Women in Lust (12 page)

“No,” Brooke said with absolute certainty. “I just want you. And your tongue on my cunt. Right now.” She grabbed his shoulders and pushed his head between her open legs. He slid down the couch, his tongue welcoming her drenched sex, matching its desire, dipping and twirling, bathing it in his steamy breath as she rode his face. Within seconds, waves of pleasure jerked her body so hard she had to hold on to the wall to keep from falling over. She screamed, forgetting about the kids upstairs, the neighbors next door, the world outside Calvin’s mouth between her legs.

He had his pants off before she’d even recovered. He slid back up the couch and pulled her hips toward his eager cock standing at attention. It slid in quickly, making a beeline for her sweet spot like an old companion. Brooke sighed at the ease of their passion. She rocked while he thrust, their movements so familiar, so perfectly timed after years of practice. She spread her hands over his broad chest and braced herself as she exploded with the pleasure of knowing this man wasn’t just a fantasy. He was all hers, every last inch.

I
could feel the soft scratchiness of the grass tickling my cheek as my face pressed closer to the ground, my eyes adjusting to focus on the depth of green and the pair of tiny ladybugs delicately crawling along in front of me. I had never quite noticed before just how vividly red they could be, like little droplets of blood against towers of emerald, and I wondered why it took having my face crushed into the earth to really appreciate nature like this.

I couldn’t see him, but I knew he was still there, calmly positioned on the comforting softness of the picnic blanket, surveying the sight of my bottom presented to him, my knees tucked neatly beneath my torso, arms stretched out in front of me. I had done as he’d asked and worn “something to ruin,” meaning a plain white sundress with a cornflower-blue print I’d picked up from the secondhand shop. “Something to ruin” always meant trouble.

“Come here, Susie.”

Gingerly, I picked myself up from the ground, dusting off my hands and smoothing out the fabric of my dress, smiling up at him as I did so. He smiled back at me, motioning for me to join him, watching me eagerly bounce over to the blanket and curl up next to him, planting a kiss on his cheek as I did so. The sun was already warm on my pale skin, and all around us stretched fields of faded green, dotted with clusters of yellow wildflowers and the smell of summer, under a never-ending canopy of blue sky and hazy heat. We had bought an old wicker hamper especially for the occasion of a picnic, but in typical English fashion had been faced with nothing but rain and clouds for all of the months of June and July, and now at last had the opportunity to make use of it. Carefully, I unpacked the plates and glasses, laid out potato salad and pork pies and all of the other things that never tasted quite right unless eaten outdoors, then served him a plate of all his favorite things.

I knew he was watching me, though, looking at me in the way that makes me feel both slightly anxious and overwhelmingly loved at the same time. I knew he was planning something. Sure enough, just as I was about to take a big bite of cold chicken, he laid his hand gently on my arm and shook his head.

“Put your hands behind your back.”

Hesitatingly, I obeyed him, placing the chicken back on my plate, folding my arms neatly in place, wondering what he would be thinking of, what he would want from me now. He knows how difficult I find it to do as I am told, much as I adore the feelings that come with it. Whether not speaking unless spoken to or keeping still until he moves me, it always seems so much more frustratingly difficult to do something myself that could much better be aided by wrist cuffs, blindfolds and gags. But at the same time, that is why being with him excites me so much: the sheer, simplistic beauty of submitting to him without all of
those things, without anything that makes my job any easier, without having any excuse to not give myself and my obedience completely and purely. He knows that.

Tenderly, he broke off a piece of chicken and held it to my lips, his fingers brushing against my cheek as he offered it to me, his eyes looking straight into mine. I took it in my teeth, chewing it slowly, noticing how different it tasted now that I could not feed it to myself. Like I was a pet. Piece by piece he fed me each thing from my plate, but always with his hand, letting me lick the remnants from his fingers like a hungry little kitten, pausing in between to eat his own food in a perfectly civil manner. The dessert I had packed was a little Tupperware box of strawberries sprinkled with sugar, which he opened and scooped a handful of them out, the juice dribbling across his palm, sweet and sticky. My eyes met his, wondering if I was allowed to move yet, but he simply rested his hand on the ground, against the wool of the blanket, watching for my reaction. Patiently, carefully, I repositioned myself onto my knees, never moving my arms from behind me, imagining them bound in invisible chains, then lowered my face to his hand. I could smell the sweetness of the sugar so close to my nostrils, breathing in the scent of the fields around us combined with the sharpness of the fruit, and I took a piece in my mouth.

