by Sharon Page
Okay, now I can’t run, can I? I am actually at his mercy. The thought heats me up and terrifies me.
Think about nothing but sex. What’s he going to do now that he can do anything he wants?
I can think of a lot of kinky things. Anticipation makes me squirm on the heavenly soft, oval bed. Yet Jonathon, despite the hard-on straining at his jeans, is not in a hurry.
“We will need a safe word.”
I’ve read erotic romance. I know what that means. I heard people use them at Tied. “No safe word, since I’m not sure I’m ready to do anything that needs one. I’d like to have sex while I’m tied up, but just regular sex. Missionary with ropes.”
“Vanilla BDSM.”
“I happen to think vanilla is one of the sexiest flavors,” I argue. “Vanilla is like what silk would taste like, if we could eat it.”
He laughs, the ice broken. “You are unique, Mia.”
He bends and sucks my nipples, quickly going from one to the other. He leaves me breathless. Floating in pleasure, aware of being bound. His teeth scrape. I jolt up, straining against the rope, but can’t do anything. Lightly, he bites my nipple.
“Jonathon!” Maybe I do need a safe word.
“I’ll stop if you wish.”
My nipple tingles. No, sucking won’t be enough. He’s introduced me to one boundary-pushing sensation and I want more of it. “Don’t stop.”
Before, I never found it hugely arousing to have my breasts played with. Until I discovered Ryan’s caresses and the long, slow way he would suck my nipples. Jonathon is a different beast. He bites, scrapes, sucks so hard I think he’ll pull my nipples off. Every time I’m ready to scream ‘no’, I try to hang in to experience it. And I find I like it. But just when I feel comfortable, he pushes me to the edge again.
My pussy is pulsing with need. I’m ready to cry, I want him inside me so much. He hasn’t even touched me below the waist and I’m ready to come in a shattering explosion.
“Fuck me,” I whisper.
Slowly, he removes his clothes. It’s mesmerizing. He undoes his trousers, kicks them off. He works his briefs over his stiff cock. In books, the erect penis always springs out of trousers or undies. Jonathon’s actually does. His cock is rock hard, and it curves upward, pointing right at the ceiling as his silk briefs slither down.
I got to see it up close on the plane, but only briefly as I wanted to get right down to sucking him. Now I can savor the view. His cock is beautiful, slightly tan in color. Most list to the left or right, depending on how they are usually stuffed in pants. Jonathon must give his cock equal time on both sides, for his stands perfectly upright. He has a set of large balls, and jet black pubic curls. His skin is tanned to a line where his jeans rested, then after that it’s a lovely warm ivory.
Lean hips, tight haunches and long legs all frame his to-die-for cock. Holding my breath, I watch as he tears open the condom packet he plucked from his jeans pocket. I watch as he holds his thick cock by the hilt and rolls the translucent sheath on it.
I’m panting as he climbs on the bed—climbs on top of me. He moves with controlled, erotic grace. Suddenly, his body is over mine, arms braced on either side of my head, muscles taut. His legs rest between mine.
Using the flat of his hand—and a fair bit of force—Jonathon pushes his erect cock down.
Chapter Five
His beautiful green gaze holds mine as Jonathon uses the swollen head of his cock to play with my aching clit. I can’t move, of course. All I can do is lie there and experience everything he does.
He makes an expert circling motion of cockhead over throbbing clit, teasing me beyond belief. “Oh! Oh God!” I writhe, pulling at the ropes that bind me.
He draws his cock with agonizing pressure across my clit, leaving me squealing, then wedges the full, taut head between my pussy lips. Braced on one arm and his legs, Jonathon waits there.
“I want you now. I need you,” I whisper, but I’m certain my pleading will just make him determined to wait.
He’s not going to hurt me, but he’s going to play with me.
With arms and legs bound, I have two ways to show need and pleasure. Moans and words. And my eyes. There’s a fire in his that scorches me.
No guy has ever looked at me so intensely. Not even Ryan.
I tug on the ropes, a little stunned by the heat and hunger in Jonathon’s emerald eyes.
