They both panted heavily for several long, sweet moments.
“Jesus,” he muttered, stepping away from her to tuck his dick back inside his jeans and zip them closed.
He reached down and pulled her to her feet, not unkindly. Delilah trembled against him, and he pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped her face gently with it.
Von gave her another minute to regain her senses before she felt his hands at her clit and the knot that was now soaked with her juice. As he loosened it, his fingers stroked her still-engorged clit languidly. She whimpered and moved closer.
“There, there. Someone seems to be insatiable.” He winked, and she had to laugh at herself. Desperate, lonely pussy? That was an understatement. She had sailed past that stage willingly and straight into certifiable whore as far as Von was concerned.
As he unwrapped her like a delicate package, he rubbed her flesh where the rope had held it captive, allowing the blood to flow back into thighs and wrists, back and shoulders. He unraveled the rope across her breasts last, allowing himself long moments of pleasuring her with his hands, rubbing and tweaking her tits, taking her nipples into his mouth and between his teeth. Breathless, dizzy, Delilah wanted this to go on forever.
“Von.”
She wasn’t even aware she had said his name until he lifted his eyes to hers.
“Don’t tell me you want more.” She loved his laugh, feeling the tingle deep inside her still-slick cunt.
“I won’t tell you then.” Her smile was both shy and coy.
She leaned down, unaware of how glorious her body looked, skin flushed, hair a mess, rope burns and whip lashes marking her breasts, and touched the rope pile he had discarded after untying her.
“Will you show me how to take care of this for you?” she asked.
“My pleasure.” He smiled. “Why don’t you bring it over here and sit on my lap?”
She arranged herself prettily on his lap, folding her colt-like legs under her, sparkling eyes gazing up at him.
“Here is how I like it knotted for my carrying bag.” He placed his hands over hers and began to work the rope into a series of repeating knots with her, murmuring encouragement in her ear.
Indeed, Delilah’s popped rope cherry would not be missed, and she threw herself into learning how to please him in this simple way with the same gusto and hunger she had used to give herself over to him earlier. Cleaning up after a scene had never appealed quite so much to her, and his rope was quickly refolded and placed carefully back in his bag. With her keening pussy still on high alert, she turned to him and inquired boldly, “What’s next?”
Von grinned.
RING OF FIRE
Michelle Augello-Page
Lights flickered in the distance, even though I could barely see the house through the thick canopy of trees. I bit my lip, trying to contain my excitement, as my master drove slowly along the narrow gravel road. He had made reservations months ago as a special gift to me, for our anniversary. The trip didn’t take as long as we had expected, and we were early. He parked the car and shut off the ignition, then reached over the gear shaft and pulled the seat belt tight across my chest.
“Open your legs.”
I opened my legs, wide, and my already short dress rose even higher, exposing my shaved pussy. Holding the seat belt with one hand, he smacked my pussy with the other. Each slap released a deep moan from inside me, as waves of pleasure-pain washed over me, revealing my excitement in the moist wetness between my thighs. He felt my arousal with his hand, pressing his palm against my heat, then slid his fingers inside me.
I exhaled deeply and turned to look at him; he held my eyes as he rocked inside me, pushing me toward orgasm. Then he stopped, withdrew his fingers and brought them to his mouth, sucking the taste of my sex from his skin. He licked his lips, and my eyes widened as I watched him. Another flash of desire surged through me, rushing across my body like a brushfire. He smiled, seeing how hot he was making me. He was torturing me. It was torture he loved to give me, and torture I loved to receive.
“You are a very bad girl,” he said.
He freed me from the seat belt’s restraint and kissed me, running his tongue across my lips, allowing me to taste my own sticky sweetness on his mouth.
“Present yourself to me.”
I turned over and raised my ass in the air, pressing my forehead against the plush back of the car seat. His hand hovered over me, making me wait, teasing me with anticipation.
Slap. His hand met my ass and stung across my skin as he began to give me a good, solid spanking. Feverish warmth spread throughout my body. I sighed deeply as he spanked me hard. The sharp sting of his touch swelled red across my asscheeks as he struck me again and again, pushing me between pleasure and pain, inflaming my desire and making my cunt ache.
