She said "kneel" and I knelt.
That's as simple as that. She commanded and I obeyed. It may sound foolish or corny or despicable or all of the three at the same time to you but that's how it is. End of the story.
Or rather, the beginning.
My name is Claire and I'm a Servant.
Maybe you expected a word like "slave" or "slut". I guess that's to be expected. I wondered for a time myself. But in the end, a Servant is what I am. I have my freedom of a sort - I work, I go out, I have friends and family. I go on holiday and I date like anyone else. Slaves don't do that. Sluts do, but that's not what I am. I control my appetites and I have a lot of self-respect. As for morality, I'll allow no one to pass judgment on me who does not know me inside out.
Apart from me, there's perhaps one person who can pretend to that. But then, she might well say the same about me. That's why I'll make allowances and we go along so well. She's my love and friend and refuge. She's a guide of sorts but then again we both are to each other.
She's my Mistress.
Funny word, that. "Mistress." Thinking of it, it has an old-fashioned ring to it, turn-of-the-last-century-like - The minister waited for his wife to leave for the opera and hired a coach to visit his mistress. Has a fragrance of old classroom too, polished wood floor and dusty blackboard. A French pen-pal of mine when I was ten told me about her days at school and how once she had been punished by her "mistress". When I told my dad about it, he peeked at me from above his giant paper widescreen (he was a Times reader, my dad, and still is for all I know) and shared one of these mystifying-cum-annoying "such-a-dear" smiles with my mum.
Couple of years later, I looked up the word in a dictionary. I'm that kind of girl. I hate it when something catches my attention then proposes to elude my grasp of it. I'm wilful. Call it temperamental if you want. In the end it's all the same. I like to have things my way. Does it sound contradictory to you? It is not. Being a Servant is the best way I have found yet to live the sort of life I want for myself.
You might think all I retained from the definition was the sex or dominance aspects. I did not, though it certainly struck my pubescent imagination. What I learnt was that the word used to be (and still was in some dialects) a title equivalent for Mrs. I wondered how it would feel to be called Mistress so-and-so. Hello, I'm Mistress Winfield, I have booked a table for two. Good morning, Mistress Winfield, shall I call for your cab? It did not feel right. Master and Mistress Winfield and their daughter. Definitely no.
Yet that's what the word has meant to me ever since. Not a woman of ill-repute or some kind of humourless virago. No. To me a mistress is a woman of class and education. I don't mean she has to come out of Eton or such. It's just the kind of women who will walk in confidence anywhere they go, self-possessed women, neither too distinguished nor casual, neither brainy nor common. I'm not even sure you can educate someone into actually becoming a mistress. It's more like you grow into it - or you don't.
Take Julia. You only need to look at her to see who she is. She has this quiet poise that denotes self-awareness and overall balance. Jade green eyes and short bob black hair, a lithe silhouette leaning towards, but never actually trespassing into, the muscular, a wide mouth and simply beautiful lips that allow a glimpse of white pointy incisors. I only met her in my third university year. By then I had had enough to grow my appetites and know exactly what I was looking for. I did not sit next to her on the first day, though. I took a sit just above and across her and spent the rest of the lecture peeping at the side of her face, her throat and breasts, getting slowly but surely wet as I watched her hand take short, decisive notes on crisp white sheets of paper and fantasised about what the same hands would feel like similarly processing my naked skin.
She turned to me once, raising a cocky eyebrow, then smiled to me on her way out. I missed the beginning of the next lecture as I braced my open legs against the sides of the narrow toilets and let out stifled moans of climactic release into my crumpled scarf.
On the next day, I went staight over to her in my tight-fitting dress and striped sneakers. She sat down and patted the seat next to her. I fell in love immediately and she knew it. Her arm brushed against mine for a whole hour, the back of her hand regularly giving mine an up-and-down stroke. She smiled and made me go almost crimson with teenage embarrassment when we stood up and made for the exit.
My panties were a soggy mess between my legs and she knew it.
