Friday, May 13, 2016

Playing With My Partners - Part One

Stuck: 
Short Story – 
Part One

Cara Temple sat on the short bench, nervous—but not for the usual or obvious reasons. No, her nerves had nothing to do with the fact that she was alone, naked, and blindfolded in a private room in the back of Donovan’s. Nope. It was a strange and lucky twist of fate that had her claiming that state as, if not run-of-the-mill in her life, certainly not odd.

No, the thing that had her heart fluttering was the electric current running live and wild throughout the room. The immense implications of what would soon happen, the heavy weight of play.

She heard the door open, a loud creaking sound as the hinges squealed painfully. The sound tingled up her spine, making her want to squirm and turn sightlessly toward the sound.

“Don’t move.”

The voice was commanding—not angry, not distant—just sure and strong.

Cara turned back to sit passively on the bench, waiting. Anticipating.

She heard—felt—him circle her, studying her slowly like a predator with already-caught prey. His heavy footsteps were loud against the room’s tiled floor, a clomping clack as heel and toe landed. She resisted the urge to track him, to turn and follow the sound of his approach, as he rounded her.

But she wouldn’t budge. Because he’d told her not to.

Rob. Her husband. Her love. Her life. The man she trusted more than any other.

She smiled.

Stopping suddenly behind her, he leaned close to murmur into her ear, “Stand up.”

She shivered and pushed herself to her feet, a bit disoriented without her sight and with his breath hot against her neck and shoulders.

He grabbed her shoulders, his hard hands firm as they cupped her turning her to face him, her knees knocking the bench between them.

“Up.” He patted the wood bench, the dull thump making her heart jump. “Knees.”

Cara reached out one hand to touch the smooth, hard, scratched surface of the bench awkwardly before climbing up onto it. She wobbled a bit, trying to find her balance on the low, thin beam, her knees and ankles seesawing a bit.

“So pretty,” he said reverently as he let his hand run lovingly down her cheek, her neck, her shoulder, her arm as she preened. Then he grabbed her wrist before reaching for the other.

He gripped both thin columns in one large, strong hand, his fingers and palm a tight manacle holding her still. Cara could feel the heat of him in that touch, the calloused warmth that seeped into her skin, making her whole body hot.

She shivered while he let the rope, cool and soft and thick, drape over the sensitive skin of her arms. He began to wrap the rope around her wrists, the slightly rough material brushing her arms sweetly before tightening around her flesh. 

After finishing the knot, he tugged on the long excess rope like a leash, making her lurch forward into his hard chest. He caught her, his other arm reaching around in a secure grasp before he lifted her a bit off her knees. He turned her, forcing her legs to straddle the thin bench before he lowered her to sit on the wood. Her knees bent as her feet flattened on the floor, centering and steadying herself. The wood cut into her thighs even as the cool surface slid against the hot, slick skin of her shaved pussy.

She sighed and settled on the bench, smelling him warm, clean, familiar. Home. He smelled—felt—like comfort, easy and soothing.

“Stay.” He pulled on the rope, dragging her body down until her breasts, her stomach, her shoulders, and her cheek lay flat on the bench. She shivered as her heat met chill, waxed wood.

Feeling the tiny tugs on her bonds, she knew—could imagine—he was wrapping the rope around the bench legs. Cara tested her trappings, pulling her wrists just a bit—barely more than just a tightening of muscles—feeling almost no give. She couldn’t move.

Her heart leapt, her pulse strong in her throat. Her breath quickened and the feeling—the knowledge—of being trapped hit her.

She heard him stand—the slight rustle of his cotton and linen clothes, the subtle shift of air as he moved through it—again circling her, pacing around her. He traced a gentle finger down her spine. She imagined him smiling when he saw her shiver, his entire attention centered on her, warming like sunlight in the enforced darkness that engulfed her. His finger slid—stroked—down her back until his whole hand cupped her flesh, one full, firm cheek held in his palm. He squeezed.

Cara arched up into his touch only to have his hand smooth back up her spine before settling into the vale of her shoulders. Her breath hitched as he leaned down, the slight shift of weight pressing her down a bit. “Straighten your legs.”

She did, her ass raising up as her back angled up off the bench. Her breastbone and cheek were still held tight to the wood by her ties.

He patted her rump a bit cheekily. “Good girl.” She rolled her eyes behind the blind, hearing the mocking tone touching his voice. She stifled her own amused laughter, imagining the boyish grin on his face as he studied her body, bound before him, ready, willing, and absolutely unable to do anything but take whatever he wanted to give her.

