| It Ain't Over
God damn, this guy could dance!
Is this a Lambada?, she asked herself, as she rubbed her crotch up and down the tall black man's thigh, and his strong grip crushed her breasts against the his lower ribcage.
Its just dancing, she told herself (even though she knew it was as close to fucking as you could get in public).
A huge old black woman was belting out some down and dirty Rhythm and Blues, but a packed dance floor had taken a step back to watch Ann and her muscular partner writhe on one another. Despite the fact that the room was about a thousand degrees, and humid enough to start raining, she was all too aware of the heat and moisture of his body, transmitting through the sweat-soaked silk of her dress.
Her husband would not like this. But he's the one that wouldn't dance. Is it her fault if this guy had stepped up to fill the void. And John would be filling her "void" later, she giggled to herself, not this guy. Anyway, it was just dancing.
Yeah; dancing. The guy was behind her now, grinding his bulge against her ass, forcing her against him with one strong hand on her belly, inches above her "void" (she had decided, in an instant, that she liked that term, since, excited as she was, that's what it felt like: a void that needed filling.), and his other hand on her chest, snug up under her breasts.
She should go. John was going to be pissed.
But it felt so good to dance like this. John doesn't dance.
And God, this guy could dance. She felt like a fertility goddess...
Oh shit. John was standing in front of her, and he was not happy. An almost imperceptible motion with his head meant, "Lets go".
Oh oh. She broke away from her dance floor lover, barely daring to give him a shrug and a surreptitious wave goodbye, before she followed like a reprimanded child, out onto Bourbon St.
The cool air (well, cooler then the jungle-like bar, it was still damn hot!), the cool air hit her and her head spun a little. She felt drunk, which was stupid, since she'd only had two Hurricanes all night. Nope, there was no blaming this on the booze.
Damn, John was really pissed off , she could tell by the way he headed off into the crowd, letting her keep up. While they were standing on Canal St. waiting for the streetcar, she tried protesting that she was "just dancing" and that it was his own fault for not dancing himself. No good.
They could have caught a cab, but since they arrived three days before, though they had taken cabs a number of times, when they were going between the Quarter and their Bed & Breakfast, she had insisted they always take the trolley, just because it was so beautiful.
By the time a St. Charles car came, he had cooled off enough to apologize for getting mad, and they talked of other things on their way back to their B & B. She was relieved. She would hate to spend their trip having some stupid argument. And the guy had been a good dancer, she smiled to herself.
They walked, arms around each other, from the streetcar to the B & B.
It smells so yummy here, she thought to herself for the umpteenth time since they arrived. It smells sultry, hot. Honeysuckle, and Bougainvillaea, and some musky, sexual smell that seemed familiar, but she couldn't name.
They had a great B & B. It was around the back of a huge old house, with it's own private courtyard, over-grown and in just enough disrepair as to have character. John asked her if she felt like a beer, and though the thought of drinking more didn't really appeal, she was hot and so she accepted, if just for the simple joy of sharing something with her man.
They sat in silence, across the round metal cafe table in the dark garden, enjoying the night.
She barely touched her beer. Mostly she just rolled the cold bottle across her forehead. Then, as her mind drifted back to her deliciously sexy dance partner, she moved the bottle sensually to her neck, down over her chest, and stroked it between her breasts, while watching John watch her. He was interested. Good. She thought that getting herself shoved full of cock-meat would make a fine end to a lovely day. She pulled one of the thin straps off her shoulder, letting the silk make its way off her breast, while she continued sensuously "cooling herself". She kept this up for too long, enjoying the anticipation.
"Want to go to bed?", she finally purred.
He eagerly agreed.
When she was done in the bathroom, he went to take his contacts out, and she got into bed to wait for him. And, if he had come just then, she would have attacked him, worked him into an animal frenzy, then laid back and let him fuck her until she hurt, and everything would have been wonderful.
But he didn't.
He decided he needed a shower, "a quick one", he called out to her.
That was his mistake.
It pissed her off. She made a direct correlation between his taking a shower while she was waiting to get fucked, and his refusal to dance. Maybe she was right, maybe not. But by the time he finally got to bed, clean and cool and ready to rut, she had been going over the little episode in the R&B club. Fuck, they were only dancing! If he wouldn't dance, why should he expect her not to. Dog in the manger. And how dare he order her out of there as if he owned her. Did he think that And then he was in bed beside her, snuggling his meaty dick against her hip, his hand working its way down her belly. She rolled over in a huff. Not tonight, Prick.
"What's wrong? I thought you wanted to."
"I changed my mind"
"Well, what did you get me all worked up for, then?"
She rolled towards him, rubbed herself against his body and cooed,
"you horny, baby? Your cock all big and hard for me?"
"Oh, yeah." he gasped in her ear.
She gripped his hard dick, and stoking it, purred,
"oo, Its so hard. You want to shove that big thing deep inside me?"
She massaged his balls and arched against him like a cat in heat.
"You need to cum, Baby?"
He groaned an affirmative.
He was almost whining.
"Well do it yourself."
"What?". He was in shock.
"You heard me, jack yourself off. I'm pissed off with the way you made me stop dancing. You made me dance by myself and got pissed off when I enjoyed it, so now you can go play with yourself: I'm going to sleep.",
and she rolled over.
"You can't be serious." Her silence was his answer. They both lay in silence for a number of minutes, she still fuming, but also curious as to what he would do, and he at first confused, then mad.
What the fuck? This was bullshit. She deliberately gets me all worked up and then tells me to jerk off? I mean, What the fuck?
He was pissed. But he still wanted to fuck.
Denial. He snuggled against her, his hard-on riding up the crack of her ass, and tried coaxing her,
"Come on, babe, I need it."
"You know what to do!"
Fuck! He turned over so they were back to back. Without thinking about it, he found his hand had drifted down to his hard dick. Well, he had no intention of jerking off! Not a chance. Fuck her. He'd just go to sleep.
Yeah. Sure he would.
He kept seeing that cold beer bottle flicking her rock hard nipple, teasing him from across the table. And his hard-on got harder in his grip.
Fuck! He was so turned on he was desperate. It must have been an hour after her last refusal, and he was still lying there on his back, gently rubbing himself. He could not let himself jerk off, but neither could he make himself let go. His mind was filled with thoughts of her, and the cold beer bottle, and the black guy she had been dancing with, and the beer bottle, and...
Fuck it, she was asleep now anyway. His hand started moving more insistently, more purposefully. Ah, yes. Oh, thats what he needed. He tried to keep the motion down, and knew he did a good job of suppressing his breathing. He licked a finger wet, and slowly eased it into his asshole until it was buried. It would help him come, and so reduce the amount of jerking off. He certainly did not want her to wake up, let her know that she had won.