I love everything about Julia. But above all I love her name. Julia. Like Julius, of the Gens Iulia, Roman dictator, military and political genius, descendant of the goddess Venus, an iconic Mistress - just have a look at Boticelli's Venus and Mars if you won't believe me. The look and poise are unmistakable. That's Julia all over. My modern-day Venus. My dictator of the senses.
We did not go to bed immediately, though I would have had it right here right now in front of the whole university if she had so wished. Not that she wanted to play with me or make me suffer. Well, there certainly was an element of tease in it, that was only fair, considering the relationship we were about to embark upon. I felt frustration at the time -who wouldn't- but I took it in with good grace. I saw no malice in the way she observed me, sometimes with almost scientific care, and drew a complete mental picture of who I was. Julia is very professional, even in matters of the heart. She'll never take a leap in the dark unless she has got as many bearings as she can. Mark my words, she's no coward or ditherer. Simply she hates to leave things to blind chance. Fortune for her is a concept to be mastered, not to surrender to. That she took such care in actually studying me only meant how much affection she already felt for me and that she did not intend our story to be a short-lived sex relationship. I did not know it then, but I could certainly feel it. So I waited, patient but wet and aching, as she guided our relationship through its first paces and carved a place in our lives for us to fit in snugly.
We kissed a lot. I had trouble restraining my mouth and hands from invading her body but she handled me pretty niftily from the start. Her hands would come across mine as I reached for her waist and breasts, warding them off, nudging them back while her mouth and tongue played a similar game, pulling out, hovering, brushing, beckoning. From time to time, she would treat me to more advanced contact and pin my arm behind my back, my hand safely crossed, my breasts and erect nipples pressing against her as she appropriated my mouth and breath. I would close my eyes and abandon myself, sometimes slipping a lucky thigh between her legs so my cunt could press and rub gently against the fabric of her trousers. I was not allowed to masturbate and the ban elicited frustrated hiccups from my constricted throat. Julia responded by tightening her grip on my body till the sheer pressure and immobility made me come in hot shuddering whimpers.
Does being a Servant automatically mean that you are a submissive? I suppose the inference is hard to avoid. I certainly will not deny it for myself. But there again, mark my words. To serve is to be available, attentive, to attend to the person you work or care for or, in this instance, love. Give her what she expects, what she needs. There's pleasure in giving somebody satisfaction. Now I also like to submit to Julia. She does not require it from me. Would not hate if I didn't. Will not when I don't. Rather, she accepts and welcomes it because that's part of who I am. She knows I need somebody to take charge of my desire so I can fully focus on feeling. Call me lazy or scared. I just want to be at one with my body, let pleasure flow freely through my spine and bathe my mind. I want to be a receptacle, a crucible of our love. Julia will do that for me. She is a girl who can take charge. That's one more element she worked into our relationship straight from the beginning. There again, it may not sound very romantic but that's who she is. And it works.
It took me some time to acknowledge my cravings and the bizarre ways of fulfilling them. Longer than to accept my love for girls. In fact, I did not have real difficulties with being a lesbian. I grew into and out of puberty, and then I fell in love, only with girls. I did not escape the quandary of coming out -in fact, I haven't told anyone in my family- but I was lucky enough not feel it as an issue. I guess there are as many gay balanced people as there are straight ones and it's a question of finding yourself on the right side of the fence. Lusting after girls never bothered me. It's what we'd do together, or rather what they would do to me, that caused some thinking and, yes, quite a dose of unease.
I had my fair share of crushes in comprehensive school and later as a student. The girls would join me at night in the reassuring darkness of my bedroom or we'd find a quiet place in the six-formers' room or in an empty class. I always fell in love with robust girls, most of them achievers in one or the other sports teams. Girls with pep and lithe bodies. At first they would lure me away and mislead me into hot kissing sessions. Then kissing turned to petting, heavy petting until I started to panic and struggle. That was when the bonds came out. Discarded ropes in a gym, leather straps from school bags, scarves, anything convenient enough to tie an unwilling girlfriend into submission. Though I lacked the vocabulary at the time -I made up for it as soon as I got an internet connection of my own-, I ended up in a variety of classical bondage positions -hogtied of course, most of the time, chair-tied, table-tied and as I grew older and to a certain extent bolder, frog-tied in my undies, ball-tied and naked, lotus-tied in my bra. The girls would take delicious time trussing up my fighting body and stifling my protests with increasingly thorough gags -detective gags first, borrowed from good old-fashioned MI or similar episodes, then cleaves with stuffing, duct tape I quite grew to like, especially when I realised it could be used to secure warm wet panties inside my mouth.
