Symon & Michelle - Comfortable Skin

He'd untied her then, the binds coming off quickly since they were mostly for show to begin with. Symon wrapped his arms around her and pulled her up with him as he sat back on his heels. She nestled against him, stray thumb tacks dropping off her chest as she stretched her arms up and behind to grasp his head. They turned their faces to each other and kissed deeply.

She'd whispered, barely audible, "I love you so much."

He'd responded hoarsely, "Not as much as I love you."

Playfully, she'd slapped his arm and rolled her eyes. Then turned to straddle him as he'd sat back against the couch. They'd made out like teenagers, petting and caressing each other, each one's tongue dancing in the other's mouth. Age defeated desire for the moment, and so they'd settled onto the couch, entwined with each other and slept for a while. Fortified with rest and a quick meal, they resumed their long temporary goodbye.

The rest of the night came to him in flashes. Her unbound hair flowing over her, and wrapped around his wrist. Her body undulating under his. Then rising over him again. The bite of her fingernails on his back. The feel of her skin in his mouth. The taste of her pussy on his tongue. Of the salt from her sweat. Of her mouth on his. Her tongue on his balls, at his hips. She taking her turn to mark him, with her teeth in a secret spot only they would ever see. All her delicious sounds. Wordless exhortation to ecstatic abandon. She'd had more orgasms that she could count, and he'd had more than he thought himself capable of.

Then, finally, as dawn's light was creeping in the windows, she found his belt and handed it to him.

"Please, babe, tell me I've earned this."

He was lying under her, on the floor, thoroughly wrung out. He took the belt from her and draped it over her shoulders.

"Are you sure, honey?"

She was nodding, smiling. "I don't need much," she whispered as she traced both hands down his chest.

He nodded and gestured for her to get up. "What time is it?"

She glanced at a clock, "5:15"

"Ok," he said as he stood. "Eleven hours since you got home. Eleven, then. Front or back?"

She ducked her head, and grinned, "Both? Please. Pretty, please?"

"Really?" He grinned back. "You think you've earned that, huh?"

Her laugh was full throated and deep from her belly. "I guess you have to tell me, don't you?"

"We'll see. Put your hair up. Go." He pointed to the spot where a support column marked the boundary to the living room. Her spot. She grabbed a hair tie, and piled her tresses into a loose bun on the top of her head.

She grasped the column, feet braced and sighed as the leather whistled through the air. Grunted as it landed and sighed again. Ritually thanked him, counting silently. With the eleventh strike, she tensed, waiting to see if he was done.

"Turn," he commanded tersely. Her writhing and groans were too much for him to end so soon.

They repeated the exercise, his belt striping each breast, down her sternum, across her belly. She thanked him, repeated that she loved him, that she was grateful. She shivered and tears sprang from her eyes. She was covered in a sheen of sweat and her face was split in a beatific smile.

When he got to the last strike, she fell to her knees. She crawled to him and ritually kissed his feet, bringing the night full circle.

That particular memory was what he needed to finish himself off. His hand flying, squeezing, his cock twitched, his balls contracted, he cried out her name, and his seed surged out of him all over his stomach. He collapsed back, panting, hands flung out and a broad, satisfied smile returning to his face.

Symon stretched, and his fingers brushed his cell phone, laying on the night stand. Without thinking about it too much, he pulled the phone to him, angled it for a good view of his now deflating cock and the splatters of cum all over his stomach. When he got a picture he liked, he sent it to her.

He followed the picture with a text: see what happens when you leave me alone? See what I'm reduced to?

He got up, used the bathroom and cleaned himself up.

When he went back to the bedroom and picked up his phone there was a response from her: poor baby. You should probably punish me for abandoning you.

He replied: yes, definitely

There was a delay he didn't expect, so he got dressed, now hungry for breakfast. When his phone buzzed again, he found Michelle had sent her own picture. He recognized the birth mark in one corner, which made it a picture of her left side, between her ribs and hip. All around the edges was evidence of their session: two dark bruises, a couple of welts, and one clear bite mark. But in the center of the image the patch of flesh was clear, perfectly pale and unblemished. He ran his finger around the edge of the frame, counting, imagining. Peering longingly at the screen and aching for her skin under his fingertip.

Then his phone buzzed again, and she'd written: start here. You missed a spot. ;-)

God. How he loved her. Loved everything about her. But especially loved to count her bruises.