Asleep? How could she sleep? John had been lying beside her rubbing his cock for hours; she could feel the bed moving. Not hard, but she knew what he was doing. She'd had lots of time to cool off, and now that her anger was long gone, all she could picture was him stroking that huge cock of his. Hours of picturing his hand moving up and down that hard/soft meat. She knew just what the thing felt like, as it grew meaty in her hand, and then firming to that wonderful hard/soft. She could imagine the feeling as the sweat formed, lubricating her grip, as the veins pulsed. She could feel the weightiness of it. How it jerked when it was happy, the big knob getting gooey under her fingers, as if drooling in eager anticipation. The skin, as it slides along the length. The thickness... thickness which, now that her anger had been replaced by lust, she wanted to be stretching her wide open not wasting in his fist.
She hoped that somehow he would read her mind, and roll over on top of her and bury that fucking thing in her so hard and so deep that she would scream: there was a puddle under her hip where she had leaked down the back of her thigh.
Maybe she should
No way. No way could she turn to him now. `Too proud', she admonished herself, but she suffered in silence. To proud even to do more than slip a finger inside herself; if she rubbed, he might notice, and being forced to masturbate was his punishment, she'd be damned if she would let him know that she'd been caught in her own trap.
So she lay, frustrated, her ears straining for every detail, as he started jerking off in earnest. There was not a sound in the house except for that one hand roughly milking that huge fleshy club, a task that should, she told herself, have been the exclusive pleasure of her pussy. But instead, he was doing fine on his own, pleasuring himself well, if she could judge from his breathing, and she was left completely unsatisfied, riding her far too slender finger. She squeezed her muscles, trying to make do, but what she needed was that big hard cock.
Pumping his meat and fingering fucking his ass, his mind filled with graphic images of that black man making his wife do vile things to herself with that beer bottle, while she serviced both men. In fact, he was pleasuring himself to the point of losing track of his actions, and consequently made far more of a ruckus then he realized.
Much to her frustration.
This did to her what no porno movie ever had. She used to fantasize about men masturbating, but now that it was real and beside her, instead of having him cum all over her as she used to imagine, she wanted him to use his dick where it would do her the most good. Her only consolation was that with him making so much noise, she knew he wouldn't notice if she allowed herself to start seriously diddling herself. With both her hands at work, her left middle finger buried inside while her right forefinger ground her clitoris, it seemed much less impossible for her to just roll over and mount him. Should she? But...
Fuck it, this was stupid. They both wanted it. So she decided to go for it.
Everything suddenly stopped. His forced breath stopped, his hand stopped, the vibration of the bed stopped and so, in turn, her finger on her clit had to stop.
So that while he blissfully spurted goo all over his stomach, merely intensifying his orgasm by holding his breath to stop from groaning aloud, she was left lying with a finger stuck uselessly up her hole and juice running down her ass.
Damn! She even thought of rolling over and licking the spent cum off his cock, sure that that would turn him on enough that he would show mercy and help get her off. But she couldn't bring herself to do it, feeling like she would be begging. Debasing herself.
He was moving. He was searching for something. The towel, she decided. She took the opportunity to take her hand from her pussy.
Within minutes, his breath was even, and soon replaced with a light snore.
Her brain was still in high gear. She slipped out of bed, put on her robe, and moved noiselessly out to the warm, sacred quiet of the shadowy garden. Sitting in the dappled moonlight, embracing one knee, that foot raised to the cafe chair, she slipped her hand into the folds of her robe, and masturbated. Or perhaps, considering the beauty she felt in being part of the scene, "made love to her self" would be closer.
He was already up when she awoke; he usually was. She smelled coffee, and expected to find him in the garden.
Nope, just a note beside the coffee machine, an archaic thing that looked like part of a 1950's nuclear weapon.
Gone out for a while, should be back before noon.
Sorry about last night.
I love you,
Well, at least he wasn't still mad at her.
She was anything but still mad, and felt guilty for being a bitch. As she showered, she decided she would make it up to him by giving him a blowjob to end all blowjobs, as soon as he got back. As she contemplated all the lovely, dirty little things she would do to him, she found herself washing her pussy for an exceedingly long time.
No, she would wait for him. It would be fun to tease herself for an hour.
She was still working on her second cup of coffee, sitting in the garden in her robe, day dreaming about sucking cock, when John arrived back.
She asked about the package he had: "beer", and he went to put it in the fridge.
She followed him in, looking for a seductive way of offering him the so well planned blowjob, but he was on a different speed.
"Lets go grab lunch, The Ronnie Tomas Trio is playing at 2:00 and I want to catch them.
The who? She'd never heard of them, and was kind of surprised that he had.
While she was dressing, she apologized for being a bitch last night, and told him he had a rain check for the best blowjob in history, since they didn't want to keep Ronnie waiting.
He said he was sorry too, and they all lived happily ever after.
Well, not quite.
Ronnie was good.
Not worth missing the greatest blowjob in history for, she thought, but good. And it was John's loss.
John decided they should have an early dinner in the Quarter before heading back to hear Sonny Rollins.
Ok. She could eat, and wouldn't mind seeing Sonny, though she felt the mildest bit put out that after offering him what she had hoped would be a wonderful present, he seemed to have forgotten all about it. Which was silly, since how often do you get a chance to see Sonny Rollins. But still.
The place he chose, again without consultation, was an unbelievably expensive restaurant that they had rejected on their second night there.
Then, in the middle of dinner, just after the coquille St. Jacques, in the middle of a conversation, John said without dropping his voice in the slightest,
"Go to the washroom and take off your panties, and bring them to me."
She stopped everything and looked at him.
One glance said he was completely serious.
She forgot to breath.
What was this? He didn't do things like that.
Neither did she.
But as her brain spun in high gear, thinking of the implications, it seemed like such a little thing. Take off her panties. So what. Her dress was almost to her knees, and dark green. No one would know but them.
But did he have something else in mind? She would just have to trust him. No doubt it was his way of approaching the promised blow job.
Sure. Why not. If that's what turned his crank...
He watched two dozen thoughts flit across her face before she finally smiled, stood, and said,
"Excuse me a moment".
In the washroom, it was easy for her to strip them off her bare legs. It was only on leaving that she felt suddenly conspicuous, like the whole restaurant knew that a strong wind would bare her to them, and that the black ball, only partially concealed in her fist, was her intimate garment.
She knew she was blushing by the time she reached the table. And that made her feel dumb, so she blushed more. It seemed like such a little thing, so why was her heart pounding? It wasn't that she had no underwear on, it was that he had told her to take them off, with the danger that implied, and that she had then gone and done it. She handed him the scrap of black lace as surreptitiously as possible, as she took her seat. And he let it fall open, holding them between himself and the table, but clearly visible to anyone who looked, and pretended to be studying them, appreciating them.
