======================
He sometimes watches her as she sits in the Math Lounge, a place she
seems to always be between classes, or during spare hours on campus; often,
she is even there in the evenings, sometimes alone, sometimes in the company
of groups of men who, for the most part, treat her in a warm, friendly,
but platonic manner. There is nothing specifically striking in her
appearance, but she seems enclosed within a sphere that hints at something
much more intriguing beneath its surface. She remains apart from the crowd,
though there is no hint of aloofness in her manner. Yet there is something
in her which smoulders, that seems to draw the notice of others, always
somehow managing to disturb their peace of mind. It isn't that there are
no other women in the lounge; many of them are far more attractive than she,
or better dressed; rather, her casual, comfortable clothes, and the
dishevelled look of her hair instead suggest the attitude and glow of
someone recently come from the bed of a lover. That smouldering sensation
is one of complete, innate sensuality, brindling occasionally to a full-blown,
but not tawdry, sexuality. Such dynamicism must surely be felt by every
male - and even by more than a few of the females - within the confines of
the lounge, even though they may be unable to pinpoint the source of the
effect.
As he watches, she shifts, from time to time, alternately stretching her
long body from the seat to the table, or curling, feline-like, into a
tight corner of one of the lounge couches, feet tucked under her body. To
watch her, one would not necessarily agree that anything she did in
particular could be called "graceful"; there was, however, an undeniably
attractive elegance in her sense of motion. It was easy to see that her
movements were unconscious; she moved to ease stress, or make herself more
comfortable in the same casual, unthinking way a cat would, unconcerned -
even unaware - of the efect she had on others.
There are times when he cannot take his eyes off her, despite the card wars
raging among his friends around him; he finds his mind follows tracks
for which his normal studies leave lamentably little time. He is by no
means uneducated in the subtler, more pleasurable, human sciences, but
approaching an unknown out of nowhere is usually not his style, though he
admits to himself that it has its own interesting connotations. So patiently,
he waits, and watches for something - anything - that would allow him the
slightest opportunity to engage in a more intimate interaction. Sometimes
the waiting becomes a spectrum of delicious frustration. Illicit thoughts
come to his mind, unbidden, and block out the white noise and sights of the
room and crowds around him. He sees scenarios of approaches and more. He
pictures doing things to her body, and of places he could take her, many of
them within the same building. He formulates countless plans, and counts
formless ideas, marking his time until everything falls into place with an
almost amused, mysterious expression on his face.
She knows the power she could have over men if she wishes. Granted, she
has never been one to consider herself a beauty, but given the interest or
the inspiration, it would not be difficult to have any man who appealed
to her. Most of the time, however, she didn't think of herself as being
in the hunting mode; rather, she preferred to pick a target and manipulate
him into making the advances. That way, she never had to take the upper
hand, which suited her just fine.
He is watching again, she notices, though she makes no attempts to
initiate some sort of recognition. As always, her face is impassive, with
neither invitation nor rebuttal in her expression. For the moment, she has
chosen to ignore him; hunting is not a high priority for her this day, so
the seat she has chosen in the lounge, which is now emptying just prior
to another class, is with her back to him, several seating-groups away. With
a small, private smile, she acknowledges to herself the fact that his eyes
are hot on her head, and then turns her thought to other matters.
Time passes; denizens and regulars file in and out of the lounge
throughout the day, as do they themselves. Towards the middle afternoon, he
watches her come in from the cold, to sit down across the room, with her
back to him. She takes off her boots and coat, pulls a book out of her
knapsack, and settles in, in no particular hurry to be anywhere. It is a
Wednesday; he knows she will be around until sometime near six. His friends
notice his distraction, but when questioned, he only laughs and says to them
that he is working on a new project in his mind. The afternoon wears on;
soon there are only a dozen or so people around the lounge, including the two
of them. He has worked himself up to a keen tension, a certain level of
arousal which would soon begin demanding a release. For sometime now, he
has been waiting to act, and with pressure mounting, he becomes certain
that the time is at hand. He watches, marking time with the pages of an
engineering textbook he has barely looked at all day, the weight of which
has become tantalizingly uncomfortable against his lap in recent hours. He
waits, until ...
She has reached the end of a chapter in her book, and sets it aside,
glancing out the wide windows, shifting restlessly. Rising, she crosses the
room to the pop machines for something to do, and taking the cold can it
gives her, returns to her seat, but she does not pick up her book. Instead,
she shuffles through the contents of her pack, fidgetting, feeling almost
bored, and waiting for time to pass, so that she might move on to her plans
for the evening. She stretches, a luxurious feeling that brings every
muscle in her back and shoulders and arms back to life. At full reach, she
wiggles her fingers, then throws her feet across the coffee table to stretch
them also, wiggling her toes as well. Wriggling into a more comfortable
position, with her feet now tucked up beneath her, she stretches her arms
along the back of the couch until the strain across her shoulders becomes
too much, then brings her arms back to clasp her hands behind her neck,
fingers laced under her hair.
She is somewhat startled by a firm grip enclosing on her joined wrists.
There is an irrepressable, instinctive twitch of her pleasure centres; the
contact is unfamiliar, but the potential meaning of the contact is not. Given
her current position, she becomes very aware of a sense of vulnerablity, and
something far more intense: an immediate sense of arousal. Without turning to
look, she is aware of a head approaching her own, and instantly there is the
feel of breath at her ears, and lips, gently tickling the hair that covers
her ears as it is brushed aside. The whisper, the unexpected but anticipated
approach that would seal her fate, caressed her senses as it spoke:
"You have a dilemma here. You are vulnerable, and I have control," it
says, a bare smile almost audible in its tone. "Does this bother you?"
"That depends on your definition of 'bothered'", she replies. He gives
her wrists a sharp squeeze; she must squirm to keep from gasping aloud.
"I can't allow that kind of attitude," he muses. "How should I
discipline you?" When she does not respond, he crushes her wrists in his
grip almost brutally, feeling her body both tense and radiate heat in response.
"What should I do?" he repeats. As the familiar trembling starts, she replies,
"As you wish." The grip releases her, but something compels her to
leave her arms where they are; nor does she turn to look at the one who
commands her.
"Gather your things," he orders, standing up behind her. Obediently,
she puts her book away, and picks up her coat and gloves. In her periphery,
she sees him well enough to be satisfied with obvious physical details, but she
makes no attempt to either regard or confront him outright. She has given
without question thus far, and would see it through. When she is ready, she
turns to him, eyes downcast as is proper. He motions for her to proceed him
from the lounge, and once out into the grand hallway, he turns her in the
direction of the elevators. All during the wait for the elevator, he takes
the time to admire her long, muscular legs, rounded buttocks, the curve of
her back beneath her sweater; he likes the way in which her hair seems to
spread across the top half of her back in soft, layered waves, and has to give
himself a stern warning so as not to run his hands through that lovely mane.
Not yet, at least. The car arrives, and they get in. There are no other
passengers as he punches the button for the sixth floor, noted for the maze
of professors' offices and twisting, turning hallways. She stands inside,
uncertain of what to do. Roughly, he reaches out as the doors close, grabbing
a fistful of her hair and pulls her to him, kissing her with something
bordering on fury. He opens her mouth with her tongue, pleased and aroused
by her acquiesance, but refusing to allow her any response. As her tongue
moves shyly towards his own, he breaks the kiss and shoves her roughly away.
"Face the doors," he orders, and as she turns, he delivers a stinging
spank to her undefended rear. She cringes slightly, but does not break the
posture.
There is no one in sight when they step out of the elevator. Taking
a quick look around, he satisfies himself with the emptiness of the hallway,
then turns to her.
"You will take off your sweater," he tells her as he runs his hands
over her breasts, squeezing them gently, "then you will get down on all
fours and follow me. You can carry you pack in your mouth." Her eyes widen
at this command, and she glances apprehensively down the lighted hall. The
delay in responding to his command is met with a sharp slap across her right
cheek, causing tears to obscure her vision. In spite of this, she feels a
wet warmth coursing through her groin, and knows that she would not disobey,
even had she wanted to. He compells her, and she is his. She drops what
she is carrying and slips the sweater over her head. Getting everything
into an easily carried bundle is a more difficult matter, and further
delay brings further spankings. Granted, the cloth of her pants is enough
to take away most of the shock, but enough comes through anyways to cause fresh
tears to mark her face. When she is ready, he turns and walks briskly down
the hall and turns a corner; she must scurry to follow him, lest she get
lost in the labyrinth on offices. As it is, he has waited for her around the
corner. He has taken off his thin belt, and now brings its leather tongue
down across her lower back, hard enough to sting and leave a welt, but
nowhere near hard enough to break the skin. He has no intent of causing any
serious or permanent injury to a body he admires so much.
In this way he shepherds her far from the elevators, until they
finally come to a stop before the door of a corner office. They have
encountered no one in the halls. Ignoring her, he pulls a small set of keys
from his pocket and unlocks the door, steps inside, and closes the door. She
is left alone in the hall, and now she can hear distant voices approaching.
Her fervent if silent prayers are left unheeded as two men walk past the
entrance to her hallway. One of them glances in her direction; his step
falters, and he stops, as does his friend, who, following his stare, also now
sees her.
"Are you all right, miss?" asks the first, taking a tentative step
towards her. She nods and smiles, holding a finger to her lips, hoping
they don't come close enough to see her back and ask uncomfortable questions.
She decides to take a risk in speaking, even with her commander on the other
side of the door.
"It's a surprise," she explains in a stage whisper. "It's his birthday,
and you kind of caught me off guard in mid-preparation." The two men
suddenly go very red, making many excuse-mes, and leave, wishing her luck.
Once they have gone, silence returns, and she forces herself to wait, in
spite of the ache in her back, the bruises on her knees, and the fire between
her legs.
After several more minutes, he finally opens the office door.
"Come in and get up on the desk," he says simply. "I suspect that you
know which position to adopt when there." She follows his orders, settling
back on her heels, knees spread an almost uncomfortable distance apart, fingers
laced together behind her neck. She does not meet his eyes, keeping her gaze
instead fixed upon the door beyond his head. He walks around her, taking her
in with his eyes. Tension seems to be building to an unbearable point as he
faintly runs his fingertips down along her spine, smiling as she flinches from
the contact with the reddening welts. From behind, he reaches to cup her
breasts, kneading them almost roughly as he brings his lips to her shoulder
blades, feeling her press into him ever so slightly. With one hand, he reaches
down between her legs, feeling a low pulsating in the cup of his hand, which
comes away warm with her humidity. He pulls away now from her warm body, and
pulls a chair out in front of the desk. Seating himself, he motions for her
to step down from the desk.
"Get undressed," is all he says. She obeys without the slightest
hesitation, her movements slow and fluid, gauged to entice the watcher's eye to
every curve of her body. When she has finished, and her clothes are folded in
a neat pile on the floor, she stands quietly before him, hands at her side. He
stands and approaches her, and with no warning, pushes a knee between her legs
and kicks her feet apart, at the same time sliding two fingers into her wet
vagina. Unprepared, she allows herself to fall forward against him, her lips
on his neck. He pulls out of her abruptly, pushes her upright, and slaps her.
Feeling that perhaps a simple slap might not be enough, he turns her roughly
and bends her over the desk, positioning her hands in a grip of the opposite
edge. A small soft-cover book is selected from the book-shelves to serve as a
paddle, which he applies repeatedly to the soft flesh of her rear-end, until
her whimpering convinces him of her atonement. Before she can get her thoughts
together, she is turned, more gently this time, onto her back, the cool surface
of the desk soothing against both old and new welts. He uses her socks to bind
her ankles to the legs of the desk, leaving her spread wide for his inspection.
Her hands still remain locked at the edge above her head, and she closes her
as she feels his fingers probing gently at her clitoris. She is unprepared for
the sudden sting of the belt on the inside of her thighs.
"You will keep your eyes open and you will watch me," he growls,
pinching the tip of her clit until she gasps out her obedience. Their eyes,
now locked together, never waver from each other as he lowers his head to kiss
the welt on her thighs. She makes no sound, but fidgets with the edge of the
desk with her fingers, and tries not to strain against the bindings on her
ankles. Watching her, he runs the very tip of his tongue over the slightly
swollen strip of flesh on her leg, intrigued by her self-control. She does
not fight him, but she makes it clear that, at this moment, he does not control
her. With an almost casual slowness, he touches his tongue to tiny, random
points on her upper thighs and lower abdomen, his eyes twinkling in a smile
his mouth is too preoccupied to provide. He is rewarded; her breathing catches
in her throat when he finally brings himself to the taut lips of her inner
sanctum; the smell of her instinctive eagerness fills his head as it fills
the room, but he ignores the silent challenge in her eyes and pulls away.
Caught by her own, beginning frustrations, she sighs, but has no time
for much else as he returns to her, invading her before she is aware of the
fingers thrust deep into her vagina. Almost angrily, she arches from the desk,
the wind knocked from her lungs by the force of entry, caught back only in sobs
timed to his thrusts before he pulls away completely.
He smiles to himself. He has caught her off-guard, and now she is
unsure of herself. Bringing the chair closer to the desk, he leaves her
feet bound where they are, but pulls her forward, off the top of the desk,
to be bent forward over the chair. It is an uncomfortable position for her;
her feet are still almost flat to the floor behind her, stretching the muscles
in the backs of her calves and thighs almost unbearably. Gently, almost
reverently, he touches the fading welts on her buttocks, before releasing a
mighty swing that connects the palm of his hand with her reddened flesh with
a sound that echoes between the four walls of the office. Another falls, and
another; she loses count of both the barrage and the number of tears which
respond to her pain. It is perhaps a dozen or so spanks which have fallen, and
in the brief moment of silence which settles afterwards, between the sounds of
her own crying breath, she hears the unmistakable rustle of denim being pushed
down along skin. She grasps the edges of the chair in preparation, waiting.
But he is smarter than that; he has seen her tense in anticipation,
and knows that penetration is what she wants. It is too soon for her to be
satisfied, he thinks as he folds his own pants on top of hers. With one
strong hand, he supports her as he removes the chair, settling her on the
floor, feet still tied behind her. She still regards him coolly through damp
eyes; he may still command, but he does not yet possess. He grabs her hair
in two handfuls andpresents himself to her, pressing his hardness against
her lips. She refuses. He forces her head back with one hand, delivering
a stinging blow with the other. She whimpers, but refuses again. He switches
hands and strikes her again. Swaying on her knees, she raises her face to his
member, for the moment giving up, if not giving in. Only barely does he wait
for her, thrusting deep into her mouth as soon as he feels the willing
contact, and with both hands, he forces her head into place, feeling her
struggle to breath and swallow, fighting the gag reflexes. Instinctively her
hands come up his own naked buttocks, but he grabs the wrists in one hand and
stretches them over her head; his other hand return to the insistent grip
behind her head as he begins a fast thrusting motion with his hips. Her
throat is tight, wet and warm, and he feels her tongue running over his swollen
dick as he plunges into her mouth. He begins to rock on his heels with each
push, disregarding the occasional contact with her teeth as she struggles to
match his motions. He feels his own tension beginning to peak, and starts to
ram hard into her mouth, knowing that she is being thrown off balance, but
not concern for her comfort as he feels his crotum constrict in the inevitable
climax. His own laboured breathing explodes in an almost agonized groan as
her throat swallows around him, accepting as much as she can without setting
off gagging reflexes. He releases her, pulling out of her mouth as he reaches
for his pants. Unbidden, she wipes her mouth, risking a moment to settle
back on her heels to rest the muscles of her legs. There is no reprimand
for this behaviour; rather, he seats himself on the edge of the desk behind
her and reaches out to stroke her hair. His bare leg brushes lightly against
her bare shoulder, and she shivers at the tingling sensation that trails
along behind it. There is a delicious feeling to the goosebumps that swell
on patches of already red and welting skin, and she sighs, concentrating on the
pleasure. This reaction does not go unnoticed by him, and with a single tug
he releases each of the bindings in turn. With gentle but unyielding hands,
he positions her on the floor, on her stomach, spread-eagled. There is
nothing to hold her in this position except his will and her whim, but she
accepts his fether-touch without question as he strokes her skin, toying
periodically with the sensitive areas left in the wake of her whipping for
the sake of seeing her squirm in pleasure or agony. Sometimes he uses the
tips of his fingers, sometimes the smooth surface of his palm, but always he
has the contact with her, touching her feet or arms, legs,back or neck. He
discovers the sensitive spots along her spine or sides, and the charming
rippling effect he can evoke with light touches across the base of her neck.
Her head is turned to one side that she may breathe, and he criss-crosses
the exposed side of her face with the touches, until she turns slightly to
kiss his fingertips.
Slowly, he brings from behind him his belt, but this time, it is not
meant as a weapon. Instead, he reaches out, and gently draws both of her
arms together abover her head, binding the wrists with the supple leather. He
does not speak as he pulls her to her feet and leads her to a space on the
wall between the door and the bookshelves, hooking her bound hands over one
of the shelf struts, and firmly separating her feet. They lock eyes again as
he runs his hands, somewhat more insistently this time, over her body, cupping
her breasts and bring the nipple of each in turn to his warm mouth. She
moans slightly as his teeth nip them to an enticing hardness over which his
tongue dancing. Distracted, he slowly progresses the attentions of his
mouth towards her neck and ears, as his hands independently move to her hips,
squeezing them in a slow rythm that soon encompasses the kneading of her
buttocks as he pulls her unprotesting body against his willing own. She feels
him waiting for her; she is aware of how desperately she wants her own
release, but resigns herself to patience, knowing he will do as he wishes when
he is ready. Her own excitement has been steadily climbing, and this
new, gentler interaction is almost enough to send her crying into her own
orgasm.
His lips meet her own, and this time, he does not refuse her active
participation, accepting her tongue's contact with his own. Strong hands
lift her hips slightly, forcing her up on her toes, and she feels him slip
his dick between the outer lips of her vagina. He lifts her again, and with
incredibly slow precision, settles her down over top of his erection, only
allowing her tiny fractions of penetration at a time. She quirms against
him, but his legs are bent just enough, his body is just far enough below
her own to frustrate her. With just the head of his member, he strokes
the entrance to her vagina in slow strokes, listening to the sound of her
breathing as she strains to catch him. Her head rolls forward as she struggles
but there is no punishment this time. Crushing her mouth, he feels her body
tense for his next stroke, and, wrapping one arm around her shoulders, and the
other around her waist, he breaks the tension with one thrust all the way
into her, smiling as the sound of her cry of victory washes over them both.
