You fumble with the key card. You open the door. You’re not even halfway in when I push you, hard, onto the bed. You yelp with surprise as you flop onto it. I flip the bolt on the door, and turn around, walking toward you. You sit up on the bed. You face me. You lick your lips. I reach for a pillowcase, shake the pillow out, and gently tie it around your head, fashioning a blindfold for you.
I remove my tie. I don’t usually wear a tie, but you asked me to. I gently place your hands behind your back, and I tie them tightly with the silk. I remove my belt. It’s worn, the leather, brown and supple, distressed. I gently lift the loop of the belt over your head and place the leather in your mouth. I tighten the belt, past the last hole, and cinch it into a knot. You bite down on the leather, testing it, tasting it.
“You all right?” I ask.
I tip you back, gently, on the bed. I slide my hands under your ass and rip your soaking panties off of you. They don’t come off cleanly, with one tug, like I hoped they would, but they’re off. I lift your legs to the sky, push them back to your ears, and grip your thighs tightly, painfully tightly, forcing them outward with my thumbs. I admire your thighs, your pussy, up close, and I gently lower my face. I kiss your knees, your thighs, and I lick slowly, slowly, up toward your cunt. Your thighs are slick with your wetness, salty, tasty. I pull my head back and look at you, admiring my quarry.
You feel me tear your dress off at the shoulder. The sensation is violent, surprising; the sound, loud, sharp. And your breasts are free as the fabric is gone.
There’s a moment’s pause. What’s next?
You feel a surprising sensation on your cunt. What is that? It’s hard, swift, sudden, yet simultaneously soft. It’s rhythmic. First one slap, then a second, then a third. There’s pressure, intensity, on your cunt. But it’s soft. Not like a spanking, or a slapping. More like a… a whipping with soft fabric.
You remember, then, that we had discussed this – using your dress (actually, when we discussed it, it was your “Little Red Riding Hood” costume, but that’s another story) to whip your cunt.
It feels nothing like you imagined. The intensity is far greater, the sensation far sharper, than you had imagined. Still, still, your back arches, your cunt rises to meet the fabric as I bring it down on you.
And then it stops.
You hear rustling, movement.
Then, a SHARP slap on your cunt. That, you know, is my hand. Harder, bigger, less forgiving than the fabric, the sensation is all about the collision of our flesh, about the impact of my palm on your pussy. It’s sharper, deeper, more resonant. And you arch higher, straining to meet my hand sooner as it comes down on you.
This goes on for longer than you could have imagined, one slap after the other, steady, one per second. You count as high as forty and then you lose your way. Your pussy is aching, tender, throbbing. You can’t speak, because the belt is in your mouth. You bite down. You know that if you tap me twice with your right foot, I’ll stop. I look for the sensation of your right foot on me, for the sight of your leg looking to find me.
But no. You want more.
And more is what you get. You resume counting. Fifteen. Twenty. Twenty-five. Again, you lose count. You can hardly feel the individual hits any more.
And then it stops.
This time, you hear nothing. Nothing.
You feel me rise from the bed. You hear my footsteps recede. I’m gone for a while.
How long? A minute? Two? Three? My footsteps approach. You feel the bed sag as my weight falls onto it. You feel my fingers, gently, opening your thighs. You feel my breath, warm, moist, on the inside of your thighs. My lips brush your flesh, my tongue flicks at you. You flinch, wince, slightly ticklish, infinitely tender.
I lick, slowly, slowly, up your thigh, once more approaching your cunt.
You bite down hard on the belt, as my tongue slides between your pussy’s lips, up toward, against, your clit.
to be continued