Waiting for Order: Never-ending

Summer was more than half over, and the hot sun had baked her garden. Driving out to the mountain cabin, everything seemed yellow, tan and brown – more like fall – instead of the usual greenery that carpeted the scenic trip. Now, she frowned at her dry, thirsty vegetables and flowers, wishing for a nice rainstorm.

She turned and started toward the porch – seeing him there, stopped and smiled. This was their hideaway, a peaceful retreat kept private. It was a small but intricate wood frame dwelling with white porch rails, fancy trim moldings, an arched eve above the doorway, and a polished washed-pine porch floor. The dark cherry front door was hand-carved: two lovers reached from opposite corners, beautifully detailed arms – his, strong and protective; hers, delicate and trusting – outstretched toward one another until fingertips touched, entwined, and evolved into a single long-stem rose twisting skyward through the center of the door.

He stood on the steps, wearing jeans and nothing else, fair hair golden in the setting sun, flesh tan from working outside, brown leather moccasins on his feet. Leaning against the banister, arms folded casually, stance steady. He was a handsome man with steel blue eyes, a trim physique, his temples graced with slivers of silver, the corners of his smile lined with ageless wisdom. He held out his right hand, crooking a finger playfully to bid her closer.

Heart racing, she managed to compose her thoughts. He didn’t have to speak aloud to get her complete and undivided attention. Her silky auburn hair was pulled back in a long braid, a bevy of loose strands framing her face. She wore a deep purple silk sarong, wrapped around her full figure, tied and knotted at the left shoulder, falling in soft layers to ankles. She wore no makeup, except black mascara framed dark sapphire eyes, and glossy pink-tinted lips.

He found her both refreshing and tantalizing. Sometimes a girl, sometimes a woman – always submissive. He was neither insecure nor intimidated by her sexuality and affectionate demeanor. She remained drawn and devoted to him through many circumstances and situations. Between them, trust and respect, weakness and strength – lust and commitment. She was a seductive vixen by nature – feminine and sensual. He considered her a treasure, his own to behold.

Barefoot, she walked slowly closer to him, lowered her eyes, untied the sarong and let it drop to the ground. Beneath, she wore only panties – a string bikini in plain white cotton. Pulling shoulders back, she clasped hands behind her and began to descend to knees…

As he watched her transformation, the effect on him was physically apparent. She knelt before him on the porch steps and he stood tall above her there, unmoving, his pulse quickening. She was indeed a beautiful creature.

“How may I serve You, Master?” she whispered. “What is Your pleasure on this night, my fine Sir?”

Her voice was clear and almost melodic, barely a hint of southern accent. Sweet, respectful, and sincere.

He caressed her shiny hair, twisting long, loose strands around his fingers. “I trust you know how to properly greet your Master, little one. You need no instruction from me.”

“Sir,” she replied slyly, blinking lashes, gaze downward. “I will always need Your wisdom to guide me.” She paused for only a moment, posture straight, and then looked up at him. “May I please kiss Your hands, Sir?”

He traced her cheek then gently wrapped his fingers around her throat, feeling her pulse throb. “Indeed, my little vixen, and afterwards, I wish to watch you crawl inside where I may sit more comfortably for your most excellent service.”

She rose higher on haunches, slowly brought both hands from behind, uncurling elbows but keeping them close. She loved his hands, the way they felt warm against her flesh, wrapped around her breasts, pressed firm upon her ass. She took both his hands into hers and placed lips tenderly into each palm, breathed in the clean scent of liquid hand soap. The tip of her tongue mapped every crease, tracing his lifeline, memorizing the heart of him. Weaving her delicate fingers into his strong ones, guided his fingertips to her lips. One at a time, sucking gently on just the very end of each finger… looking up into his eyes, melting into him.

“That is enough, my lustful little nymphe.” He pulled away slowly, petting her hair affectionately before turning to go inside. He enjoyed her provocative greeting, and his cock throbbed expectantly. Gratification and reward would be his – and hers – soon.

She watched in adoration as he walked across the porch. He was a kind and intelligent man with keen senses. He had observed her one night in the company of commoners, and recognized her regal prominence. She had been dancing around the room, greeting and entertaining a diverse audience. Respectfully, he requested formal introduction to the eloquent dancer, and discovered her to be a rare and impressive creature worth pursuing. She fell quickly under his spell, although he professed no magical power. He was, by his view, simply a man.

She saw, by all measures, a man of class, integrity and enduring stature. Never manipulated or coerced, he held weight and bearing that clearly endorsed he was not to be reckoned with. Likewise, he provided steadfast comfort and refuge, earning her devotion and unwavering respect.

