Bonding at the BeachbyKR©
[MG wants me to keep posting audio stories. I told her that listeners aren't voting, and my recordings just don't have the ratings of my text-only stories, so perhaps I'm in the wrong venue. She responded with: I have a hypothesis as to why people don't vote on the audio stories. You make them cum so hard they don't feel like getting out of bed. Why not at the start of your next story use the following guilt tactic, "If you cum, vote. Cause only lousy lovers fall asleep without tending to the needs of their partners." Who knows it might work. Who knows, indeed ;)]
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Click Here to listen. (19 min/mp3)
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"Why'd you start without me?" Marsha asks again. She sounds aggressively petulant and I wince. Please, please, please don't let her start whining, I think to myself. She rarely whines but when she does it really grates on my nerves. I hate whiny women. As a woman myself, I know there are so many other, more effective methods of getting what I want than whining.
She finishes walking up to us and stands just off the woven beach mat, her feet kicking up sand. When it becomes readily apparent that we've been busy playing and that it is going to be a while before either you or John is in any condition to pleasure her, she complains, and her voice takes on that annoying whiny edge.
I look over at her husband and notice that the pleased post-orgasmic glow I saw on him just moments ago has evaporated.
I shoot you a meaningful glance. I don't have to say anything.
You snap your fingers and point to a spot near you, and in a tone of voice that I recognize even though you have never used it on me, say to her, "Shut up and kneel here until I give you permission to speak."
Her mouth drops open and then snaps closed as you continue to watch her calmly. There is no arguing with you when you have that expression on your face. One simply complies. Or pays the price, and then complies anyway.
I knew she would obey you, but her husband did not. John is a mild man, intelligent and introverted. In their relationship, Marsha is the dominant one, the assertive one, the controlling one. But something in her craves being forced to submit, craves punishment and pain, which he cannot or will not give her in the measure in which she needs to slake her thirst. Hence, the lifestyle for them.
Marsha ducks her head and trudges over to you, stopping exactly where you pointed. She kneels there, hands resting on her thighs, neck bent. She is conflicted, I can see it in every line of her, but she does as she is told. She knows that is the only way she is going to get what she wants from you.
We have this flow, you and I, this current of non-verbal communication running back and forth between us that others find uncanny. I usually know what you want without needing to be told, and this time is no exception.
Visions of paddles and ball-gags dance in my head.
I stand up and head down the beach to our bungalow. We always travel with a decent complement of gear, some of which has never been used on me. I flirt with bondage and submission, enjoying it as a form of erotic play, but it is not a kink for me, and so I leave the harder-core stuff to those who truly get off on it. But I love to watch you practice your art upon those submissive female forms, watching as they bend their bodies and their wills to you, seeking to please you, to be allowed to come again and again for you. It makes me hot, seeing you in action. It excites me to a fever pitch, leaving me quivering and on edge and hungry in a way that only you can satisfy.
John is waiting for me on the path from our bungalow to the beach. I took longer than I should have, I know, but I needed a few minutes to freshen up, to brush my teeth and wash away the fluids that had begun running down my thighs. I notice that John is carrying rope looped over one of his arms. Red shibari rope. He is a patient man, John is, with an artist's hands and eye, and he can do things with rope and a body that few can rival. He takes my elbow in his hand and gently but firmly guides me toward the lanai between our bungalows. We don't bother speaking, as there is no need to make small-talk, and we finish the short walk in a comfortable silence.
As I step onto the lanai, I can see you and Marsha in the moonlight, her body glowing palely against your darker flesh. You are behind her, with a hand under her chin and your mouth near her ear. Her body is bowed, hips thrust forward, her shoulders pulled back by the tug of your other hand on the wrists you've pinned behind her. I can hear the rhythm of your voice speaking to her, and I feel a wave of giddiness at the sound of the wonderful velvety roughness that can enter my mind and drive me to orgasm on command. I can see her shaking her head, and I hear you speaking more firmly, though I cannot make out the words.
I place the items I brought with me on the picnic table nearby, separating them and setting them out so they are easy to identify in the semi-darkness: ball-gag, nipple clamps, dildos, flogger, paddle, cane. I walk over to you and trail my fingernails along the back of your thighs, then up, along your spine. You shudder and suck in your breath. Your hands must have tightened on Marsha, because she whimpers a little.
"You will be silent," you tell her, "or I will use the ball-gag."
I wince. I don't care for them, myself, and after the first few times you used one on me, you realized that it interfered with the noises I make. Noises which you very much enjoy hearing, and which I enjoy making.
You turn your head toward me and I know you want a kiss. I cradle the back of your neck and kiss you slowly, my tongue dancing against yours. When I'm sighing and making little frustrated noises, you break the kiss. "Go with John, baby," you tell me, and I dutifully turn around, my eyes scanning the darkness for him.
I find John near the edge of the lanai, in the center of what looks like a tangle of ropes tossed over a beam. My nipples harden even more and I feel that inevitable wetness flowing. I touch his bare shoulder and he takes my hand, kissing it before leading me to where he wants me to stand. He goes to the table and returns with nipple clamps and my butterfly. I wince. My poor sensitive nipples. He fastens them to me and immediately the pressure makes me want to whimper and squirm, but I take a deep breath and turn that dial inside me, converting the discomfort into pleasure. He straps the butterfly on me, but does not turn it on, instead, he sets about weaving a harness on my torso. I stand flawlessly still, passive but not limp, and cast my attention to what you are doing to Marsha.