With his second slow, powerful thrust, she brings her legs up to wrap around
his waist, supporting all of her weight from the binding on her wrists as she
throws her head back against the wall. Even his breath is rasping as he
buries himself in her, forehead pressing against her neck, licking the sweat
from her body. The pressure has almost reached its zenith; she is grasping
at each of his thrusts with the muscles of her vagina, holding each throb just
a little bit tighter, each breath just a little bit more like that final
groan of release. She is almost pleading now, almost crying, almost
screaming. His fingers are almost clawing at her back, digging almost
painfully into already tender skin. The motion has become animalistic, tribal,
baser than any other known to man, a rhythmic pumping that has no other
meaning. Her legs tighten on his waist, and the convulsion forces them both
over the edge. She slams her body back against the wall, pulling him and his
final thrust with her, driving it deep into her as he releases his own
orgasm with a cry and a violent shuddering, his arms clinging tightly to her
slick body as he churns the last few thrusts, emptying himself. At last,
there is only silence. Both of them catch their breaths; heart rates slip
into more familiar rythms, and he finally pulls away from her, lowering her
legs gently to the floor. Her head is still back against the wall, but now
she opens unfocused eyes to watch as he gets dressed. He has everything he
came with ready to go before he unhooks her hands from the shelf and undoes
the belt.
"Be in the lounge at the same time tomorrow," is all he says as he
leaves, shutting the door softly behind him as he goes.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sorry, no requests for reposts, missing parts, GIFs, FTP sites, etc. can be
honored. If you find getting stories from this newsgroup inconvenient, the
archive is available on disk. Send a blank email to
adultarc@tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com for more information. Authors wishing to
have files added to or removed from the THC Public archive should contact
me at: tommy@tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com. Remove the IH8SPAM from the
preceding addresses; it is inserted to confound auto-spammers. Please refer
comments to alt.sex.stories.d or to e-mail. Thank you. -=( Tommy )=-
From tommy@tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com Fri May 09 07:00:19 1997
Path: news1.infoave.net!news-dc-10.sprintlink.net!news-east.sprintlink.net!news-dc-26.sprintlink.net!news-peer.sprintlink.net!Sprint!news-pull.sprintlink.net!news.sprintlink.net!news-pen-15.sprintlink.net!myriad!mail
From: tommy@tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: Story: Mindscapes Pt. 3
Date: 9 May 1997 07:00:19 -0400
Organization: Mail to Usenet Gateway
Lines: 256
Message-ID: <2099836964@f26.n340.z1.ftn>
Apparently-To: alt.sex.stories@mail2news.alias.net
To: alt.sex.stories@mail2news.alias.net
X-FTN-Sender: "tommy@tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com" <tommy%tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com@f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org>
X-FTN-FLAGS: PVT TRN
X-FTN-Tearline: NaNoSPaM+ 0.05
X-FTN-Via: Squish/386 1.11 1:340/303, Fri May 09 1997 at 10:20 UTC
The THC Adult Text Archive: MINDSCP3.TXT (234 lines)
Please do not allow anyone under 18 to read the contents of this message.
Note: I did not write any of these stories. They are being posted from the
archive as a public service only - any copyrights belong to the authors.
NOTE: The adultarc autoresponder has been swamped with spam! To relieve
this, I have been forced to put in a spam-resistant From: address. To
reply to this message, please remove the "IH8SPAM" from the From: address
above before sending your reply.
See the footer for important information.
==========================================================================
ARCHIVE: mindscapes-3.Z
From: Joshua A Laff <laff@cs.uiuc.edu>
Date: Wed, 23 Mar 1994 09:17:17 GMT (11 screens)
This story is another from the archives, and is not written by me.
Requests for just about anything concerning these posts will be ignored.
See the FAQ in a.s.s.d for more information.
Archive-name: mindscapes-3
MINDSCAPES 3
She looks at her schedule for the term and smiles to herself. Her only
class on Tuesdays, and the last of two classes on Thursdays, happens to
be in the Math building, and since she must stay on campus Thursdays for
weekly evening meetings, she realizes just how much time she has to spare
for ... other things. It has been a long term, four months since she
last saw him. He had left without saying goodbye, even though she had
spent day after day passing through the C&D lounge, hoping to see him.
Even now there is a nagging voice of disappointment that he won't be
there when she gets there. Trying to remain undaunted, she packs her
paperwork into her pack and takes another quick glance around her before
taking that final walk to the lounge.
He is not there.
With several hours to go before she must leave for her class upstairs, she
breathes a familiar sigh and drops herself and her pack onto an empty
couch on the far side of the room, away from the doors, wondering once
again how or why he would have left without a word to her. In a way she
is surprised at the bitterness of that disappointment, knowing full well
that she had once hated him for the bruises and markings left on her
body, and the sense of shame he made her feel, shame not only for her
actions, but for her enjoyment of their games. Now she would be more than
content just to be kneeling at his side, with little more than a casual
touch from him now and then as an afterthought. Burying herself in her
book, she sharply drags her mind away from her daydreams and into focus
on her reading.
It is a long cold walk from where he parked his car to the Math building,
but it is so good to be back that he is undaunted, although a coffee is
starting to feel like a splendid idea. There is another reason, he
knows, for his desire to stop at the third floor. He wants to see if
she has waited for him, if she has still maintained her old habits and
routes on campus. He does not allow himself to think that she may have
graduated, or left for a work term, or simply given up waiting. He has
had plenty of cause to wonder if simply disappearing was as good an
idea as originally he had thought; yet they had started in anonymity, and he
had chosen to finish that way as well, in spite of all the potential
consequences. Now, however, he is back, and he braces himself for the
impact of seeing her again.
It isn't enough. He draws up short just outside of the lounge, almost
spilling the hot coffee he's just poured into his insulated mug. As
if no time had elapsed ever, there she sits, curled into a lounge chair
and buried in a book. In that split second, he notes the new clothes,
the new coat, the new haircut that frames her face in a softer, more
flattering style. He is unprepared for the emotional surge, and the
abrupt realization of how much he has missed her. He almost feels shy,
but the old reflexes are being stirred, as are a few ... other things.
Quickly he puts aside the urge to run to her and hold her and apologize
for leaving her; he is quite certain she would not know how to take that
kind of behaviour from him. He did teach her better than that. A smile
spreads over his lips as he wonders just how much of that teaching she
will have retained after four months with no practice.
A seat just behind her becomes available, and he slips himself into it
as surreptitiously as possible, trying to avoid attracting her notice. In
sidelong glances he admires how good she looks in her stirrup pants and
loose, baggy sweater. His hands remember the feeling of her skin, hot
from a spanking or damp from exertion. His mind fills in the scents and
sounds of her breathing, the sensation of her fingernails drawing blood
across his back as he rewards her good behaviour. Soon his own head is
reeling with the strength of his arousal, and he gives in to the
inevitable.
She feels the discomfort long before she mentally pinpoints the source.
Someone is staring at her, which she hates. Yet as she looks around the
room, none of those who are using the lounge meet her eyes, and she
wonders if someone made it to the seating arrangement behind her without
her notice. Trying to be nonchalant, she drops her book beside her and
stretches, attempting to work casually into turning around. She never
makes it that far, for before she can twist her body around, her
outstretched arms are grasped at the wrists and her hands are bent behind
her head. Stifling a surprised cry, she whips her head around to look, and
in spite of the hair blocking her vision, she knows who it must be. His
grip weakens for a moment and she breaks his grip to throw herself into his
not-altogether-unwilling embrace.
He feels her body trembling against him and tightens his arms around her -
briefly. Then, gently, he disengages himself and puts her at arms' length,
taking in every detail close up. She is still kneeling on the couch, but
submits willingly to his visual exploration, knowing that there will be more,
much more, to come. Renewing his grip on her wrists, he asks,
"Do you have a class?" She nods.
"Eleven-thirty till one, upstairs."
"Here?" He grins; this is almost too perfect, for his last
class will end at 12:30. He glances at the lounge's wall clock. It is
shortly after ten. Plenty of time for a tease. His only regret is that,
at this early hour of the day, there are far too many people around to
risk anything in either the stairwells or the elevator. They must go
to his office - and soon. Silently he beckons for her to follow him,
leaving her scrambling to pick up not only her own things, but his as well.
The coffee makes for a very delicate balancing act up three flights of
stairs.
In his office, in the familiar surroundings of what has served better as a
playroom than workspace in the past, she sets down her load; after setting
the coffee on the edge of his desk, she stands, turning to face him and
smiling. The vehemence of the slap which greets her smile sends her to her
knees.
"Ah, how quickly you have forgotten, pretty," he whispers,
straddling her where she has fallen. "You do not stand in my presence
unless told to, and on top of all this, you are still dressed." He wraps
his hand in a fistful of hair and pulls her head back to look at him. "Take
your pants off." Seating himself on the edge of his desk, he keeps the
grip in her hair. She sniffles, but makes no move to wipe the surprised
tears from her cheeks. The sting of the slap fades quickly enough, she
knows, and the delay will only make him angry. Conscious of his maintained
contact, she wriggles out of her pants and, without prompting, also
removes her underwear and socks. When they have been neatly added to her
coat and pack, she assumes the postion he taught her, knees spread wide,
hands laced at the back of her head, and waits patiently for him to tell
her what he wants.
"Lie stomach down on the desk," is the command which comes down to her.
The surface of the desk is as smooth and cool as she remembers; the edges cut
slightly into her shins, and she wriggles up so that both her head and her feet
hang over the ends of the desk. He watches her settle herself with
something approaching satisfaction. All of the old feelings and attitudes
are flowing back into him, back through him, and he watches from inside
himself as the persona of her master takes hold of him again. It is good to
be back, he thinks. From the bottom drawer of his desk he removes the old
fleece blindfold and ties it almost reverently over her eyes, pulling it
snuggly down over her nose to block out all light. From behind the books on
the recently re-installed shelves, he takes a new toy, one she hasn't
encountered before. A little over two feet long, the crop has a wicked
little flap of leather at its tip; it is a real riding crop, not a switch
as he has trained her with previously, but one he has actually hunted for,
going out of his way to find country tack shops to investigate. Such
stores have provided him with a myriad of ideas, many of which he plans to
introduce in the future. For now, however, it amuses him to watch her
flinch involuntarily to the sound of his testing the crop against the
air. It is obvious she is not familiar with the sound.
It is a cutting sound, and she braces herself for the cutting pain, feeling
the flesh on her buttocks warm itself in anticipation. She hates the
switch, hates the arousal it produces in her body, hates the way she always
seems to turn towards the painful contact she knows is coming. Now, it
would seem he has a similar new toy, and she tries to prepare herself
for the inevitable, wondering if he is aware of her current state of tension.
He has left her hands free, and of her own accord, she brings them behind her
back, locking her hands around her wrists. With her head down over the
edge of the desk, she finds this creates something like a delicious stress
along her spine. Then she waits.
He watches. A few experimental thwacks of the crop on the desk near her
head have upset her concentration a great deal, and it pleases him to
watch her try to move her body away from both the caress of the leather
flap, or the stirring of air as he flashes the crop above her skin. When the
blow finally falls, it is very obviously not where she had been anticipating.
The sting in her feet jerks her into a fetal position without even thinking.
She reaches down to rub the attacked soles and encounters only his steel
grip, followed immediately by the crack of a blow across the offending
palm. She squeals and pulls away from him. With a tight grip, he pulls
her feet back down to the end of the desk, spreading them to the corners
to expose her inner thighs. He follows the curve of her legs with an
approving eye; she has been working out, he notices. Supple skin shows
the tightness of the muscles in her legs which were strong before, and
now he wonders what it would be like to feel those newly-defined
muscles clench around him ...
She senses his distraction and lies still, knowing that disturbing his
contemplation would displease him. There is a sense of moisture
forming between her body and the desk, and her back tenses at the
thought of his touch, or that of the crop. With a patience she did not
possess those long months ago, she waits, trying to still her own
impatience from the inside, without attracting his wrath. In time, she
is rewarded, but the origin of the trace along her spine is the crop,
not his warm fingers. Travelling with an exacting precision, it follows
the bump of each vertebrae down her back, one slow bone at a time. When
he brushes past the sensitive muscles in her spine, she tenses, trying
to supress that delightful shudder. His response is the application
of the crop to the soft spot between her thighs. Then he starts over.
By the time he reaches the small of her back without disturbance, the welts
are rising on her legs and buttocks, but she does not flinch as he pulls
her back to the edge of the desk, pressing her feet into the floor. He
leaves her hands to grasp the edge of the desk, then steps away from
her long enough to step out of his own pants.
"That was much better, pretty," he whispers, "and you deserve
a treat." With that, he spreads her labia wide and plunges himself
into her. There is no thought, no deliberation to the action; they have
both waited long enough. There is a brief hint in his mind of all the
things which he will do to her as he wishes, but he has missed her too
much to relinquish the joy he now takes in her body, her presence, her
wanting to be there. They synchronize. They fall into the patterns
and rythms established long ago, not the movement of a master taking
his slave, but of two bodies who have learned the reactions of, and how to
react to, each other. The muscles of her vagina hold him in an
embrace which will extend into a real one later; she gives him everything
she can, and in return, they give each other release, slow, shuddering
fulfillment. He collapses against her flushed skin. She can feel his
sweat through his sweater, and delights in the scent of him filling
her nose. Lips press softly along her spine, and she waits as he pulls
away; yet rather than dress as she expects him, he peels off his shirt
and sweater, and drops himself into the great chair behind his desk.
Reaching out, he takes her hand in his larger one, and pulls her into his
lap. She needs no permission to snuggle her head against his shoulder as
he leans around her to retrieve a towel from a bag near the chair.
Ever so gently does he dry the streams of perspiration which have
trickled over her body, though, with a wry grin, he does allow her to dry
between her legs herself. Without a word, she resettles herself against
him, encircled by his arms, his breath in her hair as their bodies climb
down from that exquisite peak. Slowly does he turn her chin to his face,
pressing his lips almost reverentially against her own. There is no need
for more now; there will be time enough for play in the future.
The room grows dark before either one of them thinks to stir; he
is almost certain that she has fallen asleep when he moves to brush the
hair from her eyes. Soon she will leave, but now he knows he has, in fact,
come home again. He puts his head back and rests.
--
I will ignore all requests for: reposts, e-mailing missing parts, archive
locations, ftp sites, gif sites, and subscription requests. These stories get
deleted immediately after they are posted. For more info on the ARCHIVE
postings, read the FAQ posted bi-monthly to a.s.s.d
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sorry, no requests for reposts, missing parts, GIFs, FTP sites, etc. can be
honored. If you find getting stories from this newsgroup inconvenient, the
archive is available on disk. Send a blank email to
adultarc@tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com for more information. Authors wishing to
have files added to or removed from the THC Public archive should contact
me at: tommy@tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com. Remove the IH8SPAM from the
preceding addresses; it is inserted to confound auto-spammers. Please refer
comments to alt.sex.stories.d or to e-mail. Thank you. -=( Tommy )=-
From tommy@tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com Fri May 09 07:00:21 1997
Path: news1.infoave.net!news-dc-10.sprintlink.net!news-east.sprintlink.net!news-dc-26.sprintlink.net!news-peer.sprintlink.net!Sprint!news-pull.sprintlink.net!news.sprintlink.net!news-pen-15.sprintlink.net!myriad!mail
From: tommy@tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: Story: Mindscapes Pt. 4
Date: 9 May 1997 07:00:21 -0400
Organization: Mail to Usenet Gateway
Lines: 570
Message-ID: <3813436807@f26.n340.z1.ftn>
Apparently-To: alt.sex.stories@mail2news.alias.net
To: alt.sex.stories@mail2news.alias.net
X-FTN-Sender: "tommy@tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com" <tommy%tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com@f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org>
X-FTN-FLAGS: PVT TRN
X-FTN-Tearline: NaNoSPaM+ 0.05
X-FTN-Via: Squish/386 1.11 1:340/303, Fri May 09 1997 at 10:20 UTC
The THC Adult Text Archive: MINDSCP4.TXT (547 lines)
Please do not allow anyone under 18 to read the contents of this message.
Note: I did not write any of these stories. They are being posted from the
archive as a public service only - any copyrights belong to the authors.
NOTE: The adultarc autoresponder has been swamped with spam! To relieve
this, I have been forced to put in a spam-resistant From: address. To
reply to this message, please remove the "IH8SPAM" from the From: address
above before sending your reply.
See the footer for important information.
==========================================================================
ARCHIVE: mindscapes-4.Z
From: Joshua A Laff <laff@cs.uiuc.edu>
Date: Wed, 23 Mar 1994 09:17:45 GMT (24 screens)
This story is another from the archives, and is not written by me.
Requests for just about anything concerning these posts will be ignored.
See the FAQ in a.s.s.d for more information.
From: nnpeters@watcgl.waterloo.edu (Neil N. Peterson)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage
Subject: STORY: mindscapes 4
Date: 5 Feb 92 22:22:04 GMT
thanks to Tom D. Lux for welcoming me back; i hadn't really realized just
how many people were left hanging when my access was terminated before i
had a chance to finish the series ... ooops, my fault. so here is my
better-late-than never followup to the first three - enjoy!
arnora
Mindscapes 4
The door to his office has been left open, but he is nowhere in sight.
Only one sign of his having been there is in evidence; a single piece of
university stationary waits for her atop the near-empty desk. On it, in
his own scrawly handwriting, is a single word - "WAIT". It is late enough
in the day that she is grateful for a chance to sit for a while, though
she is inwardly amused at the internal conflict between sitting in a chair
to wait, or simply assuming the position on the floor. In the end, not
knowing when he is due back, she opts for the floor. The muscles in the
backs of her thighs protest a little; her aerobics class this afternoon
has been a particularly strenuous one. Intentionally, she has foregone her
usual after-workout shower, knowing that he delights in the smells of her
body. She has left her coat and boots by the only other chair in his
office, and her socks are still a little wet against her rear. The moisture
seeps through her pants, and mixes with the warmth of her still-flushed
skin. There is a potency in the mix of moisture, heat and ache that is
almost like the after-effects of a different kind of workout, and she
allows the freely-associated thoughts to drift through her mind without
guide or marker. In a sense, she prepares herself, prepares to meet his
demands by allowing her mind to clean itself out in this fashion. To
some extent, much of the day-to-day frustrations are brushed aside by this
period of almost-aroused meditation, and she finds it relaxing in its own
way.
A quiet knock at the still open door distracts her; her hands
drop away from behind her neck, but she does not have the chance to
stand or move away before the door swings open and a pretty face peers
in. The newcomer is almost as surprised at her presence as she is at the
intrusion. There
is a moment of confusion, while the other girl tries to assess the picture
before her, then apparently decides that she would rather not know. Instead,
she clears her throat nervously and retreats to the safety of the hallway
side of the door.
"Is he here?" she asks finally. Only then does it become clear
that she has come to drop off some assignment for marking or commentary;
the papers in question are slowly being crumpled in her hands.
She shakes her head, but does not speak, nor does she rise from
her position.
"Can I leave this here for him, then?" the younger girl asks.
