WARNING This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Aspen Mountain Press e-Books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by underaged readers. DISCLAIMER: Many of the acts described in our BDSM/fetish titles can be dangerous. Aspen Mountain Press publishes these stories as reading entertainment for members of the community in which these acts are known and practiced safely. This story in no way provides instruction or guidance for this sexual practice. If you have an interest in the pleasures and pains you find described herein, seek out advice and guidance from knowledgeable persons. Please do not try any new sexual practice without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. Neither Aspen Mountain Press nor its authors will be responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from use of the information contained in any of its titles.
Knotty Secret L. Picaro
Aspen Mountain Press
4
Knotty Secret Knotty Secret Copyright © 2006 by L. Picaro
This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author’s imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental. Aspen Mountain Press PO Box 473543 Aurora CO 80047-3543 www.AspenMountainPress.com First published by Aspen Mountain Press, December, 2006 www.AspenMountainPress.com
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ISBN: (10) 1-60168-021-X ISBN: (13) 978-1-60168-021-1 Published in the United States of America Editor: Sandra Hicks Cover artist: Jinger Heaston
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There’s just something about love making in the morning that makes the whole day great. Tremors of pleasure shook Fenton’s body as my hand stroked his shoulder, down across his back and over his rear. In all our years together I have never gotten over his shuddering after he comes. They are so unexpected and uncontrolled. I pulled the comforter up over our shoulders and snuggled in beside him. My breasts, still sensitive from the vigorous tonguing and sucking they had received, pressed against his back and I had a little aftershock of my own. I scooched my hips forward and spooned, drawing my legs up tight against his. I must have dozed a bit because when I looked
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up the clock in the maple high boy dresser showed half past six, twenty minutes later than when I had glanced at it before. Fenton’s breathing was slow and deep. Dozing off with Fenton in my arms is one of my joys. I feel so safe and warm and my dreams are like tender glimpses though lace curtains in a gentle breeze, a soft fluttering of images of what is beyond. The morning light shone on the wedding picture on the dresser; our smiles glow from the photograph. The floor to ceiling, wall to wall, mirror closet doors caught the sun and reflected it onto the carpet and walls. I really enjoyed decorating this room. We had let it go too long. The old green paint and gold carpet had gotten to me. This was the first room I had made all the decorating decisions about and the first room since my childhood that I felt was really mine. My furniture, my pictures of Ireland and Cape Code on the walls, and the thick purple comforter I had always dreamed of made this my favorite room.
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Fenton indulges me on my passion for purple with jokes and head shaking of mock frustration. He has pretty much resigned himself to the fact that he is never going to win in a battle of color if purple is one of the choices. When I had finished with the decorating and asked him how he liked it, his answer of “I like it” was a little less than convincing. But, if you ask me, I think it has grown on him. I slipped out from under the covers, taking care not to expose any of Fenton’s naked body to the cool morning air. I stood up and looked at myself in the mirror. Not bad. Not great, but not bad. This forty-five year old body still had a pleasant curve to turn a head or two. I tossed my hair back from my face and padded toward the closet for my robe. After years of stealing Fenton’s big, fluffy terry cloth robe, he finally got the hint and stopped buying me sheer, frilly, cover-ups each Christmas. He bought me a huge black robe with a hood and a thick cloth belt that I have to wrap around me twice. The hem brushes my ankles and the sleeves cover my knuckles. I hate
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being cold in the morning and finally this robe keeps me warm even if I swim around inside the heavy terry material. Fenton stirred but didn’t wake as I opened the bedroom door. I was hopeful he would get up with me and assume the coffee making duties but it looked like this morning I was on my own if I wanted a caffeinated start to my day. Sometimes it is easy to be annoyed with the extra time and steps it takes to make coffee from whole beans in the French press. But I am quickly snapped back to reality when served a bad cup of coffee from some discount store bought, never cleaned, coffee maker filled with Folger’s. While the water heated I looked out the bay window onto our redwood deck. The flowers, petunias and geraniums, added a little more joy to my morning. Just before the steam threatened to make the teapot scream, I pulled it off the burner and poured the water into the glass press. The coffee and the water roiled, coffee kissed steam rose into my face and I breathed deeply. Some times the smallest pleasures are the most satisfying.
