Authors Note: this isn't a 'quick jerk piece, it has character development and story-telling, but it does have sex scenes.
The incessant WHAP WHAP WHAP of the wipers on his truck were driving him crazy. It wasn't really the sound or even the rain itself that grated on his nerves, it was the ocean of glowing brake lights as far as the eye could see that set him on edge. He was a man that hated being trapped, no escape route, surrounded.
Part was ingrained in him almost from birth – growing up in a place that was as notorious for its crushing poverty as it was for its gratuitous violence. Part was his training. On paper he had been a regular Air Force grunt, in reality he was trained in special operations. Years later, his AF career ancient history, he was employed in one of the 'intelligence agencies'. He was no longer directly involved in clandestine activities; his work product supported the younger agents just starting out in the field. His job was normally high-stress – his colleagues fairly frequently being hauled off in an ambo with stress-induced heart attacks and assorted ailments.
He had always been a rock at work, the one that always saw an operation through, never cracked, and never succumbed to the stress. Today had nearly undone him; it had been the absolute worst day of his life at the NID. An op had gone horribly wrong. No one was to blame. Sometimes it happens. Every agent knew it was an occupational hazard when they joined. But today, a young agent had breathed his last behind the wheel of a beater car on a back street of Turkmenistan. Another nameless star to go on the wall.
Today was his 50th birthday. He pondered the end of the young agent's life, and said his own version of a prayer for his eternal soul, sitting there in the never-ending traffic jam just outside DC. He began to take stock of his life. Here was a man that had reached the half-century mark, a man that never expected to live past 35. Beyond his military career and his career at the NID – the two most influential forces on his life had been his motorcycles, and his wives.
He'd had multiple motorcycles throughout the years – he still had his '05 Road King sitting in the garage – dormant way too long for a man like him. Riding provided the freedom and space he needed in the same way you and I need water and air. Rain, sleet, burning sun, long hours, hard saddles, sand and gravel – all things that would make a wannabe run thrilled him – he'd meet the challenge and overcome it. Adventure is adversity recalled at leisure was one of his favorite sayings - and it made for some great road stories.
He'd had multiple wives through the years too – he'd had three in his 50 years. Well, two of them were past tense, and one was present. They had been, in order – Judith, Polly, and Angelina.
Judith had been his first love, the love of the end of his teen years and through college. Angelina often said Judith was the 'love of his life' – and for many years that had been true, though now after almost a decade with Angelina, his view on that was changing. Being with Judith had been all fire and passion, and the ensuing drama – it burned hot and it burned bright, but it burned itself out after only a few years. The end of the marriage devastated him in every way, and encased his heart in ice. No one would believe under that silent stern exterior lay one of the most sensitive souls to walk the earth. He wouldn't allow anyone to see it, much less get close enough to it to hurt him again.
Polly had come into his life when he'd licked some of the wounds inflicted by Judith. She offered comfort, solace, stability, peace, and domestic harmony. She was a good woman, they had similar childhood backgrounds, and she'd never found true and lasting love. Polly offered him a chance to 'reboot' his life emotionally, financially, and professionally after his divorce. They had a great love for one another, but it was never the love of romance and passion and heat. She was the Ying to Judith's Yang. Polly offered him all the stability Judith never could; but not the passion. Polly was exactly what he needed at that time in his life. Polly was much older than he, and in frail health for some time. Her condition declined steadily soon after they married. Luckily, she understood he was a young virile man and she'd never held conventional notions of marriage. Sexual monogamy was never part of their vows, spoken or unspoken. He had a lot of freedom – that freedom that he needed – this was not a man who could be caged or leashed.
Angelina – how does one explain his relationship with Angelina. The relationship that never should have happened. The relationship that if not for a casual passing would never have happened. They met on a ride – a large group ride at which they never even spoke- until after. They were to be 'fuck buddies' – he was married and she was fairly recently out of a relationship and still licking her wounds. Over time they both began to realize they liked each other as people, not just enjoyed the burning lust that drove them to meet in out-of-the-way hotels for an afternoon of sex that improved and deepened over time rather than faltering into boredom as they had expected.
