure of that feeling.
But it's all nerve endings, yes? The physical sensation of being touched, of playing with another person. The emotional connection of lovemaking.
There's something different about men.
For one thing, it's not so visual. While I find many men attractive - and a woman certanly doesn't have to be a supermodel or even 'conventionally' pretty for me to find them attractive - the reaction I have to men, in a sexual way, is very different. Visceral. An emotion or a feeling that goes beyond an admiration of form or an imagining of pleasure.
I suppose it's all bound up with being submissive. That may explain the instant subconscious awareness of Man, the masculine aura, the way I feel their presense around me. They way that even just hanging out with a male friend, someone whose relationship with me is entirely platonic, will make me feel safe and warm and just...aware of them. This is a man, and he is possessed of a penis, and I catch myself daydreaming about fucking him, about how his kiss would feel, his hands on my lower back pulling me against him. Would he be rough with me, or gentle? Aggressive, or would I have to pursue him, pulling off each piece of clothing with intent? Things that would never actually happen. Sometimes I have to concentrate not to think about it.
When I am with a man sexually...it's like being on fire. Like I'm a hard drive set down a little too close to a powerful magnet. Everything is jumbled, confused; mental cohesion and moral self-control are broken up like ice floes in spring by the hot rush of lustshamedesiresubmission.
And the voices, of course. God, I'm a sucker for a man's voice. Voices with character, deep and rough, or melodic, accented, educated and precise...everything. Donald Sutherland. Tim Curry. Ron Perlman, Tommy Lee Jones, Laurence Fishburne...
Yeah.
I don't have the same reaction to women. Even the thought of being topped by a woman is different. Not unpleasant. I'm sure it would be extremely enjoyable. But there isn't that...id-reaction, that other-mind. It would be fun, pleasurable, beautiful even. But not the same.
Thus, I'm not certain if I'm bi-sexual, or not. If the designation even matters.
I'm just...versatile.
25 October 2007
An Office Story
Ever dreamed you were naked at work?
I'm a normal person. I work in an office and live in an apartment. Not married, nothing serious - a few ongoing, semi-casual 'friends'. I pay my taxes and recycle. And I dream.
It's been going on for a year now - once or twice every month, if I've been up late or worked extra hard that day. When I'm alone and exhausted and curling up in my warm bed feels particularly blissful. I sink into soft dark waters and then, out of that haze...I walk into work.
The glass doors swing open for me and I feel the lobby's soft grey carpet under my bare feet. Air conditioning, always just a smidge too cold, raises goosebumps on my skin and my nipples crinkle up, hard and pointed. The long braid of my hair swings back and forth as I walk, brushing my back, and I glimpse myself in the mirrorlike black marble wall. Completely bare, head to toe, briefcase in hand; an incredible swell of embarrasment and excitement and confusion fills me, but somehow I am still walking, moving along as if everything is normal. Headed for the elevators.
Even more strangely, no one else seems to notice my conspicuous nudity. I'm passed by men and women in expensive suits, brown courier uniforms, three young people from the cleaning staff in their incongruous jeans and t-shirts and Ipods. Some nod politely, some completely ignore me, intent on their destinations; but no one stares, no one cries out or laughs or whistles. Security doesn't descend upon me with their two-way radios and their overbearing self-importance, Defending America from the Naked Terrorist Menace.
Soft music is playing in the elevator during my ride to the seventh floor. People are always there with me, but they change from dream to dream, and they never notice that the woman next to them is missing her wardrobe.
I go to my office and sit down - the fabric soft against my ass and back, edge of the desk cold on my stomach when I roll forward.
At first I would wake up when I turned on the computer, the click-hum of its internals powering up always bringing me around.
After a while, though, the dream began changing. Getting longer - though when I woke the bedside clock always showed about the same time. Inside the dream I would actually work for a while (this part always passed in a blur, thankfully), get up for coffee, carry stacks of reports cradled against my naked stomach to my boss' office, talking to co-workers about inconsequential things. NO one ever reacted to my state.
It went on this way for almost four months, and then...well, things in the dream got really different.
For one thing, it was raining outside When I stepped through the lobby doors I was naked and drenched. Rainwater beaded on my breasts, streamed from the tip of my braid and dripped from the curls between my legs. I passed my boss' secretary and she smiled, teased me about forgetting my umbrella.
Waiting for the elevator took forever while I shivered in the cold, watching my reflection in the wall. When the doors slid open at last I scurried inside, eager to get up to my office where I could find some paper towels, maybe steal someone else's raincoat, anything to get warm -
And then I stopped, shocked. There was one other person on the elevator with me, a guy I recognized but didn't really know, Keith from Accounting down the hall. And he was staring at me.
He was naked, too.
We were up two floors before either of us could speak or move; then we flushed and turned our gazes aside simultaneously. I cleared my throat; he hit the Elevator Stop button.
"Uh - Which one of us is dreaming this?" he asked.
"Well, I thought I was," I say. With difficulty. Trying not to throw little glances at him or notice his glances at me. Now that someone could see me, see ALL of me, I was red with embarrasment, not sure where to put my hands.
He coughed again; at least I wasn't the only embarrased one. Then he fell silent, and looked at me. Really looked. I crossed my arms over my stomach - not really hiding anything, but it gave me a little comfort - and after a second I looked back.
Not bad. He's a little taller than I am, slender, rich brown curls with a dusting of silver. Nice eyes, also brown, warm. Not ripped, but in shape, with a nice cock, reasonably thick with a mild upward curve, and then I realized that he was hard, and I was staring at his crotch. My blush turned one shade darker. At least the embarassment helped fight the chill.
"You're dripping," he says, a little bit of roughness in his voice, arousal. We're still trapped in the elevator, unmoving, banal music in the background, and suddenly I don't care. I don't care. It's a bizarre dream and if it's going to keep getting bizzare-er, I'm taking advantage of it.
"I'm freezing," I sighed, and leaned into him, pressing the length of my naked body against his; feeling the muscles in his stomach jump when I laid my hand against them. "You shouldn't have to be cold in a dream."
He made a sound, soft and wondering; then his hands were cupping the back of my head and my mouth was being devoured. Deep, slow kiss, opening to each other at once; he tasted of coffee and somewhere in the back of my mind I realized that this was going to be *fantastic*.
I moved into the embrace, pushing us backward until he was pressed against the side of the elevator, trapped between me and the wall. His cock throbbed against my stomach and I wriggled, sliding my slick, wet body against him; he groaned into my mouth and the sound went straight down my spine into my belly, like being hit by lightning. We caressed each other, his hands sliding down to my lower back, then up to my shoulderblades, grazing me just a little with fingernails, I loved that. Then down again, all the way down, cupping my ass with both hands and pulling me up onto my toes, while his mouth left mine to trace the line of my throat with eager, biting kisses.
"I've always wanted to fuck in one of these," I said into his ear, my voice breaking in the middle, and he laughed against my skin.
I softened my knees, letting him bear more and more of my weight until he got the idea and let me slide slowly to the floor, my knees cushioned by the plush carpeting. Perks of a multimillion dollar operation, good carpets. Idly I wondered if this was why, but then he was right in front of me, erect and glistening at the tip, and I was starving.
I looked up and gave him an innocent, angelic smile before pressing a gentle kiss right on the head of his cock, feeling his precum hot and wet against my lips; turning my head slightly from side to side, letting him watch it rubbing against my mouth. He gave an appreciative moan and I saw his hands press flat to the wall, hard, like he was trying to keep from reaching forward. Trying not to take hold of my head and force himself into me. The gentlemanly self-control earned him flicks of my tongue, soft little licks against that spot where head meets shaft, where so many men are extra sensitive.
I licked, I sucked gently without letting him in, tasting the salt warmth of him, and when I saw his hands spasming against the wall - like he was going to start digging his way through any second - I gave a soft laugh and opened my mouth around him, letting that thickness slide into me, deeper and deeper, until I had almost all of him.
I'd need a bit of warmup to really take it all, but we'd get there. He didn't seem to mind. I wrapped one hand, my left hand, around the base and let my thumb slide down to tease his sack, and my other hand slid down to where I was hot and wet, though not with rainwater anymore. My fingers slid easily around my clit, and my little moan around the thickness of his cock made him twitch in my mouth.