She turned crimson. How could he?
Simple, she answered herself, they are not his underwear. And he tucked them in his pocket as dinner arrived, poured her some more wine, and resumed talking as if nothing had happened.
And, in fact, when she thought about it, very little had. But that did not stop her from thinking about it all through dinner. Not that she was incredibly aroused. Its just that she couldn't get her mind off of it. And inevitably, when her mind did wander back to her naked pussy, he would smile as if he knew just where she was. She could feel the sexual energy building between them, happy that they could recover this quickly from that horrible thing last night.
What surprised her was when, after dinner, he flagged a cab and headed them back to the fair grounds. She had been sure that somewhere about the time her panties had come off, the plans for the evening had been changed, and she was disappointed that they had not.
It was crazy, but she was starting to get jealous of a jazz festival. Sure, that's what they had come for, they had joked about it being their "Billy Holiday", but that jazz took precedence over... over,
His hand, which had been on her knee, was moving up her thigh. And it kept moving until she could feel the air conditioned air of the cab on her pussy. She stiffen and moved to take his hand away. He wouldn't move it, and instead buried it between her thighs. She pulled her skirt over it. He started rubbing the edge of his hand along her slit. She relaxed a little, and tried to enjoy the sensation. And soon she was grinding herself against his hand. Fuck, now she really didn't feel like going to the concert. She asked him if he wanted to miss it.
"Miss Sonny? We can't miss Sonny!"
And so he continued diddling her until suddenly they were there and he was paying the cabby who had turned around, and she was sitting with her skirt almost up around her waist, fumbling to straighten it out without looking obvious, which was impossible.
Sonny was good, at least what she noticed. They stood near the back, John behind her, and did the palest imitation of her "Lambada", or whatever it was the night before, but this was John, and it was enough to keep her mind straying from the show.
By halfway through the show, his hands were wandering just about everywhere on her body, as he ground his dick against the top of her butt. It felt so wonderful that, as he got increasingly daring, she didn't care who saw what. Let them find their own man to fondle them. She had her's. Besides, it was crowded enough that only a few people directly behind them could see anything at all.
So she had to keep telling herself, as he slowly inched the side of her skirt up, higher, and higher until his hand was caressing her bare hip! All they can see is my thigh, she told herself, shivering with tension, terrified that he might try to move his hand down to her pussy, and yet wishing there was some way for him to manage it.
Before the encore, he took her hand and led her out to catch a cab. She found his new found decisiveness both very appealing and a little disquieting. Fine for a day, but would she want to live with it?
"Are you wet?", he asked, as they walked.
"Dripping", she assured him
"When we get in the cab," he purred to her, "I want you to sit behind the driver, put your dress up around your waist, turn sideways in the car and play with yourself. But don't touch your clit. Just give me a guided tour of your pussy, inside and out."
Oh, fuck. That was...that was delicious. Safe; the cabby would never know, and yet so close to danger. She was to play the trollop, but at his insistence, which relieved her of responsibility. And after what they had done in the concert, this would be a piece of cake.
They got in opposite sides of the cab, and she followed her instructions immediately, carefully gathering the skirt of her dress, and tucking the bulk of it behind her so that from the belly down, she was bare. One knee against the back of the seat, the other sprawled out, her naked pussy splayed wide for her husband's pleasure.
Its all yours, Baby, she thought to herself, as she tried to figure out what he wanted to see. She closed her eyes, and ran both hands up and down either side of her pussy. She slowed, and started pulling the thick pillows apart, stretching herself open, invitingly, she hoped. She wet a finger in her mouth, for effect, since she was certainly wet enough without it, and slowly eased into herself. She fucked herself deep with it, and then raised it to her lips, licking her juice in as provocative, sensuous, slutty a manner as she could manage. She peered at John though half lidded eyes: he seemed entranced by what he saw.
Guess I'm doing it right, she thought. As she proceeded, she spoke to him in her mind, hoping her fingers were conveying her thoughts.
Does that look good, Baby? Does that make your big cock all nice and hard? Is this where you want to put that thing? You going to ram that great, big, thick cock into this nice wet hole? You gonna shove it in deep. I can't wait till you fill me full of your big cock.
It wasn't play acting. It may have started that way, but within a minute, she was so hot, she thought she would go mad long before the cab got there. It was sweet cruelty on John's part that she was not allowed to touch her clit.
Fuck, that was exciting. The worst kind of tease (which means the best kind), since she was teasing herself.
But, she thought, I can't be putting on as good a show as I want, or he'd be across this car raping me by now.
They did, however, survive the cross town trip with both her sanity and her honour intact, though the cab had not even pulled away from the curb before she was climbing up his body, her tongue halfway down his throat, him laughing around it.
"That'll be one horny cabby", he declared, as they stumbled down the dark passage between the houses.
"Do you think he knew anything?"
"Knew anything? That cab smelled like a cat in heat!"
She should have been mortified, but frankly, she didn't care.
"Do you have any idea how turned on that made me?"
"Yeah, I saw the wet mark on the seat when you got out"
"All I could think of was how badly I wanted you inside me"
"Yeah, how bad?"
"I didn't think I could wait, and was wishing you'd take me right there, in the car."
"Yeah? well can I tie you up, first?", as he held the screen door for her.
She stopped in the doorway and looked at him with the same slack-jawed disbelief as in the restaurant.
I mean, they weren't sexual prudes, but they just didn't do that sort of thing.
Not that she'd never been tied up before. Hadn't everyone, at some point? But it wasn't her thing. She didn't dislike it, it just didn't do anything for her. But, right now, he could do anything he wanted, if he would just fill her up.
"If you want", she heard her voice sounding unsure.
She felt even less sure when he took a plastic shopping bag off the fridge and brought out a snarl of serious-looking black leather and buckles.
"What, is that?"
"I bought it this morning", he said, slipping behind her and gently rolling the straps of her dress off her shoulders. "The guy in the store said it was really comfortable to wear"
She didn't sound convinced. But she let him keep undressing her. And was soon tapping her foot impatiently, as he strapped the thing onto her forearms, parallel behind her back. When done, her forearms were encased loosely in tubes of stiff leather, held together so that she could grasp both elbows.
So, now what?
He led her into the bedroom, lay her down, her legs off the edge of the bed, and started going down. So who needs arms anyway, she thought as she started luxuriating in his ministrations.
God, he knew how to get her going! He always waited a while before getting serious, dancing around her clit, working her up, making her wait for it. The anticipation drove her nuts, it was cruel heaven. A few minutes of that and she would be all but begging for him to do it "right".
