Sweet Gwendoline Ch. 25

"Lyndsay! Please!" I begged and she rubbed her fingertips across the wet, swollen folds of my labia. I wanted her fingers inside of me, but she teased, just gliding her fingertips lightly across my pubic lips. She traced lines up and down the opening of my sex without ever working her fingers inside of me.

I thrust my pelvis up and struggled to get more contact from Lyndsay's hand, but the ropes held fast, and Lyndsay would just pull her hand back every time I raised my hips up off the bed.

Lyndsay took shameless photos of my exposed, shaved sex, recording for all time how remarkably swollen my pubic lips had become and how my vagina had become so wet I was positively dripping fluids.

Next she took closeup photos of my face, immortalizing for all time my look of utter sexual need and feverish libidinousness. I had become a creature of sexual desperation, a sex object, willing to do anything for anyone if they would only grant me the orgasm I hungered for. Lyndsay captured my wanton sexual state with photos of my swollen clit, my dripping-wet sex, my erect nipples, and the indecent, lustful look on my girlish face as I pleaded for sexual release.

Then Lyndsay sprawled across the bed and took some selfies with her clothed body snuggled up close to my naked one.

In some of the photos she would cup one of my boobs. In some of the photos she pinched my nipples. In some of the photos she reached between my widespread legs and cupped my vulva or pinched my pubic lips. I moaned, gasped, and trembled as Lyndsay took these photos. I was being objectified and sexually toyed with. I was suffering in sexual need and Lyndsay knew it, but she felt it was more appropriate to torment me than give me what I needed.

"I like sharing you with other women," Lyndsay said as she snapped a few more photos, "There's something delicious about seeing you spanked or whipped or sexually abused by another woman. It's almost like you become more beautiful when other women make you suffer. Does that make sense?"

Very little blood was getting to my brain at that point. Most of my blood seemed to be concentrated in my loins, making my clitoris swollen and hard. Thinking was difficult; coming up with an answer to Lyndsay's question seemed impossible. Why would being abused and tormented by other women make me more beautiful? I was feverish, sweating and consumed with sexual need. My sex throbbed with hungry spasms and my nipples were so hard they ached.

My brain was not cooperating. I squirmed and fought against the ropes that bound me, but I was too consumed with lust to wrap my brain around anything but the simplest ideas. When I opened my mouth to speak, the only sounds that came out were feminine whimpering and gasping.

Then, Lyndsay surprised me by putting her face between my legs. I temporarily forgot how to breathe, and my eyes widened in shock as I felt her mouth on my swollen and tender labia. Her vigorous, athletic tongue forced its way between my swollen pubic lips and plunged deep into my throbbing vagina.

I gasped as the tongue entered me and probed deep into my intimate orifice. I panted and moaned and strained against the ropes that kept me Lyndsay's helpless plaything.

I lost all self-control and I gasped and moaned, and my hips writhed in a shameless, lewd manner as Lyndsay's tongue explored my insides. I thrust my loins up to wantonly boost the contact between my loins and Lyndsay's tongue.

Lyndsay's talented tongue unleashed powerful passions deep within my loins, and suddenly I was grateful that I was a naked female, tied and helpless as my girlfriend's tongue took control of my sexual desire. Being helpless and at the mercy of my lesbian teenage mistress somehow made my orgasm more potent and more delicious. I found myself transported to some sort of overwhelmingly delicious, erotic, sexual state where every nerve in my body became supercharged and every inch of my helpless, naked, writhing body was erupting with a powerful, thunderous sensation of exquisite sexual release.

"Aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh," I screamed as my body convulsed and I was overwhelmed with a howling storm of sensory gratification. My orgasm seemed to go on for days and days. There was just wave after wave of orgasmic force that rolled over top of me and shook my entire body.

Lying face up on the bed, panting heavily and looking up at the ceiling, my arms and legs were still bound helplessly far apart, and a part of my brain was pleased with that. Something about being naked, helpless and at Lyndsay's mercy seemed fitting and appropriate.

My breasts heaved up and down due to my labored breathing, as the orgasmic afterglow lingered and felt exquisite. My legs twitched as I savored the post-orgasmic sensations, and I enjoyed the feelings of being naked and helpless and satiated.