Climax: Volume 1

by Ella Ford

  I left her here and returned to the sofa to retrieve the ribbon and the panties. I paused here and looked back to where Summer bent over the bed. Her arms were still folded behind her back and her ass was high and exposed, still slightly pink from the earlier spanking; her pussy was fully visible, the neat lips coated with a glistening wetness that signalled her arousal. I felt my pulse quicken as I gazed at my prone submissive. My spirit sang with an almost indescribable lust. The girl before me was mine, she belonged to me, I possessed her in mind and body, and could do precisely what I wanted. I gathered my things and picked up the enormous strap-on, and returned to the bed.

  I hopped up beside her and knelt by her body. She was breathing quickly, the anticipation evident on her face. I lightly brushed my nails across her shoulders, enjoying the way she shivered at my touch. Then I grabbed her arms and pinned them together on the flat of her back. With my other hand, I threaded the red ribbon around her wrists multiple times then tied the ends together in a tight knot. Summer struggled against the binding to test its limits, but found her arms completely secured.

  “Nearly done,” I said pleasantly, stroking her soft blonde hair, “just one more thing.” I grabbed her hair and turned her head to face me. “Open your mouth,” I commanded. She obeyed dutifully, parting her glistening red lips wide. I paused for a tantalising few seconds, then took my bunched up panties and stuffed them in her mouth.

  She squirmed at this new sensation and moaned a muffled cry, but soon relaxed and lay her head down on the bed.

  “Good girl,” I purred and stroked the back of her neck.

  “Mmph mmph, mmph mmph,” she responded.

  Satisfied that she was ready, I stood from the bed and stepped into the harness of the strap-on. The intricate contraption fastened around my waist and had a cord that ran between my legs to hold the rigid rod in place. As I tightened the straps, I felt the cord tighten on my pussy. I gasped as I realised how sensitive I was down there. Every time I moved, the bulbous appendage swung before me and the straps shifted on my vagina, sending ripples of pleasure up and down my spine.

  I gripped my plastic cock in my hands and prowled around the room, never taking my eyes off Summer. I felt like a hunter, stalking my prey and wished to prolong the tension of the moment. I wanted Summer to be quivering with anticipation, unsure what I intended to do with her. I wanted her to surrender all control to me, to accept that I dictated the pace, that I would fuck her at precisely the time that I wanted and no sooner.

  The girl was breathing quickly now through her nose. Her fingers clenched and unclenched behind her, gripping at nothing to release the tension that was building in her muscles. Her back arched on the bed, pushing her ass up and outwards, offering her pussy to me.

  I moved to stand behind her and fell to my knees between her parted legs. She sensed my closeness and shifted slightly back to meet me. I slapped her lightly on her ass cheek with the flat of my palm.

  “Did I say move?” I snapped as her body recoiled from me.

  “Mmph, mmph mmph,” she replied.

  I tenderly caressed her thighs and her ass, scratching my long nails on her soft skin and causing her to shudder at my touch. My wandering fingers finally found their way to her exposed pussy and plunged into the intricate folds of her labia. She moaned a muffled cry as I touched her lips, raising her head off the bed.

  She was soaking wet down there and my fingers met no resistance as they rubbed back and forth, squeezing and massaging her clit between my digits. I found myself drawing closer to her pussy, enticed forwards by the intoxicating scent of her desire. It filled my nose and throat, a thick and rich aroma that defied description by was intolerably arousing. Suddenly, I had to taste her, to take her sex in my mouth and devour all that she could give.

  I leaned forward until I was inches from her pussy and used my fingers to part her lips, exposing the pink flesh within and the gathered knot of her clitoris. Gingerly, I teased my tongue across it and Summer gasped with surprise. My first taste of a woman was electrifying. Her subtle musk, the soft wetness of her on my tongue. I surged with desire, hungry for more and plunged my face forwards to eat her with furious intensity. I lapped at her, drawing my tongue the full length of her labia to her tight hole. I forced my tongue into her, noting the subtle change in taste. I pulled her lips and clitoris into my mouth, sucking on her as she moaned beneath me. I wanted to lose myself here, to dive deeper and deeper into her until the outside world was but a memory and I drowned in the deep ocean of her lust. But I recovered myself before I lost control and pulled my head back.

