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She sagged against the tree, the exertion leaving her exhausted. Was he crazy, doing that? Did he know how much that could hurt her? Or excite her? It was bad enough when some guy got it into his head to lick her pussy and flick her clit with his tongue. At least his tongue would be somewhat soft. But a rough finger, drawn directly across her exposed clit? What was that? She’d lost all control of her body, the sensation had been so intense.
She had a description for it: torturous pleasure. She sometimes did it to herself, on those days when her husband was camping with the boys, and she was sure she wouldn’t be disturbed. She would lay in bed, daydreaming, maybe with one of her favorite movies on. Lay there in nothing but a plush robe, enjoying the feel of the soft cloth against her skin. And she would play with herself, eyes closed, running one of her favorite fantasies, while her fingers danced upon the skin between her legs. Masturbating, but not for the purpose that most women did it. Trying not to bring herself off, but trying to bring herself to the edge. The knife’s edge. Where one errant touch would send her over the precipice into a thundering orgasm. She would take herself there, where her hips lifted from the bed of their own accord, where every iota of her body was screaming for release. She would take herself as close to flipping the switch as she could. And then let her body relax a bit, transferring her caresses to her breasts or scalp or hips.
Only after feeling her toes uncurl would she begin the process again, playing her pussy with the skill of a concert pianist. Bringing herself up and then down, up and down, for hours on end, the pleasure as exquisite as it was torturous. An outside observer would be both puzzled and fascinated by her actions. The robe flung open. Her nude body exposed in the candlelight. Her pussy glinting in the flickering light, streaked with oil and her own natural juices. Her limbs pressed hard against the mattress, as if tied down by invisible straps. The fingers of her right hand the only things moving, mesmerizing as they stroke and pluck and probe at her quivering femininity. To the edge and back. Again and again. Until she’d proved her willpower. Or an unexpected image appeared in her fantasy. A thick stiff cock. Eyes that promised an evil pleasure. A kiss filled with more desire than one body could hold. It only took that one thought, that perfect image, to push her to push herself over the edge. And then she would rub herself with an urgency that would surely shock her husband, if he’d ever been privileged enough to witness it. She would drop all bonds of control and respond to any urge her brain might send her way. She would rub, pluck, penetrate, pinch, twist and scrape her sacred clit as roughly as she could, driving herself over the cliff and into the arms of a screaming orgasm. And she would keep it up, far after the ecstasy faded, just to wrench the last dregs of pleasure from her body, before wrapping herself in the blankets and dropping off to sleep.
Torturous pleasure. Somehow he’d brought her to that exquisite place without even trying. Or maybe she’d brought herself to that spot thanks to the disorientation of being blindfolded and the helpless position she’d allowed him to put her in. And now, without any of the props or the fantasies or the privacy, she was very, very close to relieving the torture and drowning in the pleasure.
Did he know how close she was? He couldn’t read it in her eyes. She couldn’t tell him with her mouth. She wanted so much to grab the back of his head and cram his mouth against her cunt. But these stupid bonds held her back from even that outlandish plea for release. She was frustrated. She was ready. She wanted more.
Suddenly she was aware that he was no longer crouched between her legs. Nowhere near her, in fact. She couldn’t feel his warmth or presence anywhere around. She strained to hear him, but could detect nothing. A moment of panic flared through her but she suppressed it just as quickly. He was playing games with her, that was all. He wanted her to feel isolated, to feel vulnerable. The problem was, it was working. She could tell her mind it was all a trick, but her mind wouldn’t stop imagining what might be happening around her. Was he taking pictures of her, to use for his own perverse needs after their weekend was over? Was he preparing another torture for her? Had someone crept up on them, and was that someone now preparing to rape her? Were there more than one of them? Would she be passed along for their sick pleasures, like a bound animal?
Suddenly she felt fingers manipulating the blindfold’s straps. Daylight, harsh and bright, assaulted her eyes, forcing her to blink rapidly to clear the fogginess. She was relieved to see that none of her fears had come true. There was no evidence that he’d been taking pictures of her. No groups of strangers. Not even a crazy old man who liked to look at skinny bound women. Kind of disappointing. Just bursa escort him and his infuriating wry smile.
