Griswold Frye is the pseudonym of a Philadelphia poet who would rather that her children and fellow members of Congress not be aware of her erotic writing.

Woman Seeking Man (March 20, 2009. Issue 15. The DirtyDirty.)

Mailbox: 94666

I'm just getting back into the dating scene after a divorce. The men I meet just don't take charge sexually the way I really like. After my fairly wild younger days, I know what I like, and it's this: I want a demanding older lover who will ravish me with his tongue, spank me, tie me up, and love to look at me. I love to be naked when he is dressed. And I would love to try some new things for my lover's pleasure. Please write and tell me your fantasies. I would be willing to meet someone in New Hope, if you sound promising. Or more exactly, if you make me feel like making promises.

* * * *

Dear 94666,

It begins with the smell of strawberries. We are in a room at the Four Seasons Hotel on the Parkway in Philadelphia and there’s a knock at the door. It’s room service and I step out in the corridor to sign and accept the tray. You hear me say “ We’re not quite dressed in there.”

‘Not quite dressed’ is a bit of a misstatement, a sign of my awkwardness, a tiny violation of your privacy. The truth is that you are, except for a few pieces of cotton rope, completely naked on a piece of furniture that I am amused to call a ‘love seat’. One length of rope binds your wrists together in a handcuff knot. The loose ends of the knot are fished through a hole in the middle of a black walnut walking stick. The stick is about four feet long and at each end there is a brass fitting with a ring. Your ankles are tied, one to each end of the stick.

Lying on your back, the effect is of some beautiful animal trussed for a very special cooking. Your ass, which has a very faintly pink glow in the center of each cheek, is facing the middle of the room and your legs are bent with your arms sagging between them.

I wheel the tray to the couch and I sit down next to you. I pick a small bowl from the tray. It is one of those heavy, silverish hotel bowls that’s been polished by a thousand light scratches. Holding it near to your face, I command you to smell. You turn your head and sniff. The smell of strawberries seems oddly innocent in comparison to the the transparent wickedness of your situation. I wonder if you think of that or if you are merely craving.

You exhale loudly and I frown. You have come very close to violating the Rule of Silence which obtains in hotel rooms. You see my look, realize your error and cringe. I decide to forgive you. I taste one of the smallest berries. It is not as sweet as its fragrance and I measure a heaping teaspoon of sugar into the bowl and start tapping the berries with the spoon, shaking the bowl and rotating the berries as I go.

I have time. In a minute or so, the fruit is bruised and glistening with juice. The added sugar will draw more juice by osmosis and in a while, the berries will have collapsed slightly into a puddle of their own sweet syrup.

I give it to you to smell again, set the bowl back, stand up and roll the tray away. You are watching me closely and I make sure to stand so that your legs don’t block your view. What you see is a strongly built middle aged man in hiking clothes-Timberland boots, khaki shorts, brown belt and a black polo shirt with no emblem over the heart. Clipped to the plaquet of the shirt is a small metal tag that signifies paid admission to the museum galleries that we visited an hour ago. The tag is mustard yellow and in its middle is a white silhouette of a grifffin, the beast that guards the treasure.

Your attention is drawn to the brown belt which I have unbuckled and am now removing slowly. It is a plain cowhide strap about an inch and a half wide and it makes a snapping sound as I draw it out of the last belt loops. I double it, take one end in each hand and pull, the flaccid middles come together with a sharp pop. I think of a Tibetan temple bell or a muzzein clearing his throat.

Your eyes widen at the sound and you lick your lips. I let the belt hang by my side as I take a step closer to you. You close your eyes. Is it fear, is it a prayer? It’s a mystery.

I take the walking stick and push it back and up, extending your legs. I bring the belt gently to you so that it hangs along your thigh and ass and I draw it slowly upward, tickling your skin. Your legs tremble lightly, galvanically, a few millivolts of leather. I tickle you with it some more, playing the edges of the belt along your skin. You roll slightly, stretching up, pulling away from the sensation.

I step back a little to look at you, still pushing the stick up and away. If I could freeze a moment, it would be this one: You, trembling, spread and open. Your pubic hair is trimmed and shaved in a slim arrowhead to emphasize rather than hide you.

I move to the side, and swing the belt in an easy arc. It makes a light slapping sound a kiss, a salute, on the backs of your thighs. More taps of the belt land swishing, caressing, teasing, across your ass, then on the inside of each thigh, then on your hips, right and left, each one no more than a light pop.

I shorten up and take a compact, controlled swing that lands on the inside of your right thigh about two inches from the groin, then quickly another, delivered backhand to the left. There is some sting to these strokes, but mostly they are promises. I wait and watch as two faint pink rectangles develop.

I touch the outlines of the red rectangles as they develop on the inside of your thighs. I rest my hand on your pubis, covering it, concealing it and making a gentle cirlcle with the heel of my hand.

Then I raise the full length of the doubled belt over my head. You follow it up with your eyes and then I bring it down sharply, diagonally hard across your ass. I move to your other side and you collapse your legs in a gesture of protection.

“Up!” I say, showing you the belt. The gesture is ridiculous: in essence I’m threatening to beat you unless you make it more convenient for me to beat you. There is, none the less, some drama in it and, with a convincing little tremor, you extend your legs straight up.

