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You asked me once, soon after we met, why I have so much difficulty asking for my pleasure. For the longest time, before we ever touched, language was our connective tissue; words came so easily to me, gave our desire for each other body, substance. Our letters were an erotic communion, a profane substantiation of paper into wet, needy flesh. And I felt free to be greedy, demanding, and honest.
But once we met I found myself retreating. Even though I yearned to lose myself in you, I was afraid. I wanted to reach that point where I could no longer tell where my skin ends and yours begins, but I was a coward.
And you'd push and you'd prod and tease and cajole, be patient and impatient in turn. But still I would turn away from what I needed and what you so lovingly offered. Because I was ashamed. Because I mistook my fear for strength and independence.
Last night you asked me if I trusted you and I nodded in puzzled reply.
"I have a gift for you, If you're strong enough to take it," you told me, and I promised you that I would try.
Tonight I am lying on your bed. Soft lengths of leather bind my outstretched arms to the headboard, tether my sprawled legs to the bed posts.
Earlier, as you bound me to your bed, you slipped a blindfold over my eyes. Then you left the room, closing the door behind you. Now I lie helpless, unable to move, unable to see, waiting for you in the darkness you have created.
Time becomes pliant, liquid, contingent, as I listen for your return. In the dark and quiet I can no longer tell how long you have left me alone, or discern whether it is day or night. Frustrated, uneasy, excited, I wonder what you will do to me when you return. What you will ask me to do. Tell me to do. Demand of me. Experimentally I tug on the cuffs that bind my arms and legs to the bed, trying to determine the extent of my bondage. The leather ties are long, and I can move comfortably on the bed, although I cannot escape. Blind and bound, I listen to the noise of traffic coming from the bedroom window, hear the rhythmic sussuration of my own breathing, feel the slight breeze that rustles the bedroom curtains.
Then I hear the bedroom door open.
My sense of hearing has been made acute by my imprisonment, and as you approach me I swear that I can perceive the soft rustle of your toes moving against the carpet, hear the slow, steady beat of your heart in counterpart to the rapid, agitated rhythm of my own. You sit beside me on the bed, and I feel your clothed hip rub against my naked flesh. You don't say anything for what must be only a moment or two, but it seems like hours to me and my agitation grows.
"Jess?" I blurt out, questioning, apprehensive, aroused.
"Sshh," you whisper, your fingers pressing lightly against my mouth. "No more words." Heat flashes through my belly.
Your hand drops to my breast, and your fingers play with my nipple, pulling lightly, as if plucking a flower. "Your blindfold is the only mask you'll wear tonight, Michele."
Fingers tightening on my nipple, you continue: "No more games. No roleplaying. No disguises. Nothing to hide behind. It's just you and me, and I'm going to show you what you need from me. What you want me to give you."
You pause for a moment, your fingers implacable on the rubbery nub of my nipple. "And you're going to give it up to me, everything you've ever withheld."
I feel a surge of anger and resistance at your words; your presumption galls me. Your wisdom scares me.
You shift on the bed and I hear the sound of the night table drawer opening. Something cold and metallic is drawn down the hollow between my breasts. A chain. I smile in pleased recognition at the touch of the nipple clamps. These I can deal with. Secretly I feel a bit smug and relieved. You've brought out toys to play with. Nothing we haven't experimented with in the past.
With deft fingers you attach first one, then the second, clamp, stretching my nipples, then feeding them into the teeth of the clips. A soft, hissed sigh escapes my lips as the serrated edges bite into my flesh, but the pain is brief and welcomed before it melts so seamlessly and smoothly into a sharp, hot pleasure. I arch my back as much as I can, given my restraints, and I shake my breasts, enjoying the flickers of sensation that shoot through my nipples, radiating down in streaks toward my cunt.
At first you are content to tug gently on the chain connecting the two clamps as your tongue licks and stabs at my nipples. They throb so, and I can feel the pulse of the trapped blood in their engorged points. Beneath my mask my eyelids alternately flutter open and shut, open and shut, as you work my nipples, harder and harder, your teeth scraping against the flesh of my breasts, your fingers pulling demandingly on the chain. I imagine that my nipples have darkened to a bruised purple colour, that of crushed flowers.
"Does that feel good, babe?" you mutter, your mouth slipping from my breasts.
"Yes. Oh yes." My voice seems to come from very far away.
