by Nina Bingham
(10/26/05)
It will not be enough for me to merely make love to you today. I want a recital of flesh which I have brilliantly composed; I want to be the conductor of this symphony and show the pompous charlatans how it is done. I want to be Don Juan, crumbling your resolve with my words. Then I want to be the phantom of the opera, putting on a mask to hide from you until you flush me out. Then I want to be a harlot that comes to you in the night while you sleep and wakes you with whispers of insatiable carnality.
Get in my boat, and I will not let you to shore until I have found a secluded spot on the river's edge to take you. I play these games so I can watch your nervous excitement. You're not as worried over someone finding us as you are flustered with this new request of mine. You think to yourself that I have become spoiled; a demanding child. And though at times you wish you could say no and disappoint me, you have not been able to. How I can hold you spellbound; have I hypnotized you, is there some voodoo I have performed to make you a willing victim? You fear that I will find another doll to play with if you don't play along. Then you remember how sweet this play can get, how thrilling, how dangerously close to wickedness it is, and you are running along the shore to spread a place for our passion.
It is cool in the shade of a tree and you pull me to the ground beneath it. It looms large, casting ominous shadows over your lily white, long limbs; I admire how graceful and supple you look lying beneath me, your eyes dancing with eager want. You hastily start to speak out of nervousness, and I place a finger over your lips. "I don't want to know what you want," I scold you. "I want to tell you what I want." You nod in agreement because you are used to me talking to you like this. You always want more of it because you know the next thing I will do is something unexpected.
"I want to expose myself to you and have you look at me, but not touch me. Here are the rules. You can look and taste, but you can't touch me. If you touch me, I'll have to spank you. Do you understand?" I say a little more firmly.
You only nod, because you are absorbed in the drama. Your eyes look how I like them to look; very dilated, dizzy, and accepting. You have completely opened to me, like a delicate flower which has shed its innocence because of a stranger's admiring gaze, flaunting its tenderness and splendid color. Your eagerness is the scent which has attracted me like a honeybee to a flower. I slip off my shirt and get down to my bra, which is a relief in the heat. Sweat begins to bead on my upper lip. "With your mouth, lick my nipples through the bra," I say. "Don't touch me, only use your tongue. Remember what happens if you touch me." You nod acquiescently, and begin to oblige me. It feels so good that I pull one of my breasts free for you to play with. You are doing such a good job that I pull them both free and offer them to your mouth. I keep looking at your hands which are clawing and clutching the ground. "Are you having a hard time keeping your hands to yourself?"
"Yes," you whisper hoarsely.
"Then let me help you with that." I unhook my bathing suit top and clumsily but firmly tie both of your hands together in front of you with it. "That will help. Now you can't touch me." Your eyes seem to pout in reply, and I say, "You should thank me. I did you a favor. Say thank you."
You refuse to thank me, because this is the only way you can regain control. You don't feel like thanking me. You want to use your fingers to feel my crotch, to see if I am as wet as you, and now I have spoiled it. I know what you are doing -- this trick, this turnabout in play -- and I must outsmart you. "If you say thank you, I'll take off my bathing suit bottoms. I'll work them over my hips, and slide them down to the ground. I'll stand over you and let you watch as I masturbate. Come on honey, don't you want to see that?"
"Yes," you admit quietly. Your tongue comes out of your mouth and licks your dry lips. Your tongue is just lingering there, not knowing where to go, like your hands. Both your tongue and your hands are frustrated.
"Then what do you say?"
You are caught in a trap that you don't want to be free of. "Thank you for tying me up." Your eyes are begging for relief, so I work my bathing suit slowly over my hips and it drops to the ground. I drop to my knees and straddle you so my pussy is just above your mouth, but still out of reach. As I begin to touch myself, your tongue makes licking motions; it reaches for me, but the sticky warmness is just beyond you. I watch your tongue undulate until I can't bear it any longer. I lower myself over you and you lick and suck like an animal devouring its meal. Now I am moaning loudly, moving my palms over my nipples. I want your fingers to penetrate me, to slip up into my wet cage, so I move to untie your hands. "I don't want to be free," you admit.
"I need your fingers," I plead.
Now you have everything you need to reverse this game on me, and you know it. You smile coquettishly, raising an eyebrow and say, "Only if I can tie you up."
I willingly offer up my hands as you eagerly pull yours loose. You bind mine together behind me like a slave, and you tell me to get on my knees in front of you. I regret not having brought a blindfold. You slip your wet bathing suit bottoms off and begin to imitate me, standing in front of me just beyond my mouth's reach, touching yourself. The insides of your thighs are glistening wet, and you're moaning loudly. I think, what if someone hears us and comes over to see what the trouble is? They would find me naked with my hands tied behind me, on my knees, and you in front of me masturbating. The thought of a stranger stopping to watch us sends my pussy into soft spasms. I do not care what might happen because I am absorbed in watching you rub yourself, and your soft cries of pleasure. Before you can do anymore, you are shaking all over, crying, "Honey, I can't wait. Honey, I can't wait." Your voice sounds as if you are going to cry. "It's all right, I'm a voyeur, I'm a voyeur," I assure you, and voyeurs get the most pleasure out of watching. You crumple to the ground after you've come, and cry on my shoulder because we do not even have to touch each other for this kind of pleasure.
We get back into the boat and paddle to shore. We are smiling serenely, innocently. There is a woman who studies us for a long time with envious eyes and I think, perhaps she can read our minds, and wishes she had been my passenger today.
