Swallowtail Ch. 11

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ktmccoll
ktmccoll
382 Followers

The grapes are gone before I even near the edge with her. She seems not to mind. Nor does she seem interested in more than teasing me.

"That was a snack. I'll get breakfast going," she says.

Once again I'm left bound and alone in the bedroom.

***

Dex unfastens the ropes from my wrist cuffs and I lower my arms with a groan. She has changed out of her corset and now wears a tight t-shirt and nothing else. She toys with the key that hangs between her breasts and observes me.

"I'm thinking of freeing you this afternoon," she says.

I'd like it to be freed now. "I'd be grateful, mistress."

"We'll see how the day goes," says Dex. "Come."Let's get you washed up."

The bathroom is already filled with steam when I enter. I step into the enclosure and immerse myself in the jets. My muscles slowly unknot and I take a deep breath.

"Let me", she says as I reach for the soap. I close my eyes when she begins, savoring her touch. If I was hoping for a reciprocal shower scene to the one the previous night, I'm disappointed. Although there isn't an inch of me that isn't touched, the business of showering is largely bereft of erotic intent. The arousal that I derive from Dex's hands is purely coincidental. She has no ulterior motives but I can't say the same.

After the shower, Dex leads me to the island in the kitchen and sits me down. She passes me a steaming cup of coffee. It's good. Not like that burnt, ashy stuff they pass off as gourmet these days.

"I feel underdressed."

I'm sitting naked at the kitchen table, watching as Dex, who in her t-shirt is only slightly more dressed than I am, moves around the kitchen. She stops and looks at me and then retreats without a word to the bedroom. She returns with the tie that I'd been wearing yesterday. She bends over, offering me a glimpse of her breasts, and quickly ties a half windsor. "Happy?" she asks. "Now you're overdressed."

She returns to her cooking.

I feel good now. The ache of the night before is receding in my memory. I'm showered, clean, and though I'm not yet free from my cage, I'm hopeful. The coffee is waking me up. I'm feeling magnanimous and pardon Dex for the discomfort she has put me through. I watch as she moves around the kitchen, enjoying her casual and unselfconscious partial nudity. She's humming a tune I don't recognize. The morning light streams through the window above the sink, highlighting her body like a Vermeer painting, if Vermeer were in the business of painting half-naked goths with a penchant for body modifications. The swallowtail tattoo peeks out from under the hem of her t-shirt whenever she turns to face me.

Dex has prepared a meal of scrambled eggs, sausage, bacon, and toast and I tuck into it eagerly. There's enough cholesterol on my plate to make my doctor all apoplectic. Not to mention the fact that Ms. Manners would frown on me breaking fast in the nude with a fading boner. Arterial health, hygiene and decorum aside, breakfast is great.

I look up from my plate. Dex has her chin perched in her palm and is watching me.

"What?" I ask.

"Nothing."

There's a weird look on her face. I've seen it before with other women, but I'm surprised to see it on Dex.

"What's on the agenda?" I ask after I've finished chewing.

Dex seems not to mind that I've dropped the mistress business. I'm glad for it. Dex isn't one to launch into spontaneous soliloquies and while I'm not either, being limited 'yes mistress' and 'no mistress' would make for a conversationally challenged weekend.

"A hike maybe. Somewhere not off the beaten path."

***

"This used to be my favorite spot when I was a kid."

We've emerged from a narrow trail onto a tall outcropping of rock that extends like a tongue into the lake. I'm still self-conscious about wearing nothing but a collar and cuffs, but Dex has assured me that we are completely isolated here. So far, she's been proven right. Dex has attached a lead to my cage for the walk and the occasional tug at my groin has me aroused again. She lets the lead drop at my feet and walks out to the edge of the outcropping.

The air is still and warm and the only sound is the lapping of small waves against unseen rocks. It's the kind of day that makes it easy to imagine that the world is pure and that you are the only one in it.

"So this is your cottage," I say.

Dex nods. "It used to be my father's. Now it's mine." She pauses for a moment, looking out on the water. "I've never brought anyone here before."

"Your father?"

"It's not like I hatched out of a pod," she says. Then, after a moment, adds, "He died when I was eighteen. He was a great man."

I remember then. She had mentioned him before at the jazz bar. He'd left the family when Dex had been a kid. Evidently, he hadn't gone far. Questions teem in my mind now that Dex has finally pulled away the veil on her past, at least partially.

