From: jfriday@ada.stat.uga.edu (Paul Stacy)
Subject: ARCHIVE: Green Eyes
Newsgroups: alt.sex,alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.bondage
Path: athena.cs.uga.edu!emory!swrinde!cs.utexas.edu!rutgers!sgigate!olivea!apple!well!averti From: averti@well.sf.ca.us (averti) Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage Subject: averti STORY new Message-ID: <29609@well.sf.ca.us> Date: 25 Jan 92 06:11:18 GMT
Distribution: Organization: Whole Earth 'Lectronic Link, Sausalito, CA Keywords: averti story
averti here, bounders and bondettes, with a brand new story (finally!) written in collaboration with another sexually warped citizen, to whom all honor and praise and several yards of nice, new rope...
*** Green Eyes ***
The Man:
The woman kept smiling at me. Looking over her damn shoulder and smiling like a 1920's couquette in a French naughty magazine. She appeared to be having a fine old time, green eyes flashing through a long fall of shiny brown hair, mouth curling up at the corners. She was positively radiating enjoyment and happy thoughts. It almost pissed me off.
The woman was nude, tied into a cheap metal chair, her arms roped along the arms of the chair, her legs individually lashed to the front legs of the chair. Her breasts, initially the large, soft, pretty breasts of a mature mother, were severely distorted by one of my better breast bondage creations. What had been sweet, gently sloping shapes were now improbable-looking cones, her sizable red-brown nipples virtually glowing with the rope pres- sure.
``Stop looking at me over your shoulder'' I ordered. I walked around in front of her and leaned over to look into her face. ``I left the blindfold and gag off because I wanted to see reac- tions in your eyes and hear sounds from your mouth.'' She did have the best sparkling green eyes! I wondered if it was possi- ble to actually come into a person's eyes--presumably, it would sting, but I doubted that any permanent damage would result; I mean, people swallow ejaculate a zillion times a day...have to rig up some kind of Cenobite-type device to hold her eyelids open, though; she'd slam them shut out of sheer reflex when she saw the first spurt coming...
I put that line of thought into the background and returned to the puzzle of how to pain the woman to her satisfaction and mine, and get rid of that annoying, flirtatious smile. I knelt down and ran my lips along the top of one delicious thigh. Her skin was silky and warm, with a barely perceptible pale down that skipped lightly against my beard as I moved.
I looked up. She was looking down. Still smiling.
I moved my face to the top of her thigh, just short of where it joined into her hip, and bit. Not hard, not weak.
The woman stiffened. I released her flesh from my mouth and looked up. She was still smiling. The smile was beginning to look like a challenge; or was it just my interpretation? It hardly mattered. I bit the woman's thigh again, about an inch from the first location.
I bit my way down the top and inside of her thigh, toward the knee. A little timed pause between bites allowed me to check her expression and breathing. The damn smile was still there, al- though the upper corners of the mouth were beginning to be pulled up past a normal smile and toward a sexface. Raising of the upper lip highlighted a charming, sexy gap between her front teeth. She had shut the green eyes. Her breathing was beginning to speed up and become deeper.
This biting did not particularly turn me on, but it seemed to be what was currently called for. I did the other leg in a similar fashion. The woman kept her eyes squeezed shut, her breathing went faster, and the pesky smile turned into an open, sometimes gasping, mouth.
Placing my elbows between the woman's legs, I leaned in and begin biting above her navel, and on up the soft, smooth flesh of her upper belly. I deposited bites between her breasts and on up to her collarbone. By now, she was breathing rapidly, and squirming in the chair seat. She had not yet made a sound.
I worked my way down her upper chest and onto one of the tightly tied breasts. Biting between the ropes, I progressed all the way out to the end, and caught the tip of her swollen nipple between my teeth and bit it quite sharply.
The woman made a beautifully gratifying sound, a sort of moaning gurgle with a long trailoff. Her thighs tensed jerkily in the chair. I moved the nipple around with my tongue and attacked it once more.
I peeked. The woman stopped smiling. In fact, her mouth could be described as positively pulled back off her teeth. She had her head thrown back so that her curly brown hair hung floorward, and little sparkles of sweat started on her face and shoulders.
I sucked the nipple, strongly. The woman groaned again. I sucked the tip of the nipple as far into my mouth as it would go, which was quite far, and then I bit again. The woman made a noise like heavy machinery heard through a wall.
