And he was out of reach again. Just like now.
On the plane, after lunch, the brochures have been read and the video watched. We’ll be landing within the hour.
I use our private cell phone without much hope, but surprisingly, he answers. I’m tongue-tied for a second but say, “Jed, listen, don’t think I’m ungrateful but Skinink isn’t for me . . . ”
He lets out a sigh.
” . . . Jed, I watched the video and realized something I’ve known pretty much ever since we met. You are my Skinink. A million dollars wouldn’t improve what we’ve got. Don’t be disappointed.”
“Disappointed? I’m relieved.”
The rich warmth of his voice is a stroke of pleasure. “Corra, I wanted to offer you the ultimate, the thing everyone’s talking about, the best money could buy. But then I thought what if Skinink could give you everything? They claim you might never need a partner again. Guess that’s why I was angry with myself and maybe went too far. I got this voice in my head, goading
‘What if this is the last time?’ I should’ve handled it better.”
“Jed, I loved Sunday night and everything that happened.”
“Me too. Corra, why not stay on the plane when you land to refuel and come right back?”
A flood of possibilities overwhelms me.
In the pause he says, “I’ll clear my diary, today and tomorrow . . . ”
“Jed, that might not be enough time . . . ” He laughs.
” . . . but it will do. Okay, maybe I’ll be the angry one this time, pick up where we left off?”
“Sure.” He laughs again but I’m serious. “I’ll send you instructions, Jed.”
The return journey is much more interesting, while
I’m planning what to do with him, if I dare.
I change into my gray business suit to show serious intent but underneath the panties remain.
The house is silent when I get back. I’d sent the instructions off quickly so I couldn’t change my mind, but now my heart is racing and my bravado faltering.
Jed might jump out at me at any moment and take control.
If he’s obeyed he should be in the bedroom.
I walk upstairs slowly, letting my heels sound loud and proud on the marble staircase.
I push the door open and stand in the doorway, and my heart leaps at the magnificent beauty of him.
Jed is standing on the padded bench seat at the foot of our four-poster bed, his back against a post, blind-folded, naked except for the white swim briefs I won’t let him wear to the beach.
He is superbly, cruelly erect. He has cuffed his hands behind the post and the tape on his mouth is much harsher than I would have dared. There’s a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice and a roll of tape on a small table. Our play-box is nearby. Everything as instructed.
I walk toward him, noting that the ice is still fresh so he can’t have been “captive” for long.
The tight black blindfold is excellent because I can look at him, study him, not just the white bulge but the muscle tone of his chest and abs, the width of his shoulders—and I can touch, I can cause, not just respond.
And the height of the bench is wickedly correct. I thought it would be. With my hands on his hips I kiss the white briefs, slowly at first. The head of his dick shows above the merciless grip of the briefs. As my tongue defines and maps it, the cuff-chain rattles as he writhes and grunts. I snog him hard until he squirms.
I step back. “Take the handcuffs off and get down.” My voice has an unfamiliar husk, my heart an alien rhythm. The handcuffs are the first we ever bought, just a toy, self-releasing.
I grip his arm and guide him off the bench.
“Now you will do as I say. Keep your hands to yourself unless directed otherwise. The blindfold stays on. Kneel down in front of me.”
He obeys.
“Take off my skirt.”
I take a step forward and his hands reach around me, feeling my butt. “Do it slowly.”
He finds the zip, starts to draw it down but misses the clasp on the waistband so his attempt turns into a clumsy tug that gets nowhere.
I slap his head and we are both shocked, but I manage to say in a firm, calm voice, which in no way reflects how I’m feeling, “There’s a clasp at the top.”
He finds it and the skirt gives and is coaxed over my hips. I love the feel of his slow hands on my thighs. I step out of the skirt, kicking it away, and lose my jacket and blouse, throwing them after it.
He listens.
“Take my panties off, Jed. I’m wearing two pairs, especially for you. Take them off one at a time and hand them to me.”