"Then let's make it hurt a bit more." And with implacable fingers you tighten the clamps, first on one nipple, then the other, so that the teeth bite more sharply into my bruised flesh.
I hiss and buck at the sensation, struggling to absorb it, own it, make it my own, and my breathing steadies once again as I master the pain, feel it sink into and warm my shaking flesh. "Okay, it's okay," I sigh, more to myself than to you, I think.
"Do you want more, Michele?" Your voice is quiet. I nod in reply, intent on showing you that I can handle whatever you dish out.
Again your fingers twist and tighten the screws controlling the clamps, and this time the pain is so focused, so inexorable, like a flame on my flesh, that I don't know what to do with it, don't know where to take it. And so I struggle against it; my arms tug uselessly against my bonds, and my breathing is hoarse, juddering. I'm panting and sobbing, semi-panicked as I feel my control slipping away. Then your fingers slide delicately across one of my nipples, and as sore as they are I arch into your caress, my breathing simultaneously slowing down, smoothing out, as your fingertip continues to lightly circle and soothe my tormented nipple.
"Enough?" you query, giving me an out, a graceful escape, if I will only acede to your control of this situation, of my body and its responses. But wisely I resist handing myself over to you so readily; like a prize too easily won, there is little value in so quick a surrender.
So I resist. "No. Give me more, Jess." And again I feel the clamps bite more deeply into my abused nipples. But this time the pain is so fierce, so compelling, that I can neither escape it nor claim it as my own, and unwillingly I call out to you, "No-no-no. No more." My chest has arched upward, bow-like, and all of my muscles seem to have gone rigid. I wait for you to loosen the clamps, or remove them altogether. Instead, I feel your mouth on mine, your tongue sliding along my lips. I pant heavily, hoarsely, against your mouth, waiting for relief and release.
Instead, with the most delicate of adjustments you tighten the clamps on my nipples one last time, and my sharp cries are swallowed by your mouth as it presses demandingly against mine. Despite the blindhold, flashes of brilliant colour blind my eyes as I seem to cross a border in my head; the pain becomes my companion as I fall from a precipice, fall away from you into some new place inside myself as the edges of my resistance begin to unravel.
As if from a distance I hear your voice, calling my name, your voice alternately demanding and tender. Gradually I become aware of your hands on my body, fingers stroking the hair from my face and rubbing the sweat between my breasts into my stinging nipples. I hear the frantic pounding of my heart and the blood singing in my veins. And as my breathing slows and eases I feel a surge of strength and triumph. I feel so incredibly alive and charged. Aware, it seems, of every inch of my skin, every nerve ending.
"Good girl," you whisper softly, and I smile, pleased at your pride in my strength. Lost in the darkness created by the blindfold, unable to see you, I am discovering that your voice takes on new power and meaning for me.
Now your hands slide down my belly, stroking in gentle, circular motions, pressing lightly, and I arch my hips beckoningly toward you, my motions frustratingly limited by the ties that bind my legs to the bed. Spanking my hip sharply you comment, "You're such a little slut, Michele. Always so eager." Your voice is low, amused. "Always so wet." And your hand slides down from my belly to my pussy, rubbing teasingly at my labia.
"But I'm not interested in your cunt," you advise me. "Not yet, anyway." And with that you begin to rub at my anus, then slide your finger smoothly into my ass.
For a few moments you are content to fuck my ass with your finger, and my hips rise and fall to meet your hand. Little sounds of pleasure escape my lips. I love the sensation of being stretched and filled.
"Do you like that, babe?"
I sigh, the responsive movements of my hips the only answer you need.
Abruptly you pull your finger from my anus, and I make a small, disappointed sound, my lips pursing in a sulky moue of displeasure. Again I hear the bedtable drawer slide open. Behind my blindfold I listen carefully for clues, trying to figure out what's next. I hear a small, plastic sounding snap, then recognize the wet, sticky sound of lube being squeezed from a tube. A flash of warmth surges through me.
Suddenly something blunt and rounded probes at my anus. Bearing down, I open up my ass so that you can slide it inside. I take the first inch or so easily, but the plug seems to widen dramatically and my body resists the rest of it. You press gently but persistently, and the ring of my anus burns as it spreads wide to take another inch of the plug. But still there is more.
I whimper in discomfort; my ass already feels overfull. "No more, Jess," I plead. "No more. It hurts."
But in truth there is no pain, precisely, but the sense of fullness, of being stuffed, is embarrassing. Scary. Arousing. I don't like it. Yes, I do.