And this time he was out-doing himself. It must have been three years of that wondrous wet tongue caressing her very centre, and of her getting increasingly vocal, trying to convince him that she really was ready for a little mind-blowing release, when he finally brushed her clit for the first time, so lightly that it was scarcely more then a breath.
"Oh god, Yes!", she bellowed her approval.
Finally! She was so turned on that a few more licks right there, a little bit harder, and she'd be there.
He brushed it again; a feather. No, harder.
"harder", she gasped.
What the fuck was he doing, where was he?
She open her eyes; peering at him between her tits, which thrust proudly upward, exaggerated by the arch her arms caused in her back.
He was inches away from it, staring at it.
She raised her hips, making it easier for him.
His tongue came slowly out of his mouth, snaked down out of her sight, and she tensed, shaking trying to hold herself up for him, not even breathing; this was more important. And...
That was it?! How could he lick her more lightly? She was whimpering, though she didn't know it.
"You want it, Red?" She groaned an impassioned, "yes"
"You want my dick deep inside you?"
She gasped "yes". A good licking would have been her first choice, but that would do just fine.
"Tell me what you want."
"I want you to fuck me. Fuck me hard, Baby."
She groaned in frustration. Enough was enough. What the hell did he want, for her to beg for it? She would, if it would turn him on enough to get him on top of her. She liked talking dirty to him;
"Please Baby? Please fuck me? I need your big cock in me so bad. Please.."
"naw, I think I'd like that blowjob now."
Well it took her all of no seconds to do that math equation too well known by women:
1 hard cock + 1 blowjob = 0 hard cocks + 1 frustrated pussy
"No, I want you to fuck me, Baby"
"Well, I want you to want to suck my cock." and he dropped the issue, and went back to licking her pussy. All around the hole, up inside the folds, chewing on her lips, and dancing little circles around her clit, without ever touching it. Damn it!
"John! I want you to fuck me!"
"Well, that's not what I want you to want. And since your hands are tied, what I want goes."
"John!" she complained, fighting against her bonds, which really hadn't bothered her until he had pointed them out.
Damn. Ok, she'd do it his way, if she knew she'd get some later.
"Alright, if you'll do me after."
He came up just long enough to dismiss her surrender.
"That doesn't sound like your dying to suck my dick", and he went back to teasing her. Of course, if she had wanted, she could have told him to fuck himself and let her go, but she was starting to really enjoy his little game, in a twisted, frustrated , kind-to-be-cruel sort of way.
Two minutes more of his teasing and she gave in. She was going to scream if he didn't either finish her or stop.
He looked up over her red bush, questioningly.
"Ok. Please let me suck your cock", she recited.
There. She had said the prescribed words. At least they could move on to something other than tormenting her.
"That didn't sound like you meant it", he condemned, and ran his evil tongue up the length of her left mound, licked her clit firmly, once. Waited. Twice more. And then blew on it.
"OK! OK! Please! I really want to suck your cock. Please!".
She couldn't believe that she was actually begging to suck John's cock.
You're such a slut, she admonished herself, even as she was doing it.
"Do you need to?", he coached, still toying with her clit in such a random manner that it gave her no pleasure whatsoever, but just maintained that peak level of frustration.
"Yes," she moaned, getting into playing his whore. "Oh yes!, Oh Baby, I desperately neeeed to suck your great big cock. Please, please give it to me. Please fuck my mouth"
"But only sluts like sucking cocks that much."
What? What was she supposed to do with that one?
"Are you saying that your a slut?"
He couldn't expect her to say that. No way. She couldn't.
"Then I guess you don't really want to suck my cock",
and dove down to take her pussy lip in his teeth, pulling it away, until it caused just the slightest pain. And another vicious lick at her clit, and
"OK! Yes!", she suddenly broke, she didn't care any more. He had won. Anything he wanted.
"Yes! I'm a slut!, a cock sucking slut. Please, fuck my face!".
"Will you do anything I want?"
"Yes, anything. I'm your whore, you can use me any way you want."
And she meant it.
Every word of it. It was as if something had broken, and suddenly she felt so free, openly declaring, liberating a side of herself that had always been kept controlled.
But you're not in control now, she assured herself, as he loomed over her, that huge dick coming at her mouth. With no hands to limit him, she was at his mercy to limit his thrusts! But he was careful not to go too deep.
This is what bondage is all about, she clicked, has her mouth was filled with cock; being forced to do things that you want to do, but don't dare.
She couldn't do anything. Her head was pinned to the bed by his thrusting dick, and there was nothing for her to do; just lie back and be a passive orifice for him to take his pleasure in.
She felt like the slut she'd said she was. And she liked it!
She had always enjoyed sex, but had never so openly wallowed in it, throwing all dignity and pride so completely to the wind, and letting out that true slut that lurked so deep in dark recesses of her mind that "she" was only allowed to come out as far as her most private masturbatory fantasies. Vile tales, her fantasies were, of being the only woman among a huge group of men (hundreds, thousands, in a prison, or maybe on a deserted island), kept, passed around, used day and night as their communal piece of sexual meat. And loving it!
He was quick to start the grunting that she recognized as "Look out baby, here it comes", and she suddenly panicked that he would thrust down her throat when he came, or that she would drown in sperm while trying to swallow on her back.
But instead, he pulled out to squirt his hot goo all over her face.
Figures, it flashed through her mind, that's what you do with whores, isn't it? Its what they do in porno movies, and she'd never seen a porno that was rawer than this little scene.
So play your role, Slut, she told herself, and opened her mouth, stretching her tongue out in hopes of catching a drop or two of his sperm when it started flying; the picture of submission, not to his will (she knew that his coercion was merely an scapegoat for her pride), but to her own whorish wantonness. It felt so wonderful, now, to be revealing that inner slut to someone. To John.
So come on, Baby. Cum all over your whorish wife's face.
She didn't have to beg. In an instant, huge stringy gobs of sperm where squirting out in pulses, splattering across her face, pooling in the corner of one eye, clinging to her nose, clogging one nostril, and covering everything from her upper lip to her chin in a slimy mess. She leered up at him, one eye closed, grinning with licentious self-satisfaction, blew him a sultry, cummy kiss, and started lasciviously licking the goo off her lips.
Then she lost it and giggled.
"Am I your Slut, Baby?"
"The best", he assured her, grinning from ear to ear.
Still kneeling astride her, half sitting on her chest, with a clear look of joy and love in his eyes, he gently scooped the cooling sperm out of the corner of her eye, and brought it near her mouth. But not so near that she didn't have to commit herself by extending her tongue to lick the cold congeal from his hand.