"Of course you may," he replies, appearing behind her. The
girl, startled, shifts suddenly into the doorjamb, certainly bruising her
shoulder. "Why don't you come in for a minute and I'll look at what
you've done." He brushes past the girl, who follows uncertainly into the
room. With a brusque motion, the chair is cleared off for the girl, who
perches nervously on its edge. So far, he has not acknowledged her
presence; even now, she is inclined to become very nervous in the presence
of others. Without the safety of the blindfold, she feels as displayed as
if she had been strapped to the wall, naked and exposed. She does not
lift her face to meet the girl's wary eyes.
He is very aware of the discomfort of both the women, but does not
allow it to show until he has very carefully gone over the girl's
assignment, at which point he lays it flat on the desk and looks straight
at the girl.
"Does this make you uncomfortable?" he asks suddenly. Both of them
look at him in surprise, but only the girl speaks.
"What, the assignment?" That isn't what he meant, and it is obvious
that she knows exactly what he has intended. The girl swallows nervously.
"I'm not sure what you mean ..." Flustered now, the girl looks at her hands,
which have been toying nervously with the ski tags on the zipper of her
coat, then at the figure which is still kneeling on the floor in front of
his desk. "It isn't really any of my business." He nods as he stands and
slides the paper across his desk to her. The girl takes it without noting
the comments or corrections he has made, and stands to leave.
"Would you like to make it your business?"
The question hangs in the air between the three of them, frozen in
some kind of tableau. She burns in embarassment, not only for her sake, but
for that of the girl. He has taken a great risk by making that sort of
comment to a female on a campus where rights and freedoms, not to mention
the question of sexual harassment, are always a big deal, and they all know
it. The girl swallows furiously, knowing that the invitation is probably
honestly meant, but that she is too far out of her league. The inner voice
which prompts her to stay is silenced abruptly.
"I don't think I'm up to this," the girl replies shakily, and
departs quickly, slamming the door a little behind her as she leaves. He
begins to chuckle. She turns to him.
"That was a damned stupid thing to do," she says; the words are out
of her mouth before she thinks to stop them, and her impetuousness is
rewarded by a quick slap across her cheek. Roughly he hauls her to her feet
and turns her back to him. Careless hands reach around to grab at her
breasts.
"What do you think about having a woman arouse you?" he whispers.
"No one knows a woman's body better than another woman." One of his hands
moves down her side to the waist of her pants and begins to work them
down. "Imagine what it would feel like to have another woman lick you,
touch you, press her breasts against the palms of your hands ... " With
something like insistence, he spreads her legs and pushes her down onto
the chair. "Masturbate," he commands, standing back. "Show me what a
woman's hands would do to you."
She blushes furiously, refusing to meet his eyes. Never has he
requested her to "perform" for him, and she is uncertain of his
expectations. Noticing her reluctance, he moves to the desk and produces
the crop from his bottom drawer. With its deadly tip flicking only
lightly across her skin, he uses it to spread her legs wide on either side
of the chair's seat.
"Now," is his only addendum. She cannot look at him, so she
closes her eyes to concentrate; her hands seem sluggish as they spread
the folds of skin around her clitoris. The effort of performing seems
likely to distract her from any real pleasure, and she finds she must
strictly discipline her mind to stay on the task in question. Yet there
is something in being watched, something which, in the end, begins to pull
her on that rise towards the release she wants. As the msucles in her
legs and lower back begin to tense, she realizes that she is losing herself
to the feelings in her body; the longer she plays, dancing her hands in
familiar patterns over her own body, the more oblivious to the outside
presence she becomes. The tide is coming in now, slowly and inexorably
building. The tension plays across her body like wind over harpstrings, and
she tunes herself to the building feelings, wanting to be closer, closer ...
He watches her face; it gives away far more than does the
movement of her body. He knows that her hands will become more frantic
as she pushes nearer to the end, but it is the play of emotion across
her face that he wants. Something inside him is swept along with her,
wanting release almost as much as she does, and he watches that sweet
anguish, that exquisite pain, chase like summer clouds over her face. There
is a dazzling scent of musk in the air; he inhales deeply as he moves
closer, his eyes locked on her tormented face, closing the distance just
as she closes her own.
Hovering just a heartbeat away from pure release, she is torn
from her goal by the impeccably precise timing of the riding crop against
her thighs. Pent-up energy, stored for that ultimate impact, breaks free
from her in the form of frustrated sobs. Half dazed, she falls from the
chair to the floor on her knees, heedless of the tears that proceed to
flow freely down her face. He kneels before her and tilts her chin to
look at him, but she jerks her head from his hands. She is angry and
resentful, and he cannot allow that in her.
"Get dressed," he says. "I have a surprise for you."
He watches impassively as she struggles to collect her thoughts,
making only a passing attempt to co-ordinate her frustrated body along
different lines than those she wishes. Sniffling, she finishes tucking
her shirt into her pants and turns to glare defiantly at him. He
smiles at her anger; there is still something in her spirit which attracts
him; he does not wish to break that spirit, but rather entice her to
succumb to him in spite of it. Her defiance arouses him in a way he
does not fully comprehend, nor does he wish to shatter its effect by
exploring or analysing it too deeply. For him, it simply is. Handing
her her coat and boots, he tells her to make herself ready to leave.
She obeys, but there is an arch to her back that suggests only a sullen
compliance. In her mind, she wishes she could accuse him of cheating
at the game, but he has only cheated her of an undeserved reward, and
for that she cannot fault him. Secretly, she is exhilarated at his
sense of timing, that he could allow her to go so close and still hold
her back from orgasm by the sheer force of his will. It would just have
been more convenient, she thinks as she bundles up her scarf, had he
chosen to apply that skill in a more mutually satisfying manner ...
When she is ready, she turns to find him sitting on the edge of his
desk, dangling the blindfold from his hand. She is somewhat startled to
realize that he means to take her out of the office, but remain within
the context of the game. She is unprepared for this extension of the
rules. He watches her eye the blindfold, trying to gauge her reaction.
She is hesitating, but will she balk outright? Am I pushing the rules
too fast?
"If you aren't comfortable at any point, all you have to tell me
is that you don't want to play anymore," he says, meeting her eyes squarely.
She sees nothing but concern and a temporary flash of affection there.
"Are you ready to trust me?" It is the next step, the voice in her mind
whispers. Her instincts still show no sign of fear, so she steps towards
him and kneels at his feet, head bowed to accept the blindfold. She is
ready.
Outside of the building, she quickly loses all sense of direction;
she is even uncertain which door they leave from, but the twists and turns
of the hallways around his office have always had that effect, and not
just on her. Sounds that reach her ears through the soft cloth of the
blindfold are of no help, either, though it is a relief to her that she
cannot see the expressions on the faces of people they pass. One public
humiliation a day is enough, and she has already endured punishment for
that. Even now, the heat in her groin refuses to subside, and the
constant pressure of his hand at her elbow, guiding her, is nothing more
than a reminder of his presence, of the fact that now, more than ever,
she is in his power.
He helps her over some of the nastier snowdrifts as they cross
the campus, and he can tell from her careful footsteps that she is
very uncertain of her location and of her stability. When they reach
the parking lot, he has to be very careful maneovering around drifts and
cars alike; the constant traffic has made the ground icy and treacherous.
Assisting her into the car, hedrops down beside and takes her hand
between his own.
"Still okay?" he asks. she nods, and, to his relief, smiles an
easy smile. With that, he crosses to his own side of the car and gets in.
She is left blindfolded until they reach his apartment. As her eyes
adjust to the low light levels, all she can see is the large expanse of space,
broken only by a few naked support columns; the loft apartment is bare
except for a few simple pieces of furniture and a large number of moving
cartons. He still has not settled in, she thinks with a private grin. How
typically male ... Without prompting, she removes her coat and boots once
more, putting them neatly in what appear to be the appropriate places by
the door. He is across the apartment, digging through a large box marked
"bedroom"; without waiting to be told, she moves to the centre of the
empty space and settles herself into the waiting position. She watches
as he moves around the apartment in the dark with a certain grace that
suggests power and beauty in motion; how she loves to take in his body with
her eyes! From behind what appears to be a stack of unassembled modular
furniture, he produces a short, low wooden bench which looks more like a
craftsman's stool, tapering at one end in a gentle curve. It is only when
he reaches her that she notices the belt attached in the middle, and the
eyehooks placed in strategic locations.
Leaving her to ponder his odd taste in "furniture", he heads back
for his toybox, having planned enough in advance that everything usually
used in his office is now here, plus a few extra bits and pieces she has
not yet seen. He is impressed that she has come so willingly, with no
trepidation; she is a little disoriented, obviously, but he can sense that
the not-knowing part is a great turn-on for her, in spite of the opportunity
she has had to regain her composure after her earlier frustration. Her
trust in him makes him admire her all the more; he has so hoped that her
spirit would not have diminished after his abrupt and lengthy absence.
Returning to her, he pulls up a stool and seats himself before her.
"Now we begin in earnest. Stand up and strip for me," he commands.
Without hesitation, she stands, knowing that her self-consciousness may well
cost her in the long run. Sometimes locking eyes, sometimes avoiding them
altogether, she slowly begins to peel away protective layers of fabric.
There is nothing complex in her movements, just a simple slow swaying of
her hips as she turns slowly, each layer being removed a little more
enticingly than the last. Finally, she is down to nothing more than the
black lace bustier and tanga she has chosen specifically for him.
He is caught somewhat by surprise, much to his delight. In spite
of all their games to date, he has not expected this kind of initiative
from her, and he is very, very pleased, both with her behaviour, and with
the image she presents, silhouetted in the light from the bay windows as
she is. He stands and moves to her, examining her as a sculptor examines
a beautiful piece of handiwork. He stops her from removing either remaining
piece and walks slowly around her, touching her skin with only the barest
of contact, leaving a ripple of goosebumps as he passes. Nothing would
please him more than to take her now, but he would rather wait, toy with
her a while, enjoy what she has so eloquently presented to him. In the end,
the waiting would make the satisfaction all that much sweeter.
"Ah, pretty, you do know how to make a man happy," he sighs, running
his hands across her belly. She lowers her eys in the respectful manner,
giving herself over to his contact. Finally, he moves away and guides her
to the little bench. Under his guidance, she waits as he buckles the collar,
wrist and ankle manacles into place, then allows him to turn her over onto
her stomach. Her legs spread to either side of the bench, and he brings her
legs forward so that her feet are flat to the floor on either side of the
base of the bench, and are then clasped to a pair of eyebolts. A large wide
belt is then passed through an unseen hole in the underside of the bench,
under her knees and buckled tightly across the small of her back, pinning her
knees firmly to the side of the bench, and preventing her from arching her
back. Gently he brings her arms behind her back and clips the wrists to
the belt as well. Finally he attaches two short pieces of chain from the
sides of her heavy collar to eyebolts on the corners of the base of the bench.
The bench itself is short enough that her head extends past the end - not that
she could move it now if she tried - and leaves her ass vulnerable.
All in all, he finds it a very pleasing picture.
He turns the bench to face the huge windows, so that the panorama
of city lights is laid out before them, gently stroking her back with his
fingertips. She relaxes under his touch, only a whisper of a quiver
following the trace of his contact. With her ears, she follows his slight
movements around the room, picking up things and bringing them back to her
place by the windows. There is a brief pause while she listens to him open
a bottle of something and set the cap on the glass table behind her; there is
the sound of flesh being worked as he rubs his hands slowly and carefully
together, and then the feeling of warm moisture as he applies his hands to
her lower back, smoothing the oil into her skin in long, slow strokes
that carry his hands down over her ass. He kneads gently, applying only
enough pressure to ensure that the oil's effect will soak well into her
flesh. He is tender as he works around her buttocks, fingers following
patterns of muscles like a trained masseur. Briefly, he stops to soak
his hands down again, then begins once more, this time liberally applying
the oil to the crack of her ass and the edges of her anus itself. It is
with great deliberateness and care that he proceeds to slowly penetrate
her with his fingers, cajoling tight bands of muscles to relax, to accept
his presence. Throughout this, she lies almost impassively, enjoying
his ministrations with almost no conscious thought in her mind
whatsoever. She might as well exist solely for that contact which exists
between them.
He watches her, feels her body relinquish control to his touch,
and decides to proceed. From the array of toys on the table, he chooses
a plug, one which she will not have encountered before. Its hard plastic
shape seems impossibly large for the location he has in mind, and it
requires a great deal of patience to install it. He watches the involuntary
muscle contractions as she first realizes that the pressure against her
anus is not his hands, but something alien, and watches her struggle to
avoid fighting him. They both know he will win, and that the less she
struggles now, the less it will hurt now, and the more they will both enjoy
it later. Her hands clench in useless fists as he drives the plug ever
deeper and deeper into her, watching it disappear by slow degrees. Her
breathing catches now, and her arousal is very apparent to him. When he
finally sees the final centimetres slip into her well-oiled ass, he stands
and resumes the kneading of her cheeks, pushing them together a little
harder now, forcing her to be very aware of the plug.
His apartment buzzer sounds, echoing across the empty apartment,
and from his less than hurried reaction to it, she suspects that he must
have prearranged something. Trust, she thinks. I trust him not to hurt
me. Shortly after the buzzer is rung, she hears the door open, and soft
voices reach her across the space. She cannot follow the swish and
movement of coats and boots being shuffled; there is no way for her to
estimate how many people have arrived. Involuntary shivers creep into
her sense of peace, and not just because of the slight cold wash from the
open door, nor the tiny drafts from the window. Once again he has
plunged her into something unexpected, and if only to herself, she has
to admit a little fear. And yet, she knows, and is certain he knows as
well, that she would not leave if she could. In this, as in all their
games, she has truly become his creature.
There is the sense of movement behind her, and the sound of
heavy furniture being moved in from some distance. His hands appear
in her periphery, nrushing straying bits of hair away from her face; from
one of his hands dangles the leather blindfold.
"Are you still okay?" he whispers. At a distance, she hears low
voices whisper back and forth, then the moving of furniture begins again.
There is only some hesitation; the game has taken on a new perspective
with involvement of others, but somehow, she doesn't feel the fear she
did on the campus. She nods, and is rewarded with a kiss on the top of
her head. "I am going to blindfold you while we finish setting up some
places to sit. You will stay here, although I will turn you around."
Deftly the blindfold is secured into place, then, with little difficulty,
he turns the bench away from the window. He takes a moment to look at her
as she relaxes against the bench again; there have been moments in his
preparations when he has found himself remarkably unwilling to share
her with other players, and even now, watching the others look her over
as they rearrange his apartment and its scanty contents, there is the
inclination to name this new feeling jealousy. It is new to him, and
in spite of its nature, he revels in the experience. He allows them to
restructure, reorganize and rearrange around him; he feels that,
somehow, it is his duty to stand by her and make sure no one take
advantage of her before they are both ready for it. Idly, his hand
wanders down her back to where her hands have been clinched to the belt,
and he weaves his fingers through her own. He had not meant to. In her
own way, though, she reassures him. The slight squeeze of her hand is
a world of meaning to him, and he has to smile.
He is signaled; it is time to begin.
The smell of brewing coffee is one of the first things she
becomes consciously aware of. Already she has stopped trying to
distinguish between the low voices around her; she will see everything
in due time. Now is the time to wait. There is a slight strain in
her shoulders from having her arms held back for so long, and she tries
to turn her mind inward, to follow the nerve endings down to the
offending bands of muscle, and stimulate enough endorphines to help
ease the stress. Occupied, she is late in noticing that the voices
around her have stopped. Afraid that she may have missed an important
question, she perks her head up as far as the chains of her collar will
allow and tries to listen for them.
She is not afraid of the unfamiliar hands on her body; he has
introduced others before. But these hands are different, somehow more
... knowing. Smaller, too, and more adroit in their movements. They
cover her body,inspecting, testing, sensing. Inevitably they discover
the plug still buried within her and grasp the base, beginning the slow,
uncomfortable withdrawal. She buries her face as she can, always ashamed
by the feeling of expelling something that way, ashamed of the mental
association she makes with uncontrolled and embarassing bodily functions.
When there is nothing but the emptiness inside her, the hands return to their
caressing, kneading the flesh of her ass in well-oiled motions. Other hands
reach out to stroke her hair, twining amidst the strands and forcing it back
against the collar; she opens her mouth to gasp for breath, and finds the
malleable rubber ball-gag forced in past her teeth. The buckles are
strapped shut before she can register any form of complaint, and calloused
hands work swiftly to free the hair from the arrangement. She knows he is
sitting somewhere nearby, watching, seemingly content to turn her over to
the ministrations of others, and for just a momnt, she wants to hate him.
Hate him for allowing those unfamiliar with her body to play with her, to
touch her in the places she wants him to touch. But all is part of the game,
and she reconciles herself to accepting the fact just as the first sudden
swing connects with the softened flesh of her ass. The spanks come in
rapid-fire succession, and she is left breathless but aroused at the
end of it, in spite of the tingling in her cheeks.
Beyond that, there is a brief pause, and she listens to them
conferring about her. General concensus is favourable; she did not make
an inappropriate sound during the spanking, nor did she seem to be
more aroused than they were willing to allow. However, they are curious
to see how she will react when freed from the safety of bindings. There
is a gentle, familiar touch against the palm of one of her hands, then the
strap holding her to the bench is undone, her feet are unclamped, and her
collar is released. Her hands remain locked behind her back, and the ball-
gag and blindfold remain as they are. The bench is moved out of the way, and,
by listening to the sounds as they are reflected around her, she decides that
they must have moved the furniture to create somekind of viewing arena around
the rug which currently serves as her play area. Aside from the coffee, she
also manages, in the breathing space they have allowed her, to pick up the
smells of at least two others; there is a slight perfume scent to the one with
the small hands, whom she mentally notes as female, and the odour of an
unfamiliar deodorant she ascribes to the callous-handed male. Beyond that, she
cannot tell if there are more.
The sudden feeling that she is on display sinks into her mind, and
her first physical repsonse is to shrink in some way. She settles onto her
heels, and her arms, with the fingers laced behind her neck, creep slowly
forward until the elbows almost touch in the middle. Performance. They
are expecting her to perform for their pleasure and amusement, she thinks
wildly, turning her head as if to look for him. This time, however, they
have plans of their own for her. Her elbows are locked into a firm,
calloused grip, while the other hand undoes the ballgag. She is pulled back
into a ver straight-backed position against clothed legs, while the free
hand drops the ball gag to one side and reaches down to brush her nipples.
"The game is this," an unpleasantly gravelly voice whispers in her
ear. "There are peanuts in a line on the floor. No hands, no feet - you have
to find them, eat them all, and perform the task which will be waiting for
you at the end. Do you understand?" She nods; her wrists are given a hard
squeeze to remind her of where to keep them. Bending forward, she uses the
point of her elbow to gently sweep the floor immediately around her in search
of the peanuts, slowly expanding her circle. Those around her are silent.