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I heard the bed creak and Fenton’s man heavy footsteps moved toward the bathroom. I brought the coffee upstairs and rounded the corner just as he flushed. Fenton is a good looking man. His little boy smile crinkles his face and lets his blue eyes sparkle and light a room with mischief and mystery. He shaves his head, no goofy comb-overs or slicking back the hair for this guy. His firm chest is covered with gentle black hairs just made to run my fingers through. Hard as he tries, he’s always had just a little belly he likes to call his ‘tool shed’. His tan lines are well defined; as soon as the snow stops flying he’ll don his three quarter of the year home wardrobe of T-Shirt and shorts and try to spend as much time as he can on our deck, soaking up the sun. “Good morning, Laura.” Fenton smiled as I handed him his favorite earthenware mug, warm to the touch and smelling of the rich Costa Rican brew. Fenton leaned toward me and we kissed, lips lightly touching. As he brushed his cheek against mine, I smelled my musk in the hair of his moustache and goatee.
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“It is a good morning,” Fenton stated emphatically. “Shall we shower together?” This girl knew his was the best invitation she was going to receive today, so I slid back the shower door and turned the faucet. As I stood, Fenton’s arms surrounded me from behind embracing me tightly across my waist. His lips kissed the back of my head. “Love you, Honey,” I murmured as he undid the belt of my robe and slid it off my shoulders, kissing my neck and down my back. Goose bumps rose along my arms. Steam drifted toward the ceiling and we stepped into the shower. The black tile was cool to the touch of my hand as I reached for the shampoo. With no need for shampoo, Fenton grabbed the soap and lathered himself methodically, starting with his neck and working his way down to his toes. I like to watch him soap up between his legs. It gives me a thrill to see him clean what we made together. “I sure like making love with you,” I said as I ducked my head under the water to rinse the shampoo from my hair.
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“It was good, just like always.” As I worked the conditioner in, I watched Fenton as he looked my body up and down. He smiled as our eyes met and he leaned toward me to kiss my lips through tendrils of conditioner laden hair. I like to get out of the shower first and hand him his towel as he turns the water off. It’s a tender moment when we are clean, the room is quiet and the air is still warm with steam and I hand him the towel. “Yep. Good, just like always,” he said.
****
“Hi, Sweetheart.” Fenton’s cheerful voice leapt from the telephone earpiece “Sorry to interrupt your writing time but I need you to check something on my computer.” “Oh, Honey.” I only half faked a whine. Fenton is quite anal about his computer. He uses it to access the computer network of the hospital where he works. Most of the
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time he invokes the fear of God in me when I look at the thing. However, when he needs me to do something for him it’s, “Awww Honey, just do exactly what I say and there won’t be any problem.” I am much more computer proficient since starting my romance writing career ten years ago. Ten published books later, I have picked up some computer savvy by making all the mistakes at least once, and sometimes twice. “There’s a document named ‘Network Universe Review’, or something like that in the directory on my desktop named ‘Firewalls’. I need to know the name of the products the reviewer looked at.” As I searched the cluttered computer screen for the directory named ‘Firewalls’, I noticed one named ‘Personal Stuff’. After telling him what he needed to know and pressing the ‘Call End’ button on the cordless phone, a tiny voice inside me pushed me to open the ‘Personal Stuff’ folder and peek. I walked away from Fenton’s desk and walked back three times before double clicking the folder and seeing the icons inside.
