My feet were firmly planted on the bed.
My wrists were firmly to my ankles, the ties ensured that.
His first move was far before this moment, however. It had started the night before, with the promise of being tied. It had been reinforced with every smack on the ass or whispered kisses of the time to come.
But on the anticipated moment, I was propped up on an improvised wedge of pillows, my legs parted, my pelvic tilted up, my wrists tied to my ankles which ensured the parted legs. But he wasn’t taking chances, oh no, he also tied my thighs to both the head and foot posts on the bed, ensuring that I couldn’t raise or move my legs at all.
Opened wide for his pleased smile, his fingers caressed my sex as he boasted that I was at his mercy completely. Vulnerable.
And then his words slid lower as his tongue parted my lips, tasted my desire, the effect his words had on me already. My excitement surprised us both with the quickness of my orgasm from his mouth. He smiled, moved up (or in this case down) and kissed first one nipple and then the other, the tip of his penis barely grazed my wet center. I moaned, wished so badly that I could arch or shift into him more so that he would enter me. “Oh, am I touching you?” he asked, the tone implying full well the knowledge that I wanted him inside of me. He kissed me and I tasted myself on his lips.
He leaned back on his heels and inserted a finger, expertly curled and rubbed me to an orgasm. And then another. He paused, looked at my face.
“Don’t cum,” he instructed.
“Wha-” it was I could manage as he rubbed the same place that instantly brought me orgasms, only I had to fight against the pleasure. I gasped for breath, I tried to focus on another other the sensations he created. It felt so good, no, no, breathe, dammit. My body tightened, clenched down on his finger.
He stopped, looked at me sternly. Shit. “Did you just cum?” The accusation hung heavy in the air.
I felt betrayed; unsure if I was mad at him or me. “No, god, I don’t know,” I might have. I felt the stirrings. “I started to.”
“You did, I felt your fluid on my hand, felt your body.” Dammit. Betrayed.
He grabbed a flogger and hit both thighs, rhythmically so that my body adjusted and even welcomed the pain and the sting, and then a breast. A breast? That was new. He started slowly, cautiously, watched my face, checked in with me a few times if it was okay. And then his mouth journeyed over the reddened places of thighs and breast. When he began sucking on a sensitive nipple, I groaned. He recognized that groan and reached down between my legs, fingered me to another orgasm as his mouth continued to ravage my stinging nipple.
“But you were bad. I’m not sure why I’m being so nice to you,” he said after I was pleased. He moved off the bed and grabbed something off the nightstand, leaned along the side of my body and tapped my thigh. It was the misery stick, that miserable thing that I’m quite sure I don’t care for. I have zero pain threshold for it. I shook my head no. “How many times for not listening?”
“But I tried,” I whined as the tapping increased in pressure. “I didn’t-”
“listen, I know. How many?” he interrupted, and the stick stung on the same place of skin.
“No, I…I…one,” dammit, he was going to insist on doing it, he may as well get it over with, I thought.
“One?” he sounded incredulous. “I think three,” I could see my thigh already red, and it hurt. Goodness, he was going to go harder? “Ready?” I shook my head no. Whap! I whined. “Again.” Ouch! “Last time.” Why did it have to hurt so much?! He caressed the same spot that was hit three times, softly kissed it and looked up at me. His breath washed down my thigh and made me shiver.
He positioned himself between my legs and gently entered me, slowly progressing inside a little, pulling almost all the way out, sliding a little further, continuing the pattern until he was fully embedded in me. He leaned forward and kissed me, bringing me to a slow orgasm. And increasing the pace to another orgasm.
“Don’t cum,” he said. Why did I confess I liked this? I hated this! I couldn’t possibly listen, but I tried. He wasn’t making it easy again, and before I knew it, I was climaxing. “There you go again,” he pulled out of me, my protest going unnoticed.
He disappeared along the side of the bed. “And what should your punishment be this time?”
He had something behind his back. “Um, more sex?” I queried, frustrated, anxious, excited.
He laughed. “So bad,” he said, showed me the Doxy wand. He reached to the back bed post and took down another length of rope, fashioned a holder to my already tied thighs that held the wand against my clit. And turned it on to a medium setting without my body even adjusting to a slower one. I came, I thrashed against the bindings, my wrists pulled uselessly and my legs tried to close. “Stay still,” I heard him say, and I looked up at a candle.
He couldn’t be serious.
I stopped breathing. The Doxy was rotating and vibrating at my clit and my body tensed, tried to stay as still as possible. I watched the burning wax fall down on my stomach, couldn’t move to flinch at the heat, my core tensed from the wax and the pleasure building from the wand. “Turn your head to the side,” he ordered me. I had to pry my eyes away from the flame and looked to the side. More splattered, traced a trail against the reddened flesh of breast to my nipple. I came, screamed, my thighs hurt from holding so steady, my wrists hurt from straining so much.
He poured wax next over the reddened places on my thighs, still so much of an expanse of skin that rope didn’t protect. I never knew how wicked wax was over skin made sensitive by impact before. It was amazing, it was torturous.
“Continue staying still,” he said, placed the candle on the nightstand. He grabbed the knife and I felt myself tighten. What if I couldn’t stay still because of the wand and he cut me?
Cautiously he removed the wax, before getting to my breasts he turned off the wand and I felt able to actually take a real breath. Then the blade coolly slid over my breasts, deftly manevured the wax off skin.
After I had been cleaned of wax, he swiftly removed the ropes and bindings, entered me, lover’s hands gripped reddened thighs, and I screamed into the orgasm. He rolled me onto my side, off of the makeshift wedge, one hand in my hair and the other around my throat and pounded into me through one orgasm after another until he joined me finally.
I don’t remember him stopping, or pulling out. He somehow was laying on his side and I on my back. I remember his soft compliments and kisses on my forehead, my body curled into the side of him, legs over his knees, head pressed against his chest, fingers stroked through my hair and caressed my scalp. It seems as though we laid that way forever. I felt cherished, loved, adored, peaceful. He held me until my trembling ceased, my breath and heartbeat resumed a normal pace, and I was able to thank him and tell him how much I loved him.
** The prompt for this week is full circle, and I think it’s a full circle in this post. While longer than normal, it discusses seduction far in advance, intense play, and the hardly-mentioned-but-crucial aftercare.