Dex is rummaging around in the backpack that I've carried to this place. She returns to me with a length of rope. She loops an end through one of the rings of the cuff on my wrist. "After my father died, the cottage and the land reverted to me. He knew what this place meant to me." She steps carefully to a tree and ties the end of the rope off. My arm rises.

She returns and repeats the process with the other wrist, telling me that it took her years to return to this place after her father had passed.

"No one used it? No siblings?"

"I'm an only child. My dad's lawyer, my lawyer now, looked after it for me until I was ready for it."

I feel like the Christ statue in Rio, standing on this rock with my arms outstretched. That, of course, is where the resemblance ends.

Dex returns to my field of view. She's carrying a flogger. "I started coming back a few years ago. It felt right."

The sun warms my shoulders and the afternoon breeze swirls around my legs. Dex kneels in front of me and unlocks the chastity device. Whether it's the fact that I am free from my cage or the prospect of an imminent flogging, my heart begins to thud in my chest and my unconstrained cock swells.

"Old faithful," remarks Dex, weighing my cock in the palm of her hand. She allows the fells of the flogger to stroke its length.

She retreats from view. I brace for what is surely to come.

My manhood is pointing dumbly at a duck or a loon by the opposite shore. The bird doesn't seem overly concerned.

"Ready?"

I nod. "Yes mistress."

Dex starts slowly, softly, coaxing arousal out of me by the tips of leather that caress my back and ass. I keep waiting for the force to increase, for the pain to supplant pleasure, but it never does. The touch of the flogger is intimate, an extension of Dex. Her rhythm is hypnotic. I'm lulled into the contradiction of intense exhilaration and of having been transported out of my body. The ridiculousness of being tied naked between two trees, being flogged out in the open, doesn't matter. Nothing matters.

The blows are predictable, almost comfortable. It's as though Dex feels no need to punctuate her claim over me with force. It feels stupid to think of it this way, but there's an artistry to the way in which she applies leather to me. Her colors are force, her strokes are the shapes of the blows against my flesh.

The duck (or loon) has vanished and I'm surprised that I haven't marked its passage. I'm surprised too that Dex has stopped. It's quiet again, almost unnaturally so after the steady percussion of leather against flesh.

When she emerges from behind me, Dex has shed her clothes. She unties one of my wrists as she passes and walks to the edge of the rock. She gracefully dives off, flashing me for a brief moment, a streak of white against the trees and rocks on the far side of the shore. I watch as she swims to a point not too far away. Her pale skin glimmers beguilingly beneath the surface of the crystalline water.

"Are you coming?" she calls

I divest myself of my ropes and leather and join her. The water is cool and refreshing. I swim over to where Dex has found a submerged rock to stand on. Drops bead on her breasts and cling to the rings that adorn her nipples. I find purchase on the rock and wrap my arms around her waist.

"Thanks for bringing me here," I say.

She wraps her legs around my waist and I struggle to maintain my balance on the slippery rock. She finds me under the water and I'm soon engulfed in her warmth.

"That's better," she says, nestling herself more firmly on my cock. Her arms are wound around my neck and she whispers in my ear, "This isn't dangerous, is it?"

"What?"

"This. The suction. You hear of people getting stuck." Dex rises and falls on me, disproving her point.

"I'm sure it's a myth." God she feels good. "Designed to keep horny teenagers away from law-abiding waders and skittish shore-birds."

"You sure?"

"No, but I can't think of anywhere else I'd rather be stuck."

She moves slowly upon me. My hands cup her ass under the water, trying to arrest movements that threaten to overwhelm me.

"Don't come," she says.

"Then don't move."

She stops. Cool water swirls around us. I'm warm only where she touches me—her breasts pressed against my chest, her legs, her cunt.

Shit. Not moving wasn't working either. She tightens herself around me. I can feel the rhythmic compression like a heartbeat. "Get off," I gasp.

"I'm trying."

I twist out of her grasp and swim away, trying desperately for some distance from her and the wave that threatens to overwhelm me. It's poised still. One nudge and it'll be all over. I tread water and look over to where I left her. She smiles and waves. The water is lapping at her breasts. She's a vision.

When I'm sure that I have sufficiently distanced myself from the release she has again denied me, I return to her. It takes a while.