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Fenton and I have been married for twenty-one years. We’ve worked hard at having a marriage built on trust. It’s not that we share everything with each other. We both have our private spaces and thoughts where the other does not invade. But for most things, it’s open and honest. It works well for us. We don’t lie to each other but sometimes, well, we don’t tell the whole truth. We’ve turned it into a kind of a game. For example, Fenton will ask, “How much did those shoes cost, Sweetheart?” I’ll say, “Guess.” “One hundred twenty dollars.” “Yep,” I’ll say and leave it at that. Of course, they cost one hundred twenty dollars apiece, but I didn’t lie. We’ve had our ups and downs but it’s mostly been, and currently is, an ‘up’. Fenton has his successful career at the hospital and I decided to chuck the corporate grind and write fulltime seven years ago or so. Our sons, Frank and Joe are both off at the University of Michigan. They excel in the engineering school there; Frank in chemical engineering, Joe in aeronautical engineering.
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Fenton and I felt a kind of loss of direction when we found ourselves alone. It was rough for a while; anger flared and tears flowed. It took some time and some patience but we met this challenge too, working it out together. We have grown closer than we ever have been. Fenton is my friend and I love him very much. However, love and friendship aren’t strong enough to dam the river of my curiosity when it starts raging. Someday I may be the perfect wife, but until then I’m snooping. The folder ‘Personal Stuff’ had several folders beneath it: ‘Resume’, ‘Taxes’, ‘Insurance’. One folder in particular piqued my curiosity. It was named ‘Rope’. ‘Rope’ was an odd name for a folder. We have some rope in the back of the Honda for tying stuff down on the way home from the Home Depot but no other rope that I could think of. Why a folder named ‘Rope’? There were several files in the folder. Some .zip, some .jpg, and lots of files ending with .wmv. Each file started with a woman’s name followed by a number.
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To say I was shocked would be an understatement of great magnitude. I didn’t know what .wmv files were but I recognized women’s names. I double clicked the one named Kally. A movie started playing…a woman, a naked woman, stands in a white walled room. Two ropes threaded through pulleys suspend a three inch diameter pipe above the floor, about knee high. A third rope hangs loosely from another pulley. I heard footsteps echoing on a wood floor. A man wearing black jeans and black Tshirt holding coils of rope enters the room. He walks with an air of authority and strength, but not meanness or menace. He greets the woman warmly. “Hello Kally, it’s nice to see you again. Are you ready to ride the pony?” His tone is as casual and nonchalant as if you were asking an acquaintance to dinner. “Yes,” she says, smiling broadly. The woman is not too slender. Her face is nicely framed with bangs and brunette curls. Her breasts are full and hang nicely from her chest. She has a bit of a pooch and some love handles, but is cute in her own way.
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The man drops all but one of the coils of rope. The woman places her arms above her head and the man wraps the rope around them. He wraps her wrists six times in a tightly aligned band and ties the rope off with a series of ornate knots. The man grabs the end of the loose hanging rope and threads it through her bound arms. The woman steps over the ‘pony’. She shifts her weight as best as she can as the man raises one end of the pipe between her legs and nestles it up tight against her rear. You remember in Cold Mountain when Renee Zellweger embarrasses Nicole Kidman by talking about wrapping her legs around a fence pole? I thought of that, but only for a moment. The man pulls on the rope attached to other end of the pipe and the woman is lifted until the balls of her feet are barely touching the floor. Most of her weight appears to be supported by her perineum. Held by her arms, she tilts back at nearly a forty-five degree angle. She winces a bit and tries to shift her hips back and forth straining to find a comfortable angle. She looks at the man with a bit of deference and a bit of defiance.
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The man ties off the second rope and steps back. He appears to talk but I can’t hear him. I fumble with the volume control. It crackles as I turn it up. “Well Kally, how does that feel?” “It hurts,” the woman responds. I am not convinced that is the whole story as the man walks off out of camera range and the woman is left alone. She squirms a bit, takes some deep breaths and looks up toward the ceiling. The video dissolves and reappears like it is some time later. I wonder how much time has passed. The camera zooms in on her face, shiny with perspiration. Her wild eyes flash at the camera and the intensity of her pleasure and pain and strength scares me. Her squirming has taken on a slow and sensual pattern in rhythm. She tries to lean forward, straining against the rope that holds her arms above her. A close up of her inner thighs shows the muscles clenching and loosening. She is able to rock slightly forward and back but most of her motion is achieved by the tightening of the muscles in her legs and the arching of her back.