"She", that inner whore, was absolute adoring this; it was so disgusting. She gave a throaty, wanton laugh, and raised her head to suck the digit clean.
And so he cleaned her, picking the slimy cold strands of goo off her face and feeding them to her, making her come after each one, and then using the edge of his finger as a squeegee, scooped up the runnier remains and fed those to her, as well.
And he told her he loved her, which was reassuring to hear after she had just bared her soul to him, and she returned the vow, so he would have no doubt but that she had enjoyed his fantasy.
And that's when they live happily ever after.
Not even close.
He was just getting warmed up.
Hell, this was the most fun he'd had in forever. He finished getting undressed, but one look at his limp dick and she knew it wasn't to mount her.
The unbelievable frustration she had felt was passed now, and, though she certainly wouldn't have said "no" to a good fuck or a mustache ride, she didn't neeeed it like she had. Still, she sort of felt like she deserved some reward for playing out his fantasy so well. He was still, quite obviously, enjoying his control game, so she figured it would probably be futile to ask him to please her, so staying in character, she asked him if he wouldn't like to watch his "slut of a wife" play with her pussy.
"No, that's ok. You go ahead, I'm going to sleep."
And he clicked off the light and got in beside her.
"Well, aren't you at least going to take this thing off my arms?"
"Oh no, that's staying on 'til we leave."
"John! No way."
"John, you can't expect me to sit around here and wear this thing all day tomorrow."
"You said you'd do anything I want. Well, what I want is for you to be my prisoner for until we leave. And don't worry, we won't be sitting around here all day."
Go out like this? No. Impossible. Great idea; "she" would love it. But for real? No way.
"Go to sleep"
"Then play with yourself, like you wanted, it ought to relax you."
Fuck, now she was frustrated again, though only because she knew she was helpless to do anything about it.
"Fuck!", and she thrashed about in her frustration for a moment, until she realized the bastard was lying there smiling to himself. She could smell it. And she knew it was pointless to argue with him.
In fact, it wouldn't have been, and she knew it. If she demanded in all seriousness that she didn't want to play his game, she knew he would release her. And feel very hurt. But she managed to ignore that knowledge so she could pretend to herself that this was against her will; not willing to admit that "she", the filthy, sluttish sex-fiend of her fantasies, was screaming in her brain, Oh yes! This is great. This is Heaven. Make me do whatever you want. Make me show you what a slut I really am.
She lay quietly, her brain in turmoil, far into the night. At one point, she tried to masturbate herself on her heel, but it only infuriated her. Finally, very late, she managed to fall asleep.
She didn't sleep well. She could only get comfortable on her back or on her stomach, and it seemed as if even the her deepest sleep she was aware of her bondage. But when the mid-morning sun moved to start cooking her under the light sheet, she was forced to get up. She went pee, but couldn't wipe herself. She couldn't even wipe the sleep from her eyes, or was it dried cum? And there was no putting on a robe. So she went into the little sunroom off the kitchen to find John sitting in the garden with coffee and a paper.
"Morning, Ann.", as casj' as if she were in her robe, instead of naked and trust up like a turkey.
"Morning." she said, unamused. She was never best in the morning.
"Do you think I could have my hands back for just a few minutes, so I could wash my face, maybe even have a shower.?"
"Oh no, we couldn't have that.", he said in mock horror, "you might try to masturbate in the shower. No, I think I'll give you a bath. After all, you are my plaything, and I do have to take care of my things."
This was silly. He was going to bath her, like a child?
She sighed, and followed him back through the house to the old, claw foot tub. He ran a bath, and as it was filling, hugged her long and hard, kissing her despite her morning mouth. What, was he going to brush her teeth, too? He helped her into the filling tub, a good grip on her arm as she sat in the tepid water. Most accidents happen in the bath, she tried to joke to herself, but couldn't find it funny.
The tub was only half filled when he shut it off. He carefully washed every inch of her, and once she accepted the ridiculous situation, she had to admit to herself that it was a nice way of being pampered;
I feel lazy this morning, darling, would you mind bathing me? There's a good fellow.
He washed her face, wiped her neck, cleaned behind her ears, scrubbed her back, and spent far more time then necessary cleaning her breasts and pussy. Then he leaned her back against towel, her arms still out of the water, and carefully shaved her legs.
Oo, spoil me, baby.
And then, yes, he even tried to brush her teeth, at which point she rebelled.
"Look, John, this is great, and I really am enjoying this game, but could I please be free for three minutes while I brush my own teeth. You're hurting my gums, and besides, I really need to stretch my arms out"
He let her arms free.
And she made the most of it. Finished with her teeth, she washed her forearms which were disgustingly hot and sticky in their leather prisons, and reveled in being able to straighten her arms.
The three minutes was ten, and though he stood right there watching her, he made no sign that her respite was over. Understanding, she thanked him, and turning her back to him, raised her arms into position. The braces really were remarkably comfortable. If it hadn't been so hot, she felt she wouldn't have minded them, that, of course, assuming that she was to be bound at all.
Bound again, she sat on the toilet as he did an awkward job of applying her make-up. Not a lot of it, and the finished effect was acceptable to her, but it took him fifteen minutes to do what she could have done in three. But he was having fun, and they were both laughing by the time he was done, so what the hell.
"Coffee?", he offered.
"Go out to the garden, then, and I'll bring it out."
"Sure. Why not"
"But, what if "
"Nobody has come back there in a week and there's no reason to think anyone will. There aren't any windows onto the garden, and if some one does see, fuck'em."
Great. Fuck'em. Easy for him to say, he had all his clothes on and wasn't trussed up like the centrefold for Popular Pervert. When he came with the coffee, she was still standing just inside the sunroom, trying to screw up her courage.
"What happened to you being my little slut?" he asked, standing with her in the doorway looking at the deserted garden.
"Its.. its too much", she said. "I might be able to sit out there naked for you if my arms weren't tied or bound, or whatever, and I might be able to sit out there bound, if I weren't naked, but..."
"Just a minute, then".
He put the coffee and croissants out on the table, and then went into the house. He returned to drape her robe over her shoulders. Not fastened, so she was still completely exposed, but hiding her arms.
Yeah, that would be ok.
Thank God he was being compassionate about this thing; earning her absolute trust where she had thought he had already had it. She deliberately sat with her back to the path round the house. And he fed her croissants, and poured coffee into her mouth for the better part of an hour, caressing her until the robe fell back off her shoulders, noticed, but of no concern. Scarcely a word passed between them, but both savoured the delicious sensuality of the moment; a loving husband feeding his bound, naked wife pastries in a languid tropical garden. It was one of those perfect moments that she wished would never end.
