Quick & Dirty: Here & Now

Quick & Dirty - F/f - D/s - S/M - bondage - whipping - cumming. Fantasy, not reality.

*****

You throw yourself boyishly into the armchair and lounge across its arms, tossing your coat onto the sofa. Your biker boots kick heavily up and down on the end of long, strong legs, textured by tight black jeans. Your skinny black vest is a second skin, and your small breasts are nonchalantly bold. You peer at me from under that short choppy black fringe.

You're amused by me already, because I'm frantically tearing off my clothes.

"Slow down, young lady," you chuckle. "It is worth savouring, I promise you."

This morning we jogged in the park. I was sleek and futuristic in my Lycra suit, its panels flattering me and making me feel like a heroine from a sci-fi movie. I ran with consuming exhilaration, wringing myself out with the exertion. You were in your scuffed old gym shoes, your washed-out old t-shirt and baggy shorts. You ran in slow, loping, effortless strides, devouring the ground beneath you.

I looked like a golden retriever scampering around a wolf.

Here and now, I try to slow down. I try to striptease, but I'm transfixed. I mean I'm pinned. I'm clumsy. And you are amused.

Behind the hand across your mouth you're laughing, as you look me up and down. As ever, you have that leather strap wound around your wrist. I stand and blush. I feel the weight of my breasts, and I try not to hunch forward, so I stand stiffly upright. I feel the weight of my knickers, still dangling foolishly from my fingertips. I drop them. I feel the coolness of nudity, and I squeeze my thighs together. I look at you as I burn with embarrassment, and you're smiling in that lazy way.

"Okay," you whisper, soothingly. "Okay, beautiful. Come here and beg."

From the park, we jogged home, where we stopped just long enough to shower and dress. If your elegantly tattooed limbs and lithe torso looked majestic, shimmering and wet, I didn't notice.

I take half a step, then I remember to drop to my knees. I shuffle towards your encouraging smile, until my face is beside the thick, patterned sole of your boot. You raise an eyebrow, and I blush some more. I'm so absurd. My lips feel hopelessly soft as I begin to peck kisses on your toecap.

"Please," I whisper, "may I have my... punishment?" My lips squash against the unyielding leather on the P in Punishment, and I savour it. My lips and tongue find buckles and eyelets and seams. I know you need more from me.

"Please," with more certainty now, "may I be tied up? And whipped? Please?" Begging is important, now, while I'm at liberty and still have some self-control. Before I yowl and squirm under your lash, you need me to be specific and sincere.

You have unwound the leather strap from your wrist, and you lean forward with it between your fingers. I shiver as you brush aside my ponytail and buckle the leather around my neck. I'm collared. You sit back and watch me and I gaze up at you. I savour the weight of the collar and land a few more kisses on your sole.

"I can smell your scent," you smile, tilting your head a little. "As soon as you undressed, it hit me. You smell horny. When did that start?"

We left the house holding hands, still a little damp. We reached the bus-stop just in time, and sat on a front seat, holding hands. You leaned against the window, and I leaned against you. We talked mundanely about the shops we would go to in town. Your breath fogged the window. You put your arm around me, and the leather strap on your wrist brushed my neck, and it meant nothing to anybody, maybe even to you. I began to feel horny.

"All day," I answer. You laugh kindly and my hands clench between my thighs. "Please will you hurt me?"

"Okay," you murmur. "We can do that. Go and make me a cup of tea, then bring it upstairs."

I nod and turn away. I know you're watching me as I crawl from the room, so I try to be alluring. You laugh, and that's good too.

In the kitchen my bare feet patter on the tiles. I'm wonderfully naked as I perform the tasks of tea-making with slow solemnity: measure the dark leaves into the infuser, pour the precisely boiling water, turn the hourglass to measure three minutes. I feel my nipples graze my arm, feel my hips bump against the cutlery drawer.

I lift the steaming mug, heady with its exotic aroma, and walk with ceremonial care to the hallway. I hear your boots up in the attic, and I climb the stairs.