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The bar has crept up between her nether lips and she is straining to bring her pink clitoris down to touch it. Her clit cannot touch the bar as hard as she tries. She moans. I reach to the mouse and click the X in the upper right of the video window.
****
I don’t know what made me stop the video. Here I was, sneaking into my husband’s computer, snooping in his private stuff and I find a porn collection. Not just any porn collection. I mean, I think I could have handled pictures of gals with big boobs or maybe women on their knees giving blow jobs or something but the bondage video was maybe a bigger shock than I could take. Fenton and I have a good sex life together. We don’t hang from the ceiling fan or scream when we have orgasms but we give each other oral pleasure and we try different positions every once in a
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while. I’m fortunate to have found a man who cares about giving me orgasms and we are quite happy with our sex life. Aren’t we? Does this video mean he’s not happy with our love-making? Why would he need this stuff? Is he thinking about tying up other women? The more questions swirled the more worried I got. What if he isn’t happy and our sex life is a lie? What if he’s faking? I laughed out loud at that one. While a woman may be able to fake an orgasm, it’s pretty tough for a guy to fake one. There’ve been too many wet spots in the bed that confirm he definitely wasn’t faking. I stood up from Fenton’s leather desk chair and found the crotch of my panties were moist. In my shock and surprise I hadn’t noticed I was getting a little worked up down there as well. Feeling the need to get back to my writing, I tried to push the questions out of my mind. I needed to concentrate on Derek and Jane, the hero and heroine of my work in progress, Lost Love
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Suddenly Found. I walked back to my desk and tried to remember what scene I was supposed to be writing. I went to the kitchen, poured myself some iced tea and walked back toward my desk. I found myself in Fenton’s chair again. And it was a good thing I went back there because I had left the window showing the .wmv file open on the screen. I double clicked Kally again. I moved the slider bar about halfway to the right until I saw a scene I had not seen before. It was a close up of Kally’s breasts. The force of her rocking had increased. Her dark red nipples had hardened into large demanding peaks. The camera drew back to show her thighs clenching the pipe, her hips humping the pipe hard. The woman’s face showed a desperation, a need from deep within that was fighting to get out. Her features were a mixture of pain and pleasure focused on the bar between her legs. The man enters again and he is holding a handle with black strips hanging toward the floor. He raises his hand and brings the strips down on the top of Kally’s thigh with an echoing crack.
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She cries out loudly. Pain, frustration, pleasure, and lust all combine into that cry. I shiver. Another stroke of the whip, and another. The skin on her thighs turns pink, then pinker. She leans forward as far as she can, her arms pulling on the rope from the ceiling. She is straining to make her clitoris touch the bar, trying to give herself release. “Would you like me to loosen the rope a little bit, Kally?” the man taunts. “Yes. Oh, yes!” she moans. The whip cracks up across her butt. “Yes. Oh, YES!” She moans louder. “I have another idea instead,” the man says with a hint of mischievousness in his smile. He tightens the rope pulling her arms toward the ceiling to keep her from gaining her pleasure from the bar. She is raised so there is a gap between her crotch and the bar; now only the tiptoes of her left foot are touching the floor.
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He slides the handle of the whip in the space between her sopping pussy and the bar, moving it slowly deep in between her legs and back out again. “Fuck me! Fuck me hard… harder!” The man complies. Her thighs and ass are red from the whipping. The camera moves in to show her pussy and her butt hole, both wet and dripping. Like a dildo, the man slides the handle of the whip into her pussy and brings it out slowly, lifting up as it clears its confines to spread hot juices over her clit. She moans and squirms. The camera moves back as the man reaches up and rolls her right nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Her nipple is big and hard, the skin around it deeply crinkled. The camera closes in just as the whip handle slides down and traces the rim around her anus. “Oh my, FUCK ME!” she yells. The whip’s handle plunges in and out of her pussy, faster and deeper. The man reaches across to her left breast, squeezing, bringing that nipple to an even greater hardness.