He seems unsure but then his fingertips trace my belly and find the hipster waistband of the first pair. As he peels them down I think he is going to kiss me. “Don’t.” The word stops him. I step out of the panties. His hands grope around the floor and he picks them up and offers them to me.
I rip the tape from his mouth. He winces but makes no sound.
“Now you may kiss me, Jed. You may kiss me as hard and as soft as you like. I will let you know when to stop…” I am determined to not make a sound but when the assault of his mouth and lips on the thin, tight material begins, I let out an involuntary groan. His hands are on my butt, pressing me onto his face with delicious force, like an animal that has my scent.
I’d been wet and turned on before, but now it’s getting out of hand.
I catch a bunch of hair and pull his head back off me. “Now take them off.”
With some difficulty because they are so damp and so tight, he tugs them down and hands them to me.
“Thank you, Jed. Now open your mouth wide.” There’s a brief wry smile before he obeys. I bunch the panties together and stuff them slowly into his mouth saying, “One tiny pair would never have been enough, would it?” I put tape over his mouth and kiss it tight. “Now get back against the post.”
I guide him back up, turn him around, and say, “Hands behind.” I get onto the bed and cinch his wrists together with a long length of rope, using the spare to wrap around the post.
I’ve tied him up before but he always gets away. Turn my back and he’s free and then, hey, I’m the prisoner— but not this time.
I use another rope to pull his shoulders back against the post. He ties me this way too sometimes and it makes my breasts stick out and causes my nipples to tighten.
I bind his thighs to the post just below the bulge of his briefs, and then secure his ankles.
He now knows, if he didn’t know it before, the only escape will be the one I grant. I knot the last rope and then go around front to look at him.
Truly magnificent. A captured hero from ancient mythology and I am the goddess.
He has the taste of me in his mouth. His eyes and his body are helpless.
I take pity on his dick, pulling the briefs off it so it springs free. I grope his balls and fetch them up over the elastic so they are on display. He does this to my breasts sometimes, getting them out of my bra so they rest on the cups.
His balls are hard and ripe. They are beautiful to touch with fingertips, lips, mouth, and tongue.
He gives a restricted thrust into my mouth, and I think he might be about to come. I withdraw. “Not yet, soldier. Do you think this feeling could be any better with the help of Skinink? We could use the money to build and stock a dungeon.”
I leave him be, let him think I’m opening the champagne, making ice-bucket noises and clinking glass, but with my free hand I’m quietly going through the playbox and find a bottle of baby oil and the flogger. It’s very small, with tails no more than six inches long. I place it handily and then pop the cork, fill my glass, and take a sip.
The sound of the glass being placed back on the table sounds extra loud. The swish as the black tails slap against his left nipple shocks his whole body. There’s no force to the blow, more flick than blow, but as I know so well, it stings. But not for long and as it fades, it leaves behind a lovel
y, warm presence. I flog his chest and belly, then his thighs, straying as close to his balls as I dare.
“The flogging is for thinking you could ever lose me to some stupid fad like Skinink. What happens next is my thank-you for wanting only the best for me.”
I leave as long a pause as I dare, then say, “I’m taking off my bra . . . ” I shake the baby-oil bottle so he can hear it. I don’t have to say any more. Jed knows what I’m going to do.
At last I take his dick captive in my cleavage and then do nothing, holding it still. There’s no hurry. He tries to take control, jerk off, but it’s not until I start working him . . .
The first gush misses me somehow, heading for the ceiling. The second gets me in the face, hot and strong, but I don’t mind. He dances an ecstatic rope dance and then sags. It’s as if the bonds alone are holding him up.
I join him on the bench, pressing against him, pulling the tape off his mouth. The panties spill out of his mouth as he coughs.
“Don’t speak.” I kiss his salty lips and let my tongue explore his mouth as my oily fingertips find his nipples.
