There was a time for her when those lips poised above her own roused her, sent her mind spinning into thoughts of lost. She would feel them, full and moistened, slip around her own, grasping and locking. And releasing.

There was a delight there, singly and simply. His lips glib and fit to hers, yet with an intensity shocking and deliberate and inscrutable. They would feel hers, like blind groping. Taking in first one portion, then another. Gliding over the puckers of her mouth and glossing around the corners.

Not that they didn't yet bring an exhilaration, they did. A measure of delectation she would crave solely were it all to stop. As they nibble across her soft red ora, his lips bring electricity and intoxication. Now, though, they also bring trepidation and faltering uncertainty.

Once, early in their time together, he threw her onto the bed and pressed his lips to hers in a ravishment, a forced capture that gave her dizzying sensation. Releasing nearly as quickly as his advantage had been taken, he settled them just out of range. So near that she could feel them yet against her own and so far that, to touch them, she would have to exert a thrust difficult to gather with her hands pinned to the sides.

He whispered to her there. Told her of his plans for her that night. Asked her questions about her experiences. What turned her on, would she respond if he did this, would she like it if he did that. There, on the bed, with the feeling of his hardness against her and his soft lips above her, it all sounded delicious. She whispered back in a voice already laden with anticipation: "please."

And still he'd gone on. Walking her through hedonistic gardens while showing her blossoms she might pluck. Hallucinatory scents of heady contrivance. She considered herself versed. Lovers enough that she knew the arts - at least how the practice would be. Never had she heard it crooned to her with lips that would frequently pause to titillate. With a tongue that would stop to tease. She was empassioned. Entrapped. Enrapt.

Ever present was the symbolism of his hands enclosed over her wrists. Her arms pinioned to her sides. She could have bucked and struggled had she more the sentience and less the fervour, but so much more welcome was his next advance. His words drained her strength of will. Their coercion fervently desired and met with warm nimble lips once hers, now moving of their own accord.

He spoke visions to her. Vivid flowerings along the trail his lips would sprite. Between the stamen soft kisses and blithesome bloom prosody, she could only moan her approval and mouth breathless pleas: "please."

His mouth wound its way along that sparkling path of delights, just as he had told her it would, but oh so much slower. An agony she had never felt before came to her from the hour of flushed augury that ensued. And oh the pleasure at the end. The hardness she had felt against her with his every movement, finally plunging into her open arbors, pillaging a defenseless curtilage.

The memory of that first time sent shivers of moisture fromout her already swollen sex. The way he had inexorably wended his way to her center. Traveled the length of her, kneading and nibbling. Teasing and promising. Then, that first touch of his tongue to her inflamed petals was like white steel doused in ice. And another followed, and another. Her wrists now secure to her sides even as she arched and jolted. Each deliberate stroke of his falchion tongue to her slickened corolla threatening to overwhelm her.

Did she know then he would lay the foundation for her capitulation? Assuredly he did. Certainly he'd planned the conquest. It was a campaign. A strategic encountering that left her unable to consider anything but utter subjugation. Just as he had told her with those lips poised above her own. Drawn for the attack. Prepared for her disbelief. Ready to answer to her dubiety.

There was that time for her when his lips set for assault just as now, meant unabashed, unadulterated arousal. Tonight, above her own and so slightly opened, they meant excitement, undoubtedly. But much more. Oh so much more. They caused her heart to race with discomposure. Uncertainty. Turmoil.

Her hands were again immobilized, but now by the bindings oppressing her arms. Wrested there when he threw her onto the bed and clapped them into servitude. When he was in his rage like this, she knew she would tire well before it would burn itself out. He would exact her every shimmer of energy and leave her gasping and motionless for the remainder of night's fragrant lustre.

His lips touching down upon hers, pressing and impelling, elicit a moan in spite of her instability. When they release, they draw forth a sigh. When he tells her the path his mouth will travel, she knows it will be a long hard road for her. And oh the duality come to her senses! The first time intruding upon the present. His lips supple against hers and then removed to just out of reach as he tells of wonders to come.

Her nipples reach out for the pressure of his body and her skin stretches to feel anything he would touch her with. She knows the joy of his stick poking her thigh. It's a desperate lust that drips from her as his tongue traces her curves in a languorous meandering that whooshes her breath from her in a flutter of entreaty faltering at the next kiss.

The persistent poking at her ankles now and the nibbling reaching her arcing back, she knows that first instant when he touched her blossomed flower with his groping tongue. She could have left the moment then. The current stunned her, rushed her to the edge of her very being as he pushed up, through the silken folds and on to the conquest. The stiff pinnacle. She remembers screaming then, as now.

And as now, she feels the thrall. The thrashing of uncontrolled and irrepressible muscle. The two moments merge within her as she convulses. Her hands once held at her sides, with his fingers clasped over her wrists, now bound above her. Constrained beyond her capacity for struggle. Her legs once pressed to the cushion by his weight, now fettered in immodest posit.

Yet the juncture of time suspends her. She knows then that he will deny her relief and she sees now that he will force her beyond. His mouth furls her nub, subsumes her delicacy until he colligates the instants left in her thought and her body takes mind of its own and shudders with impending release.

Now, as then, he halts at the very climactic gasp. Then, she cried out, "NO!" Now, she sobs. A wracking shiver of familiarity. Cognizant, now, how he will do this with her until she has so little effort left to expend. Her arms will quiver in the restraints. Fibrillous and wearied. Her legs with scarcely nerve enough to wrap around him when he takes her.

Even as she reviews the twined pictures in her mind, his tongue seduces the swollen folds of her lily. Limns the soft outer shell as though it were frangible. Presses inside to the dainty treasure secreted. She sees as now, the time she realized he would do it to her again. When the recognition brought a disappointment and deadening of sensation. Aware now that he will only force his way through her disenchantment. That her chagrin will only feed the waves of bewilderment and sweep her higher than she has capacity to manage.

And at the very peak, when her limbs quake and her back tautens. When the manacles chafe her flesh and a shard separates her from shattering, he'll stop again. And again. And again. Until her body is no longer her own, but His to command and control. A bounty. A spoil. A conquest.

If she could but help herself. Contain her need the way he trammels her limbs. But there is ever more. A relentless prod against her leg or, when she wavers upon the brink, refusing to relent.

When she remains pushed too far, that incessant goad will storm her lips. Force the gasp back into her throat. His hand grasping her hair and containing her exertion until the cynosure eases from her tremoring to his glistening staff pistoning in and out of her mouth.

Her perdition. Those lips that then told her how she would be given that climax, that now tell her how she might have her zenith. Once conveyed the promise of movement to her core, press to the peak and deliverance. Even gave it, though so slowly that her agony was just glimpsed had she the wherewithal to look. Now those lips sentence her to this torture. To hold on, knowing what will come. The ebb and flow and peaks and troughs.

If she meets his standard. Her frustration so complete that her will dissipates with her nerve endings. The agitation so thorough that even her "please" lacks luster and no longer ports hope.

The subservience consummate. Then, now, he will untie her limbs. He will guide her once more into his mouth and bring her forth to that verge. And take her. Ravage her with his aching hardness. Shove and poke and stab and pierce her flowering. Release the tide so she will ride the crest of that wave until the sea's end where she will lay gasping in his arms.

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