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I arched my back and squeezed my thighs together as I watched Kally being pleasured, fucked by the whip. She twisted against the ropes, fighting to gain pleasure. She bit her lips harder and harder. Her eyes opened and then clenched shut, every muscle in her body tightened. “I’m coming. I’m coming! I’m! Coming!” the woman crescendos. The man slides the whip from her depths and draws figure eights around her clit and her anus. It seems like she comes for two minutes or more. When she is done the man loosens the rope from the ceiling lets her feet fall flat to the floor. Kally tosses her sweat soaked hair back from her face. Her face radiates pain and pleasure and satisfaction and lust fulfilled with a glow that makes me nervous and envious and curious and horny as hell.
****
Conflicting thoughts and feelings and memories swirl through my mind. Why is he looking at this stuff? Am I not good enough?
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Why is it making me so hot? Why did I…? An unpleasant memory comes back, one I should probably share… One night, early in our dating, after too many margaritas, Fenton and I stumbled up the stairs to his apartment and giggled our way into his bed. We kissed a while and then he got up, went to his dresser and pulled out a flogger and some rope. I freaked out. To this day I don’t know why I screamed, jumped out of the bed, threw my clothes on and left. Driving home, I felt stupid. I knew this was the guy. We could talk about anything and I acted like a total nut case when I saw the whip and rope. Now I find this movie with a woman tied and whipped and my man, my husband, is watching this and probably other similar movies when I’m not around...probably watching them before he comes to our bed and makes love to me. I watch one and I get hot; he obviously gets off on them. But why didn’t he tell me? Why did he hide them? What am I going to do?
****
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Home Depot is a great place to watch people. From the beer bellied contractors with their pants sagging under the weight of tools on their belts, to the skinny blonde with the impeccable manicure and pedicure picking out just the right shade of mauve for the guest room, everyone seems to know exactly what they want and where to find it. I tried to fit in as best I could. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I knew I’d know when I found it. I found the big hooks that screw into the ceiling pretty quickly, but I wandered the aisles quite a while trying to find the other piece of my solution. Up the aisle with rows of sinks and toilets and down the aisle with the electrical switches and wire. Then I spied it. Up on a shelf: a saw horse made of pipe. That would work just fine. I tried to attract the attention of two women in bright orange aprons but they were busy talking with each other and walked on by. “May I help you, miss?” a voice asked from behind me.
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I turned to look into the deep brown eyes of a hunk and I mean a ‘make you weak in the knees’ hunk. His dark hair, combed back, hung down past his collar. His lips gave me the most gentle smile with just a little smirking. His name tag read “Jon Simon” and he knew he was hot. “Umm, uhhh, I’d like uh one of those please,” I stammered, pointing the high shelf. “We usually sell sawhorses in pairs, miss. I could ask if we could…” “No, no, I meant a pair.” Trying to hide my embarrassment I asked a technical question. “How much weight will these hold?” ‘They’re rated starting at two hundred pounds apiece and up depending on the pipe you choose.” “The pipe I choose?” I’m sure I looked lost. “Sure, we just sell the support struts in this area. I’ll take you over to the pipe rack so you can choose the pipe you want to use and we’ll get you the length you need loaded on a cart so you can take it home, cut it up and assemble the horses.”
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Crap. I didn’t know anything about cutting pipe and I couldn’t exactly ask Fenton to do it. “Can’t I have you cut it for me here?” I asked hopefully. “Well, it’s against company policy for us to cut pipe, but…” Jon Simon looked into my baby blues with those dark, woman piercing eyes. I felt my eyelashes bat a bit, uncontrollably, of course. I swear I didn’t bat my eyes at him intentionally. “Maybe I could sneak in the back and do it for you. How high would you like them to be?” I placed my hand on my thigh just below crotch level. “About this high.” Jon Simon looked puzzled. “Most people like their work to be a little higher, so they don’t have to bend over.” “Oh, I don’t mind bending over,” I said cheerfully. Jon Simon’s head snapped toward me. His eyes seemed to look for a sign of whether I was serious or silly. “Oh, I mean the work will be tall so I won’t have to bend over.” I sighed. Got out of that one.
