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Author: Velvet Stallion

Filed in: sex, sadomasochism, sensation, stalking, rape play, M/f

I see you walk to your car.  A BMW, of course.  What else would a spoiled bitch like you drive?  I don’t need to hide or change my direction or avert my eyes.  I blend in because men like me are invisible to women like you.  Invisible and easy to ignore.


It’s easy to time my walk to put me just at the back of your car as you turn to get in.  You don’t notice me and if you do, I’m at most a shadow passing by.  I hear the authoritative purr of your 3-series as I reach my own car.  An older Lincoln Towncar, roomy, comfortable, driven by old men who play golf on Wednesdays and obey the speed limits.  Just another part of my camouflage. 


You go past, your profile alone causes me some arousal.  It will be sweet to introduce you to my own unique pleasures.  Watching you shop, the occasional phone call, the annoying random text message or e-mail, it was maddening to not touch you then.  Every time I wanted to approach you, another call or message.  If you’re that important, you should have an office.  This didn’t keep me from admiring the roundness of your ass, the low cut of your dress, the way you accentuate your breasts with just the right bra.  Watching you was nearly torture.  I wanted to say something to you, let you see my face, make you looked at me at least once so that when we met again, you’d recognize me.  Unfortunately, the situation didn’t present itself.


So I simply followed you.  Watching your walk made my cock hard.  Your shape, so balanced, so perfect.  The sway of your hips perfectly undulating, totally unconscious, no pretense, no seduction.  The bored, lazy casualness of a woman who is happy with her appearance but doesn’t realize that most men within sight of her are imagining her naked, wanting her naked. 


Despite an inordinate amount of time spent in the endeavor, you bought little.  I guess that’s why they call it ‘shopping’ and not ‘buying’.  This was another approach denied me.  A gentleman can’t help a lady carry bags she doesn’t have.  All I am left with is to continue following you, looking for an opportunity.


And now we’re driving on to the highway, and I follow so much closer than I should if I don’t want you to notice me.  But I do want you to notice me.


You almost hope that he’ll hear your end of the conversation.  Maybe if he realizes you’ve noticed him gawking at you, he’ll either be embarrassed and run or at least realize how foolish he looks and slink away.


“Well, if he stares any harder, he might break one of my bra straps!”  The other end of the conversation is of course inaudible to him, and the guffaws of your friend would add little to the effort in any event.


Some comment or question from the other participant. 


“I doubt if he’s dangerous.  Probably just socially maladjusted from excessive self abuse brought on by an overbearing mother who wouldn’t let him date in high school.”  More laughter on the other end.  No reaction from the geeky stalker.  Maybe he’s just so simple he doesn’t know you’re talking about him.  Oh well, ignore him, maybe he’ll go away.


I stay closer than even the average idiot would in this situation, much like I did in the store.  Listening to you chat about me like I was too stupid to know you were making fun of me.  Having to keep calm in order to appear like no threat.  Now, in traffic, openings to the left.  If passing you were my goal, the opportunity has presented itself numerous times.  I notice that you slow down and speed up randomly.  I guess you are testing my resolve to follow you or you’re one of those women who can’t talk on the phone and drive at the same time.  The tint on your windows makes it difficult to tell if you’re talking on the phone or not.  And then one of those occasional freaks of afternoon traffic happens and both the middle and left lanes are open for as far as the eye can see.  You apparently decide to try and lose me completely and you accelerate away in an impressive display of Bavarian engineering.  Fortunately for me, there is a reason most law enforcement agencies like the Crown Victoria.  The Ford Lincoln Mercury family of cars have an impressive engine in the larger classes.  Of course, there is a large benefit to letting you think you’ve lost me, and regardless of the abilities of the car or driver, other traffic and the threat of law enforcement attention will probably prevent you gaining any real advantage from the few extra horsepower you have.  You strike me as the type who doesn’t like police. 


After two or three minutes, I am within 3 cars of you once again.  Remarkable how people work so hard to get so little ahead.  The heavier traffic and my apparent unwillingness to pursue you have probably put you at ease if you even noticed me as anything more than an annoying gawker.  Patience is my greatest tool now.


