Thirty minutes and any number of bumps later, the car pulls into a driveway and you hear the engine turn off. Blindfolded, you're a mess. Bound behind you, your arms yearn to move and stretch. Your breasts ache from the clips on your nipples, your anus feels stretched from the buttplug you've been sitting on, and your pussy throbs without fulfillment from the vibrator that hums rhythmically between your legs. Your juices have flowed and soaked your skirt and the towel on the seat. I reach over and remove your seatbelt before getting out and coming round to open your door. There's a smell of the sea, beach, sand in the air.
"Slut. Look at the mess my little girl's made. We're going to have to make sure this doesn't happen again." I take the vibrator and guide you out and through a door. Your asshole indicates that it's tired of the buttplug and in a small voice you tell me.
"Is it? Pretty little Sandy's ass is full? Pooor Sandy." I lift your skirt, its pussy scent billowing in the air, and stroke the smooth full cheeks before popping out the plug and tossing it in the trash. "I suppose you'd like to have those clips removed as well."
"Yes, please." I press them open and take them off your black turtleneck. You breathe a sigh of relief until the blood flushes to the nipples and you groan, hunching your shoulders, and never hear me opening the freezer door. I stand behind you and you feel my hands rise under the ribs of your shirt. . . O my god! You gasp when the ice chips slide on and around your nipples, cooling and shrinking them.
My body presses against yours, hands sliding the melting chips in dissolving circles on your breasts, my mouth kissing its way up your neck in front of your mane of hair, my teeth nipping at your earlobes. You sigh at the sensations, relax into my embrace, body tingling as my hands smooth over the widening expanse of your belly below your ribs, fingers extended in swirling motion over the gentle curve descending from the indent of your navel, holding the width of your hips before rising over your narrowing waist, your tingling skin, back to your breasts, now filling and swelling with my attention. Another sigh, the ball of heat rises deep within you as I kiss and nuzzle your neck, throat, cheeks. With no vision, the room quiet but for the sounds of my mouth and your breathing. The caresses and licks and kisses go on and on, always above your waist. Time evaporates, you're inflamed, and we both hear, beyond your sighs, a small splat, a tiny noise from down below.
"Sandy, you naughty little slut, you dripped on my floor." "I'm sorry. You make me wet."
"Are you blaming me?" You quiver. "That's not what I meant. I'm sorry." I take your breasts in hand, hefting them before suddenly pinching both nipples, hard. "AHH!" you gasp, reflexively trying to double over.
"Not so fast, little girl, but that's the idea. Now get down and lick your cunt's juice off my floor." I pull you back, unfasten your skirt and remove it before pushing you down to your knees. Crouching beside you, I take in hand your brunette locks and pull your face down to the floor. Your nose bumps and you stick your tongue out tentatively, and lap the floor.
You're quite a sight in your brown leather mid-calf boots, ribbed black turtleneck, wrist binds, and blindfold. Your calves, thighs, and waist folded as you lean forward and down, supported lightly by my hand on your hair, pink tongue lapping your own special flavor on the linoleum. So exposed, so vulnerable, so. . . excited. I lean back to look between your legs, where the spread of your pussy parts your thighs, and catch the next drip.
"Jesus, Sandy, there's a goddam waterfall back here!" The slap against your pale, full buttock is sudden, stinging, but not unexpected. Whack! Whack! Whack! My open hand rains down on your now blushing bottom and the impact sends more of your juices spraying on your thighs and my floor. Oh, how you love this. I pause.
"I don't like using this word, but you, you are a cunt. Nothing more or less than an overripe, uncontrolled fuckhole. Get your mouth back here." I pull you round by your tresses to lick the broader expanse speckled with cunt juice. As you bow down again, I scoop more of your fluids, press my palm against your mouth, and smear them on your face, immersing you in the smell and taste of your cunt.
"Get up." I help you, palm your pussy, stick my middle finger in your slit, hook and guide you to the bedroom. There, I strip you of your turtleneck and boots, untie your wrists only to wrap them and your ankles, once your boots are off, in simple leather gauntlets. In short time you're on your back, torso and head raised by pillows, each ankle pulled back and linked to your wrists. You can't see but feel a warm breeze course over the prominence of your breasts and bare pussy, the smell of the shore blending with soft leather that blinds you. Memories of the ice evaporate as your nipples and clit fill and wwell, firm and erect, the highest points of your naked, vulnerable, helpless body. There's a stillness in the room, a comfortable silence broken only by the far sound of the waves.
You feel me climb on the bed.
"Is this it, Sandy, my little whore-girl? Daddy takes your pussy, penetrates you, pounds your bound body, sprays sperm way up your slippery wet grotto, gets his rocks off at your expense?
"As if you had a choice. And you don't. You'll get your jollies when I decide, not just because I've relieved you of the right to choose. Frankly, I'm astonished by your excitement. Look at my little girl's clit, it's a little boy's penis."
