Sensory Fragments

With thanks to J, he knows what for...

.....

As instructed, he enters the dark room, lit only by the flickering oranges and reds of the small, open fire, creating an audience of ethereal shadows. The room smells earthy, base notes of wood smoke and leather. It's warm and dark, a haven, or his own, personal hell?

'Disrobe and kneel' a seemingly disembodied voice whispers in his ear, 'or feel my displeasure.' Leather cracks on skin, not his skin, not yet...but the warning is clear.

Senses roused, he does as instructed, and kneels, a slight gasp escaping his lips as he feels the cold, unforgiving stone floor. Looking up, he can just make out the figure of a curvaceous woman, long hair a gleaming halo in the firelight, curves clad in satin corset and thigh-high black leather boots, legs apart, hands on hips, cat o'nine tails in hand.

'Close your eyes' she whispers, her husky tones almost hypnotic, 'hands behind you and look up'. She moves behind him and kneels too. He feels the briefest imprint of the warmth of her fingers and then the cold shock of steel as she cuffs his wrists together.

Standing again, she slowly, almost lazily, trails the cat across his shoulders and neck as she moves back round in front of him. She takes a glass and drinks, the ruby red liquid glowing warm as a promise in the firelight. Stepping forward, she takes his chin in her hand, a strong, sure touch, hinting at the physicality to come, tilting his face upwards to receive her kiss, allowing him to taste the oaky wine from her lips...

.......

Her mind is overflowing with possibilities. He needs to know that this game is not about the infliction of pain or humiliation, but about the creation of anticipation, the demonstration of strength, the art of the tease, an exercise in control for both of them.

She reaches behind her and takes a silk scarf from the table, slowly twisting it around her fingers, while she holds his gaze. He's watching her, drinking her in now, committing her to memory, for he senses what is to come and lowers his head in anticipation. She leans in, her hair brushing his skin causing an involuntary shiver as she ties the scarf around his eyes. Now, cuffed and blinded, his vulnerability is amplified and her control complete. Slowly, she walks around him as if assessing her prize, or searching for his achilles heel. Her heavy, measured steps, pointed heels stabbing the stone floor provide the only sound; a metronome marking the rhythm of their music.

She stops in front of him and he senses her kneeling. He feels the lightest touch on one shoulder, fingertips tracing lazy circles across his warm skin, tracing the line of his jaw, stopping to feel the pulse throbbing in his neck, then continuing onwards, circling first one nipple, then the other, before her tongue joins the dance.

........

Her head is spinning, whirling, intoxicated by the heat of the fire, her sense of power, her unquestionable desire.

She drinks him in with eyes, fingers and mouth, his skin, glowing golden in the light of the fire, smooth under her fingers and salty to the tongue. His head, bowed and bound, the submission there in complete contrast to the obvious strength of his physical masculinity, evidenced by the throbbing pulse in his neck, the strained muscles in his restrained arms, the stirring of his cock.

She knows she's in control, revels in it, needs to arouse him to the level where to release him physically will also release his hunger, reverse their positions completely, demand instant satisfaction.

Her tongue continues its voyage, enjoying the tang of his sweat, teasing his nipples, teeth joining the dance to first graze, almost gently, then nip, sharply and quickly.

Her journey continues, not downwards, as he might hope, but upwards, her lips covering his chest with butterfly kisses, lingering in the hollow at the base of his throat, warm breath, warm lips, tracing a path along his neck and jaw line, before reaching his mouth.

The lightest of kisses, one to each side of his mouth, then her tongue darts out to lick slowly but lightly across his lower lip, his mouth opening in anticipation.

But no, she moves away again, leaving him open-mouthed, leaning in to her, a supplicant begging for alms.

.......

Restraining him, depriving his senses, forbidding him both sight and touch, is becoming as much of a torture for her as she hoped it would be for him. But, unlike him, she can do something to quench her thirst...

Rising, she takes an ice cube from her collection of props and walks behind him, quietly this time, hoping he has no idea whether she is close, or where she is going.

Holding the ice between finger and thumb, she kneels once more and without warning trails it slowly down the length of his spine. She feels him flinch at the contact, his back arching, shoulders tensing in response to the sudden cold.

She follows the icy trail with her fingernail, while she whispers in his ear,

'Your body is not yours to command, but mine. You will do as I choose, satisfy my wants, submit yourself to my wishes...'

He nods his agreement and, his obedience guaranteed, she uncuffs him, the click of the mechanism almost mockingly indicating a freedom for which he has no desire.

'Now, stand' she adds and he rises slowly, still unseeing, knees stiff after the cold hardness of the floor.

Her fingers brush the back of his thigh, nails raking up and over his buttocks to the base of his spine, then follow her around to his front, fingers fanning over his stomach, delighting in the tenseness of his muscles, reveling in the electricity that sparks from the contact.

She continues to circle round him and begins to use her cat o'nine tails, wrist flicking, leather swatting his back and butt. She steps in and winds its tendrils around his cock, pulling it away from his body, before releasing it again, stepping away, smiling at the groan of frustration which escapes his lips.

.....

Unable to resist any longer, she must feel his touch, yet still retain the appearance of control. She reaches down and takes his hand, pulling it in front of him, palm down.

She tries to hold out a little longer, taking time to slowly caress each of his fingers with her own, before she lifts his hand to her mouth, placing his index finger on her tongue, almost closing her mouth around it, gently sucking it in a promise of what will be, before allowing just that one finger to slowly circle her lips, then guiding its journey over the curve of her chin, marking a pathway down her neck, coming to a halt at the base of her throat.

Her breathing has quickened; even unseeing, he must sense her desire in the flush of her skin, the warmth of her breath, the speed of the pulse that throbs in her throat, the almost undetectable trembling that is nonetheless betraying her.

She covers his hand with her own, entwining their fingers and continues their journey. Achingly slowly, inch by inch, their fingers together trace the shape of her collar bone, from one side to the other and back again, before dropping to the warm, softness of the swell of her breasts, fingertips following the line of her bustier, palms cupped over the still enswathed fullness of her breasts.

His other fist is clenching and unclenching, desperate to join the dance, but mindful of the potential consequences of disobedience....

.......

She can feel the heat of her passion surging through her body, urging her on, willing her to stop this exquisite teasing and allow their thirst to be slaked. At the same time, she is intoxicated by her sense of mastery, unwilling to surrender this feeling so newly-found, so profitably exercised.

Taking his hand, she leads him over to the bed and instructs him to lie down.

'You have touched but not looked' she murmurs, 'soon you will look but not touch'.

She straddles him, one knee either side of his stomach and leans forward, her hair falling over his chest, her lips joining with his for the kiss which signals the sea change in their encounter. Deep and probing, intense and ardent, lips mash and mesh, tongues dance and savour, hot breath mingles. It is impossible for hands not to join the fray. He reaches up, all hesitancy forgotten, running his fingers through her hair, cupping her face in his hands. Her hands are grasping his shoulders, knuckles white, nails leaving half moons in his warm, moist skin.

Finally her hands move to push his blindfold away from his eyes, she ends the kiss and sits up, moving his hands back to his side, pushing her hair back from her face. He looks up and sees the unadulterated lust in her wanton stance, her lips swollen, hair tousled, skin flushed, eyes bright.

Slowly, he watches as she lifts her hands to her breasts, tracing the line across the top of her corset as she allowed him to do earlier. The memory makes his flesh stir and his breath catch. She smiles softly, reaches up for the ribbon, half-hidden in her cleavage and begins to tug on it....

'Time to dance' she whispers...

To be continued?