Great!  First some geeky stalker creep in the store and then some old man who wants to shadow you so he doesn’t get a ticket!  You must have a knack for attracting degenerates and morons.  At least you won’t have to put up with him for long.  Three hundred horsepower can’t be unleashed for long, but it will put some distance between you and the freak. 


Why was he following you so closely?  Did he think he recognized you?  Is he an old boyfriend?  A case of mistaken identity?  Just some mouth breathing jerk trying to pick up a hottie in a beemer?  You laugh out loud at the last.  You know you get looks from men who range in age from nearly half your age to more than double!  Your good genes compliment your good jeans as well as the dress you’re wearing now.  Ah, the benefits of regular exercise, good diet and healthy vitamins.   Right now, you just thank God for the benefits of a 300 horsepower inline 6 and the skill to use them.  A few minutes later and Augustana is playing on the XM and the green Lincoln is forgotten.


Steady pace, smooth maneuvers, all the proper signals and courtesies.  Clearly you have forgotten me.  Forgotten my car.  Good.  Very good.


The BMW handles well in all conditions, but tolerating the other drivers today seems tiresome.   It feels like at least every other traffic light catches you.  Oh, well, checking texts or firing off a quick note makes it tolerable.  You look in the rearview mirror, adjust it slightly.  Something catches your eye, and it doesn’t register at first.  Something seems odd.  A green Lincoln?  Surely it couldn’t be the same one.  And certainly they made more than one.   You have the thought that one down side to all that power and speed is the blur it puts on a license plate when you’re pulling away.  Did you even try to see the plate?  Why would you?  How many people drive that stupidly everyday?  You’d have to write down a hundred numbers a day if bad driving were cause for suspicion. 


And what if it IS the same Lincoln?  Maybe he lives down the street from you.  Maybe that was all it was, just a neighbor trying to wave an hello.


I know you see me.  I can feel your unease.  I feed on it.  A dozen rationalizations go through your mind.  A neighbor, a friend with a different car, maybe you have a taillight out (isn’t there  a warning light or something on the dash for that?) or a scrape on your bumper.  Whatever you do, don’t let your mind explore the idea that some total stranger could pick you out of the crowd randomly and want to do nasty things to you for his simple amusement.  Don’t imagine the dark thoughts that half the men who see you everyday have about you.  You think it would be egotistical to acknowledge that most men (and more women than you imagine) want you, want to touch you, want to taste you, want to smell your sex and feel how wet you are.  I don’t have that limitation.  My mind does wander to those thoughts.


Easy enough to determine.  At some point, it was on a TV show or they told you in driver’s ed to just make four consecutive right or left turns.  This should put you back on the same course, but would only make sense if you were checking whether or not you were being followed.  Anyone following you would instantly become spooked by the maneuver.  You know the exact streets to use, you would be able to get home but even if the person in the Lincoln was following you, your choice of streets would probably have him doubling back on himself after his second turn. 


Much to your relief, after only your first turn, he continues past you.  And then you feel silly followed by annoyed that you now have to waste an additional 3 minutes getting home because of silly paranoia.  You instantly go from being glad the Lincoln continued on to wanting to catch him and ask what the hell his problem was or is.


By the time you’ve made your fourth right and are once again headed home, you’ve worked up a good head of steam and begin actually wanting to see me.  Or so you think.


If this were the first time I was following you, I might have turned when you did.  But it isn’t.  I’ve followed you from the coffee shop.  I’ve followed you from the drugstore.  I’ve followed you from the grocery store.  Never close enough to be noticed.  I’ve looked through your mail.  I don’t need to open it.  I don’t want to steal your identity, just your soul.


What a prick!  Why the hell should you worry about some weak, mouth breathing degenerate following you home?  You could mace him before he got within 15 feet of you.  Or maybe letting him get close enough to knee him in the nuts would be more enjoyable.  You actually start to really want him to pull that stunt again.  It may even lead to you being aggressive with every green Lincoln Towncar you see from now on.


That’s why it seems so surrealistic to see the familiar grille in your driveway as your step out of your car.


Perfect!  That look of total disbelief on your face makes me want to laugh out loud.  But I can’t.  I can’t let you suspect my purpose before I have my hands on you.  I step out of my car and your hand is on the opener, and the door starts moving down.  My last glimpse of your face before the door obscures it shows a look of relief.