I give a good, wet blowjob and he certainly wasn't complaining. When he was nice and wet - all the way down past my hand, saliva beading in his curls - I pulled back almost entirely, suckling softly at the head, and met his gaze again. He looked very nice staring down at me through half-lidded eyes, biting his lower lip, pleading with me without words. I let my eyes smile into his and then I closed them, inhaled, let myself open, and pushed...feeling him slide...trembling for a moment, that second's discomfort that always happens now, and then I had him all, sheathed in my throat, my lips pressed against the base of him.
He growled...sexy. I love doing this. One hand came free of the elevator wall and touched the back of my head, not grabbing, just resting there. I slid back, pushed forward again, I could hear the lewd wet sounds I was making filling the elevator, feel my own slick juices beginning to run down the fingers stroking my clit. ..
"Oh...god. Stop. You have to stop." he said - gasped. I pulled back a little, looked up at him wickedly, took him down again.
He twisted my braid up in his hand and pulled, gentle but insistent. "If you want to get fucked," he said, "you have to stop right now. It's too good, I can't..."
Fine... I mean, there are other things he could do for me, but I really want...yeah. I let him slide out of my mouth, looking up the whole time, watching his eyes when the head of his cock came free and one strand of saliva trailed off my pouting lower lip, connecting us for a second before it broke. His eyes were so dark... feral with arousal, and he reached down and wiped my mouth off. So sweet. Such a gentleman.
Then he knelt down to the floor with me, pulled me into his arms and kissed me again - so wet and hungry, sliding against each other, biting.
I wondered if he could taste himself on my tongue, and that was it. No more playing. One hand pressed flat against his chest, the other curled around his bicep; push with one, twist just right with the other, and he hit the floor with a thud, flat on his back. His look of surprise made me grin, but it felt less like amusement, more a feral baring of teeth before the pounce.
I swung one leg over and crawled the length of him, holding the eye contact; letting my body just barely slide against his, teasing, until the head of his cock brushed, then nestled against my slick folds...throbbing hot and eager. My braid slipped down and draped over his shoulder.
"If we both remember this tomorrow, we'll have to do it again," I told him; his answer was to slide his hands up to the swell of my hips, take hold of me, press me back and down onto his cock.
Oh god it was so nice, so fat, splitting me, that wonderful stretching sliding sensation of being penetrated. My head fell to his chest and I whined, going with his hands, grinding my hips a little against his once he was in me to the hilt; felt, more than heard, the resonant growl of approval. Underneath me his whole body flexed, long lean muscles tightening, thrusting up with enough force to raise my knees from the floor before dropping back and doing it again, again...
"Fuuuuuuck..." one of us said. I honestly couldn't tell you which. With difficulty - fighting against the seductive haze that wanted me to collapse atop him and let him do all the work - I pressed myself up, hands on his shoulders, and began to rock; hips flexing, spine curving as I arched my back and rode in time with his thrust, working together to reach what we both wanted. The soft liquid sound of sex was all around us, the satiny hiss of warm, moist skin rubbing against skin.
One broad hand curled around the back of my neck, pulling me close, and he whispered "Kneel up...let me watch.." into the cup of my ear. I complied without thinking and reached back to steady myself, hands on his upper thighs, spread and exposed before him from my flushed and passionate face to the wet, open pussy he was buried inside. He groaned at the sight; I answered, helplessly, when the new angle pulled back on his length inside me, pressing against me, the swollen head of him rubbing hard against my g-spot with every stroke.
No stopping it now, I had to have it, the sweet pressure inside me was demanding in a loud and strident voice that I come, had to come now, so fucking close to it... and then he levered himself up on both hands, sitting up so our stomachs pressed together; his mouth closed over my left breast, nipping and suckling at me, and at the same time he moved one hand down between us and ground the swollen nub of my clit under his thumb.
I think I screamed; I think that's what woke me. I'll never be sure. The orgasm was so strong, the best come I've ever had - felt like it lasted for minutes, leaving me drenched and dazed and shuddering in my own bed, alone. Touching myself in my sleep. I kept going, dragging out the last little bit of pleasure, until it was too much to bear and I had to lie still.
******************
There isn't much more to tell, really.
A day or two later, at work 'for real', I passed him in the hall. He smiled...just a normal, professional, "good morning stranger" smile. And we walked away.
I wonder if he saw my blush, if he wondered why...
Maybe one of these days I'll ask him out for a coffee.
And the dreams? Once or twice a month, when I'm particularly tired, stressed, when falling into bed feels better than anything else and falling asleep is quick and easy, like slipping under warm water... then the dream comes back.
Every time, there's something new...someone new. Wonderfully dom executives from the upper floors whom I've never even seen outside of news broadcasts - they have their own elevator, and their offices are like hotel suites. Let me tell you, there's nothing like being pressed naked against the chill (almost unbreakable) glass of a 12th-story executive suite and licked to multiple howling climaxes by a woman with perfect hair and multiple Ivy League degrees, a woman who could buy or sell you.
The IT boys...the filthy, filthy techies. Utter degenerates. What fun!
So many different people, so many different places. I walk through the building during the day and smile to myself; surrounded by special memories.
I don't know why it happens. But I don't want it to stop.
I'm a normal person. I work in an office and live in an apartment. Not married, nothing serious - a few ongoing, semi-casual 'friends'. I pay my taxes and recycle. And I dream.
It's been going on for a year now - once or twice every month, if I've been up late or worked extra hard that day. When I'm alone and exhausted and curling up in my warm bed feels particularly blissful. I sink into soft dark waters and then, out of that haze...I walk into work.
The glass doors swing open for me and I feel the lobby's soft grey carpet under my bare feet. Air conditioning, always just a smidge too cold, raises goosebumps on my skin and my nipples crinkle up, hard and pointed. The long braid of my hair swings back and forth as I walk, brushing my back, and I glimpse myself in the mirrorlike black marble wall. Completely bare, head to toe, briefcase in hand; an incredible swell of embarrasment and excitement and confusion fills me, but somehow I am still walking, moving along as if everything is normal. Headed for the elevators.
Even more strangely, no one else seems to notice my conspicuous nudity. I'm passed by men and women in expensive suits, brown courier uniforms, three young people from the cleaning staff in their incongruous jeans and t-shirts and Ipods. Some nod politely, some completely ignore me, intent on their destinations; but no one stares, no one cries out or laughs or whistles. Security doesn't descend upon me with their two-way radios and their overbearing self-importance, Defending America from the Naked Terrorist Menace.
Soft music is playing in the elevator during my ride to the seventh floor. People are always there with me, but they change from dream to dream, and they never notice that the woman next to them is missing her wardrobe.
I go to my office and sit down - the fabric soft against my ass and back, edge of the desk cold on my stomach when I roll forward.
At first I would wake up when I turned on the computer, the click-hum of its internals powering up always bringing me around.
After a while, though, the dream began changing. Getting longer - though when I woke the bedside clock always showed about the same time. Inside the dream I would actually work for a while (this part always passed in a blur, thankfully), get up for coffee, carry stacks of reports cradled against my naked stomach to my boss' office, talking to co-workers about inconsequential things. NO one ever reacted to my state.
It went on this way for almost four months, and then...well, things in the dream got really different.
For one thing, it was raining outside When I stepped through the lobby doors I was naked and drenched. Rainwater beaded on my breasts, streamed from the tip of my braid and dripped from the curls between my legs. I passed my boss' secretary and she smiled, teased me about forgetting my umbrella.
Waiting for the elevator took forever while I shivered in the cold, watching my reflection in the wall. When the doors slid open at last I scurried inside, eager to get up to my office where I could find some paper towels, maybe steal someone else's raincoat, anything to get warm -
And then I stopped, shocked. There was one other person on the elevator with me, a guy I recognized but didn't really know, Keith from Accounting down the hall. And he was staring at me.
He was naked, too.
We were up two floors before either of us could speak or move; then we flushed and turned our gazes aside simultaneously. I cleared my throat; he hit the Elevator Stop button.
"Uh - Which one of us is dreaming this?" he asked.