His hips move and his cock slides in my slick heat, parting my pussy lips, pushing inside me. I’m drenched and he’s deep inside me in one fast breath.
I close my eyes, gasping, suddenly full. Loving the feel of his hard cock inside me. But now we’re joined, he’s so close and he’s looking directly into my eyes and I need to close them. Emotions roar up and I need to shove them away.
This is sex. Now play.
“Yes,” I moan, lifting my hips. Hard to do in this position. My muscles strain and I have to stop, lie there, and let him plunge his cock all by himself.
He gives me slow strokes at first that have me gasping, biting my lip. Then he plunges harder. Deeper. He pushes deep until I’m sobbing with pleasure.
With me tied, he’s going to be in complete control and I can’t change that. I feel like I’m submitting, but I’m willing to submit and that makes it totally different. Just like on the plane, it’s hot. Intense. There’s an edge to this that has me weak with pleasure. This is going somewhere so deep inside me, I’m falling into it.
He watches me, intently. He’s not driving to his orgasm. I see why when his cock slides against a sensitive spot in my pussy—oh god!
He holds his weight, thrusts to stroke there over and over. My fingers curl. My toes curl.
So good.
I want to grab him. Hold him. Hug him. Scratch him. Perform for him and with him. But bound by the ropes, I can’t move. All I can do is feel. That’s something I’ve never done before—not until Jonathon tied my arms on the plane, tied me up now. Just savor, experience, feel.
Feel his cock sliding in and out, stroking me somewhere that’s…amazing.
More. Oh God, yes. Yes.
He moves over me which plunges his prick deep. I know he’s going in right to the hilt so his groin collides against me and it’s amazing.
“God, yes, go deeper,” I cry.
He does, somehow. And he thrusts harder. His thrusts are so powerful he lifts me off the bed.
I’m shouting. Shouting his name. Coiling up, building up, ready to burst.
A scream, a wail, lots of sobbing. Searing, explosive pleasure bursts. It’s like fireworks in my head. I’m coming. Coming just from his incredible thrusts d.
I’ve never come without stroking my clit to get me there.
Who cares, I’m doing it now.
I thrash against the ropes, taken to wildness by the orgasm. It starts to ease and he thrusts again. He’s beautiful with his black hair falling into his eyes, his mouth tense with lust. He fucks me hard and I fight the ropes to meet his every pounding thrust.
I want to make him come. I want to make him come like he never has before. I try to nip his shoulders, his neck, try to lick his chest but he won’t let me touch him. He just pumps into me even harder.
I can feel his tension, feel his strokes speed up. He’s almost there.
He’s driving in to me and my pussy is still clutching, throbbing, pulsing from my first orgasm. His shaft brushes my clit and it’s soooo sensitive I wail.
But I’m not going to get there. I’m too exhausted from the last climax, from the ones on the plane. I was right at the brink, now I’ve tumbled back down. Knowing I’m not going to come makes me sob with frustration. But I can’t complain—how many times did I climax on the plane?
“Do it hard, Jonathon,” I plead.
He drives hard into me, plunges deep, then doesn’t move. He groans, deep and low, his hips surge forward and he bucks on top of me.
“Mia.” He’s saying my name as if I’ve torn something out of him, taken something fro
m him.
His face hovers close to mine, his eyes are half-shut as he comes. I pull at my bonds to try to kiss him, but he draws back. He’s braced on his arms, muscles straining. Then he puts his fingers around his cock to hold the condom in place and he draws out.
I have to admit I’ve learned something. Being tied up gave me amazing orgasms. But was it because of the enticing erotic idea of bondage, or because it forced me to submit and focus on Jonathon’s every delicious thrust?
I draw in deep breaths as he throws away the condom, then leans over me and works at the knots that hold me. Finally, he growls, “Fuck.” He gets off the bed, opens a bedside drawer, takes out a red Swiss Army knife. He cuts the velvet ties at my wrists.
He doesn’t say anything else. I don’t know what to say. It was cool being totally tied up after all? The fantasy element of this wraps around me and I don’t want to spoil it. After being able to talk so easily to Jonathon, now I don’t know what to say.