At the top of the house, I sink to my knees. I push the door open with my fingertips. I shuffle slowly and carefully, the tea quivering. I make my way into the attic room.

There's the heavy iron bed. There's the wooden chest, packed with wicked toys. There's the rack hung with chains and straps. There are the whips mounted on the wall like rifles in a hunting lodge.

There's you, lounging across another armchair, like some callously beautiful emperor. Hanging from the little finger of one hand you have a pair of padded chrome handcuffs.

I'm hurrying, wriggling my knees across the rug. You notice that I'm eager, desperate to be at your feet.

"Don't spill it, worm" you growl, and I take better care. Finally I reach you, and I begin to kiss those unyielding boots again, holding up the tea like a solemn offering. You take the mug and hang the handcuffs over my unresisting fingers.

"Worm," you whisper, and I can hear you not taking the word seriously, but saying it anyway. You sit there, your lips touching the cup without drinking.

I sit back and eagerly close the leather-sheathed metal around my wrists, hands in front of me on my thighs. Binding is important to you too, because it makes me purposely and erotically helpless, not merely weaker than you. I look up. You're breathing the steam, caressing the mug with your lips, not drinking. I want to see your expression, but the steam is a veil. I like to be bound. I like my helplessness. I like your liberty.

"Lie on your back," you say softly, "hands behind your head."

I obey readily, and I spread my legs for you, yearning to belong to you. Your attention is on the sensation of the mug, hot against your lips.

You ordered tea in the coffee shop where we had breakfast, and you hated it. You said they never make it hot enough in coffee shops, always leave the teabag in, always make it bitter. I listened to your muttered lecture as I sipped my cinnamon mocha with cream and marshmallows. I listened to your voice and watched your lips moving.

You are still poised with your lips gently dabbing against the mug, breathing in the steam, waiting. I wait too, quivering with trepidation. Then you take a single sip, nod, and throw out your arm, casting the hot tea up the length of my body.

I squeal and squirm, and I think about how perfect you are. If the tea is too hot it will burn me terribly, and you don't want that. Too cool, and it won't hurt, and here and now there's no point in anything that doesn't hurt me. I moan and curl up like I'm doing crunches, and you're standing over me and your boot is pushing me back down. Not too hot, not too cold, perfect. I'm Goldilocks and you're my perfect Baby Bear.

"Thank you!" I squeak sincerely, breathing hard as the shock recedes. "Please may I have more?"

You don't reply. You stride over me, dipping to grab hold of my ponytail, and you tow me on my back to the centre of the room. I scuttle and wriggle to make it easier for you.

"Up," you say briskly. "Come on, get up."

I scramble to my feet and let you take hold of my wrists. There is a metal hook screwed into the ceiling, ready and waiting to accept the chain of my cuffs. While you're standing close, handling me, you whisper "I love you," like it's a naughty secret, and it's absurdly thrilling. You fasten me in place and step back to examine me, hanging by my wrists. I'm squirming and yearning to make eye contact. But you're preoccupied.

"Thank you," I whimper again, "I love you. Please hurt me."

You stoop to grasp my left ankle in your hand. You lift it out to my side and rest it on the iron bed frame.

"Stay," you say simply. I watch dreamily as you pull your vest over your head, exposing your powerful torso. Your little breasts quiver sweetly as you stretch the vest in your hands and use it to tie my ankle to the bed.

When I sat in the changing room and watched you try on clothes, your breasts quivered sweetly and your body was lithe as you dressed and undressed. Whether clothed or naked you still had the same animal sexuality in every hard contour of your body. I gave you dresses to try on, and silly strappy high-heeled sandals. I laughed at your sulky expression as you tottered. The assistant chuckled. She thought this wasn't quite your style, and...

I'm sorry. I can't tell you I'm sorry now, because you are a sleek and predatory animal, prowling around me as my right foot wriggles on the floor, trying to find the balance for my dangling body. Your dark boots devour the same floor, your pale body flexes powerfully beside my shivering flesh. The idea that I might have humiliated you simply doesn't fit. That must have been some other couple.