It takes a few minutes for her to encounter the first peanut, and she
is
somewhat surprised at the lack of punishment for her tardiness. It would
seem, however, as though the intention of the game is otherwise, for as she
crunches into the first peanut, she feels the stinging sweep of what can
only be a cat across the exposed flesh of her back. She stifles a cry of
surprise, but does not sit up. Finding the second peanut, she orients
herself on the line before eating the peanut. Again, there is a flash of
pain from the cat. One for each peanut. She moves about the carpet,
following the wandering line of peanuts, and occasionally needing to stop
long enough to reorient herself. Between the twisting and turning and the
biting of the cat, she finds herself quickly losing contact with her
surroundings, losing her ability to concentrate on the tasks either at hand
or somewhere ahead of her. Her movements are slower, less sure, and she finds
herself arching into the swing of the cat, which has settled into a slow,
methodical rythm.
Lost, she bumps suddenly into what feels like someone's
leg. It turns out to be a pair of legs, attached to a body lying on the
floor, and covered in some kind of gauzey skirt. She stops, sitting back
on her heels, uncertain. The perfume wafts through her mind as the body
before her shifts, and soft hands take hold of her chin. There is no force
here, only gentle contact. The lips which press her own startle her, and
in spite of her best attempts to the contrary, she freezes. She can here
the almost sub-auditory chuckle in front of here as the hands drop away
from her face and trace lazy lines over her collarbones and down to her
breasts. They linger a while, then move down over her stomach to her thighs,
gently pushing them apart. But there is no contact where she expects it;
instead, the hands return to her face and pull her gently down. The legs
have moved apart, and the skirt pulled up.
The freeze has not worn off. She cannot move to do what she is certain
they expect from her, and even the cat cannot convince her. There is a
sneaking suspicion forming in her mind that the skin on her back has been
broken, and she wonders if the blood has started trickling yet. Even in
the thought there is something akin to euphoria; the sense of being able
to lose oneself in the pain, to make it work to advantage, has returned
to her. She withstands several more blows from the cat, then, knowing that
she is aroused almost to the point of frustration, she slowly bends to the
warm body before her.
The sensations are overwhelming. The body is so warm, and smells
so damp and musky ... the skin is soft and giving, and she can taste the
salt in the skin as she has with him so many times. The skin before her
is hairless and smooth, and she gives herself over to exploring what is
before her with her mouth. She feels the small hands stroking her head,
and knows in a corner of her mind that someone is whispering to her but
she cannot hear nor understand the words. They are nonsense to her now,
anyways. She has been swept away from all of them, and only the contact
and the senses remain. Her tongue is her eyes, seeing everything before
her in exquisite detail: the tiny knob of the clitoris, soft folds of the
outer and inner labia, the hole that beckons her mouth so invitingly. She
varies the pressure and the points of contact, never giving the body
beneath her a chance to match rythms. She exacts her own subtle revenge,
but froma point so distant that they cannot reach her with their words. Even
the hands which soon begin to clench and unclench in her hair are
irrelevant; there is a tension building in her which she refuses to control
this time, so she choses instead to vent it on the compliant flesh below.
The body tries to grind into her, to pull her down closer, to squirm away
from her seeking tongue, but she will show no mecy this time, no mercy ...
There is a split second where she is overwhelmed, being pulled
away from her task just as the other's orgasm explodes in a soft scream.
Hands are placed at her throat to prevent her from catching her breath, and
she is quickly deposited on a large, naked lap, impaled on a sheathed cock
buried within her. Quick violent thrusts are timed with the slap of a
riding crop against her nipples. She cannot remain in control like this,
and strives to match the motions from beneath her, but is cheated once
again as she is pulled up and away from the male body beneath her own in time
to feel him strip away the condom and spray his oh-so-warm cum on her
legs. She wants to scream, and yanks angrily away from the first contact
she feels, punching her hands down to push away the touch.
He catches her fists finally and pulls her quickly into his chest,
holding her while she vents her frustration in sobs. Gently, he works her
feet apart, thinking how humiliating it must be to be forced to stand,
dripping with someone else's fluids, and not be allowed a release of one's
own. Through all of this, he has watched with what he had originally
hoped to be impassiveness, but what he now admits to be protectiveness. He
has seen the welts on her back, welts which bleed freely, though in most
places the blood is little more than a scratch's trickle; all the same, he
flinched every time she did, and had to sit on his hands to keep from
stopping the swing of the cat. At the same time, he has watched her sinking
herself into the pain, using it as a channel for her arousal, and is
more than a little proud of her. Her arousal only feeds the fires of his
own, and as he stands holding her, he wants only to be alone with her.
Folding his arms around her shoulders to avoid brushing the welts,
he whispers to her, allowing her to regain her composure, such as she may.
His guests make themselves ready to leave, sensing that private time is
being sought, and knowing that tonight is not the night for pushing
limitations. They let themselves out.
For a while, they stand like that. When she has finally subsided,
he takes her into the only enclosed section of the apartment, the bathroom,
with a huge, old-fashioned footed iron tub, a cedar bench, toilet and sink.
He seats her on the bench, then takes off the blindfold. In deference to
her sight, he foregoes the overhead in favour of a single candle on the
sink's counter, then begins to draw the bath. While the tub fills, he
brushes out her hair with a soft-bristle brush and gingerly undoes the back
of the bustier. By the time she is naked before him, the tub is almost
full. Bathing her is a ritualistic experience for him, one he has been
waiting for some time to fulfill properly. Gently he tends to the small
cuts on her back, and washes the sweat from her body, rubbing the cloth
lightly over the marks left by the manacles. She gives herself over
uncomplainingly to his elaborate care, allowing him to clean her, wrap her
in a big towel and dry her, and then blindfold her again. They linger long
enough that she smells the scent of the blown-out candle, then he takes
her hand in his own and walks her back out into the apartment proper.
Again that evening, she is left to wonder at the sound of moving
furniture, only now she is a little less mentally coherent than before. When
finally he returns to her side, she is resigned to more of his games, but
when the blindfold comes off, it is a completely different scenario which
greets her. In a corner by the great bay windows, he has opened out his
futon; scattered over it are literally hundreds of wildflowers. Their
scent is almost maddening to her. On a table moved close to the bed is
a bottle of champagne, two tall flutes, a bowl of strawberries and a dish
of sugar. Smiling at her astonished face, he picks her up and carries her
the final few steps to the bed. Laying her reverently amidst the kaleidoscope
of colour, he kisses her softly on the lips, fingers tracing the lines out
of her face. He is not the master now, nor is she his slave. As lovers
they have come to this bed, and as lovers they spend the night; as they drift
into the realms of dreams, she curls up against his stomach, legs entwined.
He strokes her hair, listening to the sound of her breathing change as she
slips into sleep, and whispers,
"I love you."
February 3 1992
Arnora Dunestan
--
I will ignore all requests for: reposts, e-mailing missing parts, archive
locations, ftp sites, gif sites, and subscription requests. These stories get
deleted immediately after they are posted. For more info on the ARCHIVE
postings, read the FAQ posted bi-monthly to a.s.s.d
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sorry, no requests for reposts, missing parts, GIFs, FTP sites, etc. can be
honored. If you find getting stories from this newsgroup inconvenient, the
archive is available on disk. Send a blank email to
adultarc@tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com for more information. Authors wishing to
have files added to or removed from the THC Public archive should contact
me at: tommy@tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com. Remove the IH8SPAM from the
preceding addresses; it is inserted to confound auto-spammers. Please refer
comments to alt.sex.stories.d or to e-mail. Thank you. -=( Tommy )=-
From tommy@tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com Fri May 09 07:00:16 1997
Path: news1.infoave.net!news-dc-10.sprintlink.net!news-east.sprintlink.net!news-dc-26.sprintlink.net!news-peer.sprintlink.net!Sprint!news-pull.sprintlink.net!news.sprintlink.net!news-pen-15.sprintlink.net!myriad!mail
From: tommy@tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: Mindscapes Pt. 5
Date: 9 May 1997 07:00:16 -0400
Organization: Mail to Usenet Gateway
Lines: 405
Message-ID: <2465166866@f26.n340.z1.ftn>
Apparently-To: alt.sex.stories@mail2news.alias.net
To: alt.sex.stories@mail2news.alias.net
X-FTN-Sender: "tommy@tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com" <tommy%tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com@f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org>
X-FTN-FLAGS: PVT TRN
X-FTN-Tearline: NaNoSPaM+ 0.05
X-FTN-Via: Squish/386 1.11 1:340/303, Fri May 09 1997 at 10:20 UTC
The THC Adult Text Archive: MINDSCP5.TXT (381 lines)
Please do not allow anyone under 18 to read the contents of this message.
Note: I did not write any of these stories. They are being posted from the
archive as a public service only - any copyrights belong to the authors.
NOTE: The adultarc autoresponder has been swamped with spam! To relieve
this, I have been forced to put in a spam-resistant From: address. To
reply to this message, please remove the "IH8SPAM" from the From: address
above before sending your reply.
See the footer for important information.
==========================================================================
ARCHIVE: mindscapes-5.Z
From: Joshua A Laff <laff@cs.uiuc.edu>
Date: Wed, 23 Mar 1994 09:18:06 GMT (17 screens)
This story is another from the archives, and is not written by me.
Requests for just about anything concerning these posts will be ignored.
See the FAQ in a.s.s.d for more information.
Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage
From: nnpeters@watcgl.waterloo.edu (Neil N. Peterson)
Subject: mindscapes 5
Date: Wed, 26 Feb 1992 23:15:56 GMT
[eeeppppsss!]
i was just in the process of housecleaning my account, when i stumbled
across this - i hadn't realized i had forgotten to post it! well, in
order to rectumize ... uh, rectify (i always did get those two mixed
up!) the situation, here is number five in the series. you know where
to reach me for commentary et al ....
MINDSCAPES 5
Setting the stack of papers down on the table before her, she sits back
and stretches her arms, grimacing at the snap-crackle-groan of the
muscles in her shoulders. For the umpteenth time that day, she checks
her watch, comparing it to the wall clock in the Math comfy lounge. It
is still far too early to keep her appointment upstairs, but she is too
tired to concentrate on her assignments anymore. It hasn't been a good
week for her, and in spite of a voice which tells her that playing for an
hour or so with him would do her a world of good, she is not altogether
certain she is up to it. She finishes her pop. Things have definitely
quietened down in the lounge over the course of the afternoon; she has
enough spare time between classes on most days that she spends her time
here, and has familiarized herself with the ebb and flow of the crowd. It
has reached a point for her on this particular day, where she feels as
ebbed as she could possibly get. She shoves the papers off to one side
and digs her book out of her knapsack, stretching out on the couch in a
virtually deserted corner of the room. Perhaps a little light recreational
reading will help her put her mind in order, she thinks, settling her
back against the pillow made by her knapsack and coat. She takes her
glasses off and rubs wearily at her eyes, then launches into the current
chapter with determination.
Sometime later, she opens her eyes. The sky beyond the lounge
windows is very dark. Horrified, she glances at the clock, then checks
her watch for confirmation. She missed it. Missed the alloted hour
completely - by almost two hours. Hurriedly, things get shoved into her
bag and she grabs her shoes and coat, running from the lounge. Not
bothering to wait for the elevator, she takes the stairs from the third
to sixth floor, vaulting them two or three steps at a time. She
arrives at his door, breathless and in a complete state of dishevelment,
knowing that he will be at least terribly unimpressed.
The door to his office is locked. She bangs loudly; nothing but
the echo down the empty halls answers her. For almost an hour, she paces
the hallway outside his office, until it becomes painful clear that he is
long-gone. This frightens her. Only once in their arrangement has she been
late for an appointment with him, and the thought of his displeasure is
most disturbing. What makes it far worse is that she has no way of
contacting him, of making some sort of amelioration, of offering some
sort of explanation - not that he would be likely to listen to her at this
point. Her low spirits sinking further, she turns slowly and heads for home.
Her mood is worse the next day. Little sleep the night before has
made her classes for the day intolerable, but she makes the trek across
campus to the Math building anyway, thinking to get some lunch and maybe
log in for a while to ease some tension before having to deal with her night
class. He will be off-campus today, she knows, and this does not help her
mood any. She is still ashamed at having missed their time the night
before, though by the time she will next see him, she will be in a
better mood to handle his displeasure.
The usual after-lunch crowd is in the lounge; she recognizes most
of the faces, and smiles to a few she knows by name. One of the couch
groupings towards the back is free, and she opts for a solo chair facing
the window. The sun is warm on her face, and she allows her thoughts
to drift as she decides on what to have for lunch.
He catches her completely by surprise; his grip locks the air in
her windpipe while the other hand covers her mouth to keep her from
screaming.
"You're just a little late, pretty," he snarls into her ear. "Night
class tonight?" She nods, unable to do much else. "Exams? Papers?
Presentations to do?" She shakes her head. His smile is more than a
little unpleasant. "Then fuck your night class." He releases her mouth,
but leaves her gasping for breath as he grabs a fistful of hair and yanks
her head roughly down to the back of the chair. "I really don't like
being disappointed, pretty, especially when I am disappointed because you
were too lazy to come upstairs." He watches her eyes widen in surprise.
"Yes, pretty, I came to look for you, and saw you curled up there on
the couch. Now you must pay for that laziness, mustn't you?" He tugs
brutally on her hair. "Mustn't you?" Letting go of her completely, he
rises. "Get your things, pretty. We're going for a ride."
He is silent on the car ride, nor does he make any attempt to touch
her. He watches her in the rearview mirror, having left her blindfolded
in the back seat. Plans run through his mind at an amazing speed, but most
of them are discarded almost before they are considered. He is annoyed,
yes, but not as furious as she seems to think he is. A little bit of play-
acting on his part in the lounge seems to have gone a long way in breaking
her mood, and he really has no desire to break the momentum. Anger could
be used as such an effective tool, he notes.
His handling is brusque, almost impersonal as he herds her into his
apartment. The entire floor is awash with bright winter sunlight, and he
knows the wooden flooring in front of the windows will be particularly
warm. Leaving the blindfold intact, he guides her to his chosen spot and
pushes her down on the floor. Above the top of the blindfold, he notes
the set of her brow; not only is she unhappy, but he wonders if perhaps
she feels she is being treated unfairly, if perhaps she might lash out if
provoked. He wonders what her limitations might be under such circumstances.
"Strip," he commands. "Do not rise from the floor."
She listens as he walks away, his steps echoing on the hard floor
of the apartment. It crosses her mind that he may just be playing with
her, but decides that perhaps pushing him when he seems angry would not
be the best idea. He does not seem to be in any mood for entertaining
mistakes. Struggling to set her resolve, she fumbles with the buttons
on the cuffs and neck of her shirt, finally pulling it over her head. The
jeans are a great deal more difficult; she cannot stand, and is not certain
how much movement she might be allowed as far as squirming goes. In the
end, with much stress and strain to her thighs and knees, both her jeans
and her underwear join her shirt and bra in a pile on the floor. The socks
are taken care of by a clever balancing act on her knees while she pulls
them off. She is happy with herself as she pushes the pile of clothing
away from herself before straightening up to assume the required waiting
posture.
His arrival is heralded by the clenching of a hand in her hair; for
a brief second, she realizes that he must have taken his shoes off to have
returned so quietly. Then he forces her head back and pulls her jaw down.
Her tongue is assailed by the distinctly unpleasant taste of rubber as the
ball gag is forced behind her teeth, then strapped more than a little securely
behind her head. The side straps cut just the tiniest bit into the corners
of her mouth, but he does not seem to notice. His hands are callous in manner
as he tugs her hair out of the blinfold and gag straps, working it into a
loose ponytail at the back of her head. Her next sensation is of something
cold and viscous on her scalp, being worked through her hair by fingers
that tug and rip indiscriminately. When her entire head has been covered,
he ties the ponytail tightly in an elastic, and begins to bind a tight
braid from that point. The tension in her scalp is only a little less than
painful, but she sits through it with only the occasional wince as
testament to her discomfort. He backs away when he is finished, and she hears
him wiping his hands clean.
He squats in front of her, balancing on the balls of his feet, elbows
on his knees, hands clasped in front of him. The speed with which the palm
of his hand connects with her cheek surprises even himself, and sends her
falling from her position. Like a predator circling in for the kill, he
follows her. Quickly, with callous motions, he undoes the buckle on the
back of the gag and yanks it out of her mouth.
"Why did you miss yesterday?" he growls, pulling hard on her braided
hair. She whimpers, bending backwards to help alleviate the stress.
"I'm sorry - " she begins, but the hand connects again before she
gets any further.
"That doesn't answer my question!" he shouts at her. "Why did you
miss yesterday?" he asks again. The pull on her hair increases dramatically.
"I fell asleep -"
"You fell asleep?" His echo seems impossibly loud in the near-
empty apartment, and she flinches away from the expected slap. Instead, he
reels her in and flips her brutally over his knee, relishing the slight
sting in his hand as he lands two quick and hard spanks on her ass. She
cries out, and he feels her fighting back the sobs. "You have a duty to
please me, pretty," he declares, punctuating his words with his hands. He
feels her heat radiating through the fabric of his pants, and finds that
sense of warmth almost maddeningly arousing. "It doesn't please me that you
are lazy, pretty." Shoving her away, he stands, glances around quickly, and
snatches a thin leather paddle from the nearby coffee table. "On all fours,"
he orders. Swift hands have the ball gag back in place before she can offer
much more than a token resistance; he stretches her jaw painfully wide to slip
the rubber ball into place behind her teeth, ignoring her movements as she
tries
to fight twisting her head out of his grasp.
Sniffling, she tries to compose her thoughts as she moves; thankfully,
the sting on her ass fades fairly quickly. The slaps to her face, however,
she finds far more humiliating; their sensation seems etched into her face
almost permanently. Head bowed, she assumes the desired position. She
cannot understand why he is being so unduly harsh for missing one meeting.
It doesn't seem fair in her mind that he should disappear without a word
for several months, then become unreasonable when she happens to miss a
single appointment. Her mind occupied, she fails to notice that she is
moving a little too slowly for his tastes, until the thin leather paddle
sears repeatedly across her buttocks. Her fingernails graze into the finish
on the floor until she cannot take any more, and, screaming, she rolls
away from him. He does not wait, but follows, using her braid as a lever
to force her back into position before resuming the onslaught. Again, she
screams and rolls away from him, ignoring the saliva that escapes from
around the ball gag and splashes against her chest. She crashes into the
corner of the couch, catching herself painfully in the soft spot below her
clavicle. Whimpering, she curls into a ball against the edge of the couch,
trying to shield her bruised ass from him. Several minutes elapse before
she regains enough composure to realize that he has been silent. Something
about his silence is much worse than his attacks, but only on one level.
To her utmost horror, she realizes how hot and wet she is between her thighs.