  It was time to give her my cock. I shuffled forwards into position and teased the end of the dildo against her dripping lips. She gasped as the cold plastic touched her throbbing mound. She tried to pull back towards the bed, but I grabbed her hips and locked her in position. For an eternity, I teased the cock against her pussy. I lingered around her entrance and relished the way her body tensed in anticipation, but then alway pulled myself back until she moaned with frustration.

  I ventured to her ass, spreading the wetness from her pussy into her crack to moisten my passage. I nudged gently forward, pushing the end of the cock against her asshole with no real conviction. She tensed again, balling her hands into fists and clenching her eyes shut. I laughed and pulled the dildo back, “Maybe later dear.”

  I returned to her pussy and finally pushed forwards into her hole. She exhaled loudly as the length filled her completely. I gripped her hips with both hands and penetrated her as far as I dared, then reversed my stroke and pulled the cock out of her completely. She gasped in frustration.

  “Beg for it, Summer,” I purred, stroking her ass cheeks tenderly.

  “Mmph, mmph mmph,” she said, her meaning clear.

  I entered her again, this time with more purpose, thrusting forward until I felt her tense beneath me. I pulled back and repeated the stroke. Summer’s body now writhed on the cock. Her wrists twisted against the soft material of the ribbon, but the binding held fast. Her head was thrown back and the muscles in her neck bulged as I pistoned the rod into and out of her.

  I reached forward, and grabbed her hair, pulling her head back towards me roughly. Oh god, this felt good. To have this young girl impaled on me, to fuck her until she moaned with pleasure, to hold her hair in my hands and ride her hard. I felt an intense feeling of power, a surge of invigorating desire that coursed through my body and lit up every sense. I felt the strap-on harness move against my own pussy, tight and firm, squeezing my clit and matching the rhythm of my strokes into Summer.

  My pace quickened, a desperate urge to intensify my own pleasure driving my thrusts into the girl before me. She moaned now, the panties still muffled her cries but the intent was clear. She wanted me to give her the release of climax, to drill her until an orgasm washed over her helpless body. This thrilled me, the feeling of control and domination was total. I was the one who dictated Summer’s pleasure, she was a slave to my whims, her satisfaction a gift from me.

  I realised that I was pounding her quicker than ever. Her body was like a ragdoll, limp on my cock and at the mercy of its relentless rhythm. Her breathing suddenly quickened; short, sharp gasps from her nose. She tensed her body as the climax built within her. I watched on, hypnotised by the sight of a woman’s orgasm developing before my very eyes.

  Summer struggled in my grasp, pulling her hair away from me. Her mouth fell open and the panties dropped to the bed. She cried out, “Oh mistress! Harder! Harder!” and I granted her wish. She screamed out with ecstasy, her body bucking under the unrelenting penetrations. Then, finally, her whole body went rigid. Her fingers stretched out, her legs kicked out and her back arched until I thought she might snap her spine. She moaned, laughter mixed in with the cries of pleasure.

  Then finally, the orgasm left her. Her body collapsed to the bed, limp and shivering, my cock still deep within her. I slowly pulled out of her, causing her to shudder as it left her body.

  I s
tood and gazed over my work. Summer’s exhausted body remained motionless, arms still tied behind her back, head resting on the cool bedsheet. Her eyes were closed and her face was a perfect picture of fulfilled contentment. Her hair clung to her cheeks and neck in sweaty curls, completing this tableau of sexual gratification. I found myself wondering how many more orgasms this girl could take. How many could she give?

  I glanced at the clock beside the bed. The night was still young.

  Epilogue

  I stepped through the entrance to The Kneeling Girl club and nodded a greeting to the doorman. He scurried forward and offered to take my coat. I shrugged it off my shoulders and allowed him to catch it and place it in the cloakroom. I looked around, the familiar sights and sounds of the Vegas club washing over me and causing a tingle of anticipation. I headed off into the interior, drinking in the heady atmosphere of decadence that the place exuded from every corner.