The belt comes winging down on the opposite diagonal, the two strokes making an ‘X’ across your bottom. I put the belt down and step back again to watch. As I watch, I am mentally extending the two lines, plotting their intersection, testing my aim. I intend to play my tongue on your flesh in the little rhombus made by the overlap of these two double lines.

I run my fingers along the edges of the two red lines, lightly, tickling. If I were reading this fantasy to you right now instead of writing it, you would be sitting at my feet. I might just reach down to your ankles and raise them both up towards the ceiling. Your skirt, if you were wearing one, would fall back and your bare ass-in accordance with The Rules- would be exposed. I might reach for my belt and give you those two crossing strokes. Do you love multi-media?

Your eyes are closed and your lips look dry. I wet my finger in the juice from the strawberries and run it along your lower lip. You open your eyes and look at me. You lick my finger and mouth the word ‘yes’.

I kneel on the floor between your legs, my hands resting on your thighs. I roll you back just a little. In the shelter of the hills of your ass and thighs, there is a spot, indicated but untouched by the belt. The location is slightly different every time we do this, but my aim is practiced now and we have the outcome that both of us were rooting for.

My tongue touches you lightly, but you jump as if it burned. I flick my way around the edges of the imaginary intersection. I. . .but perhaps I’ve said enough.

After all, we haven’t been properly introduced. Maybe I should just leave us both there in the hotel room-you wondering where your next kiss is coming from, me wondering if you are thinking about making promises, both of us wrapped in the aroma of bruised fruit and sugar, you leaning back into the couch at the oddest angle.

Give me a call if you’re inclined.

Jack

* * * *

Dear Jack,

Your story left me breathless. You have a sense of romance about you and I really like that. You also seem to know something about suspense and I like that even more. (Although, to tell the truth, I’ve never been suspended. Hmmmm) Why don’t you meet me on Saturday at the bar at Brasserie Perrier? Noon, if that’s all right. I’m five foot, five inches tall, kind of athletic (but a tad overweight these days ). I have reddish brown close-cropped hair and I’ll be wearing a black suit. I wonder if you’ll get to talk me out of it.

Jill

1.

I'm imagining a woman climbing stairs, the man behind her carrying her suitcase. At the top, there's a small table with a steel dish and in the dish there's a black leather collar fitted with an iron ring. She sets her suitcase down and turns to him. He says 'You know, when I fasten this collar on your neck, you are my captive. My will is your destiny. Do you understand?' The woman is sophisticated, well-read and stylish. If she had read these words in a novel, she would have thrown the book aside, snorting. But she is hearing them half-whispered at the top of the steps in a certain Philadelphia townhouse. There is an herbal scent in the air and a peculiar tingling in the pit of her stomach. His words make her lightly dizzy. She nods and he continues 'May I put this on you? Understand that once you say yes to this collar, you can no longer say no to anything else'. She licks her lips and swallows. She raises her eyes to him and then, scared by her own boldness, nods a quick yes.

The collar is on her in a second, the ring hanging at the back of her neck. It’s not tight, there is an inch or so of slack leather. 'Take off your clothes, put on the shoes' he says and in a liquid rush of assent, she is naked except for the collar and a pair of black strappy heels that she has carried here as a promise of this moment. 'Give me your hands' he says and in a second her wrists are bound with a thick silk cord, the kind that holds a window drape in place. 'How did he do that?' she wonders as she feels her self melt away. He takes her bound wrists and holds them down. He nibbles her lower lips and strokes her teeth with his tongue while he plays his fingers lightly along her right nipple.

'Come' he says, relishing the double meaning as he leads her past the pile of her clothes, tottering on the unfamiliar shoes to the stairs that will eventually lead her up to a hot, baked, bound ecstasy. But for now, there is only his hand on her lower back as her urges her forward and the awareness that he has picked up a light wooden paddle and is tickling the back of her thighs with it as they approach the steps.

She mounts the first step and he stops her by grabbing the collar by its ring. 'Lean forward' he says. 'put your hands on the third step above your feet' she counts nervously and puts her bound hands in front of her.

'Move your feet apart. There . . . you can do better than than that' and she is spread, displayed on this stage, these steps, her ass at the level of his chest.

She feels his hand tracing the swelling of her rump and she arches her back, curling away from the tickle of his fingers. She lets out a sigh as he lightly brushes her pubic lips and she shivers when he blows on them lightly. She remembers the paddle that he carried along and at that exact second, she feels him draw a scratchy line down the back of her right thigh with its corner.

She arches her back again and thrusts towards him at the very second when the paddle whooshes through the air and lands with a slap on the thickest, roundest part of her left ass cheek. In the silence that follows the smack, he tickles her pussy and watches the red rectangle develop. He quickly strikes another blow on the right. She whimpers slightly and he leans in to her, kissing the rosebud between her cheeks and taking a sharp, quick  bite from her flesh. He rests his cheek for an instant on the hot strip of skin that he just hit.

'Up to the next step' he says in a breathy, tropical voice. 'Now!' she straightens up and breathes in sharply as if daring to inhale for the first time in his presence.  She feels his hand on her back, strong and steady as she pushes herself up to the next step.

'Again. Three steps and put your hands down' She looks up at the polished oak stairs and tries to count them, knowing that each one will hold a stroke or two and wishing to measure the full size of the sting in advance. 'Now!' he says, annoyed at her delay, flicking the paddle smartly on her thigh, the stroke a punishment, not a caress. 'Move, please when I tell you to.'

