He nearly ran off the road. One look at her in her silk blouse, half unbuttoned, hair tousled, wearing that tight skirt was all he needed. By the time he’d found a deserted street and pulled over, she was ready, sitting bolt upright, bra opened, blouse open to the waist. Hands in her lap, she leaned forward, giving him full access. She was so passive, so submissive, he nearly exploded in his pants. Oh, she felt good. And the whole time he was possessing her glorious mounds with his hands and sucking with his mouth, she kept telling him how Ashley should be doing this, giving pleasure with her body, making him happy, and that if she didn’t, she was liable to lose him.
“If I were Ashley,” she’d said hotly, throwing her head back, filling the windows with steam, “I would bare my breasts for you whenever you commanded. And my nipples would have to be hard for you, too, or else—”
“Or else what?” he’d croaked, coming up for air.
“Or else you’d have to punish me.”
That had been the beginning of the end. The words were like fire, like molten lava pouring down into his crotch. Clawing feverishly at his pants, he’d released his stiff cock so Andrea could take it deep down her throat. She did, working it as good as any whore he’d ever known. Better, in fact. After he’d finished, exploding down her throat, they’d held hands in silence all the way back to the hotel. Before she got out, Andrea slipped off her panties and handed them to him.
“If I were Ashley,” she’d said, “you could make me do this too, whenever you wanted.”
Wide eyed, he’d let her deliver a stinging soul kiss, in full view of the doorman. When Tom protested, she’d winked at him, pointing out that as far as anyone knew, she was Ashley Van Voorst, his lawful fiancée. She was right, he’d thought, watching her ass wiggle as she went to the door, it was the perfect affair. And every day since—up until he’d tried to break it off yesterday—they’d taken advantage, using every spare minute to be together.
Back in the present, Tom was at the brink of orgasm in Andrea’s mouth and she knew it. Smiling triumphantly, she pulled her soft lips off of him. Wrapping thumb and forefinger round the base of his penis, she held him at an exquisite impasse.
“Do you want to come?” she asked.
“Yes!” he cried, forgetting all his resolve. “Yes! Yes!”
“Then say it!” she demanded.
“I want to come!”
“You want to come on my tits—say it!”
“Oh, yes, I do,” he nodded wildly. “I want to come on your gorgeous tits.”
Andrea smirked in diabolic satisfaction. Trailing a nail over his scrotum, she made one final correction to his confession. “Say, ‘I want to come on your gorgeous tits, Ashley’.”
Tom thrashed his head. Through clenched teeth he said what she wanted, augmenting it with a string of profanities. In the end, she directed his pulsing spray to her chest, moaning in ecstasy as the milky substance splashed her mounds, dotting the surface and dripping down her belly.
Utterly spent, Tom staggered to the couch, nearly tripping over his pants, which were still gathered around his ankles. Meanwhile, Andrea thrust her hand between her legs bringing herself to a massive orgasm, as large as it was instantaneous.
“I have to be punished,” she said afterwards, crawling to him on her knees, putting her palms on his thighs, thrusting her semen covered tits in his face. “Do you hear me? I’ve been very bad.”
Half asleep, he asked her what she’d done.
Andrea dug in with her nails, to get his attention. “I’ve been fucking other men, behind your back.”
Tom pushed her down to the floor, blood pounding, though he knew it was all just another game. “Tell me what you did. Tell me now.”
Andrea fell on her behind, spreading her legs as she fell. Dipping a finger in her pussy she gasped as Tom reached to pull his belt from the loops of his discarded pants. He’d never used it on her, but the mere implication could often make her come.
“The last time was this morning,” she said, rubbing her fingers over her swollen sex. “In the hotel elevator. I let a bellhop have me.”
Tom felt himself hardening again, only moments after the last orgasm. “Take your hand out of your pussy and tell me.”
Andrea put her hands seductively over her head, palms up as though tied there. “I was on the way to breakfast,” she began, spreading her gaping legs even wider, showing off her glistening center. “When this handsome red coated young man got on, at the twelfth floor, I could see him checking me out right from the start. Such a naughty boy, with his dimples, and that shock of gold spun hair! I should have slapped him.”