I take the blindfold off and then leave him there, letting him watch me tidy up, naked, putting the panties in the bin, pouring a second glass of champagne and topping up mine.
He says, “You’re beautiful.” I smile.
Now his dick is resting on his balls in a semi-slumber. I set about releasing him. When he’s free and down off the bench, I hand him a glass. He drinks it down in gulps. I refill it and propose a toast. “Here’s to Skinink and all it has taught us.”
He nods and although his face shows blindfold and gag marks, he seems more relaxed than I have seen him in a while, positively dreamy.
I say, “We’ll take the bottle to bed, finish it, and then, when you’ve recovered, you can fuck me to sleep.” Jed grins and grabs the bottle. “Wonder how much it’d cost to equip a dungeon?”
The long good-night kiss makes me feel as if I’m flying at thirty thousand feet.
PAYING ATTENTION
LN Bey
He has this thing about posture.
My husband will tell me to stand perfectly straight, ankles together, hands at my sides. “Shoulders back and tits out,” he will say. He will correct my errors with the thin bamboo cane across my naked ass and I will secretly crave another, or across the fronts of my thighs and I will not. But if I have an occasion coming up that will require me to wear shorts or a skirt, he will not hit my thighs. He knows my calendar better than I do.
It must be some kind of guy thing, this military precision. Not that Dan was ever in the service. I once dated ex-military, and while that guy was hyper-organized, he wasn’t into all this standing at attention as something erotic. “It’s all about the beauty of the female form,” Dan will tell me, “and working to achieve its utmost potential.” A slouching girl is just not as attractive as a statuesque one, her assets well displayed. Well, who could argue with that?
More than anything though, I think he just likes to make me wait.
He demands the same perfection when I am on my knees—kneeling up, back and shoulders straight—and when I am on my hands and knees, wherever he puts me: on the floor, on the coffee table in corset and garters, or even displayed for his amusement on the kitchen table, which makes me nervous as there is one angle from which our neighbor could see the whole show through our window.
Or on our bed. He will tell me to keep my legs spread wide, to keep my back arched and my ass raised high. “Chin up,” he’ll tell me. “You’re my prize show dog. Show it.”
Degrading? Spare me, because I know what’s next: first the whip, yes, but then the fingers. He will slide two fingers between my open labia and massage my clit, his thumb wandering where it may. If—and only if—I can hold still long enough, he will bring me to an intense climax.
However, if I break my posture at all—rock my hips, bend my elbows, even drop my head in a moment’s loss of concentration—the hands recede, leaving me alone and exposed and desperate. I am left to correct my errors while he watches, often for a very long time, which he knows drives me insane. If it was a minor failure, the hands will return. If it was major, though— say, breaking down and burying my face in the bed— I’ll have to count strokes from the whip, five or ten, all while maintaining that damned perfect posture.
Then the hands again, or he’ll circle around in front of me and take my mouth, or he just won’t be able to take it any longer and will thrust his cock inside me and fuck me silly.
This isn’t an accurate description of our overall domestic life, of course. When I’m dressed, he listens to me. We talk money and goals and lawn care and maybe dropping cable for Internet, and we usually disagree. But these are the moments I live for; this is why I married him. When he says stand naked at attention, I stand naked at attention—no matter how much I’d rather rip off his clothes and jump him.
This is not to say that I can’t manipulate him, too, now and then. I mean, he is a guy. They’re such simpletons, sometimes, even the smart ones. I’ll check the weather forecast and if it looks like rain over the weekend, I’ll suck him once or twice during the week, unasked, uncommanded, and then he’ll almost certainly return the favor on a rainy, lazy Sunday afternoon, my favorite thing in the whole world.
Or, if I’ve got a deep craving for something darker, I’ll slouch. Not when we’re playing—just lounging, on the couch, reading a book. He can’t really correct me; I’m just relaxing, reading. It irks him, though, just a little, and I know it’ll come back to me in the best possible ways.