You have lifted a long, stout whip from the wall. Swelling anticipation makes me dizzy. You return to me, focused and smiling. Your eyes are dark. You're a tiger, you're a shark, you're an exquisite blade. I'm whimpering softly, pre-empting the coming pain. Jesus fucking Christ, you're terrifyingly beautiful. How can you be so cruel? How can I be so deliriously lucky? You're flexing your muscular arm, drawing it back, aiming expertly for my soft thigh.

And the THRILL of the SHOCK of the inTENsity of the FIRST savage BARrage exCITEs me to the POINT of inSANity.

As we walked, holding hands, through the city streets we-

You strike with all your glorious strength. I shriek and twist as the brutal leather makes hot welts across my body. Each impact is a burning insult, shooting cruel fire through all of my nerves, making me howl incoherently, and stripping away my delusions. Stripping away that other world, with its mochas and buses and showers. Here, now, in the real world, where we're alive and awake, I scream for you.

We stopped outside the cafe to-

You strike my belly and back, my hips, arms and breasts. I dance and jiggle foolishly. Each spot where you land makes a signature noise, stabs me with unique pain, triggers a new howl from my throat. Occasionally you pause long enough to flex your shoulders, search my body for untouched skin, listen to me sob my thanks, and renew your grip on the whip.

Your expression is serene. You are unimpressed, quite rightly, but you are engrossed. You whip me with consuming exhilaration, wringing yourself out with the exertion.

You stop and watch me shiver and sob. You stand close, and your hands are on me, caressing my raw flesh. Your fingernails graze gently, and barely hurt at all, when you ought to be clawing my stupid skin, giving it what it deserves. I'm confused by gratitude and frustration.

You're smiling. "Little worm, dangling on her hook." You hold my ponytail and lean in, teasing me with the promise of a kiss, which I instinctively try to claim. I barely brush your lips before you smile and pull away. "What would they think, hm? If they knew even half of the truth. What would they think of my horny little worm?"

We met my friends for lunch, in some classy little cafe. You didn't belong there, didn't fit the decor. You didn't match my friends, who dressed the same as me, wore their hair in the same ponytail, ordered the same salad. You slouched and flirted with the waitress. You were impossibly cool. Everyone loved you, but secretly thought I was too good for you. And would soon outgrow you. If only they knew the truth.

"They'd despise me," I croak. "And envy me."

You laugh and turn your back, and sway over to the bed. You pick up the vibrator, nestling amongst the sheets, and drop the whip in its place. You return to me, grinning, with the little phallus humming urgently. I throw my head back and close my eyes, biting my lip.

You slide the vibrator into my aching, yearning cunt, and I make a desperate moan. I hop on one leg and squirm. You're sending new licks of fire through me, shaking me and fogging my brain.

You'll do this for a while. I'll lose track of how long. You know it addles my brain and makes my pussy slick and sensitive. And you know I can't possibly cum like this, standing on one leg, thighs spread, dangling from a hook. You tease me and push me close to the edge, safe in the knowledge I will only be getting hotter, more sensitive and more desperate.

You shut it off and the silence is intense. You tap my clit with the warm plastic and the shocking intensity makes me convulse. You watch me and smile.

At the bed you exchange the vibrator for the whip. You stand in front of me and I manage to look you in the eye, and your power is unfathomable. I hear the whip swish as you wind up. I whine and squirm, dancing on my toes. I manage to breathe "Please."

After lunch I dragged you to the gallery, dragged you around asking the same ignorant questions I've always asked, listened to your soft, intelligent answers. I made you sit with me and stare for far too long at Andromeda, luxuriating in her chains. I squeezed you close and you rolled your eyes while Andromeda and I gazed longingly at Poseidon's monster.

The whip snaps cleanly between my legs, and kisses my impossibly sensitive pussy. I open my throat and make noises that don't sound like me. I know you're hurting me perfectly: not so much that you'd damage me, not so little that I don't howl my throat raw. Just right, Baby Bear.

My mind is gone away, I am a glowing column of pain. My arms try to pull me up to the ceiling, my leg kicks absurdly beneath me. The bed frame jumps and bangs.