Over time their relationship progressed, much like any relationship, other than the fact he was married. Because he had so much freedom they were able to spend large amounts of time together and let their feelings evolve. She stopped licking her wounds, and even forgot that the man who inflicted them existed. He let her get close. Over time they trusted each other – enough to truly fall in love. Over the years, the strength of their relationship was forged by the trials of being unable to be truly together and married. Angelina was the middle ground that he never knew existed; he'd only experienced the opposite extremes called Judith and Polly.
Their sex life had started off very conventionally – an afternoon of sex in a local hotel. As time passed, they each shared more of themselves. She had told him early on that she was a sub – though it was in stark contrast to the public persona she let the world see. He'd had a great interest in D/s and BDSM earlier in his life – but every woman who claimed to be into it would stop him after the first swat or the first wrist was tied. He was skeptical that this woman could be any different. He long ago stopped believing such women truly existed.
Over the course of the first year of their relationship they 'played' at BDSM and D/s. They tried out the roles for short bits and small scenes – blindfolds, cuffs, nipple clips, floggers. They took their time establishing the trust that is critical to this sort of relationship; let the emotional connection between them strengthen.
The first time he truly topped her is indelibly etched into their memories. He took her hand and led her into his garage and ordered her to strip to her wife-beater t-shirt and panties. The ripple shuddered through her body despite the cloying heat and humidity of the garage of the August day. She wasn't embarrassed, over their time together he'd seen, touched, explored every inch of her body – it was almost more perverse that she was still partially clothed. She was afraid. She'd caught a glimpse of the changes he'd made to his garage before he slipped the mask blindfold over her eyes. The padded sawhorse facing the wall, the mounted O rings. The assortment of implements and toys he'd carefully laid out on a towel on the lid of his tool chest. Her mind trusted him, her heart trusted him; but her survival instinct was raising her fight or flight response.
The images flitted through her mind like a slideshow while she waited for what he would do next. She jumped when she heard the first rip of Velcro, he'd done it right next to hear ear on purpose. She could feel his hot breath on her thighs as he bent to encase each ankle in a cuff, the rings tinkling as he tested their snugness. Tipping her chin up with the tip of his finger, he placed the stiff leather around her neck, caressing the soft skin of her neck as he circled her with it. When he placed the posture collar on her, she knew he was serious – this was no longer play. He watched with fascination at the pulsing artery in her neck, beating rapidly as she fought her instinct to rip the collar off and run.
He led her to the opposite side of the garage, had her back to the sawhorse, and straddle over it. He pushed her back so that she lay across it, her head nearly hanging off the end. He fastened both ankles and both wrists to the wooden legs. Standing over her he watched her squirm, testing the restraints and trying to get comfortable on the thin beam between her shoulder blades and along her spine.
He could have given her a smack and she'd have settled right down like the good girl she tried to be. Instead, he reached over and got his knife. Angelina had a deep-seated fear of sharp instruments. This was a very special knife to him. It was fashioned from an old railroad spike. The end had been cut off and smoothed down and the opposite end had been subjected to extreme heat and beaten out by an old-school blacksmith into a large blade, the size of a butcher knife. He firmly put the smooth handle end on her chest, right between her breasts. She froze as she felt the steel, metallic cold even though the room was sweltering. She knew immediately what it was, he'd used it once before in their play, and he'd scared the hell out of her – enough that she had safe worded and ended the scene. He laid the knife on her chest, the blade right between her breasts. That settled her down – she stopped squirming – her spine almost melding into the sawhorse trying to draw her body away from the sharp blade edge. He stood at the head of the bench, looking down on her and pleased to see both her fear and her submission. As much as the visual pleased him, the odor wafting up from her pussy excited him even more – he knew without looking that she was dripping wet, her lips swollen and damp, her clit pushing up from under its hood aching for his touch.