“Ready to beg for release?” he asked, the challenge in his voice. She glared at him, as if her stare would burn a hole through to the back of his head. He chuckled, then spanked her hip with the flat of his hand. Even though she could now see him, she felt no less vulnerable when he rolled her nipples between his fingers and reached between her legs to thumb her slit.
“Bet you’re getting uncomfortable, though,” he commented, running his hands along her cramped arms.
Yes, damn it, I’m uncomfortable, she wanted to scream, though she knew only gibberish would come through the ball gag. Besides, she thought she might be starting to drool around the gag and trying to talk would only make that worse.
“There are a few other things we can try,” he whispered into her ear. “Unless you’ve had enough. Have you had enough?”
She considered the question for a moment. Her arms ached. That was a negative. But her body was tingling in a way she’d never felt before. The mixture of stimuli had awakened a feeling she’d never experienced. And her curiosity hadn’t been satisfied. No, more accurately, her curiosity was now more inflamed than at any time or any event where sex was involved. She wanted to know more. So she shook her head in the negative. That seemed to surprise him, though his reaction flickered across his face so fast she couldn’t be sure.
“So you’re interested in trying some more?” he asked leadingly, his face just inches from hers, his breath soft upon her skin.
She nodded hesitantly. Just what did ‘more’ entail? As if to answer her silent question, he unknotted the rope around her wrists and took the gag from her mouth. When she tried to lick some of the dryness from her lips, he solicitously gave her a bottle of water and urged her to drink up. The cool liquid felt like heaven in her mouth, and after chugging most of the bottle she sprinkled the rest on her sweat-soaked skin, though it didn’t do nearly as much as a good, cold shower would.
As she watched him rummage through the backpacks she was suddenly aware of her nakedness. She felt a bit like an actress in a play who couldn’t remember the plot or her lines. Just waiting for the director to give her something to do. A nude actress. On public display.
When he turned to face her, he had a jumble of equipment in his hands. He explained that, although she was willing to try more new stuff, it would be better for them both if he just did some demonstrations. Part of her was disappointed by that. And part of her was greatly relieved. In truth, she was having some serious second thoughts about where this was leading. She wasn’t sure she liked being a sexual object, one used only for another’s pleasure. Maybe every so often, just to spice things up. But only in a way that she could smile about. Play-acting and the like. Not where she was seriously submissive, reacting only when acted upon. That was just a little too hardcore for her. And she would worry about a man who could treat a woman like that. She wanted her men to be playful. Not overbearing.
He’d left the nipple clamps on her, and with a wicked smile he tugged her back to the table in the clearing, the waves of heat visibly curling off it. The uses for the table were pretty evident, he explained, not much different from the bed in the cabin. The woman lays face up or face down, spread-eagle, her wrists and ankles bound to the various pegs along the side. Thus captured, the sex slave could be pried, prodded and otherwise penetrated. There was, he said, nothing very elegant about a table. It was more practical than anything.
At the giant X he slipped soft cords around her wrists and lightly bound her to the pegs at the top. She spread her legs to match the bottom of the X, though he didn’t tie her in place. This prepared the way for a much more interesting scenario. “Imagine you’re strapped in place, helpless to move. Imagine a cord around your waist and the waist of the X, keeping your hips hard against the wood. Now imagine a small metal stand, much like a photographer’s tripod. The stand is placed between your legs.”
He looked up at her, miming the placement of the stand. She grinned nervously. What was this leading to? “Now,” he continued, “imagine that a vibrator is strapped to the top of the stand. It’s a small, thin thing, just a few inches long, with no speed settings. And once it’s on the stand, your master – or mistress – turns it on and slowly cranks the handle on the stand, causing the vibrator to rise closer and closer to your slit. You can’t move to avoid it. You can’t see where it is. All you can do is listen to its buzzing and strain to feel it against your skin. Finally, you can feel the cool smoothness slide against your pussy lips. The tip settles on your softest skin, just covering your clit. You can feel the vibrations buzzing through to your core. Can you feel escort bursa it?”