She wondered if he was hard yet, seeing her body, ass-up and presenting. She bet he could see her wet flesh between her stiffened, parted thighs. She inhaled, scenting her own arousal as it pulsed and slipped glistening down her thigh.

She wiggled a bit—uncomfortable—feeling incredibly exposed while he stared at her. Not talking. Not touching her. Just slowly walking around her. And looking.

Suddenly—making her flinch—she felt another length of rope tumble down her ass, coasting down her cheek as the end tickled her thigh. 

Then a hand grabbed one of her ankles, fisting it in its grip. He dragged it back half-a-step until it met one of the bench’s legs, lashing them together tightly. More carefully this time, conscious of her precarious balance, he gripped the other ankle and secured that one too.

He made a low gutturally satisfied sound as he knelt behind her, his hands clasping her hips hard. “You are so beautiful.” Her cunt clenched as she felt his breath against heated flesh. 

And then his tongue was on her, slipping sweetly between the soaked skin of her labia. She jerked as his teeth scraped at the sensitive skin—just a tight touch of teeth—but the move was cut short by the ropes holding her surely in place.

His low laugh rumbled through her, making her moan as her arousal rolled through her. She felt his tongue press flat and deep, licking up from her clit to her throbbing cunt, tasting her heat as he groaned. His tongue dipped into her, flicking her entrance as she tried to writhe while her entire body tensed.

Replacing his hand with his tongue, she felt his fingers thrust deep inside her in to the hilt before pushing in and out of her hungry cunt. The sudden slide still shocking despite the slick slip of her arousal. Each pump pulled at her, reaching deep within her—deeper than the length of his fingers to the core and soul of her. She moaned as her back arched a bit, her hips bucking as much as she could with her bonds before he tongued her clit.

Her body writhed as pleasure flooded her, robbing her of her mind and control. But the ropes—damn and bless them—held her almost unbearably still, taunting her with a teasing tension that forced her to feel—to face—her pleasure, offering her no escape. They held her still and took her will. And promised her so much more in return.

Despite the ropes—because of them—she was free. Free to have any reaction she liked. She could be a wild thing, crazed and uncontrolled. She could let the civil side of her—the social ties and strictures that bound her tighter that rope ever could—go. They had no place here. In this place that he gave her, where she could be herself.

Wholly.

Unreservedly.

His gift to her.

Because he loved her.

God, she loved him.

So she gave up. 

Gave in. 

Let his tongue and hands touch her, take her, as sensation simmered through her, boiling and bubbling up and out her mouth in deep, throaty, lusty moans begging in incomprehensible pleas. 

“Do you want to come?” His voice sounded ravaged as his fingers ravished her.

“Yes.” Her response little more than a needy huff lodged in her dry, tense throat. “Please.”

“Do you want to come?” he repeated, his fingers pressing deeper, harder, into her.

“Yes!” 

“Then come for me.” He sucked her clit between his teeth, tonguing her unmercifully until she cried out, her limbs pulling at the ropes that held her down as she came apart. 

Distantly, she felt hands caress her, ease and soothe her, as she shattered. Heard soft words spoken sweet and low against her skin while kisses rained down just as gently.

Cara was still panting, her body still shuddering, when she heard the door open. 

And then close. 

Leaving her still tied to the bench, alone.

Not alone.

She inhaled, still trying to find her breath, scenting—sensing—someone else in the room.

She breathed in again, deep and searching.

Money. Power. Man.

Rand.

Her body heated even as an exciting, silvery shiver shot through her.

Rand.

Her heartbeat raced at the thought of her play partner, expectation and anticipation rising, mixing with the sexual satisfaction still humming inside her. She squirmed, knowing what was coming next.

“Look what someone just left here,” his voice, deliberately low and gravelly, raked across her skin. “What a pretty, fucking present.”

Cara jumped—as much as she could in her position—as a loud thwack sounded. She knew that sound. She knew she did. The sound of something hard and harsh against a leather-clad thigh. The sound alone sent heat lancing through her, her body’s reflexive reaction. God, she knew that sound, but damned if she could quite place it.

She stilled—her whole body tense—as she listened, straining for a sound. All she could hear was the sound of his boots as they stalked the room.

“I must have been real good to get a gift like this left for me,” he mused as he walked the room from corner to corner. “Makes a man wonder what kind of nasty, little girl you’ve been to get left bottoms-up and exposed.” 


Read Part Two Here

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