With the sound of his buckle being undone she knew he was about to start in earnest. He'd certainly give her a great deal of pleasure this day, but there would be pain for her too, and he'd give her no relief until he'd satisfied all of his perverse lusts. He lowered the zipper slowly and pushed his jeans to the floor, knowing how the buckle would sound to her as it hit the concrete floor. Standing above her he watched her struggling to compose herself, she was excited but also frightened. This was one of the greatest pleasures of his life – seeing her like this –naked, exposed, bound, vulnerable, at his mercy - fighting the battle within herself between fear and excitement to see which would win.
His hard cock jutted out from his body, seemingly straining towards her mouth of its own volition. He enjoyed every inch and orifice of her body on a regular basis – but her mouth –oh lord her mouth. From the day he met her he'd loved her mouth. Angelina was a born cocksucker – she fairly lived to have a hard cock in her mouth. She didn't just suck his cock, she worshiped his cock. With the little play in her bindings he pulled her further to the end of the sawhorse, so that her head hung completely back and off of it. Pushing his cock down, he rubbed it all over her face – her soft cheeks, the firmness of her nose, across her eyes. Her mouth opened like a baby bird at feeding time as it skimmed her lips, on the next pass she flicked her tongue out trying to capture a taste of him. The posture collar kept her chin tilted from her chest and she couldn't capture him with her mouth.
He really should punish her for trying to suck his cock without his permission – but this aspect of her sexuality so endeared her to him he just couldn't. He pulled up on her chin to that it pointed straight to the ceiling and began to feed his cock into her open mouth. She arched her neck back further than he believed anyone could and he leaned forward to get the best angle. Hunched over her body, his cock slowly disappearing into her mouth, he thought to himself that life doesn't get much better than this. Starting slowly, so that her tiny mouth and throat could open to accommodate his cock and she could slick it with her spit – he sawed it in and out of her mouth. Holding back he put just the tip inside so that she licked the thick helmet and could savage the firm ridge just below – she stabbed the tip of her tongue into his pisshole trying to draw forth his cum –his very essence. Driven mad by her mouth he pushed forward more and more – feeling the pulsing sucking sides of her mouth as they closed at the back of her throat.
Knowing he wouldn't last much longer he plunged his dick into her mouth til his balls lay across the openings of her nostrils and her lips closed around the soft skin where he'd shaved earlier that day. The feeling was amazing, he could never figure out which felt best wrapped around his cock like a hot tight wet glove – her mouth or her pussy – but then, he didn't have to - he could have both. She struggled for breath around his cock, around his balls, her throat contracting around his hard cock trying to make him cum before she passed out from lack of oxygen. He knew every nuance of her body, and her soul. As he leaned over her, his cock shoved deep in her throat, her hard nipples cutting into the sensitive skin of his belly, he reached down, open palm, open handed , and raised it above her obscenely spread legs and brought it down against her hard clit. She paused from shock for just a split second before the he landed the second blow against her hard clit that had peeked out from under its protective hood. He could feel the groan as she made no sound –he kept going – smacking her clit harder and faster as she sucked him harder and with more vigor – her own orgasm rising in her even as she was struggling harder and harder to breathe. He saw the muscles in her abdomen begin to ripple and he knew she was finally finding her release; he let loose finally, he could swear the orgasm started in the soles of his feet and rose through his body like a fever, his balls bursting forth, he could feel it as the cum travelled up every inch of his shaft and out the crown of his cock, coating her throat with his thick juice before it slid down her throat.
Pulling back and out of her throat she gasped for air as she shuddered through the end of her orgasm.
He leaned back against the wall, spent and exhausted as he watched Angelina come down from her high. The whole building smelled of pheromones, sweat, cum - it reeked of sex. Angelina's panties were soaked in the crotch, drops of jism speckled her face mixing with the sweat of her efforts. He undid the carabineers holding her ankle cuffs to the sawhorse, then the ones on her wrists. He pulled her upright so she was perched on the edge. He brought a cold drink to her lips and she drank deeply, washing the very last of his cum down to her belly and rehydrating her in the stifling heat of the garage and their sex.
