They began in the woods, six young woman running like wood nymphs, navigating in the black night by feel and sensation, skirting trees, and the men pursuing them until they were caught. Laughter lingered in the air when captured, their cries were raised above the mundane earth. Round bottoms bobbed impaled by pricks that entered these “next to virgin” territories and swam in juice of youth flowing from one to the other.
After Elizabeth enjoyed her second arrogant prick, she lost her mask and costume altogether. Her dark locks loose, her hair shone in the darkness like a raven’s feathers, and her skin, so translucent, looked like a piece of the white moon.
May, quite submissive next to Elizabeth, lay back against the green velvet earth and opened her thighs. Her lily white legs could be seen in the blackness waiting for one man after the other to roll her about the ground legs scissored for a body to body moment of pleasure.
Kathleen, decidedly more reserved, whispered conditions to her lovers who promptly ignored them, and screwed her regardless of her reservations. She hardly let out a cry of protest.
Hannah and Jolie, the twin maids, remained paired with each other, taking one man at a time, sometimes two.
And Jenny Holcomb in her own style leaned back against the cold exterior of the old stone cottage with her pubis bared to taunt her passing customer’s like a street whore from the city. She took her lovers standing up with her back to them or her front. It didn’t really matter. Such was the way she remained in control.
When the rain began, it poured so that twelve wet revelers moved inside the boathouse bedraggled, but no less willing to partake of each other’s flesh. By then it was an orgy of bodies clamoring for bodies. The men were nearly too limp to go on, but the ladies performed like the divas of their fair sex, dancing naked before their challengers, just as the rain danced on the windows around them.
The six made a fairy ring and twirled in a jig while the men played with their used limp erections, waiting for another bout of energy to spur them on. Elizabeth, not content to wait for male assistance for her next moment of satisfaction, drew May into the center of the circle, and let her hands glide over the beauty’s fair skin. She pressed her lips to the pale translucent orbs of her friend’s breasts, and kissed her lips with lips slightly parted, her tongue reaching out for a gentle play. Her body moving against the sumptuous May, loins to loins, looked as if they were one in their dance, as if in the heat of their joining, the two were about to orgasm from just this easy waltz to the tune of the rain.
And then, with the fiery ladies, waiting no longer for their gentleman’s pricks to finish off their pleasure, they all dropped to the floor—to the cushions and pillows that had been removed from the boats—and began to make love to each other in a clasping, mauling feast of womanly rapture. Entangled together, they moved like sirens from ethereal shores until their happy orgasms swam through them, and they raised their delighted cries to the goddess of their good fortunes.
With the sounds of pleasure dying away, the six brave lads from the Old Harbor Club cautiously joined the women unsure at this point whether they were welcome in their midst. To their delight, they were received with open arms, their healthy, once again fat pricks, eagerly sought by the inner recesses of women in the midst of wanton debauchery. And the twelve made love on into the night the challenge forgotten. Even though it was clear that the ladies had won, hands down. They would never rub it in, at least not in a sarcastic way.
Just for good measure, just as the light was breaking in the sky, someone brought out an ink pen, and as they had vowed to do at the outset, they signed their names on each other flanks and bottoms and breasts (on the ladies) as if they were making a pact for the future - uncertain as that was. The winds of change were beckoning them beyond this night to other nights in other places - some with men and women, and some without - and some far less happy than they were here at the Grand Hotel. This night would always be a night for their fantasies and for pondering, if it ever existed at all and was not some crazy dream.
“To lust and love!” Elizabeth purred to her bevy of suitors.
“To lust and ladies!” Jennings returned.
And they laughed again and kissed again until they finally dozed at daybreak, reclining together in one rare heap of naked happiness.
The ladies were shy in the morning, all but Elizabeth. Though she was smart enough to restrain herself even when she wanted to gloat about her victory. There were smiles, sweet and jolly ones, snickers and muted laughter, and eyes that contained wisdom and feminine self assurance it might have taken years to know.
The six men in the morning were simply hungering for more, for a return to the dream night where the earth went wild and its most tame creatures behaved like savage spirits celebrating the gods of sex. And yet, for all their male bravado, they were six enlightened ones, who would take to their graves a new respect for womankind born in that wild night.
After that crazy night, the days at the Grand Hotel meandered on. They drank from the cup of sexual lust on many nights, but never as they had that night in the mid summer’s woods. And when the days finally reached September, it came with a bitter sweet parting. Each of the twelve knew that it could never be that way again, though they had no idea why this was so. When they hugged goodbye, and kissed lips, and the boys patted fannys to the sound of their ladies’ giggles, they suspected that there wouldn’t be another reunion on the shores of the lake. They suspected that they were saying goodbye to their youth.
Oh! It had been a grand summer. One they’d never forget. A rite of passage perhaps. And yet perhaps it was more too …
How could they know, how could then even guess, that just as the summer rambled on, there were dangerous rumblings around the globe. Little did any of them suspect that months later a war would begin on a foreign shore, and that the neer-do-well lady’s men, all six of them, brawny and full of spice, would be plucked from their easy lives and drafted to a different fate than one in the arms of plush scented women. Little did they know, that of the six boys from the Old Harbor Club, that had reveled with the delicate young women at the Grand Hotel, half of them wouldn’t return from the battlefields of Europe, two would return only half the men they’d been, and only Jennings Criss would come home a living robust hero—with a wounded heart.