He stands on the step below her and she can feel the slick fabric of his shirt and the cold trim of his belt buckle against her flesh as she bends over again  quickly. 'Maybe this will remind you to obey' he says as he reaches around her and slides his hand along her left breast. In an instant, she feels the sharp pinch of a clamp on her nipple and looks down to see a clothespin, commonplace and wooden. She shakes involuntarily, trying to rid herself of the annoying little animal that's biting her, radiating  its heat out over her breast.

'Don't drop it now' he says and something in his voice tells her that there’s a harsher reminder waiting if this clip falls off. The thought makes her lower her shoulder and relax into the pain of the wooden teeth which is, she decides, not so alien after all.

She hears him step down, feels the sudden absence of his body heat and then the tickling caress of his hand as it makes feathery circles on her hips and back. He brushes the spots that he spanked on the step below and then runs his fingers down the crack of her ass and along the shaved lips of  her pussy. His touch is infuriatingly light, like a breeze and it makes her moan with longing.

The next two strokes come swiftly, smacksmack a little harder than the ones before and as she mounts to the next step at his command, she can feel the burn that follows, the sting and the heat of it pushes her up. His hand on her back becomes for just a moment, this rock hard, reassuring thing, a foundation, a protector, not a punisher and she wonders at the link between those two qualities as she bends over quickly and arches her back in that way that she knows pleases him.

She wants to scream' yes' when the next blow falls. It is a perfect, stinging throbbing radiating little sun of pleasure. It is exactly why she wants this, precisely the sensation that makes the emotion she's craving. She swims down with the sting into the whirlpool of surrender that she realizes is her true home.

She counts quickly- there are ten more steps and reflecting on the fact that heat rises, she mounts to the next at his command. Embracing the smooth wood of the step with her bound hands, she is grateful to the wood itself for a moment and strokes it as she would his cock if he were to offer it to her now. But instead of his cock, he offers the paddle, a stroke on each side with an interval of three or four heartbeats between. He moves up behind her afterwards, running his hand up her spine, across her shoulder and pinching her right breast. She feels his hardness as he does and somehow the blunt presence of him on the back of her thigh connects with the sting of the clamp on her nipple and for a second she feels dizzy and powerful all at once.

*   *   *   *

At the top of the stairs, she stops and looks at a small framed nude that he keeps there. It shows a woman floating on her back in the surf near a beach. She is naked and her eyes are closed and her arms stretched above her head in triumph. The woman has high eurasian cheekbones and an almost impossibly feminine body. Her pubic hair makes a tiny exclamation point against the flat plane of her belly. It would be a good, but ordinary picture except that the sea itself is a hot pink red and floating on the water with her are the words ‘LAY’ and ‘AWAY’ in bright yellow neon. He allows her a few seconds to spin her brain around the picture before he turns her to the right. With his hand on her bright red ass, he gently guides her along the hall to his bedroom. The shades are drawn and he leads her to a place on the wall between the two windows.

'Turn around and face me' he says, 'Hands behind your head. . .  .good. . ..move your feet apart. Excellent.'  His hand squeezes her pubic lips, kneading them and sending waves of yesyesmore through her. Her knees begin to weaken and he steps back. He squeezes the clamp on her nipple in a rapid tatoo-bah dah bum bum bum and yanks it off. The sharp increase in pain and then its sudden absence pricks a sigh out of her. She feels a throbbing as the blood rushes back to the skin and it almost feels like the throbbing is in the same tempo as his squeezes. ‘Play me’ she thinks, ’tune me and play me, maestro.’

‘Don’t move.’ He says, but it’s unnecessary. She couldn’t move if she wanted to and what she wants now is not her own movement. He moves to the other side of the bed, he starts to undress. He slips off the black, clingy tee shirt-a silk one that she bought him just so she could feel it-and him-against her.  She watches the muscles of his chest  and shoulders ripple as he folds the shirt. She is suddenly conscious of the spread of her legs and she longs to touch herself with bound hands and watch the rest of his undressing.

He unbuckles his belt, removes it from the loops and tosses it on the bed between them. Something more than just a paddling today she thinks as the belt hits the bed, and she shivers. The soft light from the windows behind her picks out the contours of the muscles in his arms and she licks her lips drymouthed. She should be frightened of those arms, of their ropy muscles and the lined, sculpted shoulders above them. She should be frightened, but she's not. She thinks a bunch of stupid words liked ‘ripped’ and ‘chiseled’ and ‘cut’, but then she thinks what she always thinks: ‘mine’.

'Oh take your time with your pants' she whispers to herself, the thought a plea, a prayer. And as if he heard her, he does, lingering on the zipper, slowly pushing the stiff denim down his thighs. She can hear it crackle and with each nudge, his arms flex and the muscles dance like serpents and she is hot and rising at the sight.

The tiny blue cotton briefs seem silly and she wonders for a minute why men care about women’s underwear when they care so little about their own. Then she remembers how panties make her feel and she supposes that they don’t have the same shiveresonance for men.

She can’t tell if she sees a tiny wet spot on his drawers but she can see the straining of his cock against them and in a second, they are slipped off and kicked away.

His cock is not particularly large, but it is ample enough for her purposes and she thinks it astonishingly beautiful in its proportions and outline. She would suck on it for the pure beauty of the thing. She would suck on it even if it didn’t have that magnificent hardsoft texture and that resilient spring as it rebounded from her tongue. She would suck on it even if she couldn’t command his entire being through her sucking and take his soul with his semen in her mouth.

