Message-ID: <6562eli$9803022241@qz.little-neck.ny.us> From: Mary Westbourne <mwestbourne@hotmail.com> Subject: Improvisation by Mary Westbourne (bdsm, work, true...) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Reply-To: mwestbourne@hotmail.com MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Original-Message-ID: <34FA5AB3.2C26@hotmail.com> This story was definitely written with an over-18 level of adult content - if you're under 18, go away. If you're over 18, read, enjoy, and please make any constructive comments to mwestbourne@hotmail.com. Improvisation by Mary Westbourne. (with apologies for nicking the chapter headings from Lyn Pierse's excellent book "Theatresports Down Under", Improcorp Australia, 1993) * Making A Physical Offer * ------------------------------------ "You still here? It's after 6." I dump my bag beside his desk, kiss the top of his head and lean over his shoulder to check out the screen. Log files and newsgroups -- nothing he couldn't have finished with three hours before. "Yeah -- well -- there was something I needed to deal with." He doesn't even look up, but continues scrolling through the latest figures. "Were we going anywhere tonight?" I can tell by the attitude that he has no intention of moving for a while yet. Fine. Something needs to happen. So I make it happen. "Are we the last ones left in here?" "Yeah" Right. Shoes. <Thud thud> Shirt <rustle> Jeans <swoosh> Bra -- onto the keyboard in front of him <tinkle> (underwired). He finally looks up, notices what state I'm in. "Oh. Staying a while, are we?" * Making A Verbal Offer * ---------------------------------- "What exactly did you have in mind?" "That's up to you, isn't it? I mean, you're the one with the ever-so-important work." It's really hard to keep the voice to irony-level. "Got anything interesting off the newsgroups?" "Just the Tommy Lee and Pamela vids." He leads me out to the reception area, where a high-edged desk faces the glass front, protecting the occupant from ill-timed glances. There, under cover of the desk, he fires up the PC and loads those videos. And watches. And watches. And watches. Hmmm -- not funny any more. "So, do you like what she's doing to him?" "Oh, it looks all right." "Would you like me to do that to you?" And I go down to my knees and undo his jeans. His cock, half erect already, is trying to escape the boxer shorts, so the least I can do is encourage it with my lips. And tongue. And I gently send the tip of that same tongue all along the bottom of it, tracing the ridge from the base past the coarse hairs to the tip, and start coaxing a response by licking small tender licks around the head as it rears and presents itself for further action. He runs his hands through my hair, delineating the backs of my ears and the line of my jaw. The jeans fall to the floor and I pull them away from his feet, as his knees relax him into the chair, and he starts reaching for my breasts. My hands start tracking towards him. "Oh no you don't" he commands, and lifts my whole body by my upper arms to a standing position, my mouth losing contact with his cock. He holds me in front of him, leans me closer, kisses me with fire then grabs my bottom lip with his teeth. His hands slide down my arms to my wrists, which are suddenly held behind me by just one hand. He's strong -- I could escape but I won't. Can't. Don't. The teeth in my lip press harder, the sensation and the association of the imprisoned arms sending signals my Pavlovian response is helpless before. I moan as the endorphins start to take, losing track of what he's doing. He'd taken the belt from the jeans as he lowered them, and it's now being fastened around my arms, restricting my arms and holding them behind me. He releases my lip, looks at me with craving, lechery, desire... "Now go back to what you were doing", he decrees. I obey, gladly, dropping to my knees in front of him and taking his manhood once more into my mouth. * Introducing Gibberish * -------------------------------- I feel inspired, inflamed, inebriated by the changes in his body. His breathing starts to catch as I apply my lips up and down the sides of his cock, then around the top, brushing it as if with one long, absorbing kiss. Running my tongue around the base, I start to trace the lines on the scrotum, then gently take each ball in my mouth and let my tongue play with it as I savour the taste of him. My tongue draws a thin line right under the sac, as he slumps in his chair and abandons himself to the feeling. My nose precedes the mouth back to the cock, and I then lick from bottom to top, finally taking the whole in my mouth and staring the longed-for in-and-out motion he so desires. I have to concentrate on not overbalancing without the use of my hands when his hands gently come to land on the back of my head and urge me in a faster and more intense rhythm. His groin raises to meet me, and he starts uttering small moans, almost inaudible yet as clear to me as a summons to further action. I relax my throat, and gradually work his thickness down as far as I can, as his groans metamorphose into higher, almost distressed cries and he compels me deeper, farther and faster. His cock becomes solid and utterly erect, and his whole lower body is climbing to meet me -- when he removes my head with an unintelligible entreaty and slumps to the chair, sweating, panting, not yet satisfied. * Training Games * ------------------------ "Not yet", he gasps, then takes better control of himself. "Not yet", he repeats, "We have a long way to go tonight." He leads me back to his office, and stands me in front of his computer, facing the screen. He then sits in his chair behind me, and starts running his hands up and down the sides of my body. Gradually, his hands start edging around to the front, where my breasts stand cocked and tender. Deliberately llingering, he slides his hands up and around the edges of the breasts, then towards but not quite to the nipples. The palms of his hands brush oh-so-lightly across the nipples, and I lean into the sensation, seeking a more certain touch. "Naughty!" he declares. "I'll have to teach you to behave." He takes my plait, which hangs down my back to below waist level, and wraps it around my wrists, fastening the end inside the belt. My head is tilted upwards, unable to move or see what he is doing. One hand seems to be at the computer, while the other roams randomly around my front, with no set purpose or destination in mind -- or are both hands there? I can't tell -- my traitorous body is losing its ability to tell individual touches