The juice slipped down my throat, sweet and fragrant, each bite more delicious than the last. As I swallowed each piece, my tongue ran across the rough surface of his palm, lapping at the last of it, wishing his hand would clamp across my mouth and hold me down the way he knows I love, hold me breathless and captive as he took me in every way he desired. Gently, my lips closed around his fingertips, sucking each one, taking them deep inside my mouth, planting tiny kisses across his knuckles and tender bites on the heel, adoringly worshipping the hands that
control me so effortlessly. I love his hands, the way they touch me and possess me and pleasure me. I wanted his hands inside me right then and there, and hoped beyond hope he would want that, too.

“I think it’s time to go for a walk.”

He lifted my head and smiled at my frustration, motioning my arms to return to my sides and for me to stand. I try so hard not to act like a petulant little brat at times like these, but it’s so difficult when I know what I want, and he knows what I want, and he still won’t give it to me. Ignoring my sulky pout, he picked up the battered leather gym bag he had insisted on carrying with us all the way from the car to the picnic spot, took hold of my hand and led me purposefully off toward the woods, leaving all of our picnic things where they were.

“What about the hamper?” I whined, struggling to keep up with his determined pace. “Somebody might steal it! Really, we should just stay where we are. Don’t you want to finish your food?”

He just smiled at me, recognizing my usual reluctance to enter into any of his schemes, as most likely it would result in some part of my anatomy becoming very sore, but chose to ignore it.

“You do worry about the silliest things, Susie. Surely you should be more concerned about me taking you into the woods all alone than whether somebody will steal our picnic hamper?”

“Well, yes, of course I am, that wasn’t what I said, I just said that we—”

“I know what you’re saying,” he interrupted me calmly, looking at me in that way that I always find so deliciously disconcerting. “I know what you’re saying, and I know you want to come with me anyway. Don’t you?”

I just frowned, knowing full well he was right, and squeezed his hand a little tighter as we reached the edge of the woods. Stumbling, I followed him through the trees, my steps crisscrossing over fallen branches and leaf-strewn ditches. The sunlight fell in dappled shadows across the uneven ground, highlighting patches of dark green ferns and towering silver birches, scattered petals of fuchsia foxgloves and carpets of thick, emerald moss growing over fallen tree trunks. I knew wherever he was leading me would be somewhere I wanted to go; it was just a question of what I would go through to get there.

Finally, we reached a spot he found suitable: a broad, strong tree trunk surrounded by patches of moss and shrubbery, gaps in the branches above allowing strips of sunlight to fall across it, utterly silent except for the rustle of breeze in the leaves. Pausing, he took my hand and delicately positioned me with my back against the tree, his eyes scanning for the symmetry of my body centered against it, the tiny details that made me love him all the more. Kissing each of my eyelids in turn, he whispered for me to close them, before leaving me in self-imposed darkness. Taking a deep breath, I relaxed my body back against the tree, feeling the curve of my spine bend into it, and readied myself for whatever he might wish.

What he wished, however, was not what I expected. I felt the soft scratch of hemp ropes dragging across my bare skin, the sound of him looping them around the trunk of the tree, and a shiver of excitement flickered through me. He had always told me he wouldn’t tie me up until he knew I would submit without it, much as I pleaded with him. He said there was no use in forcing me to do something when what he really wanted was to see me willingly surrender myself, which, although challenging, had made each surrender all the more sweet. I felt a glimmer of pride as I realized he accepted I was his now, and knew how
much I craved the feeling of restriction, with the rope biting into my skin, making me struggle and wriggle and sigh with contentment. He knew what I needed.

I gasped as he pulled the ropes tighter, feeling them cutting into my flesh and binding me even closer to the rough bark of the tree. I could feel it under my fingertips, coarse and uneven, but even more uncomfortable as it dug into my back and the soft skin of my arms. Despite my longing, there was still part of me that wanted to protest, to tell him to cut me loose, to run wildly through the forest back to the safety of our picnic blanket, but to me that is the beauty of rope: to desire escape but to willingly be imprisoned, to feel the pressure of something that prevents my movement, yet to know there is no place that I feel safer than when trapped like this.