You know. Too well you know. The size of your clit has always a source of excitement and embarrassment, making it so easy for you to get off but also a target for others' pleasure forced upon you. Like that time in high school, where four of the bigger, aggressive girls on the soccer team heard your little cries in the shower stall and caught you focusing the pulsing nozzle between your upturned hips. They seized your cowering body and dragged you dripping to a bench, stuffed a pair of damp panties in your mouth, and one by one mounted your thumb-sized erection while the other three held your wrists and squirming legs. The friction of their pussies on yours was unbearably exquisite for nearly an hour. It was also perfectly painful over the course of your four orgasms that matched their shrill-voiced climaxes. After that, you'd been prey for the next two seasons. That had been a senior year to remember.
Now, after sending me a photo of your distended, pink, glistening glory above the full, orchid lips of your pussy, you've offered me the real thing. So hopeful, so horny, so trusting, so scared. . .
A hand, clad in lambswool, glides over the soft rhythms of your body, your belly gently rising and falling with each breath from your mouth, lips moist and parted. As it spirals up each breast to the pinnacle, I pull away until you feel on the edge of sensation, only individual curled strands brushing the sensitized nerves in your nipple. You arch your back to get more contact when it stops completely. You feel me straddle your thighs, the end of my erection resting between your pussy's blooming lips, just below your clit. Before you can react to the sound,
Whap! The leather loop of the riding crop strikes the side of a nipple that shakes, like a gumdrop on jello. Your hips reflex up and my cock head slides against your clit as you cry out.
"Sandy, do you want the neighbors to hear? Breathe, don't scream, little girl, and don't make me say this twice." Whap! Whap! Whap!
There's a method to this. You have to time your exhales to the strikes, and there's the reward of cock to clit contact with each stinging blow to your inflamed nipples. Would counting be an improvement or a burden? It's so hard to think beyond trying to control and channel the pain to the pleasure, which becomes less satisfying as you realize your clit isn't getting enough stimulation to climax.
Finally I stop and you can feel me get off you, the oh-so-sharp pain in your rock-hard reddened nipples, the scratchy feeling as your body pulses and flushes with the heat that forces a sheen of sweat over your prostrate form. What a sight you must be, bound body on the bed, a gleaming captive form shaking and writhing as I lean over from above your head and begin to kiss your abused breasts. No rasping tastebuds, just warm, moist, enveloping lips, my breath and the slick underside of my tongue laving your poor teats. Inside you, ripples radiate to your chest and begin that tidal flow of arousal through the depths of your body. Your clit swells further, jutting proudly above your pubis.
"This is ridiculous. Sandy, listen up. You're going to hold my balls in your mouth while I strap your clit."
The idea sinks in. "No! You can't!"
"No isn't part of your vocabulary. This is part of your discipline. Now, open wide." You feel my knees and legs on either side of your head, and my sac, tight under my erection, press past your lips. You cover your teeth with your lips and begin lapping at the wrinkled ridges of my shrunken pouch. I bounce lightly and you're not overwhelmed by the smell of my butt.
"Good girl, lick Daddy's balls while he teases Sandy's pussy." Now it's a silkier fur running over your quaking belly, your inner thighs while my mouth and tongue minister to your lips, licking, laving, and nipping, ringing your straining pillar, driving you wild with desire. You so want to come but I won't give it to you. Up come your hips again and I sit up.
Uh oh. Quick, take a breath around my balls.
You've never felt anything like it. All those nerve endings concentrated in one spot intensely hot spot, and the stinging pain just explodes, radiating down along the lips and walls of your vagina. You lock your jaw, your lip-covered teeth constricting my balls but not, thank god, biting.
I bend over to rim your clit, suck it into my mouth, exhale my warm, moist breath on it before rising up again and
o god o god o god o god
Hands clench spastically as I descend back down, lapping and caressing your molten crease, tongue sliding deeper into your pulsing depths, mouth again inhales your flaming clitty, safe and warm now but then releasing, sitting up and
No words or thoughts, just the colors of pain behind your blindfold, your mouth full with my surging sac, my cock straining over your chin, a drip falls on the hollow of your throat.
Once more I go down on your slippery, pulsing tumescence, taking what I like from a body given to me, giving back only another slap of leather shiny with your juices. You're beyond pain and pleasure, simply a quivering, sweating, lubricating mass of sensations that I rise off. Now I'm between your parted thighs, my knob already wet with semen probing between your rubbery lips. One arm reaches under your bottom, one slides under your shoulders. You feel my firm hands grip you, hold you in place, as I ask,
"Who's your daddy, slut?" And you don't need to answer because I've answered for you, driving my cock to the end of your cunt, the base of my pubis crushing your clit, and you erupt, your body heaves within your binds. I let you rock on, the waves receding, before beginning to stroke long and deep in your tight, spasming hole, and the waves build right back up again. Belly to sweating, slippery belly; chest to sweating, slippery chest, we collide again and again, irresistable force on immovable object. You're crying out, ragged gasps, speaking in tongues, your clit is a roman candle, arcing and sparking as I churn your molten opening.
"Who's your daddy?" As I brace against your orgasmic rhythm a third or fourth or fifth time--who can count or tell when one stops and the next begins--you cry the answer, responding at last to my final jerking and spurting deep within you, fusing past and present in one timeless moment,
"Daddy! Daddy! DADDY!"