“Miss!  Miss!  Excuse me!  You dropped this back at the shopping center!”  I wave a piece of paper.  It could be a receipt or a shopping list or a page from a daytimer or as in this case, a blank piece of paper.  A prop.

“Just leave it in the mailbox!,” you yell.  Some calm and authority in your voice as you see the door closing.  Protection just two feet from being complete.


And then the door starts to reverse.


Since January 1993, the Consumer Product Safety Commission has required external entrapment protection features on all residential garage door openers.  That’s a fancy way of saying there is an electric eye that allows me to put my foot under the door and make it go back up.  No effort.  No struggle.  No resistance.


“Oh... excuse me, miss.  You dropped this paper and I wasn’t sure if it was something important.”  Me, still being innocent and as non-threatening as I can be.


“How the fuck did you open my garage door!” you nearly scream at me.


I want to laugh at you.  To drop the facade and just walk up and slap you.  If you don’t know how your appliances work, you should stay the fuck out of the kitchen.  But now is not the time to let you see me. 


“I... I don’t know.  I just put my foot out and it went back up.  I don’t want to intrude, I just wanted to give this back to you.”  My timidity and apparent spinelessness begin to annoy you more than the fear of an intruder. 


“Well, it just isn’t very smart to startle someone you don’t know like that.  What if I pulled out a gun and shot you?”  Now you feel like you can be a little condescending, perhaps scold me a bit.  Show me your superiority.  For a little while.


“You’re absolutely right, I certainly wouldn’t want to be shot.”  A nervous giggle.  Put you at ease.  And now I’m within an arm’s length of you.  I stop, looking down.  Half heartedly I offer you the paper.  The prop.  And you take a half step forward and reach out....


The speed with which he takes your wrist seems unreal.  Even before he begins to twist your arm and bring you under control, your mind is processing everything and although it feels as if time has slowed down, you know that it is not a matter of time being affected, but your mind.  Seemingly inconsequential things catch your attention.  The plastic wrap from the previous case of bottled water that needs to be thrown away.  The spatula hanging on the grill that still has burnt on sauce on it.  The bike tire that needs to be inflated.  The rake isn’t hanging on it’s hook.  How the fuck did this goofy looking stranger get in my garage?  Why is my arm hurting?  How did he manage to reach in and hit the door closer?  Why don’t I have mace or a club or a dog that could actually defend me?  All these thoughts in the blink of an eye and in the same time, you are twisted around and now he’s behind you, forcing you over the fender of the car and rather than worrying about he bulge you feel pressing into your ass, you think how pissed you’ll be if your blouse is ruined by the road dust on the car or worse yet, how pissed you’ll be if the paint gets scratched.  Then a voice in your ear.  Not the same voice that just lulled you into reaching for a blank sheet of paper, but a more manly voice.  Where the hell did he come from?  What happened to the geek in the Lincoln?


“It must be a real burden to be so hot and desirable.  I wouldn’t know.  People look through me.  I’m nearly invisible.  Until it’s too late.”  I take a handful of your thick, auburn hair and pull your head back.  I bite on your ear lobe, stick my tongue inside, lick behind the lobe, test my teeth on your neck.  At the same time, I let my weight rest on you, my stiffening cock pressing against the perfectly round cheeks of your ass. 


“Do you enjoy teasing people?,” I ask, almost conversationally.  You make some small noise and I pull your hair harder.


“Do you practice or does it come naturally?”  again, only some small grunt.


“Bitch, I will discipline you severely if you don’t answer me when I ask you something,” I add a small twist to your arm as I pull your hair back.  “Do you understand me?”


“Yes!” a gasped answer escapes you.


“Good.  Now we can communicate.”  I release your hair and take your other arm and bring it behind you.  With your arms behind you like this, bent over the car, it requires so little effort to keep you pinned.


I reach my hand down and feel your leg.  Your skin is so smooth, so silky.  I know you must be in your early forties, but your skin feels like a teenager’s.  I bring my hand up, effortlessly moving up under your dress.  I keep anticipating some kind of material that might represent panties.  I almost miss the string that is the waist band of what turns out to be a thumbnail sized piece of cloth that barely covers your pussy. 