But she can take that soul. When he looks at her across the distance of the bed, she knows that he knows that she devours him as he whips her, that each stroke pulls him relentlessly in. Who is the boss here anyway?, she asks herself. Who cares? Her self replies.

He walks around the bed. ‘Don’t move’ he says again, putting his right hand on her side just below her upraised arm. He runs his fingers down her side, across her ribs and waist and on to her hip. He pulls her away from the wall and she leans back expecting the crack of his hand. Instead, he draws her to him, his face in perfect symmetry to hers, his lips slightly parted.

He pulls her, using her hip as a lever to draw her naked, bound body into his. His strength is delicate enough that their two pubic bushes touch shyly as they reintroduce each other and merge.

‘Kiss me’ he says ‘like it was prom night’. And kiss her he does, barely holding her upper lip between his and sliding his tongue left to right across its underside. Not kissing, tasting. In the absolute silence, there is nothing for either of them but the taste and glide of his tongue on her lower lip.

And kiss him she does. Her tongue slides out to capture the underside of his and tickle it. ‘Think what I will do to your cock’ it says and then her tongue plunges greedily into his mouth searching for places to tickle and delight. She sucks his lips into her mouth and then opens wide as his tongue, in erect imitation of his cock, probes and strokes her. He seizes her tongue between his lips and sucks it into his mouth, playing with it, flicking it with the tip of his tongue. She thinks the words ‘tongue-lashing’ and almost laughs, but doesn’t.

She doesn’t laugh at her own joke because at that very moment he pulls her into him with his left arm while his right hand rises to stoke her face. The stroke, down her left cheek and along her neck is like a feather’s and it seems that her skin rises, burning to its touch. The embrace of his arm is far from gentle though and for the hundredth time, she marvels at the casual, graceful strength of him. It pulls her breasts hard against his chest and his chest muscles ripple with the effort. Her nipples feel active, almost prehensile, she feels like they are stroking the raw manliness of his body. Then he squeezes her just a little tighter and waves of pleasure stream from her breasts toward her belly. She knows that if he allowed her to lower her hands and touch his back that she could trace the outlines of those muscles and feel that erotic, elastic hardness with her fingers too.

But her hands are behind her head and she’s not sure she can handle the penalty for disobeying. At least not now. His right hand, which had been dallying along her cheek goes to her mouth and replaces his tongue. He strokes the inside of her lips and then her chin. He slides his hand down her neck and collarbone, skirts the edge of the breast that he is clamping tight against him and scratches his way down her ribs. She moans and he uses the parting of her lips as an invitation to kiss her and luxuriate in the taste of the inside of her mouth. His hand comes to rest on the side of her ass and he gently squeezes it.

His cock is hard against her belly now, feeling larger than it looked a few minutes ago. She rises on her toes and arches her back trying to capture the head of it between her thighs.

“Mmm, my dirty little slut, you want some cock don’t you?” His voice is hard, almost menacing with just an edge of silkiness. She knows that voice: it means that the sweet, impassioned sensuality of the man is about to give way to some little drama that he will invent just for her. She usually finds his constructions exciting, she often finds them amusing, and she is always thrilled that he bothers to think of them. ‘Go ahead, unwrap my present for me’ she thinks. ‘Do whatever you want as long as it’s you doing me’.

“Turn around” he says and as she faces the wall, she feels her bound hands, which had been on the crown of her head, drawn down to her collar. She hears a tiny metallic click and a little tug is enough to tell her that her hands are secured behind her neck. He takes her hair in one hand, gathers it up and uses it as a leash to turn her around. He turns her with just his forearm and wrist, showing off, she imagines, but showing off for her. She thinks it a gift and says a silent ‘thank you’.

He brushes his body against her side. He does it for the pleasure of feeling her breast, but she thinks it makes it easier for him to put his arm around her waist, hug her, fold her over and lower her onto the bed. He never throws her although she imagines he could. Not to the bed or the floor or the sofa in his library. Always this embrace, this careful controlled transition to some splendid humiliation.

“It’s not the beat, it’s the humility” she once explained to him. He had taken her at her word, and even though there was a place inside him that worshipped her, he always made sure that their scenes were tinged with a little fear or coarseness or embarrassment. This time, he lay her on the bed with her head near his black walnut headboard. He reached between it and the mattress and used a clip to tie her collar to a length of cotton nautical rope that ended someplace under the bed. The small of her back landed on the previously tossed belt

He picks up the clothes pins that had recently tormented her nipple and produces another one from the window sill. ‘I can take that’ she thinks. He crosses her ankles and ties them over each other. The knot he uses is called a ‘lashing’ and it’s rather loose. She is puzzled. Why would he deliberately close her legs? Why leave her so much wiggle room?

He produces another length of rope, maybe six feet long. He ties one end with two half hitches around the slack loops of her ankle bonds. The other end he leads to her collar and loops it through the space in front. He brings the rope back on itself and quickly spins out a ratchet knot. She has seen this before: it’s an arrangement that allows him to pull a rope tight along itself and not slip back. He used it once to secure her upraised hands to a hook in her basement, another time he used two ratchet knots to gradually draw her legs apart in a grove where they were camping.