"Open up for me, Michele," you order, "let me fill you up. Take it. You know you want to." Still your hand presses, patient but insistent.
Taking a deep breath I will my clenching anus to relax, and I am amazed to feel yet another thick inch of the butt plug slide past the burning, spread mouth of my anus, filling my rectum impossibly full. But still there is more, and your hand continues to press.
"No- it's too big," I protest, my belly cramping alarmingly as I briefly give into my panic and fear. "Take it out."
But again you ignore my protests, your words unerringly articulating my deepest fantasies: "Come on, Michele. This is what you want. Show me how much you can take. You can do it. Let me in."
And as you tease and torment me with the words I find so arousing, your fingers slide to my clit, circling lightly. Groaning in defeat I give in, my anus relaxing completely, and you slide the plug home. And I am opened as I have never been before.
For a few moments I sob in frustration and shame, angry at my weakness, embarrassed that I have exposed myself so wholly to you. My belly clenches and spasms as I struggle against the need to expel the plug. But you give me no sympathy: "You're such a coward," you mock me, your fingers alternately pulling on the chain of the nipple clamp and tapping at the base of the butt plug. "So afraid to be honest with me. So afraid to show me who you are. Too scared to ask for what you need. Don't you trust me?"
Re-directing my anger at you I sputter, "How about we tie you to the bed. We'll see who's the coward then, you asshole."
But you just laugh at me. "I'm not the one who wants to be cuffed to a bed. Admit it. You love the idea of losing control. Of having me do all the nasty, dirty things you're afraid to ask for." The tone of your voice changes abruptly, becomes pissed-off, frustrated. "How do you think it makes me feel when you won't trust me enough to tell me what you want?"
And I have no answer for the question that strikes so unerringly at the core of one of my deepest insecurities. It has always been so hard for me to ask for my pleasure.
I hear you take a deep breath, and you are quiet for a moment. Then your voice breaks the heated silence of the room, and your words both scare and arouse me: "trust me. Let me take you where you want to go. I want to give this to you. I'll keep you safe."
With a surrendering sigh I murmur, "Yes. Okay then. Yes." Settling back onto the pillows on the bed, I feel my fear and tension melt away. Immediately I become aware once more of the biting teeth of the clamps digging into my nipples, the thick girth of the buttplug expanding my asshole. But instead of fighting the sensations I luxuriate in them, savouring their intensity. Sinking further away from thought and deeper into my senses, I breathe in the odor of our arousal, of my sweat. I slide my ass against the cotton sheets of the bed, wrinkled now, warm and damp with my sweat and cunt juice. All of my indecision and resistance seem to leave me.
Now you are releasing the bonds on my wrists and ankles, roughly turning me over and shoving a pillow under my belly so that my ass is arched upwards. Just as quickly you have re-tethered me to the bed, the bonds tighter this time, so that I am spread-eagled, eagerly awaiting what I know must come next.
At first your hand on my ass is light. Gentle. It strokes and glides and squeezes and taps lightly on the plug in my anus. My flesh starts to awaken; I arch into your touch and drag my clamped nipples against the bedsheets, hungry for sensation, wanting more.
There are moments when I ache to lose myself in the gift of pain, and this is one of them. And you read me so well. What was a caress becomes a blow; your hand strikes my ass again and again, harder and harder, and little yips and yelps of pleasure escape me. My cheeks feel large, hot and swollen, and I focus on the sensation, wanting more.
But the first bite of the cane is shockingly hard, an unwelcome surprise. It lands evenly across both cheeks, leaving a searing band of pain. I feel unprepared for it and cry out in protest. "Christ! Too much!" I can feel the welt rising; it burns and throbs in rhythm with my pounding heart. With an impatient sigh you drop the cane, grasp my jaw and force my mouth open, stuffing my panties past my lips to gag me.
But you have not silenced me; my flesh has a voice and it cries out to you, greedy and demanding. It knows what I would deny- that I want you to give our desire substance, leave me with a visible sign of your devotion to me, and almost unwillingly I find myself arching my ass toward you, awaiting the next kiss of the cane.
The second stripe falls against the plump swell of my left cheek and tears come to my eyes. Behind my blindfold I visualize the welt, ridged and plum coloured against the redness of my spanked ass. You swing the cane a third time, and I hear it come whistling down, marking my right buttock. Each muscle in my body goes rigid and my fingers scrabble against the sheets; why did I ever think I could take this?
