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Shopping (Part II)

Author: Velvet Stallion

Filed in: sex, passion, rope bondage

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Only your mind is a hold out.  Fight him.  Fight yourself.  Don’t give him the pleasure.  Don’t give yourself the pleasure. 


Your eyes are locked with his.  It is as if he is looking right into your heart and already knows that you want his tongue on you, on every inch of you, in every crevice, nook and cranny.  On your nipples, on the soft, sensitive underside of your breasts, on the mound of your goddess, flicking your clit, sucking on you like an overripe peach.  It feels like an eternity that you are locked like this in a visual embrace deeper than any embrace you have felt in years and you lick your lips and start to answer......


I think my heart has stopped.  The only thing that keeps me from accepting this is the pounding in my ears that I know is tied to the pounding of my heart.  With each fraction of a second that passes, the spacing between pulses seems to increase.  I watch a thousand conflicting emotions race through your eyes, or maybe it is only the rapid vacillation between two thoughts: towel – tongue. 


Your pupils dilate and the muscles around your eyes dance almost imperceptibly as you struggle with the choice.  Part of me is happy beyond expression that you would even need to hesitate, to think.  Your struggle implies that there is some chance, no matter how small, that you might say tongue.  Or, you may be so clever, so cruel, so cunning that this is all calculated to break me, to give me hope you can steal away with laughter.  I try to will my calmest expression and after forever, you lick your lips and as they part to give your answer....


I lean forward and gently, but firmly kiss you, stopping your answer in your throat.  I wrap my arm around you and pull you firmly to me, and I let my tongue explore your mouth.  I run it over your tongue, I run it over your teeth, almost challenging you to resist, to bite me, to show me some sign that this isn’t what you want.  I am falling into a warm, enveloping cloud.  The material world around me is vaporizing and I feel as though I am floating when suddenly –


You begin sucking on my tongue.  Gently at first, but with rapidly increasing force and urgency and my body suddenly becomes sensitive to the heat of your body and I want nothing more than to be naked and holding you like this.  And just when I am sure I am going to have an orgasm from you sucking on my tongue, you stop and gently pull back, your eyes closed, breathless, and you barely whisper into my mouth, “Tongue.”


Like a shock, I am back in the reality of our position.  I gently pull your head back, kissing your throat, eliciting a soft moan from you.  Then I put my mouth close to your ear and whisper, “Please... you have to say please.”


Without hesitation, without thought, you whisper over and over, “Tongue, please.  Please use your tongue.”


How can I refuse such a heartfelt request?  I give you another drink, spilling more water down your front and quickly begin licking every inch of your skin, not just where the water has dripped, but every inch that I can reach.  I suck on you as though I am nursing, trying to draw nourishment from every part of you.  Your neck, the depression at the top of your breastbone, your breasts, your nipples, down your sides, across your belly, onto your hips and as I cross over your mound I surrender all restraint and let my mouth attack your pussy with abandon, my tongue probes your labia, mapping every millimeter, registering every smoothness, every stubble, every crease, every fold, and as my tongue works between your lips and I get the first taste of your honey, I can feel my own semen oozing from my cock.  I feed on you like a man who has crossed the desert and fallen face first into a spring in the middle of an oasis.  The towel wrapped bottle falls from between your legs because you are now trying to spread your legs, inviting me to consume you, to eat my fill, to satisfy you completely.  My entire existence becomes the union of my mouth and your pussy.  I surrender all control to my mouth and tongue, licking you, sucking, sucking and swirling my tongue over your clit, pushing my tongue as deeply into you as I can, sucking on your juices, drinking you.  You cock your hips up and forward to make sure I can get as much of you as possible.  Your moans increasing in volume and pitch, your bucking hips forcing me to grab your ass to keep from losing my mouthhold on you.


Your orgasm causes your legs to come back together, your stomach muscles contracting, shudders wrack you, your moan/scream is so loud I fear a neighbor might call the police or come knocking on your garage door.  As your climax ends, you go limp, unable to stand, unable to use your arms to pull your weight off your shoulders.