I released her breast, wiped it clean with my fingers, then stood up. I caught her jaw in my hand and rotated her lolling head back to an upright position. She slowly opened her green eyes and looked at me, a suffused, out-of-focus lust look. She was not smiling.
I ran two fingers along the side of her strong, proud jaw. ``Are you having a good time?'' I asked, conversationally.
With her fine-grained, pale skin, the woman's bite marks came up nicely within a few minutes. I sat on the edge of the table, drinking a glass of water, and admired the reddish oval patterns that decorated her skin.
I finished the water, put down the glass. ``Look at me'' I said, with appropriate sternness. The oceanic eyes opened and focused.
I took a pounce wheel from the clutter of toys on the table. The little wheel rimmed with tiny sharp teeth was good for such exercises, as it irritates more than it lacerates. I moved close to the woman and held up the small tool. ``You look so nice with your fresh new bite marks, I have decided to further decorate you. With this.''
The woman looked at the pounce wheel. I was not sure she knew what it was. ``Do you want to be decorated with this?'' I con- tinued.
``Yes, Sir.'' The voice was husky. It sounded turgid and swol- len, like the woman's tits.
``Very well'' I said. I placed the wheel lightly on her shoul- der, just next to the neck. ``When I finish a stroke, I want you to thank me. Is that clear? Let's practice.''
She was trying to angle her head so as to look at the tool rest- ing on her shoulder. I gently returned her to face front. Then, with only a fraction of the possible pressure, I ran the toothed wheel down her shoulder, down her arm, and finished at her rope- tangled wrist. The woman emitted a tiny sigh. The wheel left a very delicate red dotted line in its path.
``Now you say, `Thank you Sir, for decorating my shoulder and arm.'''
She licked her lips. ``Th- thank you Sir, for decorating my shoulder and arm...''
We continued, I decorating, she thanking, until both arms looked as if they had been marked out for some complicated flaying ritual. Not one of the hundreds of tiny holes had actually broken her soft skin; but the cumulative effect was somewhere between a sting and an itch. To a tied-up person, it was quite powerful.
I was about done with the pounce wheel. There were plenty of other things to do and only a limited amount of woman surface. After I inscribed parallel tracks across the woman's upper chest, and she thanked me prettily, I moved away to lay the pounce wheel on the table. I took only half a step when I saw the green eyes flash, almost out of the corner of my gaze. I stepped back. ``Do you LIKE this little tool?'' I asked calmly.
``Yes, Sir.''
``Would you like me to continue to use it?''
``Yes, Sir.''
I smiled. ``Would you like to feel it as it decorates your breasts?''
Oh ho! There went the eyes. It was almost like an electric flash. I wondered if she even knew about it?... Bet she did, the little bitch.
``Ask me nicely.''
``Please, Sir, will you use the--that tool--on my breasts?''
``Yes. I shall.'' I leaned in and studied the ropes and the soft flesh that bulged between the intricate bindings. The ropes should probably not have stayed on longer than five or ten more minutes, for circulation reasons. That seemed like ample time. I straightened up and made a show of testing the wheel's barbs against my thumb. ``Of course, for breasts, I'll have to _lean_ a little harder.'' I smiled into those eyes. The woman kept an absolutely blank expression.
I strode to the table and quickly slipped a fresh latex glove on my right hand. This got a widening of the eyes. I explained, as I stepped back to the woman and stroked a soft, smooth section of breast, ``Safety First, don'tcha know. Probably won't draw _much_ blood, but better safe than sorry.''
I gazed into her green eyes from very close, while my left hand located a likely area on her bound left breast. I brought the pounce wheel down and dug the little teeth quite emphatically into the flesh, then _rolled_ the tool as slowly as I possibly could along the surface of the breast.
The woman's neck corded. She clamped her mouth tightly shut. She almost closed her eyes, but then caught herself and refused to lose my gaze. She stared with total intensity into my equally intense stare as I gouged my way along her breast. It was a supremely beautiful moment.
The Woman:
I looked over my shoulder, curious. What was he doing? What's going to happen next? I could see the small pile of discarded clothing next to the wall and the still-fresh memory it triggered made me grin.