But eventually, he decided that it was time, and left her sitting naked in the garden, suddenly aware of her helplessness should anyone come. Which, though she scarcely acknowledged the fact, made her tingle excitement. No one did come, and John was soon back with a light, cotton print sleeveless dress and her white blazer. While she choked back a protest, he took out his pocket knife and cut both straps on the dress. Hardly a favourite of hers, but still! Once on her, he used safety pins to refasten the severed straps. The blazer was draped over her shoulders, sandals strapped to her feet; being dressed made her feel like she were a five year old.
"I can't go out like this, you know."
"Of course. Why not."
"Well, what are people going to think?"
"I figure they will guess one of four things and not be able to decide which one is the truth. Either you are an uppity bitch who reads too much Vogue, or your mother took Thalidomide, or you've been in a horrible accident and your coping very well, or your husband has tied your hands behind your back in some bizarre sex game. And anyone who could even think up that last one is obviously some kind of pre-vert, so who cares what they think. Anyway, we are going out for a walk and we're in a city where no one knows us, so it doesn't matter what anyone thinks."
She demanded that he take her to the full length mirrors in the wardrobe. And she had to admit that any of his four explanations looked equally possible. Her arms bulged the jacket ever so slightly if she stood normally. If she stuck her chest out a little, you couldn't see a thing. Of course that meant walking like one of those women that look like they are far too proud of their boobs and stick them out so every man will notice.
"Ok. I'll try it. But if I can't deal with it, we come right back, ok?"
He put on their shades, and they walked out to Magazine St.
Not too bad. There were few people around and she could make herself ignore those in cars. Yeah, if it was important that they have a little walk, so he could prove he was boss, this was no less private then last night in the cab. And even as she thought this, a cab pulled up to the curb beside them, and John opened the door for her.
Where the hell was he taking her. She would be too far from home. Out of control. She wanted to break and run, but there was no where to go. She wanted to refuse to get into the car, but didn't want to make a scene with the cabbie right there, and an old couple passing on the side walk. So she got in, not without some awkward shuffling that partially dislodged the blazer. She froze in an awkward position, knowing that the least movement would bare her horrible secret to the world (ie. anyone who leaned over the cab to look inside the rear window.
John got in the other side and gave an address.
As they headed out into traffic he looked at her to find her frantically motioning to her shoulder, where the blazer had slipped. He tugged it back on, no harm done. But her brain was on overload. Her heart, pounding. He snuggled over and started kissing her temple, but she was barely aware of it. It was like a nightmare where you're out in public and realize that you're naked. Yet she had no real desire to end the game, determined to see how far she could go.
The fact was, the adrenaline had her wired up like a speed freak, and she enjoyed the rush, wanted it to continue, and knew in her soul that John would not let her down. As the ride took them uneventfully to the Quarter, she calmed some. She was still shaking, though she attributed it to the too-cold car. But basically she settled into a post traumatic numbness, like a soldier who has survived one brutal battle, and is waiting, an automaton, for the next.
John paid for cab and nonchalantly came round to help her out. He was so good at acting casual that it never occurred to her that it said as much about him to be walking with a bound woman as it did about her to be that bound woman.
They were on a quiet side street, just east of the Square. She recognized it from shopping a few days earlier. They strolled, his arm around her waist a comforting anchor.
"How are you doing, Ann?", he asked, with the tender concern.
"I'm, I'm doing ok.", she decided. "Relaxing a bit."
He stopped her and kissed her, thanking her for going along. Then he steered her into a store displaying the most frightening collection of bondage and leather gear.
A man looked up and immediately broke off talking with a customer to come over and greet John like an old friend. Or maybe old lover. The guy (mid-thirties, balding, neat mustache, leather vest over a hairy chest) had a catty, insinuating voice that screamed "fag". John introduced him to her as "Robert", who had sold him the braces she was wearing.
She started at the open mention to a stranger, but Robert immediately sidled closer in a conspiratorial "girl-talk" sort of way that both amused and relaxed her.
He loves his pair. His master has made him where them for an entire month, to work and everywhere. And they are the most comfortable restraint. and no one would ever suspect that her arms were bound. Doesn't it just drive you wild being bound in public?
She admitted that it was pretty wild, alright.
A breath of fresh air. Hearing someone else talk so casually about her present predicament somehow just took so much of the tension away. As if she was just one of thousands of people that were walking around New Orleans with their hands tied behind their backs.
At which he called across the room to the girl he had been talking to, beckoning her and her friend over.
"She's wearing braces now."
She started to panic at having another woman let in on her secret. Somehow men, or at least a gay man, was nowhere near as threatening. But the woman, or girl, really, saw her fear and immediately reassured her that it was ok, she was just trying to get her mistress to order her one, too. She was speechless. There were thousands of bound weirdos like her and she had just never realized it. The other woman asked if she could see it, as the shop was out.
No, its my secret! No one can see.
But the woman had asked her with such assurance that she would, that she could not think of a way to refuse.
"I guess". Why wasn't John helping her?
Robert helped her with her jacket and the two women studied the device. The younger one oo'ed and ah'ed. The older asked if it was comfortable for a long period. And then they left to order one. It had not been that bad.
But her jacket stayed off. Robert suggested she look around, and he and John moved to the cash. She walked down the long row of cases along one wall, amazed by the diversity of implements. And by the fact that she was openly wandering around a store with her arms bound.
Whips, clips, dildos, paddles, handcuffs, body harnesses, blindfolds, masks. Much of it looked very painful - John better not get any ideas - and all of it looked very bizarre. John came up behind her, caressed her arms, and spoke softly in her ear.
"Red, I'm going to leave you here while you shop."
"I want you to pick some things out, and I don't want to effect your choices. You'll be safe. Robert will help you decide what to buy, and when your done, he'll escort you to Cafe du Monde, its only a couple of blocks. Is that ok?"
No. It was crazy. Bound, helpless, and alone in a strange city? The same panic as in the cab took her. She should say "no". Enough was enough. Just tell him "no" and get the hell out of here. But she couldn't. It was like waiting for a roller-coaster ride, knowing that you were going to be scared shitless, and yet you got in anyway, because of the excitement of being scared.
"with my jacket on.?"
He kissed her deeply and left.
Robert had been standing a few feet away, and stepped up, reassuring her with his casual attitude to the whole affair. He took her by the arm, but to guide and connect, not force, and took her around the entire store pointing out items of interest. His instructions were to help her pick out one or two things that she wanted to play with and one or two things that she thought John would like to play with. If she couldn't decide, Robert was to choose for her.
"So darling, pick what turns you on", Robert advised, one girl to another.