As the years would pass, for those that survived, this fact would make the summer of ‘41 especially sweet. And for six thoughtful young ladies, who’d become full blown women by war’s end, they could sit in their safe homes and wonder if maybe their moment of debauchery—that trek into the garden of erotic abandon on that wicked night—was nothing more than a kindly act of God above, blessing them with a summer of satisfaction, while they could still claim their innocence.
A Kiss Of Never Forgotten Remembrance
Spring’s nubile innocence has faded
replaced by the bold presence
and ripe fullness of summer.
Swelling softness undulates
beneath passionate fashions designed
to stimulate the eroticism of life.
Ancient rhythms vibrate
in the depths of the earth’s loins
as nature sways in succulent dance.
Full bosomed and filled with carnal desire
summer surrenders her ripe wanton treats
to a host of untamed robust lovers.
Summer writhes in passioned couplings,
while throwing storms
of deep rolling noise and brilliant flashing
to the winds, in celebration of her completion.
Laughing, loving, indulging in sensual ecstasy
she pleasures in living her precious few days
in devoted tribute to life and its full-bodied time.
She grieves not for her slowly fading charms and waning days
but greets fall’s chilling artist,
with his pallet of brilliant colored death,
with one last heated embrace
&n
bsp; and a kiss of sweet never forgotten remembrance.
KH
Love Letters
“I want you to dominate me …”
I let that sentence of your letter linger long in my mind. The implications are many.
I recall a time when that was a paramount desire fueling my sexual fantasy.
I wonder that you read my mind, that you could peer inside me so easily and see the desires that float through my thoughts when I think of you … and dream about our being together.
Sometimes I think you’re swimming in me, an unexpected traveler in the universe of my body that harbors within it a thousand sexual fascinations. Are you that close to me that you can read from the list of my passions and pluck from them this particular one—especially when I have defined myself as submissive also?
Dominating you would hardly be a submissive act. On one level we are so much alike, on another so different.
I’m tempted to be jealous of the way you bow so easily, tempted to be afraid of the way you give yourself when I still resist.
I have theories about why this is, but there is not enough time to explain. I’d like to do that someday when I’m looking into your eyes.
I do wonder—since being so much alike, does this mean you want to dominate me too?
Or will you be content to keep your place?
You say you want me to dominate you, but do you know what that means?
Do you know how I envision you crouched in front of me, your eyes lowered as if you’re flirting with seduction?
You have no idea the satisfaction I’ll feel making you sweat, insisting that you wait until I’m ready. I’ll see you tremble, see goosebumps rise on your damp skin—it’s fragrant like apricots you say? As you shudder beneath me, the aroma of you will waft in the breeze, the smell of apricots and the smell of sex there to arouse me.
It would suit me to find something to punish you for. I delight in the idea of scolding you for disobeying me. Even if it is something minuscule, I can’t wait to catch you in an act of insubordination. Perhaps an unwarranted smirk, a look too gleeful, your eyes too proud.
How would you fare under such exacting scrutiny? Would you attempt to be perfect? Or would you deliberately falter just to face the confrontation and the consequences?
Is there some driving desire in you to feel the wrath of your dominant striking you down?
How do you feel about humiliation? Would you be able to submit your body to punishment before the eyes of a dozen other souls who will think of you as nothing more than an inconsequential plaything? Would you be able to give yourself to their brutal desires before you enjoy even one kindness from me? Are you ready to be taken that deeply?
Ahh! And what does it feel like now that you’re reading this?
I know you blush. That shy smile appears on your face as you read these pages.
I know your skin crawls prickly.
And I know between your clutched thighs you’re wet. Your shaved cunt glistens—then again, perhaps your thighs are not clutched together at all. Perhaps you’ve splayed them wide as you lie back on your bed and read this letter, your fingers, or maybe half your hand, trying to make their way inside you like a cock.
So how do you envision punishment?
Do you see yourself whipped, tied up, scourged, bound to rafters, or lying affectionately across my lap?
Or are you shocked that I even ask you?
I’ve been looking through catalogues to find just the right tool to use on your ass. There’s one I’m particularly fond of, 14” long. It’s referred to as a tawse because the 2” wide leather end is cut in three fingers at the end. I imagine the sting will be sufficient, as long as I lay it across your flesh with enough force. It is suppose to be the right length for over-the-knee corrections. I suppose that’s how I imagine the first one—over my knees.
I can’t get away from the intimacy of that kind of punishment.
You in all your nakedness, your arms dangling in front, your legs in back, your breasts dangling down as well.