I had arrived wearing my best schoolmarm outfit. Included was a striped Oxford shirt, complete with button-down collar. The calf-length corduroy skirt matched the tan in the shirt. Instead of stockings and heels, I had chosen to wear knee socks and penny loafers. A blazer of a darker shade of corduroy completed the look. With my hair in a ponytail, and no make-up, I knew I looked very conservative and quite innocent. It is an image that I've adopted on other, non-sexual, occasions. Those that know me aren't fooled by the clothes, but He didn't know me.
Or did he? In truth, he knew my thoughts quite well. I had told him my secrets and my dreams. Some that I had told no one else. Still, we'd never been face to face before, and I counted on the resulting uncertainty.
And it seemed to work. We talked about the weather and work, and I could see that he was trying to recognize this quiet person as the flirtatious soul that had been brave enough to agree to playing on a first date. I tried not to let my amusement show on my face, and finally said, "So how do we start? I'm afraid I'm not as experienced as you are."
Still hesitating, he gave me an out. "You know, we don't have to do a scene. I'm quite willing to stick with the vanilla stuff. Maybe we should sit on the couch for a while."
"Oh no," I countered, "I want to learn. Please show me."
This brought a small smile to his lips. "Is that so? Okay, then, tell me your safeword, and then take off your clothes. Slowly."
I was really getting into my role as ingenue. I took off my shoes first. And then the socks.
When he realized that they were knee-socks, he snorted. "Let me guess, your underwear is white, right?"
"Yes, it is," I looked up, surprised. "How did you know?"
The blazer went easily. Then I hesitated. "Take off your skirt," he commanded, with a little scowl. Slowly, I unbuttoned the skirt and it slid to the ground. I stepped out of the skirt, and stood still for a moment. The shirt was actually long enough to cover my panties, and although he was looking appreciatively at my legs, I could tell he was getting a little impatient to see what was in the package. "All right, the shirt now." I bit my tongue to keep from smiling as I started on the top collar but- ton. I looked away, like I was embarrassed, as I went down the column. I tried to keep the shirt closed as much as possible until I got to the last button, so that all he could see was just a hint of white. I looked back at him, and he was staring at the tempting gap between the edges of the shirt.
I waited a beat, then two, then slowly pulled the shirt open, and off. Underneath the conservative clothes I was wearing a white lace bustier and tiny lace panties. The bustier was similar to a small corset. Very old-fashioned, in a hot kind of way. The bones hugged my stomach and rib-cage, exerting a constant pres- sure that was quite erotic. The low-cut cups didn't really hold my breasts, but supported and displayed them, like bowls of fruit. The lace was sheer, so that it showed off my nipples, rather than hid them. The same lace in the little string bikini revealed my dark pubic hair. I had seen myself in the mirror earlier, and knew the picture I was presenting.
Surprise, then delight, then chagrin, then lust, chased each other across his face. I smirked, having fooled him, if just a little bit, and couldn't help but say, "Well, they are white, aren't they?"
That was a mistake. He remembered that He was the top, and I was the bottom. "Come here!" he barked, with a very severe expres- sion on his face. Suddenly, I remembered that I really didn't know this man that well. And I experienced my first moment of doubt.
The Man:
What a tricky woman, I thought, as I tried to keep a threatening demeanor while struggling to keep from cracking up with delight. Her body was absolutely delightful, especially so in the half- provocative, half-silly getup that passed for unmentionables; and her face was a treat, the kind of bright, brainy, slightly goofy face that you see across a room and it makes you start smiling out of sheer serendipity.
But...business is business. The woman had obediently walked over next to me (with a charming sway of the hips possibly prompted by bare feet, but certainly enhanced by the hips' owner). I caught her lightly by one shoulder and placed her in front of me, facing away. We looked at ourselves in the convenient full-length mir- ror.
At about nine inches taller, I could comfortably have rested my chin on the top of the woman's head, but I resisted the tempta- tion. I checked myself in the mirror--looked about like usual, tall, somewhat broad and bulky without being fat, brown/grey hair, trimmed silver beard, foresail nose, hard-to-read eyes. Yep, that's me. I placed one hand lightly on each of her shoul- ders and said ``Look at yourself.''
The woman looked at her reflection in the mirror. Again a smile flickered across her face, followed by a solemnity. I could not tell whether it was forced. We both studied her body and the lacy garments in silence for a minute.