"Well, I thought I was," I say. With difficulty. Trying not to throw little glances at him or notice his glances at me. Now that someone could see me, see ALL of me, I was red with embarrasment, not sure where to put my hands.
He coughed again; at least I wasn't the only embarrased one. Then he fell silent, and looked at me. Really looked. I crossed my arms over my stomach - not really hiding anything, but it gave me a little comfort - and after a second I looked back.
Not bad. He's a little taller than I am, slender, rich brown curls with a dusting of silver. Nice eyes, also brown, warm. Not ripped, but in shape, with a nice cock, reasonably thick with a mild upward curve, and then I realized that he was hard, and I was staring at his crotch. My blush turned one shade darker. At least the embarassment helped fight the chill.
"You're dripping," he says, a little bit of roughness in his voice, arousal. We're still trapped in the elevator, unmoving, banal music in the background, and suddenly I don't care. I don't care. It's a bizarre dream and if it's going to keep getting bizzare-er, I'm taking advantage of it.
"I'm freezing," I sighed, and leaned into him, pressing the length of my naked body against his; feeling the muscles in his stomach jump when I laid my hand against them. "You shouldn't have to be cold in a dream."
He made a sound, soft and wondering; then his hands were cupping the back of my head and my mouth was being devoured. Deep, slow kiss, opening to each other at once; he tasted of coffee and somewhere in the back of my mind I realized that this was going to be *fantastic*.
I moved into the embrace, pushing us backward until he was pressed against the side of the elevator, trapped between me and the wall. His cock throbbed against my stomach and I wriggled, sliding my slick, wet body against him; he groaned into my mouth and the sound went straight down my spine into my belly, like being hit by lightning. We caressed each other, his hands sliding down to my lower back, then up to my shoulderblades, grazing me just a little with fingernails, I loved that. Then down again, all the way down, cupping my ass with both hands and pulling me up onto my toes, while his mouth left mine to trace the line of my throat with eager, biting kisses.
"I've always wanted to fuck in one of these," I said into his ear, my voice breaking in the middle, and he laughed against my skin.
I softened my knees, letting him bear more and more of my weight until he got the idea and let me slide slowly to the floor, my knees cushioned by the plush carpeting. Perks of a multimillion dollar operation, good carpets. Idly I wondered if this was why, but then he was right in front of me, erect and glistening at the tip, and I was starving.
I looked up and gave him an innocent, angelic smile before pressing a gentle kiss right on the head of his cock, feeling his precum hot and wet against my lips; turning my head slightly from side to side, letting him watch it rubbing against my mouth. He gave an appreciative moan and I saw his hands press flat to the wall, hard, like he was trying to keep from reaching forward. Trying not to take hold of my head and force himself into me. The gentlemanly self-control earned him flicks of my tongue, soft little licks against that spot where head meets shaft, where so many men are extra sensitive.
I licked, I sucked gently without letting him in, tasting the salt warmth of him, and when I saw his hands spasming against the wall - like he was going to start digging his way through any second - I gave a soft laugh and opened my mouth around him, letting that thickness slide into me, deeper and deeper, until I had almost all of him.
I'd need a bit of warmup to really take it all, but we'd get there. He didn't seem to mind. I wrapped one hand, my left hand, around the base and let my thumb slide down to tease his sack, and my other hand slid down to where I was hot and wet, though not with rainwater anymore. My fingers slid easily around my clit, and my little moan around the thickness of his cock made him twitch in my mouth.
I give a good, wet blowjob and he certainly wasn't complaining. When he was nice and wet - all the way down past my hand, saliva beading in his curls - I pulled back almost entirely, suckling softly at the head, and met his gaze again. He looked very nice staring down at me through half-lidded eyes, biting his lower lip, pleading with me without words. I let my eyes smile into his and then I closed them, inhaled, let myself open, and pushed...feeling him slide...trembling for a moment, that second's discomfort that always happens now, and then I had him all, sheathed in my throat, my lips pressed against the base of him.
He growled...sexy. I love doing this. One hand came free of the elevator wall and touched the back of my head, not grabbing, just resting there. I slid back, pushed forward again, I could hear the lewd wet sounds I was making filling the elevator, feel my own slick juices beginning to run down the fingers stroking my clit. ..
"Oh...god. Stop. You have to stop." he said - gasped. I pulled back a little, looked up at him wickedly, took him down again.
He twisted my braid up in his hand and pulled, gentle but insistent. "If you want to get fucked," he said, "you have to stop right now. It's too good, I can't..."
Fine... I mean, there are other things he could do for me, but I really want...yeah. I let him slide out of my mouth, looking up the whole time, watching his eyes when the head of his cock came free and one strand of saliva trailed off my pouting lower lip, connecting us for a second before it broke. His eyes were so dark... feral with arousal, and he reached down and wiped my mouth off. So sweet. Such a gentleman.
Then he knelt down to the floor with me, pulled me into his arms and kissed me again - so wet and hungry, sliding against each other, biting.
I wondered if he could taste himself on my tongue, and that was it. No more playing. One hand pressed flat against his chest, the other curled around his bicep; push with one, twist just right with the other, and he hit the floor with a thud, flat on his back. His look of surprise made me grin, but it felt less like amusement, more a feral baring of teeth before the pounce.
I swung one leg over and crawled the length of him, holding the eye contact; letting my body just barely slide against his, teasing, until the head of his cock brushed, then nestled against my slick folds...throbbing hot and eager. My braid slipped down and draped over his shoulder.
"If we both remember this tomorrow, we'll have to do it again," I told him; his answer was to slide his hands up to the swell of my hips, take hold of me, press me back and down onto his cock.
Oh god it was so nice, so fat, splitting me, that wonderful stretching sliding sensation of being penetrated. My head fell to his chest and I whined, going with his hands, grinding my hips a little against his once he was in me to the hilt; felt, more than heard, the resonant growl of approval. Underneath me his whole body flexed, long lean muscles tightening, thrusting up with enough force to raise my knees from the floor before dropping back and doing it again, again...
"Fuuuuuuck..." one of us said. I honestly couldn't tell you which. With difficulty - fighting against the seductive haze that wanted me to collapse atop him and let him do all the work - I pressed myself up, hands on his shoulders, and began to rock; hips flexing, spine curving as I arched my back and rode in time with his thrust, working together to reach what we both wanted. The soft liquid sound of sex was all around us, the satiny hiss of warm, moist skin rubbing against skin.
One broad hand curled around the back of my neck, pulling me close, and he whispered "Kneel up...let me watch.." into the cup of my ear. I complied without thinking and reached back to steady myself, hands on his upper thighs, spread and exposed before him from my flushed and passionate face to the wet, open pussy he was buried inside. He groaned at the sight; I answered, helplessly, when the new angle pulled back on his length inside me, pressing against me, the swollen head of him rubbing hard against my g-spot with every stroke.
No stopping it now, I had to have it, the sweet pressure inside me was demanding in a loud and strident voice that I come, had to come now, so fucking close to it... and then he levered himself up on both hands, sitting up so our stomachs pressed together; his mouth closed over my left breast, nipping and suckling at me, and at the same time he moved one hand down between us and ground the swollen nub of my clit under his thumb.
I think I screamed; I think that's what woke me. I'll never be sure. The orgasm was so strong, the best come I've ever had - felt like it lasted for minutes, leaving me drenched and dazed and shuddering in my own bed, alone. Touching myself in my sleep. I kept going, dragging out the last little bit of pleasure, until it was too much to bear and I had to lie still.
******************
There isn't much more to tell, really.
A day or two later, at work 'for real', I passed him in the hall. He smiled...just a normal, professional, "good morning stranger" smile. And we walked away.
I wonder if he saw my blush, if he wondered why...
Maybe one of these days I'll ask him out for a coffee.
And the dreams? Once or twice a month, when I'm particularly tired, stressed, when falling into bed feels better than anything else and falling asleep is quick and easy, like slipping under warm water... then the dream comes back.
Every time, there's something new...someone new. Wonderfully dom executives from the upper floors whom I've never even seen outside of news broadcasts - they have their own elevator, and their offices are like hotel suites. Let me tell you, there's nothing like being pressed naked against the chill (almost unbreakable) glass of a 12th-story executive suite and licked to multiple howling climaxes by a woman with perfect hair and multiple Ivy League degrees, a woman who could buy or sell you.