She could. He was holding a gold vibrator right there, just at the top of her slit, holding it still like it was attached to a stand between her legs. Her smile broadened as she closed her eyes, the warmth spreading out from her pussy like a warm bath on a cold winter night. He reminded her that she couldn’t move and she wondered why she would want to. She was in bliss.
“So, the vibrator is here and you’re there and you can’t move even if you wanted to,” he whispered, his voice soft and soothing, as if he were telling her a love story. “And your body gets hotter and hotter, and your breathing gets shorter and shorter, and you’re almost there, almost there, with your master watching your every gasp, but you don’t care because it feels so wonderful. And then you’re over the edge, your orgasm like a thunderclap slamming through you, curling your toes and taking your breath away. You strain against your bonds but you can barely move. You cry out but there’s no one but your master and the birds and the sky to hear you. And as the juices drip from your pussy and the spasms subside to quivers, you realize one, horrible truth. The vibrator is still going. And your master shows no sign of turning it off.”
She didn’t need to look down to see that he was still crouching there, an evil smile on his face, his hand still holding the buzzing vibrator against her pulsing slit. He continued as matter-of-factly as before. “The first one, you know, is the easy one. It builds up pretty smoothly and breaks like a wave on the sand. But then things get pretty uncomfortable. I’m sure you’ve known some men who didn’t know when to stop. That little nub can get very sensitive right after. So a little extra stimulation can almost seem painful. And there’d be nothing you could do to get away from it. Then, it would just continue, no movement or change. Monotonous even. But your body tries to respond. And slowly it does. Much more slowly. You’ll be straining for it. Urging your body it give you more, to get it over with already. But it would take a while. A long, torturous while. Long enough for you to beg your master for release. Long enough for you to beg to do things you swore you’d never do. Just to get him to move it a little bit. Move it up. Or down. Or inside you. Or, anywhere.
“Some men might just watch, content to see you tortured by pleasure. Some might add some extra stimulation, fingering your nipples or biting your earlobes. Some might film you, recording your pleas for blessed relief. And some might give you something else to focus on, a little pain with your pleasure, like a tug on your nipple chain or a spank on your thighs. But it wouldn’t matter what they did, because the whole of you would be focused on that tiny spot between your legs. And the ember that was once again beginning to build there.”
He stood up in front of her, close enough that her nipples rubbed against his chest. He kept the tip of the vibrator pressed hard against the top of her slit. Even that slight movement made her gasp in delight. “Men, if expertly manipulated, can cum six times in one day. If expertly manipulated. The only limit to the number of times a woman can orgasm is the number of hours in a day. Worse, her body is programmed not to go numb in that very area. So, imagine if you were strapped in a position like this, unable to move an inch, with a vibrator pressed against your pussy, the buzzing sending waves of pleasure throughout your body, but you’re completely unable to help push yourself over the edge. And your tormentor can keep you here for hours on end, watching as you strain for and against the ultimate pleasure. I wonder, then, what kind of deal you would cut for your final release?”
She could tell he was going to pull the vibrator away before his hand even moved, and her ragged “Please,” left her lips before the word had even formed in her brain. She didn’t even have to open her eyes to see his smile, but simply pursed her lips when she felt the metal tip press harder against her other, lower lips. When his mouth captured hers she sucked at his lips greedily, frustrated by her inability to wrap her arms around him. Though her legs were unbound she was careful to keep them spread wide to maintain the illusion that he was master to her and all she contained.
The orgasm hit her like a volcanic eruption, the heat pounding through her in waves. She lifted herself up against the X, up on her toes, unrestrained by any ropes around her waist, helped by the sweat now covering her nude body. Her cries of passion echoed through the hills and the sky spun wildly as he head lolled back and forth. This was, she realized, the first orgasm she’d ever had while standing up. Or in the daytime. Or in the woods. Or tied up in a bondage position.