Finally I broke the silence. ``Why do you wear this outfit?'' I asked, in a neutral tone. ``Are you under the impression that this meeting is some sort of advanced version of a TV dating show? Did you come prepared to tell me your three biggest tur- nons and your favorite color?''
She looked at my reflected face in the mirror. ``Don't you like-''
I broke in. ``What I _like_ is for you to keep to yourself until I let you KNOW what I like!'' I feigned anger. ``Pull down the top of this silly thing'' I indicated the bustier, ``so your breasts come free.''
She did it, awkwardly. We looked at her breasts, in the mirror. Her breasts were very attractive, soft but firm, with large, enthusiastic looking nipples. The dragged-down bustier looked silly bunched up under her breasts, but that was what we had been needing, a little bit of silly.
After some minutes of silent contemplation, I relented and leaned down, undid the laces, and dropped the bustier to the floor. The woman now stood in front of me wearing only her delicate lace panties, the interesting red marks of the bustier boning and lacing still printed on her pale skin.
``The panties'' I said. ``Slowly. Very slowly. And talk to me while you do it.''
The woman arched an eyebrow. ``Talk? What about?''
I rolled my eyes in mock amazement. ``Any damn thing! What kind of a car do you drive? Where did you go on your last vacation? The nature and scope of your vibrator collection...just talk.''
The woman hooked a thumb in each side of the waistband of the panties and began to talk. She slid the panties down a fraction of a millimeter at a time, talking all the while. She began by describing a trip to Seattle, then quickly switched to the sub- ject of sex aids, without any prompting on my part. Down went the panties; on went the monologue.
Finally she stepped gracefully out of the flimsy garment and stood, completely nude. She had a fine pelt of thick, glossy brown hair between her legs; the last healthy attribute to com- plete her general healthy appearance. She stood, legs slightly apart, perhaps confused but totally unbothered by her lack of clothing.
Good, again, I thought. An exhibitionist. Exhibitionists take very well to all sorts of complicated treatment; it turns them on to be seen and to imagine how they look.
I fixed the woman in place with a look and pointed finger. Then I stepped into the other room, to return immediately with my hands full. ``You must be tired from all that disrobing, my dear'' I said in my best Vincent Price manner. ``Look what I have for you; a nice chair,'' I set the kitchen chair down in the center of the room, ``and so you don't get too chilly without your clothing, lots and lots of nice stout rope.''
Finally! It took the rope to blow her cool. She got it back almost right away, but that involuntary expansion of those green eyes was my first sign of the evening that we were on the right track.
The Woman:
I looked at the simple metal chair, then at the pile of rope.
This was it. We were past the preliminaries. We had looked and talked and found each other pleasing. That was easy. It was a dance with which we were both familiar. But now it was time to decide. I could back out now. I could run. I was still free. If I sat in the chair and allowed myself to be bound, I would be at his mercy. All the safewords in the world wouldn't save me unless he wished it.
I look at him again. Could someone write that many letters, all those words, and not reveal their true self? Was the man I saw really the man I knew? A man that was essentially kind and gen- tle, even as he was inflicting pain. Or would he turn into some- thing evil when I could not defend myself? Scenes from "Blue Velvet" flashed across my mind.
I took a deep breath and sat down in the chair.
He proceeded to tie various appendages to the chair. My mind and body noticed that rope felt different than the chains with which I was familiar. Rougher and tighter. More savage somehow.
He stepped around the chair, playing out the rope, and suddenly I was in an old-fashioned melodrama. The heroine is tied to the chair in the middle of her one room house, as the villain threat- ens her with death, or worse, foreclosure, unless she marries him. This picture tickled me so much, I had to bite my lip to keep from giggling. I got myself under control after a moment, more or less.
I watched in astonishment as he bound my breasts. The feeling was quite erotic, but the sight was rather peculiar. Who would have thought they could look like that? I was entranced for awhile. Then, as he was putting on the finishing touches, a name appeared. Snidely Whiplash. Oh, god. I couldn't laugh now. Tried to think of something else. What was the hero's name? Why can I remember the villain's name, but not the hero or the hero- ine? A red coat. Dudley? That's it, Dudley Dooright. When was Dudley going to turn up, and did I want him to? He always seemed to be such a putz.