“What’s this?  Are you almost wearing panties?” I mockingly ask.


“They’re thongs...” you whisper.  I tweak your arms up and grab your mound.


“Rhetorical question, bitch.  I know what women’s underwear is.”  The wisp of fabric is soaked and I’m not sure if it is the heat of the day, the fear of the moment or the excitement of your womanhood that has caused it.


“If I taste my fingers, would it be sweat or sex?” 


No response from you for several seconds.  I tweak your arm again and squeeze your mound more firmly.


“Not a rhetorical question!  Damn, are you stupid or did you fall asleep?”  This question seems to have struck a nerve and for the first time I feel some resistance.  Your struggle, though impressive in it’s suddenness and clear desire to be taken seriously, can not overcome your position and my leverage.


“I’m not fucking stupid!  I have a degree, you prick!”  This through clenched teeth.


I need only lean forward to stop your struggle, I remove my hand from between your legs and again take a handful of your hair, this time forcing your face against the uncomfortably warm hood of your precious BMW. 


“Well, how appropriate, as I plan on giving you my prick by degrees.”  And with the last syllable, I take a bandana from my pocket and bind your wrists.  This won’t last long, but it will prevent you from having any advantage while I get you properly trussed.  Bandanas aren’t yet considered rape kit paraphernalia. 


I pull you around the front of the car and against the garage wall, where the bicycle storage hoist is hanging, unused but inviting.  I bring the hooks together through your arms and quickly bring your arms above your head.  The stretch prevents you from unhooking them and I am free to move on to more secure restraints. 


I don’t bother with any ropes at this point.  Why bother when you have a perfectly shredable dress on?  I remove a small, sharp pocket knife and with a few tactical strokes have your dress not only removed but suitably stripped to make decent bindings.  Your arms are stretched over your head enough that kicking me would put you too much off balance and risk hurting your arms.  So I bind your feet together.


Kneeling down like this puts me in the perfect position to look at your barely covered mound and see the wetness soaking your thong.  I can’t help but pull your hips to me and suck on the almost covering and run my tongue around as much as I can.  I can’t tell from your reaction if you are resisting my mouth or trying to fuck it.


I stand back up and grab the standard, useless two foot step stool that every suburban garage seems to have in it and take more of your dress to reinforce the bonds on your wrists.  That being done, I can now increase the stretch and force you to minimize your physical resistance.


I unsnap your bra and cut the small connection between the cups.  This seems to put you over the edge and you start to scream, but I stuff one of the cups in your mouth, ending the attempt before the first note sounds.  Muffled arguments and what I assume are profanities gurgle from your mouth.  I focus my attention on your breasts.


You have the most wonderful breasts!  Smooth like polished marble, and warm and firm.  Your nipples are like miniature cherries, perfectly proportioned to your breasts and inviting attention of the most unwholesome kind.  I take one nipple between my fingers and the other between my teeth.  I begin to knead them equally, although with different means.  Your writhing and muffled moans tell me that I am either making you very uncomfortable or very aroused.


My hand between your legs tells me it is the latter.


I cut the waistband of your thong and then the floss like string that runs up the crack of your ass and pull them away.  Such a small bit of cloth, I can pop the whole thing in my mouth and suck your juices from it like a small hard candy.  I once again put my hand between your legs, but this time you squeeze your legs together to resist me.  I glance around and see a towel and take it and one of your bottles of water.  I wrap the bottle in the towel and continue to probe between your legs.  I do this until your muscles weaken from the constant clenching and eventually I am able to take the wrapped bottle and put it between your knees, effectively leaving you exposed for my hand and fingers, if not my tongue and cock.  By the time I’m done with you, you’ll beg me for my tongue and cock.


 What has happened to your world?  How do you go from comfortable, divorced suburban professional, to bound and gagged in your own garage?  These things only happen in fantasies or partially acted out at S.M.A.R.T. meetings. 


Oh, God, what if he knows about that?  What if he knows you enjoy the position you’re in?  But you don’t enjoy it, not with a stranger, not without consent, not without love.  Would he believe that if he found the gym bag in your car, the black and red flogger, the Dragon’s Tongue, the riding crop?