  The club was dark and opulent, dark wood panelling covered the walls and every piece of furniture was draped in leather and rich velvet. The club’s patrons mingled around the place, sipping expensive drinks and discussing matters of clear importance. Here and there, a slave girl stood. Some girls were serving drinks, some were simply waiting to be selected. All wore identical black stockings and heels, their hair arranged in high ponytails that exposed their slender necks.

  I paused before one of the girls and pinched her nipple. “Thank you, mistress,” the cute brunette gasped. I smiled at her and continued on.

  In the club’s drawing room, I noticed Tony, the manager. He caught my eye and waved, heading over to talk with me.

  “Welcome back Miss Lacey, should I let Mr Martinelli know that you’ve arrived?” the elderly man asked. His voice was kind and friendly. I liked Tony, he seemed genuine and I knew he treated the girls well.

  “Thank you Tony, but that won’t be necessary. I’m here for pleasure, not business tonight.”

  Tony nodded his approval. “Will you be requiring Summer tonight Miss Lacey, I’m sure she’s around somewhere.”

  I paused and considered this. “Actually, tonight Tony, I feel like something a little different.” I glanced around the room and noticed two girls standing together by the fire. Both girls were brunette and petite. Their severe hair styles and makeup made them look very similar. In a dim light, you would be forgiven for thinking they were twins. They both had looks of sweet innocence about them, a nervous trepidation, anticipating what the night would bring.

  I raised a manicured finger in their direction. “Could you have have those two brought to the Playroom in fifteen minutes please Tony,” I purred, “I’ll need a few moments to get ready.”

  THE END

  Seduced By An Older Woman

  by Ella Ford

  Chapter 1

  The summer before college burns brightly in my mind for many reasons, not least of which was the weather. It was the kind of summer you remember for years after and talk about with reverence and awe. Temperatures had skyrocketed up into the nineties in mid-May and didn’t come down again till late-September, long after I’d bid a fond farewell to Oak Ridge, Oregon and set sail for the city and my new life of exploration and self-discovery. Long, sultry days of cloying humidity and nighttime storms that shook the rafters of the house and spooked the neighborhood dogs till they howled at the heavy skies.

  I spent most of that summer hanging around my parents house, wishing the time away and longing for my new life to begin. Most of my friends had left already, their colleges starting the fall semester several weeks before mine, and I was mostly alone and at a loose end.

  At first, I enjoyed the novelty of this isolation. I was never truly a people person, preferring my own company and the solitude of my thoughts. I spent most of August milling around town, stopping in coffee shops and parks, writing down my thoughts in an excruciatingly honest journal. I remember the diary as some twee, leatherbound thing with “Stephanie’s Private Thoughts” scrawled onto the front cover. At eighteen years old, you’d think I’d have grown out of such a thing, but for the final time in my young life, that beloved journal was a source of comfort and reassurance, someone to confess my deepest thoughts about life and love and the confusing blossoming of my womanhood.

  For all that I enjoyed those long, hot days of quiet contemplation, the novelty soon wore off. By mid-September, well into the Indian Summer that people talked about for decades to come, I was well and truly bored. No friends, no boyfriend, no money and nothing to do.

  I found myself staying at home more, sitting in my bedroom for hours on end, gazing out at the world from the padded window seat that overlooked the gardens of our neighbors. I studied them as they went about their business, concocting stories and adventures around their mundane activities. An argument between a young couple across the way became an accusation of infidelity and a marriage on the rocks. The digging of a drainage canal in a raised flowerbed became the final act in a tragic murder play, a hacked up body in a garbage bag soon to follow.

  It was during one of these flights of fancy that I first became aware of Mrs Johanson. The Johansons had moved into the house two doors down earlier that summer and had largely kept themselves to themselves. He was an engineer of some sort who worked away for most of the month, while she didn’t seem to do very much at all according to my mother. “A stay-at-home-mom with kids at university,” she explained in that passive aggressive way of hers, barely concealed disapproval coating her words with suburban judgment.