The IT boys...the filthy, filthy techies. Utter degenerates. What fun!
So many different people, so many different places. I walk through the building during the day and smile to myself; surrounded by special memories.
I don't know why it happens. But I don't want it to stop.
24 October 2007
Sugasm #102
Sugasm #102
The best of this week'ss blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #103? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you're all set.
This Week's Picks
She Told Me
“She told me she had a headache.”
Fantasy: If you can't stand the heat…
“You set the ice cube down and force my legs apart.”
Sugarbutch Star: Bad Bad Girl
“I brought my lips down on hers hard, crushing, devouring, insistent.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Upskirt Video from V Magazine
Editor's Choice
Blog Action Day: Sexual Activism or Lightning Doesn't Strike Twice
See also: Fleshbot's Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above within a week. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)
BDSM & Fetish
My Wife is a Skank! pt2
Peep Show
The piss slit
Significance of a Collar
Under his Thumb
Sex News & Reviews
Featured Design: Go Ahead and Ask Me
My first speculum
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Capture
Faking It
Geriatric SEX! yeah. Part 2 of an interview with mimi about her (relatively) new relationship
Rant to follow!
Tantra and Kink: Energy Charge
The Grey Area
TMI Tuesday #105 (Dating Edition)
Top Ten Songs to Do It To
What To Do With Cum (Part 2)
Sex Work
Comfort Sex
Cuckold Fantasies and the “N” Word
Sex Work And Religion: Crucifixion
NSFW Pics & Videos
Catalina Loves Bondage and Nikki Nefarious
Cerydwyn (I Shot Myself)
Erotic Art Show: Houdini
Janette - Morning Blue
Jungbauern Calendar 2008
Naughty Nurse
Ron Harris Studio’s Latest Erotic Photo and Video
Erotic Writing and Experiences
Auto-erotic
Behind glass
Christening
Encounter 1, Part II: Disaster Averted
Find ‘em, Fuck ‘em and Flee
Honey I’m home.
How I Love The Fall
I need you, now
My Afternoon with Alejandro
Rubbing one out
Ruf < cake > Smooth
Sacred & Profane
Sex Tourism
Vignettes of a Cuckoldress
21 October 2007
Reconnecting
The raise was great, but the long weeks alone were killing her. Lonely bored housewife was not a role she had ever wanted to play. The house had never been so clean, even the basement was organized, she'd tried baking, sewing, going to the library to lose herself in fiction, working in the garden. There were things to do and friends to see.
But at night, the bed was too big and their toys, her fingers, weren't enough. Even the times he'd call - his loving sexy voice saying the things she craved, telling her what to do, coaxing her through each climax or growling out his own - wonderful, but not the same, not enough.
She tried the cliche, sleeping in his tshirt; woke up crying at two in the morning, and took it off.
The first time he came home, she was waiting at the door and they didn't even make it to the bedroom, loving right there on the rug, so fervently they'd each sported bruises for several days afterward. Sore and happy.
This was the fourth time he'd been gone, fourth homecoming. She'd taken a long bath, almost unbearably hot soak, sugar body scrub leaving her polished, smooth. Took care of the details - manicure, pedicure, shaving her legs and, carefully, the soft fur between. Everything clean and perfumed and perfect.
Half an hour and a cup of warm tea later she fell fast asleep in their too-big bed and knew nothing until the touch of his hand brought her back. Tracing her cheekbone with a gentle finger, making her murmur sleepily and turn to seek his hand. Kisses in the hollow of his palm, the soft flesh of his inner wrist, his pulse against her mouth.
"Couldn't wait for me, could you, hon?" he asked, voice quiet and amused. Dark.
Oh, no. Her eyes flew open in the darkness, chagrined, sleepy-slow breath catching in her throat as a wave of anxious anticipation tightened muscles lower than her diaphragm, feeling her whole body flush. She was supposed to be awake when he got home, always. He'd made her promise. She'd never failed before.
Never had to be punished before.
"'m sorry - didn't mean to - " she half-whines against his hand, but his kiss cuts her off. Deep, demanding, taking her air and her voice and all her thought. He leans over her, half-climbing onto the bed beside her, his weight pressing her back into the pillows. Captive, for a moment.
Then he's gone. For a moment. She tries vainly to recapture her breath, eyes closed, waiting, and through the delicate film of her eyelids can tell when the bedroom light comes on. Bright; she opens her eyes and it's a moment or two before she can make anything out.
He's at the foot of the bed, still in suit and tie, five-o'clock shadowed, darkly handsome. Arms crossed, looking down at her, one cufflink reflecting the light overhead. "Get up and come here," he says.
Obeying or not is never in question. She slides out of the bed, comes to him, feeling almost bare in the cotton nightshirt that is all she sleeps in now; knowing that feeling will soon be worse. They stand together silently for a moment, just looking, and all his love and desire for her shows in his eyes; she could cry from the strength, the depth of it.
"I missed you," he says quietly, then: "undress now. I want you naked."
Cotton falls to the thick carpet without a sound. The bedroom air is cold compared to her own warmth under the covers and her nipples harden instantly. No words, but he looks at her, relearning her body, its curves and hollows, its subtle colors, the places where her paleness has flushed to rose with excitement. He walks around her, makes her lift her arms, cradles her head in his hands and tilts it from side to side, looking at her face from every angle.
"I was thinking on the plane," he says to her, quietly. "Being gone for so long and home so infrequently. It's like my life is there and you're my escape. Like you're my mistress instead of my wife."
Goosebumps raise on her arms and elsewhere.
"My sin," he whispers. "My illicit indulgence. My dirty little secret." His hands rest on her upper arms, palms slowly stroking from her shoulders down to her elbows and back. Every word, every touch makes her feel her nakedness more acutely, shamelessly bare next to his elegant couture, ivory skin next to black fabric. It makes her feel possessed, owned.
One broad hand moves between her legs, tracing her outer labia, feeling the smooth flesh and the slick wetness there, so much that it's coating the very tops of her inner thighs. She trembles in his arms, tries not to let the sounds building in her escape. Not yet.
"Sorry you disobeyed?" he askes, and she can hear the smile in his voice. She nods.
"Good girl. Climb onto the bed for me. Hands and knees."
God.. she obeys, but it's difficult. Harder with him clothed, knowing how very exposed she's about to be. He watches the whole time, touches her gently once she's there, guiding her knees apart...far apart...her shoulders down to the bed, until she lies with her breasts pressed into the mattress and her ass in the air, legs spread, completely open to him, without dignity. Her own moisture threatening to overflow. This is unbearable, humiliating, arousing. It couldn't possibly be worse.
"So pretty..." his hand gentle against the curve of her ass, trailing fingertips down her thighs. "So wanton, like this. My good, compliant girl...my good little toy. Touch yourself for me."
Helpless, she moans into the pillow, shivering. Every word is stroking the dark heat within her, taking her mind into this other place, where there is nothing between them but sex, nothing but his command and her compliance. One long-fingered hand explores between her spread thighs, stroking herself for his pleasure, first the outer and then inner lips, velvet soft, like petals; finding the moisture and drawing it up, smearing it in a trembling circle around her swollen clit. Knowing that he watches this, he can see everything she does to herself. The sensation is so strong, so keen, it makes her whine and pant, rubbing herself faster, the wet sound of her caresses filling the air.
"That's good, yes. Good girl. Slide your fingers into yourself...yes...very good. Now two. Fuck yourself for me. Show me what you do when we're on the phone."
She's writhing, drowning. Fucking herself at his request, then going back to her clit, feeling the tight urgency growing in her belly...getting closer. Her toes curl involuntarily, her soft moans turning gutteral, wanting, working towards it. Going to come for him, going to come so hard, any second now...
"If only you were good all the time..." he says, though she can barely focus on the words now, she's trembling on the edge..."I wouldn't have to do this."
Searing heat races through her and for a moment she thinks she's come, thinks this is the orgasm she was reaching for. Thinks the sound is incidental. Then it happens again, heat and pain and noise, and she realizes: he's spanking her. Stinging heat and humiliation make her cry out and try to pull away.
