Andromeda

But, as quickly as it began, he withdraws. Is he finished? Will my release slip from my trembling grasp? But no, for now his ministrations escalate, his touch roughening as it covers me, his teeth tormenting my tender flesh. Pinching and biting he takes what he will, my wet and desperate response pooling between my thighs.

Then, parting my flushed and slippery petals, he presses his lips within. He is everywhere, everything, and as he thrusts his surging fingers deep into my weeping channel I whimper. I gasp, my deliverance upon me, and gushing I cover both my Master and I in my flowing rejoinder.

I am exhausted, my body twitching with unspent adrenalin as I sag against my bonds. My Master leaves me then, and taking up his sketch pad he begins to capture the essence of what he has wrought. Long moments pass, the strain on both my arms and composure growing as time takes its toll.

I test my bonds, an act that flies in the face of his whispered directives. Finally, he rises, and as though to discipline one beyond his authority, he slips the second strip of cloth about my throat and secures that too on the hook above.

He then circles to the fore, and I watch with racing pulse as he fumbles with his belt buckle. I squirm once more, this time in panic, but my struggles are for naught. I am bound. I am helpless, but yet I crave what is to come.

My eyes close, frozen in place, until finally I hear the hiss of leather against fabric and realize what is to happen. Softly the instrument of my chastisement sings through the air, laying great, livid pathways across my breasts and belly. I should pull away, I think, I should fight against this torment.

But I don’t.

Instead the snake once again coils to undo me, the tension rises within…and I want more. I want him to…

Wet and desperate my eyes seek his own, and I know that he understands what I need.

“Say yes,” he demands, forcing me to abet my own downfall…and I do. Immediately I feel the bite of leather against my soft and weeping femininity, the irresistible sting of the belt as it draws the last vestige of reserve from my quivering womb.

I scream! Over and over I wail my urgency into the flame-kissed room until finally my strength fails and I slump against the beam in ruin. In a frenzy he tears the clothing from his body. Exposing his hard torso and jutting sex in the dim light.

Once more he forces my limbs apart, probing within my slit with his massive knob until I beg for more. It is then he impales me, wedging his thick manhood deep inside of me until he challenges the very limits of my being. Brutally he lunges, so deep…so deep, until I feel I shall surely be rendered asunder with the ferocity of his invasion.

I shudder, I moan. If he finishes me now, I think, it will be a glorious end. To complete one’s existence at it’s very pinnacle… could there be anything more sublime?

Again I gush about him, all resistance lost, covering us both with my creamy effluent. All that I am is his, and he smiles in the knowledge of his power. I am putty before him, clay to be molded as he chooses. He is the creator, and I but the product of his whim.

He lowers me now from the hook, and pressing me to my knees he wedges my lips apart and I taste our mingled essence upon my tongue. Then, holding me, fingers knotted into my auburn locks, he plunges his thick appendage until there is nothing left untouched. I gag and try to pull away, but still he perseveres until I eagerly accept his offering deep inside my throat, another conquest aborning.

He thrusts, he pummels, his sex growing harder and more unwieldy with each lunge. Then, just as I fear I can continue no longer, he floods my being with his seed, filling my mouth until it flows from the corners of my lips and drips upon my naked breasts.

Finally he releases my hair, his manhood sated at last, and I grovel before him, licking our liqueur from his softening tool. It is then that he surprises me the most, for in the dénouement of his lust he is gentle, caring as he presses me to him and softly carries me to his bed.

In this man I have found a hive of contradictions, warring passions that stir my soul. Silently I watch him as he sleeps, his face at peace in the afterglow of intimacy. I am to be his Andromeda, but I wonder in the stillness of the night, if it is not he himself that is truly chained to a rock of his own making.

Perhaps when all is said and done, I will be his Perseus instead…or his Serpent. I smile at the irony, and curl against his chest, inhaling his essence as I fall into a deep and restful sleep.

Only tomorrow will tell…

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Chapter 6: Elise- The Day After

Morning rises like a whisper in the east, a hushed intrusion into the silence we share. Had last night really happened, I wonder, watching his gentle composure as he sleeps. Can such a beast rage in such a peaceful breast?