“That’s enough,” he said, and we laughed.
He rubbed his hands lightly on my skin and readjusted my dress. I shifted in the seat. My ass was burning, seared with red-hot heat, the lingering imprint of his rough touch. I reached for him, and he held me close. I laid my head across his chest and listened to the beat of his heart while he stroked my hair.
“I love you,” I said.
“I love you, too,” he said.
Simple words scratching the surface, barely able to express the depth of my feelings toward him. His love had changed me, had lifted me higher, giving me the strength and confidence to meet the reflection of myself I saw in his eyes.
On our first anniversary, he collared me. There was no ceremony, no witness to our commitment. Only a standard black-leather collar that he placed around my neck with a solemn vow. He was my master, and I, his slave; we accepted these labels as the essential bond between us.
We had been together a little more than five years. Neither of us expected it, but we had found something in each other that took us both by surprise. From the first time we touched, a simple truth had caught us red-handed and revealed us, naked, under the star-shattered sky: the body never lies.
“It’s time,” he said.
We walked toward the house. From the outside, it looked like a beautiful bed-and-breakfast, a couples retreat nestled in the woods. And it was...with a twist. The owners had converted the house into a dungeon sectioned into private playrooms, each equipped with a small bedroom, bathroom, and dinette area.
Inside the dungeon, we settled our account, then ascended the staircase until we reached the second floor. I could barely see, and I held Master’s hand as he led me forward up the stairs. A fireplace was already lit in the center of the room, giving the space a luminous glow, throwing dancing shadows on the walls.
Plush red carpet spread across the entire floor, an open layout that was sectioned with play structures, including a rack, an X-cross, a St. Andrew’s Cross, stocks and a spanking horse. The walls were painted cream and eggshell, swirls of colors mixed to a lush, smooth sheen. Along the walls were erotic works of art: framed sketches, paintings and posters depicting various states of arousal and sexual positions. Hundreds of toys and instruments of torture were hung along the walls, laid out like a decadent banquet.
We stood in front of the fire and Master looked at me; I could see the flames of desire in his eyes. I removed my clothes and stood before him, naked and proud.
I knelt and unlaced his boots, taking them off slowly and carefully, then removed his socks, folding them neatly beside his shoes. On all fours, I knelt and raised my ass in the air. I worshipped his feet, kissing and licking and sucking his toes. He grabbed my hair in his hand and pulled me up, ravaging my mouth with a long, deep kiss. He put his hands around my neck, gently pressing until my face flushed and I felt light-headed, eager, feverish with want.
“You are missing something,” he said, his hands caressing my neck.
“You told me not to wear my collar tonight,” I said, confused.
“Indeed, I did,” he said.
He smiled, walked across the room to where he had set down ou
r overnight bag and returned with a medium-sized box. The box was plain brown cardboard, tied with deep-red organza ribbon. He handed it to me.
“Happy anniversary.”
I opened the box carefully, pushing my fingers through layers of red and gold tissue paper to find the treasure. It was a new collar: simple black leather of the finest quality, exquisitely handmade.
He placed the collar around my neck, licked the tears from my cheeks and kissed my eyes. He took my hand and guided me toward the nearest standing rack. I offered my hands, palms up, and he placed leather cuffs around my wrists. Then, on bended knee, he cuffed my ankles. He tied me to the rack, arms and legs outstretched, a position that always reminded me of da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. I savored the feeling of my bondage, stretching so I could feel the firmness of my restraints. He licked my lips and kissed me on the mouth, then stepped away.
“I just want to look at you,” he said, removing his belt, then his pants, then his shirt. He moved slowly, never taking his eyes off me.
I caught my reflection in his eyes, and saw myself as he saw me: my body extended and pulled taut, lit by the golden glow of the fireplace. My hair fell down my back and across my shoulders in thick waves. My lips glistened seductively, wet from the touch of his tongue, and my eyes were glazed with longing.
He held his cock in his hand, pulling it in long strokes, holding it out for me to see. He was rock hard. I felt my cunt ache with not just want, but need. I needed to feel him inside me. I stared at him with lust, unable to move, completely bound, tied deliciously tight to the rack.