I looked at Snidely, struggling to keep my inner hilarity from showing. His face reflected his pleasure while he looked at me. Pleasure from the creative process, or from the resulting image? I couldn't tell.
As he looked at me, my urge to giggle died. I realized that I was on display. Like cheap jewelry, the ropes attracted atten- tion, and advertised my availability. I was a plaything, a slave. He could do whatever he liked to me. The ropes enhanced my desirability.
And my desire.
I wanted this man. Wanted him to take me. Something in me responded to his strength, and reveled in my weakness. He could possess me, and the thought of it excited me. But, I would not let him conquer me without a struggle. Although I could not move, I still had some power over him. He wanted to humble me, to show that he was Master. But I had pride, and determination.
The ropes were not enough to break my spirit.
A new determination crept into his expression. A rather fierce determination. He knelt between my legs. Nervously, and futile- ly, I tried to back away. Then I felt the touch of his lips, and I relaxed.
Ouch! What was that? He bit me! Settle down, it wasn't that bad, it was just the surprise. Just relax. Savor the sensation. Much better. You hardly flinched that time. That's right, on my belly. That feels good.
After a while, the running monologue in my mind quit. The sensa- tions on my body were too much to allow rational thought. I could not remember what had happened before. I could not predict what might happen next. I was just there, responding to the pain and the pleasure as it occurred. Suddenly, my pain centers overloaded. I tried to flee, but I was unable to move. I heard a noise. It was me.
The Man:
I began to untie my captive. Between the rope marks, bite im- pressions, and pounce wheel lines, the woman looked like an understated carnival attraction. Pretty much every section of the front of her body bore some kind of design embossed into her normally pale ivory skin.
I removed the last of the ropes, fixing her in the chair with a glance and an upraised finger. As is the case with some people, her breasts did not immediately relax after removal of the bind- ing ropes; they jutted out and up improbably. As also can be the case, her large, healthy nipples did not recede or relax; getting the benefit of restored circulation, they in fact pointed out larger and stiffer than ever. (Of course, that might just have been simple arousal; we'll take what we can get.)
I walked behind the chair and began kneading the woman's shoul- ders. They were fine, strong, smooth shoulders; I like running my hands over them. ``Are you wet?'' I said, conversationally.
``Am-Pardon me, Sir?''
``Are you wet? Is your cunt lubricating?''
She tried to see me over her shoulder without turning her head. ``Um, I don't know. Sir.''
I grinned. ``Well, put a couple of fingers inside yourself and find out.''
She tentatively moved her right hand to the apex of her thighs.
``No fooling around down there'' I admonished. ``Just stick the fingers in, feel for juice, and take them back out again.''
The woman did a businesslike insertion of her index and middle finger, withdrew them immediately, and tentatively held up her fingers for me to see. Her fingers glistened.
``Looks acceptable'' I said. ``Taste.''
The woman again tried to look backwards without moving her head. It was funny. ``Pardon?'' she said, as if I had asked her to do some small but not completely understood task.
``Taste. Put your fingers in your mouth and taste yourself.''
Well, that didn't phase her one bit. As a matter of fact, when she stuck her fingers in her mouth, her goofy grin came back, around the edges. What a sport! Not much of a bottom in the classical sense, but chock full of personality.
``Stop admiring your flavor and stand up.''
``I--uh--I'm not sure I can, Sir.''
No kidding. ``I'll help you.'' I held her by the shoulders as she slowly stood up from the chair. Her knees cracked as she straightened her legs, an unromantic but very human sound. She swayed slightly in my grasp, and then stood firmly without my help.
I took two steps back and looked the woman over. From the front she looked more than ever like a bloodless Clive Barker SFX character, with her distorted breasts, rope-marked limbs, and pin-dotted hide. Her hair hung lankly around her face and shoul- ders, sweated in places to her body. The bite marks on her lower body were beginning to fade from red (I don't bite that hard) but would be a very attractive purple in the morning. Most exciting- ly of all, a tiny hint of love juice bedewed the confluence of her outer lips and thighs.
``I think it's time for a nice bath,'' I said, sitting on the bed. ``Go in and start the tub filling--water hot, but not too hot--and throw some of that Vitabath in.''
She looked at me in confusion. ``A _bath_? Sir, are we out of scene?''