She waited until he stood in the foyer with the door open – and then she slithered up the steps to the porch, snake-like, across the porch. Her forearms flat, palms splayed out, she started toward him. Hips swayed side to side, higher than her shoulders, head low to the floor, braid curled around her neck. Crossed over the wood threshold, hearing him reach above her to push the door closed as soon as she was inside. Centered on giving him the most intimate pleasures. Right palm, left knee… left palm, right knee… right, left… left, right.

Each time she came near, he stepped back a few feet. Down the narrow hallway, into the library lined with bookcases. Candles alight in wall sconces, bathing the room in pale yellow. He moved across wool carpet, and sat down in the lush Italian leather armchair – then waited for her.

She kept eyes lowered, crawling until she reached his feet – and only then did she alter positions, sitting slightly upward.

“May I remove Your moccasins, Sir?” she cooed. Sultry vixen.

“Yes, that would be wise – and then, proceed.” He didn’t squander words – he articulated messages that were explicit and concise.

She removed his leather shoes, placed them neatly next to his chair before arching down to kiss the smooth tops of his feet, massaging the soles expertly. She traced fingers up both his calves, sliding herself up between his knees. She lifted the zipper of his jeans with her tongue, used her front teeth to pull it down, while deftly unfastening the single button above with skillful fingers.

His thick cock now bulged out from under cotton briefs, finally free from the uncomfortable constraints of blue denim. She pressed her face into the heavy mass, inhaling deeply, comforted by the familiar blend of his natural scent and woodsy cologne. She caressed him with her face, nose, eyes, mouth… he stood up, silent, and she aptly removed his garments. He was so mesmerized by his submissive temptress, it seemed effortless to assist in her tasking.

As he sat back down, he realized she had somehow managed to place a warmed cotton towel over the leather cushion, one end slightly hanging over the front edge under his knees.

He was never disappointed in her attention to little details.

She reached for a small basin – he hadn’t noticed it before this moment. It had been too long since she had served him and he looked forward to this fulfillment.

“You have a beautiful cock, Master,” she whispered, rolling his weighty length in one delicate palm, squeezing him firmly, gently.

“Lick my balls,” he commanded quietly. And she smiled, anxious to oblige, settling lower between his thighs. Holding his sculpted column so that the large head almost touched his belly button, she lapped at the smooth organ, quick taps of her tongue back and forth, up and down. Finally, he felt the rough texture of her tongue flat against his balls, massaging him with talented lingual muscles, playing him like a fine musical instrument. Delicate, intense, filled with soul.

She loved the taste of him in her mouth, on her tongue. His oval eggs encased in thin membranes, fragile and sensitive, aching to be feel her. She was careful, knowing when to squeeze him, where to probe, how to incite his fire. His cock grew thicker, rigid and fervent, as she licked his weighty testicles and the smooth, irresistible stretch of flesh beneath them.

He lay back, pulling her braid high above her head, beginning to unravel the twisted strands. She didn’t flinch, trailing her tongue down his thigh to knee, and back… while reaching for a little mustache comb and a pair of manicure scissors. As he untangled her fine sangria-colored tresses, she began to trim the coarse dark hair around his cock and balls… proficiently, smoothly, with incredible grace. She kept the scissors sharp, combing through the sparse patch above his cock, cutting it evenly around the base. Not too short, ensuring that the length was to his specifications by careful measuring with her fingers. Saving the trimmings in her silver monogrammed box, adding to those collected on other occasions.

He felt the warmth of the wet cloth as she cloaked and washed his flaccid, heavy penis. Dried him with the gentle patting of a soft terry towel. He heaved a long, contented sigh: her comforting service brought him immense pleasure. He closed his eyes, once again contemplating the rarity of happenstance that had led him to her in the first place, and grateful for the moment.

Satisfied with her work, she looked up for his approval. He was tempted to kiss those perfect ruby lips without further delay – her dedication was commendable, her gaze angelic. Instead, he looked directly into her eyes, and simply nodded. Taking the towels and tools, she dutifully carried them away to their proper storage and lifted the silver box up on the marble mantle above the fireplace. She returned, kneeling once again before him, wrists crossed obediently at the small of her back. Her hair looked like copper and red gold in the candlelight – loose waves fell haphazardly over shoulders, down her back.

He reached for the remote to the stereo, turned on instrumentals befitting the moment. She smiled, recognizing the familiar music, and closed her eyes, moving ever slightly in a solitary erotic dance… for him. He watched, until he could wait no more.

“Stand up,” he commanded, and she crossed her legs, standing before him like a poised ballerina. “Turn and look in the mirror.”