Amongst the hundreds of things that held no interest for her there were a couple of things that tickled her curiosity. The problem was that she could hardly come out and tell this guy that she had a crush on the biggest leather dildo in the store. A huge thing, as big as her neck at the base. Of course she could blame that on John...
"I..I may regret this, but I think John would like that huge dildo."
"oo, Darlin. A lady after my own heart!"
Maybe she could tell this guy things?
"Well, what do you think he'd like?", she asked.
His answer came back fast and flatly, with absolute certainty.
"I don't know..."
Actually, she was kind of curious, but what if they hurt too much.
"Trust me. These ones are the best. Nice and heavy, large padded clips. They are completely adjustable. If you want I can set them now so they'll be perfect when he uses them. Really, you'll cream yourself, darling. Get them for you, not him."
What could she say, considering that she thought he might be right about her creaming herself. But I think we'll pass on the pre-fitting.
The clothing was mostly impossible to wear outside an S&M club. But they did have those rubber dresses that she had seen and regretted that she wasn't the sort of person to wear one. But as she had him show her for the second time, she realized that she could hardly try it on with her arms tied.
No, she didn't think it was her.
But Robert assured her that any woman that could wear one, owed it to her man to do it, and from what he could see, she'd look fabulous. And he could help her into it, and believe him, if she was worried about him helping her, darlin you got nothing he ain't seen before or would have the least interest in anyway. A lie; he rather liked women, though he hadn't swung that direction in years.
Well, John would just die.
Sure. He measured her first, and then selected one of the contoured tubes of black. Robert was most professional about helping her, though she did catch his gaze dropping a few times as he dusted her with baby powder.
They're all the same.
Getting into the thing was like putting on a condom, and they wrestled and tugged at the thing until it was on, Robert casually dipping a hand down the front to adjust her breasts, but he was cool about it, business-like.
It felt very odd. She had immediately built up a layer of sweat so the entire thing felt vaguely squishy.
This is insane in this heat, she thought.
She went out to a mirror.
Wow! Not bad for 34, Ann. A bit too much in the belly, but still.
Go for it.
Someone came in the store.
Tourists! A Joe-average looking couple. Fuck! Her eyes met the woman's, before she turned back to the mirror, mortified.
"Andrew, lets go." the woman said, panic in her voice, and she heard the door close behind them.
Strange, being on the other side. Yesterday that would have been her. One look of some woman with her arms bound behind her, casually trying on a rubber dress, and she would have been out like a shot. She laughed at them; Prudes, and looked around for Robert who was coming with some outrageously high heels. They fit perfectly (he had checked her sandals), looked sexy in a slutty "rocker" sort of way, she just couldn't walk in them. Still, her sandals didn't really do it. Like the rest of their merchandise, their shoe selection was limited to the outrageous: pumps that locked on, thigh high boots, and too high heels. She tried the lowest heel they had, still far too high to walk any distance in, and they made her look like a streetwalker, but, if the shoes fit... Robert drew her away from the two women, still checking out the toys.
"Ann, one last thing you need to have."
"What?", she asked, skeptically. His tone implied she wouldn't like this.
"I don't know. Only you can tell me. Its the thing you saw that tickled your imagination, but you would never dare suggest it."
She knew immediately what "it" was. But say it?
"You can tell John that I made you get it because I thought he'd like it, and darlin, it don't matter to me. I've used it all, let me tell you. Do you know what it is?"
"yes. But I...".
Nope, she couldn't just come out and tell this guy that what she was really intrigued by was
"Here, let me set those nipple clamps so they feel right, and you can think about it."
He lead her back into the change room, rolled down the rubber, talking casually between adjustments, and while she wore the clamps for a few minutes to be sure.
"Like me?, I don't mind telling you that last night I had a penis gag halfway down my throat. But what I've never told anyone, is that that dildo you picked drives me wild. I'm scared to death that my master tries to use one on me, but deep down I hope he does. But I won't tell him. I couldn't. I can tell you 'cause you want it too."
Her nipples ached, but not unbearably. The worst was when he had first put them on. Now it was a dull pain that seemed to send shivers straight down her spine to her pussy. Oh, what the hell, she was never going to see this guy again, and he was far more perverted than
"the butt plug."
"Oo, nice. Which one?"
"the, ah, steel..."
"Nice. The smallest?"
"Back in a minute."
What could she tell herself? It had been in the back of her mind since she saw them. How could she tell John, though?
Blame it on Robert. Right, that was a good idea. But what if he didn't use it because he thought she didn't really want to?
"Do you want that wrapped, or would you like to wear it?", her flaming assistant asked, brandishing the thing. "I think you should wear it."
"Wouldn't it fall...No. I can't let you...".
Nope. Thats it. Definitely impossible.
"Ann,", he said conspiratorially, "I could let your arms free, just for a few minutes...if you promise not to tell."
She took advantage of the freedom to use their washroom, and while there, with help from some lubricant that Robert gave her, she eased the hard cold shaft gently into her rectum. So cold, so heavy. So full. Not like having her vagina stretched open. Once she was over the slight hump and her anus had closed around the neck, it was quite comfortable. Not quite what she had expected. John had occasionally put a finger up there, but this was the first time she had had anything else. Different. But it was making her pussy wet.
Guess I like it, she decided.
Robert had provided her with a "garter", a minimal arrangement of satin reinforcing tape and Velcro that fit around her waist and between her legs, to hold the weighty thing in place. Pulling down the rubber skirt, the lines were only faintly visible.
She used a comb she found to fix her hair.
She had a sudden wave of disgust with herself, as she did her stilt act back through the store to where Robert waited with her braces. Dressed like a whore, with a piece of stainless steel up her ass; this was stupid.
"Darling, you look fabulous! Stunning. Absolutely stunning!" and then, with a huge sigh, "Your enough turn even this boy into a trendy bisexual. John is going to cream just looking at you."
That sort of helped. But she still had serious doubts. He strapped up her arms again, draped her jacket over her shoulders and pointed to a mirror. Overdressed for afternoon. Sexy as hell. These heels were still too high for her taste but reasonable. Her hair and makeup weren't right for the outfit. And no one would guess that this fashion bitch's arms were bound under her coat and she had a piece of steel up her butt. She looked cool, bored and aloof, and over-dressed, more than kinky. Overall? She'd had worse "I hate the way I look and all my clothes" days.
John had signed a blank Visa stub before he left. Robert tucked it inside the bag, asking her about her old dress.
He put her shades on her, and they were out in the street, in the heat, and in public.
And she was fine.
The shoes slowed her down, the sun was too hot on the black rubber, she was cooking around her waist, but she wasn't freaking in the least. Sort of the same numb feeling that she'd noticed before, and yet more because she was just getting used to this. Robert was prattling on about something to do with her and John being lucky to understand each other, but she was only half listening.