I would toss and turn under my covers, my fingers worrying my clit as unchecked pleasure was pumped into me by my fantasy ravishers. I kept a handkerchief bundled into my mouth, both for safety in case I moaned too loud and for the feel of moistening cloth clogging up my mouth. I also loved to keep my hands crossed behind my back and writhe and rub against my sheets. The excitement was greater then as I really felt like a prisonner in my bed and, deprived of the help of my fingertips, took longer to come.
I tried real self-bondage rather late. I say "real" because I did try some ropes and gags in my early teens -who didn't?- but that was what I'd call innocent bondage, wrapping a scarf around my mouth then tying my hands and feet and struggling on a chair or in the bathroom or a cupboard. More than anything, it was a re-enactment of those corny serials I mentioned above where the girls just waited in their out-of-this-world hairdoes and impeccable clothes to be abducted and tied up by some kinky-minded villain.
My first true self-bondage experience I had when I was turning eighteen. I nicked some old ropes from my dad's DIY box and waited for the legendary day when your parents are away for the night or longer and leave you all alone in charge of the house like the grown-up girl you've become. I waited for two hours with knots in my stomach and juices accumulating within my pussy, biding my time pretending to watch dull programmes until I felt sure nobody was coming back unexpectedly, forgotten keys and such likes. I ate a quick dinner, turned off the light and hurried to my bedroom, my heart pounding in my chest, not for the effort of climbing the stairs. I left the room in the dark except for the modest light of my bedside lamp which I placed across from my bed by the wall so it bathed the furniture in a soft, intimate glow. Then I took the ropes out from behind a pile of clothes at the back of my wardrobe, grabbed a pair of old scarves I had retrieved on purpose the day before and placed them carefully on the bed. I stripped off, easing myself out of my panties with great care lest I should come immediately, my cunt was throbbing so hard already. I sat on the bed, enjoyed the delicious shiver of the touch of the sheets against my bare ass and proceeded to tie up my ankles.
Self-bondage is not an easy thing, especially for beginners -anybody will tell you that. You can never achieve the complex knots and positions you have envisioned and always inevitably end up in a hog-tie of sorts that you have to pretend is inescapable, while in fact you'll be holding the ropes so they don't slip away from your wrists and have the illusion you've been hog-tied really tight. But never mind. What mattered then was that I was alone and feeling mischievous, behaving badly and confronting my cravings for the first time head-on.
I came in a matter of minutes, the first real climax I ever experienced, I realised years later. I moaned loudly in my stuffy cleave-gag, drool streaming out of the corners of my mouth, legs and thighs taut like iron, toes curled up and sending flashes of cramped pain through my body. I drowned blindly in frightening waves of pleasure until I finally collapsed, half-tied and wracked with sobs on the humid bed.
I did not try self-bondage again until late in my student life. But by then I knew who I was and approached the whole thing more quietly.
But, to make my point, even though I grew up to feel quite comfortable with my fantasies, they retained the ancient taboo flavour that "deviant" practices carry with them and which makes them hard to consider mentioning, let alone speak of to your family or even your friends. Gayness is becoming socially acceptable. Mum, Dad, dear friends and colleagues, I'm gay, that's what I am but I'm still your child, friend, colleague, etc. Plausible. Happens all the time. But as for the rest of the story... Mum, Dad, dear friends and colleagues, I'm a Servant by nature, I enjoy the occasional self-bondage session, I've always fantasised about being a Mistress' Servant, that's what I am, but I'm still your child, friend, colleague, etc.
Definitely no.
