Bound and helpless (currently open)

[mgetzhoff]

Bound and helpless (now closed, but please read and enjoy!)

(OOC - my first effort! I am looking for medium bondage and light domination. Strong language doesn't do it for me, but I want to be made to beg for my climaxes. Perhaps a soft, pleasure loving dom will join in....)

Isabelle waits with her arms pulled above her head.

He had told her, "I want you naked, your wrists chained together, dangling from the corner of the four-poster bed. Leave the door open. I will have at least one surprise for you, maybe more." That last was said with a tone of delighted promise. She knows that tone, he is having one of his creative moments. Isabelle loves and dreads his creative moments.

His creative moments have filled her memories with delightful people and a dresser drawer with some truly amazing toys. Her shell-pink nipples ache with marvelous memory of some of those toys.

The room grows warm as Isabelle waits, her long, brown hair beginning to stick to her back. He loves her hair, demanding that she keep it long. But it is her eyes that draw everyone to her. Deep cinnamon, so expressive, especially when her body is in helpless thrall to her needs.

Isabelle sighs, her breasts shifting with her breath. She is careful to do the exercises that keep them riding high, even though their weight has increased over the last few years. She looks down at her body and assesses; yes the waist is still relatively narrow, and the pubic hair is in its neat heart shape. The legs are well-muscled and shapely. The yoga that keeps her strong also keeps her wonderfully flexible. She is happy with herself, and growing curious about what will happen.

 

[Original_Cyn2]

Cynthea

Cynthea: 28 years old, 5’6” tall, 115 pounds most of it curves in all the right places. Red hair, brilliant green eyes and a whimsical, mischievous smile that draws people like flames.

Outgoing and a spirited conversationalist, Cyn has a slaves heart. Her submission is complete, total, unrepentant – all easily interpreted from her demeanor, her actions, and her speech.

 

[Original_Cyn2]

Cynthea

How am I here? She muses quietly to herself, glancing around at the unfamiliar living room in an unfamiliar house and the almost stranger that looms before her. So engrossed in her thoughts that even as she watches His eyes narrow with displeasure she doesn’t quite realize how bold, direct her own gaze has become. Quickly, she drops her eyes, respect and shame battling within her, suffusing her cheeks with bright color.

~~ It had been a night of unusual events. Her mentor called away by the determined buzz of His pager. He’d left her, of course, well provided for, His moody eyes conveying His dissatisfaction with events, the sensual caress of strong, callused fingers encircling her wrists, pulling her up to stand before Him, promising so much more in the near future as to leave her aching in His arms. The Maitre’D, Signore Andreas, with a third sense that has always struck her as a little spooky, approached their table, M’s coat held before him, his eyes meeting hers in quiet commiseration.

“I’ll see Miss Cyn through, Sir and make sure she gets home alright.” The soft flicker of a smile plays at the corners of M’s lips, His appreciation lighting His eyes for a moment, leaning forward to place those sensual lips against hers for just a heartbeat.

She’d left the restaurant twenty minutes later, her whimsical nature insisting on a hug for Andreas, watching him blush and glance around, ruffled as she’d entered the car he’d called for her. Redirecting the driver once they were safely away, she’d chosen to stop at the pub down the block from her flat, something she rarely did and even more rarely alone.

She’d seen those commanding eyes from the entrance, His lithe, powerful body turning from the bar, glancing in her direction in response to the soft chime of bells at the door. She’d felt the frisson of recognition swim in her veins, light up her eyes, her body and intuition responding to the strength and subtle aura of command that surrounded him. She’d seen that recognition echoed in His, in the sharp, keen intent of His second glance, in the stillness and predatorial stance of His body, like a wolf sensing blood.

She probably should have left then, Cyn acknowledges to herself, but she’d been fascinated, drawn to what He was as He was drawn to her. They’d talked, easily, she a little breathlessly and He’d confided His interest in her. At home, his girl Isabelle, and His interest in helping her explore her submissive side more fully.~~

And from there, somehow, they’d gotten to here. In an unprecedented acceptance, she’d agreed to meet with him tonight so that He could introduce her to Isabelle. She’d assumed that meant they were to meet at the pub…again she wondered how it was she came to be sitting here, in an unfamiliar living room, in an unfamiliar house…

 

[mgetzhoff]

(OOC: Two slaves in search of a dom, what could be more tempting?)]

