“I am going to hurt you, because your body in pain inspires me.”
The cuffs were padded leather, rope run through the rings and around two pillars. The room was a long rectangular shape, where these floor to ceiling columns were load bearing, on either side, spanning the halfway point. There, the rope always lived, for convenience, but today it was taut, holding him stretched out. He was naked except for his collar, his cock stirring but not standing to its full extent. She liked that, knowing even the preparation had his interest piqued, pulling him toward that full kind of rampant erection, a tell he couldn’t hide when she turned him on.
How odd, to be a man, and be able to conceal nothing! Her own arousal even surprised her, sometimes. Sure, she would feel the energy and the tight warmth, but all too often she wouldn’t realize the full extent until she touched the curls and folds of her cunt and her hand would come away sopping wet. Then again, the “topping” she liked best sucked her full attention from her own body, to his.
She never started these games turned on. That came later, immersed in the joy of it. There was an urge to do unkindly, but it was a sort of romantic foreplay, the actual heat arriving in the midst of her control and his reactions. Cunt slick and ready to devour took a path through her power over him and some sort of apex of sensation inflicted on him.
Nonetheless, he was naked for her pleasure. His clothing remained piled up on their bed, in the other room, where she pulled it free from his body. She hadn’t dressed up, lazy in a t-shirt and black jeans, bare feet stepping over the carpet, considering her first attack.
(More after the jump)
He had spareness that she liked, skin with that matte glow of time polished marble, yet supple and warm to touch. Bound with his arms raised, she enjoyed the contrast: shoulders wide, hips narrow. She considered running her nails down his sides, even as she traced her fingers, instead. She did not want to start until she was truly ready.
She had laid her toys out, just so, on the old, battered coffee table. Simple was better. The wheel with its two rows of pins. The length of bamboo that had a black foam handle, and the crop with the fat head. Nipple clamps, silver, with a chain between them. And, last, a wadded up, gauzy purple scarf.
“I don’t want you to anticipate.” She made a blindfold out of the folded fabric, pleated from a rectangle into a long strip that she knotted firmly behind his head. The tails looked pretty, hanging down his back, but she reasoned they would get in the way and tucked them up.
Now, with his vision gone, he tilted her head and leaned himself, to better hear and feel her warmth. Helpless.
A grin twitched in her face, playing patty cake and tapping to warm the skin of his back and ass. If he could have seen her, through the slight gaps of light of the blindfold, he would have seen that smile grow. She knew the pressure of the fabric made him instinctively keep them closed, deterring peeking.
She reached around him, an embrace he leaned into, breasts against his back, and hands seeking and stroking along his front. She explored his chest, stomach, and then finally gave into cruelty, fingers finding, pulling and twisting his nipples.
The cuffs and ropes to the pillar shifted at a little flinch. She heard and felt his whimper. In reply, her cunt gave one of those shooting pulses that went up through her core. It was starting.
The wheel demanded patience, and feather light pressure. Each point of its pins dimpled exactly where it pressed, something alive, on monstrous little legs. She had run it over her arm enough to have the jist, but she also knew like tickling yourself, some things were just much worse done by another.
With his legs spread shoulder’s width apart, he was trying to be good. The wheel wasn’t the worst, an appetizer. She set it aside, caressing and patting again. Her hand brushed over his cock, he bucked a bit towards her. No, not quite the mood. Maybe after.
The crop that started to become a paddle and the length of bamboo offered their own promise. Only in looking at them did she remember she’d forgotten the nipple lamps, narrating out loud in mock self depreciation. “My,. how silly of me!”
Men’s nipples were tight to the chest, small, but as she learned,sometimes all the more sensitive. It reminded her of the reverse of that penis/litoris comparison. She tugged to give the clamps enough to bite. True they could capture just the tip, but the extra agony wasn’t worth how fast they slipped. One side, then the other, nicely balanced
Now, a choice. The chain was a bit too short to comfortably reach his lips, and that had promise, so did attaching a swinging weight. The pretty pout of his lips won out, and she hooked a finger, tugging to guide the cheap silver links so he could hold it for her. A kiss, with his lips unable to respond to her, under their charged task. She knew he loved to kiss her, delighted in the hobbling of even this. Her hand grasped a handful of his hair, pulling his head a little back, increasing the tension, commanding him to stay like that.
The switch was unavoidable now. She was following the imp of the perverse where it led her, only restrained a little as his ass became her target. She had to build, don’t rush, working her target.
He bloomed so easily for her. The pain made his breath change, strike, strike, over and over. It was a game of temptation, because there was always a little more strength in her shoulder to lash out into him.
The tender backs of his thighs took the bit next, and there, he shifted his stance, cringing. She had broken his obedient composure. It was a reminder to regain her own self control. “Back in place.”
He complied, and she put his head back at the angle she wanted, checking that his nipples were still held. Somewhere in her pleasure, his cock has crept down from soft. It was not a withdrawal of his arousal, but she smiled when he couldn’t see. There was a spot to chase, that place of too much and not enough at once. With a gentleness she cradled his cock, a caress pulling it back half hard. Then, switch in her other hand, the lightest careful flicks made him scream and drop the chain.
“You should have expected that,” she chided, “Love of mine, you know I like hurting your beautiful cock. It reminds me to be delicate, that pain is more than force.”
He looked ashamed, so she caressed him again, a hand creeping to press to his throat. She saw that the clamps were starting to tug free, but let them be. Instead, she replaced the chain in his mouth and gave him another hungry kiss. He relaxed at her warmth, that expression of want. The hand on his throat became a hand on the back of his head. His hair was soft and thick, easy to grab.
When she broke the kiss, she yanked his head back, suddenly, sharply. One clamp sprung free, the other one held on by just a tiny bit of skin. He screamed so beautifully for her. She kissed him again.
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