He climbs onto the bed next to her, puts one hand around the back of her neck. "Stay," he says, mock anger warring with genuine, rough lust in his voice. "I didn't say you could move and I didn't say you could stop. Play with that pussy. Show me how good you are."
Tears track her cheeks, spill onto the pillowcase; each burning slap pulls an involuntary cry from her, pained, excited. Her fingers stutter, then continue their caress, growing rough and eager; trying to drag the orgasm out of her flesh in time with each strike. "I'll stop when you come," he tells her and now his voice is almost unrecognizeable with heat. "You don't get fucked until you make yourself come. I know you can do it. I know you want to come for me." Punctuating his words with slaps, alternating the blows with caresses of her burning, reddened flesh. It's too much, an overdose of stimulation, her stomach clenching, free hand digging into the sheets below her, there's no way, she's going to hover on that edge until he gets tired and then he'll leave her there, he'll be disappointed, she won't be his good girl -
For a second she thinks she's lost it, that edge, it's gone for good, but she hasn't; she's fallen over.
He wraps his arms around her, murmurs praise into her ear, as she bucks and howls her way through the climax, clear liquid dripping down her wrist, pulse after pulse of it through her entire body until she collapses in a sodden heap next to him, gasping. So good, so good...
She barely notices him sliding from the bed and almost has her breath back when he returns, naked, turning her limp body over to lie sprawled on her back, breasts moving gently with each slow inhale. He cradles her, trails kisses along her throat and down to the peaks of her nipples, suckling and nibbling at each one until she groans and reaches up to stroke his hair. "More..." she sighs, and hears him laugh softly. "Please...it's been so long without you, I need you inside..."
He brings her legs up to either side, one arm under each, and presses the head of his cock against her slick opening. Sliding up and down, teasing both of them for a moment and lubricating himself; then there is the warm, welcome sensation of opening, of being filled. All the way inside, the belly-deep glow of pleasure she's been craving for weeks; she smiles up at him, childlike in her pleasure. "I love you."
"I love you," he whispers, and begins to fuck her. Gently at first, thoroughly, angling her body to rub against the top of her channel; glancing over the spot deep inside that feels so good, so different. His forehead rests in the place between her shoulder and throat, and his hot breath spills out across her collarbones; she cups one hand around the nape of his neck, caressing, welcoming him home.
"I'm going to make you pregnant tonight," he says in exactly the same tone, and the words pull a soft moan from her; she closes her eyes and begins to move with him, more urgently, feeling each thrust and how deep he goes inside, knowing that's where he'll be when he comes. Deep inside. That when she sleeps tonight she will be cradled in his arms, blissful with afterglow, and sticky-full of his seed. Full of his child.
That thought is all she needs; her hands grip at his sweaty flushed skin and she arches, gasping, coming in long slow waves on his cock, her hips jerking against him until he groans, growls, finishes, pumping into her, claiming her. Giving her what they both want.
They sleep that way, naked and tangled together, sweat cooling on their skin; and she dreams of their children.
But at night, the bed was too big and their toys, her fingers, weren't enough. Even the times he'd call - his loving sexy voice saying the things she craved, telling her what to do, coaxing her through each climax or growling out his own - wonderful, but not the same, not enough.
She tried the cliche, sleeping in his tshirt; woke up crying at two in the morning, and took it off.
The first time he came home, she was waiting at the door and they didn't even make it to the bedroom, loving right there on the rug, so fervently they'd each sported bruises for several days afterward. Sore and happy.
This was the fourth time he'd been gone, fourth homecoming. She'd taken a long bath, almost unbearably hot soak, sugar body scrub leaving her polished, smooth. Took care of the details - manicure, pedicure, shaving her legs and, carefully, the soft fur between. Everything clean and perfumed and perfect.
Half an hour and a cup of warm tea later she fell fast asleep in their too-big bed and knew nothing until the touch of his hand brought her back. Tracing her cheekbone with a gentle finger, making her murmur sleepily and turn to seek his hand. Kisses in the hollow of his palm, the soft flesh of his inner wrist, his pulse against her mouth.
"Couldn't wait for me, could you, hon?" he asked, voice quiet and amused. Dark.
Oh, no. Her eyes flew open in the darkness, chagrined, sleepy-slow breath catching in her throat as a wave of anxious anticipation tightened muscles lower than her diaphragm, feeling her whole body flush. She was supposed to be awake when he got home, always. He'd made her promise. She'd never failed before.
Never had to be punished before.
"'m sorry - didn't mean to - " she half-whines against his hand, but his kiss cuts her off. Deep, demanding, taking her air and her voice and all her thought. He leans over her, half-climbing onto the bed beside her, his weight pressing her back into the pillows. Captive, for a moment.
Then he's gone. For a moment. She tries vainly to recapture her breath, eyes closed, waiting, and through the delicate film of her eyelids can tell when the bedroom light comes on. Bright; she opens her eyes and it's a moment or two before she can make anything out.
He's at the foot of the bed, still in suit and tie, five-o'clock shadowed, darkly handsome. Arms crossed, looking down at her, one cufflink reflecting the light overhead. "Get up and come here," he says.
Obeying or not is never in question. She slides out of the bed, comes to him, feeling almost bare in the cotton nightshirt that is all she sleeps in now; knowing that feeling will soon be worse. They stand together silently for a moment, just looking, and all his love and desire for her shows in his eyes; she could cry from the strength, the depth of it.
"I missed you," he says quietly, then: "undress now. I want you naked."
Cotton falls to the thick carpet without a sound. The bedroom air is cold compared to her own warmth under the covers and her nipples harden instantly. No words, but he looks at her, relearning her body, its curves and hollows, its subtle colors, the places where her paleness has flushed to rose with excitement. He walks around her, makes her lift her arms, cradles her head in his hands and tilts it from side to side, looking at her face from every angle.
"I was thinking on the plane," he says to her, quietly. "Being gone for so long and home so infrequently. It's like my life is there and you're my escape. Like you're my mistress instead of my wife."
Goosebumps raise on her arms and elsewhere.
"My sin," he whispers. "My illicit indulgence. My dirty little secret." His hands rest on her upper arms, palms slowly stroking from her shoulders down to her elbows and back. Every word, every touch makes her feel her nakedness more acutely, shamelessly bare next to his elegant couture, ivory skin next to black fabric. It makes her feel possessed, owned.
One broad hand moves between her legs, tracing her outer labia, feeling the smooth flesh and the slick wetness there, so much that it's coating the very tops of her inner thighs. She trembles in his arms, tries not to let the sounds building in her escape. Not yet.
"Sorry you disobeyed?" he askes, and she can hear the smile in his voice. She nods.
"Good girl. Climb onto the bed for me. Hands and knees."
God.. she obeys, but it's difficult. Harder with him clothed, knowing how very exposed she's about to be. He watches the whole time, touches her gently once she's there, guiding her knees apart...far apart...her shoulders down to the bed, until she lies with her breasts pressed into the mattress and her ass in the air, legs spread, completely open to him, without dignity. Her own moisture threatening to overflow. This is unbearable, humiliating, arousing. It couldn't possibly be worse.
"So pretty..." his hand gentle against the curve of her ass, trailing fingertips down her thighs. "So wanton, like this. My good, compliant girl...my good little toy. Touch yourself for me."
Helpless, she moans into the pillow, shivering. Every word is stroking the dark heat within her, taking her mind into this other place, where there is nothing between them but sex, nothing but his command and her compliance. One long-fingered hand explores between her spread thighs, stroking herself for his pleasure, first the outer and then inner lips, velvet soft, like petals; finding the moisture and drawing it up, smearing it in a trembling circle around her swollen clit. Knowing that he watches this, he can see everything she does to herself. The sensation is so strong, so keen, it makes her whine and pant, rubbing herself faster, the wet sound of her caresses filling the air.
"That's good, yes. Good girl. Slide your fingers into yourself...yes...very good. Now two. Fuck yourself for me. Show me what you do when we're on the phone."
She's writhing, drowning. Fucking herself at his request, then going back to her clit, feeling the tight urgency growing in her belly...getting closer. Her toes curl involuntarily, her soft moans turning gutteral, wanting, working towards it. Going to come for him, going to come so hard, any second now...
"If only you were good all the time..." he says, though she can barely focus on the words now, she's trembling on the edge..."I wouldn't have to do this."
