Release and Assurance

Releasing her head, hand on her shoulder, easing the grip of his legs, John let her rock and mewl and breathe, tracing with a fingertip on the dampness of the back of her neck, and between her shoulder-blades, stepping back and smoothing his hand down her ribs, his thumb on the small of her back, stepping his left leg between her feet, slowly sinking his knee between her own.

Her girlish bottom was dotted with pink, red, even purple over a base that ranged from white on the hips to a rather angry red highlighting each cheek like rouge – if applied, perhaps by a very young girl or a very old woman.  John didn’t worry that he’d overdone it – the skin wasn’t even raw, let alone broken – and he ran his thumbnail across the base of her thigh, reawakening her sensitivity.  As expected, she threw her head back with a mix of a whimper and a wail.  Using the ball of his thumb, he rubbed the brightest spots, effectively erasing the sting.  More, much more than this, however, was the young woman’s unmistakable condition.  John’s own continual stiffening required that he shift himself under his belt to ease his own constriction.  Gently he caught a few strands of her soaked hairs between the edges of two fingers and tugged gently, sliding down their full length, their natural medium brown darkened by the flood of her dew.  She hung her head and, once again, whimpered.

“Not now, sweet girl,” he assured her, “the time for blushing is past.  You’re no longer exposed… you’re merely revealed.  We are no longer opposed…” Unable to complete the couplet, he concluded with, “It’s time for you to be my guide, to show me… the hills…” Again his thumb pressed her flesh, sweeping from her center outward.  “And valleys,” he added, drawing the lightest trace up her cleft, “and all the secret paths that run through the forest.”  With this he again stroked the edges of her hair which, while more a parkland that a forest primeval, concealed nothing.  Her lightly furred lips were swollen and parted until the hot pink flesh inside her displayed itself plainly.  An inverted triangle with her clitoris at its pointed base, it broadened and darkened upward into an open and unguarded entrance.  John’s first instinct was to capture it in his mouth, to suck her succulent lips, to have her ride his tongue as she had ridden Midnight.  But he was a man of great patience.  All good things in their time.

Flanking her lips with his first and ring fingers, John divided them even more plainly with his middle one, up under her hood, pressurelessly seeking her pearl.  Her gasp signaled success and he teased her in tiny circles, giving her just enough freedom to keep him on point, following the roll of her hips as it became ever more pronounced.  Oh but that is not all, my lovely, he said to himself, no that is not all.  With the back of his thumbnail he pressed upward against what in this position was the roof of her core, meeting more invitation than resistance.  Bending downward around her pubic bone, the tip of his thumb sought the ever-circling tip of his finger, with her between.  Inside he stroked her toward him, beckoning, saying aloud, “Come to me, come to me.”  Outside he circled with a touch light enough to be maddening.  Now he stroked his thumb upward, rubbing her between his fingertips.  Curling his middle finger, he let her grind against the knuckle even as he continued to tease with the tip of his first finger.

Even as these sensations rippled through her, John reached with the crop around and under her hip, seeking her breasts, stroking from one to the other, using the edge to locate her nipples, teasing them, drawing beneath them, tracing unknown patterns.  She backed into his hand as she gripped his thumb, minutely rocking against his finger.  The crop fob crossed her left breast center to outside, caught her nipple.  A light smack had her curling closer; a slightly harder one and she stopped; harder still and she arched away as he moved to her right breast.  John’s mouth ached to consume her, breasts, bottom, hips, belly, shoulders, his lips tasting her everywhere.  His tongue longed to penetrate her, her mouth or replacing his thumb while his swollen manhood completed the union.  His probing took on a new urgency.

It was enough to drive anyone mad, wild, or both and she was no exception.  Her hours-long anticipation coiled and coiled inside of her until, with a few preliminary surges, she found herself springing and spiraling upward.  Whatever abandon she’d demonstrated previously was eclipsed as the rising sun eclipses the moon; whatever desire she’d displayed was washed away by a new and higher tide.  His hand jammed back against his hip, John let her ride him in her wanton, continuing then slowing his motions, down and down until they reached a base level, nearly but never stopping.

“All this will be wasted,” he cooed to her, “if you forget it in the morning.  We don’t want that, do we?”

*****

“All this will be wasted,” John cooed to her, “if you forget it in the morning. We don’t want that, do we?”

Though he didn’t expect an answer, she shook her bowed head, obedient as ever. Still blindfolded and face on her arms she had turned her invitation into insistence and now to desperation, disguising the thrust of her hips as rocking but even so chasing him as he retreated an inch or two, and then a third. Just as he held her in his grip she continued to grip his restless thumb every bit as tightly as she pressed herself into his touch.

