Swan's Way Ch. 02

Marcel and I had small, intimate, public and private codes, phrases that we would use to communicate our special needs and desires.

On occasion, seated across from him at a restaurant, I would say, "Is it me, or is it a bit chilly in here?" Which meant that I had slipped off my panties beneath the tablecloth.

He would then remove his shoe, and raise his foot between my legs. I would grasp it, press it against me. He always wore silk hose, and the feeling was incredible! He would wiggle his toes as I guided his foot here and there. He would take my other hand in his, run his thumb across my palm, and study my face as I reacted to my ministrations below the table. Sometimes this brought me to orgasm, and he would have to endure a damp sock until we returned to the apartment. Oh, how I would have to pay for that bit of mischief!

In the privacy our boudoir there was an equally provocative message that I would occasionally deliver. There came a point in our relationship when my cunt-there's that word again! I get wet just making these few keystokes! Anyway, my-you-know-what- became a bit too accomodating to his cock. I'd been thoroughly stretched by his thickness, and his prick began to slip in with more ease than I desired. So I took charge of the physical situation, so to speak.

When he returns, after days of doing his impresario thing, I appear, backlit from the bathroom, light shining between my legs from behind, outlining my sex. My shoulders, breasts, face are dimly illumined by reflected light. I say to him, very softly, with just the faintest hint of a catch in my voice, "Are you going to f-fuck me, Daddy?"

This, of course, preceeded by the following: The room is lit by a myriad of candles that I have arranged before he enters. The soft, flickering lights rebound from the many mirrors that are strategically placed about the room. The French doors are open to the small wrought iron balcony that overlooks the harbor. The scent of jasmine is thick in the summer night. I have rouged my nipples.

As I said, my sex had become used to his invasions; slackened, relaxed, too easily accommodating his increasingly frequent invasions.

So I corrected the problem by employing an alum douche. I rummaged through the kitchen spice cabinet, mixed a small amount of alum with a litre of warm water, and repaired to the bathroom. A solution that, once infused into my most private regions, served to tighten, constrict, and shrink my internal passages, until I could barely penetrate myself with a slim forefinger.

You may recall that I said at an earlier point, I could pass for 12. And, at this moment, I do.

Part of my "Are you going to fuck me, Daddy?" role is to stand, knock kneed, pigeon toed, leaning slightly forward, lower lip sucked into my mouth. Eyes wide, scared. I am naked, save for a black velvet ribbon encircling my slender neck.

Marcel casually removes his suit, hangs it in the closet. The remainder of his clothes go in the hamper. He takes his time. Ignores me, walks past me, into the bathroom. He urinates. "Wash me." he calls.

I run the water, scalding hot. Soap him, clean him with a washcloth. He begins to swell. Good. Tonight I need him very, very hard.

We move to the bed. I lie back at the edge, hook my arms under the knees of my long dancer's legs, pull them up, until my ankles are beside my ears. I am open, vulnerable, exposed. He has yet to touch me since his return home. He studies my lithe form displayed before him, and his cock leaps, twitches. I need him harder, yet.

"Don't hurt me, Daddy. Are you going to make me bleed?"

Suddenly he is rigid, an iron rod standing straight and stiff against his belly. "Lube," I plead.

He takes a tube from the bedside table, anoints us both. Grasps his slippery shaft and bends it down, presses it into me. I gasp. "So tight," he says. "Oh, little girl, you are so tight." Sweat glistens on his chest. My pulse throbs at my temples.

He slowly, slowly enters me, stretching me, my passage yielding to his invasion. I struggle to accomodate him. Was that douche a fatal mistake?

His broad head if firmly lodged within my entrance. He waits for what seems to be an eternity, then presses in another inch. Withdraws. Applies more lube to me, touching the magic button with his slippery fingers. I catch my breath. He re-enters my channel, forcing the tight walls to yield to his invasive organ. I swallow him. He is in!

I raise my head, look down, past my erect nipples, watch him thrust into me. As he withdraws his cock it glistens with my fluids. The blue veins bulge, circle his shaft like writhing snakes. My cunt muscles constrict about him, loathe to let his thick cock slip free. I feel as though I am turning inside out.

He pushes back in. A drop of sweat falls from his face to my breast. He begins to piston. I blush; the red flush starts at my chest, spreads, rises to my neck, my face. My ears tingle, burn. "AH, AH, AH," I cry in time to his thrusts. My eyes roll up in my head. I begin to sob; I weep, tears roll down my cheeks. My nose runs, I thrash my head from side to side.

"Oh, sweet Jesus!" he moans, and floods me with his nectar. He falls forward, collapses onto me. I release my legs, wrap them around his hips, circle his neck with my arms, pull him close, hold him within me, as the tide surges over both of us.

I thrust my tongue into his mouth, suck him in, above and below. He rolls me over on my side, curls into me from behind. Two spoons. His cock still captured by my tighness, we drift off to sleep.

Sometime later he stirs, reaches down, removes himself. Slides a finger into my stickiness, caresses my outer lips, still engorged with blood from my explosive orgasm. I awaken. "mmmm," I say softly.

I roll to face him. The candles have guttered. He puts his finger in my mouth; I suck it in. My hand goes to his cock, damp and soft. He removes it. "Later", he says, rising from the bed. "Shower. Dress. We are going out to your favorite restaurant. First course: a dozen raw oysters."

I climb out of bed, smile. "Oh, Daddy," I say, "You're so good to me."