hands
by Henry Jekyll

He did all the usual things: removed the hood, untied her, led her to the bathroom, fed and bathed her. What would he strap her to today? The bed. He spread her lovingly.

Next the blindfold and ear plugs.

She opened her mouth obediently. How long was it since she'd tried to avoid his tongue? Months? Forever? It was the last time he'd really punished her.

He caressed her body. Her nipples, stomach, mound. Her fuzz. He brushed fingertips down her thighs then up through her, while she tasted his mouth and felt his breath on her face.

The first time she had held herself rigidly. He'd whispered, "You can't win. We have all the time in the world." And he had played with her for eons. She hadn't had a chance. At some point she had begun writhing and panting into his mouth. Finally, when she was very, very high, he'd stopped and put his meat to her lips so she could thank him.

The second time she'd squeaked "Please!" and lifted her sex when he stopped. "No! Bad girl!" He'd used the belt on her while she tried to stifle herself, as he had taught her. Afterward he'd circled her clitoris with a finger slick with her secretions. Around and around the nub. Even with the throbbing of her welts it sent electricity through her.

He'd done her dozens of times. Always to the precipice. Not once to climax. "To give you something to think about," he'd chuckled.

"I'm going fishing now." What? She could hardly hear him above her breathing. "You really are becoming a good girl, you know. But there's not much time. Sunday we have to pick up the kids." And he was gone.

She moaned and twisted. Her vulva was full and tight and humming.

© 2005 by Henry Jekyll