I imagine you there, my right hand stroking your back side before I pick up the tawse. The smell of apricots and sex. The molten musk of sex will reach my nostrils. My hand will feel the soft hairs of your skin as if they are feeling fuzz. You would think it some prelude to a climax the way I stroke you. In me there will be a twin climax beginning…
But no! We’ll both have to wait—wait for our orgasms until the proper preliminaries are over.
I’ll stroke your skin until you are writhing on me. I’ll make you part your thighs while my hand moves down your cleft to the juicy center of yourself. Four fingers would be pushing their way inside your dark swamp. I’ll watch you wriggle, delighted. And with my fingers wet, I’ll pull away from your vagina and dampen your nether door. My intention is clear.
Of course you already know that you won’t get away without being violated in your ass. No matter how scared you are of that or how much you try to hide your desire. That is a substantial part of a submissive’s lot to be debauched completely.
I’ll only do half the act, of course, but it is enough for me to prepare you for your true master. Be assured that he will be intimately involved with the preparations, and I’ll follow his instructions to the letter. This first intrusion in your ass will be just a little tease for later. The real purpose of this moment is to see your ass burn red as I spank you for the first time.
After I’ve managed to prick your anus, and once I’ve had the satisfaction of hearing you gasp and watching you squirm because it feels so uncomfortable, I’ll pull my hand away and take up the tawse.
Oh, how I’ve imagined the moment, the globes of your rear bobbing before my eyes, the anticipation so dear we’re both frantic to see it to the end. I’ll be smelling leather. Its aroma is as dear to me as apricots and sex. I’ll let your nostrils smell it too. (Maybe even before I’ve lifted you to my lap, I will have allowed you to handle the piece, to lick its cool surface with your tongue. Oh, but I digress …)
In my mind now, you’re poised over my lap, your fair cheeks clenching and relaxing in anticipation. And I, with the tawse in hand raise my arm like an angry mother and bring the implement down on your buttocks with a snap.
You jerk and there is a little peep from your lips. But just as I have experienced, you’ll know that first strike as heaven. I know that every millimeter of your skin touched by the sharp smack will tingle deliciously. Perhaps you’re not prepared for the pleasure of that first strike, how it amplifies every warm feeling your body generates. You’ll be seduced by the sensations, happily waiting for the next, and so I’ll deliver the next smack right over the first. You’ll jerk again as another rush of tingling moves through you, as you begin to suspect that this is not punishment at all, but just another way of making love.
How naive you are to all these things and how devious am I who’ve been in your place many times, and realize the truth about punishment.
Only when I begin to strike you briskly do you begin to understand the real truth. From luscious smacks to healthy jolts, you’ll find you cannot catch up with the sensations and the pleasure’s lost and there is only the burn. You’ll begin to dance on my lap, your soft mound against my thighs will bear down and even threaten a revolt. But you wouldn’t dare be that mutinous. You know you’ll loose my affection if you do.
I’ll paddle you hard, until your ass is beet red, until I can see your creamy apricot skin roughed up, until you’re crying, pleading for me to give you your heart’s desire—some relief. I’ll paddle you until the emotion of dominance that flows through me has been satisfied, until the deep longing for this act has been rewarded with the flood of feeling that will run through me like fragrant waters quenching my thirst.
You’ll be punished hard, like a naughty child as though this act of shame will atone for your lust. With this vigorous spanking, in your mind and mine, justice will be served. Before the fact, before you spirit my master from me to have for yourself
, you will pay for your lascivious intentions.
We all know you relish the thought of having my master, that you think of him as yours as much as he is mine. But we also know that despite my jealous streak, you two will have each other. And we also know that in a strange and perverse world, the very thought of the two of you together gives me a precious rush. I suppose that sex and desire don’t have to make sense.
What this drama of ours gives me is insidious and delicious power. It brings out the dark woman in my soul, the haughty bitch and the sensuous siren, the woman that will haunt you, take away your sleep at night and your conscious thoughts by the light of day.
You’ll pay that first time over my lap, and you’ll pay again and again, as often as it pleases me—and our master. It will drive you mad. But I’ll smile, for such lust will take us both to heaven’s shores. In the midst of all that darkness we’ll reside side by side with our darker selves and drink from the cup of sexual mystery and be in awe of what bodily thrills that drive us deeper down.
You’ll pay for the right to have him. And in time, you’ll come to me and ask me for it. You’ll beg and I’ll tease, but I will give in.
You say you want me to dominate you?
I laugh to read that, but smile satisfied, knowing that I have settled that deep inside your loins.
Because I Was Jealous …
He punished me.
Last night he took me to our bed and tied my hands above my head, then began to flail on me first with the razor strap. The long thick leather met my body’s skin, burning it with one blow atop another.
I cried, but he refused to stop.
“Open your legs,” he ordered, when I wanted to draw them tight together so that the leather couldn’t strike right down the middle of my ass where it threatened my pussy with its heat.
I struggled. Each hit, each one capricious, scared me. Though the minute I’d snap my thighs together, he’d order it otherwise, in a demanding tone of voice I rarely hear from him. As often as he’s punished me this way, the fear never goes away. I dread the pain he inflicts on my pussy, and yet I desire it too.
Extremes Page 10