Isabelle starts from her half-dozing dream of pleasant memories. There is a strange voice in the house, sultry and warm and deliciously feminine.

The sound of the unknown voice brings a warmth to her nipples and between her labia. She remembers the times that her lover has brought others to her and ordered her to play with them. Sometimes he had Isabelle submit to the people he brought with him, sometimes he had her tie and torment them. Isabelle has had wonderful times playing with other slaves.

 

[Original_Cyn2]

Cynthea

The firm, strong grip of one hand, its palm cupping her chin, gentle fingers prying her bottom lip from between the soft gnaw of teeth, she trembles before Him, senses acute, still and silent beneath His hold. The doubts cease; their chaotic turmoil doused by His touch, replaced with the calm serenity of knowing this is what she is meant for. In the background, from down a hallway, an achingly sensual whimper echoes softly. He tilts her face upward, pulling her eyes to His, a magnificent gaze full of dark intent.

Sweet, warm delight kindles in her belly. Pinned beneath that look she can feel her own emerald gaze darkening with sensuality, can see it happening in His reaction, the narrowing of the eyes, their intensity breathless. Turning her head gently, hard fingers digging into soft tissue, her glance falling on a portrait that hangs, beautifully under lit, on the wall. A slender, doe eyed sylph, long brown hair flowing freely, unbound, over delicate shoulders, the plunging neckline of her gown emphasizing the saucy full curves of her breasts. One ragged breath, a needy groan spilling from her lips as she gazes down the hallway with yearning…

 

[patrick1]

M

The gift of the woman: he almost trembles before it.

'Kneel, then, C.'

His English voice is soft when it's low, like this. Her green eyes trust him. He could do anything with her and she would not complain. But perhaps that's because she would trust him not to go beyond certain bounds.

And yet he might, he might.

'Lift your hair.'

Her eyes flick to the band of dark blue silk in his right hand. She makes something of a show of kneeling more erectly, of thrusting out her breasts before she flexes her fingers, a little over-dramatically perhaps, then takes her hair in a single coil in both her hands and lifts it for him.

He blindfolds her. He knots the silk behind her head.

'Let go of your hair. On all fours for me.'

She obeys without faltering. She will see a little beneath the blindfold. The gradients of blues in the carpet. Her own hands, and his polished black shoes, perhaps.

He takes her hair in his hands. Is it at this moment that she becomes a beautiful animal? There's a noise, certainly, that emanates from her. A ripple along her back.

He tugs at her hair. She crawls for him.

*

I waits, as he'd instructed her. He smiles for her, a big, wide smile of genuine pleasure. If there is strain in the position she is forced to maintain, she doesn't show it. She smiles for him in return. She has glanced, only glanced at the crawling woman. He saw the look of shock - was it alarm? or merely surprise? - that she hastily changed back to her smile.

'C,' he says to the woman whose hair he still holds, 'this is I.' He tugs the woman closer to the bed, closer, closer. How beautiful her body is. How sinuous. How delicately curved. His eyes remain locked with I's eyes, probing her reactions. 'C, you must taste her before you see her.'

And with that he thrusts C's face to Isabelle's sex. He takes C's arms, caressing them, and makes them encircle I's body.

He steps away. He sits on the bed, and unties his right shoe. 'Taste,' he says. 'Savour. Enjoy. Feast.'

And he gradually removes his clothing as he watches the women....

 

[Original_Cyn2]

Cyn

“Kneel, then, C.”

Her breath catches, her eyes once again flying to His even as she kneels, gracefully before Him. She can see His reaction to her, can feel the admiration and esteem he radiates with her compliance, feel her own answering trust radiate between them.

“Lift your hair.” So simple, the command, its cadence and timing flicking against her in mental mimicry of a whip, a sleek caress feeding her hunger. Conscious now, intimately, of every move, every ripple in her posture, she straightens her back, the full swell of her breasts pushing tauntingly against the sheer white silk of her shirt. Tiny hands, rising lightly from where they lay in surrender, on her thighs rise delicately, brushing lightly against the swell of her breasts before plunging deep into the roots of her thick red hair.