My body, as one might expect, bears the disquiet of his passage the night before, and I long for a hot tub to ease the remnants of our first encounter. But, it is not to be, for here in this lost world the comforts are basic. A sponge bath will have to do…small succor, but better than none at all.

Silently I creep from his side, watching carefully as I leave him, gauging the rise and fall of his chest lest I cause him to wake. Then, taking the large kettle of warm water from the hearth, I fill the basin on the washstand and begin my toilet.

Slowly I caress the contours he had so carefully abraded the night before with his angry brush, feeling them tingle anew. What had he been thinking then, I wonder? What demons had his bristled weapon sought to exorcize?

Then, in the dim light of dawn I hear him shift, a brief rustle among the shadows. Is he sleeping? Is he watching me now, I wonder? Are his eyes assessing me as a woman, or a willing and accessible receptacle for his disquiet?

Turning in his direction, I peer through the gloom, but find only the dusky veil which captures that corner of the room. He must be asleep, I surmise…is he not? Certainly I would know if he were awake. His eyes would burn into me like twin beacons, eagerly licking at my flesh until I burst into flame. I would know…or would I?

Emboldened by my certainty, I lean once more against the post, that formidable support that dominates so well, and begin to stroke my aching body. It feels good, so good, a cathartic cleansing that washes away a multitude of sins.

He breathes heavily in the pristine silence. Is he watching? Is he?

But no…surely not! And so, with trembling fingers I continue to stroke the warm wetness over my breasts, caressing that which had been so sorely abused the night before until I feel myself begin to flow with the memory of that which has so recently passed.

The beast…had he read my mind last night? Does he know the way to disarm me, to take me in both body and soul? I can only guess, but in posing the question I answer it as well. Yes.

Flowing freely now, I slide the cloth between my thighs and cleanse the final traces of submission from my battered opening.

OH! The sensations it elicits! Once more I feel his hands upon me, the strength of his presence as he takes me, the trembling need as I capture his essence deep inside. But there was more last night. There was a joining that transcended the flesh as well. There was a deeper passion at work between us.

Again I search the shadows for a sign, but none is forthcoming. Should I, I wondered…could I?

Slowly the cloth slips from my fingers, landing with a soft “plop” between my feet. I close my eyes, the haunting vision of Him filling my mind as it had the long night through…and I began to stroke.

As though revisited, I can feel his teeth once more, ravaging that which he could not devour. His manhood impales me, and my quivering fingers followed suit. My knees begin to weaken, my legs threatening to betray me, and I reach one hand above me for the hook upon which I had shackled my passion the night before.

The storm builds, whirling in my belly like some squirming, gnawing carnivore, until with a whimper it bursts into my palm, leaving me flushed and undone.

Has he seen?

Knees shaking I slip to the floor, my fingers glistening with the evidence of my weakness. Would he taste the same this morning, I wonder, peering at my slick digits…would I taste the same?

Tentatively, I slipped my fingers into my mouth, sucking delicately on first one and then the other. Yes, he is here yet, but so am I. The delicate bouquet assails my nostrils, and I suck with renewed vigor. What better way to break my fast than this, I smile, savoring the flavor of passion’s ancient recipe. What better indeed.

The embers in the fireplace pop, sending a shower of sparks deep into it’s hungry maw, and for a brief second I see him, eyes wide and burning, invading my seclusion with heated gaze. I flush. He has seen me! He has watched my display of weakness in silence, and now I am his.

Red-faced and flustered, I begin to gather my clothing…but he stays my hand.

“No,” he mutters thickly. “Today we begin. Leave your clothing, it’s your bare flesh I want.” And so, securing my wrists once more to the post, he begins to twine a length of chain about my body, holding me fast in its tempered grip.

The links pass between my breasts now, cutting into the delicate flesh beneath, then wrapping itself about my waist as it continues between my thighs until finally slipping intimately between the folds of my weeping sex like some perverted chastity belt.

I hold my breath…what next? Will he…? But no, for now he settles himself before the glowing embers and begins to sketch, capturing his Andromeda on the page before him in ways that only his eyes alone can see.

Long hours pass, the chain holding me tightly in its embrace, grinding in intimate friction against the tender nub of my clit. I am in agony. I am in heaven.