You stop for a moment. We're both breathing heavily, in tandem, and I can smell your sweat, taste the juice of my pussy on the panties crammed into my mouth. My ass clenches and unclenches around the plug that violates it. I feel overloaded and overwhelmed; all I want to do is escape.
Sitting beside me on the bed, you trail your fingers across one of my welts, murmuring in appreciation. Your tongue flickers consolingly against my aching flesh. "You are so strong," you whisper. "Let me give you more."
I want to shake my head. I want to cry out in denial. But I can't. This is what my cunt wants. This is what my heart wants. This is what makes me wet.
This silent admission seems to free something in me; a terrible weight is lifted and I feel released, elated. So often I have felt myself a stranger in my own body- its needs so alien and terrifying. But now I feel at home in my flesh; but how could I not when you work so patiently and so hard to give me what I want but what I can never articulate.
You deliver three more strokes with cruel precision, marking my thighs with thin bands of pain that sink into my bones. But I welcome the pain for what it frees. I can hear my blood singing. Each blow seems to expose something hidden deep within me. A secret I have always yearned to show you. It's like my skin has been stretched so tight and thin that what was once hidden and opaque becomes clear and visible- the sinews, veins and viscera of my desire for you.
And as you sit beside me on the bed, your hand soothing on my back, I sob in release. Sensing my surrender you release me from my bonds, turning me over. I hiss as my bruised ass rubs against the mattress. Pulling my arms above my head, once more you tether them to the headboard.
Once again you begin to caress my body, your hands focusing on my sex. Rubbing and squeezing my mons, your fingers run through the dampness of my bush. Christ I am so wet; my sex is pulpy fruit, dripping with juice. Delicately your fingers separate the folds of my labia, searching for my clit. You stroke it lightly with your thumb, round and round, a seed pearl in the wet salt heart of my cunt. Soon my hips are moving in a matching rhythm.
As your thumb teases my clit you begin to fuck my pussy with first one, then two, fingers, flexing them inside me, stretching the elastic muscles of my entrance. My hips rock back and forth, and carefully you slide a third finger into my pussy, your knuckles further stretching and easing my tightness. Preparing me. I hiss a little, then take a deep breath, succumbing to the feeling of fullness, giving into it. You twist the plug still lodged in my ass and a pleased groan escapes me. As I rock and moan, your thumb continues to torment my clit, while with your free hand you massage my perineum, your other fingers firmly reaming me. I mutter and sigh in pleasure, arching my ass toward you, silently begging you for what I am so afraid to ask for.
"More Michele?" Do you want more?" I am grateful for the panties that gag me, grateful that I am saved from voicing what I need. But I nod, feeling my body shake in anticipation. I hear the wet sound of lube as you coat your hand. Carefully, slowly, you ease your fourth finger into my cunt to join the others. I have never felt so full before. You have laid claim to all of my body-mouth, cunt and ass are filled by you. Belong to you. Your four fingers rock back and forth in my sex, and I breathe in rhythm to their thrusting motion, feeling every cell in my body spreading, expanding, thinning.
And now I want to speak, feel I owe you my voice and my consent, and with muffled noises I urge you to pull the panties from my mouth. My throat is very dry, but still I manage to whisper, "give it to me. Give me your hand." I can feel sweat trickling down my face. I am so scared. So excited.
With your other hand you squirt more lube onto your thrusting fingers, coating your hand to the wrist. Your thumb slides off my clit and I feel you gather your fingers and thumb together, forming a knobby, thick shaft to fuck me with. Carefully you begin to push your hand into my pussy. God it hurts. And it feels so good.
Now all of four fingers and thumb are inside my cunt; I feel them stirring inside me. The knuckles of your hand rest at the stretched maw of my hole, demanding entrance. I hear you squirt more lube to ease the way.
"Yes. Give it to me." I don't recognize my voice. It sounds so raw, so demanding.
You begin to thrust your fingers in and out of my cunt, going a little deeper with each motion. Again I struggle to keep my breathing in synch with your rhythm, willing my body to open to you and accept your hand. Behind the darkness of the blindfold I imagine your fist, buried to the wrist in my cunt, and my pussy squirts its juices in excited response. On the next thrust your knuckles are sucked into my cunt.
Immediately I begin to panic. My flesh is burning. I feel like I'm going to be split open. "Get it out, get it out," I shout, struggling, trying to back away from the demands of your hand, but you place the palm of your other hand on my belly, gentling me. Reassuring me.