“You want this, don’t you?” he said, teasing me.
He moved closer to me, keeping his body a breath away from my own. I moaned as he brushed the tip of his dick lightly across my clit, releasing a sob of absolute craving. I bit my lip.
“Yes, Master,” I said. “Please.”
“You have been a very patient slave, and I promise you will be pleased by your master. I am going to punish the fuck out of you.”
I couldn’t control the guttural sound that came from inside me, a low growl, a primal, almost inhuman sound. I was so turned on, so hot for him. I caught myself by surprise and giggled. He smiled.
“God, you’re beautiful.”
He walked toward the wall, where the assortment of whips, paddles, crops, belts, canes, feathers, straps and other devices hung, an exquisite feast of excruciating pleasure. He chose several different instruments and stood in front of me, as I hung firmly bound and helpless on the rack.
My body was stretched tight and tingled with anticipation. He began to whip me, and I closed my eyes as sparks of pain lit upon my skin, flooding me with pleasure. I breathed deeply, allowing my voice to cry out, as he expertly swung leather straps across my skin, the lashes drawing raised red marks that swelled and burned, enveloping me in sensory delight, making me hot with his fiery touch.
I opened my eyes, watching him as he whipped me; his were twin fires, black coal burning and smoldering at the sight of me. I loved to watch him torture me, to see the absolute focus of desire cross his face as he attended to me. I loved his stance, how he moved as elegantly as a giant cat circling his prey, ready to pounce and devour me. His body was mature, completely masculine, and I loved the hair on his chest and legs and face. He was such a virile and beautiful man, my master, exuding power and confidence and control.
He touched my hands, feeling the temperature of my skin. Sometimes, I fell so deeply into subspace I didn’t realize if my hands were going numb. He touched my breasts, grabbing them with forceful desire, pinching my nipples between his thumb and forefinger. He attached a clamp to each nipple and pulled. He kissed and sucked my skin with his hot, wet mouth. He fell lower, to the smooth velvety pout of my pussy, and began to taste me, the brush of his tongue painting my sweet, hot cunt, licking me in long, luxurious strokes.
“Come for me,” he said.
So completely did he own me, my body could not resist even the touch of his language upon my ears. I began to orgasm, riding him as he fucked me with his mouth, shaking and bucking against the rack, pulling with my outstretched hands and legs to feel the full and delicious weight of my bondage. My body was ablaze, consumed with feverish worship, and I cried out in ecstasy.
He released me, shaking, and held me in his arms. His cock pressed against me, so hard he was to the point of bursting. I knelt before him and took him into my mouth. He sighed deeply, arching his back as I licked him, lapping at his balls hungrily, feeling the surface of his penis with my lips and tongue and teeth, exploring each ridge and crevice along the shaft, from the tip of his swollen head to his smooth, tight balls. He held my hair and rocked hard inside my soft, inviting mouth while I worshipped his cock like an eager whore, burning with the sensation of his rigid masculinity, honored that he would allow me to give him such pleasure.
He pulled away, striking me across the mouth with his dick, which made me even more delirious with desire. My body was blistering with intense want, my cunt scorching, burning with the need to be filled by his hot cock, to be joined body to body, that close.
“Please, Master,” I panted. “I want you.”
“You have me,” he said, smiling.
Heat rushed across my skin, and I blushed furiously. I smiled as his gaze fell upon me, warming me, holding me in a ring of fire. Our bodies bound together shone with a ferocious light, beaded with sweat and singed skin, as we burned, lighting the dark night with a touch of the glorious sun.
BELTED IN
Roxanna Cross
The leather of my chastity belt bites into my tender flesh. I squeeze my thighs together at the flood of need that moves through me. My eyes remain glued to the cargo cart rolling out onto the tarmac. They lovingly caress the bright yellow straps and knots holding the luggage in place.
Subconsciously, I tug on my sleeves until they cover my thumbs. I can’t help but wonder if the other travelers see through my power suit. If they notice the puckered, criss-crossed diamond shapes marring my aboriginal golden skin. Would they be appalled by the red welts circling my wrists and ankles?