“What did you do instead?” Tom was standing over her, straddling her, dangling the belt in front of her eyes.
Andrea sucked on her lower lip. She was beginning to writhe on the floor. “I just glared at him. I wanted to tell him off, but the way he kept looking at me, like he had a right to, it just made me so hot.”
“What were you wearing?” Tom croaked, taking his resurgent prick in hand. “Tell me every detail.”
Andrea squirmed her bare ass on the rug. It was killing her not to touch herself, but at the same time he could see she was turned on by being controlled this way, pinned down, helpless under his will. Like one of the speared butterflies in his father’s collection, the ones Ashley couldn’t even bear to look at because she thought it too cruel.
“I had on Scimitar perfume,” she began, her eyes smoldering green heat, “the kind you like, and very sheer underwear, lavender panties and a demi-bra. My dress was red, something new, mid thigh and cut low on my breasts. The shoulder straps were thin as string. And I had on my red pumps.”
Tom let loose a low, satisfied grunt. He’d seen her in something similar on the night of their second encounter. It was at another restaurant, a half hour’s drive from Charred River. The servers were tall and good looking as male models and Andrea was flirting like crazy, whispering to him what she wished they would do with her. Midway through the oyster appetizer, Andrea took off her panties, wadded them into a ball and deposited them in Tom’s trembling hand. They’d been sheer as gossamer, very damp and fragrant as hell.
She’d delighted at his look of shock, knowing how horny he was and how he couldn’t do a thing about it. The rest of the meal, she was a perfect lady, dainty, delicate and maddeningly innocent. It was Ashley all over, down to the little hair flips, the helpless doe eyes, the chaste veneer that screamed sexual repression. It was amazing, really, that Andrea had perfected Ashley’s style in such a short time, having just met her. Then again, they were twins.
Later, over the hood of his car, the scent of those panties still flaring in his nostrils, Andrea took her ‘punishment’: a dozen smacks of his hand to her bare ass. And then there’d been intercourse. Wild, sweet, as raw as you could get with a condom on.
“The bellhop,” he stammered, gripping his cock, trying to keep from coming too soon. “What happened next?”
“A standoff,” she told him, raising her hips toward his heavily hanging balls. “The floors clicked by. He kept looking at me and I had to lower my eyes to my feet. He hadn’t flinched, and I was afraid if he saw any more deeply into them, he would know that I was already his for the taking. He was just an inexperienced, sweet boy, barely eighteen, but he was still a man. It was misery. I would have given anything to be out of that elevator. At the same time, I needed him to come after me, to brush aside my foolish defenses and put me to his pleasure. Would he dare? I grasped the handrail, my knees buckling. How would it end? Would he get my attention, tell me he was going to stop the elevator and fuck me, right now? Would he just walk over and say, with a grin, ‘Excuse me Miss, I saw you looking at my cock. Want to see it close up?’”
“He was too young, too scared. So I pushed the emergency stop button myself. I silenced his shocked objections with a hot kiss, wet and open. Starting at the sides of his mouth, I ran my hands down his body. His prick was at attention, and I moved against him, conveying
without words what was about to happen.
“His eyes were overflowing with both need and panic, so I put him at ease with a shy smile. Delicately, fluidly and so sensuously, I showed him what to do, letting him pull up my dress and slide down my panties so he could explore me. He looked so sweet, like Christmas morning, like he couldn’t believe his luck. Not wanting him to explode in his own pants, I knelt to unzip him so I could sheathe him in one of the condoms I always carry. Once the delicious latex glove was in place, I guided him into me from behind. I held onto the rail, spread my legs, and let my hair fall over my face. I invited him to spank me if he liked, but he came almost at once, with a powerful shudder.
“Afterwards, the alarm bells still blaring, I knelt at his feet. Holding my hair out of the way, I kissed each of his shoes. He was hard again as he finished rearranging his uniform, but I knew he had to go.”
Tom pressed his ankles on either side of Andrea’s ribcage, just hard enough to get her attention. “How do I know you’re telling me the truth?” he asked, as if it made any difference.