I stand up, licking my lips and savoring your sweetness, quickly lifting you up enough to unhook your arms from the bike hoist.  I take you up in my arms and carry you into the living room, and lay you down on the coach.  The stress of having your arms above you, the orgasm, the struggle, the endorphins from the flogging, have all brought you close to hyperventilating.  You are essentially helpless.  I use this moment to go back and get the ropes I found in your car and lace you up properly. 


The soft, thick ¾” rope is perfect for binding your hands and feet securely and yet with little chance of any damaging marks.  I occasionally wonder if you’ve passed out, but the flutter of your eyes and the periodical eye contact tells me you are simply moving in and out of some zone. 


Just as I have you properly trussed, you become clearer, looking up at me and smiling slightly.  I feel such a pull of affection for you that I start to lean down to kiss you, when your look changes completely.  Your eyes focus and your brow furrows.  A slight frown plays over your lips and then you settle back down to a more neutral, serious look.  This makes me pause and pull back a bit myself.


“Did you enjoy?”  I ask, honestly hoping you did, at least half as much as I did.


“Would you enjoy being abused?,” you ask.  Accusatory, a touch of venom, quiet anger.


“But you asked me to use my tongue, my dear.  As a gentleman, how could I refuse?” 


You turn your face away and close your eyes.  I let my hands explore you.  I can feel your body’s response even while you continue to keep your face turned and try to look wounded, the victim.  Your almost inaudible growl-groan betrays you.  I continue to let my hands gently and non-sexually roam over your body.  Each time they pass over the area of your mound, I feel your hips rise almost imperceptibly. 


“Am I missing anything?” I ask, quietly in your ear just as my hand passes ever so slowly over the area of your mound.  A tiny squeak/squeal escapes you and you give an actual, unmistakable thrust of your hips.  I let my hand find your pussy and my fingers begin to explore and massage your clit.  You turn your face back to me, your eyes open, you start to speak, again I put my mouth on yours to stop you and this time, there is no pretense, no delay, you simply begin sucking and biting my tongue and lips, trying to devour me.  After I enjoy your mouth for several minutes, I disengage my mouth and ask, “Do you want anything else?”


“You... I want you,” panting, urgent, pleading. 


“I’m right here.  What exactly do you want?”


“I want.... I want..... please.... just do it..... take me....please.”


“Take you where, my dear?  What do want?”


“Your c---.... your co--... I want your cock inside me!”


I stand up, and begin stripping my clothes off.  Slowly, purposefully, watching you watch me.  Watching your eyes try to hurry me up.  Savoring the quickening of your breaths, the twitching of your bound arms and legs, your fingers flexing, you licking your lips.


When I am completely naked, I begin to stroke my cock and your excitement increases palpably.  You are almost panting.  I continue, quickening my pace, ignoring your pleas until I shoot a load of cum across your chest and face.  Your disappointment is apparent.


“But why?  Why didn’t you fuck me?” you ask, genuine hurt and disappointment in your voice.


“Because you didn’t say ‘please’.  You must always say please when you really want something.”


I rub my semen into your skin like a fine lotion.


You almost can’t remember anything between having his mouth on your pussy and realizing your arms and feet are tied.  His mouth was so incredible!  Not the rough, careless slobbering like so many men, but genuine attention, effort, concentration.  You wanted it to go on forever and yet you were so happy when your orgasm came.  Was it one long one or multiple?  What difference did it make, it was so wonderful! 


And then, just when you slip enough to ask for his cock, he merely masturbates all over you.  Not that watching him stroke that magnificent cock wasn’t a pleasure in itself, but your pussy was/is literally aching to feel that rigid member inside you.  Now you feel cheated and yet there was even some satisfaction in feeling his hot load squirt across your breasts and face, tasting his jizm made your mouth water.  Now you not only ache to feel his manhood between your legs, but you want to suck on him as well.  If he had two cocks, you could do both at the same time!  And gladly would!