This time he shortens the rope with the ratchet, drawing her ankles in closer to the collar. As he does, her knees spread and her hips rise. Her thighs press against her breasts and her nipples are covered. She is essentially folded in two, her face and breasts hidden. She is not just exposed, she is reduced to her bottom which is now pointed to the sky like the mouth of a baby bird. What will he do with the clips, she wonders as he juggles them insolently and lets them fall on the bed between her legs.

He reaches in his nightstand for the gag, the one with the ball in its middle and the infinitely adjustable velcro closure. He slides the ball between her face and feet and runs it down her forehead, nose and lips. He rocks it side to side on her lips, presses it lightly against them. “you’ve been bad you know” he says. “It would be right to gag you so you couldn’t have a safe-word, no way to escape your just punishment”. She nodded, just a little head bob. He had gagged her before, but there was some dark fear in her, some thought that his perfect control might falter, that a single slip from a man that strong might.

“But tonight, I want to use a different gag” he said.

‘Ohmigod’ she thought. ‘What has he come up with? I hope it’s not that metal thing I saw in the store.’

“Tonight, I want you to gag yourself with your will. Say nothing. If you speak, there will be no punishment, I will just leave. I’ll leave and leave you here, flexed and bound. I’ll go out and have a glass of wine down at Byo’s, maybe shoot some pool over at Grumpy’s. Then I’ll come back and untie you and call you a cab. Gag yourself with your will. If you know that I love you, don’t speak. Do you agree to this?”

Agree? My oh my oh my. She, who loved the binding because it made the bonds? Gag myself for you? And yes, she thought, when I agree, you will be tied to me forever.

She nodded quickly. Yes. Yes. She could feel the backs of her thighs beginning to burn. He slides the belt out from under her, flicks it backhand on the bed beside her. She can see the muscles of his forearm spring like snakes and she licks her lips. He drops the belt and kneels beside her. One hand presses her ankles down towards her face, the other strokes the back of her thighs. He tickles her ass and then raises his hand toward the ceiling and brings it down hard on the right cheek of her ass.

The force of the blow slides her back along the sheets, the heat of the pain makes her see stars. He waits a second, maybe two, then smacks the other cheek. The burning echoes back and forth in her loins. A dozen more land, lighter but faster, a percussion section of stinging, burning pain. And then he stops.

The waves of stinging are still vibrating back and forth across her when he bends over her and kisses, first the red burning finger marks on her ass, then the outer lips of her vulva then the soft, inner wetter skin. His kisses were dry, soft and gentle. ‘Nuzzles’ she might call them. She could feel the texture of his lip on her clitoris, as it softly scraped her. Then his tongue found her wetness, poking, probing, stirring it. She pulled her ankles in to her face in spite of the pain and stiffness, trying to make herself more open to his kisses.

Her gesture sets him on fire, he seems to want to devour her, to suck her into him. He sucks her clitoris, pulling it into his mouth while he flicks it with his tongue. His first two fingers probe her, reaching deep inside to find the spongy spot on the front wall of her vagina. He taps it in rhythm to his sucking and she curls her back and soon he hears a low guttural moan and then a strangled cry. Her elbows fold together and her head jerks in little spasms from side to side.

When the tide of her orgasm recedes and her breathing slows she looks up to see him staring at her. Did she break her promise of silence? Will he leave her there as a punishment? Instead, his hand goes to the rope that holds her ankles to the collar and he supports her aching hips and thighs as she lowers her legs back to the mattress. In a few more seconds, her ankles are unbound and he is gently spreading her feet apart.

He kneels on the bed beside her and she can see the underside of his cock outlined against his chest. It is a few inches away from her mouth and she curls easily up to it, the muscles of her abdomen barely straining.

He supports her head with his left hand and she blows gently along his scrotum. She goes from blowing to licking and then moves her tongue to the underside of his cock and sweeps it with delicate flicking motions. She can feel his body vibrate in time to her tongue.

Her delicate strumming moves to the head of his cock, to the little fold of skin on the bottom just behind the head. He is making tiny grunts by now and his hand is tight on her hair pulling her head back. She thinks of herself as surfing him like he is a big velvety wave and she is riding along on the crest.

She engulfs the head of his cock with her mouth holding it gently between her teeth while she probes the opening of his urethra with her tongue. He is shuddering now and after a few seconds, he falls forward across her still holding on to her hair. He lets out a little yelp as his cock scrapes across her teeth and fills her mouth to the back of her throat.

In spite of being on top of her, he is whimpering now like some pathetically wounded animal begging for release. She invites his cock deeper with little upward motions of her head. She keeps herself from gagging on the thing and she takes more and more of it, swallowing up more and more of him.

When she feels him start to come, she pulls back a little and rubs her tongue hard on the underside of the head of his cock and makes the lightest contact with her teeth. His scream bounces off her chest and buzzes through her ears at the same minute that his semen shoots hard toward the roof of her mouth. His body arches and she can see the veins standing out in the front of his shoulders. He is, for a few seconds, electrically stiff and then he subsides, slackens into a staccato series of low moans that slowly merge into what sounds to her like a sob. “Mine” she thinks and smiles to herself as he collapses, like a sleepy toddler onto the pillow next to her.

2.

The next morning, she woke to the smell of oranges. In the center of a small round plate on the bedside table was a tumbler of orange juice with a sprig of mint hanging over the rim and around the edge of the plate, four peeled sections of orange and a curved, twisted bit of orange peel. Did the aroma wake her or did he merely time its delivery so that its luxurious aroma would be the first thing that she noticed? Was the sprig of mint a welcome elaboration or mere overacheiving on his part?