Her body ached, her limbs were sore from their unnatural position, and her spine felt bruised. When she asked if she could remove the blindfold and he said no, she knew he was not done with her. She loved him, adored him really, and always wished to please him – but she was tired and sore – all she wanted was a long hot shower and a nap in their comfortable bed.
He pulled her up, turned her, and pushed her chest down onto the sawhorse. She begged him to let her at least take a break if he wasn't willing to stop entirely. He ignored her pleas and began to refasten her wrists and ankle cuffs to the horse. She squirmed and tried to get away, even cursed him low under her breath. He was losing patience with her – he picked up a small thin flat flogger and gave her a substantial crack across her upturned ass. She let loose with a string of obscenities he hadn't heard from her since she'd stupidly dropped her own bike in the driveway. He thrashed at her with the flogger –not in blind anger – but in a controlled detached manner. He did NOT like her to talk like that, especially when it was directed at him. She bucked and cried out loudly. He walked to her head, bent low, and whispered in her ear that if she did not behave he would get out the despised ball gag and make sure she couldn't utter such filth anymore. That stopped her – she hated the damn thing – he'd only used it on her once and she'd learned quickly to be silent while he used her body, even when it hurt.
He stood behind her and he surveyed the body before him. On normal days, he looked upon his adoring wife and felt such love for her. On days like today, he looked upon her as a body to relieve his stress, fulfill his dark desires, and make submit to his desires. He gave her a few more smacks for good measure, to insure that she would remain complacent and silent while he took his pleasure. Placing the cloverclamps on her nipples he tugged them gently before threading 2 fishing weights on each of the chains attached to them – distending her nipples even further – pulling them down towards the floor. He tapped her lightly between her legs, listening closely for the wet sloppy kiss of the flogger against sopping pussy behind the thin cotton fabric – knowing that as much as she hated what he did to her, she needed it, craved it, and loved it at the same time. A true Master takes his sub where she wants to go, even when she can't admit it. He used the knife to quickly cut off her t-shirt and panties, shredding them in the process and tossing them across the room.
He struck the match and it flared brightly in the darkened cavern of the room, he lit the wick of the candle and watched the pure white flame as wax began to puddle. Holding the candle above her perfectly shaded pink ass, he let the candle wax drip on the sensitive abused skin there. She hadn't expected it and strangled the cry in her throat before it escaped and earned her the ball gag. He took delight in her moans and whimpers as he dripped perfect little circles of red wax all over the firm globes of her ass. He moved higher on her back, dripping large globs on her and pressing his fingers into them – he was leaving his fingerprints on her – she would have to wear them as a sign of his ownership until the wax flaked and fell from her skin.
Extinguishing the candle, he squatted between her legs – she could feel his breath on her wet pussy, and she knew he was inspecting his property. He inhaled deeply and drank in the heady scent of her pussy juice and cum mixed together. Not touching her, he extended his tongue to its full length and licked up her slit from her clit to her ass. God how he loved the taste of her. He dug in with gusto, licking the outer lips, nipping at them with his teeth, digging deep within the folds and dragging his tongue along her flesh but refusing to penetrate her – he knew this is what she needed most, and he was not about to give it to her. He would lick her to the point of orgasm and back off, her body was exhausted by the constant strain of taunt muscles straining against his tongue – but infuriatingly he would only lick her and suck her clit.
There is something particularly nasty about eating a woman from behind, it's more primal and carnal – sucking womanly juices, being able to get deep penetration with your tongue, and having your nose right up against her asshole – the final frontier as it were for many woman. For Angelina, anal play was a double edged sword. She did get a great deal of physical pleasure from it, but it was just so nasty – she had problems getting comfortable with it – she never asked for it. He loved to look at her ass, caress it, squeeze it, and smack it. As he stroked her pussy with his tongue, he kept lengthening the licks until he's passed her pussy and was edging towards her little crinkled rosebud. He was driving her insane – the pressure in her belly, the engorged clit begging for release, and now he was inching agonizingly slowly towards her most secret pleasure.