At some point during her ecstasy he had penetrated her pussy with his thumb, and now he was using the fingers of that hand to hold escort bursa the vibrator against her clit. And just as he’d described, it was starting to feel a bit painful. Well, she wasn’t tied like the woman in his story, and she could do something about it. When she brought her knee up into his groin, she missed his balls by just an inch. But unlike him, she knew that she’d missed on purpose.
Back at the cabin, she headed right for the shower. Naturally. And he headed right for the window to watch her. Naturally. He knew he could join her. It was turning into that kind of weekend. The Anything Goes kind of weekend where you could follow your head or your heart or your lust without worrying too much about what the other person would think. Because they were doing the same, and hoping for the same amount of latitude from you.
It was the way a relationship should work. But, if he was absolutely honest about it, even his ultra-communicative marriage had limits to it. He could pursue his carnal urges, but only in very select circumstances. If she was feeling loose, or had been alcoholically lubricated to the point that she was feeling loose. And, of course, there were some things that he just couldn’t discuss with her, not under any circumstances. Like spending a weekend in a cabin with another woman. No amount of communication would allow that statement to be made.
He turned away from the window and headed for the soft comfort of the bed. Despite everything that they’d done, they really hadn’t spent much time in this bed. Which was a shame, as it was probably the softest and most comfortable bed he’d ever been in. He wondered if his host replaced the mattress very often. Or maybe they didn’t need to. Maybe they spent all their time out in the woods, playing kinky games.
That had been a very intense scene. She’d responded like an actress in a movie. Far more accepting than he’d thought she would be. Oh, sure, not as accepting as in his fantasies. But he was realistic enough to be able to tell fantasy from reality, especially when it came to a woman’s reactions.
He was tired. He could tell by the way his thoughts flitted around. There’s was lots to think about, but he couldn’t get himself to concentrate on any of it. What were his plans for the rest of the weekend? Whatever he’d had in mind, it was all moot now. They’d already done everything. Sure, they could do it again. And again if he was up to it. And that wouldn’t be all bad. But it felt like there was another path to take. If only he could figure out what it was.
Or, maybe, he should take some of his own advice and not try and plan ahead. He knew she probably had some sort of idea where the rest of the evening might go. At least the sketch of an idea. After all, someone who’s already planning her life when she’s going to be a widow is probably already planning the night’s dinner and dessert activities.
He dropped that train of thought when the door opened. She was wearing nothing but a towel draped around her waist, her upper body enticingly bare and flushed from the cold water of the shower. She’d left her hair wet and had pushed it behind her ears, a few stray strands wispily framing her face. He watched, without trying to watch, as she pulled on a fresh pair of panties, looking up only as she climbed into bed beside him.
He was surprised when she snuggled in against him, as he didn’t think she liked to do that kind of thing. When she tucked her face against his bare chest, he closed the cocoon by resting his hand on the side of her hip, the material of her panties silky beneath his fingertips. They lay like that for a time that seemed like no time and forever and anytime all mixed up into one indeterminate length of time. He: feeling her body move ever so slightly with every breath. She: listening to the slow, steady metronome of his heartbeat. The parts of her that she’d complained were too prominent were to him a necessary part of the whole. Where she desired less visible ribs, he enjoyed the innocence they implied. Where she was humble about her butt, he found it compelling and beautiful. The same, he supposed, might be true of those features that he disliked about himself. He found himself wanting to tell her that, but stopped when he realized that she’d fallen asleep in his arms.
When he awoke he found himself clutching a down pillow. Soft, but not nearly as satisfying. He’d dozed, in that way that makes you think that no time at all has passed, but a check of the clock quickly contradicts the lie. She was busily at work in the kitchen, and he remembered her promise to cook him dinner, despite all his protestations to the contrary. Though she was dressed in no more than panties and a halter top, and he could lie there and watch her bend and stoop and crouch and touch and taste all evening, he felt a sudden wave of guilt at her industriousness and his laziness.
He crept up behind her, intending to pull her away from her cooking for a short or perhaps long kiss, when she rounded on him waving her spatula in a decidedly threatening manner. He was able to escape with only a short kiss, which did nothing to assuage his hunger for her. But there was that spatula to consider.
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