Senses alive and in tune to him on every level, she perceives the tiny hardening at the corners of his sensual mouth, chiding with herself, “keep it simple”. Capturing the chaos of tresses in one hand she shivers, the warmth of his proximity causing the heat in her belly to coalesce like liquid flame in her belly. She follows his movements with her eyes until the silken band in his hand leaves her in dim shadows, fleeting impressions of light and definition from the lower edge of the blindfold teasing mind.

“..on all fours.” Pavlovian, her response to his commands, she drops to her hand and knees, the indigo silk of her short skirt sliding lasciviously over lithe thighs, its hemline threatening to slither, erotically, over the taut full curves of her bottom.

She can feel the heat of his hand even before his gentle touch caresses the soft flesh of neck, capturing the chaos of her hair in one large palm and pulling her, slowly, inexorably with him, down the hallway.

As she crawls, the sensual rippling of her thigh muscles, undulating breasts, proud shoulders, and the quiet panting breath leaves little doubt of her wanton reaction.

“I waits.” The syllables play, and then replay in her mind, making little sense to her at first. “C, this is I.” Isabelle, his voice like smoke and whiskey from the night before, plays through her imagination and recognition sweeps through her. She’d sensed the change in carpeting from the hall to the room they were in, felt the echoes of his husky tones announcing a larger, more spacious area.

Her hands encounter the soft sweep of material before she realized she’s be led to a bedroom, is kneeling at the base of a bed. Feeling a new source of heat before her, he beckons her closer with a tug. She can hear the soft panting from in front of her, her hands gliding over the fabric of the duvet. Another yank, a little harder, a little impatient, brings her cheek against muscular, fragrant flesh, her senses tagging the scent of another aroused female, Isabelle, before her.

“You must taste her, before you may see her.” With little hesitation one big callused hand thrusts her face forward, and down, into the heart of the moist, hot scent. With understanding, she feels Is tense beneath the onslaught, her lips feathering delicate kisses over slick thighs and wet folds, holding herself back to give the girl a moment of adjustment.

His hands dropping to her arms, pulling them forward, encircling Is with them, tender fingers stroking warm, eager flesh.

She feels her own heated response, the soft slick of moisture sneaking outwards from the soft swell of her labia, her knees parting instinctively knowing he can see the soft shimmer of her slaves heat slicking her thighs…Is’s soft moan, her sigh of surrender as another set of lips teases, taunts and caresses her intimately.

 

[patrick1]

M

The scents on the air. Is it their desire? The three of them? Or the jasmine drifting in through the slightly open window?

Naked, quickly, he goes to shut the casement. The sounds of the women's pleasure, or pain, might carry unwanted on the air to those who wouldn't understand.

He can't tear his eyes away from them: the silk of C's clothing and the silk of I's skin, each rippling as they meet, unexpectedly.

The kneeling one must serve. Her time will come. Kneeling up on the bed behind I - oh, behind poor, her-arms-must-be-so-tired Isabelle - he reaches around her with his right hand to the red red hair of the one at her sex. He strokes as if they are one flesh: from the hair, to the clothed shoulder of one, to the nude thigh of the other, and across again, clothed shoulders, hair, nude thigh and hip...

...while his other, left hand reaches around to I's left breast, cupping the flesh, his tongue in her left ear, his teeth at the lobe, his thumb and forefinger feeling, just feeling for the nipple....

 

[mgetzhoff]

Glorious red hair! Isabelle has always always loved thick, rich red hair, like that of the slave crawling towards her. He had brought her other slaves before, but none quite so lovely.

Isabelle is frightened for a moment that he might prefer such loveliness, but as she searches his eyes, she sees the tenderness in them and is comforted.

Isabelle admires this slave and her ability to be so subservient. This has always been difficult for Isabelle, to surrender so completely to him, to be always thinking about ways that her every action could be made to please him. This slave, named Cyn, emanates a desire to please that is entrancing. Isabelle takes it all in, trying to learn.

