by Alison Tyler
And suddenly I was swept, crying, into his arms as he carefully took me across his lap, regardless of the sticky, dripping mess. I cried out in pain as my buttocks came to rest across the top of his thighs and he pulled me into his most tender embrace. One hand pushed my sweaty fringe back from my forehead and then he kissed me, softly, tenderly and passionately on my lips.
Tears were still running down my cheeks, and he brushed them away with a gentle finger. I could smell my own juices still on his hand.
“Don’t cry, sweet girl,” he whispered, smiling at me with the softest eyes.
I sniffed loudly and burrowed my head against his shoulder.
“You feel better now, don’t you?”
I nodded.
“Say it.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And you know it was all for your own good, don’t you?”
I kissed him timidly along his collarbone.
“Yes, Sir.”
“So you won’t put your naughty fingers into Merta’s sweet pussy again, will you?”
“No, Sir. I promise I won’t, Sir.”
“If you do, you know what will happen, don’t you?”
“Yes, Sir.”
I sighed and he caressed my back. Then he gently pushed me down onto my front and applied more lotion to my pulsing, red cheeks. His hands slowly circled them with gentle, methodical movements. Despite the residual pain, the cool of the lotion and touch of his hands on my skin was blissful. Soon my belly tightened with desire once more and, as he heard my breathing come faster, he allowed a finger to slip into my cunt. He pushed it in deep until he found my G-spot and gently massaged it for a moment. It took little more than this to carry me off into that perfect dimension of overriding physical sensation. I came with a fierce cry and a spasm of arms and legs and back, and I heard him laugh at the pleasure he’d brought me.
This was my reward for taking my punishment and for promising not to transgress again.
But...if Sir really didn’t want me to touch Merta, why did he insist that she carry out her duties in the shortest little skirt, without panties?
BODY TEMPERATURE
Thomas S. Roche
I’m pleased—and lucky—that Aisha doesn’t see the cooler in the corner of the bedroom when I’m tying her up.
I don’t want to blindfold her until it’s done. I know she loves watching me do it. She gets off on the way I tie her. She stares with fascination and mounting arousal as I circle her body with rope, leaving certain parts exposed for my attention. I get her tits tied tight, but leave her nipples accessible.
I spread her legs and loop her lower thighs, securing them to the tie-downs at the base of the bed, but I leave her upper thighs—and her pussy, of course—nice and open.
Her temperature rises as she gets more turned on, and as I shroud her in rope. I’m not speaking metaphorically; our tiny bedroom was well over ninety degrees. We both were sweating our balls off. There, I’m speaking metaphorically...at least for one of us.
It had been more than a hundred all day, the tenth day in a nightmarish heat wave. Our tiny apartment doesn’t have air-conditioning. Our window unit broke at the start of the season; our thrift-store swamp cooler broke after running for seven days straight. I won’t go so far as to say we’d killed the goose that laid the golden egg, because a secondhand swamp cooler hardly craps out golden eggs. But if you believe in such things, you are welcome to say that our environmental carelessness met with grim retribution from Mother Earth.
I get Aisha tied to the bed; she’s red all over, dripping sweat. She looks both excited and angry; I can tell she’s annoyed. The ropes make her hot; everything makes her hot.
And when she’s hot, I’m hot. By the time this is over, she’ll either kiss me or kill me. And in this heat, I’m basically fine with either.
The opportunity to stash the cooler came when a bitchy Aisha announced that she was going to take a shower, and I knew what she’d say when she got out. I was right.
“Did that cool you off?” I’d asked.
“No, damn it, I feel hotter than before.”
It’s what she always says, and her skin looked it. If I wasn’t already familiar with how easily Aisha’s pale skin got flushed, I would have worried she was heading toward heat stroke.
That’s when I said, “I think I’ve got something that will help.”
“Ugh,” she said, waving me off. “I can’t bear to be sweated on.”
“I promise,” I said, showing her the precut lengths of hemp rope. “You’ll only sweat on yourself.”