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“Really, what will you be working on?” Crap. Back in the fire again. “Umm, furniture, I’ll be refinishing furniture. Now where is that pipe rack?” Jon Simon showed me a two inch steel pipe. He cut it and showed me how it fit into the supports, loaded it all on one of those rolling steel carts. After thanking him, I headed for the checkout counter. I glanced back over my shoulder to see Jon Simon doing a little checking out of his own. I made a couple more stops on the way home.
****
“Honey? Hi, I’m sorry to bother you but I’m having some trouble with my computer and I have a deadline to meet with Lost Love Suddenly Found and I really need it fixed.” “What’s it doing, Sweetheart” Fenton asked.
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“It’s just black.” I turned the monitor off and loosened the cord on the back. “I really have to get it working. Can you please come home and fix it?” “Well, I’m not doing anything that can’t wait,” he sighed. “Let me make a couple phone calls and I’ll be home in about forty-five minutes.” “Oh thank you, honey,” I gushed and hung up the phone.
****
“Laura , I’m home,” he hollered as he came in the door from the garage. “Where are you?” “I’m up here,” I yelled. I will carry the image of his face when he entered the bedroom for as long as I live. In the middle of the bedroom floor was the pipe saw horse with several coils of rope hanging off the end. I was dressed in a pink, lace trimmed bra and panties. He’s a sucker for pink.
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In my hand was a flogger, just like the one in the video. The guy at The Crypt acted a little surprised when I picked up the large one with the bulbous handle and the leather strips and whipped my own thigh just below the hem of my shorts. Maybe I surprised myself, I’m sure they have seen it all at The Crypt. I handed the flogger to him, kissed him full on the lips, hopped on the pipe, straddling it and held out my hands, wrists together. I tried to look happy but I’m sure I looked scared. Fenton was stunned. He looked at me, the flogger in his hand, the rope and then at me again. I bit my lip. Oh my god, what have I done? Did I do the right thing? What if this isn’t what he wants at all? What if I assumed too much? Then Fenton smiled. It was his sweet ‛I love you, you silly girl’ smile. He leaned over and kissed me. A gentle, warm and loving kiss and I knew everything was going to be okay. He guided my leg over the pipe and then quickly pulled my panties down. I stepped out of them and he guided my leg back over the pipe. The pipe was hard and cold between my legs.
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I looked up at the ceiling; his eyes followed mine to the hook I had mounted there. He waited no longer and dropped the flogger. He grabbed the chair from the vanity, stood on it and threaded the rope through the hook. When he stood on the chair his crotch was at my eye level. The bulge in those wool trousers told me yes, everything was going to be okay. He moved behind me and kissed the back of my neck. With one quick move he unhooked my bra. He reached under the cups and held my breasts, his arms embracing me. My nipples were hard; his embrace warm and soft. He pulled the bra down my arms, letting my breasts spill out of the cups, the rigid nipples and my arousal exposed. The rope from the ceiling brushed my back as he tied my wrists in front of me, looping around and around my arms in thick bands so there was no loss of circulation and no pinching. Fenton opened the nightstand drawer and brought out the sex lubricant spray. He sprayed it on the pipe behind me and sprayed
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some on my rear. He rubbed it around the pipe and across my butt cheeks; his moistened finger gently traced the length of my crack. I squirmed a bit on the bar. It was tight into my nether lips as I kept my feet on the floor. It hurt a bit but I had practiced; I knew how to balance myself, finding pleasure in the aching pain. “Use the colors of the traffic light to guide me. Yellow means caution, red means stop. You won’t have to say ‘green,’ I’ll just know.” I had read about safe words, but we never had a need to use them. I shivered. I was tied. I was aroused. He was completely in control. I shivered again. “Scooch back on the bar, Baby,” he said. I slid as best I could until his hand on my left butt check let me know to stop. He then looped the rope hanging from the ceiling through the rope binding my wrists and pulled. My pussy stayed straddling the bar, my upper body was pulled forward. He stopped pulling when my clit touched the bar, my ass spread and facing the ceiling, my breasts pointing downward.
