Palmistry

Time for tabasco. I locked her wrists behind her again, her ankles still bound to the footboard. I connected a short chain from her wrists to her collar, pulling her wrists high up her back, away from her butt, then blindfolded her.

"You're going to spank me now, aren't you."

"Yes."

"It's going to hurt a lot, isn't it."

"Yes, a lot."

"Is there any way to talk you out of it?"

"None."

I had purchased two cane switches for the occasion. I got them out of the dresser. I ran the tip of one over Rebecca's body, tracing her feet and ankles, her legs, her butt, brushing it along her skin ever so lightly. I paused. She was afraid now and I tasted her fear, bitter, pungent. Then I began. Rat-tat-tat. With a switch in each hand, I beat a rapid tattoo on her backside. She jerked and thrashed but was utterly helpless. I worked my way down her legs to the soles of her feet and back again. I drank in her screams. They were bourbon, burning as they rolled down my throat and warmed my innards. They drove me on. I couldn't get enough, gulping them down, afraid one would escape me. Finally, she stopped screaming and just lay there. She had crossed some kind of threshold. For a moment I thought she was unconscious, but I was wrong.

I released her and dabbed at her tears, but new ones appeared as fast as I wiped the old ones. She clung to me, quivering. She hated me, she loved me, she needed me, she feared me, she wanted to run away, she couldn't let go. The complex of emotions emanated from her and washed over me. So, so delicious. I began licking the tears from her face. I kissed her eyes, her mouth. She clung tighter. I laid her carefully on her back and locked her wrists together. Raising them over her head, I clipped them to the headboard. I sucked her nipple into my mouth, thrust at it with my tongue, then bit down just enough. I kissed her ankles, her knees, her thighs. I explored every inch of her body. This was a sorbet, a cleansing of the palate. Slowly, slowly, I worked Rebecca over, preparing her for the final course.

I thrust into Rebecca, bathing in the sounds of her orgasm. This was the nectar, the ambrosia I had been in pursuit of. It left me drained, exhausted, shattered. I had tasted all of her flavors, inhaled, imbibed, and absorbed all she had to offer. Why wasn't it enough? My earlier comment had proved prophetic. The destination was anticlimactic compared to the journey. I unhooked her wrists and she rolled against me. I held her to me all the night, inhaling her perfume and watching the experience of this night slowly recede into the past like standing on the track watching a train roll away.

In the morning I saw her to the door.

"Goodbye, Bob. I won't be back."

"I know." I kissed her. "Have a good life."

"You, too." We both knew we had created an emotional cuisine that we would never be able to duplicate. Better to cherish the recollection than trash it by bungling an attempted repeat. I watched her walk to her car in those clothes. Part of me wanted to run out and drag her back, but I knew better. Whatever games we had been playing had meshed for a night and now we were once again spinning off each in our own direction.

Friday night I took Karen out again. Karen had been the one I really wanted, the one I was trying to build a relationship with. We went out, had dinner, etc. I took her home with me as usual, tied her up, fucked her. The evening was somehow flat, lacking in zest. No spices, no flavor.

Had Rebecca done it again? Left one more man just a bit more miserable than she'd found him?

Sharon was just arriving when I returned from taking Karen home. I decided to make things more interesting. I gagged her and made her clean the house in nipple clamps and ankle chain. When she finished, I took her to bed, spanked her, fucked her, and sent her home. No good. It just wasn't exciting the way it used to be.

Sunday, I sat and tried to review my situation. I thought about calling Helen, but wasn't really interested. The thought of calling Rebecca generated slightly more interest, but I didn't. I knew how foolish that would be.

I was now having sex with two different women on a regular basis and could probably call in a third if the first two needed reinforcements. Why was I bored? Why wasn't I happy? I'd been content with only one woman when Meg was alive. I'd been happy then. Why had she left me?

I had a box of M-80's in the basement. If I blew the door off my locker the therapists would come and save me.

Note: The story "Therapy" is a combined sequel to this story and "Want Ad."