My Master has given me small sips of strong, hot coffee during my incarceration, and it is with great humiliation that I finally beg my freedom to relieve myself. He looks confused at first, as though Andromeda should not require such mundane things, but finally he acquiesces and my chains are removed.

“Leave the door open,” He instructs, his tone brooking no resistance. “I need to know you…completely.”

I pause at that. Would even this meager display of privacy be denied me? Could I function with his eyes upon me?

Cringing, I cross the floor and enter the small water closet that is this cottage’s only concession to modern convenience. Then, settling myself atop the wooden ring I prepare to empty my aching bladder.

Nothing.

I close my eyes, eclipsing the sight of him watching me from the room beyond. Then, covering my slit with my palm, I feel my deliverance finally at hand. Quickly I conclude my business, then return to the outer room where He sits, his face stern and countenance troubled.

Finally, after an eternity of silence, he beckons me to the table. There he lays a small wheel of runny brie and crusty peasant bread for our morning repast. It is basic, primitive if you will, but at that moment it tastes like ambrosia. Ravenously I tear at the crusts, lathering them with the fragrant cheese, and greedily washing them down with huge draughts of red wine.

My head begins to spin, my senses reeling until my inhibitions fall by the wayside and my wantonness rises to the fore. He crosses then to secure me once more to the post, but my mind is on other things.

Heatedly I press my naked flesh against him, brazenly taking his hand and insinuating it first between my trickling nether lips, then within the drawn and demanding embrace of my teeth. He hesitates, his manhood stiffening as he allows my liberty. Then, with a jerk he once more wraps the chain about my squirming flesh and takes charcoal in hand. I am Andromeda once more…and the chains I bear are now of my own making.

And so passes the first day. Finally, night falls, and a child from the neighboring village brings a generous slab of venison and blood pudding for our evening meal. Grapes and hard cheese accompany the repast, as well as thick, dark bread and salted meat to see us through until the following evening. If we starve, it will be of our own doing, I reflect, and it will not be for lack of food.

Once more he sets the fire for the night, then turning he leads me to the post. Again I assume the position, my back firmly braced against the rough surface, my mind reeling. But tonight he pauses, as though warring with indecision, then abruptly turns me belly-first against the wood, fastening my arms about the pillar and securing my palms together in supplication.

My body tenses as he begins to caress my twin orbs. Surely he would not expect me to perform the one defining act that failed to distinguish me from those of his own sex?

Panic rising, I begin to struggle at my bonds, my fear of the unknown claiming me in no small amount. A tiny mewling sound escapes my throat, and my legs begin to tremble. Will he take pity? Will he release me?

Then, an oppressive hush falls over the room and I feel his hands explore that which he has so deliberately exposed for his use. Once more I whimper, my feet coming together in a desperate attempt to forestall my fate, but it serves no purpose.

At once he pries my legs and buttocks apart, then kneeling between my quaking limbs he proceeds to prepare the way for his vile act.

[No] I wanted to scream. No man had ever taken me thusly. Perhaps this was a passion of the Greeks, but surely the illusion of Andromeda has limitations!

Wordlessly he wets my nether passage with my own juices, his lips paying homage to that which lies before him, then rising he sheds his clothing and presses his hardened knob against my untried portal.

Desperately I clench my muscles to deny him entry, but it is a futile gesture, for in a single massive lunge he penetrates me, sending bolts of heated pain throughout my nether regions. My eyes begin to fill, but still I hold my tongue. I will not give this beast the satisfaction of knowing he has bested me in such a fashion!

Rocking his hips he proceeds to withdraw, but only for a second. Then, renewing his assault he thrusts his bulbous invader deep into my body once more, hilting himself as I writhe before him, crucifying me with his heated spike.

Whimpering, I bite my lip until the taste of warm, salty blood seeps onto my tongue, but still I will not cry out…will not plead for my freedom from this impalement.

Again he thrusts, and again until I become numbed by the sheer pain and force of his passion and slump against the post. Finally, as he floods me with the boiling proof of his lust, his arms enclose me, cradling my hands in his own as though to join in my supplication.

“I love you,” he whispers huskily, and I know at that moment he means it. He had sought to brutally remove all defenses, to strip me of my barriers, and instead has imprisoned himself deep within their confines.

It was a final battle, and the beast has lost. In its place stands Perseus, my savior, bound to the same rock as I, the victim of our own unbending passions. As I feel him soften within me, I know that what we shared was a connection that could not be broken by mere absence of flesh. For better or worse, we were helpless before our shackles.

I lay my cheek against the cool roughness of the post, feeling his warmth enfold me. “I know,” I murmured in pensive response, ”I know…

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Chapter 7 Elise- A New Day

The next morning I awake serenely in my lover’s arms.

We had lain touched and touching until the rosy dawn had hedged the horizon, and then had fallen into a deep, peaceful sleep. The pillar remains forsaken, a symbol of the freedom we have given each other, of the passage of demons from his life and mine. Instead rests the golden promise of myths to come, legends to rise from the ashes. We will create what we need from the vestiges of our old lives and forge ahead, timeless in our resolve and dedication.

We feast on a late breakfast, cold meat and fruit on the edge of the cliff, tossing scraps to the seabirds that circle and cry greedily above the churning waves. Then, slipping from our garments, we make long, slow love beneath the clear, blue sky with only the gulls to witness our lusty abandon.

Finally, it is time to return to the cottage, and to the task at hand. This time as he binds me to the post, I can sense a mischievous purpose underlying his actions, and I smile.

“You enjoy being bound, don’t you?” he asks huskily, his eyes traveling over my pale flesh as though it was again the first time. “You like being touched, being taken, being helpless in this position.”

I shake my head, denying all, but I fool no one. Even now the feel of my bindings causes my nipples to pucker and moisture to form between my thighs.

“You want me to touch you…here?” he asks, slipping a finger deep into my slit.

I groan, and force myself onto his probing digit, but he only laughs.

“Or is this what you crave?” His lips now seek my breast, suckling the nipple until it grows hard and urgent between his teeth.

“You want it all, don’t you?” he whispers softly, his hands stroking my helpless body. “You want me to draw you out, fill you until you scream for more. Well…I won’t.”

My eyes widen. “Won’t?”

“We must finish these sketches today, Elise. We have obligations. So even if I am weak and pause occasionally to…touch you, you must remain steadfast and unmoving. That is a model’s job, is it not?” he whispers intimately, pressing his body against my own, his hand cupping the delta between my legs.

Slowly, I nod. He means it! We have work to complete, and it is my job to remain motionless until he gives me leave to shift my body once more. And so I remain.

For long hours he sits, sketchpad in hand, bringing my charcoal image to life. Occasionally he pauses and draws nearer to focus on the details of some intimate portion of my anatomy, at which time he allows his hands to caress, to probe until he hears me whimper my need into the silence. Then he returns to his seat and continues with the job at hand.

Finally, he sets his pad aside and approaches my position with more than a look of artistic concentration on his face.

“Do you enjoy it when I touch you in this way?” he questions, pinching my distended nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “Do you enjoy the pain, the crudity when I take you here?” Now his hand slips between my thighs, his finger probing between my buttocks. “I think you do…”

“No…I…” I begin to protest. How could I crave something so vile? How could I? But I do.

Suddenly the chain drops to my feet, and my hands are freed. My lover rubs my cold fingers, massaging my wrists until I hope beyond hope that he will apply them elsewhere.

Then, he leads me to the large, wooden chair that rests beside the hearth.

“Sit,” he directs, “and stretch your arms behind the chair.”

I’m puzzled, but I do as ordered and clasp my hands together behind the firm, straight back of the seat. These my lover promptly binds in place, causing my breasts to jut lasciviously before him.

Then, tugging my hips forward, he spreads wide my lower limbs, draping each leg upwards over the wooden arms until I find myself fully opened and on display for his pleasure.

“Excellent,” he murmurs, stroking his fingers between my thighs. “So pink and delicate. A feast for Man and Beast.”

Then, kneeling between my thighs he parts my sex with his thumbs, like a ripe apricot, and begins to torment me. His tongue, oh his tongue…how it drives me. He probes, he teases, he drinks the nectar from my womb until I writhe in delicious agony, helpless to deny him anything. I come…I come…I come…