I sit up as he cuts the rest of the velvet cords from my ankles.
Then he leaves the bed. All having not said a word.
Which unnerves me. I was tied up, so what was expected of me? Did I somehow fail these expectations?
I know a relationship is about much more than being good in bed. That’s never enough. But I’m nervous. I’m a newbie at this—maybe I haven’t passed the bondage test?
He stands, pushes his hair back. He looks troubled, which is making me nervous. I’ve done the most intimate thing I’ve ever done and I don’t want to be nervous.
I rub my wrists. There are red marks on each of them. Until they fade they will be reminders of how hot it was to be tied up. I don’t want to ask, pleadingly, “Was I good?”
Of course I was good. I’m done with the self-doubt. I’m tired of not feeling good enough. That’s how I felt all the time after the abuse. Like I was bad, unclean, wrong. Like I was complicit in something awful that I never wanted to do.
I’ve done this hugely intimate thing, but I don’t know how to connect to Jonathon.
“Was it good?” I ask, keeping my voice strong.
“It was amazing.” Jonathon looks back at me. “Sorry. It was really intense.”
So he went off somewhere in his head, left me behind, and that’s why he didn’t talk to me? I hear the waves rushing up on the sand, the lulling roar of the surf. And get an idea.
I sashay over to him, being bold, hiding nerves. “We’ve done your thing. Have you heard of the movie From Here to Eternity? I’ve never seen it, but I heard there’s a hot sex scene in the breaking surf. Now it’s my turn to get what I want.”
I expect he’s going to point out I don’t give orders. But he surprises me.
“Okay,” he says.
***
But he’s Jonathon, so sex in the surf turns out differently than I expect.
In the 1930s screen siren bathroom, I put on a brand new bathing suit. Before I left, I drove to the largest city near Milltown, large enough to have a store dedicated to swimwear and dance costumes. The bikini cost me over one hundred dollars, which made me gag, but once I tried it on I knew it would be impossible to walk away.
The suit is sapphire blue, decorated with silver, and has a padded bra top along with a string bikini bottom. It makes my breasts look spectacular, even lengthens my legs and makes my butt appear tighter.
It was worth it to look and feel confident.
I came here promising I’d have a week of wild sex, but I realize this is going to be an intensely emotional week too.
I take a deep breath and walk out onto the terrace where Jonathon is waiting. I’ve already drunk two Painkillers, which is dark rum, pineapple and orange juices, sweet coconut cream and shaved ice. Nutmeg is sprinkled on top. Despite having a bar in our room, one stocked with every type of liquor imaginable, Jonathon ordered the drinks from room service.
At home I’m too young to drink, but in the villa, I guess I go by Jonathon’s rules.
The drinks are sinfully delicious. I don’t know if they kill pain, but they definitely kill inhibitions. I’m aching for more sex, aching to be tied up again and come like crazy. But I’ve tempted him with ocean sex and I’ve got to follow through.
He’s waiting for me wearing an open Hawaiian shirt over swim trunks. The soft blue and vivid red and purple flowers frame his firm pecs.
To provoke him, I run across the terrace, sprint over the sand. My bare feet sink into the soft warmth and I squeal with pure delight.
Laughing, I stumble, but then I run flat out until I splash into the edge of the ocean. The water is heavenly, breaking into foam around my legs.
Jonathon chases me just as I wanted. He catches me, and I grab him and try to wrestle him into the water. Finally, we both stumble and fall, then Jonathon pulls me back until we are sitting on the sand at the edge of the waves. They rush up, splashing over us.
I move to kiss him, because that’s the point. This is supposed to be an intense, French kissing make-out session that leads to wet, sandy sex. But Jonathon orders, “Get up on your knees with your ass facing me.”
I do it, surprised by his brusque tone.
His hand spanks my bottom through my bathing suit, making my cheeks jiggle. I thought I’d object to spanking, but the slap sets my senses sizzling. I wiggle my ass, encouraging him to do it again. He gives another smack to my rump. His groin presses against me. Already his prick is rigid, pushing against my butt.