Fucks like this don’t understand the lifestyle.  They’re what lead to bad press and misunderstanding in the vanilla world because people think he’s one of you.  The community would never accept someone like him.  He prays on your secretiveness and the common sense discretion that causes you to keep your toys hidden and not discuss these things with family and ‘average’ friends. 


And then the very real and frightening thought occurs to you: this man could do me real harm.  Suddenly, the thought that there could be any pleasure in anything he could do seems as foreign as something from another planet.  What does he want?  What will he do?  Will I live to tell it?  Will I want to live?


I have dreamt of this day.  I have played it over in my head a thousand times.  I have tried to imagine every contingency.  What if a friend drops by unexpectedly?  What if the UPS man delivers some new sex toy for your review?  What if I have you bound and gagged and find that the reality is not as exciting as the fantasy?  What if I look at you fully under my control and my love for you destroys me before I can make you my slave?  What if I kiss you, and you return my passion, and I fall under your spell?  What if you look in my eyes and see not only my desire to dominate you, to whip every ounce of pleasure out of you and into you, but also my desire to be where you are, to see the flogger in your hand, the fire in your eyes. 


And now I know.  Seeing you, bound, hung up and defenseless, naked and vulnerable, I want nothing right now more than to see you exhausted in pleasure, welted and sweating, in an altered state of consciousness, fully under my control and authority.  I want to hear you whisper the words of submission that will allow me to take you from that place, suspended, beaten, exhausted, to my bed, where I can take my pleasure with you, give you more pleasure than any man ever has, consume you, console you, adore you, embrace you, protect you.


What would you think if you knew these were my thoughts?  Would you laugh?  Would you be horrified that I would equate putting you through this to protecting you?  Would you feel my love? 


Only one way to find out.


You know that the moment you thought of your gym bag, it would be like a beacon, calling to him.  Sure enough, he goes to your car and opens the driver’s side passenger door and pulls out your bag.


“What have we here?” he asks in a jovial tone.  He opens the zipper with a flourish and begins to pull clothing from the bag.  Your gym clothes are on top, not really hiding anything, just conveniently the last things you put in your bag.


His countenance changes dramatically as he begins to pull out bags with dildoes and leather cuffs, cleaning solutions, lotions, lubes and handcuffs.  By the time he begins to remove the teaser whip and the flogger, he is almost as white as a ghost.  For a moment, you forget where you are at, what situation you are facing, the danger, the unknown.  The obviously unconscious shift from position of power to confusion that is displayed on his face makes you almost feel pity for him.  You have to stifle a laugh, which turns out to be a wise effort.


I can feel the blood draining from my face as I get past the clothing and find the very kinds of toys I wanted so desperately to bring with me but feared being caught with or having to worry about getting inside your house with.  The swelling of my cock tells me where all the blood that is leaving my face has gone. 


For a moment, I forget that you are there.  I am so excited by what I am finding that I could almost be on fire and not notice it.   This is better than any fantasy I have ever had about getting you alone, but at the same time it now brings an amazing pressure on me.  Are these the toys you like to use or have used on you?  Do you switch?  Which is your natural flow, from submissive to dominant or dominant to submissive?  If I turn the direction of our ‘conversation’, which would enhance the experience and which would shut you down?   My only comfort is that I must carry through with my current plan in order to even be able to leave without being in police custody. 


Almost the instant I realize that you are watching me, my color starts to return and realizing that I have shown what might be considered a weakness, it returns in full force, not a blush, but a rage. 


There is a smirk on your face.  The cup of your bra preventing any comment to accompany it.  I step over to you and remove the gag.  Discretion leaves you.


“Afraid that you’re in over your head, little man?” you ask, still with a smirk.  It lasts just long enough for my hand to wipe it from your face.  A firm slap, but controlled, without malice.  Enough to get your attention, but leaving no mark that won’t fade in a few minutes.


“Don’t let my disappointment in your yuppy prop toys be mistaken for some fear that I am in over my head.  These are child’s toys compared to what I could make from the things laying around in your garage right now.  Don’t make me give you an impromptu lesson.”  I learn two things here.  You take your toys seriously, otherwise my words of derision would have elicited a response, and my gut tells me you are easier to transition from dominant to submissive than the other way around.  Valuable information if I am to bring out your best.... and your worst.