Searing heat races through her and for a moment she thinks she's come, thinks this is the orgasm she was reaching for. Thinks the sound is incidental. Then it happens again, heat and pain and noise, and she realizes: he's spanking her. Stinging heat and humiliation make her cry out and try to pull away.
He climbs onto the bed next to her, puts one hand around the back of her neck. "Stay," he says, mock anger warring with genuine, rough lust in his voice. "I didn't say you could move and I didn't say you could stop. Play with that pussy. Show me how good you are."
Tears track her cheeks, spill onto the pillowcase; each burning slap pulls an involuntary cry from her, pained, excited. Her fingers stutter, then continue their caress, growing rough and eager; trying to drag the orgasm out of her flesh in time with each strike. "I'll stop when you come," he tells her and now his voice is almost unrecognizeable with heat. "You don't get fucked until you make yourself come. I know you can do it. I know you want to come for me." Punctuating his words with slaps, alternating the blows with caresses of her burning, reddened flesh. It's too much, an overdose of stimulation, her stomach clenching, free hand digging into the sheets below her, there's no way, she's going to hover on that edge until he gets tired and then he'll leave her there, he'll be disappointed, she won't be his good girl -
For a second she thinks she's lost it, that edge, it's gone for good, but she hasn't; she's fallen over.
He wraps his arms around her, murmurs praise into her ear, as she bucks and howls her way through the climax, clear liquid dripping down her wrist, pulse after pulse of it through her entire body until she collapses in a sodden heap next to him, gasping. So good, so good...
She barely notices him sliding from the bed and almost has her breath back when he returns, naked, turning her limp body over to lie sprawled on her back, breasts moving gently with each slow inhale. He cradles her, trails kisses along her throat and down to the peaks of her nipples, suckling and nibbling at each one until she groans and reaches up to stroke his hair. "More..." she sighs, and hears him laugh softly. "Please...it's been so long without you, I need you inside..."
He brings her legs up to either side, one arm under each, and presses the head of his cock against her slick opening. Sliding up and down, teasing both of them for a moment and lubricating himself; then there is the warm, welcome sensation of opening, of being filled. All the way inside, the belly-deep glow of pleasure she's been craving for weeks; she smiles up at him, childlike in her pleasure. "I love you."
"I love you," he whispers, and begins to fuck her. Gently at first, thoroughly, angling her body to rub against the top of her channel; glancing over the spot deep inside that feels so good, so different. His forehead rests in the place between her shoulder and throat, and his hot breath spills out across her collarbones; she cups one hand around the nape of his neck, caressing, welcoming him home.
"I'm going to make you pregnant tonight," he says in exactly the same tone, and the words pull a soft moan from her; she closes her eyes and begins to move with him, more urgently, feeling each thrust and how deep he goes inside, knowing that's where he'll be when he comes. Deep inside. That when she sleeps tonight she will be cradled in his arms, blissful with afterglow, and sticky-full of his seed. Full of his child.
That thought is all she needs; her hands grip at his sweaty flushed skin and she arches, gasping, coming in long slow waves on his cock, her hips jerking against him until he groans, growls, finishes, pumping into her, claiming her. Giving her what they both want.
They sleep that way, naked and tangled together, sweat cooling on their skin; and she dreams of their children.
20 October 2007
Homecoming
I hear the sink running; he's washing up. Me, I can't even think yet, let alone move. Everything's hazy and moist.
We weren't through the door two minutes - blessed warmth after the damp snowy January night - and he was on me. My coat forgotten on the floor.
Now I'm here, tumbled across the bed - tangled in all my clothes, pieces pushed aside or pulled halfway down in our breathless haste. I feel all liquid, swollen, bruised - bitten at the sides of my throat, my breasts, the curve of my belly...he loves to leave marks on me. Possessive. Between the initial pounce and this current state, this exhausted dishevelled pleasure, I only have sketches of memory. Vivid flashes. The way his mouth still tasted of red wine even hours after dinner. The rough rasp of stubble against tender flesh, the way he growled at my whimper and bit down into me. Two fingers pushing into my body, stretching me, making me try to writhe or buck and being totally hampered by the tangle of my clothing. Sobs of pleasure and frustration. Hearing my voice go all breathy, girlish, as it always does when we play, even when I don't want it to.
Being rolled onto my stomach, pillow under my hips, and taken, one of his hands clenched in my hair. God, that indescribable mind-altering burn - pinned and helpless, clothed and bared, moaning inelegantly when his cock finally pulses inside me, I know he's coming inside and that sets me off too and everything goes white...
And now, done, all that hot energy spent. He comes back from the bathroom with a warm damp cloth and leans over me, cleaning me. Solicitous. He rolls me again, onto my back, and for a moment our eyes meet. Suddenly there's a second of perfect clarity and understanding. I'm still too lost in afterglow to speak, but it's beautiful - he's beautiful, and I try to tell him so with my smile.
I think, for a moment there, he understands.
Then he looks down at my body arranged beneath him, and the demon is back in his eyes. He cups my breast in one broad hand, claiming it, gently toying with the nipple until I fidget and whine, trying to stop my breath from quickening. We both know it's futile.
"I like you this way," he says. "You look...used."
The blush is racing its way across my face, my upper body, and there's no way he didn't hear my breath catch. It is not fair for him to know me this well.
"Clothes half off, all out of breath, exposed, wet..." smiling in that particular way as he devestates me with words. "You look fucked."
My back arches, hips rising subtly and involuntarily, seeking; he's got me. Those fingers work their way down along my torso and discover my shameful secret, the soft folds of my pussy already oiled with my own excitement, slick and swollen and unbelievably ready. I still can't move, not really, but I writhe a little against him and feel the firm length of him against my thigh, hear him growl at the sensation.
"You want it again? Ask for it," he tells me, rough-voiced, while his fingers slide back and forth, slipping inside me, pulling out to spread liquid over my clit, stroking, teasing mercilessly. He knows how to touch, that a gentle caress with plenty of moisture and no pressure at all will make me crazy - will have me begging like a shameless whore...
"Please," I finally say, and he laughs at me. Playing with me.
"Fine," he says, "If you won't tell me what you want, I guess you don't want anything. I'll take what I want. You can just lie there..." leaning in close to my ear, taunting me, little flicks of his tongue against my earlobe as he talks. "...I'll get the lube, and you can watch me touch myself, watch me get myself off, maybe I'll come on your pretty naked helpless body...and then I'll clean you up...and we'll go to sleep."
"No - I want -" Deeply frustrating, its almost impossible to speak with the slow maddening caress between my legs, each stroke sending lines of fire down my inner thighs, down into the soles of my feet, almost painful, curling my toes, making me shake - "please please fuck me, please use me, please let me come, please, please I NEED..."
Babbling. Beyond any sense of pride or humiliation. Part of me knows he wouldn't leave me like this, but that part is in the rational brain, which is on hiatus at the moment. Later I'll be chagrined, maybe even aggravated at his ability to reduce me to this Id-creature.
Right now, though, I just want. I just need.
He provides.
There's a sudden disorienting movement, my body being shifted - I cry out with disappointment when his fingers leave me - but it's only the pants coming off, and then he's there. Slipping his arms under my knees, lifting and spreading me, tilting my pelvis just right, so exposed - his hot breath against my neck, I"m still whimpering broken pleas; then stretching, sliding, feeling myself opened around his cock, filled with heat an inch at a time, complete again. Steady movement, rythmic, graceful, like the tide coming in, the tension in us building, opening my eyes to find him looking down at me.
"Mine," he says, just a breath in the dark.
It doesn't take long for either of us, and he kisses me as he comes inside me again, as I cry out my own climax against his mouth. Perfect.
We weren't through the door two minutes - blessed warmth after the damp snowy January night - and he was on me. My coat forgotten on the floor.