The thing with Julia was precisely that I did not have to tell her anything. She felt my desire to please her and be led by her. The rest flowed naturally. She took me in as I chose her and assumed the primacy I craved to find in my lover.
So, that day, when she said "Kneel", there was no question for me to ask her or myself, no second thought to have.
I was a Servant.
I knelt.
Julia took me to bed a month or so after we first met. We had an early dinner at the local cafeteria then drove to her flat. I did not ask questions, nor did she speak. She led the way in and locked the door behind her. I left my bag and coat on chair in the living room and turned to her open lips and waiting tongue. Her jacket and handbag lay on the floor and I bumped into them as she kissed us into her bedroom. She lay me on top of the bed and crawled over my body, baring my right shoulder with one hand while she held my waist firmly with the other. I was literally beside myself with surprise and surging lust and groped awkwardly for some anchor. Quite naturally, my hand came up above my head and I held them there, crossed and clutching at the air. Julia sighed hotly. Her tongue had completely invaded my mouth and appropriated it slowly and deliberately. I felt her strong fingers surround one of my exposed breasts and overwhelm my aching nipple like a pack of wolves. I whimpered. Then her free hand reached over for my crossed wrists and pressed them hard against the yielding fabric of the mattress. I stiffened, my body arched up under her tight belly as I struggled feebly against my capture. I just had time to feel her muscle-toned thigh inserting itself between my slippery legs before my throat gave way to a hoarse, guttural moan and I shook painfully under the merciless tidal waves of my first climax. Her mouth stuck to mine all the way through and I hiccuped my relief and pleasure into the sweetest of gags.
Like a virgin...
That's what I was then.
I had known agile, probing tongues and the occasional inquiring fingers but at the end of the day my hymen had remained untouched. So technically I was still a virgin and while I had over the recent years accumulated a nice little treasure chest of erotic experiences, whether as a couple or on my own, in many ways I still tended to think of myself as an essentially shy and untrialed lover.
My fondest erotic memories stem from my teenage fantasies. I still have a pretty nice crush on the wayward schoolmates I summoned at night to take advantage of me. It was not their invasive ministrations that did it for me so much as the expectant struggling, that sweet tension that lies between denial and lust. That's what made me come, inevitably. The losing battle for my youthful innocence. RPS. Ravished Princess Syndrom.
Hey, I'm a romantic girl!
Julia spotted that in me, right away. This I know. She never treated me differently, taking stock and advantage of my sensual self-awareness better to arouse then tie down the virgin in me. She was quick to see how kissing the inside of my wrists and ankles turned me on, how the single pressure of her hands as she pinned me against her or the bed was enough to trigger pre-climactic tremors in me. She scarcely needed ropes or any other artificial form of restraints to drive out the blushing princess, although she knew I pined for such treatment.
I kept masturbating from time to time. My laptop has this secret folder that I regularly update with freebies from various bondage sites. My preference goes to young traditional businesswoman held captive by malicious rivals, though I don't deny treating myself to the occasional kinkier session, my fingers worrying my clit between my squeezed thighs as I drink the sight of naked or rubber-bound sluts tightly trussed up, gagged and vibrated onscreen.
My most favourite fantasy of late had been a kidnap scene featuring a young executive being tied on her bed by a gloating workmate -or so I assumed them to be. The storyline is basically always the same in such vignettes and truth to tell, it needs not be otherwise. There's a lot to say about tradition! - The girl had semi-long light auburn hair and a youthful, heart-shaped face like mine. She was wearing dark stockings and a no-nonsense burgundy business suit. She was propped against the bedrest, her hands tied behind her back, her hiked-up skirt exposing her matching lace panties, creamy upper thighs and black garters. Her white satin shirt had been opened wide so her rosy nipples could be clamped and linked together by a small chain.
It was a nice scene all in all, hot and comfy-looking at the same time, with one girl sitting quietly as her black suited captor smilingly tied her knees together with white hemp rope. But what got me straight away was the girl's poise as she watched the other girl tie her up. I felt a instant and profound sense of kinship with those soulful eyes and taped mouth, the way she calmly accepted her predicament, integrated the bondage into herself as intricate knots were fastened and her limbs imprisoned. Submitted to her captor. This was not the attitude of a victim. This was a servant, posing for another servant.