``No, we are not out of scene until I say so--and another ques- tion like that will get you back in the chair. Now go run the damn bath!''
The woman wobbled into the bathroom on unsteady legs. Aside from being a giant chair-print, her ass was quite lovely, broad, shapely and firm. I heard the water start. I stood up and walked to the window, admired the birds in the small park across the street for a moment. Then I sauntered into the bathroom.
The woman was leaning her hands on the sink, looking at her reflection in the cabinet mirror. She started slightly as she saw me come in through the door.
I padded into the bathroom and turned on the light. And jumped.
I looked in amazement at my reflection in the mirror. There were marks of various colors and types on most of my skin. Standing there, under the bright light, the floor tiles cold under my feet, looking at the evidence of the various tortures I had undergone, I suddenly felt a little spooked. What kind of person allows herself, even asks, to be treated this way? Was it a symptom of some psychological problem? Did I have a deep need to be punished? Then I noticed that my nipples were still standing at attention, and grinned.
If I did have some deep-seated guilt, at least this was more fun than going to confession.
I turned to the bath and started the water, but I couldn't resist looking in the mirror again. This time the marks looked like trophies.
The bath looked delicious, all full of greenish steaming bubbles. I quickly removed my remaining clothing, put first one foot and then the other into the very hot water, and then sank wincingly down until only my shoulders and head showed above the surface.
The woman stared at me. I made a beckoning motion. ``Come on in,'' I said, as if we were at the Ole Swimming Hole. ``But slowly. You'll see why.''
She swung one little shapely leg over the side of the tub and put her foot in the water. Hot, but not too hot. So far so good. She brought in the other foot. Then she began to kneel...and the hot water hit the first of the bite marks and pounce abrasions.
The woman screamed and flew straight up out of the water like a Harrier jet. I was concerned for her safety. I should have been concerned for mine. What screams and goes up must scream and come down. In a prime bit of slapstick, the woman landed on top of me. Half the water in the tub blew out all over the bathroom. The remaining half went down my throat, except for the two gal- lons or so that shot straight up my nose.
For a VERY long moment, we were not dominant and submissive, but a low budget Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn, only nakeder and with more teeth marks.
So, no vanilla sex in the bathtub. Becoming half-drowned with pine-scented green water may hoist the flag on some people. I am not one of those people. A few minutes time found us on opposite ends of the big bed, wrapped in lots of nice clean white towels and nearly laughed out.
It was time to move on. I stopped her from toweling her shiny brown hair, grabbed a fistful of the hair, and pulled her head down onto my thigh.
``Ow!'' Green Eyes complained. ``What's the idea?''
``The idea is that you fucked up in the bathroom and now you get to pay for it in THIS room'' I snarled. I kept hold of her hair with one hand and reached down and captured one of her warm brown nipples with the other. Gave it a _good_ squeeze.
She yelped again. I explained that the more noise she made, the more reason she would have for making the next noise. I wasn't really hurting her very much, but the clutched hair and the callous invasion of the nipple hinted at a classic terror scene, and the change of pace on my part from humorous kindly top to mean sadistic top got to her in a pretty big way.
Finally I stopped talking to her and just communicated by rough physical treatment. The more stuff I did, the more compliant and almost inert she became. Soon I wasn't holding her at all. She flopped on the bed in whatever position I flopped her. At one point I took a real good grasp and lifted the whole lower half of her body off the bed by her pubic hair. Got a great strangled scream for that one. A bit later, I reclaimed her tender, red- dened nipple, and used my fingernails on it. She _really_ got noisy and thrusty at that little trick.
Finally, just after I had flipped her on her back, pried open her buttocks, and stuck two large, unlubricated latex fingers into her ass, the woman began to cry. It was good crying. Sexy crying.
I let her cry for a few minutes, time she could also use to regroup her strength (and possibly her dignity). Then I thought it was enough.
``Stop crying. I'm getting bored.''
The woman looked at me from under a tangle of walnut hair. ``I can't.''
``If you don't stop crying I'm gonna make you masturbate.'' Some threat.
``Wh-what?''
I folded my arms over my chest and looked stern. ``Stop crying this very second or you have to rub yourself off, right here, right now, right in front of me.''