She really didn’t care about the answers as she stretched her back and tried to relieve the tightness in her shoulders. She rolled easily onto her ass: good, no welts. She would check later for bruises. She sat up and the covers slid from her breasts as she looked up and saw him sitting, smiling on the bed beside her. He had that silly, puppydog, proud-of-himself look that she found so sweet. It was as if he had invented orange juice and done it just for her. This man was a definite keeper.

3.

I rang your doorbell, it was morning, 9am, well before the dancers' waking hour. You opened the door, hiding behind it as it swung. I could only tell you were there at all by the logfire smell of coffee that escaped into the cold morning air.

But I exaggerate. I could also tell you were there by the thin line of naked shoulder, leg and silver shoe that didn't quite make it behind the door as you opened it. I stepped inside quickly, awkwardly almost, as if it were the first time I ever saw your flesh. It's always like that with you, you know, like a first time somehow.

Anyway, you were holding a coffee cup, one of those monster mug things that I like-gallonage you call it. And you were naked, except for the shoes and smiling. Always that smile, opium smooth cocaine bright smile. Damn.

I dropped my little package, shrugged my way out of my bulkly coat, my arms loosely around your waist before it hit the floor.

'Want some coffee?' you say. Seeing that I can barely speak, much less sip, you set the cup down and put your hands to my face. Your eyes-greygreengold-are wide open, pupils big in the dim light of the apartment. I pull you to me, grateful again that those huge shoes bring your cheek level with mine and your ass within an easy hand reach. I hear the scrunch of your tiny pubic bush against my pants and feel myself harden to you. My cock warms gratefully to you as I kick my shoes off and pull you into me.

I trace the muscles on your back and arms and shoulders with my fingers, drawing the crevices between them, shading in their roundness and strength. (I haven't told you that since you first decided to give me you, I have become a devotee of backs and arms and shoulders-a fetishist almost. I'll have to tell you about that sometime. Maybe sometime when I tie you face to the wall and probe those muscles hard with my hands while my cock bounces along your ass. But I digress)

"Come here" you say, as if I weren't already as here as a man could be. You lead me to a mirror. "Just stand there-don't move" You grab my thin cotton shirt right above the love handles and pull it up. I think about toying with you, but instead I raise my arms and the shirt is off and your hands are at my belt and seconds later pants and socks and all are in a pile beside me. You jump back up, press yourself against me and give me a huge, wet, prom-night kiss, the kind I like- all hunger and wanting.

"Don't move, look in the mirror" you say, pulling away and dropping to one knee, then two. You lower yourself with dancer slowness, showing off your power. My cock is crazy wild, swollen, burning. I can almost see the steam coming out of the end like one of those Icelandic geyser trails. I think the word 'erupt'.

You curl your tongue up in an impossible arc. It reminds me of one of those Balinese god-dancers and it reminds me of the first time you danced for me and you teased my mouth with that tongue. It's a promise, that tongue, but I didn't know then whether it was one you'd keep or not.

The tip of your tongue goes under my cock, to the little flap of skin that's called the frenulum. Friendly to that frenlum you are, balancing the weight of my cock -which seems to me to be increasing by the second-on it as a pivot point. Like a seal with a ball, you could toss it in the air, spin it, spin me into orbit. Instead, like a seal with a fish, you flip it and swallow it, the entire thing disappearing in your mouth in a rush of comfort and heat.

I barely know this feeling. it's ecstasy, of course. Ex-out of, stasis-place. Blown out of my place to somewhere else. But I don't know where I am, spinning over backward while my feet are stuck to the carpet and your hands anchor my legs against your chest.

Just as I'm about to disappear into the feeling, I push your head back, My hand are on your face, my thumbs in your mouth. I pick you up by your jaw, then i grab your hands."Now you, come here." I pick up the gift wrapped package in one hand,and lead you down the narrow hall to the bedroom. I wonder for a second if you are walking in that professionally provocative way-that one that makes my heart ache, but there is at this moment, no looking back.

It's your turn now and I spin you to your the edge of your bed. "Here, I brought you a little something" I keep my tone comic-casual.You tear the paper hesitantly, looking up at me with a tender little mock-timid look that moves me tremendously. When the paper is finally, reluctantly torn, you look down,

"Ohmigod"

To an untrained eye, the contents of the package look like a purple girly version of the weights you strap to your ankles to enhance various video-based exercises. Your eyes are anything but untrained. You recognize the padded cuffs as restraints. You see that the heavy D-ring is designed for attachment to a rope, you recognize the soft leather and the padded filling as intended to cushion the skin of the ankle or wrist. Most importantly, you know that strapping these on is the first step in an agreement.

Putting these on is a promise that you will give yourself up to the will of someone else. You will, once the straps are tightened and the ropes attached, be a feather in the wind of someone's sexual imagination. Your intentions will disappear and you will become whatever I want you to be. Everything outside your bedroom will disappear too and your world will be no bigger than your skin and my heart. It may be thrilling, it will certainly hurt. Close the buckles, and surrender your choice about your fate.

You look at me softly and lick your lips.You smile that crazed happy smile of yours. I'm offering you an interval that could be described as torture, you would be within your rights to throw me out, to call the cops, to hit me. Instead, you smile, pull your right foot up to the edge of the bed and slowly, with muscular intensity, tighten the straps around your ankle. You test the fit, find it satisfactory and then attach the left. Your eyes never leave my face, not even when you put your wrists together and offer them to be bound. I wonder if you can hear my heartbeats.

