The Gift

What if you were tied spreadeagle to the bed?

Not with painful metal handcuffs, of course, or wimpy ribbons, but something substantial. Nylon stockings, tied just right, are inescapable. I've been reading you between the lines, and I think you'd allow it. In fact, I think you'd like it. You might play the part of a bad girl, just to get yourself in "trouble." Or you might just come right out and ask to be tied.

Oh, you might have second thoughts after a wrist or an ankle is secured, and you might try to break free. But your struggles would be half-hearted, wouldn't they? Because you intend to give this gift, it excites you to offer yourself in this way. You won't make it easy, but you'll make it possible.

And then there you'd be, on your back, without your clothes, helpless. You could pull at your bonds, and I'm sure you would, but you'd find them quite sturdy. Still, it would be fun to observe you for a while, trying in vain to escape. I wonder what you'd be thinking then, as you came to the realization that you had lost all control, that whatever was going to happen was going to happen with or without your consent. You might be excited. You might be a little bit apprehensive.

You might be blindfolded.

In the darkness you listen for your lover. Is he still there in the room? You strain to discover what's going on. You feel the openness of your perfect body, perfectly ready. You lie there in the silence, exposed and vulnerable, a willing slave-girl, a sacramental gift to this one in whom you have placed your trust. Your senses are charged, and it seems like a long time is passing. Suddenly you feel a hand behind your knee, fingers barely brushing flesh. The thrill shoots down to your toes and up to your scalp and you shiver.

Unseen fingers trace ever so lightly up one thigh. A tiny moan escapes you as they pass your crotch, brush across your belly and start down the other thigh. You arch up toward them but they are quickly withdrawn, and you learn again that you are not in charge here. A tug at your bonds reminds you of your helpless position, and you sink back to the bed.

In a moment your submission is rewarded as you feel hot breath on your breast; then a tongue, just the tip, begins slowly to circle a nipple. By instinct you want to reach around to the back of his head and pull his face into you, but your restraints hold your arms wide and above your head. You moan in frustration as your other nipple is teased into hardness. Then both nipples are squeezed between thumb and forefinger, the pressure alternating from one side to the other, back again, almost reaching the threshold of pain, stopping just short.

Your breath is coming shorter now, as you feel your lover climb between your spread legs. He blows gently on your pussy. You whimper. He plants a kiss right on the center of your womanhood and you think Yes! There! Kiss me there! but it is not to be, not yet.

Now his fingertips stroke down your sides, from your shoulders, whispering along your ribs, down to your hips, so softly they might be feathers. You gasp, then moan, as your body betrays you. The fingertips move from the sides of your hips to meet in the middle of your belly, then begin to move lower, stroking through the bush of your dark delta.

You have no movement, you have no light. All your senses focus on what is happening to you down there, and you urgently push upward, toward the probing fingers, but again they are taken away. You cry out and thrash against the ropes, but soon you know that you must relax, that indeed you have given up your power and you must take what comes.

He wants you to beg for it.

And so you beg. You plead touch me, let me have you! You receive little rewards, a kiss behind the ear, a moment of petting on the pussy, a bite on some sensitive part of you, but you must beg for everything. You are eloquent, you are vulgar. You are crying out loud. In time there is a damp sheen on your velvet skin, and you are taut with arousal.

And frustration.

Gradually, more of his attention goes between your legs. For an eternity he plays with you, petting, fondling, spreading, fingering, kissing, licking and when you are almost there, he stops. Again and again you are almost there, and it is taken away from you. Your pleading becomes like the cry of an animal as you struggle for relief. You are driven nearly to frenzy by the sweet torment, until you are laughing and crying and pleading all at the same time.

And finally, when you are insane with lust, he is ready to come inside, to cut you free, to take possession of your gift...

OK, I think we all know how this ends. I don't have to write it, do I? This is not pornography, people. I see it as more of a literary exploration. Pornography is later.