It was an elegant floor mirror on a mahogany stand, and her figure was fully visible in the silvery reflector. Seeing her own nakedness made her uncomfortable; imperfections seemed to stand out. She preferred to camouflage flaws with clothing and cosmetics, which he found to be unnecessary impediments. He insisted on nothing less than the innate beauty of natural flesh, clean and fragrant – though he did like the barest of panties to tantalize his visual senses.

She heard him get up from the chair, saw his face appear above her in the mirror, felt the heat of his body standing just behind hers. Her heart pounded uncontrollably as excitement mounted, blood rising to the surface, stirring her to a heightened state of being.

He wrapped his arms about her, grasping both breasts, squeezing the full, fleshy mounds, twisting nipples until they stood at attention – owning that which was his. She watched him through the looking glass, felt the strength of his embrace. His hands slid down, exploring her bareness as if it were both the first and last time. She held her breath, savoring the sensations he initiated.

He felt her tremble in anticipation. His fingers felt the velvety smoothness of shaven pubis, and then found the tiny clitoris knotted beneath its silken cloak. Her wantonness could not be concealed, evidenced by the flood already gushing forth into his hand. Lifting his wet fingers to her waiting lips, their eyes magnetized in the mirror.

Standing there, she felt faint, overwhelmed by desire. He was a patient man, enticing her with touch and order. Sequentially, he used time sparingly, working methodically from beginning to end – until the next beginning.

Replenishing his cache of silky fluid from inside her, he traced upward to her navel, probing the tiny cave with one wet finger. Her stomach muscles tensed as she inhaled – he paused, glaring disapprovingly at her reflection.

“Breathe, and unleash your inhibitions,” he cautioned in a gentle, but solemn, tone. She stared back, concentrated on his face, and let out a long sigh, allowing her rounded belly to soften. He delved deeper, gathering more wetness from her slick vaginal delta, thrusting his middle finger in and out of her navel – fucking the hollow center of her.

Her clitoris throbbed, and she felt his erection pressed against her back. The room was cool, but their bodies were on fire. Eyes locked, moving in tandem. He leaned down and bit passionately into her shoulder, leaving the impression of his teeth. She responded by whispering, “Again, please.”

Cupping his left hand over her pelvic bone, he pulled forcefully and she almost lost balance. She let out a gasp, and then felt his swollen cock sliding up the crevice between her buttocks.

“Put your hands on the mirror and steady yourself.” His voice was hoarse. His intention was readily understood. She complied, eagerly, spreading her legs.

He honey-coated her anal fissure generously, inserting one finger, then two… gently stretching, preparing the sensitive opening for his entrance. She inhaled, exhaled… repeated. Pushed back against his fingers… and then began to beg, aching to feel him inside, in whatever orifice he chose – her yearning could be satisfied only by him.

“Fuck me, Master,” she whispered, circling her hips, allowing her ass cheeks to open wider, urging his attention.

“Did you say something? Perhaps you should speak up, so that I can hear what you want.” It wasn’t a question, and she didn’t need to hear it again. She swallowed, engulfed in his dominance, and managed another plea, this one louder.

“Please, Master, thrust your cock inside me so that I can feel your hardness in my belly, and your seed in my soul.”

Holding one hand on her stomach, he guided his engorged column until its sculpted purple knob broke through her taut rose-red bud, entering the smooth cavity. She pushed back slowly, inviting him to come in. Deeper, deeper...slowly… deeper. She closed her eyes, hands clasped, arms resting against the mirror, feeling the incredible sensation of his cock inside her ass.

He fucked slowly, then faster… thoroughly engaged, submerged and absorbed. Their reflection in the mirror escalated his desire, and he felt the tidal wave of orgasm begin to form. Grasping her clit between his thumb and forefinger, he squeezed and stroked until she began to moan aloud… crying out for him to let her cum.

“Now!” He commanded, beads of sweat appearing on his forehead, pumping harder until his seed rushed forth into her, one eruption after another.

She began an uncontrollable shudder, legs wobbly and weak, her body exploding in multiple orgasms. She felt his hot lava thundering inside her, pouring down her thighs. He held her still, tight in his embrace, until she lay motionless, pressed against the mirror.

It seemed like a very long time, though it was less than a few minutes. Finally, she used her palms to push up into an upright position, noting that the mirror retained her silhouette in a fog of sweat and breath. He still had both hands placed on her belly in a loose, affectionate embrace. She looked at him through the looking glass.

“Thank you, my fine Sir. I look forward to the next time. Soon.” Her voice was soothing, contented.

He smiled, perfectly aware of his addiction, her obsession, their mirror-image taste for pleasure - the certainty that One’s hunger could be realized only by the other’s willingness to serve. As it was in the beginning, so it shall be… forever, never-ending.

copyright 2003 Scheherazade/sexystoryteller