This is no uncertain, half-hearted game, like the other times.This is no uncertain, half-hearted game, like the other times. This time, there are no simple clips she can undo, but locks, small, strong brass padlocks, securing the tan leather to her wrists and ankles. I have the key. This time, she can't spit out a makeshift, loose-fitting gag and say "Stop!", the heavy, purpose-built strap holds the smothering foam very firmly in place. This time, I've prepared correctly, and I'm "following through". Crackling flames highlight the sheen of the oil on her body. For the last half-hour, since I first secured her, she's turned and twisted under my hands as I smoothed in the scented oil. At first, she moved jerkily, abruptly, in a vain attempt to shield the secret recesses of her body from my flowing hands. Soon, she was turning sensuously, languidly, to meet my fingers, trying to hasten the moments of pleasure to come, trying to dictate the pace. The chains restrict her movements, frustrating her demands, holding her at my whim. Time enough, Jenny, later. I stand between her outstretched legs, savouring the play of the light on her curling pubic hair, already moist with her own fluid, the dampness betraying her arousal. Your own body defeats you, Jenny. You struggle and grumble, but is it really freedom you want ? Your body revels in its captivity, you tug on the chains and thrill to their unforgiving grip, like the tireless embrace of a demanding lover. You tense your thigh muscles, try to move your legs..... do you want to shield your womanhood from my eyes and hands, or do you seek to thrust it toward me, craving for it to be filled ? Time enough, Jenny, soon. Her eyes never leave mine for a second. They're wide, part fearing, part wanting. I never "followed through", she once said. You dared me, Jenny, and here you are.... not a game any more, little lover. This is real. What's in your mind, as I kneel between your parted legs? Captivity ? Helplessness ? Fear ? We played before, you never placed yourself this much in my power then. Time for doubts, Jenny, now. Suppose, after all this time, I had lied ? What if I hurt you, now ? What if I gave you, not love, but pain ? What if I took you down the _other_ road to orgasm, along which lies throbbing pain, perverting the mind until the hurt turns to pleasure and you come from pain alone ? What if, from the closet I produced, not more instruments of gentle torment, but of pain, of scorching, degrading, controlling pain ? Would you be able to handle your reactions, would you collapse before it, if I laced your sweet breasts with a whip ? If I scored that gaping wet nether mouth of yours with lashes ? Your struggling and tugging turns from sensuous to desperate as you recall, too late, that I never told you _all_ about that other woman, the one from whom I learned so much, many years before. |