"You're a harsh mistress."

***

For a change, Dex doesn't appear to be interested in having me coax release from her mortal coil. Maybe she's chafed and bruised. Part of me secretly hopes so. I've forgotten what the score is. All I know is that I have a goose egg on my side of the orgasmic ledger. I know that it's wrong to think of our relationship in those terms, but there it is.

I'm feeling sorry for myself. Self-pity is always something I've despised in others, so finding it in myself has left me out of sorts and cranky. I tell myself that this is what I've agreed to, but it does little to help my mood. I feel that the aborted forays into carnal heaven have abandoned tiny mewling orgasms in a sad and desolate limbo and that I'm somehow responsible.

I suspect that this has been the point of this weekend, reinforcing the notion that my pleasure, or lack of it, rests entirely within Dex's hands. It must be a test of sorts, Dex's way of determining whether my submission is total and whether I can, in the face of repeated denial, still attend to her desires with the submissive selflessness she expects of me.

I'm sitting on the deck alone. Dex is doing the dinner dishes and I'm sipping a very nice single malt that I haven't had before. Its warmth spreads through me. I really haven't lifted a finger since we returned from the lake. Dex has been attending to me and I wonder whether she knows just how bruised my ego is. It does make me feel a little better, this attention to my physical well-being. It might be a sign of things to come. I refuse to get my hopes up, deciding instead to focus on the small tokens of affection that Dex bestows upon me.

Dex joins me on the deck. She has turned off all of the lights and has set an antique lantern on a table off to the side. The flame is low and yellow and illuminates little beyond our small cocoon of light.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah." Her hand is on my shoulder and I take it and press it to my lips.

"I want to do something for you," she says after a moment.

"I'd like that."

"You don't know what it is."

I shrug. "I trust you."

Dex just stands there. Our eyes lock. Something passes between us but I don't trust myself to translate it just yet. I save the syntax of her look for later parsing.

She asks me to strip and lean against the railing of the veranda. I do it without question and wait.

She leans against me, draping herself over my back and wrapping her arms around my torso. I feel her cheek resting between my shoulder blades and an expanse of bare skin to regions south.

"I've had fun this weekend. Thanks for coming." Her words blow moisture across my back.

I don't answer, swallowing the expected rejoinder.

"May I?"

She sounds so earnest that I nod. "Please."

She runs her fingertips from my shoulders to my ass, an expanse that has borne the evidence of the crop and flogger and cane. The welts may have faded, but Dex has nonetheless etched herself into me.

She chats with me as she inserts a lubed finger into my rectum. The talk is so casual, so freakishly mundane that I want to scream. She has a finger sliding in and out of my ass. It probes, finds the prostate, and I grip the railing more tightly. She's now talking about what we might do tomorrow, our last full day here. I'm thinking of nothing more than the present.

She withdraws. I'm ready. I know what's coming next. My squeamishness of a few months ago is gone now. I've actually learned to enjoy it, though I've admitted it to no one but Dex.

A lubed dildo brushes my ass. I know she's wearing a leather harness. I can imagine the incongruity of it—a large dildo sprouting from my waifish dom. My mouth is dry and I stare out into the darkness.

"I'm sorry if I've neglected you."

I have no answer. She's pressing and has breached me. I gasp and close my eyes.

"You've been so good to me and I've been so selfish."

She passes the point of resistance now and slides easily into me.

"Does it feel good?"

"Uh huh."

She slides both hands up my torso to my chest and pulls me up into a standing position. She's still buried within me and the angle is tantalizingly different.

She holds my chest with one hand, stroking a nipple and the other slides down and finds my cock.

"I want to please you too," she whispers as her fingers alight on my cock.

"You are."

"I wish I could feel you," she says. "From the inside."

The tenor of her talk makes me squirm with desire. She strokes me and I feel weak-kneed. My breath hitches in my throat before exploding in a gasp.

"Don't yet," she says. "I have a question for you."

Oh no. Please no questions. No talk now. Please. The dildo and her hand move in unison. The sensations and the denial of the weekend are swirling together now, churning.

"If you need me to distract you, let me know."

"Yes."

"You'll let me know?"

"No. Distract me. Now."

The blow from the crop blazes across the outside of my thigh. I'm grateful that she has hit me hard. Anything softer would have sent me over the edge.