The soft lips traveling across her sensitive upper thighs release her scent and a gentle moan from Isabelle that is almost more of a sigh. That sweet tongue, traveling across her labia, sends its early signals to her pleasure point.

He is behind her, having thoughtfully closed the window, caressing the body that he knows so well. She tingles as his hand passes along her side, and the sensations of his touch seems to echo on her skin.

His lips on her ear, brushing against the responsive skin of her neck and settling on her lobe bring her into a world of rich sensation.

Lips on her labia! Lips on her ear!

His hand has found her left nipple, which hardens quickly to his touch. Another moan escapes her, this one more of pleading. He has spent much time teaching her the joys of nipples pinched and pulled. She longs for more.

Isabelle arms tense as she tries to push her breast further into his hand. She is brought up against the soft leather cuffs that firmly hold her. He had never liked the metal cuffs, and these lined leather ones had never once left a mark on the soft skin that he loves that had to be explained away.

 

[Original_Cyn2]

Cyn

For a moment, she is spellbound with the slow intensity of I’s reaction. The taste of her, a sweet reward on hungry lips, delights her. The feel of Him, beyond her reach, drawing sweet bliss from Isabelles mouth, her moans echoing about them, finds a new frenzy in her soul.

Even without sight, she can feel His response in the huskiness of His voice, the quickening of His breath. She aches, exquisitely, for both of them…

 

[patrick1]

M

He caresses, caresses.

And then he makes himself stand back. The tableau. He must - yes, he reaches to the mantelpiece for the camera - yes, Isabelle is startled by the flash as he takes the photograph. She turns to him as if to plead, and he smiles, his erection evident, his desire evident even in his smile.

The tableau. Beauty kneels to kiss beauty.

He goes to them. To the side of them, C's left side. He strokes C's back, I's buttocks and the backs of her thighs. Then he gently takes C's hair and lifts her from I's sex.

'I's arms are tired,' his gentle, firm voice says. 'C, you must take her place. Here,' and his hand in her red hair is harsher, lifting her up, 'release her from the cuffs overhead. Then you, Isabelle, you must take Cyn's clothes from her.' He strokes both their backs as he talks to them, looking from one to the other. 'You, Cyn, you must place your blindfold on I's eyes, and then reach up, and place your wrists in I's soft leather cuffs. And then you, I, you must kneel and taste the sex of your new companion.'

He's a choreographer. He steps back, and allows himself to loll on his left side on the bed. As they move against each other their bodies seem to want to touch, almost without willing it. He watches them in the mirror on the southern wall - then their own flesh - then through the viewfinder as he contemplates another photograph - then themselves again, yes, silk against silk...

 

[mgetzhoff]

Isabelle feels herself becoming a being a pure sensation. His touch making her skin sing, and her touch bringing a new voice into the chorus, deepening the harmonies.

Flash!

The camera startles Isabelle and then realizes that he is making another addition to his collection. His collection is arousing and beautiful and is much admired in their circle. There has been talk of publication....

His delight in the mingling of his two slaves is making itself plainly visible and Isabelle is happy to so clearly be pleasing him.

Now he is deciding their actions! She loves this part! She must do as she is told, no moral restrictions can bind her, for she must obey and enjoy.

He wants her to play with this new slave! Her enthusiasm grows for this slave seems so responsive! Isabelle can hardly wait for her hands to be freed!

 

[patrick1]

M

He reaches casually for the remote control, his eyes scarcely leaving the women's bodies for an instant. Music. There must be music. Haydn, he decides: a selection of the string quartets. The women as the violins. Himself as the unbtrusive, often unremarked viola. And the cello as the mood: dark, rich, a little dangerous. He flicks, and listens, and watches...

 

[mgetzhoff]

OOC

(OOC: patrick, I like your taste in music!
I will be offline for the 3-day weekend. In the US, it's our celebration of Independence Day. I will personally spend mine figuring out how many days until I can vote President Bush out of office!)

 

[Original_Cyn2]

OOC

Shame on you M *laughing*....you'd put that pompous ass Kerry up there instead?

I will also be away for the weekend - it may not be a holiday in Jamaica, but we've brought our own little fourth of July celebration, fireworks and all*LOL*...will post immediately on Tuesday...