in the surge of stimulation being provided. Then he removes my undies (until now still modestly covering me) and starts running his hands up and down my inside thighs, again avoiding the centre of sensation. I start moaning -- the suspenseful sensation is taking over my senses, and my whole being contracts to the spots being teased and touched by his fingers. Any time I try to move my thighs towards his fingers, he stops, until I realise what he is about and desperately try to control my trembling urging and listing and attempt to hold still. For another few eternities he teases and torments, then with a whispered "Good Girl", he runs the tips of his fingers over my clit and along the slit, briefly outlining the labia and sparking the nerves into unsettled activity, eliciting a loud groan from my tensed throat. Then he stops again. * Introducing A Task * ---------------------------- I am turned around and laid back on the keyboard of the computer. My hair is loosened slightly, so my head lies straight, but I am still unable to see anything below my neckline. My legs are around his middle, as he sits back on his computer chair and contemplates my position and his assignment. "Please -- touch me" I beg, my skin acutely aware that the most minimal caress will be more erotic now than many more carnal handlings later. He shifts in his chair, his hands engaged in cryptic activities, his breathing controlled and yet as charged as mine. * Introducing An Objective * ---------------------------------- Then something starts moving over my skin. It's cool, small -- I feel like it is leaving a trail of sparks behind as again my synapses start firing in response to the sensation. It glides and rolls over my breasts, pressing moderately on my nipples and standing them upright and quivering. Slowly it tracks over my stomach, nestling briefly in my navel before continuing its journey south. I raise my hips to meet it, wild with a frenzied need to identify the intruder. He laughs low, amused by my distress and need. The object slides smoothly into the fold between the thighs and the pudendum, tracks down each valley, rolls across the bottom and up past the cleft to the top, where it rotates around the clit like some tiny moon. My entire body undulates in response to its movements, my moans becoming more and more frenetic. Finally, the enigma slides across my clit, followed closely by his tongue and teeth as he stimulates me to close to the edge -- then stops again. * Introducing an event * ------------------------------ I cry out at the sudden loss of sensation, then lose my breath as my nipples are touched, held, taken, pinched, and pulled. The change in intensity confuses me, and my body arches in pain-and-pleasure and total overload. By my nipples I am pulled upright, my head still tilted back and held immobile. He kisses me once, brutally, tongue probing deeply, teeth clashing and lips bruising mine. I am turned, his hands swapping to hold my nipples firmly as he seats himself then lowers me down onto his lap. His hard-as-nails cock which fills me utterly, and I almost come as I attempt to impale myself completely upon it. His adjustable chair sinks under the combination of both our weights. With one arm across my hips and left breast he forbids me to move, while his other hand creeps down and starts gently rubbing and circling and inflaming my clitoris and driving the tingles of orgasm through my body. I cannot contain myself -- I scream with the complete overload of my senses and the spasms of my body force me up and down a little on his cock, the friction adding to the charges bouncing back and forwards through my body. * Scene-Work * -------------------- As I come down, his fingers trace around my mouth and the taste of me on my lips augments the endnote as my vagina spasms around his cock for one last thrill. He is still hard, still ready, and still inside me, and he brushes his palms in front of my breasts and teases their tips. Then he leans over to the computer, still holding me on his lap. On the desk, I see a mouse-ball -- the enigma from before. He touches a few buttons, then leans back and puts his hands in front of me again; the merest touch on my nipples a twinge so intense I gasp. I raise to follow the sensation, and the chair raises with the loss of weight -- but not far enough. I realise I am about to lose him from inside me, and stop -- but I've lost the touch on my breasts. My head is still held high, and in the vexing seeing-and-not-seeing is another sense gone crazy. And in the background I can hear another woman screaming. In a less-confused quarter of my mind, I realise it's me -- he's been recording me. Somehow the fact merely arouses me more, and I am closer again to orgasm than I thought a body could be without actually being there. The other screams stop, he presses a key, and I know he's recording me again. And instead of silencing me, the knowledge makes me helpless to stop myself -- my groans are more liberated (and louder) than they were before. Without him needing to do more than hold his palms just in front of my breasts, I am driven into a rhythm of raising and lowering, seeking the animation of the nerves at alternate ends as my nipples pursue the palms and my genitalia ride his pistonning lap, courtesy of the pneumatic height-adjusting chair. In my frustration, my groans rise rapidly to a succession of cries from the depths of my soul, and faster than I thought possible, I am brought to another seismic orgasm. * Performance * --------------------- In sweaty fulfilment I lean back against him. "You haven't come yet, have you?" I ask. "Not yet -- you still have some work to do." He lifts me up from his lap, the chair rising one last time with an exhausted sigh. He loosens my hair, but keeps my arms bound. I am pushed forwards, my front over the desk as he drives into me from behind, pulling me back onto him in a rhythm both faster and harder than any other used tonight. The change, and the pressure on my thighs, and the strength of his need send me over the edge for one last, monstrous orgasm that coincides with his own cries as we come together. He loosens my arms, and rests on top of me, holding me. Gently, he bites my shoulder. "Bravo" he says. "Encore!" I whisper. -------------------------------------------------------------------- A true story from Mary Westbourne - mwestbourne@hotmail.com Copyrighted to Mary Westbourne - feel free to copy this and repost, but only with in full with my name and address above. Thanks. -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |