Barn Dance

"Left or right, Tessa?"

"Right."

A chocolate spills from Byron's left hand, and I kick straw at him in frustration. No toying with me this time, he pinches a sliver of skin beneath my left armpit and sets the clothespin. I forget to breath and the pain jolt races ahead me.

"Shit!"

"Correct breathing is important, Tessa," says Byron in his best condescending doctor's voice. "It helps you process the discomfort."

"Go fuck yourself."

He feigns offense. "You should me more appreciative. Do you have any idea how many clothespins I had to sort through to find ones with springs strong enough to keep you entertained? Now, time to choose number five. Left or right? Make a good choice, and I'll take those nasties off."

"Left," I snap. "Sir."

Byron opens his left hand. Clothespin.

"Oh, my sweet Tessa. That's the third pin. You lose. I get to decorate you with this one and one more. Four total. Would you like the chocolate as a consolation prize?"

Not waiting for an answer, Byron unwraps the candy, squeezes my mouth open like he's feeding a pill to a dog, and shoves it in. I crush it into a gooey mess, intent on splattering it all over his face, when his hand clamps over my mouth.

"Before you spit on me," says Byron, "you should give some thought to how many of these bastards I brought with me. At least ten, I should think, given the game parameters. But, are there more?"

In perfect harmony with my better judgement, I swallow, then his lips claim mine in an aggressive, mean kiss. His tongue scours my mouth, polishing my tongue and teeth. I love it. Sure hands capture my ass, fingers spreading and squeezing my cheeks, pulling me into him. I throw my legs around his waist and dry hump his hard-on as I chase his tongue back into his mouth and do a little mean kissing of my own. Too soon, I sense him about to pull back and I bite his lower lip to hold him.

A finger pokes my anus and I jump, losing the kiss.

"Kiss me more," I beg.

Byron dodges my mouth, disengages my legs, and checks the knot confining my wrists.

"In good time," he says, kissing and cupping my breasts. "First, we have to finish the game. I have two pins left to play."

Despite his gentle fondling, panic ripples through me. "No, Byron, please not my tits. Let's bargain. Blow job?"

He ignores me. No surprise, because it was a ridiculous offer. I look around the barn in desperation, like there's a solution hiding somewhere, see my dress—Byron prefers me to wear dresses—and get a very bad idea.

"You pick a dress," I say breathlessly, "any length, plunging neck, slit hem - anything goes. I'll wear it to any restaurant in town. I know you like showing me off."

No reaction, damn him.

"Nothing under it," I add with my best salesperson's smile.

Zilch. This is like selling fire to Satan. He's staring at my breasts and snapping the springs on the clothespins and if he doesn't stop doing that I'm going to pee on myself.

What the hell - in for a penny, in for a pound. "I'll play with myself at the table."

That, at least, raises an eyebrow, if only momentarily.

OK, got to give him something really good, for him at least - hard to do when he takes what he wants, but there is one fig leaf of dignity he hasn't peeled away, one detour into slut-hood not yet taken. I brace myself to speak the words, not sure it's a better choice, but the thought of those goddamn clothespins pinching my tender nipples...

"Ass fuck?"

Yes! No! The infernal snapping stops and warm fingers brush damp, matted hair off my face. Byron's head tilts in a noncommittal way while he wiggles the two clothespins gnawing at my upper arms. I hiss like a cobra as he eases them off. I know what's coming and I'm not disappointed. Blood courses into the molested flesh; numbed nerves wake with scorching fury. I vent the pain in a long, satisfying curse, while in my head imagining the sensation in my nipples, amplified a hundredfold.

Yeah, a dick in the ass sounds like a picnic.

"Don't get excited," Byron says. "I'm only repositioning them while I consider your offer. Leaving them too long in one place isn't healthy. Let's see..."

His fingers poke and prod my belly, find what they're searching for at my bikini line, and collect a tidbit of skin. This time I remember to take a breath, but the pain, though fierce, is nothing like on the sensitive flesh under my arms. He quickly clamps the second pin high on the inside of my left thigh. It stings as bad my arms. I launch a kick that misses as the wicked bite takes hold.

Byron retreats to the hale bay to take off his jeans and shorts, exposing an angry, mouthwatering erection. Enraptured, I can't take my eyes off it. He makes another slow orbit before coming up behind me to wrap his right arm around my waist, locking us skin-to-skin with his cock lodged hot into the small of my back. He's holding a clothespin in his left hand.

"So, Tessa, you want to cut a deal?" Kisses to my shoulders and neck send erogenous currents zinging to my core, even as Byron strokes the bottom of my breast with the dreaded pin. Each stroke carries it a millimeter higher.

"Yes, Sir. You can, uh, you can fuck me in the ass."

"I want more."

"More?" I whisper, fighting to not hyperventilate.

"Four ass fucks, Tessa," Byron says, breath surging into my ear like a raging storm tide. "Four. One for each clothespin. I want the dress, too, just like you said. And I promise I'll parade you all over the city more naked than not, to dinner, to parties, anywhere. You'll be my trophy cunt for everyone to envy. Deal or no deal?"

"Not... not fair," I stammer. "One ass fuck—you'll be the first I swear to God—and the dress at dinner. Deal?" The clothespin grazes my nipple, caressing up and down, back and forth.

"No, Tessa," says Byron, "my offer's final, so take it or leave it." The clothespin squeaks open to embrace my nipple. Oh god, he's gonna clamp just the tip...

"It's a deal," I yell, stamping my feet like a little girl. "It's a fucking deal."

The clothespin doesn't waver. My clueless nipples jut like they can't wait to make the damn thing's acquaintance. A shiver runs through me as Byron's nose nuzzles into my ear, his sharp whiskers piquing my skin. Oh god, to feel that on my pussy...

"Four ass fucks, Tessa." His voice is a jagged, chocolate flavored whisper, his cock a white-hot iron prod in my back.

"Four." I nod in violent agreement.

"I choose the dress."

"You choose the dress, Sir." The wooden jaws touch my nipple.

He tastes behind my ear. "Any amount of skin."

"As much as you dare, Sir."

"No brassiere, no panties."

"Can I at least have shoes?"

"Stilettos. I dress you, and you go anywhere I desire to take you."

I close my eyes and swallow. My surrender resonates in his throbbing cock, in the leathery timbre of his masculine scent. Dreadful visions of Byron's favorite uptown restaurant, the theater, late evening socials, all starring me hanging off his arm in borderline indecent glory or worse, flicker against my eyelids. I'll be his slut on a leash - in public with no place to hide.

"Anywhere," I say. Thank God I am a stranger in Byron's city.

A testosterone laugh vibrates in my ear. "Then, my sweet Tessa, we have a satisfactory agreement that gives us something to look forward to on your next visit."

Just like him to wait six weeks. Time enough for me to stew to a pulp in anticipatory dread, and time enough for him to find the perfect slut rag for me to wear.

The clothespin falls harmless at my feet. I kick it away like it's a vermin and struggle to face Byron, but he holds me tight.

"Fuck me, damn you," I plead, fighting the rope and his arms, trying to lever myself onto his cock.

Typical for Byron, my appeal accomplishes nothing. Instead, he flicks the clothespins still hanging from my belly and thigh. Just touching the things ignites the compressed flesh and I reward him with a profanity-laced howl as he eases them off. He massages my skin until the burning subsides.

"Lift your feet, Tessa," he orders.

I hold my breath and obey. Byron grabs my hips, and, suddenly, the barn is spinning wildly. I kick my legs and swing like a kid on a playground, staggering to a stop when the rope falls slack.

Pulling the rope free of the rafter, Byron begins coiling it around his arm, reeling me to him. I'm salivating at both ends watching his rigid cock, yet I drag my feet with faux reluctance. His eyes are narrow, predatory slits, and the last tug sockets my navel to his glans with a wet smear.

"Come on my face," I taunt, slavering my lips like I'm eating ice cream. He ignores my suggestion and drops the rope on the bale.

Byron's strong preference is to take me from behind, and, trust me, I've been rigorously trained to assume the position, but, for the hell of it, I make him manhandle me onto my belly across the bale. The prickly straw digging into my breasts and spread thighs sets my teeth on edge - the rope is a piss poor substitute for a blanket - but I'm beyond caring. Byron's steely grip is as sure as ever, but impatient, even abrupt, as he positions and repositions me to his satisfaction. I smile at the subtle change. Red fire is beginning to glow through cracks in the forge.

His cock plows down the cleft of my ass and nuzzles its fat head between my slick, distended labia. For a long moment, we balance on a knife edge, the barn tomb silent, then my shriek splinters the peace as I am broached by his balls-deep plunge.

We fuck like pigs. There's no other way to describe it. I grunt in feral bliss, rolling my ass into every thrust as my pussy swallows his penis with obscene fluidity. Byron ravishes me with barbarian fervor, beneath his hot breath calling me filthy names that would make by mother weep. The wet smack-smack-smack of our colliding bodies fills the space around us. Somewhere in my head, pernicious flames consume every respectable and reputable fiber of my existence, but I don't care. In this moment, pinioned by Byron's merciless cock, I am every vulgar, spittle-flecked epithet he utters and I love it.

Byron's hand shifts from clamping my neck to fisting my hair. He yanks my head up and, on cue, my cunt clenches in staccato rhythm. Byron synchronizes his thrusts to each clench, grinding fiendishly hard into me, and I come screaming in a long, beautifully tortuous wave. Trapped in my pleasure wake, Byron's cock swells and erupts semen in frenzied spurts. He thrusts through his climax, catapulting me to a final, titanic orgasm and I forget to breathe...

* * * * * * * * *

Mired in a syrupy, halcyon fog, my brain leisurely organizes my senses. I am curled on my side on the straw in the center of the circle, wrists bound, comfortably numb, and trembling all over. Wasn't I bent over a hay bale? How did I get over here?

Byron.

I roll over, straw sticking to my wet skin, to find Byron sitting on the hay bale, glistening from head to toe, diaphragm heaving, but otherwise icy calm and watching me through razor sharp eyes that aren't yet finished with me. Fuck slop - sweat, semen, and pussy juice - dangles from his scrotum and cock. My thighs are slick with it.

An image of my wonderful husband waving as I emerge from the airport arrival gate suddenly intrudes into my debauched mind, but I shunt it away. Not yet, good angel. Time enough later to dip your barbed needles in acid guilt and drill them into my bones.

Byron slowly unwraps an unused chocolate and dredges it up and down his cock and over his balls, thoroughly corrupting it with the muck of our passion. He extends his palm, the defiled chocolate beckoning.

With my arms tied, I don't so much crawl as shuffle on my quaking knees to Byron's hand, the rope trailing between my legs. I extend my tongue but his fist closes. Adulterous slut that I am, I raise my eyes to him, unable to suppress an indecent smile as I lap cum oozing from between his fingers. The cum sliding down my throat lubricates the rising growl.

Yeah, I'll beg for my chocolate.