It was quite easy, not to say natural, for me to exchange places with my hapless sister and watch myself being mastered by Julia. Sometimes I would revert to old habits and tie my ankles together tight, tape up my lips with large silver chunks of tape just like the girl's then tremble happily at my desk or on my bed as I worked my throbbing cunt into a frenzy. I had a wonderful time once sitting gagged in a lotus position, my feet crossed and tied in front of me, feeling my juices seep out and coat my fingers, crotch and the fresh sheet underneath. My gaze would travel from the screen to my bound, glistening feet to my hand and moist pubes and back again. I thought of Julia, how much I loved her, how hungry I was for her touch and the bonds she held me in.
I had to change the whole bed linen afterwards.
It was my birthday. I did not celebrate it as a rule, partly out of attitude, partly because I missed the birthday parties of my childhood, with friends and cakes, surprises and excitement. In any case, I did not feel inclined to celebrate myself until Julia picked me up after work and drove me to a quiet pub by the riverside. We had a few drinks and snacks outside, two executive women in smart city clothes and heels enjoying the sunset amid a small crowd of tourists and local patrons. We spoke little. Julia's eyes did all the conversation, holding my hand softly, whispering words of fondness and love, promising moments of sensual grace. Her silent embrace caught the breath in my chest, made my throat tighten and sent my stomach a-flutter. Yet I ate ravenously, my body gorging itself on the dainty bread and meat, assimilating calories with a vengeance, all the while clamouring for substance. I was not deceived. No amount of food would be able to satisfy the growing hunger I felt that night and which was sending my crotch ablaze.
The wine was fresh and fruity. We sipped it leisurely, holding each other's gaze. I breathed wandering ghosts of Julia's perfume. I felt her love bathe my mouth, coat my throat, fill my being with ageless longing.
We drove to her flat under the reddish cover of the sunset sky. Julia led the way up the stairs. I feasted on the taught curve of her skirt, the silky shimmer of her lithe legs, the uncompromising turn of her heels. We reached the third floor and she let us in. The apartment bathed in subdued tones of red and orange. I walked into the living-room and left my handbag on the sofa. My feet throbbed for attention. I kicked my heels off and stood in my stockings on the blissfully fresh polished floor. I turned to Julia. She had draped her jacket over one of the chairs by the round dinner table and was looking at me in in her heels, skirt and moiré camisole, her well-defined shoulders reflecting the diminishing light. I swallowed drily.
"Kneel", she said.
My breath came out in a short, trembling sigh. It was not an order. Neither was it a request or even a suggestion. She said the word naturally, as she might have told me to sit down or hand over a magazine or pass the salt for all I know. I wavered for a second or two, less out of surprise than reluctance to let the moment go. That was the moment when I completely and unashamedly gave myself up to the woman I love.
I padded to her and knelt at her feet with my hands coming to rest behind my back as if of their own free will. Julia gazed at me in silence, her eyes indecipherable yet knowing and comforting. She pushed the chair with her jacket aside and retrieved a cardboard box that had been hidden under the table. She set it up onto the table and emptied its contents. My heart missed a beat and my stomach lurched hungrily as Julia took out the neatly-folded lengths of white hemp rope, a white silk scarf and a roll of silver duct tape. She looked down to me again, as if to make sure I stood where I was supposed to, both physically and mentally, then grasped one of the coils of rope and stepped behind me. My breath grew ragged when she took hold of my wrists, crossed them and started to entwine them in a careful, immobilizing wrap. I knew Julia well enough to know she would have given the issue of bondage a thorough check and made sure she knew how to tie loving yet uncompromising knots. I did not need to look at my hand to see how efficient the job was. It only took her a couple of minutes to bind my wrists and lower arms in an inescapable web that made my veins throb lightly for sheer emphasis. I flexed my fingers and twisted my hands tentatively for Julia to assess the quality of her work and please herself with my captivity.