She looked at the bed, with its heavy frame. I had stripped the comforter off.
“Did you change the sheets?” she asked.
“Find out,” I said, jerking my head toward the bed and dangling the ropes enticingly.
Aisha is a bondage freak. She’s heavily into the idea of being bound when she doesn’t want to be, while in all other matters—all other matters, believe me—being a willful, opinionated and highly vocal person. But when it comes to rope, a little adversity for me—that is, her own reluctance—really does it for her. She likes to be convinced.
Knowing this as intimately as I do, I found it indicative of just how fucking hot it was that Aisha had to think about it even for a second.
She finally said, “All right, but I’ll safeword if you sweat on me.”
“I would expect nothing less,” I said. I spanked her ass. “Get on the bed.”
We’ve got the windows open, fans blaring in the windows on high, but nothing helps. It’s ten o’clock at night and just as hot outside as inside. Maybe at 3:00 a.m. Aisha or I will stand in front of one of the fans and make a soft sad sound of fleeting relief. But for now, every cubic inch of air within blowing distance is body temperature or hotter.
She’s got pillows under her back, about six of them, which raise her frame to a forty-five-degree angle and give me the perfect canvas to work on. She’s tightly tied, now, wrists to headboard, ankles to footboard, knees and thighs to the side rail and tits bound tight, distended painfully. Aisha has perfect breasts, the ideal size for her frame if you ask me, and frankly, she knows it. She loves it when they get attention, but nipple clamps and Tiger Balm only go so far—especially when every material or substance on her body makes her scowl.
And yet I’ve wrapped her in rope in a half-dozen places, the hemp rope like blankets. And I’ll admit I’m getting off on making her suffer in the heat a little just to get her bondage fix. Her flesh is a vibrant pink, her face beginning to glisten. The scavenged yard thermometer in the living room says ninety-eight degrees—body temperature. But I’m certainly not telling her that. The merest mention of mathematical figures when temperatures over sixty are concerned is enough to make Aisha feel faint, and not in a good way. Is it ironic that her parents provided her with an Arabic name? No more than her pale Celtic skin or that dark Gallic mane that borders so beautifully on black. But if she ever does travel to the Middle East, I’m not going with her. I’ll stay home and read her tweets about how fucking hot it is.
She’s sweating, panting slightly; I can tell it’s from a combination of temperature and arousal. The bondage is turning her on, all right, but she’s fighting with the heat—the way she fights with it every minute of every day this time of year. She squirms a bit, fights against the bonds while I caress her; my fingers go up in her and I find out she’s even more aroused than I thought she was.
She tries to lighten the mood. “Those damn fingers of yours better not be sweating on me!” She can barely get the quip out; it dribbles languidly from her lips, drunkenly. She’s never been good at letting her tied-down status stifle her smart-assed complaints when I tie up her tits.
I respond with my thumb at the top of her slit, pressing in, feeling her cunt tighten up as I thumb her firm clit. I feel her telling inside, the gentle swell more intense as she tightens. Her hips move; I’ve tied them tight, but not that tight. She fucks herself onto my hand. I lean forward to
kiss her.
“No sweating,” she says, red-faced and glistening.
“I’m going to gag you now,” I say dryly.
“Don’t you dare!” she says. “Don’t you know anything about dogs?”
“I don’t follow,” I say.
She speaks with difficulty, not because of the heat but because of the way my fingers are working inside her. “Dogs pant because they don’t have sweat glands.”
“But you have sweat glands,” I say, dabbing my fingers in the pooling sweat pooled in the tiny hollow of her collarbone, just above the rope where I’ve tied her tits.
“No sweating on me!” she snaps, and I push the sweat-moistened fingers of my left hand into her mouth as I fuck my fingers harder into her, adjusting the angle to hit her at exactly the right spot. My thumb is tight and hard on her clit now; she’s responding with little quivers and jerks of her bound, naked body. But she complains breathlessly, “Don’t gag me.”
“A blindfold, at least.”
She likes blindfolds—she likes blindfolds a lot. She frowns.