I lose track of time. There was never a time when my pussy wasn't getting whipped. Such a state isn't even possible. And when my eyes are open all I can see is your face, focussed and aloof. And when your casual glance flashes into my eyes I feel in my soul how utterly you possess me.

Once again you are perfect. However long I'm hanging there, you stop before my skin is broken or anything is beyond use, or I have to beg for mercy.

You stop. I'm sobbing already, but when I see your strong face, and feel your strong hands, I weep with gratitude. You're not laughing, but you see nothing to concern you. You're supporting my weight, unhooking my wrists, and then, with an angelic sneer, dropping me onto the floor. My ankle is still tethered to the bed, so I lie in a wanton swoon with one leg in the air.

I look up through my tears, and see that you are naked. When did that happen? I'm so self-absorbed. You look tall and relaxed, shimmering with sweat. You step over me briskly, and once again trade your whip for the vibrator. I instinctively put my cuffed hands over my tenderised pussy, and I flinch from the pain.

"Out of my way," you smile. You drop to one knee between my legs, and plunge the vibrator into me. I snarl and spasm, and I try to push the buzzing weapon away. You just chuckle and ignore me as we both realise how feeble I am, and I'm reduced to pawing pathetically at your arm.

It's like being whipped again. It's like an electric blade thrust up the length of my body, burning me from the inside out. It's exactly like my cunt has been thrashed raw and is now being mercilessly fucked with a power-cock.

I lose my mind almost immediately. You're pinning me effortlessly, so all I can do is obscenely squirm. I realise I'm cumming when I hear you laughing at me again, and I'm wracked with unbearable ecstasy. I hate the vibrator, its tip now boring into my clit like it might turn it from an outie to an innie.

I'm screaming your name, begging you for something I can't define. Not mercy, sweet Christ, no, because you are my perfect Baby Bear and you will torture me like this for exactly long enough.

And time must exist, because it takes time for my body to be ripped by another orgasm and another, and for so much dribble to spill from me. I'm aware of being very wet, and of the floor being wet, and of the vibrator gargling on my froth, but I'm not aware of time.

And in no time, there you are, astride my face, pinning my arms and letting me taste your sweet, savoury juices. You're so delicate, so fleshy in my mouth, while your strong hands still crush my pussy under your purring cock. In no time you cum, elegantly, lazily, growling in the way you always do, oddly distant from me in your private, superior pleasure.

The bus ride home was a comical, cosy wrestling match. I tried to pet and caress you, to coax you to a level of arousal approaching my own. Meanwhile you force-fed me chocolates and water, and told me you didn't care that I wasn't hungry. If I didn't eat and drink something you wouldn't lay a finger on me, young lady.

And your climax is the end of it, as it should be. It should all be for your pleasure, and I try to pretend it is, but I know I'm a selfish young lady. The vibrator is tossed away and forgotten, silent. I'm numb and swooning as you sit on the floor and gather me up in your embrace. Your rangy legs envelop me, and your arms pull me in for a kiss, for real this time.

I kiss you greedily, for a long time. You let me. Now when you laugh I laugh too, giddy and elated.

Now I'm back on the floor, curled up in your lap, murmuring my thanks. Your fingers graze my crimson skin, more gently than I deserve. But I'm burning and your cool hands are so lovely I sob a little.

"Cry-baby," you chuckle, and I wetly laugh. "Save some juice, you can't have much left in you. Hey listen: tomorrow why don't we ride on the ferry? Just to ride it, not to go anywhere. And eat those filthy hotdogs they sell on the jetty."

I snuggle deeper into you and nod. My handcuffs jingle. Cool sea-spray, open sky and cuddling on the deck.

"Tomorrow," I whisper. "Okay, Baby Bear."

And I know there has to be a Tomorrow, just as there had to be a Today, and there has to be all of those dream places where we run, eat, drink and do all the other silly, ephemeral things. But here and now...

"Okay, worm." Your gentle fingertips rake their nails savagely across the welts on my thigh. I squeal, you laugh. I look for your dark eyes and I'm transfixed.

Here, now, forever.