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I gasped. The pressure on my clit was merciless. It hurt. It felt good. I wanted it to stop. I rocked my hips and moaned. I couldn’t see Fenton behind me. I heard the air move as he brought the whip down on my ass. “No. You may not have pleasure without my permission.” His voice was strong and demanding. It was neither mean nor demeaning. He loved me and he was showing how he loved me. The whip came down harder, this time with a crack. I moaned more loudly. He whipped again and again and again. I felt my butt getting warm and red, each stroke of the whip drove me down and the pipe deeper between my legs. My clit burned, I could feel my juices running down my thigh. Then he blindfolded me. I listened intently in the darkness. I heard him take off his pants and maybe his shirt. I heard the chair move. The whip came down on my ass again and I felt his cock brush my lips.
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Sticky, salty pre-cum wet my lips and I licked it off. While my mouth was open, he slipped the head of his dick in. The whip came down again and my mouth opened further. He whipped harder and I moaned around his cock sucking it in as far as I could. I felt him shudder. As near as I could figure out, he stood on the chair, his legs straddling the bar, and he leaned forward whipping me with the flogger while his cock was in my mouth. I leaned my head back a bit and swirled my tongue around his hard shaft. The whip came down again. My clit was on fire. My pussy ached for attention, my tight little hole in the rear ached for attention. My mouth was full of Fenton’s hot cock and I sucked it with all my might. He stroked into my mouth, gently. Every third stroke the whip stung my rear and made me suck him harder and deeper. I heard his breath get quicker and sharper as he stroked and whipped. His cock got even harder as I moaned. He stopped and took his cock from my mouth.
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I heard the chair move, and then all was quiet. I thought I heard the lube spray pump, but it could have been the blood pulsing through my ears. I felt the handle of the whip move slowly down the crease between my cheeks and stop on the outside of my anus. Fenton twirled the hard leather ball on the edge, not penetrating, just teasing the outside. I ached and couldn’t take it any more. “Oh take me please, Fenton, fuck me, fuck me hard, fuck me, fuck with things, make me come, I have to come,” I babbled. Fenton stayed silent and kept twirling the leather, the friction warming me. The longing inside my ass was unbearable and my pussy grabbed the pipe tighter. “Fuck me!” I screamed and started humping the pipe with all my might. The bulb end of the whip entered my ass and I squeezed tight on it. My clit fucked the pipe and my ass sucked in the whip. Fenton gently caressed my face. His fingertips traced from cheekbone to chin.
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I moaned, I screamed, I humped, I fucked. I don’t know what all I did but I had never come like that before. Later Fenton told me that it seemed like I came for a full three minutes, that he had never seen me lose control like that before. He was afraid I’d hurt myself I was bucking on the pipe so hard. When I stopped writhing and was hanging by my wrists from the rope, he loosened the rope from the ceiling so I could take the weight off my pubis. He untied me and slid off the blindfold. My husband laid me on the bed, lay down beside me and held me tight. His breath was hot on my neck. I fell asleep in the arms of my loving husband and dreamt of knots and sunshine and his smile. When I woke, he turned me over onto my back, raised my legs up so my ankles covered his ears and he fucked me so hard I don’t think my hips will ever be the same.
****
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A couple months later I found this in Fenton’s E-mail. He sent it the day after our knotty encounter. To:
[email protected] From:
[email protected] Subject: You Were Right Johnny, Dude you were right. She found the .wmv’s and got roped in. All I’ve got to say is “Wow!” Thanks Buddy, Fenton
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It looks like I’m going to have to come up with a plan of my own.
The End