He smiled at me as he recognized those thoughts, and kissed me gently on the forehead before circling another length of rope across the tops of my breasts and looped into the one below them, cutting into my chest and forcing my upper back tighter against the tree, immobilizing my torso entirely.

I struggled against my restraints, whimpering at the sensation, the realization of my own helplessness tingling in my stomach. He was so close to me now, his breath hot on my neck, his mouth just inches from mine, his hands running across the thin cotton of my dress and sending shivers through me as his fingertips brushed lightly against my hardened nipples. I wanted to open my eyes so much, to see the trees around me, to look into his face and see the desire in it. But I couldn’t.

“What do you want, my Susie?” he murmured in my ear, his hands perilously close to the tops of my thighs, the fabric of my dress now seeming an oppressive weight on my skin, preventing his touch.

“You,” I whispered back, praying for his fingers to just reach
for the hem of the dress, to slip beneath, to dance across the aching expanse of my skin and beyond, to reach inside and feel the wet heat of me surrounding him. Just one touch from him was always enough to make me gasp, to make the breath catch in my lungs, to make me want more and more and more…but he wouldn’t even give me that. Every inch of me felt like it was sparking with electricity, alive with sensation, longing for him, inwardly pleading for him to just abandon his restraint and give in to his own need, instead of torturing me with mine.

The flat of his palm was against my thigh now, smoothing the cotton down, stroking it gently, enjoying the knowledge that he had me just where he wanted me.

“Please?”

He just laughed, a long, low laugh in the back of his throat; then, before I could even catch my breath, he’d taken hold of the edge of the cotton and ripped it ferociously, the material tearing in a jagged line across my legs, hanging in tatters where it had once lain flat. In its absence I could feel what an agonizing barrier that thin layer of cotton had been, the sensation of his thumb tracing lines along my bare thigh now even more electrifying. A breeze rustled the leaves of the trees, caressing me with coolness, the rough bark still digging into me, all of nature surrounding me, my whole body alive with feeling, yet deprived of such simple senses.

Softly, he kissed my cheek, and then his touch was gone. I knew he was near, from the sounds of his footsteps against twigs and leaves, circling me like an animal lusting after its prey. I knew he was there, yet I couldn’t stop wondering what he was doing, analyzing each sound, willing my eyes to stay shut despite the burning need to look at him, to see what he was planning to do to me.

Minutes later, I found out. A slow, prickling burn was
building against my right forearm, more like an itch at first, climbing to a furious, fiery sting. Biting my lip, I held back my squeals, wriggling against my bonds as the nettles crept up my arm and across my breastbone, down my left arm, across the shredded remains of my dress and down to my thighs. I squeezed my eyes shut with all my might, my mind filled with the image of him before me, a soft smile upon his lips as he watched me squirm, savoring the thought of his pleasure from my discomfort. I knew he wouldn’t be foolish enough to hold the stem of the nettles himself, and couldn’t help but admire his sense of forward planning to have thought to bring a rag, or a handkerchief, or whatever else he would be using to stop the leaves from burning him while they raced like needles across my flesh.

“Open your eyes.”

Brightness flooded my vision, sunlight and birds and leaves and trees, as he pulled his bare hand away, just for one moment, then brought it down against my leg with stinging ferocity. That one smack felt like it reverberated through my whole body, taking me away from my eyes and back into my skin, sensation shooting from that one, burning spot on my inner thigh right up my spinal cord and out to every single nerve ending in my being. Before I could think about anything else, a smack on my opposite thigh landed, even harder than the first, followed by two farther down. The nettle burns now a dull, forgotten agony, my eyes met his, pleading with him not to stop, my lids fluttering as he struck me again and again, each hit like a pulse of feeling through my limbs. Over and over he rained his blows against my legs, a rhythmic symphony of intensity dancing across the surface of my flesh. It was so strange how he could have done exactly the same thing without tying me, and I would have remained motionless just as he told me, but it just would never have felt the same.