A Flame in the Night Ch. 07

And in addition, incidentally, while the wick of the candle continues to simmer, you hear me again rummaging in a bag and later arranging things out. Then, in your viewpoint, unexpectedly you feel me forcefully grab hold of your wrist and forearm, which is resting near to your waist. I hold your arm firmly down to the bed and gauge your reaction. Sure enough, you jolt and resist my hold at first, but largely because you've been startled. The sedating candle has comforted you; therefore, you convince yourself there isn't a compelling reason to oppose me, so you don't fight back. You relax yourself and never saying a word, you give me your arm unchallenged. Nonetheless, your body quakes when you feel my next move. Shortly after, as I'm holding your forearm, I place a thick and leathery strapping onto your wrist--then I buckle it, and pull it, until it's snug and tight. And ultimately, in a similar manner, I repeat it again. Putting another strap on the other arm, I apply the same equivalent fixture. And again, I shackle it down firmly onto your wrist.

Though you're not yet fully secured, I wait until you steady yourself. Then stoutly I proclaim, "Tonight you deserve all that I give you!"

Immediately after, I follow through with the task at hand. I bring your arms together and link the two leathery cuffs with fasteners. And now with your wrists locked to each other, I lift your arms and lay them directly above your head with the palms facing upward. And what's more--I then tether them down to the bed posts!

Equally important, just as I calculated, you're now in a menacing plight with your arms raised above you and your elbows fanned out like wings of a butterfly. But precariously, instead of disliking the vulnerability, you start to relish being this succulent and defenseless target. Indeed, with your chest uncovered and your body bare and open, you feel inspired to be free and easy. And like a model uncovers herself for a Victoria's Secret ad, you're ready to be viewed and appreciated. You feel hot and fresh for the taking. And like a flower stands ready to be pollinated by any bee that hops onto its petals, you also are here nicely laid out--and available to any man with the wherewithal to jump you.

"That's how I like you," I admit, as you're looking so youngishly innocent and sexually tender. "Tonight--I am your master. You are my property and I'm going to have you--anyway--that I want!"

My overly controlling tone gives you shivers as you lie there buck naked, blind, and consigned to the whims of my temptations. In a mix of concern and amusement, your meat tremors as you feel anxious tingles spiraling down to your quim.

"It's a certainty. At this point, it's irreversible." Mentally, that is to say, those are the words you're thinking because at any given second you expect to be thoughtlessly exploited. Still, while that may be true, you also crave to know specifically what I meant by my latest declaration. And even though it's an improper time to disrespect my authority, you wish to start a dialogue to get an explanation. So then ambitiously you dare to echo, "Yes, Master."

"Quiet!" I remind you. "I don't need any back talk!"

You take a gulp and bite down on your jaw, trying to mute your voice as you freeze your pose.

Not long after, once more you sense me moving above you. Then taking a deep breath in the darkness, unaware of what I plan to accomplish, you feel electrified with delight at the first touch of my mouth as I start to arouse your nipple. Your legs flinch as though you've never been touch that way before, and a surprisingly agreeable sensation sprinkles all throughout your body. Gently, then, I nurture myself on your succulent bosoms, and as I partake in nibbling on the wholesome ends of your excited peaks, you allow the gratification to disseminate everywhere into your being. Again you revert back to fidgeting and squirming to ease some of the tension.

However, I'm not ready for you to enjoy this, so easily. You can't solely be having this much fun yet. Your wrongness can't be rewarded until you show the anguish and remorse befitting your crime. So to discourage you from gaining any lasting security, I sternly reprimand you again, saying: "Listen up! I said to stay still!"

Like a good and loving wench you do your best to obey me, but despite your willingness to do so, your body is rebelling and pleading you to break that oppressive clause which forbids you to open your mouth. Thus, just as women do so intuitively well, you ignore what men say--and you liberate your vocals. You go overboard and express yourself by letting loose with some passionate, amorous moaning. Colorfully in this telling manner, you air out your inner feelings, and reveal it with delicious sighs and mini songs of graphic pleasure. And so again and again, it seems to reverberate as you pant in deep intonations; however, while you continue making those soft, lowly whispers, you hope the barely audible tenor will slip beneath my notice.

But incidentally, as you continue to squalor and carry on like a bird chirping in the morning sun, the yapping chatter you emit doesn't escape my attention. Absolutely, I know your non-silent friskiness is in violation of my order. But figuratively, I let it slide in that way--because I like your backdoor way of asking for forgiveness. It's a fine start to an apology, and hearing you moaning in a state of lovemaking suits me well.

Hence, I don't scold you for that piece of disobedience because, honestly, I don't wish you to stop. On the contrary, the deep, stealthy pitch I discover is inherently rich in feminine substance. My heart is hooked on those sexy grunting noises, so I want to hear you creating even more of those distinguishing chants. Ultimately, then, I need you in restless heat and prefer you gasping out of breath, huffing and puffing, and speaking with babbling troubled patterns.