“What’s this?  Some kind of cat toy?” I ask derisively, picking up the teaser whip and stroking your breasts with it.  You instinctively pull your head back.  The sight of your throat exposed draws me like the moth to the flame.  I can’t help but taste your neck, suck on your skin, bite along the tendons that run up the side of your neck.  Just a small taste and then back to stroking your breasts and stomach with the teaser whip.  And of course, a warm up of your thighs....


Just when you think you know what he’s about or can see a trail that might lead you to understanding him, he recovers his balance and knocks you off yours.  His tongue is quick with a response, no matter what you say.  And quick to find your sensitive spots.  Quick to be on you.  And you begin to wonder what it would taste like. 


You fight the thought of his mouth between your legs, his tongue firm and insistent, tasting your juices, running over your clit.  You don’t want to entertain any thought of enjoying what he is taking without permission, but your nipples keep giving hints to your pussy and you can feel your wetness increasing.


You try talking, not sure if it is to try and distract him or yourself.


“Why are you doing this?” you ask, trying to mix just the right amount of frustration, fear and annoyance to sound defeated but not beaten. 


“Well,” he begins to respond, “I could have been hired by your ex to teach you a lesson, but we both know he wouldn’t have a clue about how scary it would be for you to have a stranger take what you ordinarily only give to someone you care about.  Or, I could be from one of your groups, someone you’ve blown off because you thought too highly of yourself.  Or, I could be a total stranger who picked you out of the crowd on a whim.  Or I could be a BMW hater.  Or none of the above.  What does it matter?  If you survive me, maybe we’ll discuss it over a latte at Starbucks.” 


“So this is just about raping me then trying to decide if you want to kill me?”  Your tone is just on the edge of pleading, trying to elicit sympathy or a conscience or anything resembling a human emotion.


“Rape you?  Oh, no.  No, you would have to beg or at least ask really, really nicely to be gifted with feeling my cock inside you.  This is about discipline and respect.  This is about knowing someone is watching you who can either be your protector or your torturer.  This is about teaching you the pleasure of pain and the pain of pleasure.  You may have had a few experiences, judging by your “exercise” bag, but I plan on giving you a few new lessons. 


“As for killing you, if that were my intention, it would be done.  Besides, death happens when you stop learning and vice versa.  Where’s the fun in that?”


“This is your idea of fun?!?  You are a sick fuck!” you can’t believe you would be so bold and ruin whatever sense of gentleness you may have cultivated.  And his response only throws you more off center: he laughs.


I want you more when you resist than when you try to play the mind games.  As if your choice of words could somehow hide where you’re at emotionally, mentally, spiritually.  I’ll know you are where I want you when you sounds and breathing are right.  When your body talks to me.  All I want of your mind right now is for you to record and remember what you experience so you can decide if you ever want to see me again.  And I believe you will.


I strike you more forcefully with the teaser.  I doubt if this is anything more than the marathoner’s equivalent of the most cursory stretches.  Still, it is about the buildup, the dance.  Any thug could just find a stick and hit you.  I want to play you, make your body sing, change your consciousness.  I want to make love to you with your toys.


It doesn’t take long to tell that any more with the teaser would be useless.  Even though it is so simple and ‘gentle’, you have a slight glow to your skin, your nipples are erect and I feel it is time to move on.  I run my hands over your skin, reveling in the feel of you under my hands, wanting to have you on your back so I can mount you, needing first to have you invite me.


I pick up your flogger.  A very nice work of leather.  It is obvious why you didn’t feel the need to rebut my earlier disparaging remarks about your toys.  I can not wait to lavish it’s attention on you.  I begin with it where I left off with the teaser.  Gently ‘painting’ your skin.  Then I turn you to face the wall and begin to paint your back.  There is no rush, no hurry.  I allow myself to bring the occasional firm stroke to your back or ass or thigh.  Not a rhythmic pattern.  I want some element of surprise at this point.  Your responses are delightful.  The marks on your skin are arousing.  I want to bring you to a full swing soon, but my pleasure is equally in the journey.