I see that you have bent her over the end of another picnic table, her ass facing me, with her arms under her, fingers curled over her mound. Her feet have been tied apart at the ankles, and her torso is pressed flat against the top of the table with several loops of rope. She's not going anywhere, I observe. You run one of your hands over her ass and give her a good hard slap that surprises a yelp out of her and momentarily silences the singing of the insects.
John pauses in what he is doing to look over his shoulder at Marsha. Assuring himself that she is ok, he returns to his work on me, running nylon ropes down between my legs, creating a weave that presses the butterfly even more firmly against my clit. He ties my wrists behind me and secures me to the beam, then adds a weight to the chain running between the clamps on my nipples. I gasp and lean forward, trying to rest the weight on the ground, and as I do so, the tension on my shoulders and bound wrists increases, as does the pressure of the butterfly against my clit.
A sheen of perspiration coats my skin, which is alternately tantalized and cooled by the faint ocean breeze. My thighs are slick with wetness, juices flowing from me like the tap on a maple tree. I moan and hang from the beam, the weight swinging from between my nipples, just a few inches off the ground. I stand on tiptoe and lean forward, and there! Ah, yes, there, the pain lessens in my nipples, but now my shoulders ache as my arms are pulled up behind me! John activates the remote control on the butterfly, sending an intense burst of pleasure through me. Gasping, I jolt back down onto my heels and the tension in my shoulders lessens, as does the pressure of the butterfly on my clit, but damn if the weight isn't pulling at my nipples again! It is intensely pleasurable and intensely painful and soon I am moaning and writhing in my bonds. How diabolical!
Meanwhile, you've fitted Marsha with a dildo and I hear you telling the whiny bitch that she will be spanked until she comes—but not without permission. Then there is the crack of a paddle against her bare ass and the sound of her crying out against gritted teeth. I watch in fascination as her fingers go to work, one set on her clit, the other on the dildo, holding it in place inside her as you instructed. She wriggles and rocks and yelps under your ministrations. The muscles in your back slide under your skin as you swing your arm, and your cock bobs at each moan from her. You pause for a moment to press your hardness against the heat of her ass, which I can see is pinking up nicely, even in the moonlight.
As you step back, you turn slightly to look at me, and your attention is riveted by the sight of me swaying from the beam in the shibari harness. My eyes meet yours in a silent plea at the same moment that John turns the butterfly up another notch. I close my eyes and grit my teeth as pleasure rocks me, making me tremble, escalating my whimpers into cries that erupt from my throat, crashing through my precarious balance and forcing me back down flat onto my feet. I gain relief on my arms and clit, but again, my poor nipples are stretched by the weight, and the pain is exquisite. I lose track of you and Marsha, my universe shrinking until it consists only of this intensifying pleasure, and the pain which distracts me from it.
Forced-orgasms is my kink, and John brings me to orgasm again and again, wringing one climax after another from me through an ever-encroaching haze of pain. My arousal peaks and at some point, I start begging. My calves are screaming at me, my nipples and shoulders are burning points of flame, and my clit is so sensitized that a simple flick of the remote control sends me into another weak-kneed, shoulder-wrenching orgasm. Rapidly approaching that no-man's land which lies beyond hyper-sensitivity, I would go away to escape but I am afraid I will damage myself if I take that dive and blackout, my weight hanging on my arms until John realizes that I'm gone and lets me down.
And so I stay here, trapped in exquisite orgasmic pain, hovering just this side of rage, and beg John to use me however he wishes, if only he will end my torment. I will do anything, I tell him, anything. I offer to lick his feet, kiss his hands, tongue his balls, sit on his face, eat Marsha's pussy, fuck her with a strap-on, and finally, finally, desperate and at wits end, I beg to be allowed to kneel and spread myself wide so he can split my ass with his monstrously thick cock--anything, anything, whatever he wants--just please, please, please make it stop!
Suddenly, the ropes go slack and I am on my knees. My wrists, still bound behind me, thud down against my ass, and the weight that was suspended between my nipples drops down to the ground. Blessed relief! The butterfly still buzzes against my clit, making my pussy quake and my hips twist, but the intense pain has receded and I am flooded with a rush of endorphins. Tears come to my eyes and I raise my head to breathe, to catch my first good breath in what seems like forever, and you are there. You are there before me and your hand is fisted in my hair and you are pulling me forward, forward, your hard cock pressed against my lips and your voice above me, instructing me to take it all, to suck your cock until your balls are empty like the good little slut that I am.
I open my mouth and relax into it, grateful it is you who has ended my pain, thrilled to tears to serve you, the man I love, in whatever capacity you desire. Softened by pleasure and pain and love, I submit to your mastery and make love to you with my mouth, sucking you as you have trained me to do, until your cock is pulsing in my throat and you are crying out the agony of your own climax, my name on your lips.