I felt her hip and thigh brush past me on her way back to the table. Sweat was starting to cover my shoulders and temples with a fine sheen but my body hesitated between feeling cold and hot. I felt both when she turned back to me with the scarf in her hand. I watched in mute fascination as she expertly folded it into a smooth bundle then bent down and pushed gently into my welcoming mouth. Hot saliva flooded from the sides of my mouth and started to drench the wad. Julia smiled, sensing my confusion. She reached for the tape, tore up a strip and pasted it deftly onto my half-open mouth, pushing the wad further in. I grunted shyly and bent my head forward. She raised it with her fingertips, tore up another silver strip and applied ir over the first one. I closed my eyes and sighed through flaring nostrils.
Julia's hands came under my arms and she helped me up. I stood on amazingly wobbly legs so she almost had to support me on our short way to the Mistress Bedroom. The room was plunged in semi-darkness and smelled of Julia's perfume. The bed was freshly made, white cotton sheets and matching pillows. She made me sit on the edge then helped me settle with my back propped comfortably against one pillow.
While I shifted slightly on my spot, she sat at my feet, the shadow of an impish smile hovering over her lips. Then it all dawned on me and I was grateful for the gag that muffled my surprise. How could she have known, I wondered in lusty dismay, suddenly feeling over-exposed in my hiked-up skirt and peeking garters. I did not remember lending her my laptop and my secret folder was very secret and very well-hidden indeed. Yet here she was, re-enacting my favourite fantasy for me with all the tender-cum-professional care that was so much like her.
Love for Julia flooded my veins and my throat grew taut while she clasped my ankles, felt the smooth fabric of my stockings and the pulsing veins underneath the warm skin. She tied me up quietly, making my feet tense and my toes curl up feverishly. Sometimes her fingertips would find my tender spots inside and behind my ankles or just under the balls of my feet and lingered there for short but intense moments. My knees came last and by the time my legs lay safely tucked against each other, the inside of my thighs and my labia felt wet and lustrous with the juices of my hunger.
There was a rectangular wrapped box on the bedside table, white with a luxurious silken red ribbon, like a box of chocolates - You never know what you're gonna get... Julia came to sit by my side, picked up the box and presented it to me.
"Happy birthday, honey", she breathed. I shifted some more in anticipation, my stomach getting tauter by the second, my legs and feet alive with a thousand shivers. Julia unfastened the knot and let the ribbon slip down to the ground. She removed the lid and tilted the box for me to peruse its content.
I whimpered behind my wad and tape.
Surprise. Shock. Confusion. Anticipation. Shame.
Hunger.
On a lustrous white pillow lay my two birthday gifts, glimmering dully in the fading light. Julia picked the small chain and let the two nipple clamps dangle in front of my eyes. With one hand, she opened my jacket and blouse then tucked my bra under my small breasts so the blood-filled nipples peeked out cheekily. Her thumb and index probed the over-sensitive bits of flesh, kneading them expertly until I cringed and groaned hoarsely. My back arched and I shuddered hugely when the first clamp bit into my right nipple and drenched it into a storm of electric fire. My legs stiffened. My toes curled up inside my moist stockings. I was barely recovering when the flames spread along the small links to engulf my left breast. The blaze raged up and down through my body, covering my feet with cold sweat and flooding my mouth and my cunt. I moaned. Now Julia was strumming the chain linking the two clamps and I felt like a single-chord instrument between her bewitching hands, swaying in the music she played into my flesh and bones, suddenly, achingly coming alive.
My head grew dizzy. I felt wet and shivering and hot all over. My panties were soaked with the soft cream of my imminent climax, the naked flesh between the garters and the hem of my skirt shimmered dully in the rich penumbra.