“I won’t have you forgetting, little lady,” he promised her. “In the future when you hold this crop, tonight will be on your mind.” Doubtless she was convinced of that already, but John MacLeod was a hard man to satisfy. “You’ll think of this evening and act responsibly, I know it.”

With this warning he took up the crop once again and, bringing one hand to the other, touched the handle to her – barely, gently. The handle, much thicker than the stem, gave a comfortable grip with a checkerboard weave to reduce slipping, ending in a stopper that spread outward like the spray of a black water-fountain. Grip, however, was not what he was looking for, and he rolled the handle across his slickened hand, wetting it lavishly from her generous lips. Her hips began to bounce up and down with a desire that neared panic.

That desire turned to true panic as John pressed the edge of the stopper to the tightly-closed wrinkle of her rosebud. While it may have seemed readily offered, she now appeared to be having second thoughts. Her head came up for an instant before she buried it deeper with a weak “No – don’t.”

“Come on now – you want to remember, don’t you? Or am I wasting my time here?” Whether it meant agreement or argument she shook her head and most of her body followed suit. “Then behave – and help me; make it easy on both of us.” She complied to the extent that she held perfectly still despite the continued flexing of his grip in and outside of her as he pressed, still with the edge, still trying to create an opening where none seemed to exist.

In truth this probably was the gentlest way to introduce the handle to her – and her to it – as it rose from between her cheeks like the tail of a cat positioned for mating. A little inside, a lot outside, a little pressure, a little lift, a pause for acceptance, and repeat. He pressed her to one side and the other, levering and prying his way inward, two steps forward, one back.  His fingers continued to pet her lips, his thumb continued to pull her toward him, her hip snug against his ribs, her thigh to his stomach, his forearm along her spine, his wrist on her tailbone as he swung the crop-end like a pendulum, her every tremor jacking his excitement.  Slick or not it was slow work but at length they got into sync so that her arching and flexing helped more than it hindered. Then suddenly it was halfway and with a little cry she had accepted her fate and the struggle was over.

John moved his thumb from down to up, seeking contact with the crop-grip through her inner wall, withdrawing the handle slightly until he felt the undercurve of the stopper press his thumb-tip. Bending, he continued his pull until it hung up on his knuckle, which he dragged it over, withdrawing until he knew it was seated firmly against her portal from the inside. Easing it back in he felt all the same positions in reverse.

Her reaction to this repeated stroking – for it was repeated, repeatedly – seemed to be one of mental and physical confusion. At times she seemed to want to ignore it, wait it out, distance herself, let it be over; or reject it, refuse it, demand it be withdrawn – but more often she responded, encouraging the invasion, reacting with a series of short, sharp jerks. The small noises she made likewise combined craving of the highest order and humiliation of the lowest; he could scarcely be expected to decide whether to relent out of pity or continue out of consideration.

In the face of such indecision John chose to continue, though not without changes. Dissatisfied with the reach his thumb provided he withdrew it – timing so that the stopper chased it out – and substituted his middle and ring fingers, By covering one fingertip with the other the two entered her as one before separating, spreading her, exploring along her sides. As he pumped he used his thumb – the thumb of his hand that worked the crop – to dip between his slippery fingers and provide more slip to the crop handle – and to more of the crop handle as, is response to his fingers’ greater reach, he extended it further inside of her.

“That's a girl,” he encouraged as she raised her head, her hips pressing to draw him deeper, “that’s my good girl.  You want to climax for me, don’t you?”

“Yes – oh God yes,” she breathed.

“Let’s have you do that.  Come for me.  Come to me, come for me, come for me now.”  Manipulating her inside and behind, following, anticipating her movements, smaller, focused… was it permission she had been waiting for or merely his anticipation of the inevitable?  It mattered little as she rocked with her long-awaited release, pumping his hand, moaning loudly as she abandoned any last inhibitions with a particular vengeance, completely unrestrained.  Releasing the crop John wrapped his arm under her, curling his chest to her cheek and back, clutching her to him.

Despite his impatience he rocked her slowly, seeking every last quiver, respecting her extreme sensitivity.  At length he reached up and pushed the strap off of her head, causing it to fall to the floor, though the room was fully dark now apart from an outside light filtering through the curtained windows.  At last he removed the crop, saying nothing for the moment; slid his hand beneath the shirt she still wore, rubbing her shoulders; and finally, reaching under her, arms crossing, hands cupping her breasts, raising her up to straddle his thigh, his lips to her ear.

“Has our naughty girl learned her lesson?”