Strong hands unhinge the yellow mesh and my mouth waters. I squeeze my thighs together. Once again I feel the bite of leather. I know I need to get myself under control before the plane takes off. I close my eyes and go through my breathing exercise.
“Tatem.”
The one whispered word coming at me from the general direction of my shoulders wraps around me like molten steel. I know better than to twist and turn toward the husky goodness. As if he understands my need to pinpoint his exact location, I hear the shutter of a camera go off a few feet away from my left ear. The light of the flash leaks through my blindfold and a deep-rooted sense of serenity washes over me. I am safe. The words he desperately wants to hear spill out of me in earnest. “I’ll miss you, Van. You know I always do.”
The shutter goes off again, this time closer. I feel the heat of the flash on my cheek.
“I really like these turquoise jute ropes. They bring out the natural glow of your lovely skin. I can’t wait to show you these.” And the shutter goes off again and again. “You look peaceful, comfortable.”
I feel the intricate kinbaku knots running the length of my vertebrae, each of them supporting me like tiny cushions. The long, thin ropes wrapped around my breasts, strategically placed to enhance nipple cresting, binding my torso to my spinal support are tight, but I can still breathe in and out comfortably. My legs are bent at the knees. I feel my heels dig into my hips while the slim steel bar rests comfortably in the folds of my butt and thigh joint. Another set of ropes and meticulous knots bind my wrists and ankles to the bar, spreading me open for my lover as I dangle six and a half feet in the air. Cool tendrils of air come from the ceiling vent, tickling my nipples and labia. The sensation is delicious and erotic. “I am, because of you, the care you took to place me here.”
“Inhale.” The command is soft, but I don’t hesitate to comply and take a deep breath. My
nostrils are filled with the aroma of crushed sage and lavender. My own concoction—a candle which, when its wax melts, turns into a hot massage oil. The sound of a long wooden match being run the length of a grainy patch is music to my ears. The acrid smell of smoke as it catches and the more poignant one as it’s extinguished makes my nostrils twitch. “I’ll just leave this here for a bit,” he says before depositing the heavy burden on my navel. “Don’t move.” I breathe slowly, trying to expand my diaphragm muscles as little as possible in order to keep the burning candle in balance on my body. “Good girl.”
I feel something cold against my lips. “Suck.” My lips part and take a long pull. Another one of my creations, a raspberry-lime cocksicle—yes, that’s a Popsicle made in a cock mold. Not just any cock. His cock. Van’s cock has the most amazing shape. It’s long, nearly ten inches, and thick, four and half inches of circumference goodness and it curves at just the right angle, the one that hits that spongy spot deep inside of me in one stroke. I love sucking on it. My greedy mouth moves down and down until it reaches the plastic base. “Release.” On a whimper, I let go of the delicious treat.
The trail of cold sticky wetness that the cocksicle leaves behind as Van slides it along the length of my throat sends shivers down my spine. I want to wiggle, arch, welcome the cool sensation on my overly hot skin, but if I move an inch the candle will spill. Then I would be in big trouble. “I know,” he whispers. I swear at times I find it hard to believe that he’s not a mind reader. Van always knows what to say to make me find my equilibrium. My body relaxes, enjoying each new patch of skin iced by the juicy cock. Goose bumps form on my flesh. The shutter is once again released. The heat of the flash is a delightful contrast.
“So beautiful.”
The hoarse whisper reverberates through me, melting my core. It’s quite disconcerting to have your outer skin icy cold while your innards boil. The cock tip reaches the apex of my shoulder and neck. I inhale deeply. My fingers ball in my palms, creating crescent-moon marks on my soft skin. Van moves the cocksicle deliciously, painstakingly slowly across my clavicle. I can’t hold it anymore; he never said I couldn’t cry out, so I do. “Oh!” His fingers pinch my left nipple. Hard. They tug on it, elongating the sensitive tip. “Ahhhh,” the moan floats out of me. How can it not? Each touch placed on my body, either by the ice-cold delight or his fingers, arouses and teases. I feel the power building, burning. I almost explode when the icy treat grazes my stiffened nipple. Only his use of the Cree endearment for love stops me. “Not yet, kisâ.”
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