I watched in a trance-like state, my breath coming hot and ragged out of my flaring nostrils as Julia picked the silver vibrator from the box and went to stand at the foot of the bed. I drew my bound ankles up, as if on instinct I felt the conflagration coming and braced for it. The move caused my panties to slide into my cleft and drew another shuddering gasp from my stuffed mouth. Julia went on mercilessly. Her hands travelled to the hem of her skirt and raised it along her muscle-toned hips. Two fingers hooked up and drew the front of her black-laced panties down, revealing the trimmed dark triangle my mind and body treasured like the most precious of gems. The light was getting dimmer so she stood in a beguiling sea of shadows but I saw with my mind's eye the tiny silver pearls of sweat adorning her hair, the precious juices of her desire sipping up to the edge of her labia, beckoning to my suddenly painfully captive tongue.
The long, silver shape of the vibrator slid slowly down her bosom, past the crumpled hem of her skirt. When it came to rest upon her sex, its weight pressing against the springy hair, I felt as if it was my cunt Julia was getting ready to taunt and tease and pleasure .Once again I felt grateful for the gag, for the ropes, for the immobility that kept my mouth and thighs shut tight and forced my lust to wait, simmer, focus.
Now we both breathed low, swayed and hummed with the device while it scouted our intimacy, probed our depths, slid and delved and sang over and into the throbbing walls of our cleft. Its wedged tip led the assault, sending radar pulses across the path, summoning each inch of flesh to come alive and make itself known. I cringed and writhed openly in my bonds. My crotch felt swollen and throbbing like never before and I pressed my thighs together tighter as if I could press the juice of orgasm out of my burning body. My feet came up and I bent forward on my side till I could feel the round edge of my heels brush against the fleshy crease where my thigh and buttocks met. I moaned hoarsely like the she-cat in heat I was and let out a grunt of triumph when I finally succeeded in wedging one heel between my thighs. I twisted and pushed against my frustratingly inefficient instrument while my bare breast revelled in heat and sensuous pain as I rubbed against the cool fabric of the sheets.
My sight had grown fuzzy and misty with sweat but I kept my eyes on Julia whose sex had devoured the thrumming device and was playing with it, turning its probing audacity into account, sucking it in then pushing it out then capturing it again before it slid out entirely. We were getting drowned in our own frenzy, two mindless bodies lost in their search for pleasure, uninhibited, unashamed, unchecked.
But it stopped.
I roared in ravenous dismay when I heard the definite click and saw Julia's body pause in its dance. I froze up in the foetal position I lay in, stockings in disarray, my skirt askew and hiked up high around my waist, one shoulder bared, my nipples hard and rubbed red. I whimpered questioningly, imploringly. Julia stood motionless, face drenched in sweat, eyes alight with sensual fever. The vibrator slid out of her spicy-smelling vagina with a slow, sucking sound, its length and tip tantalzingly coated with Julia's inner juices. She let it hang at waist level while she searched my eyes and held my body and soul at bay. I cringed again. I pleaded with my eyes. My throat felt so tight I thought I would choke on the emotion welling up inside. Quietly she stepped towards the bed, crept onto it and came to hover over me like some great mythical bird of prey in a fantasy wet dream. My skin covered itself with goose bumps like an ice storm running across my body. I flinched and tugged at my bonds. Her fingers brushed a wet strand away from my face then traveled along my eyebrow, down the the ridge of my nose and across my gagged lips. I squeezed the spongy wad inside my mouth and swallowed tepid drool.
In the darkness of the room she spooned behind me, her crotch soft and warm against my buttocks, her thighs against mine, the top of her feet caressing my soles. My bound hands reached out for her wetness and my fingers were welcomed in. She pushed my legs away and positioned me so my ass lay exposed and available. She seized the side of my panties and rolled them down my thighs. They stuck at the crotch where my thrashing had wedged them in then came out with a thrilling rasp. My whimpers turned into a continuous, guttural hum. I curled up higher, tigher, laying my blood-filled labia bare and open, sending my urge into her with busy, greedy fingers.
My whole body shuddered when the the tip of the vibrator kissed my cunt. I felt Julia's kiss below my ear.
The vibrator slid home and I broke into sobs of grateful bliss as Julia quietly took dominion of my soul.
Originally published March 2006 - "Straight Lines and Sexy Curves"