Consequently, as I re-engage my priorities, I continue onwards idolizing your body and admiring your lovable skin covering. Amazingly, I can't understand why I find your breasts to be so beautiful. Their magnetic powers are far reaching and so fascinating, and their persuasion and influence expand beyond my comprehension. Though what I do know is, the more I adore you and gaze into those two circular nipple spouts, the more it appeases my eyes and fills my virtually wanting belly. Then little by little, trying to gather your unique flavor, I sample your budding boobs with my tongue and feel your terrific outline within my palms. Namely, I keep gliding along your suggestive surface, and like I'm on a merry-go-round, repeatedly I sail round the circumference of your smooth, shapely pillows. Meticulously, I study the topography of your lofty mountains and allow my lips to tour up and down your bosoms. I kiss the valleys. And I kiss the softly textured hills. But before long, I return to the swollen summit tips, and I alternate milking your hard and pointy nipples. Gladly I tamper with your erected form while letting those tasty, corn-niblet nips satisfy the enormous hunger in my mouth.

Internally, you holler, "Oh, I like what he's doing!" And by now you're longing to use your hands to take hold and finger work those suffering parts of your pussy. But with the way your hands are strapped above your head, that's impossible. Alternatively, instead, you fritter away attempting to pinch your thighs inwardly, just a tad, as you yearn to squeeze that tingling irk that's romancing around in your inside.

And through the disoriented and blackened void in your eyes, you have to cope with the variety of smooches you receive to your skin. There's no vision to frame your perception, so every kiss and lick feels wetter than it should. You're edgy in excitement and gushing with urges. Pleasure whirls into your nerves. And like a handheld shower-head, hanging upside down and wrongly placed, it's set to massage and vibrate on your aching aches--and you feel it provoking you and dashing you with pleasure.

"Oh do me!" You resort to fantasizing about that nasty shower spigot. With the would-be dial notched at supersonic spray, the supposed water jettisons outward in little pearls that briskly bead into your soft, flustering tissue. And you imagine yourself being fucked as the drizzle simultaneously goes pitter-patter into your sensitive ridges. The warming glow of the splashing, make-believe fluid has heated your insides and now feels like creamy butter melting within your loins. "Please, yes!" you shout out to a fictitious Fireman Joe willing to direct that spigot to just the right angle. You feel the aerosol of the shower water dousing your skin, and it makes you want to yowl, "Assist me Joe. Come on and fuck me! Use your hose and thoroughly blast my pussy!"

And with that, your nookie is knotting and your clam is cracking. You're almost there and coming apart. "Give me more, ... I want a little more!" You experience a small series of climaxes of sorts, but really what you need is that big outstanding orgasm, which slowly oozes and torments to a bitterly sweet happy ending.

But unfortunately it's too early! You'll have to make do with holding on and waiting longer. Though your arousal is on a climb and your pussy has the 'caffeine' jitters, for whatever reason, the stimulation rudely ceases. Specifically, I'm no longer grazing my hand on your skin or gently kissing your pretty tits. That mode of affection has ended; because for now, I've stopped playing and teasing you.

Again, the odd, eerie silence causes your intellect to race. In a flash, you vividly recall your position in the dark. And stripped of any decent means to protect yourself, you feel helpless and naked. What now? You want to beg for more, but as you've learned, you know you dare not ask for anything. Privately within, as your pussy throbs like the pulse of a heart, you're thirsting and craving madly for me to do something to end the mystery. Hence at first, you're glad when you hear sounds as if I'm proceeding to undressing myself, and with that there's a relief in guessing I've softened my aggression, taken pity, and am now ready to consummate the evening, with you as my better-than-a-virgin gift. But afterwards, your brief optimism takes a dreadful turn when you hear that awfully familiar disturbance. That sound--you recognize and come to know--means I'm snooping for something else. It's that bag again! And clearly you know, whatever I find might very well be used to further mistreat you. But again, you'll have to wait to find out what it is and know for sure.

Then, in the absence of anything eventful occurring, for what seems like a needlessly long pause, every second gets wasted in idle vain and the hollow stillness therein kindles an emptiness that adds more to your nervousness. Moreover, without having negotiated a save exit, nor make any other provisions for your safety, you feel unsettled and uncomfortable with the enigma of accepting this journey unconditionally, without even an ounce of struggle. So patiently, as you yield in blinded bondage--submitting and trusting I'll be gentle, though suspecting I may not--you are, however, confident I'll be responsible, and I'll not unjustly punish you for more than what's required.

Thus, as you anticipate more suspense and misgivings, you try to prepare yourself for all things imaginable. And as you fathom the end of the night and whatever will happen to you soon, in mixed emotion you ask yourself, is being here, is this a really big mistake? Or yet, will it lead to something luscious and memorable, and be in many ways exceptionally good. Obviously, you wish for the later. After all--to be shamelessly subjugated, bound with mystery, fully nude and forced to discover unforeseen sexual pleasures ... well, when you consider your naughtiest, darkest cravings, being here now, right as you are--subdued and in the cuffs of a reckless uncertainty--well then, ... aren't you enjoying this? ... Isn't this just like you wanted it?

--end of chapter seven--

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