"Okay now?"

"Maybe. Wait. No."

Dex adds another pair of welts to the first.

"Thanks."

"You have a decision to make. Come now, like this, or wait until tomorrow."

Damn this woman!

"What's tomorrow?" I gasp.

"Tomorrow night I'll give myself to you, to do with as you want."

My need for release is a living thing in my head, driving me to distraction. It's crying for immediate gratification, like a child or a junkie.

"Either or? Not both?" I gasp.

"Not both."

Shit.

"Tomorrow I give you my consent. Whatever you want. No games."

"Hit me." I'm thinking.

She has stopped moving. She occupies me, brushing those hidden parts that lie at the root of my erection.

Not both, I think. Immediate gratification or carte blanche delayed.

I hesitate. I torture myself with another moment of borrowed pleasure, which brings me dangerously close to having no choice at all.

"Tomorrow. I choose tomorrow."

"Okay," says Dex. She begins to withdraw from me.

"Just a little bit more though."

"Okay."

She slides into me again and falls into a slow and painfully pleasurable rhythm. I'm not at risk of spoiling my chances for tomorrow, but am unwilling to forego the sensation of her occupation of me, even if it goes nowhere.

"Would you believe me if I told you that this hurts me more than it hurts you?" she asks.

"Not for a moment."

"You're probably right."

***

The next morning there are no games. I enter the kitchen and kiss her dutifully on the cheek. "Do you want me to do anything?"

"No," she says. "Just have a seat."

I kiss her again, on the lips this time. The kiss deepens into a living, desperate thing and I break off before my control abandons me entirely.

As before, I watch her move around the kitchen. As before, I lose myself in the watching of her.

We spend morning day hiking around the lake, have lunch on the dock, and then take out a small sailboat named the Dorothy Elizabeth. I ask about the name but Dex just shakes her head. We skinny-dip from the boat and canoodle in the water.

Dinner consists of steaks and a salad. Dex has given me the grilling duties while she busies herself in the kitchen with everything else. She brings me out a beer and I almost laugh.

"What?" she asks.

"I never thought we'd ever be living the stereotype."

"Anything's possible," she says.

We eat outside like a normal couple, enjoying good food, craft beer, and the sun setting over the lake. We match, Dex and I, in our shorts and t-shirts. There's nothing about us that says that she owns me or that I subject myself to her in ways most men would find degrading. We chat about the day, her uselessness as a sailor, my comparative lack of grace as a swimmer.

The stars come out, as does a bottle of wine. Mosquitoes and moths are drawn to the divine light of the gas lantern that Dex has set up and are rendered unto ash. We move to a swing and snuggle on it. Her leg is draped over my thigh and my hand is on her knee. It's disconcerting, this oscillation between submissive and companion. I wonder if I would value the latter less if not for the other.

Dex has given me carte blanche. I think of the closet that I know contains every restraint and device that I could ever hope to use. I look back to Dex. I've so long imagined payback, fantasized about the things that I would do if the roles were reversed. My repertoire has broadened under Dex's tutelage. There are any number of things that I could do now. It would be easy to express my displeasure at having been denied. After all, she has consented and for Dex, consent encompasses a world of possibility.

I lean towards her and touch her cheek, still considering my options. This woman is my mistress, my dom. I'm her sub. There are no conditions that I apply to the statement; it's just fact. The roles have become a part of me rather than a curiosity that I can opt out of when it ceases to interest me. Play is the language of our relationship, Dex once said.

I get off the swing and lift her in my arms. She's remarkably light. She wraps an arm around my neck.

I manage to negotiate the door without causing either of us injury and make my way to the bedroom as though I carry women in my arms every day. I leave the devices in the closet. I lay her gently on the bed and undress her. She's framed by the dark, satin sheets. Her arms rest above her head, flingers curled, almost touching the headboard. It would be so easy to restrain her. She watches me expectantly, shadowed green eyes following my every movement. One leg is drawn up, partially obscuring her sex and the swallowtail tattoo appears to be burrowing a crease of skin. She takes a deep breath. Her breasts rise and fall.

I touch the bent leg and it swings to the side, revealing the furrowed flesh that parts ever so slightly, revealing the glistening folds that await me.

I bend over her and kiss one nipple and then the other.

ktmccoll
ktmccoll
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