Now I'm here, tumbled across the bed - tangled in all my clothes, pieces pushed aside or pulled halfway down in our breathless haste. I feel all liquid, swollen, bruised - bitten at the sides of my throat, my breasts, the curve of my belly...he loves to leave marks on me. Possessive. Between the initial pounce and this current state, this exhausted dishevelled pleasure, I only have sketches of memory. Vivid flashes. The way his mouth still tasted of red wine even hours after dinner. The rough rasp of stubble against tender flesh, the way he growled at my whimper and bit down into me. Two fingers pushing into my body, stretching me, making me try to writhe or buck and being totally hampered by the tangle of my clothing. Sobs of pleasure and frustration. Hearing my voice go all breathy, girlish, as it always does when we play, even when I don't want it to.
Being rolled onto my stomach, pillow under my hips, and taken, one of his hands clenched in my hair. God, that indescribable mind-altering burn - pinned and helpless, clothed and bared, moaning inelegantly when his cock finally pulses inside me, I know he's coming inside and that sets me off too and everything goes white...
And now, done, all that hot energy spent. He comes back from the bathroom with a warm damp cloth and leans over me, cleaning me. Solicitous. He rolls me again, onto my back, and for a moment our eyes meet. Suddenly there's a second of perfect clarity and understanding. I'm still too lost in afterglow to speak, but it's beautiful - he's beautiful, and I try to tell him so with my smile.
I think, for a moment there, he understands.
Then he looks down at my body arranged beneath him, and the demon is back in his eyes. He cups my breast in one broad hand, claiming it, gently toying with the nipple until I fidget and whine, trying to stop my breath from quickening. We both know it's futile.
"I like you this way," he says. "You look...used."
The blush is racing its way across my face, my upper body, and there's no way he didn't hear my breath catch. It is not fair for him to know me this well.
"Clothes half off, all out of breath, exposed, wet..." smiling in that particular way as he devestates me with words. "You look fucked."
My back arches, hips rising subtly and involuntarily, seeking; he's got me. Those fingers work their way down along my torso and discover my shameful secret, the soft folds of my pussy already oiled with my own excitement, slick and swollen and unbelievably ready. I still can't move, not really, but I writhe a little against him and feel the firm length of him against my thigh, hear him growl at the sensation.
"You want it again? Ask for it," he tells me, rough-voiced, while his fingers slide back and forth, slipping inside me, pulling out to spread liquid over my clit, stroking, teasing mercilessly. He knows how to touch, that a gentle caress with plenty of moisture and no pressure at all will make me crazy - will have me begging like a shameless whore...
"Please," I finally say, and he laughs at me. Playing with me.
"Fine," he says, "If you won't tell me what you want, I guess you don't want anything. I'll take what I want. You can just lie there..." leaning in close to my ear, taunting me, little flicks of his tongue against my earlobe as he talks. "...I'll get the lube, and you can watch me touch myself, watch me get myself off, maybe I'll come on your pretty naked helpless body...and then I'll clean you up...and we'll go to sleep."
"No - I want -" Deeply frustrating, its almost impossible to speak with the slow maddening caress between my legs, each stroke sending lines of fire down my inner thighs, down into the soles of my feet, almost painful, curling my toes, making me shake - "please please fuck me, please use me, please let me come, please, please I NEED..."
Babbling. Beyond any sense of pride or humiliation. Part of me knows he wouldn't leave me like this, but that part is in the rational brain, which is on hiatus at the moment. Later I'll be chagrined, maybe even aggravated at his ability to reduce me to this Id-creature.
Right now, though, I just want. I just need.
He provides.
There's a sudden disorienting movement, my body being shifted - I cry out with disappointment when his fingers leave me - but it's only the pants coming off, and then he's there. Slipping his arms under my knees, lifting and spreading me, tilting my pelvis just right, so exposed - his hot breath against my neck, I"m still whimpering broken pleas; then stretching, sliding, feeling myself opened around his cock, filled with heat an inch at a time, complete again. Steady movement, rythmic, graceful, like the tide coming in, the tension in us building, opening my eyes to find him looking down at me.
"Mine," he says, just a breath in the dark.
It doesn't take long for either of us, and he kisses me as he comes inside me again, as I cry out my own climax against his mouth. Perfect.
19 October 2007
Flying
Even with different cologne she recognizes him, knows him the moment he comes near.
It's a valiant effort; scent is a powerful mental key, changing it an inspired touch. But the breath hot on her neck is his breath, the hands abruptly pinning her against the door she has only just now come through, closed and locked behind her - locking herself in - are his hands, the familiar shape and pressure of his touch. No sound of fabric rustling against itself, only skin on skin, bare feet on floorboards; he has come to her already naked.
Her keyring falls and clatters on the bare floor, every sound distinct.
They have been together for a year and this is the game that they play, his game. It's not always like this. A deft and considerate lover, her man - in so many ways her keeper - is usually gentle, adoring, bulding their pleasure in slow artistic waves until both are spent and glowing. Then sleep, twined together like young lovers in a story. But sometimes - just occasionally - his game.
There is no elaborate dungeon in their apartment, no special costumes, no chest of pain- or pleasure-inducing toys; their only prop is a pair of padded. beltlike cuffs for her wrists, each complete with a steel loop. The padding is fine-grained kidskin leather and the scent, the feel of it against her skin, is enough.
He kisses her into the bedroom - walking her slowly backward while their mouths collide, hers welcoming, his exploring. Flavor of the cigarettes he smokes only occasionally, clove oil and tobacco, and something rich that she can't identify but recognizes easily; the taste of his kiss. In the doorway to the bedroom he stops her, holds her steady with one hand in her hair and deepens the kiss, growling into her mouth, biting at her until something inside melts and liquifies, something beneath her ribcage pouring out through her veins to pool and simmer in her head and between her thighs.
Throwing her down on their bed startles a soft cry from her, but there is no pain, no fear. Everything about this experience is comfortable, known; the scent of the comforter and its velvety flannel feel under her palms, the clocklike tick of the ceiling fan and the soft breeze that moves her hair. Whispery creaking of the mattress as he climbs up beside her, pushes her back, carefully buckles the leather around her wrists. Within moments she is stretched across the coverlet. Unruly hair tickling her cheek where it was trapped underneath her when she fell. Still clothed, in her shoes even, but so oversensetized she might as well be naked for him. She writhes a bit under his gaze - his presumed gaze - subtly rubbing her thighs together, feeling the slick heat gathering between her labia. Preparing for him in her own special female way.
When she is arranged to his satisfaction - stray locks considerately pulled from beneath her shoulders - he insinuates himself between her legs, sliding her skirt up into a thin band across her hips, and begins to undress her. The smooth, small buttons of her linen blouse, one by one. The skirt, unzipped and pulled away, leaving her in stockings, the shoes slipped off and placed carefully in their Place, where she will find them in the morning. Then a pause. He is looking at her, lying in helpless disarray, bare to him save for the bits of silk and lace and wire that he bought her. Now she knows the scent of her own arousal, the movement of her body and the fan send it spiralling through the air, he must notice it; his fingers trace the edge of lace where it follows the curve of her thigh down and in, and she knows from the sound he makes that she has already soaked them through.
He watches, and she hears his breathing change, and knows her own has, echoing. Some days he draws this out for ever, hours of torment, making her writhe and beg shamelessly for his cock. He has lain above her, between her legs, grinding the hard heat of his erection along her wet silken panties, right against her clit, rubbing until she cried, until he bit down on her shoulder and shuddered and came against her stomach, Wiping it off with his hands and making her lick his fingers clean before reaching down to fill her with them, holding her prisoner in the palm of his hand, bringing her climax like an explosion.
Some days he takes her like he can't bear not to.
The bra comes open with a tiny latch in front; the panties, almost as easy. She lies bared for him, stockings still on, blouse clinging to her arms, under her back. For a moment he slides his hands along her torso, cupping her breasts, tracing the length of her ribcage, the small expanse of thigh above her stocking tops. She waits. She is wet and open, neatly trimmed fur exposing the silken flesh of her inner labia, the swollen pearl of her clit. Nothing touches her there but the breeze from the fan and she thinks that by itself might drive her mad. She waits.
He takes something from the bottom drawer of her bedside table, where his things have their Place. She hears plastic and something soft but textured rasping under his fingertips, something like foam, or sponge.
Leaning over her, looming over her, he breathes the softest of kisses against each ear and then slides a small, soft, pliable object into each ear canal, something that seals against her delicate flesh. The bizarre sensation makes her freeze, even her breath still.
There is no sound.