Even while you’re still luxuriating in the feeling of him massaging his cream into your skin, you realize your enjoyment is annoying you.  You should still be resisting, fighting him for taking what wasn’t offered.  You can almost imagine him tied and at your mercy, begging for forgiveness, your flogger or his own belt laying stripes on his skin with brilliant clarity.  Then you realize that you would enjoy the same from him.  Your mind keeps coming back to what he is doing to you at the moment, how good his hands feel on your skin, massaging his cum into your breasts.  Too soon, the feeling changes and the silky smoothness becomes slightly tacky. 


“Too bad we don’t have any oil, I could keep this going for a while,” he says casually, almost bored.


“Bathroom.  Closet on the right.”  It sounds like a voice from another room or from a single bad speaker in an old tabletop radio.  Then you realize it was your voice.


“Excellent!  I’ll be right back.  Don’t go away!,” in a cocky jovial voice he delivers this like a bad sitcom actor.


“No, sir.”  That voice again, from the other room.... and then the realization that it is you and you want to bite your tongue or have him gag you so you can’t be so agreeable, so helpful.


It seems like an eternity before his hands are back on you and you realize that you were actually starting to miss him.  Well, his hands anyway.  That isn’t so much of a self-betrayal, is it?  You aren’t actually forgiving him.  He should make restitution for putting you through this and a massage is just a half decent down payment.  You deserve so much more.  His mouth again and that cock... that beautiful cock....


There is no urgency, no intimation of an attempt at arousing you.  He simply massages you like a professional who is only concerned with your total relaxation, your complete and absolute contentment.  Such wonderful hands, givers of pain and pleasure, pleasure and pain.


It’s a completely different zone that you go to when you are being touched this way.  The place you go to when the endorphins are working, when the flogger is singing on your skin and you embrace the pain is glorious, but this is different.  Equally wonderful, but different.  More a separation of mind and body than the expansion that comes during play.  You seem to be floating above your body, looking down on yourself laying on the couch, but instead of seeing him, you see his energy.  There is only a form of light, and tendrils flow from it’s center and swirl and wrap around you in synchrony with the sensations you feel in your body.  For some reason it strikes you that the light is white without being blinding, intense but not unpleasant to look at. 


While you are “watching” this the light form gathers into a more focused  point, the tendrils stop moving and the sensations in your body fade away.  You watch as the light moves around you several times then leaves the room and then you feel your spirit self falling towards your physical self still laying on the couch.  Grayness gently falls like the dimming of lights in a theater before the start of the movie only there is no movie.... just darkness.... and peace.... total peace....


You wake up sometime in the early morning, the sun just beginning to bring a glow to the windows.  You are covered in a blanket from your own bed and aside from the most pleasant soreness of vigorous play, you feel incredibly relaxed and rested.


Until you realize how you came to be on the couch and that your blanket on you means he has been or may still be in your house.  You sit up and wrap the blanket around you, more irritated than fearful, when you notice the note on the table. 


You pick it up and read it.

Dear Anguissette,


            I believe there are many more lessons for both of us to learn.  If you truly want to continue this journey, put a key in a lockbox on your back door (any decent hardware store or locksmith will have one, like what the realtors use).  Make the code 812 (Oh, you ‘ate one, too?’)

If you do not want to continue, call the police.  They’ll take a report, dust for prints, take all or your goodies into evidence, publish a detailed report and generally hound you to death if they take you seriously at all.  In any event, I’ll know that you don’t really want to go on and we will just have this one great memory.


            To answer your question: any safety device can be defeated.  If you don’t have kids around very often, I suggest you leave the sensor uncorrected so that strange men can’t slip into your garage when you don’t want them to.  (That’s why the doors were deadbolted, and I was able to leave without your keys.) 


            From now on, you must invite me.  Unless you do, you will never hear from me again.





Your only question as you prepare to shower and get dressed is what color lockbox will stand out the best on your backdoor?


~ Fini ~



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