Eventually, I am able to abandon my restraint and allow the flogger it’s full stroke and fall.  I watch your breathing and listen for your sounds.  I periodically rest and stroke you, run my fingers through your hair, kiss your neck.  I check your hands and feet to make sure they are both secure and not constricted.  It is as much for my own pleasure to touch you and taste your skin as to make sure I don’t harm you.  So much more hurting to be done, and I don’t know you well enough yet to run with what we are doing. 


“You are exquisite.” I whisper in your ear.  A mewling sound from you tells me you hear me, but not what you think of my thought.


“Do you want me to stop?” I ask.  And your answer delights me: “No.”


You wonder if your mind has gone completely to another place!  How could you say no when he asked if you wanted him to stop?  Is it your pride at being able to endure so much more than he has shown you?  Are you such a pain slut that you would surrender your consent to a stranger who forced his way into your house, who has taken liberties beyond any remote concept of acceptable?  Is it something familiar about him that you desire?  Is it that his touch is electric beyond the simple fact that he is decent with the flogger?  Why do you respond so strongly to him stroking your skin, kissing your flesh, feeling his breath as he whispers in your ear?  Why can’t you stop imagining sucking on his tongue or feeling his weight on top of you? 


His flogging is wonderful!  Your frustration is with his caution, his uncertainty with where you can go, what you truly want, how to bring you there at the right pace.  With enough time you could show him how to truly please you.... what the fuck are you thinking?  This cretin has violated the very most basic principles you believe in: safe, sane, consensual.  You don’t know if this shit has some social disease or escaped from a mental hospital or what, and you certainly did NOT give him permission to be here, to touch you, to do the wonderful things he is doing to you now.... such wonderful things.... each touch of the flogger brings such pleasure.... and now he is stroking your hair, his wonderful mouth on your skin, his hands running over your own, over your arms and legs, gently squeezing your ass.... he says something.... his voice is so soothing..... ‘maybe I did invite him,’ you think..... more pleasure.... so good, so very good.....


I realize that you are truly an exceptional receiver of pain.  You must feed on it.  Your responses are so natural, so clearly full of joy and rapture.  It makes me want you so desperately that I may cum in my pants.  My erection is so painful I’m not sure if I can continue.  I want to take you now, to take you down from the hook and bend you over the hood of your beemer and fuck you with abandon. 


“Do you want my cock?” I ask in your ear.  You make some response and can’t trust that it is anything more than your pleasure of the endorphin stream you are in.  I ask again.  And a third time.  I need you to be articulate, to be clear, to give me explicit permission.  Clearly, I need to take this to a new place.


I pick up the dragon’s tongue and having brought the flogger to full use, make no gentle introduction. One... two... the third stroke seems to bring you back up to a level where you will respond to me.  Your eyes open and you twist, trying to get away from this new sensation. 


“Do you want my cock?” I ask, this time looking in your eyes.  In the split second before you speak, I see an encyclopedia of emotion dance through your eyes.


“Fuck you!,”  you spit at me.


I give you three or four lashings with the tongue, not so hard that you won’t enjoy them, but firm enough that you realize I am not happy with your answer. 


“A simple no would do.  There’s no need to be bitter.”  My tone probably infuriates you more than anything else.


“Fuck you.”  This time with less force.  I can’t tell if you are exhausted with fear or pleasure or hatred.  A half dozen more lashes and then I hang the tongue over your shoulder. 


I go through the door into your kitchen, leaving the door open, keeping an eye on you but letting you think I’ve left you unattended.  You don’t struggle. 


I gather a couple of chilled bottles of water, a bowl with some ice cubes, a couple of dish towels.  I return to the garage. 


I take one of the bottles of water and open it.  I come over to you and ask if you’re thirsty.  “Yes,” you say quietly.  I bring the bottle of water close to your lips and you reach out for it.  I begin to pour the water so that most of it goes in your mouth, but a good bit goes down the front of you.


“Oooh. So messy.  Should I clean you up?”  A non-committal grunt from you.  “Towel or tongue?” I continue.  Our eyes meet and time stops.


Your heart wants to say tongue.  Your tongue wants to say tongue.  Your breasts want you to say tongue.  Your belly wants you to say tongue.  Your clit wants you to say tongue.  Your thighs want you to say tongue.  Your heart wants you to say tongue.



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