John had a table near the sidewalk in the cafe, they spotted each other from almost a block away. Robert wouldn't stay, but insisted on digging out the Visa receipt for John's approval. While he was rummaging, he casually commented that he hoped that John liked the one item that he had insisted on; Ann had not been convinced, though she said she didn't mind it so much now. And he slipped her a wink.
A few good-byes and they were alone, John asking her how it went and what she bought. She was surprised, as she went over each item, at her lack of embarrassment. Of course, she blamed all the items on what she and Robert decided he would like, but she assured him that she wanted to play with them too.
She could see him getting excited; his eyes started, well, not glowing, but close to it.
His words were, "Holy shit", when he stood to lean across the table, ostensibly to kiss her, but in fact to caress her rubberized breast. But when she told him that she was wearing the steel buttplug, he just stared at her, slack-jawed.
Then he suddenly decided it was time to go. I'll bet, she thought. But, slave though she was, she still demanded he get her a Hurricane to go: even sex slaves get to spoil themselves on holiday, and though she was fairly relaxed walking about as she was, it couldn't hurt.
It would have been too strange walking all the way to Pat O'Brian's for the Hurricane with that thing up her butt, so they caught a cab and she waited in the car while John ran in to get one to go.
Hurricanes were so yummy, but they always seemed to hit her harder than she expected. She wondered what was in them.
"Hurricane mix and 4 ounces of rum" the cabbie informed them.
4 ounces! That would explain why two drinks had had her rutting with some strange guy on a dance floor.
John fed the drink to her on the ride to... the cemetery on St Charles?
"Gotta see the cemeteries if your in New Orleans", he assured her.
Yeah, but like this? At least it had clouded over and a bit of a breeze had come up, so she wasn't on melt-down as she'd been on the walk with Robert.
The cemetery was beautiful. A city of the dead. Avenues of crypts within the high stone walls. So peaceful.
She was passing between two vaults barely a shoulders width apart, when John slipped his arm around her latex waist. He held her to him and started gnawing on her throat. She groaned in bliss. Backing her against a wall, he started marauding her mouth with his, while pawing at her rubberized body.
Guess he likes the dress, and she gave herself over to the scrumptious attack. Strange not even being able to hug or caress him in return. Nothing to do but lean back and enjoy it. A large rain drop hit her cheek. She hardly noticed. His hand scooped down onto her bare thigh.
Fuck. Who cares? The place is empty. And she cleared her mind of everything but his hand insinuating itself between her thighs. She parted them and he tried raising his hand. The tight rubber stopped him. He clutched at the rubber and rolled the skirt up on itself until she could feel a breeze in her hair!
Its ok, the place is empty.
More drops of water. Someone ran by the end of their tiny alley, hurrying for cover. And he was prying at her dripping vulva, making her gasp with tense pleasure. Half his hand was inside her, the rest was mashing her clitoris. She bit her lip to keep herself quiet. His cock was hard, he was rubbing it against her hip.
It started raining in earnest. She ignored it.
"fuck me." a harsh, whispered, intense order.
He gripped her back under her arms and swept her feet out from under her, carefully lowering her to the marble tiles. Then he was on her, cock wagging from his fly, and shoved into her so hard, stretching against the steel in her ass, that she immediately came. And he took her. With her arms pinned, she was forced to just lie back and feel deliciously helpless as he ravished her.
The skies opened up and it started pouring, but they weren't stopping now. In fact, she decided that no one would be in the cemetery in this, and started grunting, and gasping, egging him on until he was pounding into her, pumping her full of seed.
Then they were lying in the afterglow nestled between two marble walls, rain pouring down on them in huge, warm drops.
After a time, as the rain started letting up, John helped her sit up, and, rummaging around behind her, released her arms. Funny, in a way, she was sad to see it go. That stupid buttplug on the other hand, had served it's purpose admirably, warming her up, and then got her off like a shot. But now? Out of there!
She asked John get her jacket which had gone missing, and pooped the thing out, expecting a mess, but it was quite clean, so she dropped it in the shopping bag. She turned to see John crawling out of one of the unused crypts. Seems he overshot when he tossed it in there when the rain started.
She didn't even remember it coming off.
They sloshed back to their room, arm in arm in the warm drizzle. She took the ridiculous shoes off, and padded barefoot on the soupy side walk.
John was quiet, basking in that post-orgasmic bliss.
"Excellent", he thought. That had been really great. All of it. He couldn't believe that it had gone so well. He'd been sure that she was going to call "quit" a number of times, but she rode it out. Which he took as grand show of her trust and love.
And this fucking dress! It was outrageous. He ran his hand along her hip and waist to remind himself how wild it felt. Yup, she'd been great. He owed her one for going along with all his fantasies.
He would start by giving her a long bath, and bathing her. She liked that. Then maybe a nap and an expensive meal. That would be a nice ending to what had been a wonderful trip.
If he had been saying all this out-loud, perhaps Ann would have thought it sounded like a fine plan. But he didn't, so she was making plans of her own.
Being ravished in a graveyard in the rain in broad daylight had been wonderfully crazy, and mind-blowingly exciting, because it was so outrageous. But she wasn't done yet.
John was probably quite satisfied. He'd dumped his load in her (she didn't dare look to see if it was only warm rain running down her thighs), and would probably be ready for a nap.
She, on the other hand, was just getting warmed up.
She found herself imagining a big black lover. No lost time creating a face, body or personality, nor even in overlaying the features of her dance partner from the other night. No, the only thing she knew about her pretend lover was the size of his cock: huge.
Fucking enormous. Proportioned like the phallus on a primitive fertility doll.
Maybe only twice as long as a normal man, but thick?
Too thick. like a baseball bat. A weapon thicker than any man had a right to wield. Or, at least thicker than he had a right to expect a woman to take.
She would have to be really ready to take it inside her. Not just dripping, but ready; wide open and hungry. And even then she would have to go slowly, inching it inside her.
But the one characteristic her imaginary lover had was patience. He was in no hurry to get inside, and once in, would be in no rush to spend and leave. She could imagine how it would feel to take that huge thing in her hands, greasing it, covering it with goo, needing two hands to encircle the thing...
Definitely. And John would get no rest until she'd been thoroughly ravaged by the leather club that swung in a plastic bag at his side.
No problem. She'd go down on him in the shower just enough to thoroughly get his attention, and then later impale herself on her new lover, on the pretext of putting a "show" on for John. After she had an orgasm or three, she'd let him have his nap.
Or his way with her, whichever he preferred.
But not before.
It ain't over, 'til its over.