"Let me help you." Your voice is so patient. "Don't fight it, babe. Let me inside you." Your free fingers squeeze my clit.
"No. I can't, Jess. I can't take it. I'm afraid."
"What are you afraid of?" you ask.
I shake my head furiously, too scared and humiliated to tell you.
"When are you going to start trusting me?" you yell, your voice frustrated and angry.
I'm on the edge of tears. "It's too much. Too much pressure. I'm afraid I'm gonna pee." And even as I say this, I feel my bladder loosen and a small trickle of piss squirts into your hand.
I begin to cry.
For a few moments you let me sob, and then I hear your voice, gentle, understanding. "Don't you get it? Nothing about you could ever be ugly. There's nothing about our desire for each other that could turn me off." Your fingers wipe away the beads of piss dampening my pubes, wiping away my shame, as well.
And slowly, steadily, while I'm still gasping through my tears, you push your hand forward, until you are inside my cunt to your wrist.
With your fist inside me my panic immediately returns. Nausea overwhelms me, coming in waves. I struggle to slow down my breathing, listening to your voice, as if from a distance: "You can take this, Michele. You can. You're so strong."
And then, something inside me slips. It's as if all the borders that limit and define me crack and break. I feel unspooled, unravelled, dissolved, as if my very bones have melted to take your fist inside my body. My cunt embraces your hand like a living glove as you help me take my pain and fear and transform them into pleasure.
The flesh of my cunt feels stretched so tight and thin, and I imagine it as a vessel, emptied, cored, that you will fill for me. Your hand inside me is so implacable, yet so still. I recognize that you are waiting for me, patiently allowing me to gather strength from you. Now I know what it is to be safe with you- safe to yield, safe to surrender to pleasure and pain, and the greedy demands of my body.
Your free hand strokes the hair from my face, gently touches my mouth. I lick my lips and your caressing finger. "Fuck my cunt, Jess," I plead. "Fuck my cunt with your fist."
Slowly your fingers begin to unfurl inside me, blossoming like a flower planted inside the bed of my cunt. I feel your fingers brush my cervix, and the pleasure is so acute that tears spring to my eyes.
"Your cunt is so greedy," you whisper, astonished and moved as I claim your hand with my sex, a trophy that I have struggled to earn. I laugh, feeling triumphant and so strong.
Carefully, steadily, your hand begins to move, cautiously thrusting in small movements. I will myself to open and expand further as your fingers gently flex and unflex and I gratefully accept the gift of your hand in my cunt.
Now I feel so greedy and hungry for release and I tell you, "I want to cum so bad, Jess. Help me cum. Don't make me wait." My pussy clamps down on your hand, the muscles rippling wetly on your wrist, and I squeeze my asshole on the plug that violates it so sweetly.
Your free hand falls to my clit, bulging from the pressure of your hand inside my cunt. Lightly you brush it, once, twice, with a fingertip, and I spiral away into orgasm.
Lost and safe behind the blindfold I feel the pleasure move through my body in ever-increasing waves, waves that I slide through and ride. I'm laughing and crying, my body rocking on your fist, pissing a little and not caring, as I give myself over to you, and to pleasure. With quick fingers you remove the clamps from my nipples and I cry out as the blood rushes into my swollen flesh. A second orgasm rocks through me and I imagine my body alit, my very breath on fire.
Slowly, slowly, I begin to calm. My breathing eases, and my muscles soften and relax around your hand and the butt plug.
"Take a deep breath and bear down," you advise me, and I comply, wincing as you gently ease your hand from my pussy. Carefully you tug the butt plug from my ass. For a moment I feel emptied, a hollow vessel. My body aches.
Lying down beside me on the bed, you bury your face in my shoulder, gripping one of my tethered wrists. Suddenly I need to see you so badly, so urgently, that it hurts. "Take off my blindfold," I whisper, and feel your hands on my face as you comply.
Opening my eyes cautiously, I wince at the soft glow of the bed table light, disoriented by the absence of the blindfold. Now you busy yourself removing the cuffs that bind my wrists to the bed. I close my eyes, suddenly very sleepy. Again you lie down beside me, your breath warm on my shoulder.
Carefully I bring my arms down to embrace you, my muscles stiff and sore.
"Open your eyes, Michele," you whisper, and with a smile I comply. In the silence of the bedroom we lie, face to face, awed by this gift of pleasure, consent and trust that we have shared.