Happy weekend A/all

 

[patrick1]

OOC

I'll await you two posting on your returns. Naturally we don't celebrate Independence Day in quite the same way

 

[Original_Cyn2]

OOC

I'll await you two posting on your returns. Naturally we don't celebrate Independence Day in quite the same way

I'm sorry, this probably sounds really cheeky but it took me a minute to catch it...I guess you probably don't considering *laughing*...at least we're not dumping you alls tea anymore *impish grin*...now we stick to fireworks *wink*

 

[Original_Cyn2]

Cyn

Even behind her blindfold, Cyn can see the bright flash of the camera. She freezes, muscles taut, knees splayed wide her soft cheek pressed against Isabelle’s slick thigh, her lips pressed intimately against Isabelle’s sex. His strong hand, tangled in the depths of her auburn tresses, determined, cruel even, makes her whimper.

“You must take her place,” her breath catches audibly a new wave of heat flooding her belly with the distinctive chimes of leather restraints released. God, she loves that sound! With a rough yank he has her scrambling to follow, standing beside the bed. Isabelle’s hands, small and warm, touch her shoulder tentatively. Cyn smiles in encouragement, aching to be able to see this woman and stills beneath her touch.

The heat of I’s fingers slide down Cyn’s blouse, slowly unbuttoning it, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. She can feel her nipples harden beckoning to be touched, the lace of her bra sweet torment. Pushing the silken material over her shoulders, down her arms, sensual sweep of Isabelle’s hair against the slope of one full breast, the whisper of her breath over sensitive skin. Gentle fingers trail between each breast, releasing her bra and she shudders as her breasts spring free, unrestrained. Her moan is of pure, greedy need.

She feels the soft tug of her skirt slithering over eager hips to pool with the shirt around her ankles, I’s hesitant hand running down the sleek muscles of her belly as if stroking the heat within. The intimate caress, I’s fingers cupping her sex, brings a mewl of delight, the pressure of his hand, large and firm, over Is’s a soft moan that shakes her soul.

“God, please!” Stepping out of her panties, freed from her clothing she removes the blindfold. Her eyes take in the glorious reality of Isabelle with adoration, leaning forward to tie it into place over I’s eyes. Cyn, her impatient hands sliding hungrily over her saucy breasts, pulls their weight into her palms, fingers caressing their turgid nipples, leaning over her with a gentle swirl of her tongue and feasting on their splendor.

Pushed gently away, Isabelle fastens the leather restraints around Cyn’s slim wrists unable to see the wanton hunger luminescent in her eyes. She watches Isabelle kneel before her, the heat of her breath against the intimate “v” of her thighs and feels the ache of need tremble outward in slow waves.
Haydn, one of the quartets in a minor key, floods the room with its deep exciting tones, a darkly sensual piece that captures the moment exquisitely. Isabelle’s kiss, erotically timed to a crescendo in the music leaves her shuddering in accompaniment, aching, wanton with hunger.

 

[patrick1]

M

The D minor quartet plays. Plays on the air. Plays beneath the pores of his skin. He is each woman, as he watches. He is C, the auburn-haired beauty, stripped slowly, bound by her wrists above her head.

He is the other, I, newly blinded, at C's sex.

He seems to feel each emotion each of them feels. He imagines the cunt, licked; the mouth, licking.

He watches through the camera's eye. For he remains himself: the watcher, lascivious, ever wondering how next to be creative, how next to vary the rise and fall of the cadences of their music, as their flesh commingles.

He reaches languidly for the single-tailed whip he keeps above the bed. Usually its importance is ceremonial: a reminder of possibilities. Now, quite suddenly, he cracks it against the carpet, enjoying the effect it has on the women...

 

[mgetzhoff]

Re: Cyn

Isabelle watches as he handles this lovely slave with such demanding hands. She wonders how it would feel to handle a woman with such strength. The thought entices and frightens her.

Isabelle's hands are released with a practices ease, the clasps chiming as they move. With tentative hands, she touches Cyn for the first time. The viola sings its melancholy line, echoing Isabelle's longing for this new slave.