He watches her very carefully, noting with caustic attention how
the scattered welts are bruising already. He has been very careful not to
put too many in one spot; he has no desire to break the skin, at least, not
yet. It also occurs to him that she has also realized how aroused she
is, physically at least. Under his eyes, she tries to keep her legs closed,
cannot balance comfortably, must open them again. She has no idea where
he is. She is afraid. The act of hitting her does nothing for him sexually;
watching her react to the pain has been sensual almost beyond compare. He
longs to watch her face as he caresses those bruises, to see her torn
between pressing against him out of hunger and need, and pulling away from
him in fear and pain. Even beneath the blindfold and ball gag, he sees those
two extremes in the earliest stages of war across her face. Nothing
would please him more than to possess her in spite of herself, to have her
give anything and everything of her own free will to stop the pain and
alleviate her own needs.
In the meantime, she has broken his command. Her disobedience must
be punished. When he speaks, he does so very, very softly.
"You have disobeyed, pretty," he says, watching her flinch at his
tone, and knowing she has no idea why she is flinching. "You have disobeyed,
and that makes me unhappy. Your purpose here is to please me, with no
regards to your personal satisfaction. I have to punish you for not
remaining as I instructed you to. You will get up on your hands and knees,
and I am going to paddle your ass ten times. For each time you cry out
or pull away, I will add one more to the count. Do you understand?"
She shudders at the deadly calm of his voice, but hesitantly nods
her understanding. She cannot keep the spittle from escaping down her chin.
Moving into position, she bows her head to await the first blow.
The first one is so vehement that her arms collapse with the
shock, but she struggles to keep her ass up as she was told. The coppery
taste in her mouth tells her that she has finally broken the skin at the
edges of her mouth, but she does not cry out. Nor is there any word from
him as she struggles back into place. The next two are feathertouches, light
brushings of her abused flesh with the paddle, but the fourth is every bit
as nasty as the first. Again, she collapses, but does not cry out. The
fifth and sixth follow in a similar vein, in quick succession. There is a
pause; the seventh is very light, as is the eighth. The ninth one causes
her to toss her head back and gasp around the gag for air as she tries
not to scream, and she balances precariously on her fists, fingernails
curled painfully into the palm of her hand.
No tenth. He tosses the paddle onto the table and turns to look
at her carefully. Now, the skin has been broken in one or two places,
and abraided in one or two more, and the entire surface of the skin is
heavily mottled. Gingerly, he reaches out a hand to brush the surface
of her skin, and does not admonish her at all when she flinches away from
the contact.
"You see how easy that was, pretty?" he whispers. "You have
pleased me. You may stand now, but remain bent at the waist, and
clasp your wrists behind your back. We're going to play a game now,
pretty," he adds. It is not without some concern that he watches her
struggle to a standing position. Her nose is running, and she is having
some difficulty breathing around the gag. Only then does he also note
the small traces of blood around the corners of her mouth. Once she is
bent over, he undoes the strap of the gag, then gently works the ball out
from behind her teeth. A quick trip to the kitchen provides him with both
kleenex and a damp cloth; quickly and carefully, he takes care of her nose
and mouth.
From the nearby table, he retrieves his newest toy: a pair of
japanese sewing clamps, linked by a glittering silver chain. With this, he
also has a small tray of silver weights wrapped in silver wire which form
a hook above each weight. Most of them are ten-gram weights, though there
are various others scattered among them. For a moment he toys with the
clamps, admiring their odd design, testing their pressure against his own
fingertip, tugging slightly on the chain to tighten them. Reaching
beneath her, he strokes her nipples to harden them, then attaches the clamps
one at a time. He hears her breath catch in her throat and looks at her
very carefully, though she now seems consigned to his whims. Continuing
to stroke her breasts, he speaks:
"These are oriental sewing clamps. There is a chain between them.
The game is simple - I am going to suspend weights from that chain, and
you are going to count them out loud. Very simple. Can you manage
that, pretty?" He watches the shudder run down her spine, but she does
nod. He hangs the first weight. She grits her teeth as she comes to the
realization that the weight of the chain only pulls the already painful clamps
tighter. "I can't hear you, pretty," he whispers.
"One," she says, very clearly. Stroking her head, he smiles at her
bowed figure.
"Good girl, pretty." Hanging the next one, he waits patiently for
the few seconds it takes her to accept the weight.
"Two." They do not make it past four before she is whimpering again,
but trying bravely to keep up with him. He is impressed.
"Pretty is playing very well, I think. I think she has made up for
her earlier behaviour, but we are not done yet. I want to put three more
weights on, then we can end the game. Can you do that, pretty? Can you
add three more?" She nods, then suddenly realizes that he wants her to
attach them herself. He guides her hands to the tray he holds, but leaves
her to fumble for the chain, trying not to jostle the already present
weights. She tugs painfully on the chain a number of times before
finally adding all three, even remembering to call each one out as she does.
When she has returned her hands to the position behind her back, he
instructs her to stand straight. Her movements set off a gentle but painful
rocking motion in the chain, and she is forced to move with nothing less
than extreme caution and precision until she is straight.
He stands to admire her. Her face is streaked with tears, and there
are bruises peaking out around her hips, settling to a deep purple already.
With her hair pulled back away from her face, there is something very harshly
beautiful about her. One by one, he begins the slow removal of the weights,
but does not remove the clamps themselves, tracing slow lines across her
breasts as he does so. Gradually those lines cover most of her chest and
belly, gently prying further between her legs, which he nudges further
apart with his own feet. His fingers search out her clitoris, which has
swollen in arousal unlike any other time he has played with her, and he is
pleased. He hears her breath falter as he begins his slow, rythmical rubbing,
grinding oh-so-slightly now and then against the underlying bone. She sways,
and he supports her against his chest. The pressure against her clamped
nipples causes her to stiffen a little bit, but his hand is persuasive
enough to coax her into relaxing into the pain.
Relax into it she does. The sensations over ride her conscious
thought, and she is aware now only of her aching nipples, pressed against
the wool of his sweater, and the rising sensations between her legs. She
neither knows nor particularly cares whether she is standing or being held;
the only thing that matters is the orgasm which escapes from her before
either one of them realizes how close she really is. His hand is insistent;
the clamps are inescapable, and she is on the floor without knowing how she
got there, the sun-warmed wood baking into her abused backside. She cries
out as the clamps are removed and the blood floods back into her nipples,
teased by his flicking tongue. She bears his weight as he quickly struggles
to get his pants down; to keep her from helping he catches hold of her
wrists and pins them to her chest, using his other hand to free himself.
When he pushes into her, he is swept into her physical arousal as
the muscles of her vagina clamp around him; she struggles to keep her bruised
flesh off the floor by rising to meet his thrusts, rather than being ground
into the wood. He has never wanted her with such an intensity as he does
now. Her hands twine unhindered in his hair as he slips the blindfold off
over her head. She, for her part, has given in completely; the difference
between pain and pleasure has ceased to exist for the time being, and she
lifts her hips to wrap her legs around his back, pressing her lips into
his as he drops into her again. There is something almost violent in this
passion they share, and in the end, hers is not the only scream to echo
through the cavernous apartment.
In the end, there is only the sensation of flesh in her mind. Bruised
flesh, compressed flesh, warm flesh, wet flesh, soft flesh, his flesh. Their
breathing matches paces as they lie joined in the sunlight on the floor,
firmly ensconced in a kind of hazy euphoria, their minds adrift. Eventually,
he stirs; she seems asleep beneath him, and he marvels at the tranquility in
her face, considering her physical pain. He wakens her by brushing his
lips across the fine sweat at the base of her neck. She neither speaks nor
fights him as he lifts her to the bathroom, washes both her then himself,
and tends to the wounds on her back. He has cleansers for the open skin, and
herbal remedies for the bruising. When she is clean and dry and cared for,
he carries her to the bed and tucks her in, kissing her forehead gently.
It occurs to him that attending her in this fashion is every bit as enjoyable
as
using her; she succumbs to his care as voluntarily as she succumbs to his
orders. To watch her give herself over to his ministrations pleases him,
and he accepts his responsibilities gladly.
For several minutes he stands by the side of the bed as she falls
into regular sleeping patterns, then cautiously stretches himself down
beside her, clasps one of her limp hands in his own, and shortly falls
asleep himself.
February 10, 1992
Arnora Dunestan.
--
I will ignore all requests for: reposts, e-mailing missing parts, archive
locations, ftp sites, gif sites, and subscription requests. These stories get
deleted immediately after they are posted. For more info on the ARCHIVE
postings, read the FAQ posted bi-monthly to a.s.s.d
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sorry, no requests for reposts, missing parts, GIFs, FTP sites, etc. can be
honored. If you find getting stories from this newsgroup inconvenient, the
archive is available on disk. Send a blank email to
adultarc@tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com for more information. Authors wishing to
have files added to or removed from the THC Public archive should contact
me at: tommy@tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com. Remove the IH8SPAM from the
preceding addresses; it is inserted to confound auto-spammers. Please refer
comments to alt.sex.stories.d or to e-mail. Thank you. -=( Tommy )=-
From tommy@tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com Fri May 09 07:00:19 1997
Path: news1.infoave.net!news-dc-10.sprintlink.net!news-east.sprintlink.net!news-dc-26.sprintlink.net!news-peer.sprintlink.net!Sprint!news-pull.sprintlink.net!news.sprintlink.net!news-pen-15.sprintlink.net!myriad!mail
From: tommy@tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: Mindscapes Pt. 6
Date: 9 May 1997 07:00:19 -0400
Organization: Mail to Usenet Gateway
Lines: 705
Message-ID: <199632822@f26.n340.z1.ftn>
Apparently-To: alt.sex.stories@mail2news.alias.net
To: alt.sex.stories@mail2news.alias.net
X-FTN-Sender: "tommy@tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com" <tommy%tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com@f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org>
X-FTN-FLAGS: PVT TRN
X-FTN-Tearline: NaNoSPaM+ 0.05
X-FTN-Via: Squish/386 1.11 1:340/303, Fri May 09 1997 at 10:20 UTC
The THC Adult Text Archive: MINDSCP6.TXT (677 lines)
Please do not allow anyone under 18 to read the contents of this message.
Note: I did not write any of these stories. They are being posted from the
archive as a public service only - any copyrights belong to the authors.
NOTE: The adultarc autoresponder has been swamped with spam! To relieve
this, I have been forced to put in a spam-resistant From: address. To
reply to this message, please remove the "IH8SPAM" from the From: address
above before sending your reply.
See the footer for important information.
==========================================================================
ARCHIVE: mindscapes-6.Z
From: Joshua A Laff <laff@cs.uiuc.edu>
Date: Wed, 23 Mar 1994 09:18:35 GMT (30 screens)
This story is another from the archives, and is not written by me.
Requests for just about anything concerning these posts will be ignored.
See the FAQ in a.s.s.d for more information.
From: nnpeters@watcgl.waterloo.edu (Neil N. Peterson)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage
Subject: STORY: mindscapes 6
Date: 3 Mar 92 01:11:42 GMT
unlike most of the other mindscapes, this one was written under some
special circumstances. Sir and i just (celebrated?) our one year
anniversary. i wanted to give him something special, so i did what
i know best. mindscapes 6, which contains a large number of elements
of my own life, of me, of Sir and Master, of none of the above, was
written privately for him; it was his decision to share it with the
rest of the net. it still contains the original mistakes, typos, and
one or two logistics problems that will someday (and i use the term
loosely :) be cleaned up. this is for Sir, and for all my friends
here, who get to share this with me and mine. standard rules apply -
you all know where to reach me for commentary.
happy anniversary, Sir.
always,
arnora
MINDSCAPES 6
Today is a special day. It has been a year since they started playing
together, and he is waiting for her when she arrives in the early hours of
the morning at his office. There are two small, charmingly gift-wrapped
packages sitting on the desk beside him. She is surprised, flattered, feeling
tingly inside, yet she still remembers to drop to her knees and await his
commands before saying anything out of line.
He smiles, reaches for her hands, and pulls her gently into a
standing position before him; when he stands, it is to wrap his arms around
her and hold her against him for several moments. After a heartbeat's
hesitation, she returns the embrace. For this moment, there is nowhere on
earth she would rather be, no one she would rather exchange places with. He
gently turns her head and kisses her full on the mouth, an unprecedented
move for so early in their standard meeting format. Then again, so far
little of this meeting has been standard. Finally, he reseats himself on
the desk, still holding her hands and smiling.
"Today is kind of a special day," he finally says, "and to this end
I have planned kind of a special treat, of sorts. I would like to take you
into the city today and spoil you rotten. Would you mind that at all?" She
cannot resist the impish grin on his face, and shakes her head, somewhat
dazzled by his attitude. Catching her chin in his hands, he speaks to her
again, trying to be stern, but too much is lost in the twinkling of his
eyes for credibility. "I have but one order for you at this point. Today
we are equals. You may speak as you wish, move as you wish, do as you wish.
Tonight," and here his eyes gleam wickedly, "tonight may be another matter,
but for today we shall just have fun. Deal?" He sticks out his hand. She
gazes at it blankly for a moment, then wraps her own hands around his and
grins.
"Deal," she replies.
It is something very unusual for her; to be able to hold his hand
as they walk, to cuddle up with him on the drive, or on the subway once they
reach the city. In the downtown core, he wraps her in his great overcoat as
they pause to listen to local buskers; taking her by the hands, he drags her
in and out of record stores. Taking his hands, she drags him in and out of
book stores. They pause down by the waterfront for a lunch of sushi, and he
tries patiently to teach her the hopeless art of eating with two tiny pieces
of wood. In the end, they give up and resort to stuffing each other's mouths
by hand, much to the amusement of the restaurant staff.
In the afternoon, they stop to catch the newest Disney animated film;
he marvels at the new graphics, she cries at the end. He dries her tears
and doesn't complain when she throws popcorn at him for laughing at her
tears. They both applaude wildly at the closing credits and escape the
darkness of the theatre into the bright but chill afternoon. Whisking her
onto a streetcar, he decides it is time to get down to serious business.
Their first stop is a ladies clothing store, carrying all the latest
fads and fashions. Between the two of them, they select a scanty but
elegant black tank-style dress in black stretchy velvet. Two stores later,
she has found matching garters, panties and stockings, and later, he
appears with a set of outrageous black leather heels, almost stiletto in
height. To this they add a pair of above the elbow black lace gloves, but
he mysteriously prevents her from adding a velvet choker to the outfit. She
is a little put out; she thinks the choker would be a marvellous accoutrement,
but he stands his ground. When the outfit has been assembled piece by
meticulous piece, they pause at a coffee shop for a quick bite to eat; he
glances at his watch, then hands her the bags and boxes which contain her
new outfit.
"I want to see you in the whole thing," he smiles, watching her
redden slightly. He knows her well enough to know that the entire outfit
is completely out of the norm for her, that she had probably never
intended wearing it in public. In fact, without his input, she would never
have considered such an outfir for herself, period. She glances down at
the bags dangling from her hand and watches them spin slowly around each
other.
"Is that an order?" she asks wistfully. He chuckles and swallows
the first hot sips of his coffee.
"No, but it is an ardent request. I have a sneaking suspicion it
will be better for you to do this now than later." He turns his
attention to his coffee mug, impishly ignoring her aborted outburst. She
is completely mystified, baffled, and curious as hell. In the end, she
knows her curiousity will win; with no further complaining, she takes
herself off to the bathroom to change.
She yearns for a full-length mirror. The ones above the sink
aren't bad, but she can't back up far enough in the tiny bathroom to see
much below the bottom of the dress at mid-thigh. Frowning, she tugs the
hem of the dress down farther, lamenting the size and shape of her body,
hating the lumps that the dress can't begin to hide. Never before has
she worn something which makes her feel so damned self conscious. In the
back of her mind, she knows he must have had some plan before they came to
the city; a billion options run through her head, but as usual, she is at
mercy, and, quite frankly, she would have it no other way. In spite of
the physical disparity between what she sees as her body and what she
would like to see as her body (especially in that dress!), she looks at her
reflection and feels sexy. She is afraid that perhaps he will not be
as pleased with the full result, and frowns again. Teetering on the
unfamiliar heights of her new shoes, she backs away from the mirror
once more, wishing that there was some way she could see the whole thing all
at once. Finally, with a sigh, she gives up; she crams her clothes into
the empty bags, picks up her coat, and eases herself out of the bathroom.
Her return to the front of the coffee shop doesn't catch his
eyes alone. They are both aware of the riveting eyes of others around
and between them. He is impressed; even the shy, nervous little smile she
can't seem to pry off her face is enchanting. Black is sleek, he thinks.
The gloves may be a little much, particularly at this time of day in a
dingy little coffee shop, but there is a dramatic, even dangerous look to
the whole outfit. There is something sensual in the way the high heels
change the curve of her legs, and he chuckles as he watches her wince at
the sound of dragging her heel on the floor. So she needs some practice; he
doesn't envy women the task of learning the balancing act that seems to
accompany most fashions. He stands as she nears the table and pulls her
chair out for her. A quick move on his part catches her hand before it can
tug down the hem of her skirt again.
"Let it ride up," he whispers in her ear. "I like the thought of these
old guys getting off on looking at you." She glares at him as she sits.
"Fine, but you're not the one who has to deal with the updraft," she
protests quietly, wrapping her gloved hands around her coffee cup. He smiles
warmly at her, and his eyes, even with that sly twinkle, communicate enough
about what he thinks of her to make her wonder if she is leaving tiny
wet spots on the cold vinyl chair.
When they are ready to leave, he helps her into her coat and takes her
arm as they head out into the cold once more. At the streetcar stop, he
glances
at his watch again.
"Are we late for something?" she asks, trying to sound nonchalant.
They
both know she hasn't a hope in hell of being convincing. He shrugs and
looks up at the late afternoon sky.
"Not particularly," he replies casually. She frumps. That was bloody
useful, her brain mutters. "However," he continues, still focused on the
sky, "I do think it's time to get back to business. You will now resume your
normal role. And wipe that silly smirk off your face. Its very cute, but
a little inappropriate, pretty." His voice has taken on that dangerous,
silky tone she loves so well; accordingly, she drops her eyes and lowers her
head. When transit arrives, he guides her by the elbow to a seat in the middle
of the car, carefully weaving among other riders. She sits by the window, but
keeps her eyes downcast; he drops beside her as the car begins to roll again.
"Open your coat," he orders quietly, then reaches down to hike up the
hem of her skirt; he stops just short of revealing the cleft between her legs.
"You will leave your coat open and your skirt at that height unless I tell you
otherwise; do you understand pretty?" She nods; her face is burning, and she
is afraid to look around to see who might have noticed. Never, never have they
played in public like this before. Kneeling next to him as he played cards in
the lounge was one thing, but there is something so completely different about
this that she cannot begin to comfort herself. Looking down, she loks at the
bare flesh exposed between the bottom of the skirt and the top of the
stockings.
So pale, she thinks. She watches his hand run up and down her displayed
thighs, exploring the difference in texture between stockings and skin.
Inevitably, his hand ventures up under what little skirt he has left her,
checking to see whether the panties are being worn over or under the garters.