It's not long afterwards that your hands are tied to each other and then to the iron headboard of your bed. I marvel that you bought that bed, its head and foot a skeleton of iron made for attaching ropes and securing you in place. Your ankle straps are tied to nylon rope that is in turn tied to the outer edges of the headboard leaving your legs spread wide and folded back at a deliciously acute angle to the horizontal. You are about as exposed as it is possible for a woman to be, your legs forming a deep 'V' whose bottom is your pussy.

It's an unimaginable buffet, such an excess of delicacies that I am almost more transfixed by the richness of what I see than I am impelled to enjoy it. I let the fingers of my right hand run down from your upraised left foot to the back of your calf and then the inside of your thigh. I look like I am playing with you, but I'm really just looking, just letting the sunshine of this perfect view burn itself into my brain.

Your ass is plainly impossible. It has a glorious roundness built on an elegant slimness. It's a fine Burgundy of a butt, made for savoring and evoking a bit of awe. I pinch it lightly to test its reality and my own. Yup, we're both here. You flinch, pressing yourself with the little movement that's available to you, into my hand. It's a gesture that asks for more, not less, but you will have to wait.

Your pubic hair is trimmed in a oval-for football season perhaps- and there is a tiny stubble visible where you have shaved. I cup your lips in my hand and press them gently together while I draw small circles with them. I could be distracted now. I could end up stroking and kissing and licking you, sucking and nibbling on your clitoris and working first a finger, then two, then my hand up inside you. I could lose myself in the trance of playing with you. Yes.

But I have promises to keep. Before I can cater to your lust for a whipping, I have to punish you. There are ways in which you speak sometimes that insult our reality and I have promised you a careful punishment. When I first announced my intention, I told you a number. Eleven. You are going to receive eleven. 'eleven what'?

Well, the tweezers have been in your bedroom for over a week now. You have had a chance to think about them. Like a bouncer in a strip club, I drag my overenthusiastic self back from the stage of your sweet cunt. For the sake of distraction, I lift you slightly and quickly by your right ankle and smack your ass hard with my hand. You breathe in sharply and I immediately hit you again.

As I turn to rummage in your tool kit, the red hand prints are beginning to form. There are a dozen delightful little devices in the wicker basket beside your bed. When we were flirting, you made reference to them once and set me burning. In order to return the favor now, I pick out a few favorites and toss them on the bed beside you.

There is a tiny vibrator, run by watch batteries. It could pass for a lipstick and it looks quite ineffective. There are two clamps, powered by springs and intended for gluing pieces of wood. They look perhaps too effective. There is an odd little wooden slapstick, crudely cut in curves with holes down its length. And of course there are the tweezers.

4.

You are naked of course, in a bedroom whose walls are hung with implements (from the Latin implere to fill up) or tools (from the Middle English tol, which sounds like, but isn't something you pay on the Jersey Turnpike). the implements are sex toys, whips, paddles, restraints, feathers and you have assembled most of this collection yourself. You think of them as beautiful and you sometimes long for them.

Your lover is a few feet away, standing between you and the shaded window. In the backlight, he has his back to you and he's poking his forearm around the inside of a large, disorderly paper bag. You notice the working of a muscle on the back of his right shoulder and you think of its name: the posterior deltoid. You think further that the owner of the muscle has done fairly well by it, but that a little more work on the rowng machine wouldn't hurt either.

You decide that this isn't the moment to mention it.

You're glad for the distraction-for this little mental excursion into names and muscles, because otherwise you would be thinking about your fear.

You are not afraid of your sex toys and you are really not afraid of this man either. Although neither of you has said it, you know in your deepest heart that he loves you. You remember last week's whipping with his brown leather belt and you recall yearning for the sting, for the gift of it. You remember that he stopped whipping you just before you wanted him to and that he stopped because he was worried by the redness of your skin. You are beaten and you are cherished. It's exactly what you had in mind when you decided to take him as your lover.

What scares you right now is some odd, detached intensity in his face, some secret that he seems to be keeping. You hope that the secret is yours.So you look at his shoulder again, then the y-shaped curve of his tricep. Tri, you think, three. Ceps, heads. You move slightly to your right, trying to see his cock, and imagining it with three heads. The thought makes you giggle and your giggle makes him turn away from his bag and look at you.

His look reassures you. His eyes play across your breasts and belly and he's smiling in that little way that he has. it's the same smile that first attacted you to him and the smile that gives you a feeling in the part of your body that you call 'the pit of your stomach'. the feeling is hot, first dry then wet. Then he turns back to the bag and quickly removes a small package and then maybe another, you can't exactly tell. both parcels disappear into his hand. they are too small to be worth hitting you with and you wonder.

"Get on your knees" he says. He's lowered his voice a little, trying to sound like a cruel master. You love him for the effort. You also love his words, 'knees' that means: soon, his cock, your mouth. You like the feel of a cock in your mouth, you melt for the taste of his. Sometimes you look at his crotch and whisper the word 'delicious' to yourself. Most women, you know, don't love to suck on cocks the way you do. You have an enthusiasm ( from the Greek enthousia, possession by a god) for the mouth-filling properties of a man and you consider yourself lucky.