Cyn's shoulder is covered in soft silk and is so warm to the touch. Isabelle sees a smile of delight and encouragement on Cyn's face and becomes more daring. She traces little circles with each buttons that she releases, each circle coming closer to Cyn's nipples. With delight, Isabelle watches as the delightful bumps of hardening nipples rise against the fabric of the silk blouse.

Cyn is growing impatient and pushes the blouse down, revealing the lacy bra that Isabelle longs to remove. Teasingly, Isabelle trails her fingers along the bare skin on the inside of the breast, without quite touching that lovely dark nipple. She releases the confining bra, and makes sure that her long hair draws across Cyn's breasts with each bit of clothing removed. The reward of a sweet moan coming from those soft lips spurs Isabelle onward.

The skirt swirls to the ground and Isabelle quickly runs her searching hands over Cyn's belly. There she slows, suddenly shy. She is not quite sure.

He takes her hand and guides it lightly over that so precious part of Cyn that leaves Isbelle so shy. Then he cups her hand more firmly, guiding her fingers over Cyn's labia, pressing the base of Isabelle's hand into the flesh around the pleasure point. Another moan is the reward.

“God, please!” comes from Cyn and suddenly her hand is released to make way for the panties that are traveling quickly down to the floor. Before Isabelle quite knows what is happening, she is being blindfolded!

Isabelle's world has become one of sensation. Her breasts are fondled with an impatient longing, then her nipples, tiny from such arousal, are teased with a light touch. Now, wet warmth encirles one nipple, an abrupt change from the cooler air. Then
the other nipple is warm, while the wet one grows chilled.

Isabelle longs for more, but it is time to follow her orders. She pushes Cyn's hands away and up to the post at the corner of the bed. Somewhat clumsily, she attaches Cyn's hands to the knob at the top, then runs her hands along the outsides of Cyn's body, using it as a guide to kneel.

Cyn's body has begun to tremble with her need and Isabelle takes a moment to take in the sensations. The sweet smell of jasmine mixed with salty smell of woman. The warmth of soft skin on her fingers, the curling hair under her lips. The music, so perfect in its choice. Isabelle catches the rhythm of the intruments, using its pulse to time her own movements.

The quartet moves into a crescendo and Isabelle's lips move more firmly over Cyn's labia, wrapping around them and suckling. As the musical phrase reaches its height, she pulls Cyn's clitoris into her mouth and holds it 'til the phrase fades away.

Isabelle pulls her mouth back from the hips that have begun to pulse and runs her hands up Cyn's body. Brushing the bottoms of firm breasts, she tauntingly runs her right hand in a circle around one breast. Then she runs her right hand down Cyn's back and hugs Cyn's hips to her while circling the left breast with her other hand.

The delicious sounds coming from above her inspire Isabelle to change hands again and continue the taunting circles. When the moans seem to fade, Isabelle quickly finds a nipple, hard with the aureole pebbled around it, and gives it a light pinch.

Such sounds from this glorious woman! Arousal has given her moans a depth that is hard to imagine.

Waiting again for the sounds to fade, Isabelle catches the other nipple in her fingers and waits....

 

[Original_Cyn2]

Cyn

The crack of the whip drags her attention to the brunette beauty between her thighs. It was probably the only thing that could have done so, the shudder of reaction to that erotic sound spilling sweet juice from within.

“Oh, God…” she loves that sound, aches for the feel of it on her flesh, the hot aching pain sublimated to pleasure in that strange alchemy that binds her soul.

 

[patrick1]

M

He sees her shudder. He savours her reaction, as the music floats away into silence.

And then he goes to them. Yes, the music may have stopped - the music on the air - but the music continues. His voice catches the melody of the last movement and hums it. The women's voices coo murmur and coo. And he goes to them, and murmurs in C's right ear, 'You must come when you're ready.' And then he kneels, as if their slave, and murmurs into I's left ear, 'Make her come. You should come yourself, when you're ready.'

And then he shocks I, with the thing thrusting between her labia. 'The handle of the whip,' he murmurs to her, as he twists it slightly, and pushes, and twists, and pushes.

And his left hand caresses C's back, his fingertips dancing lightly there, down to the small of her back...