He is pleased. At some point in their development, he has told her
how he likes his women to dress; now he sees that she has remembered his
preferences; the panties are being worn over the garter. He fingers the lace
at the waist and bends to her ear, whispering,
"Take these off, pretty. They are nice, but not for now." Now she
looks up at him, eyes wide. There is no smile on his face, but the twinkle
in his eye is unmistakable and irrepresible. It makes her feel warm all
over. Just past him, however, on the other side of the bus, a middle aged
business man is watching her very keenly, obviously impressed with what he
has seen, and what he believes he is seeing. She swallows nervously and looks
back at her master. Apparently he is already aware of her admirer. Fine, she
thinks, rising to the challenge. Her evil gleam over-rides his impish twinkle
as she rise slightly in the seat, slowly sliding her hands up her legs to
the sides of her skirt, disappearing momentarily, then inching the lace of the
panties down bit by teasing bit. They catch briefly on the garter
fasteners, but with patience, she manages to work them off over her feet. When
they are off, she takes his hand, places them across his palm without making
any effort to hide their nature from curious onlookers, then closes his fingers
over the panties and kisses his knuckles softly. In return, he hands them
back to her. "When we get off the streetcar, I want you to hand these to
the man in the suit behind me and kiss him," he instructs, then faces forward
so as not to see the horror on her face.
"But he -" she breaks off and drops her eyes. This is unthinkable.
He allows her this brief outburst and says, without turning to look at her,
"You'll do this because it is what you want, pretty."
Finality. That's what it is. He has used the ultimate argument on her,
and she has the graces to accept his checkmate. It is what she wants, in spite
of her protestations to the contrary, in spite of everything. She has given
herself to him, to be played with and used as he sees fit. Because it is
what she whats. End of story. In the end, she realizes, there is no escaping
the consequences of one's own desires.
She isn't paying attention; when he swings himself out of the seat as
the car grumbles to a halt, she is pulled along in his wake as is by an
invisible cord. Coolly, with something visibly smouldering beneath her
outer appearance, she crosses the few feet of aisle to the business man,
who stares at her, shocked by her marked approach. He looks around,
realizing almost immediately that she is headed for him. Unmistakably.
In a daze, he watches her repeat the gesture she made earlier; she takes
his hands, places the black lace fabric in it, and closes his fingers. Only
she doesn't kiss his hand. Bending forward, she presses her lips against
his own, lips open only slightly, and there is a quiver as he feels the
brief caress of her tongue. She is moving away before he overcomes his
mental gridlock.
He waits for her on the traffic island as she steps off the streetcar,
and wraps her in his arms. Inside the safety of his embrace, she trembles,
and she doesn't know why. She wants to laugh. She wants to cry. She wants
to savour the power she had, for a brief moment, over her own victim, someone
who will probably never understand what just happened. She repsonds to his
hug with a fierce, proud love. He understands, she thinks. He is allowing
me to see something of him in this. His words, little more than a breath in
her ear, seem far clearer than the universe of traffic clamour around them:
"You did well, pretty. I am proud of you."
They reach the subway in the crush of home-bound rush-hour traffic.
Both the platform and the train are pressed with bodies; they stand close
together, like lovers. No one can see his hands, hidden from sight by their
coats and the screen of humanity, moving slightly but with great pressure
between her legs. They may see her head, bowed against his chest, and take
it as the sign of the end of a long, tiring day. They cannot see her face,
hidden by her hair as she clings to him, squeezing her eyes shut, biting
her lips to keep from crying out. The general white noise of human existence
hides her moans as she pushes herself against his hand, feeling set adrift
and something apart from the rest of the bodies around her. Over it all,
she hears the incoming train, and grits her teeth in disappointment,
knowing she isn't about to get the release she has been building to. Only
with great reluctance, she moves gently away from his hand, trying to
straighten up until she realizes that her teeth are still locked onto the
collar of his coat. He glances at her and laughs, gantly rubbing her aching
jaws. As the crowd begins its movement onto the subway, she catches a slight
breeze across her exposed skin, and catches herself glancing down to see if
there is any steam. She grins to herself, then feels a hand snag her arm
and guide her through the pack of bodies. At the back of the car, he takes
what may well be the last empty seat. She frowns at him for a second, then
drops her eyes into the appropriate attitude, but she can hear him laughing
as he reaches for her and pulls her, startled and somewhat resistant, into his
lap. The people are closer here, she notes, and settles quietly against his
chest.
Jerking slightly, the train pulls out of the station into the darkness
of the tunnels. Without any particular focau, she watches the bodies in the
car swaying back an forth, alllowing herself to be drawn into the rythm. He
shifts beneath her slightly, and obligingly, she raises herself again to
allow him to adjust his coat, but with one arm around her waist, he won't let
her go too far away. He settles her back in his lap. She twists slightly,
thinking something in one of his pockets must have been relocated, and she
starts to rise again. This time, the lock on her waist is unyielding; he
moves slightly, and as the pressure beneath her increases, she comes to the
abrupt realization of what he has done, and what he is intending to do.
Directly in front of her face is the knapsack of some local university
student, and she peers around it cautiously to see who might be watching them.
Even those in the seats immediately around them, those whom she can see, are
either dozing or deeply ensconced in the daily paper. Squirming, she manages
to find a comfortable position for her feet as she works to spread her legs
slightly. She holds the bags she is carrying in front of her to cover what her
skirt currently cannot.
The position is precarious and awkward. Without turning around to
face him astride, she cannot find a way to bring about any serious
penetration. He is very aware that only the head is enveloped in moist
folds of skin, and although this might be enough for him, it certainly
won't be enough for her. The arm around her waist is shielded by the bags
she has lifted into her own lap; moving a hand between her thighs is no
great difficulty. As his fingertips connect with the tense knob of flesh
inside her labia, he glances up at the subway route map. Only a dozen or
so stops before theirs, he notes wrily. He ought to be able to do
something between now and then.
The rocking motion of the train, coupled with the frequent starts
and stops, is more than enough to mask their slight motions. She works hard
to keep the blank expression on her face as she moves back and forth, using
her outer vaginal muscles to work the tip of his dick. The occasional
break or change in the rythm of his handwork lets her know how far she is
pushing him, as well as serving to push her farther. Her frustration mounts,
so to speak, as she counts the passing stations. She also keeps one
worried eye on the noticeably-thinning crowd, another on the route map,
wondering whether either of them will find release before that final stop.
As it is, neither of them do, and it is with nothing more than smug,
malicious, even gleeful satisfaction that she notes the slight glaze of
extreme frustration in his own eyes. She follows him, smiling, letting her
coat fall open as she walked, grimacing occasionally as she accidentally
drags her heels on the floor. Heels will take some getting used to, she
mentally side-notes.
The walk from the subway to the outdoor parking garage takes them
through a large shopping complex. Here she notices she is catching far
more attention, although whether it is for her appearance or for her attitude,
she is unsure. All the way into the garage, even on the brief walk from
the mall to the garage itself, she is smiling, pleased that he seems to be
more frustrated than she is. She watches the back of his coat as they approach
the car, watches him fumble with his keys. He unlocks her door, turns, smiles
at her. Without a word, he grabs her shoulders, slams her up against the side
of the car and pushes her legs apart. She is impaled before she has time to
draw another breath, but the feeling is so good, so strong, that she cannot
care. Pinned against the car, she lifts both legs to wrap around his waist,
pulling him deep inside. She catches his head in her hands and pulls his
mouth to her hungry lips, feeding on his urgency. He is the one who is
moaning, she is the one who is slowing her own motions against his, drawing
out the sensations, both of them shuddering as they slow to deep intensity.
He doesn't care about possessing her right now; they both know that
technically, she has won the victory on this round, having pushed him to the
point of frustration and urgency. Now, nothing matters so much as mutual
satisfaction of hunger, no more, no less.
When finally the unreleased pressure builds beyond what they can
accept, it is his cry that breaks their tableau. She holds him, pinned
against the car as she is, embracing him with everything she has and
listening to his ragged breathing smooth out. Eventually, his lips find
her neck, and he kisses his way up to her lips. The glaze is supplanted by
a sated glow. He kisses her nose, then slowly, they begin the process of
disentangling themselves from each other. Paper towels are retrieved from
the back of the car, and he helps her to clean herself up and dry off. He
hesitates slightly before opening his own door; she has already slid into
her seat and is fumbling with a seatbelt, he is hesitant to shed the
euphoric aftereffects of the day. With an exaggerated sigh, he cheers
himself with the knowledge that the evening's distractions are liable to
be even better. She, on the other hand, simply sleeps most of the way home.
When the motion of the car stops long enough to awaken her, they
are in the parking lot of his building. He has turned in his seat to face
her, tenderly brushing back the hair which has fallen into her eyes. Both
presents are in his lap. She stretches, yawns, and smiles at him. He, in
turn, hands her the larger of the two small boxes, watching with a gentle
smile as she carefully unwraps the paper and pushes aside the tissue in the
box. He watches her eyes light up as she pulls out the collar, a truly
marvellous piece of work; the leather has been tooled by hand in intricate
scroll and knotwork patterns, inlaid with what appears to be goldleaf between
the great, moulded metal rings. The padlock at the back, the rings, and the
locking apparatus themselves have all been plated in the same method, and
stand out beautifully against the dark-brown stain of the leather. She is
obviously entranced.
"Master, may I ...?" she inquires hesitantly, holding the collar
up. He takes the keys out of the ignition and flips to one which matches the
lock, opens it, and hold her hair out of the way for her while she installs
the collar. Against the flush of her skin, it looks beautiful on her. He
resists the urge to touch the collar, to touch her; he is more than ready to
play with her, but in due time. Instead, he hands her the second box.
The second box contains a keyring with two keys and a brass plate
inscribed with the word "Pretty" in a lovely, sprawling sript. Puzzled, she
looks at him, the keys jingling in her hand.
"These are the keys to my apartment. The first is for the building
door, the second for the apartment door." This time, his smile is much
more shy, but he meets her surprised face. "I want you to have them."
She is speechless. She is comletely blown away. Both of them
are surprised to see tears in her eyes, but she wipes them away before they
have a chance to fall. Returning to something closer to what she expects, he
sits back in his seat and unsnaps his seat belt.
"You will go up to the apartment and wait for me there. Have a shower
if you wish, help yourself to anything in the fridge if you are hungry. If
you wish to sleep for a while, do so. I want you in an up frame of mind
for tonight. We are going to a party." Having spoken, he opens his door
and slides his frame out of the car. Quickly she gathers up her things and
follows him to the building. He waits at the door for her, allowing her the
opportunity to test her new keys. On the way down the hall to the stairs, they
pass a number of people.most of whom turn to stare at the rather brazen young
woman in his company. She doesn't seem to notice, and that makes him proud.
The collar is tall enough to cause her to carry her chin up, but he doesn't
think that's the only reason for her bearing. He catches and squeezes her
hand; she doesn't turn to look at him, but the return pressure says more
than anything else could.
Inside the apartment, she stacks her parcels neatly beside the door
and hangs her coat beside his. Politely she asks for permission to remove
her shoes. He considers things for a moment, then replies,
"You will either leave your shoes on, or you will take everything
off. The decision shall be yours, pretty." In her mind, there is no debate.
The shoes are left by the door; the rest of the outfit is left neatly on the
bed across the apartment. She returns to the kitchen and rummages through
the fridge, resurfacing with an apple, some cheese, and a glass of milk. She
sets her items on the counter, then approaches him as he sits on the couch in
front of the huge living room windows. Kneeling at his feet, she speaks
softly.
"Master?"
"Yes, pretty?" He smiles.
"Would Master like something to eat?" Stroking her hair, he chuckles.
She is displaying some marvellous behaviour, and he is enormously pleased.
"No, thank you, pretty, but I am pleased that you thought to ask.
There
is something that I would like though, pretty. I think I would like to
spank you. You did speak out of turn once today; however, I am inclined to
treat a mild infraction with mild punishment. Across my lap, pretty." She
moves without hesitation into his lap, psyching herself for the sting. He,
on the other hand, appears to be in no hurry. Slowly he runs his palms over
her bare flesh, knowing how hot it will feel under his hand when he is done.
There seems to be little with as powerful an effect as the squirming she does
when being spanked, trying to avoid admitting that something in her own mind
responds as much as he does. He brings down the first blow, then returns to
rubbing the skin. In this way do all ten spanks come down, and in spite of
her tears at the end, he feels her actually moving to accept an anticipated
spank, rather than flinching away from it. He can smell her arousal, and
delights in watching the play of muscles across her buttocks as he strokes
the reddened flesh with his fingertips. "Now you may eat, pretty," he
whispers, helping her stand. "When you are done, have a shower and a nap. I
will wake you when it is time to get ready."
The apartment is dark when he wakes her up. She opens her eyes to the
feeling of having her nipples stroked; smiles, stretches, reaches up to
touch his shadowed face, but has her hand gently pushed away. Instead, she
gives herself over to his touch, allowing his touch and the cool air to
arouse her flesh, even if her mind is still somewhat fuzzy from sleep. She
closes her eyes and drifts to the sensation of his stroking, not quite
awake, not quite asleep; awareness is brutally sharp, however, as she
recognizes the painful pinch of the sewing clamps on her nipples. His lips
twitch as he tries not to laugh at her frown. He pulls her into a sitting
position, and produces her own brush. Her hair, wet when she lay down, has
dried into a long tangle. She is grateful for something else to
concentrate on as he patiently works through the worst of the snarls, then
through the mass as a whole.
"You may get dressed in your new clothes now," he says when finished.
"The clamps are the only thing I have to add to the ensemble, and you will
wear them until told otherwise. I expect you to be on your best behaviour
tonight, pretty. You will not speak unless spoken to, and you will do as
I ask when I ask. We are only going downstairs, so you will not need a coat
or a purse. I will wait int he living room, but don't make me wait long."
The tight fabric of the dress over the clamps proves to be something
of a serious discomfort, and it takes a serious amount of mental resolve
to not ask him to remove them. So long as she doesn't disturb the chain
between them, however, there is no increase in pressure, and in the end, she
decides to bite down and deal with it. The outlines under her dress are
interesting, and more than a little humourous, she thinks, catching a
glimpse of her silhouette in his dressing mirror. In the reflection, she
catches sight of him, watching her from across the apartment, but there
isn't enoughlight to read his expression. She shakes her hair out one last
time and slips the gloves on; the collar did not come off before her nap,
though he did allow her to take it off to shower.
She goes to the door to get her shoes before coming back to kneel
before him, but does not put them on. Instead, she leans forward to kiss
his toes.
"Master?"
"Yes, pretty?"
"Thank you for today, master."
"You are most welcome, pretty. I ... enjoyed myself." He motions
for her to stand and put her shoes on, then takes her by the arm and guides
her out of the apartment.
She marvels at the soundproofing of the building; the party is very
definitely in full swing as they arrive, but until they are almost at
the door, not a sound escapes into the hall. The apartment into which she
is ushered is identical in layout to his, but this one is packed with huge
tropical plants, vines, bright flowers and blue plant lights. Furniture
forms islands at various intervals throughout the mass, and the entire
space had the moist, humid feeling of the tropics. Most of the guests had
obviously been warned about this, and had dressed lightly. He is greeted
by the majority of people; he does not introduce her, and yet she cannot
shake a growing feeling that these people seem to accept her presence as an
extension of his. She is regarded kindly, or with curiosity, more than once
with outright desire, but always with some kind of interest. Very
conscious of her appearance, of the clamps outlined beneath her dress, which
hides very little in any respect, she keeps her eyes downcast, and maintains
herself very quietly in his shadow. Someone offers her a drink, and she
shakes her head, uncertain of what she is allowed to do under the
circumstances.
Uncomfortable as she is, she resigns herself to waiting for his instructions.
She wishes the collar were invisible; it clearly marks out what she is, and
the implications of that she finds very disturbing - and very arousing.
At last they reach an oasis of chairs, giant rattan papasans nestled
beneath drooping palm trees of moderate size. He joins a lively conversation
already in progress as she settles herself at his feet. With a shake of his
head, he allows her to leave her hands folded in her lap. For the most
part ignored, she is left with little to do except study the shoes and
calves of those in the group, which is only moderately amusing, until the
owner of the black jeans and black desert boots speaks up in answer to her
own companion's comments. That unpleasant, harsh, almost gravelly voice is
one which she recognizes. Her head snaps up and she stares at him, wide-
eyed. For such an unleasant voice, he is not an unpleasant-looking man, she
thinks. A little darker, and with much sharper features than she usually
prefers, but otherwise not bad. In mid comment, however, he stops and locks
eyes with her.
"That's a rather impudent stare," he remarks drily. She drops her
eyes immediately, glad at least that she didn't say anything. The conversation
resumes around her, but the dark man says nothing; out of the corner of her
eye, she watches him sit back and watch her. She feels a hand at the back of
her head; his fingers seek out on of the rings on her collar and give her a
quick, sharp tug, causing her to catch her breath in her throat. The gravelly
voice laughs, and although the hand stays connected to the ring, nothing
further
develops.
She gets lost in the music and the flow of conversation over the
course of time, which, of course, she has no method of tracking. It can't
have been all that early when they first arrived, and it feels like they have
been there for several hours. At some point she has been provided with a
glass of water, which he sees is kept full for her. Always he maintains
the point of contact between them; much as he enjoys watching her
discomfort, there is still something about letting go of her completely
that he isn't prepared for, particularly in these social situations. He
knows she has evoked a great deal of interest; most of these people here
are friends of his, most of them know about his experiment with her. Only
two people here have ever met her before, and both of them have already
expressed an interest in laying again. He has something in mind, but it
takes almost as much nerve to talk himself into it as he is certain it will
take her to carry it through.
The evening winds down, and before long, there are only four of
them left. She is certain that the man and woman who remain, the hosts of
the party, are the same two she encountered the first night at his apartment,
not too long ago. They have both curled up on the large papasan across from
where she still sits, almost drooping against his chair. With the exception
of two trips to the washroom, she has sat by his chair all night without
complaint; now, her nipples ache, her legs hurt, her back is tired. She
would like nothing more than to sit with her legs outstretched for a while,
then go to sleep. Above her head their conversation continues in quiet
tones; she tuned them out some time ago, and has since been drifting along
in her own thoughts.
A movement on the large papasan catches her eyes, and she glances
that way. The lady has stretched out on the papasan, her legs thrown lazily
over the lap of the man with the gravelly voice. As they talk, he pushes
her skirt up, and is now working his hand back and forth gently between
her legs. The lady closes her eyes and folds her hands under her head,
withdrawing from the conversation to enjoy her lover's attentions. She is
fascinated by their behaviour in the presence of others, and watches now
without hesitation. The two men continue to talk, but the other man is very
aware of his new audience. Again locking eyes with her, he asks,
"Would you like to take this over? You did so well, last time..."