The woman took a deep breath and started crying harder. What a baby! Well, I knew Briar Patch tactics as well as the next country boy, so I merely said, ``Ok. Your choice. Start playing with yourself. Now! And if you STOP crying...'' I grinned evilly, ``...you have to stop frigging.'' I was proud of myself for THAT one.
The woman gave me an exceedingly strange look, and, still crying effectively, parted her legs and began lightly touching and pressing her vulva with both hands. I liked her style.
We spent about ten minute minutes fooling around the outer reach- es of the woman's pussy. Twice she stopped crying, and I com- manded her to stop touching herself. The first time she managed to make herself start crying again, but it only lasted until she got turned on, and then the eyes dried up as the cunt wetted down.
The second time I told her to suspend operations she got mad, but couldn't get the tears to start again. (I should have been taking detailed notes; we were breaking behavioral ground right and left here...)
As soon as I saw her anger begin to fade, I relented. ``Oh, go ahead and do it'' I said, with good-natured gruffness. At that point I had the woman psyched to the stage of doing it with a lit stick of dynamite, but I wasn't interested in danger, just in the sexual theater of the absurd. I settled down to watch.
The woman had style. I surmised she was probably a good dancer, as there was a lot of rhythm and grace in the way she masturbat- ed. After you have observed lots and lots of people in this intimate, usually unselfconscious act, you begin to categorize just as you would dancers or athletes or martial arts practition- ers. There are the self-punishers, who rough themselves up until they hand over the orgasm. There are the desperation artists--if you couldn't see what they are doing with their hands, their facial expression and body language might lead you to believe they were pulling a large barbed fishhook out of their leg. There are the third rail convulsers, who twitch and contort and throw their heads back as if auditioning for a Frankenstein revival. When THESE people finally come, it's hard to tell whether they feel fulfilled or pardoned...
Green eyes was just a nice, wholesome, earthy little slut who found herself really enjoying self-sex with an appreciative audience and a hide full of temporary punctures and abrasions. She moved from slow to fast to slow again. She stuck a couple of fingers in and fucked herself downright violently, with a stab- bing, pounding motion that made her full breasts jiggle beauti- fully. She splayed her legs wide and pulled her lips open, a la a stroke magazine model, leering at me with lidded eyes and a phony-passionate smile. She pinched her nipples hard, raising the weight of each breast by its captured tip until she groaned aloud at how good it felt.
And I was doing what? Sitting. Watching. Watching! This was MY part, my payoff for all the foolishness with ropes and prick- ers and pokers and teeth. Nobody, not her husband nor any lover she might have had or ever will have, could share what we were sharing now. The impending orgasm was a work of art that WE made. The mottled skin and the rope-burned tits were signs of the struggle, but they were the map, not the territory.
By and by she came. With lovely moans and sighs and pelvic snaps and a breakout of beads of sweat on her forehead and chest. With a hand plundering her vulva and the other working a slim finger in her anus. The motions faster and faster and then slower but harder, and then REALLY slow, as the waves washed almost visibly through her system...
For a while I couldn't seem to move. Every muscle in my body was limp - except for a couple that were still twitching occasional- ly, the last echoes of my orgasm. I drifted somewhere, content not to think or do anything.
Finally, I stretched. Mmmm. And looked at him. "Thank you," I murmured.
"My pleasure," he replied with a grin.
I walked the fully-dressed and reconstituted Green Eyes to the elevator. She turned and stood on tiptoe, placed one hand on the back of my neck, pulled me down and in for a long, deep, hot kiss.
The elevator arrived and the door slid open. Empty. I leaned the palm of my hand against the door, holding the elevator while she walked in. ``Well, what would you like to do next time?'' I said with a smile.
A flash of the eyes and a grin. ``You mean we didn't do every- thing _this_ time?''
``Hardly.''
``Well...'' she shrugged and worked her shoulders. ``After my husband gets through violently and extensively fucking me--which is what he is going to do as soon as he catches sight of these marks on my body--I'll take a quiet moment and think it all over.'' This last with a dazzling, toothy smile that featured the gap in the middle.
I leaned into the elevator and hugged her, kissed her hand, and then turned her hand over and lightly bit her wrist.
Green Eyes was laughing and shivering as the elevator doors slid shut, and, I dare say, laughed and shivered off and on for the rest of the day.
*** The End January 1992
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