She shakes her head. “I can’t take another layer,” she says, her voice choking up slightly as I finger her. “I almost cut off my hair today!”
I said, “Trust me?”
She scowls, rocking her hips.
“Okay. I’ll try it.”
“Close your eyes.”
I have to say, “Keep ’em closed!” twice as I slide my fingers out of her, then kneel down beside the bed and open the cooler. If she recognizes the sound, she doesn’t show it. I tell her again to keep her eyes closed as I get what I want and bring it back to bed.
She’s really glistening now, covered. She smells fresh from the shower, but slightly musky from the heat. The scent of her pussy mingles with sweat. It’s a wonder I can smell her over the unpleasant mingling of the tight, close, stale air of our apartment with the city stink from outside the window.
I set the plastic bowl on the nightstand and stand to the side—well out of sweating distance—as I blindfold her.
The blindfold was fresh and firm from twenty minutes in the freezer when I put it in the cooler as she showered. Now it’s slightly less ready, but still cold as hell. The gel blindfold is one of those ones designed to take care of puffy eyelids, swollen tear ducts, bags under your eyes. It’s the hungover debutante’s best friend. This morning, I hid it in a Fudgsicle box so it would stay a surprise; when it’s this damned hot, the last thing Aisha wants is chocolate.
The blindfold may have softened since it left the freezer, but in contrast to the air in the bedroom, it feels freezing—I can tell. By the time she opens her eyes in surprise, I’ve got the elastic around her. Her shoulders tip down, the small of her back up. Her ass leaves the sweat-soaked sheets. The ropes go taut. She wiggles.
I fetch an ice cube from the bowl on the nightstand.
I press the ice tight to the hot-pink side of her neck. I await that sound of scared surprise that I crave. She gives it to me— the gasp and the curse that says You’ve blown my mind, baby. It’s followed by a pleasurable murmur, and she tips her head and presses her neck against the ice as I rub it all over her. If she had the faintest clue what was coming, she doesn’t show it. It seemed like an obvious tactic to me; why I haven’t thought about it before is utterly beyond me. But then, we both tend to lose brain function when the mercury hits these levels.
I stuff an ice cube in her mouth. Aisha sucks on it, crunches it up with her teeth. I’ve told her she’ll fuck the enamel doing that, but tonight she gets special dispensation. She chews and sucks and moans softly while I fuck her harder with my fingers. I’ve reached over and retrieved another ice cube by now. This one makes its way across the exposed portions of her tightly bound tits. When it hits her nipples, Aisha curses, grits her teeth. I linger there. She shakes her head back and forth, coal-black hair dancing. Some plasters itself to her shoulders; I peel it away and brush it back. I ice each hard nipple in slow, tight circles and feel the pink buds harden. I zero in on one and plant my hand over her breast, ice cube in the hollow of my palm, until I have to grit my teeth, too. By then, she’s pulling a Stevie Wonder, mouth dropped open and curses coming out. She can barely stand it. Her vocalizations go from curses and pleasured sounds to a high-pitched squeal of panic; then I palm the ice and shove it into her mouth.
There’s not much left. She crunches. Impatient little slut.
I seize two cubes of ice. I kneel between Aisha’s legs, acutely aware that I’m so overheated myself that I’m dripping sweat all over her. But this time she doesn’t complain—at least, not about that. I run one ice cube delicately from her neck to her face, over her forehead, down the other side of her neck and across her collarbone to the tit I haven’t abused yet. Its nipple’s hard and sensitive already, stiffened in sympathy for the other. I circle it with the ice; when Aisha seems about to scream, I circle wider and let the melting cube orbit her breast at an altitude of maybe two inches. There’s plenty to play with on Aisha’s tits; I take my time drawing the ice along the edges of the rope, where her flesh distends. The whole time, I’m running the other cube up and down her thighs, first one and then the other. This necessitates an awkward cross-body placement of my arms that only makes me sweat harder. Droplets pour all over her. She either doesn’t care or doesn’t notice them in the waterfall of melted ice and her own sweat. The breeze from the fans is chilling us, now.