***
She knows she is screaming against his palm, but there is no sound. Can't hear. Can't even hear herself screaming. Can't hear the sound of whatever was just knocked to the floor, though she feels the vibration through the bed. Bedside lamp. Will have to go back in its Place when he finishes or she could trip on it, he knows that, surely he knows what he is doing to her, how the terror and the pleasure have taken her over, she has come to the place where she cannot stop. She wrenches in a deep breath, a sobbing tearful panicked breath, and as her lungs inflate and she arches her back ready to scream again, his broad-tipped powerful fingers close over her nipples. Pinching. Crushing. The way she loves it, her guilty secret pleasure. The scream is trapped in her throat and falls away, falls like she is falling now.
When he finishes. Sound will come back. The world will come back.
She can smell her own desperate tears, taste them; at least he hasn't taken that. She can feel how his hands are shaking as he tugs at her nipples, releases and takes them again, can feel how his cock is pressed huge and throbbing into the hollow between her hip and belly. Not a game anymore. It's as though the ground had fallen away. As though she were alone in a strange place, a room full of objects and furniture and danger, and he is there, he has her by the hand, and they are running. Running through her eternal darkness.
He kisses her, curves one hand around her throat - not squeezing, never that, only the warning pressure, the danger - running so fast in the dark - and when she feels the first silken searing pressure of the head of his cock, feels it graze lightly over her exposed clit and then slide, she goes taut beneath him, stretched and trembling, and is utterly silent as she comes.
It's a valiant effort; scent is a powerful mental key, changing it an inspired touch. But the breath hot on her neck is his breath, the hands abruptly pinning her against the door she has only just now come through, closed and locked behind her - locking herself in - are his hands, the familiar shape and pressure of his touch. No sound of fabric rustling against itself, only skin on skin, bare feet on floorboards; he has come to her already naked.
Her keyring falls and clatters on the bare floor, every sound distinct.
They have been together for a year and this is the game that they play, his game. It's not always like this. A deft and considerate lover, her man - in so many ways her keeper - is usually gentle, adoring, bulding their pleasure in slow artistic waves until both are spent and glowing. Then sleep, twined together like young lovers in a story. But sometimes - just occasionally - his game.
There is no elaborate dungeon in their apartment, no special costumes, no chest of pain- or pleasure-inducing toys; their only prop is a pair of padded. beltlike cuffs for her wrists, each complete with a steel loop. The padding is fine-grained kidskin leather and the scent, the feel of it against her skin, is enough.
He kisses her into the bedroom - walking her slowly backward while their mouths collide, hers welcoming, his exploring. Flavor of the cigarettes he smokes only occasionally, clove oil and tobacco, and something rich that she can't identify but recognizes easily; the taste of his kiss. In the doorway to the bedroom he stops her, holds her steady with one hand in her hair and deepens the kiss, growling into her mouth, biting at her until something inside melts and liquifies, something beneath her ribcage pouring out through her veins to pool and simmer in her head and between her thighs.
Throwing her down on their bed startles a soft cry from her, but there is no pain, no fear. Everything about this experience is comfortable, known; the scent of the comforter and its velvety flannel feel under her palms, the clocklike tick of the ceiling fan and the soft breeze that moves her hair. Whispery creaking of the mattress as he climbs up beside her, pushes her back, carefully buckles the leather around her wrists. Within moments she is stretched across the coverlet. Unruly hair tickling her cheek where it was trapped underneath her when she fell. Still clothed, in her shoes even, but so oversensetized she might as well be naked for him. She writhes a bit under his gaze - his presumed gaze - subtly rubbing her thighs together, feeling the slick heat gathering between her labia. Preparing for him in her own special female way.
When she is arranged to his satisfaction - stray locks considerately pulled from beneath her shoulders - he insinuates himself between her legs, sliding her skirt up into a thin band across her hips, and begins to undress her. The smooth, small buttons of her linen blouse, one by one. The skirt, unzipped and pulled away, leaving her in stockings, the shoes slipped off and placed carefully in their Place, where she will find them in the morning. Then a pause. He is looking at her, lying in helpless disarray, bare to him save for the bits of silk and lace and wire that he bought her. Now she knows the scent of her own arousal, the movement of her body and the fan send it spiralling through the air, he must notice it; his fingers trace the edge of lace where it follows the curve of her thigh down and in, and she knows from the sound he makes that she has already soaked them through.
He watches, and she hears his breathing change, and knows her own has, echoing. Some days he draws this out for ever, hours of torment, making her writhe and beg shamelessly for his cock. He has lain above her, between her legs, grinding the hard heat of his erection along her wet silken panties, right against her clit, rubbing until she cried, until he bit down on her shoulder and shuddered and came against her stomach, Wiping it off with his hands and making her lick his fingers clean before reaching down to fill her with them, holding her prisoner in the palm of his hand, bringing her climax like an explosion.
Some days he takes her like he can't bear not to.
The bra comes open with a tiny latch in front; the panties, almost as easy. She lies bared for him, stockings still on, blouse clinging to her arms, under her back. For a moment he slides his hands along her torso, cupping her breasts, tracing the length of her ribcage, the small expanse of thigh above her stocking tops. She waits. She is wet and open, neatly trimmed fur exposing the silken flesh of her inner labia, the swollen pearl of her clit. Nothing touches her there but the breeze from the fan and she thinks that by itself might drive her mad. She waits.
He takes something from the bottom drawer of her bedside table, where his things have their Place. She hears plastic and something soft but textured rasping under his fingertips, something like foam, or sponge.
Leaning over her, looming over her, he breathes the softest of kisses against each ear and then slides a small, soft, pliable object into each ear canal, something that seals against her delicate flesh. The bizarre sensation makes her freeze, even her breath still.
There is no sound.
***
She knows she is screaming against his palm, but there is no sound. Can't hear. Can't even hear herself screaming. Can't hear the sound of whatever was just knocked to the floor, though she feels the vibration through the bed. Bedside lamp. Will have to go back in its Place when he finishes or she could trip on it, he knows that, surely he knows what he is doing to her, how the terror and the pleasure have taken her over, she has come to the place where she cannot stop. She wrenches in a deep breath, a sobbing tearful panicked breath, and as her lungs inflate and she arches her back ready to scream again, his broad-tipped powerful fingers close over her nipples. Pinching. Crushing. The way she loves it, her guilty secret pleasure. The scream is trapped in her throat and falls away, falls like she is falling now.
When he finishes. Sound will come back. The world will come back.
She can smell her own desperate tears, taste them; at least he hasn't taken that. She can feel how his hands are shaking as he tugs at her nipples, releases and takes them again, can feel how his cock is pressed huge and throbbing into the hollow between her hip and belly. Not a game anymore. It's as though the ground had fallen away. As though she were alone in a strange place, a room full of objects and furniture and danger, and he is there, he has her by the hand, and they are running. Running through her eternal darkness.
He kisses her, curves one hand around her throat - not squeezing, never that, only the warning pressure, the danger - running so fast in the dark - and when she feels the first silken searing pressure of the head of his cock, feels it graze lightly over her exposed clit and then slide, she goes taut beneath him, stretched and trembling, and is utterly silent as she comes.
Shiny and new.
This blog is, ultimately, a place for stories.
I've always wanted to write, but never felt truly called to it. The desire was there, and I knew there were stories wating in my head, but when I tried to translate them to paper - everything came out clumsy and thin.
Until one night, not long ago, I wrote a piece of erotica based on a dream I'd had about a 'friend.' I was encourated to write more. And I did.
I'm maintaining my anonymity, at least for now, but I wanted to share these. They're really the first stories I've ever written, the first I've ever been satisfied with. I like them. I want to see where I can go with this.
Enjoy!
-Sugar
I've always wanted to write, but never felt truly called to it. The desire was there, and I knew there were stories wating in my head, but when I tried to translate them to paper - everything came out clumsy and thin.
Until one night, not long ago, I wrote a piece of erotica based on a dream I'd had about a 'friend.' I was encourated to write more. And I did.
I'm maintaining my anonymity, at least for now, but I wanted to share these. They're really the first stories I've ever written, the first I've ever been satisfied with. I like them. I want to see where I can go with this.
Enjoy!
-Sugar
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