Another example: just this morning, I managed to pull off a little stunt that requires so much timing, listening, and sensitivity to mood that I don’t even try it very often, or it’ll become obvious that it’s a ploy— because its success rate is so low to begin with.
My husband gets up for work before I do, and I sometimes loll around in bed, awake, and I’ll get to thinking . . .
The first step is to listen and try to tell if he’ll be leaving early, in a hurry. There’s a frenetic pace to his footsteps, maybe something’s wrong at work. The second step, if things sound more leisurely, is to try to discern his frame of mind, a very subtle task—taking in every creak in the floor, how fast the water is running through the pipes.
Today, while shaving, he made it easy. I heard him actually singing, slaughtering an old song: “Silk shirt . . . new shoes . . . every girl’s crazy ’bout a . . .”
Bingo.
Now the timing part. I waited for him to hit the bathroom one last time before leaving, then made my move. I got out of bed and put on my long T-shirt, with nothing underneath. I paused a few beats until the timing felt just right, then I walked down to the kitchen, went to the coffee machine, and got a cup from the cupboard. I waited, leaned forward slightly against the counter, and poured my coffee.
That’s all.
I heard him coming out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, on his way to the garage.
“Hey, babe,” I said over my shoulder.
He stopped short and I knew I had him. I took a sip of my coffee.
“You’re leaving early.”
He said nothing, just stood there a moment. Then he came up behind me, slowly. I set my cup down when I heard his briefcase touch the floor.
He gently grasped my hips from behind.
“I know what’s on your mind,” he said. “I should make you wait for it.”
But he lifted the back of my T-shirt, exposing my ass, and caressed it. I love it when I have the power.
He crouched down behind me (yes! He was going to do it) and gently nudged the inside of my thigh with his hand. I spread my feet. Then it all happened quickly, as it always does. I felt him kiss the left cheek of my ass, then felt his tongue, warm and wet. Up and down, finding its way—he still made me wait for it. As he neared his target I felt his hot breath, then I nearly melted when his tongue’s warm softness found such a racy spot. I arched my back.
His t
ongue swirled, teased, pressed harder. I leaned farther forward on the counter.
Then the fingers, here they come. His tongue never left my ass, and I felt his hand slide up between my thighs until he slid his fingers around my clit. Massaging it. Using my slippery juices to lubricate it even more.
Not one word was said, but I couldn’t help moaning, all this attention first thing in the morning. He kept licking and kept fingering, and it was all I could do to keep my balance. I spread my hands across the counter, trying to find something to grip, anything. I bowed my head, extended my ass out to his darting, swirling tongue.
It was too much. Finally it all built up to where I couldn’t hold back and I came, full force, practically screaming my pleasure with each breath.
He stood up as I shivered and tried to catch my breath with my forehead on the counter—there wasn’t much else I could do. He didn’t bother pulling my shirt down; he preferred me uncovered. He reached around me to turn on the water in the sink and wash his hand.
“Window’s open,” was all he said, and I jerked my head up and looked out into the morning light. He headed out the door and I heard the car start and the garage door open, and I moved from side to side as I searched the yard next door.
Mrs. Koslowski always gardens in the morning. Had she heard? How could she not have?
Usually, the Morning Kitchen Ploy gets me through the day just fine. Fantastically, in fact. I will be the happiest shopper in the store, the only driver stuck in traffic with a big smile on her face.
Today, I wanted something more. I was feeling unusually confident. I wasn’t about to let my husband know that I’d arranged the whole encounter this morning; then he’d never fall for it again, and it’s hard enough to get it right to start with. There are mornings when he’ll come up to me, but does make me wait until he gets home.
Yet, in my exuberance, I was feeling the need to show him that I could be in control, too, not just him, and that today I liked it.
We have a rule concerning our private life: keep it private. We live in a fairly conservative neighborhood, and he has a fairly conservative job, and there’s no point in openly rebelling when we get along just fine doing our thing in private.
Erotic Teasers Page 9