Startled, she shakes her head and pulls up against the chair.
"I think you should, pretty," dictates the voice behind her head. "I
would like to see you play." He sits back and addresses himself to the man
across from him. "She will do as you say." Not without some reluctance, he
releases her collar and gives her a gentle nudge forward. Her legs are
stiff, and only with a great deal of discomfort does she make it the short
distance across the floor, having to balance on all fours.
The other man pulls her in close, in between his own legs, and places
her hands on the warm flesh of his lady. Being blindfolded was one thing;
she didn't have to know that others were watching, but this was almost
unbearable. She started to withdraw her hand, shaking her head, and felt
the presence of a familiar body behind her.
"I thought you wanted to play, pretty," he says. "If all you want
to do is watch, I am sure we can oblige you." He pulls her sharply to
her feet, and they stand aside to let the others move. She follows them
to a partitioned section of the apartment which serves as the bedroom, feeling
more and more miserable as they go. All she had wanted after such a marvellous
day was to spend the evening with him; this is not at all what she wants, and
she really doesn't feel like playing, but she is too stubborn to complain
now. Besides, there is something in the back of her mind that is arguing in
favour of watching her hosts get each other off. She has never watched
other people before; in spite of her current mood, she finds her sparked
curiosity is getting the better or her.
Yet what unfolds is not what she expects. Inside the bedroom, the
woman turns not to her own lover, but to her master. She entwines him in
her embrace, lips locked on his. Watching them, she feels herself stiffen
in anger and jealousy and her fist lock at her sides. The man appears
behind her, warm hands on her hips, breath on her bare shoulders.
"Take your clothes off," he orders her under his breath. She
cannot take her eyes off the scene on the bed before her, on his making
love to another woman in front of her. Already his lips are on the other
woman's bare breast, and she is moaning softly as he bites into her flesh.
Unfamiliar hands reach down to open the front of his shirt, the front
of his pants. She watches his slow arousal under the casual ministrations
of someone else, and she knows she is going to cry. She is so utterly
humiliated. With deliberate, angry movements, she pulls her dress over
her head, not bothering to cry out as the movement jar the clamps
on her nipples. The gloves, garters and stocking come next, topped finally
by the shoes. She offers no resistance when those calloused hands manacle
and clip her wrists to her collar, then spread her legs apart to display
her; she is angry beyond caring, even knowing that she shouldn't be. In
spite of everything, she feels betrayed. She watches the woman on the bed
slide his pants down off his body, then pull him towards her, rolling on top
of him as they move. She feels her own body being touched, and closes her
eyes so she doesn't have to watch the penetration, though she can't shut out
the sounds. She hears the sound of the condom package being opened, and the
moment of regulated breathing while the other woman dresses him with it,
then the quiet sigh as she settles herself down onto them. The sound of flesh
on flesh tells her his hands are caressing strange breasts again, and the
tears finally spill over.
He knows this has upset her, and it take all of his concentration
to keep his erection up. He will at least see that his hostess is
pleased, but even she must know that he isn't all that interested. This
entire show has been arranged to see how she would react, and although she
has performed as expected, he is not prepared for it. He cannot help
but watch her as she stands on display at the end of the bed; in the shadows,
he can see his friend behind her, one hand kneading her breasts, one hand
working between her legs. He watches as he counterpart picks another
package off the nearby dresser, rip it open with his teeth, and position
himself so that he could roll the condom down with one hand.
She opens her eyes and looks at him, at the emotion in his face,
and realizes that, in spite of the current situation, he has not left her
alone at all. She is being shared; he is performing for her benefit and
sharing her as he does, but he is not "giving her away". The comfort is
enormous, and she smiles at him. Relieved, he smiles back, and turns his
attention back to his current partner, striking into the woman with a
vigour that catches the lady by surprise as well. She, on the other hand,
has her hands freed from the collar to be positioned on the edge of the
bed, bending over. With careful positioning, her host bends to enter from
behind her. He grunts slightly as he pushes in, laying over her back, using
her to support his weight. It is a slow, protracted motion he uses to
pump her, and one hand continues to work her clit.
Through her own increasing distraction, she hears the cries of
the woman on the bed, and
realizes with a start that he hasn't allowed himself to reach orgasm. In
the ensuing silence, she opens her eyes once more to discover she is being
watched, but the combined effects of the slow penetration and the handwork
is beginning to take its toll on her. She watches him lean forward, eyes
glued to her face as the tension builds. He has already removed the
condom, and positions himself before her, ready, and harder now than before.
He commands her mouth; she gives it to him willingly. She pleases and is
pleased, and it matters more to her that she is serving her master, and
that someone else serves her. Her own sense of power from earlier in the
day comes sweeping back to her; even the hiss of pain that escapes her
as the clamps are released (by whom, she never knows) doesn't dull the
senses. If anything, it increases them.
In the end, the revelation and the explosion are savage, and when
she wakes up the next morning, it is in his bed, in his arms. This time,
she has no trouble identifying that savageness. She envelopes herself in
his sleeping embrace, whispering, "I love you, too."
February 28, 1992
Arnora Dunestan
--
I will ignore all requests for: reposts, e-mailing missing parts, archive
locations, ftp sites, gif sites, and subscription requests. These stories get
deleted immediately after they are posted. For more info on the ARCHIVE
postings, read the FAQ posted bi-monthly to a.s.s.d
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sorry, no requests for reposts, missing parts, GIFs, FTP sites, etc. can be
honored. If you find getting stories from this newsgroup inconvenient, the
archive is available on disk. Send a blank email to
adultarc@tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com for more information. Authors wishing to
have files added to or removed from the THC Public archive should contact
me at: tommy@tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com. Remove the IH8SPAM from the
preceding addresses; it is inserted to confound auto-spammers. Please refer
comments to alt.sex.stories.d or to e-mail. Thank you. -=( Tommy )=-
From tommy@tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com Sat May 10 07:00:06 1997
Path: news1.infoave.net!news-dc-10.sprintlink.net!news-east.sprintlink.net!news-dc-26.sprintlink.net!news-peer.sprintlink.net!Sprint!news-pull.sprintlink.net!news.sprintlink.net!news-ana-24.sprintlink.net!myriad!mail
From: tommy@tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: Mindscapes Pt. 7
Date: 10 May 1997 07:00:06 -0400
Organization: Mail to Usenet Gateway
Lines: 436
Message-ID: <2095565248@f26.n340.z1.ftn>
Apparently-To: alt.sex.stories@mail2news.alias.net
To: alt.sex.stories@mail2news.alias.net
X-FTN-Sender: "tommy@tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com" <tommy%tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com@f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org>
X-FTN-FLAGS: PVT TRN
X-FTN-Tearline: NaNoSPaM+ 0.05
X-FTN-Via: Squish/386 1.11 1:340/303, Sat May 10 1997 at 10:22 UTC
The THC Adult Text Archive: MINDSCP7.TXT (411 lines)
Please do not allow anyone under 18 to read the contents of this message.
Note: I did not write any of these stories. They are being posted from the
archive as a public service only - any copyrights belong to the authors.
NOTE: The adultarc autoresponder has been swamped with spam! To relieve
this, I have been forced to put in a spam-resistant From: address. To
reply to this message, please remove the "IH8SPAM" from the From: address
above before sending your reply.
See the footer for important information.
==========================================================================
ARCHIVE: mindscapes-7.Z
From: Joshua A Laff <laff@cs.uiuc.edu>
Date: Wed, 23 Mar 1994 09:19:08 GMT (18 screens)
This story is another from the archives, and is not written by me.
Requests for just about anything concerning these posts will be ignored.
See the FAQ in a.s.s.d for more information.
Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage
From: nnpeters@watcgl.waterloo.edu (Neil N. Peterson)
Subject: MINDSCAPES 7
Date: Mon, 6 Apr 1992 00:58:50 GMT
arnora`s note:
i've been under some pretty brutal pressure of late, and have been
trying to work my muddled way through some of it within the forum of my
writing, so if this mindscapes seems a little different from the others,
that's why. i know a lot of you have been following the series for some time,
and i am trying to keep the characters consistent during their developments;
if you have any comments, i'd love to hear them (who knows, maybe you'll
inadvertantly solve my problems for me ...:)
MINDSCAPES 7
She stands outside the building for a moment, contemplating removing
her coat. Spring seems to have settled over the campus with a definite hold
finally, and she welcomes the warmth of the sun on her face. It is almost
the end of term - there are only two more days of classes before exams begin
and she must buckle down to work - and although there are things she knows she
should be doing, she can't resist the temptation to wander along the river
which winds through the campus. The geese are back, she notes, and laments the
fact that she has nothing to feed them or the ducks who winter in the area.
Her shoes get muddy before too long, but even this is cause for revelry; better
mud, she thinks, than snow and cold.
Inevitably, her wandering upstream brings her to the bridge which, if
crossed, would put her in front of the math building, in front of his office.
They have made no plans for today. In fact, out of respect for her work
schedule over the next two weeks, he has let her off easy. They are only
to meet for weekends, and only if her schedule of study allows. Yet the
temptation to drop in on him suddenly is strong. Something has changed
between them of late, and although she feels exhilarated by it, she is also
more than a little frightened. It is so intense, so critical, their
relationship, that sometimes she is afraid to push anything herself, for
fear of upsetting what she feels has reached a delicate balance. There is
something between them which she is afraid to put into words when they are
together, for fear of frightening him off, or for fear of being wrong.
There are words she feels she cannot say, and sometimes it hurts so much
that she cries herself to sleep after listening for the sounds of his own
breathing fall into sleep patterns.
She knows what those words are. But in all the time in which they
have been playing, they have taken great care to never tread upon such
topics as this. It is not that her feelings - or his, for that matter -
are irrelevant, but they always seem insignificant in the heat of the
moment, and are always left for "another time". Now, as she stands staring
at the building which houses his office, she wonders if she is brave
enough to take that risk, to endanger everything they have created with a
simple admission of emotional involvement. In the end, she backs away
from the bridge, and turns back downstream. Some things are better left
unshared, she surmises, slightly ashamed of her own cowardice and
rationalization.
A few days later, the warming trend still continues on campus. At
the end of the week, things have reached the point where, desperate for
anything which feels like summer, many of the students are sporting shorts
and tee shirts. She joins the host of those impatient for the summer days,
and shows up for her last day of class in a similar fashion. The heaters in
most of the buildings have been turned off, leaving things a little cooler
than one might have expected. With no windows to allow in the warming
sun, her Romantic Poets class is left rather frigid. Nor is she impressed
when her professor, a pixish young woman not much older than she herself is,
asks her to remain behind for a few moments. She knows what the interview
is to be about, and prepares herself for what might turn into a conflict.
The good professor straightens up her notes as she talks with one or
two other students about pre-exam jitters before the attention turns to
her.
"You haven't been in class much this term," the professor remarks.
She shrugs.
"It's a side effect of having to work full-time in addition to being
a full-time student," she replies, dropping down her knapsack and settling
on to the edge of a desk.
"What have you been doing?" asks the professor, cocking an eyebrow in
surprise. "Is it worth the fact that you don't have enough knowledge of what
has been covered here in class?"
"I'm doing the other thing best suited for an english major," she
says with a smile. "I'm working as a technical writer, and the work that
I have been doing since January is going to guarantee my job this summer.
Considering what I make, yeah, I'd say it was worth it. Besides, not
meaning to be rude, but what makes you think I haven't been keeping up with
what's going on in class?"
"I don't think simply reading someone else's notes is sufficient
information to pass this course," the professor replies. "I'm not trying
to be a bitch, but I tend to be concerned about students who show such
promise then disappear on me."
"Concern is always nice," she replies, "but not necessary. I'll
do just fine on the final. I may not be an honours student, but I hold
my own." She picks up her pack and drops a large stack of papers on her
professor's desk. "This is what I've been doing for the last several
months, just in case you wanted proof." The professor fingers the stack
of technical documentation, then pushes them back to her.
"Other than having to work, is everything okay?" the woman finally
asks. She stares at the professor.
"Since when has it become policy to ask after private lives of one's
students?" she chuckles. "This kind of concern is not customary." Watching
closely, she sees the tiniest hints of nervousness betrayed in the flicker
of the woman's hands, her eyes, her unsteady expression. "Or was there
something else you wanted from me?" Ah-hah, she thinks, that's it.
The professor pulls away, startled.
"What do you mean?" the other woman asks, flushing in spite of the
cold air of the room. She follows, leaning now against the front of the
professor's desk.
"I just got the impression you had something else," she comments,
looking straight into the eyes of the professor. "Did I get that right? There
is something else going on here, but my asking about it seems to have caught
you
off guard." She pauses and fiddles idly with the papers. "Asking in concern
about my attendance seems like kind of a thin excuse, don't you think?" The
professor is beginning to look very uncomfortable, trying not to appear
surprised, and she, turning her attention away from the professor momentarily,
tries not to grin with satisfaction; instead, she decides to circle in for the
kill. "Are you attracted to me?" The question appears suddenly, and the other
woman freezes. "That's it, isn't it? That's what this was all about; you
could have been so subtle, so careful of controlling this interview, so that
there would be no chance of my being scared off; without the upper hand, you're
nervous, aren't you?" For a second time, she is aware of a rushing
sense of power, that there is something in her hands she can use, can
control. She is taking an incredible risk, coming on to her professor like
this, but there is a sense of certainty that she cannot resist nor refuse.
"I have no ... no idea what you are talking about," the professor
states, thrusting her course notes into her brief case. "Are you possibly
suggesting that I was trying to come on to you?"
"Are you going to deny it?" Her response is swift and ruthless, and
the response is irrevocable.
"No." One word. It slips between them like a curtain falling down
between them. The brief case sags on the desk top, and the professor
raises canny eyes to her own. "I'm sorry ... I don't do this very often. I
don't often get attracted to my own students and I try not to get into
politically incorrect situations with them." There is a rueful smile. "I
also hadn't expected someone to be as blunt with me as I was hoping to be
subtle with them." The professor settles herself on the edge of the desk
cornered to her own position, hands clasped in lap, looking directly at her.
"I guess there's no point in my trying to be coy and subtle, so I guess I
might just as well come out and ask: now that you know that I have an interest
in you, and, since you're still here I will assume you're not completely
disinterested, what do you plan to do?" In response, she stands; her pack
is shouldered into place as she heads for the door, but before she reaches
the hallway, she stops, without turning to look back.
"I plan to make you work for it," is her parting comment.
Outside again in the sunlight, she pauses, her back pressed into the
sun-heated brick. Her heart is pounding, and the sweat stands out on her
forehead as though she has finished a strenuous workout. The shakes catch
up to her immediately thereafter, and yet the only thing she feels is triumph.
She wonders if this is how he feels every time they are together, if this is
how he felt the first time. At the end of a term, however, there is little
time for her to plan much. By the time she has made the rather shaky walk
to the library, she has realized that she would be most effective in the
hit-and-run department; she has no urge to divide her time between two lovers,
and her purposes, unfamiliar as they are to her at this point, would best
be served by something very short term.
Should she tell him?
This question slams into her mind as she travels up in the elevator
to the necessary floor. How much time would she lose in even a short-term
relationship with someone else? And what exactly is it she wants from this
woman? She has been left with the upper hand; how brave will she be in
using it? This realization of power over another individual suddenly leaves
her feeling weak and more than a little afraid. Any thought she may have had
on studying vanishes; what she needs right now is a little reassurance, and
there is only one place she can go for that.
He is in the middle of an appointment with a student when she arrives,
but he smiles at her when she pokes her head around his door and motions for
her to wait outside. Several minutes later, the student leaves, nodding to her
as he closes the office door behind him. Almost rude in her haste, she pushes
past him into the room, slamming the door behind her. He is sitting on the
edge of his desk, hands clasped in his lap as she drops to her knees before
him, kissing his toes before she clasps her hands behind her head and sits
back to face him. His eyes never leave her face, though he notices she has
difficulty meeting them.
"So, pretty, do what do I owe this unexpected surprise? It isn't
quite the weekend yet," he comments.
"Sir, I just wished to see you. Do I need any better reason?" The
words are out of her mouth in an unintended tone before she can stop them,
and she winces as his fingers curl and tighten in her hair, tilting her head
back, forcing her to look at him.
"I would be willing to let that little indulgence of yours slip if
you tell me the real reason you're here," he states firmly. Only then does
he notice she is shaking slightly. He resists the urge to gather her in
his arms and comfort her until she feels secure enough to tell him what is
wrong. Instead, he falls into master mode and pulls her up across his lap;
an expert hand has her shorts down to her knees before she can settle herself
in the face of her fate. "I gave you an option, pretty," he says, his voice
smoothly taking on that slightly-condescending tone she loves so well. "You
can either tell me why you are here, or you can pay for your tone." Gentle
caresses cover her behind, pinching gently here and there before the first
slap stings across her flesh. She knows, as she is certain he knows, that
all of this is unnecessary; she will tell him what is wrong, but they both
want the interlude, the chance to vent a little stress caused by the season
and the enforced separation. Squirming against his legs, she moves to the
rhythm of his spanking, feeling the heat in her body rise with every fleeting
contact. She will not say anything, however; she wants him to push her to
the pain, to let it flow over and through her, to let it wash away her own
fear and self-doubt. Only beneath his hand, beneath his control is she
truly strong, and she uses that to rebuild herself one slow, stinging,
maddening spank at a time.
Only when he realizes he is on the verge of breaking skin does he
stop, resting his tingling palm against the flush of her ass. He feels
as much heat through the fabric of his pants as he does beneath his fingers,
and he waits. In a moment, when she has collected herself, she slides from
his lap and resumes her waiting position, wiping the tears from her eyes.
He hands her the box of Kleenex from his desk, and motions for her to be
at ease, with her hands free in her lap. He doesn't say a word as she
takes a deep breath and relates the entire story to him, omitting no details
of the encounter with her professor, nor of the feelings she has encountered.
In the end, however, she still cannot meet his eyes. He is left to pull up
his own chair in front of her and sits, elbows on his knees, bent towards
her.
"Do you wish to control someone, pretty?" comes the inevitable
question. "Do you wish to know what it feels like to dominate someone's
mind and body?" He lifts her face to look at him once more. "Is this what
you truly want?" She swallows, trying to look away, finding she can't.
"I don't want to give this up, if that is what you mean, Master," she
answers finally. He continues to watch her face. He isn't certain if there
is something else behind her words or not, but he definitely feels that there
is something she isn't saying. Its a game they have both been playing
lately, he realizes, clamping down on his own surprise at the thought.
"Does it excite you to know there is someone who wants you, someone
who will bow to your will to be happy?" he presses. "You don't have to
give up what you have in order to get that, pretty." Letting go of her
chin, he moves around the desk, pulling the chair with him. "In fact," he
continues as he sits, "let's make a game out of it." He takes out a piece
of paper, and doodles as he talks. "Yes, a challenge for pretty. Let's
see if you can succeed in bending this woman to your will. Then you can
decide if you wish to return to everything you have here, or whether you
will follow your wishes in a new direction. Or, you can always choose to
going back to what you were before, if you like. In the end, the choice
will be yours, and yours alone."