Andrea smiled wickedly as if she’d been waiting for the question. “In my purse in the car,” she said, “I saved the condom. Go check. If I’m lying, you can punish me.”
“I’ll do that anyway.”
Andrea rubbed her legs together provocatively. “I’m counting on that.”
Tom backed away, readying himself for ecstasy. “Get up, Andrea. Assume the position.”
They both knew what he wanted, and Andrea obeyed without hesitation, laying herself face down over the coffee table, making her body into a bridge. It was made of slate and very cold to the touch. Andrea was used to coming all over it, breasts and belly pressed down, face and hands on the carpet as he spanked her with the little rubber paddle she’d bought him for one of their infamous “dates”. Andrea loved to come this way, exposed, cool air titillating her private parts. Afterwards, she would have Tom tell her to lick the surface clean with her tongue. She’d assured him this was precisely the kind of thing he should make the proud Ashley do after they were married.
“Use the whip,” Andrea begged now, when she’d wriggled into place.
Tom considered the matter. He’d never done that before, on anyone. “Andrea, I don’t—”
“Come on, you bastard!” she demanded, her sultry mood shattered by his sudden whininess. “I’m laying on this table for you, the same table you and I had tea on, with her, remember? Remember how scared you were Ashley would find out I was nude under my skirt just for you, and how much you wanted me. But when you tried to show her a little affection, resting your hand on her thigh, she removed it, not even bothering to stop her conversation with me, like you were some kind of annoying fly—and all the while your cock was ready to explode?”
Tom clenched his fists. Yes, he did remember. And there was more to the story, too. What Andrea hadn’t said was that she had approached him before they all sat down. She told him privately that if he didn’t act frisky enough with Ashley in front of her, she was going to pull up her skirt and show Ashley just how naked she was underneath and for whom. It had been a sheer nightmare, drooling over Andrea, fearing her at the same time, all the while pushing Ashley to the edge of her stony limits under force of blackmail.
“All right,” he hissed. “I will whip you. God knows you deserve it!”
“Yes,” she moaned, “oh, yes. But tell me, who am I? Are you whipping me or her? Make it both of us—her for teasing you, me for being such a whore, fucking strange men in elevators, and then coming over here, without your permission.”
“Yes, both of you,” he agreed, running the tip of the black leather whip over her tingling, utterly vulnerable ass, wondering for the zillionth time who was calling the shots, him or her. Wondering why, for God’s sake, he was doing this to Andrea when he had a girl who loved him completely, a saintly, virginal, trusting rich girl like Ashley?
Rich girl. The phrase cut like a knife. Andrea sometimes alluded to his being attracted to Ashley’s money—half of which would be hers—but he resented the implication. He was no gold digger; he just wanted to assure his future, and his bride’s.
“Mmm, that’s sweet, baby,” she said in response to the leather caresses. “Now hit me hard.”
He let the whip descend, landing it with a cracking sound. He hadn’t the foggiest idea how to do this, and he wasn’t sure she did either. A welt rose immediately, broad and red, and it scared him silly. She wasn’t balking, though; she wanted more. From her moans and shudders, it seemed like she’d orgasmed, too.
“Again,” she told him. “Hit me again.”
He did, letting the whip find its own speed and trajectory. It wasn’t breaking skin, though she was certainly getting off on it. He wondered what it would feel like on his own body: his buttocks, not hers, flaming red, violated.
“I’m so hard,” he cried. “It’s incredible.” Tossing down the whip and lowering himself to her puckered, twitching sex lips, he said, “Do you have any idea how hard I’m going to fuck you, Andrea?”
Andrea thrust her tormented ass up into the air. “Ashley,” she said. “I’m Ashley, and I won’t let you have me. Look, but don’t touch! I won’t let you be a man, Tommy.”
Tom held her fast by her hips, sank his cock in deep. It was true. Ashley didn’t want him to be a man. A man needs to take his woman in his arms, to make love to her, and yes, fuck her silly. How he wanted to do that to Ashley! And here was the very image of her fine body, the one he couldn’t have, laid out for him, whipped and ready for his cock. Oh, the times he’d had to masturbate, excusing himself from Ashley. Ashley, in her long silk gowns, her hair swept up, Ashley in the hot tub, her nipples poking through the fabric of her skimpy powder blue bikini. Ashley, in a million sexy ways and places. Ashley, right here in front of him, under him.
Tom took a deep breath. He didn’t want to come just yet, not this way. There was something else he wanted first, something he knew Ashley would never let him have, even after marriage.
“Get on your hands and knees,” he commanded, abandoning Andrea’s gaping, needful cunt.
“What are you going to make me do?” she asked in dreadful fascination, her voice a fierce whisper as she put herself in position.
Tom let her wait a moment, anticipating his response before running the tip of the whip down her spine. “I want you to crawl to my bed,” he instructed, resting the whip at the crack of her ass. “And then I want you get on it, on all fours, head down, facing the wall.”
“Then what?” she panted, digging her nails into the carpet in response to his words, to the touch of the whip.
“Then you wait, Ashley.” He snapped the leather on her raw buttocks just as he said her sister’s name. “Now go!”
Andrea drew in a sharp breath, raising her head in a look of faraway ecstasy. His words had brought her to another climax. A moment later, gathering herself, she began to crawl, precisely as he had ordered. In an act of sheer self indulgence, he watched her the whole way, the perfect sex crazed clone of his fiancée in self imposed slave gear, on her way to be used, the perfect masturbatory vessel for her virtuous sister’s image.
Go figure a woman like that, Tom mused, pausing for a drink of orange juice at the fridge, enjoying a long swig straight from the carton. Life was good. He had his virgin bride-to-be waiting for him, while in the meantime, in his bed, primed and ready for his pleasure, her literal body double, and in a collar no less. Yea, life was real good. Tom deliberately took his time, knowing it would drive Andrea even wilder. She wouldn’t dare touch herself, so all that frustration would build and build. In a stroke of genius, it occurred to him to fish for some recent photos they could use in their game.
He smiled when he found what he needed. Photos of Ashley in her cock teasing little tennis outfit, the pleated skirt and sleeveless white top, which bared most of her thighs and tented her breasts perfectly. They were taken that day at Ashley’s mother, Libby’s, mansion, the old Van Voorst es
tate in the orange groves, just after Ash had beaten him in three straight sets, her jiggling tits distracting his every shot.
Andrea had watched the game and known full well why he’d lost. Afterward, as a consolation, she’d dragged him off to one of the countless bathrooms in the house where she let him take revenge on her willing body. The tightly strung catgut racket had been just the thing to tame Andrea’s ass. As for the aluminum handle, he put it to double use, first in her mouth and then in her pussy. It had been an intense, animalistic session, barely fifteen minutes in length, with not a word spoken between them from the moment Andrea locked the door and stripped off her swimsuit till after she’d left, her tiny bikini bottom barely concealing the waffle shaped imprints on her ass.
It had been a close call when midway through Ashley had knocked on the door to see if Tom was all right. Fortunately, she’d thought Andrea was in the hot tub.
“I’m fine,” he’d told her, his cock deep inside her sister as he bent her over the sink, her hands bound by a twisted sweatband. “Just give me a minute.” He’d had to put his hand over Andrea’s mouth to silence her moans as she came, the thrill of near discovery pushing her over the top.
“Remember these?” Tom scattered the pictures on the bed under Andrea’s nose.
She shivered visibly seeing the images of her sister, smiling happily, hair in a ponytail, terminally wholesome. It was always this way when Andrea saw her sister; like she was looking in some kind of other worldly mirror.
“This is what I’ll be looking at when I fuck you,” Tom explained, deciding to play another game. “I’ll be imagining her, when I’m in your ass.”
Andrea swooned at the mention of anal penetration. It was a profound aphrodisiac for her, not only for the sensation, but also for what it represented to her: humiliation and possession of the deepest kind.
“Do it,” she challenged, her voice an unearthly feminine growl. “Make me your whore. Spit on me, tell me I mean nothing to you.”
Backwater Bondage Page 18