  On that particular mid-September day, Mrs Johanson was taking care of her garden. As I watched from my window perch, she wandered here and there, trimming leaves and pruning bushes. Her garden was immaculate, neat and orderly with barely a blade of grass out of place. Its pristine precision mirrored Mrs Johanson perfectly. She was forty five maybe, though looked ten years younger. She wore a pair of tight white shorts and pink t-shirt, with white tennis shoes and a wide brimmed sun hat. It was the kind of outfit that I’d have begged my mom not to wear, but Mrs Johanson somehow managed to pull it off. Her legs were long and tanned, toned and muscular from the twice daily jogs that she took. She had long, black hair that was held back in a neat braid that snaked down her back and bounced as she walked. Even from that distance, I could see that her nails were perfectly painted, scarlet petals on the end of slender fingers.

  I watched as she flitted here and there, never settling on one task for too long. A snip here, a cut there and she was on to the next task. A human bee tending her flowers.

  In time, she stood up and surveyed her work, she seemed happy and strolled over to the edge of the pool, settling into one of the white plastic pool chairs that surrounded the deep azure water. Reaching down, she picked up a battered old paperback and began to read.

  I began to feel a little uncomfortable with my voyeurism. Mrs Johanson had no idea that I was watching her and a creeping sense of guilt flooded my thoughts. Yet I didn’t look away. There was something about the way the older woman stretched out on the pool chair. The slender line of her long legs, one knee bent slightly against the other. The gentle rise of her breasts, perfectly outlined beneath the taut material of her t-shirt. I began to feel a peculiar warmth rising in my belly. An unusual sensation, guilt giving way to something else, something unfamiliar and unexpected.

  Suddenly, Mrs Johanson sat up in the chair and appeared to look directly at me. I jumped, and almost fell from the window seat to the floor of my bedroom. Shrinking back into the shadows, I chanced another look at the garden below, expecting to be scolded for my indiscrete observation. Instead, Mrs Johanson had stood up and was pulling the tight t-shirt over her head, revealing a floral bikini top beneath. I gasped as I caught sight of her body. Her tanned stomach was taut and perfectly flat and her breasts were plump and shapely. I idly wondered if she’d had surgery on them, since they were perky in a way that defied her age.

  To my surprise, I found my heart pounding in my chest. In part, this was the fear of discovery, b
ut there was something else, another component that defied classification in my racing mind. I felt an undeniable attraction to this woman that I’d never even spoken to. Curious thoughts bobbed to the surface of my mind, unbidden and unfamiliar. What did her skin feel like? How did she smell? What would it be like to kiss her? What would it be like … to taste her?

  My mind swirled. These sensations were entirely new, this maddening attraction that burned in my thoughts was like nothing I’d ever experienced. It felt so very different from my feelings about the boys I’d made out with in high school. With them, it was as though I was acting a role. Playing along with what was expected of me, but never really seeing the appeal. Too much sweat and exertion for very little pay off. The guys I knew were loud and boarish, obsessed with sex and oneupmanship. In the end, I’d given up dating and rebuffed any such advances, telling myself that I’d wait for the right man to find me.

  But girls... I’d never even considered them romantically. My conservative upbringing had instilled a Christian sense of morality in me, shackling my desires with the subconscious thought that such attractions were against God, the work of the devil and should be vanquished with prayer and shame. Was this what I was missing all along? Had I squashed such feelings deep inside and missed what should have been glaringly obvious?

  I stole another glance at Mrs Johanson, who had returned to the pool chair. As I watched, she reached beneath herself and found a bottle of sun lotion. Holding out one hand, she squirted some of the cream onto her palm and began to massage it into her leg. With long strokes of her slender fingers she rubbed it in, reaching every part of her thigh and calf. I was mesmerized, longing for that graceful touch on my skin. I felt a warm flush creeping up my chest and neck, flooding my face with a burning glow. And something else. A feeling of wetness between my legs, a curious longing that felt distant and vague, yet familiar and welcome.