Inside, she chokes. She can't help but feel that he is about to
set her free; she feels she is being pushed away, and it hurts. She wants
so badly to tell him what she has been feeling, but the fear that it will
only widen the gulf she thinks she sees is overwhelming. She bites her
tongue and says nothing. Instead, she feels a flush cloud her face as she
tries not to cry. She wants nothing more than to run into his arms and
have him reassure her that everything will be all right, but this is not
what he expects from her, so she does not respond to the urge. He looks
up from his doodling, staring straight at her.
"Your exam for that class is in one week, yes?" he asks. Miserable
and trying not to show it, she nods. Setting down his pen, he leans forward
a little, and smiles. "Then you have until then to entice this woman into
an interlude with you. I expect a fully detailed report immediately after
your exam; what happens after that is up to you." Crumpling up the paper,
he stands to drop it in the garbage can, then turns to her, as if surprised.
"Was there something else? If not, you can go. Study hard, take the weekend
if you need it, and I will see you after your exams."
She escapes to the bathroom at the end of the hall. With very little
traffic up here at the best of times, it is no surprise - in fact, it is
very musch a relief - to find it empty. She locks herself in a stall and
bursts into tears. Abandonment. That is the first feeling she can identify,
that and the feeling that the line between reason and rationalization is
getting fuzzier and fuzzier. On top of everything else, when she needs him
most, he has shut himself away from her, leaving her with an assignment that
terrifies her. In all conscience, leaving him and returning to the way she
was is not an option anymore. She has come too far in the past year to
suddenly give up everything she has learned from him. Nor can she simply
ignore the task he has set for her. Her mind remembers the sense of power
she felt momentarily, the sense she has felt only once before, when she found
herself capable of controlling the actions of another. The exhilaration
is difficult to deny. And yet, this time, there is another intelligent
being at the other end of the scenario, one who is aware of her and what is
happening; she finds the potential for disaster simply mindboggling.
In the end, however, he is her master, and he has commanded her.
She goes home finally to sleep on it, hoping that turning her brain
off for a while will help relieve some of the pain and stress.
The weekend crawls by; most of her studying has been neglected, and
she prowls around her house, listless and distracted. When Monday comes,
there is no resolution, only the growing sense of urgency, the feeling that
she has to do something before she loses everything. Hit and run. There is
some safety in speed, she thinks as she gathers her things, supposedly to
go and study in the university library.
When she reaches campus, however, it is not to the library that she is
drawn, but to the office of her professor. She has no idea what her office
hours are, or whether or not the professor is likely to even keep them this
week, even though exams don't start for another two days. Resolutely, perhaps
more out of stubbornness than anything else, she continues into the building,
up the stairs, and through the dark hallways.
The professor is in.
There is another student from some other class in with her, so she
waits out in the hallway, quiet, not wanting to let the professor know she
is there. This has to be done completely by surprise, or she will lose both
her nerve and her upper hand. If this had to be done a second time, she thinks
as she reads the postings on the department bulletin boards, then it would not
be done. Not by her, at any rate.
She measures time by the grinding of the clock at one end of the hall,
and by the frequent trips made by a professor at the other end, to and from
his own office. In due time, she hears the conversation to which she has
been keeping half an ear wrap up; shortly, the other student appears in the
hall, leaving the professor's door partially ajar. The office is mostly
quiet now. No prearranged conversations, no stage directions. She just
knocks.It is all so simple. The professor calls, "Come in", and she is out of
the
halway before the thought of escape can cross her mind.
The professor looks up at her entrance, obviously startled at her
appearance. She speaks, as the older woman half-rises from her chair.
"Are you busy?" she asks.
"Not right now, I -" the professor begins.
"Good," she replies with a deadly quiet as she closes the door behind
her. She is across the small office before the professor has a chance to
react, alarming herself with her own ruthlessness. Her hands have pulled
her professor's jacket down to the wrists almost before lips have been
crushed beneath her own, pressing the smaller body back against office book
shelves. There is no resistance offered; none would have been accepted.
She wants to be angry; she wants to vent everything. She wants to break
the buttons that bar her from the flesh beneath her hands. She feels small
hands pressing her into the body before hers, drawing her in. Moth and flame,
but she can no longer tell which is which as she raises the professor's skirt
to the waist. Her fingernails easily tear the pantyhose beneath, and there
is great satisfaction at the sound of rending. She wants to crush, and
pushes the other hard against the edges of the shelves, aware of the discomfort
they must be causing. Fingernails dig into her own back, through the fabric
of her shirt, and she exalts in the pain. She uses those welts to gauge the
reactions of the body beneath her as she slips a hand between the other's legs,
stroking, caressing, grinding. Her teeth find soft skin at the base of the
neck, and she bites. Listening to the ragged breathing of her professor,
she drags them to the floor, pulling open the other woman's shirt; soft
breasts are offered up to her appetite, and she descends upon them, fingers
never leaving the moist haven between the other's legs.
There is a fierceness here she has never felt, and for an instant,
she dicovers what he feels every time she succumbs to him, every time he
makes her come. It is the feeling of complete and utter control, and this
time, she feels no terror, only ruthless satisfaction. The body beneath
her squirms violently, and she feels the blood trickling from her back as
she covers the moaning mouth with her own, biting the other tongue to keep
the woman from screaming as the orgasm thunders through the shuddering body.
In the end, there is the silence. The professor's eyes remain closed
as she tries to regain the control that has been lost. She, on the other
hand, gathers her knapsack and leaves quietly, closing the door behind her
again as she goes.
She voids her mind; she can allow nothing to temper her state of mind
at this point. She feels an odd mix of fragilility and power, and cannot
find a balance for the two. Only minimal studying is done before the exam
at which she must again confront her professor, then confront him. Her body
aches; she wishes for a release of her own.
The professor says nothing; the entire exam is spent with the feeling
of the professor's eyes on her, but any emotion behind them is hard to read.
Any time their eyes meet during three tense hours, it is always the professor
who must look away first. She finds this amusing, like playing cat and mouse
with a mouse who doesn't know what it is up against. In the end, she finishes
her exam, and hands in her paper with a simple note scrawled across the bottom:
"Men are not the only ones who can be animals." This page is left open as she
hands the exam in; the professor's eye widen in shock, but she turns and leaves
without another word.
He is waiting. With only a small desk lamp for illumination, the rest
of the office falls into shadows. Only when she has assumed the proper waiting
position does he choose to acknowledge her, putting aside his work and
gazing steadily across the desk at her. His silence makes her uneasy.
Finally,
it is she who first speaks.
"Master?" she begins uncertainly. "I have done as you asked me."
"Tell me," he says quietly. Hesitantly, she recounts the events of her
meeting with her professor, building as she becomes more confident with the
feelings in her own mind. When she is done, there is quiet in the office
again.
"Why didn't you seek any release of your own?" he prods gently. She
shrugs.
"It didn't seem important, Master. I wanted to possess; my own
release would have weakened me, I think, and I couldn't afford to have that
happen." He nods, then comes around the desk to kneel before her.
"And how do you feel now?" He nudges her legs further apart with
his hands. "Have you decided what it is you want?"
"To go with you, Master. I don't want to be what I was; you challenge
me, and I want to learn from that. I ... love you." They freeze, caught in
a timeless tableaux. She knows what she has said; the why, in the end, is
unimportant. She knows the risk she has taken, and is resigned to accept his
final decision. She is unprepared to be caught up in his arms, to be smothered
in the fierce embrace in which he wraps her. She is crying into his shoulder,
and she doesn't know why. But the words carry through, the words she has been
holding her heart to hear.
"I love you, too."
April 3, 1992
Arnora Dunestan
--
I will ignore all requests for: reposts, e-mailing missing parts, archive
locations, ftp sites, gif sites, and subscription requests. These stories get
deleted immediately after they are posted. For more info on the ARCHIVE
postings, read the FAQ posted bi-monthly to a.s.s.d
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sorry, no requests for reposts, missing parts, GIFs, FTP sites, etc. can be
honored. If you find getting stories from this newsgroup inconvenient, the
archive is available on disk. Send a blank email to
adultarc@tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com for more information. Authors wishing to
have files added to or removed from the THC Public archive should contact
me at: tommy@tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com. Remove the IH8SPAM from the
preceding addresses; it is inserted to confound auto-spammers. Please refer
comments to alt.sex.stories.d or to e-mail. Thank you. -=( Tommy )=-
From tommy@tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com Sat May 10 07:00:04 1997
Path: news1.infoave.net!news-dc-10.sprintlink.net!news-east.sprintlink.net!news-dc-26.sprintlink.net!news-peer.sprintlink.net!Sprint!news-pull.sprintlink.net!news.sprintlink.net!news-ana-24.sprintlink.net!myriad!mail
From: tommy@tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: Story: Mindscapes Pt. 9
Date: 10 May 1997 07:00:04 -0400
Organization: Mail to Usenet Gateway
Lines: 207
Message-ID: <2650525636@f26.n340.z1.ftn>
Apparently-To: alt.sex.stories@mail2news.alias.net
To: alt.sex.stories@mail2news.alias.net
X-FTN-Sender: "tommy@tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com" <tommy%tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com@f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org>
X-FTN-FLAGS: PVT TRN
X-FTN-Tearline: NaNoSPaM+ 0.05
X-FTN-Via: Squish/386 1.11 1:340/303, Sat May 10 1997 at 10:22 UTC
The THC Adult Text Archive: MINDSCP9.TXT (184 lines)
Please do not allow anyone under 18 to read the contents of this message.
Note: I did not write any of these stories. They are being posted from the
archive as a public service only - any copyrights belong to the authors.
NOTE: The adultarc autoresponder has been swamped with spam! To relieve
this, I have been forced to put in a spam-resistant From: address. To
reply to this message, please remove the "IH8SPAM" from the From: address
above before sending your reply.
See the footer for important information.
==========================================================================
ARCHIVE: mindscapes-9.Z
From: Joshua A Laff <laff@cs.uiuc.edu>
Date: Wed, 23 Mar 1994 09:19:27 GMT (9 screens)
This story is another from the archives, and is not written by me.
Requests for just about anything concerning these posts will be ignored.
See the FAQ in a.s.s.d for more information.
Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage
From: karen@mks.com (Karen Murphy)
Subject: mindscapes 9
Date: Tue, 4 May 1993 20:58:45 GMT
arnora, with the latest installment in the series. i would like very much to
dedicate this one to averti, for several reasons. he alone knows all of them
:)
Mindscapes 9
She stares at him, aghast, mouth agape in shock. Her stomach has just hit the
floor between her knees, and shows no sign of immediate recovery. Before her,
on the little, low oriental tea table, he has placed an ancient steel dagger,
polished blade and worn-smooth cherrywood grip, elegant with inlaid brass and
light etchwork. Her mind has already memorized every painfully minute detail
of the piece, even as shock shuts down her supposedly higher functions in
rebellion.
"You're out of your mind," she whispers, not moving so much as a hair.
Had they been in scene, she would have flinched even as she spoke, knowing
that such criticism would not have been allowed. But they are not in scene,
and she cannot understand why he is asking of her what he is. She fidgets
with the hem of her skirt, gathered around her like an island where she
kneels, more out of habit this time than circumstance. He still holds the
kerchief with which he had covered the small table until just a moment ago.
Now he sets it aside and comes to kneel beside her, wrapping her in his
embrace. "What if I say no?" she asks, rigid in his grasp, unwilling to
believe what her mutinous brain is telling her. For a moment, he says nothing,
then sits back, holding her almost at arms' length. His blue eyes flick
back and forth between her green ones.
"This time, you can say no if you want, with no consequence. The
reason I chose not to do this in-scene is simple: I want you to do this
for me, not because you have no choice, but because you *WANT* to do this,
of your own volition, for me. One cut. One line. That's it."
She bursts into tears, though, if someone were to ask her, she wouldn't be
able to say why. Again he pulls her into his arms and wraps her protectively,
stroking her hair, breathing softly next to her ears to calm her panic. When
he feels the shivering in her body retreat to something only slightly
noticeable, he releases her fully and stands, turning away from the tableau
of her kneeling by the table, the knifeblade glinting dully in what light
is shed by overcast skies beyond the window. It has been raining off and on
most of the day, and the heat that has been building over the last few spring
days has finally given way to a building thunderstorm. He can smell the
electricity in the air as the storm charges, and almost feels drawn to take a
walk before the pressure breaks.
"I'm going to leave you to think about this," he says finally. "Take
your time; decide whether or not its something you want to do for me. I'll
be back in a little bit to see what you've chosen to do." He takes a few
steps away, but is halted again by the sound of her crying. He wants to turn
back and tell her everything is all right, that it isn't important. It isn't
that he needs her to prove that she loves him; he knows that already. And
it isn't a matter of marking his ownership of her, because he knows he can't.
Nor is it a matter of making some part of her entirely his own, because, in her
own way, she is his, as he is hers alone. In the end, he simply wants her to
do it just to say she has, to have helped her push one more of her own
limits. But the choice must be hers; he won't force her on this one.
In the end, he maintains a casual stroll out of the apartment, leaving her
crying by the table. Her mind whirls, and she is afraid that she has
disappointed him by not trusting him enough to just accept the request as it
was made. In her heart, she knows he would never do something to hurt her,
but cutting herself in this way is something she suspects will hurt a very
great deal. For several moments after his departure, she stares through
her tears at the small dagger, as if it is a personal insult to her. She
refuses to touch it, but draws her knees up under her chin to regard it in
revulsion and fascination, much the same way a child will stare at a large
garden spider, but not want to touch it. Somewhere outside, there is a
distant rumbling complaint from the storm.
When he returns, she is still sitting by the table, rocking slightly back and
forth to the sound of the rain that has started falling again. She looks up
as he comes in and smiles weakly; small thought the smile may be, there is
something in it that makes him yearn for her, yearn for her to spread that
trust and love over him like a warm blanket. He wants to envelope himself in
her completely; her smile says the "yes" her voice is too uncertain yet to
produce.
"Will you help me?" is all she says. He says nothing this time, only
going to her with the force of the incoming storm, sweeping her up and onto
the great papasan couch. In the back of his mind, he hears the rain swept hard
against the window as their lips and tongues meet and retreat, meet again
somewhere else. He wants the storm to be his urgency, to be their timepiece,
wants her to open herself up to the power he feels outside the apartment. His
lips sink into the soft flesh of her shoulder as he pulls the skirt up far
enough to yank her panties down and off. Her soft exhalation turns into a
small moan as he cups her against the palm of his hand, gently massaging her
clit with the heel of his hand. Again and again, his teeth bite painfully
into the base of her neck, her shoulders, the top of her breasts as he works
her blouse off with his free hand.
She works to undo the front of his jeans, but he refuses to let her
touch him. Rather, once her blouse and bra are in coloured puddles on the
floor, he catches both her hands in his own, and stretches them above her
head. His teeth continue to grasp and tear gently at her, catching her nipples
now and then and causing her to arch fiercely into him. He manages, with
increasing effort, to kick his jeans onto the floor, then uses his knees to
spread her beneath him. She cries out at his entry, echoed softly by the
thunder beyond and around them, and he tugs less than gently to pull her skirt
up and out of the way.
He is careful not to lose himself in the feeling of her body against him,
beneath him, around him, but getting caught up at the same time in her
responses to him, to the storm. She is breathing in gasps now, struggling
against him to pull him deeper, and the tension is beginning the inexorable
climb in her body. He counts the thrusts carefully, watching her rapt face
closely, waiting, watching, waiting for that precise moment just before her
body clenches in that final convulsion before orgasm; when she is just a heart
beat away from that moment, he retreats from her, turning her quickly over
and spreading her again up against the back of the papasan to take her
anally.
His hands seek out her favourite pressure points; the fingers of his right
hand snake down across her belly to seek out and press against her clit as
the other arm tightens across her breasts like a binding strap. One sudden
move and they are both on their feet, tight against each other and moving
in unison. Her eyes are closed, feeling his left hand inch up to take a
firm, pressure grasp of her throat; his own breathing is now uneven in her
ears, and she wants to float away on the sound of his voice, distracted in
his arousal.
"Will you do it for me? Will you do it now?" he asks, barely
speaking at all. The storm and his love are pounding inside of her body now,
and she feels herself lost in something like delirium, something like power,
something like the storm. Yet she knows he has spoken, and knows what he has
asked.
"Help me," she breaths, feeling him shudder as he registers what she
has answered. His body twists slightly behind her, and her right hand is
taken in his. They bend as one body, never losing the rhythm of their own
movements, and she feels him closing her fingers around the smooth grip of
the dagger, bringing them back up together. It is heavier than she would
have thought, but balances in her hand like it had been crafted to be there.
The flat of the blade is pressed into her abdomen, below the curve of her
abdomen, above the darker line of her shaved sex. It is cold, so cold, so
cold against her skin, and for a moment, she almost loses the rhythm, but
he holds her to him, guiding her, one hand still at her throat. They remain
poised like that for several minutes, feeling nothing but themselves moving
against the power of the thunder, until there is nothing left but to let go.
His lips again seek out the back of her neck, working towards the spot where
the muscles of her neck and shoulder meet. There is an almost constant
rolling of thunder as the centre of the storm rushes to meet them, and at last
he lets himself go, sinking his teeth one last time to hold on to that part
of her shoulder as he releases himself into her, the thunder muffled by their
own cries as they drop to the floor on their knees, still locked together.
They stay that way for quite sometime, still buffeted by the rain and thunder.
When he finally stirs behind her, he catches their reflection in the darkened
windows, and nudges her gently.
"Look," he murmurs into her hair. Slowly, she opens her eyes,
refocusing them on the view in the window. There, below her belly, is a
clean line of blood stretching no more than a few inches across her skin. The
line is clean, and deep enough to scar, but not to damage anything other than
the cut skin itself.
Hers is the only hand on the dagger.
Arnora Dunestan
May 4, 1993
--
I will ignore all requests for: reposts, e-mailing missing parts, archive
locations, ftp sites, gif sites, and subscription requests. These stories get
deleted immediately after they are posted. For more info on the ARCHIVE
postings, read the FAQ posted bi-monthly to a.s.s.d
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sorry, no requests for reposts, missing parts, GIFs, FTP sites, etc. can be
honored. If you find getting stories from this newsgroup inconvenient, the
archive is available on disk. Send a blank email to
adultarc@tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com for more information. Authors wishing to
have files added to or removed from the THC Public archive should contact
me at: tommy@tommys.spydernet.IH8SPAM.com. Remove the IH8SPAM from the
preceding addresses; it is inserted to confound auto-spammers. Please refer
comments to alt.sex.stories.d or to e-mail. Thank you. -=( Tommy )=-