He has picked up a riding crop and he gives you a tiny crack of it on your ass to hurry you along. As you lower yourself to one knee, he tickles the back of your thigh with the little leather flap on the crop's end.

"Move closer to the bedpost" This is new, maybe he's going to whip you while you kneel. Yes, he has the handcuffs and he cuffs one wrist, loops the chain around one of the smaller posts and then cuffs the other. He has the run of your back, not your front and you quiver with a different kind of thrill. Last week's whipping has healed, you have nothing of him on the skin of your ass and you want to feel the sting and the thud and the heat.

"Move closer to the bedpost" This is new. Maybe he's going to whip you while you kneel. Yes, he has the handcuffs and he cuffs one wrist, loops the chain around the post at the foot of the bed and then cuffs the other. He has the run of your back, not your front, and you quiver with a different kind of thrill. Last week's whipping has healed, you have nothing of him on the skin of your ass and you want to feel the sting and the thud and the heat.

He runs the crop flat along your belly, then taps it so it prickles the skin above your pubis. It's not pain, but it's not bad and you bring your chest almost involuntarily closer to the bedpost, giving him less room to swing the crop and protecting your pussy. He withdraws, and runs the flap of the crop up your spine in a light tickling motion and you shiver and shift your weight on your knees. You have just resettled yourself when you hear the airy whoosh and then feel the sting of the hard crop as it comes diagonally from the left above across both cheeks of your ass. The crop is hard enough to flatten your flesh as it hits and flexible enough to wrap around you as it strikes. It feels as if you've been hit from three sides at once and you pull your breath in and raise your shoulders as if you could jump straight up out of the way of the next blow.

You hear the snap of it and flinch, but this time the crop passes a few inches from your skin and all you feel is the breeze of its passage. You drop your shoulders, relax and you are almost ready to laugh in relief when the next stroke, vertical and down the roundest part of your right cheek burns into you.You pivot away from the pain of it, retreating with your right and advancing at the same time with your left cheek which immediately feels another searing stroke.

Two more snapping, full-armed swings parallel to the floor land on your thighs and your vision goes black with stars. These are not the playful, punctuated slaps of last week and you wonder if you will be able to stand much of this before you have to beg him to stop. three more perfectly horizontal stripes work their way up your ass, the last one almost on your lower back. The feeling is like a cut, like a burn and your toes curl under as you try to push yourself away from this man and this thing that's meant for horses.

Your eyes are wet and your heart is racing. You want to scream, but you won't, you will push yourself to take more, to ride the wave of pain a little further. You take a deep breath. Yes, go ahead, let's dance, you think.

And then you hear something drop the floor beside you and you feel his hands on your shoulders and then your neck. He is holding you tightly, pressing the sides of your neck, tilting your head back with his chin, seeking, then finding your lips. His saliva tastes of banana and you beat his mouth with your tongue-hard strokes of it whipping him in return for what he's done to you.

He pulls you back, away from the bedpost, sliding your knees along the carpet. He bends over you, one arm down your back, hand on your burning ass. The other arm is across your breast and the hand comes to rest on your pussy. Without as much as a teasing probe, his fingers are inside you and you hear the wet swackle of your juices on his hand.

Then he stands up. His cock is just above the level of your mouth and you look at it, then up to his face, then back to his cock again. The word 'handsome' almost comes out of your mouth although you aren't sure which part of him you're thinking about. It may not be any part of him at all, but the word seems very good to think right now.

He's smiling as he lifts his foot up in a high step over your arm. You drop your shoulder to let him hurdle your arm more easily. The other foot follows and there he is, encircled by your arms and pinned to the bedpost. You lean forward, mouth open. Your turn. We'll see who is going to ravish whom in this little scene.

You have no patience for butterfly licks, you take the head of his cock in your mouth and swallow it as if you could suck his soul out through it. You feel his legs tremble. You've got him. Let him have his belts and whips and knots and chain. You have just your lips and you are his mistress. Run your tongue along the ridge on the underside of his cock and he will moan. Suck on it and shake your head gently and he will cry out. He may even weep for the sheer beauty of the feeling and then he will, again, be yours.

But now his trembling stops and he leans forward. Your arms stretch against the cuffs and the post he is being forced further into your mouth. it's a filling, almost stuffed sensation. it reminds you of what he feels like in your pussy. He presses harder and you are helpless. His cock is ramming the back of your throat and you wish it were smaller, wish it were bigger and then you stop wishing and let the thing and the weight of the man with it take over. You suck and tongue-punch him as if you were holding on to the edge of a cliff with your mouth.

When he comes, he pulls back a little from you, then thrusts in a slow rhythm. You are sure that he must be hearing some music as his lungs become bagpipes and the air rushes out of his mouth. His hands are on your neck again, tight and his knees bend and press against your ribs. You can feel his thumbs and his shins and his toes against you as he presses you out from the post stretching your arms again and the first jet of his come hits the back of your tongue. You tilt your head down to make it run to the front of your mouth where you can taste it. he shouts a long 'AHHHH' as a second and third pulse explode out of him. He makes a strangled, almost laughing sound, then whimpers.

The next thing you remember is lying on top of him, your wrists uncuffed , his arms around you pressing your face into his. He is sliding under your body, his head moving down slowly between your breasts, his teeth biting for your nipples-right then left, his hands finally on your ass as he pushes your labia aside with his smooth upper lip.