To, Not With Ch. 01

The bed has been stripped, its bare mattress only hidden by the crisp sheet pulled taut and smooth over it. The large wooden headboard, shaped and carved as it is, stands in stark contrast to the simplicity it rises above.

And then there is her; my girl, my slave, my muse. Like the bed, she's stripped, standing before me naked, as unadorned as she is unashamed of being so before me. My eyes caress her, roaming over her with the intention of a lovers touch, sweeping over the curves and rises of the land I know so well and never tire of exploring.

She looks at the bed and a frown creases her brow. She makes to speak but I silence her with a finger against my lips.

'You will not speak until I tell you that you can,' I say in a soft voice. 'Do you understand?'

She nods and no more, but her eyes are bright and curious.

From the pocket of my gown I take the blindfold and she stands still as I fasten it securely in place. I feel my desires surge as the scent of her hair floods my senses. While she lies there, calm and patient, I open the bedside cabinet and take out the length of black rope.

I lead her to the bed, laying her down like an offering in the cool expanse of fabric, and while she lays there, calm and patient, I open the bedside cabinet and take out the single length of black rope. This I pass it behind the headboard, wrapping it around the fluted wooden posts at each end and bind her wrists with the two ends. The bindings are far from tight and allow her to flex and move with a great deal of latitude but, as she will discover, not enough to feed herself. As the pulls out one hand, so the other hand will be pulled back.

Ah, the agony of the cleft stick.

And then I begin.

Standing at the foot of the bed, I lean forward and lay my hands upon her feet, stroking and caressing even as I part them and open her to me.

Rough hands on smooth skin, gentle in touch and harsh in texture, lazily making their way up and out, turning from the inner calves to the top of her thighs, fingertips meeting at the centre of her.

On their way back down, they pass over the smooth heat of her, a brief touch, a lovers kiss upon that flesh and she gives a sigh, her body tensing for a stolen second before my hands continue on.

From the inside of her thighs, then, back out to the flat of her shins and back to her feet. I bring them together again to close her to me for now. My lips lay a lingering kiss on the tops of her feet and then as my hands sweep back up the length of her, so I move onto the bed properly, straddling her legs, knowing she feels the need in me hard against her flesh.

My hands smooth their path onwards and upwards, over her tummy and then to her breasts. I watch, heart in my mouth, as already hardened nipples tighten even further, blush pink on pale.

She gives a slow, languid sigh that, before the end, I turn into a moan by simply running my palms over the hard nubs of flesh. Her back arches under my touch, moving to greet me but, again, I move on, never lingering, not yet.

Not yet.

As my hands move up, so I lay onto her, flesh to flesh, bringing my face to her, breathing her in as you would savour the aroma of a dew-dipped rose. Her aroma saturates me, intoxicates me. She needs no perfume other than her own glorious, seductively beautiful scent and my senses strain forward, each seeking their own reward, their own sustenance.

Fingertips trace a path, slow and intentional, up along her neck and I feel her swallow under my touch as I move my hands over her open, waiting mouth. I feel her tongue flick out like a hunter as she seeks to ensnare me, to draw me into her warm and ravenous mouth but I cannot stop, cannot delay and I leave even that delicious temptation behind me.

Fingers find their path down the side of her face and into her hair, curling there like lovers in the summers grass and as they do so I lay my lips against the smooth flesh between her breasts, kiss her and then, because I can and because I want to, I taste her.

My tongue slips out like a thief and I continue my journey upwards so it can trace a path, slowly, inexorably, up to her neck, to her chin and to her own mouth.

She again arches back, again rises to meet me, lips parted and pouting, seeking their quarry, seeking their prey.

I brush mine against hers, flick my tongue between them as I pull back on her hair, fingers wrapped in her hair, twisting and pulling.

She gasps and I feel her thighs rise and press against me, feel them trying to open, trying to give me a permission I'm not seeking.

Not yet.

I turn my head and see she is reaching for me, left hand with fingers stretched in hope of a touch she can call her own whilst her right hand is pulled back. She twists underneath me, a keening frustration in her throat that turns into a gasp of unfulfilled longing as, with equal patience and deliberation, I retrace my path back down and then onto the bed.

Bracing my arms, I raise myself back up and then down and off of her, feet on the floor long enough for my hands to again open her to me so that, when I lay back onto the bed it is to kneel between her open legs.

She glistens in the warm light of the room, desire and hunger given physical form. I inhale and the scent of her arousal floats like the breath of a kiss into my senses.

Back down know, leaning forward further, hands back on the bed, palms down, supporting me as I dip forward.

She moans as I breathe hotly onto her skin and, again, rises to meet me.

And this time I stay the course and my mouth meets in a lovers kiss with sultry flesh, warm and soft and welcoming, offering pleasure and sustenance as I push my tongue deep into the folds of her.

The heat increases as I get nearer the core of her.

I bring my hands up again, over her thighs, fingertips to her sex, parting her, opening her, spreading her. I push deeper, the desire to explore this promised land consuming me for the brief few seconds I can allow. As much as I wish to feast, I cannot.

Not yet.

And having drunk from her, I stop far, far short of having my fill and, lips wet and heavy with the juice of the fruit, I lift from her and move up again.

As I kiss her, as I share the promise of willingness with its creator, so I fold my hands around her breasts and press the centre of my own need against the centre of hers. I feel her shift underneath me, her body seeking to pull mine into her, aching and famished.

I break the kiss and leave her lips glistening with her own moisture. Her tongue flicks out as her lips curl in and she devours herself with a red raw passion, the flower craving its own nectar.

As she does this, my thumbs and forefingers close over her nipples and squeeze. The higher she arches, the harder I squeeze and, as I do so, I brush the tip of me against the entrance to her.

She cries out then, an unintelligible exclamation of pure, unsated lust. Need radiates from her like a heat-haze and I bathe in the sheer abandonment of it.

I leave the bed again and lean over her to the rope behind the head board. This I Lift up and loop twice over the central post of the headboard. That pulls her hands back, removing most of the slack she's taken for granted. At the foot of the bed, I reach under the mattress and pull out another length of rope. This is already fastened to the bed at one end and, pulling her feet together, I wrap the other end around her ankles, tying it off to leave her properly bound, restricted more than restrained.

She has enough rope to torment herself with, though, and that's what matters. And before I leave, I push the soft foam plugs deep into her ears so that the loudest, clearest thing she hears while I let her hang from the hook is the rasping, panting need of her own breath.

And so she will lie until I return to make love to her again.