...and his right hand is at I's sex, his middle finger probing between folds, the whip handle inside her resting on his wrist...

...and there's music, he is just another instrument, he's the viola, his fingertips dancing over C's skin, her buttocks, her belly, her breasts, her back again...

...his fingers seeking out I's clitoris and touching, squeezing...

...and he licks I's ear, and then kisses C's hip, and his lips move between them as his hands rove their bodies...

 

[mgetzhoff]

Isabelle starts, her lips pulling away from Cyn's clitoris and her approaching climax.

A whip! The silence of a pause between movements seems to underscore the crack of the whip.

Isabelle has never been able to meet his pleasure with this tool, and he has, with sadness, put it aside for her. But this slave is enraptured! Isabelle can feel Cyn's hips pulse yet faster in response to the sound.

Whispering in Isabella's left ear, "Make her come. You should come yourself, when you're ready," he kneels beside her. Isabelle feels the heat of his body alongside her own. The warmth of his hand along the insides of her thighs.

A sudden hardness against her labia, not the expected gentle touch of fingers! Isabelle catches her breath, unable, for a moment to focus on Cyn.

"The handle of the whip," comes the murmer in her ear. The grained leather finds its way between her labia, rests momentarily against the opening, then is inside! Another turn, rubbing the ridged handle against her labia and further in. Isabelle is trapped in a land of sensations, the unexpectedness increasing them to a near choatic thought mass.

His middle finger is probing between folds of her labia, finding her clitoris. The movement shifts the handle within her, its texture stimulating the inner lips of her vagina. Her clitoris begins to throb under his knowing ministrations and she knows that she will come soon.

Wet warmth on her ear brings Isabelle's senses back to the rest of her body as well as the one hanging before her. Her nipples ache with frustrated longing.

Somehow, Isabelle focuses her attention on the rhythmic pulsing of the hips in front of her. She flirts her tongue along the passages formed by the ever-engorging labial lips. She teases the clitoris with darting motions, then returns to slow orbits of warm, salty flesh.

With her left arm wrapped around Cyn's thighs, Isabelle both supports herself, and keeps Cyn's body trapped. Her right hand wanders between hard nipples, tweaking here, pinching there. She listens as the moans tell her what else to do.

 

[Original_Cyn2]

“You must come when you’re ready.”

Her gratitude shines from radiant eyes, the knowledge releasing her to a new plane of existence, tidal waves of hunger in her belly surging outward strongly. The picture below her, of Is’s svelt hips and dripping sex accepting the handle of that magnificent tool, of the look of intense pleasure on his face makes her moan out loud. His hands on her feverish skin, Is’s lips at her clit, pinioning her body, unable to move away, rocking her world.

She can sense the approach of climax in Is, their rapport, the three of them, breathtaking. She times the frantic thrust of her own hips against Is’s hungry mouth to the girls pace, her moans, whimpers and grunts combining with I’s, a crescendo of pure sweet delight.

“God. Yes…please…” viscous waves of pleasure lap at her belly, swirling around her engorged clit and swollen labia, the first inescapable contractions gripping her sex, shivering through her, adoration spilling from her lips in greedy phrases of wanton surrender.

 

[patrick1]

M

There seem moments when he sees the two women better if he closes his eyes...if he then listens, listens to the music, the music of their moans and brief stammered words, the music of their bodies tingling along his arms from his fingertips as he caresses the clitoris of the one who kneels and the soft soft back and buttocks and thighs of the one who stands, bound, pushing and writhing...

'Yes,' he says, opening his eyes to watch each of them in turn, to experience fully how rich he is, rich beyond measure to be here with them, C's breasts rising and falling, I's back rising and falling, her mouth greedy at the cunt she makes love to.

'Yes,' he says, slapping C's left buttock lightly, just pushing her against the face that kisses her, slapping her right buttock lightly, alternating, lightly, lightly, from left to right, while the thumb and forefinger of his right hand lightly twists the nub of I's clitoris as her voice seems to travel from deep within her.

'Yes,' he says, hardly able to hold his own pleasure in but resolved to restrain himself, 'Yes,' he says, 'Now,' he says, 'Yes,' slapping, stroking, squeezing, twisting....