I hear the soft rip of a condom package opening. Shifting his hips, he brushes the tip against my pussy lips. He teases me with his hard-on, his hands mold around my ass cheeks, then he shifts his hips forward, driving his cock into my wet pussy.
“So wet and so beautiful.” He stokes my hair, which is damp from the spray.
Then he drills me as we are washed by waves—the tide is coming in. When I burst in orgasm from his playful fingers on my clit and his deep, long thrusts, water is splashing around my upper thighs.
“I’m going to come,” he says tersely.
“Yes,” I urge. We may drown if he doesn’t come soon, plus I want to make him explode. I rock against him, meeting his rhythm so he pounds deep into me. He puts both hands on my hips, gripping them to fuck me hard. I press my wet fingers to my slippery clit.
“Yeah,” he groans. “Play with yourself. I want you to make yourself come.”
But I know I can’t come anymore. I’m starting to feel a little sore. Yet I want to please Jonathon. I stroke with my fingers and cry out in a pretend orgasm. I make my inner muscles tug at his cock so he believes it. I don’t care that I’m not able to climax, since it’s because I’ve had so many.
I turn and see Jonathon’s face ravaged by his drive to orgasm. Harsh lines surround his mouth. His eyes are closed. He looks older, harder, tougher as he pumps into me as hard and fast as he can, almost lifting my ass in the air.
“I’m coming again,” I wail.
“Yes, Mia. You’re amazing—” His words break off on a low groan. I can feel him grow inside me as his come rushes through his cock. He drives his hips against me, rocks slowly, grunting fiercely with his pleasure.
After, he falls beside me, landing with a splash in the waves. One crashes over him, and he sits up fast, sputtering. It’s so sweet. I want to kiss him, but he’s avoided every kiss I’ve attempted.
Soaking wet, he’s gorgeous. I sit at his side. Moonlight glimmers on the waves. Reflected stars dot the dark, mysterious depths of the ocean. The breakers make a soothing, rhythmic sound.
“I’ve never been anywhere like this,” I whisper. “It’s heavenly.”
I think I could stay here forever. Except I can’t, of course. This is one decadent week of fantasy.
A low grumbling slices through the lovely sounds of the ocean. I blush.
“You’re hungry.” Jonathon jumps up, holding out his hand to me. “I don’t feel like traveling in to the main island tonight. We’ll order room service.”
It sounds good to me, e
ven though it’s presented as a decision, not an option.
***
The perfume of island flowers drifts through the open terrace doors. The white gauzy curtains billow seductively. A second bottle of champagne now sits in a massive ice bucket. We finished dinner and dessert, and the used silverware, dishes, and crystal glimmer in the candlelight. It’s dark, but still sultry outside.
Jonathon is having his turn in the shower. Strangely, bathing is something he insists on doing alone. I would have loved to have joined him, but he had me shower first. I’m letting my hair air dry, and my wavy hair is pouring down my back and over my bare shoulders.
Dinner was spectacular, served to us by our own private room steward, Piers. I’d guess he is the age of a new college graduate. He has a British accent, says ‘wanker’, and his red-dyed Rastafarian locks work surprisingly well with his polished, elegant grey suit. He brought trays of food by golf cart in insulated boxes. Gilt-rimmed plates were set on our huge, teak dining table, along with gold-plated cutlery and crystal goblets. Course after course was served: perfectly seared shrimp, skewers of jerk chicken, curry with fish, vegetables, chick peas; a salad with papaya and crisp greens. Dessert was a tropical fruit cheesecake, topped with more papaya and mango, sitting on ribbons of white and dark chocolate sauce that patterned our plates. This was followed by tall flutes of gooseberry sorbet, tart and refreshing.
Even as I run my brush through my hair, I lick my lips remembering the sheer decadent pleasure of dinner. After a term of residence food, which I often never ate because I had to work through meal time, this was the most delicious meal ever.
The shower stops in the bathroom.
I close my eyes. With Jonathon, being tied up was something erotic, healthy, and fun, as opposed to…wrong.
Do I suggest more fun? Then I realize I’m swaying on the stool in front of the vanity, yawning at my image in the Hollywood style makeup mirror, with its twin columns of bulbs.