As I pop first one cube, then the other, into her mouth, I fetch two more and concentrate on her thighs and lower belly. I tease them closer to her sex, and she rocks her hips in time. My cock is hard. It nudges her thigh, now and then, leaving a tiny trail of precum. I lean forward so I can caress her tits and her face and her neck again with both half-melted cubes. I don’t quite touch my thighs to hers, lest I sweat on her. But the head of my cock grazes her sex.
“Fuck me,” she gulps.
“I’ll sweat,” I quip.
“Shut up and fuck me,” she says.
“Not just yet,” I tell her, nudging the tip of my cock just barely into her; she gasps as it penetrates her, but then I pull it back at the last second. I bring my hands down to her pussy and slide the ice up the narrow space between her lips and her thighs. She moans.
These two cubes are mostly melted, now, and it’s damn hard to hold them. They could slip from my fingers at any time. So I put them somewhere they won’t get lost. I stuff them both inside her.
That brings a howl from Aisha. Her shoulders go down hard against the pillows, the small of her back forming a parabola as she strains against the ropes, surges and trembles against the sensation. I enter her quickly, feeling the tightness that comes from her natural, slippery lubricant being watered down as her pussy melts the ice. There’s still enough of it remaining that when I thrust quickly into her, my cockhead meets the remnants of first one, then the other mostly melted cube on its journey to the sensitive place near her cervix. I know from the way her mouth drops open wide that the pressure on that spot is making her eyes roll back behind the gel blindfold. She’s moaning.
Caught off guard by the cold, her sex has tightened; it feels uncharacteristically snug and unwelcoming against my thrusts—not to mention painfully chilly. Aisha seems to like that. But it’s my thumb on her clit that finally pushes her over the edge—no refrigeration necessary. I even warm it in my mouth before I press it up against her to stroke her clit in concert with my thrusts.
By the time I come, I’m sweating all over her; great drops of my perspiration pour from my body and soak the ropes alongside Aisha’s own sweat. Her skin is slick from top to bottom, with sweat and water.
She makes pleased sounds as I come inside her. I think I know better than to slump atop her—but when I try to pull back, she fights the bonds to pull her thighs together. She tries to trap me.
I get the picture; I lunge forward, my body against hers. She’s breathing hard and not from the heat. Her teeth are almost chattering.
“You’re shive
ring,” I tell her.
“So warm me up,” she says.
Her mouth surges up to kiss me, and for a long time I sweat all over her. She doesn’t shiver for long.
CAMWHORE
Auburn Sanders
She starts out wearing low-front, see-through mesh panties because she likes the way the angle of the panties seems to slim her wide hips and the way the transparent mesh accentuates the smoothness of her pussy. She wears a heavy bondage belt around her waist even though it makes her sweat, because there’s no convenient way she can attach her leather restraints above her head without taking about a year and a half’s worth of yoga. And she wears a push-up bra a cup size too small because she loves the way the push-up bra elevates her tits, making them spill out over the tops of the cups and providing ideal purchase for the clothespins.
She curses as she puts another one on—her twelfth, and that’s just on her left tit. Three run down the left side, low, sticking almost straight over her armpit. Three stick at an angle over her right breast. Three more go along the underside of her ample tit, angled up over her rib cage, and she’s just applied the third of the three that stick up from the top, pointing at her chin.
The D-rings of her leather wrist restraints rattle as she moves her hands. It’s awkward with them on, but she loves the way they look. More importantly, she loves the way they feel.
The D-rings snag against one of the clothespins. She yelps and jerks. She sees her laptop sway back and forth. She’s half afraid she’s going to kick it over, but it stabilizes.
She takes three more clothespins from the box by her bed. She puts them on between wriggles and moans and soft, shallow sobs. One to the inside, one to the outside, and then—both tits heaving from her great ragged breaths of pain—she whimpers and moans as she puts on the last one, right in the center, sticking out straight and screamingly painful.
