by Gina Marie
A small hint?"
"You'll be tied up and I've been talking over ideas with the photographer," he says, winking and squeezing my ass. "No more hints."
I sigh dramatically and hang my head. Of course I'll be tied up.
"Aw, come on; that's not a hint."
"I'm gonna make you scream. You're going to squirt across the room."
Tied up, screaming and squirting. Sounded like a perfect date to me.
Flash. A sliver of light enters just below my right eye and my brain is flashing electric acid Kool-Aid colors across my skull in crazy waves, but otherwise, it's a dark world. I hear a zipper, feel the warmth of angled lights on my bare skin, the jangle of buckles, the soft thud of rope.
I am such a horny little bitch. Second time here, second time in my whole fucking life spreading myself thin for the camera, and this place feels as familiar as my grandmother's house. Maybe it's the ancient linoleum beneath my bare feet that actually does remind me of Granny's place.
The cuffs are soft around my wrists and ankles. My arms are pulled tight above my head, hands clipped by the cuffs to a thick, gleaming metal chain. My legs are spread wide, attached to a bar. The heat of a lamp intensifies. I can feel him moving closer. I want the rush, the anticipation having built to extreme levels for days, a small amount of fear, a promise of pain; but to what extreme? I anticipate the ecstasy of pleasure combined with adrenaline; but how? The unknown excites me.
Eyes and lenses wash over my skin. There is a moment, just before the first contact, when I am singular and observed, a specimen meant for observation, flesh and muscle and skin and animal desire. That realization makes me tremble a little and...before I am even touched, my knee turns inward slightly and I hear a small "splat" on the floor where my feet are spread.
The hollow sounds of his boots, circling in vulture steps is so erotic. I think of the hot desert playa and buzzards and his tongue seeking moisture between my thighs.
Splat. Drool. Wetness slides down my inner thigh.
A kinky soundtrack kicks in. I can hear a woman moaning, the slapping sounds of her torture and captivity lurking behind the beat.
Suddenly, I am brought into the foreground when a thin, sharp tool slides across my skin. The sensation is slightly electric, both cool and hot, just painful enough to make me horny as hell. I imagine a blade or a key. I wonder if it is marking my skin. It burns and tingles. Electricity? His cock brushes my ass as he moves around me. Power. Muscle and bone. Animal. The sharp thing cuts patterns into my skin and scatters the colors across the ocean of my mind's eye. Waves of light become water spouts and the electric intensity grows, connecting nerves from breast to ass to back to neck, lighting them up. The tool nears towards my swollen pussy and then...I can feel the photographer's presence and hear the camera clicking near my thighs. My nipples are aching.
The music shifts to something more melodic, the beat softening, and the white hot heat of steel is replaced with the soft, familiar fringes of the elkskin flogger. I smile inwardly. He brought it from home.
Hanging there in the dark, my mind spins off into other worlds, memories, every touch setting off a new landscape of experience. The fringes remind me of that day at the beach, the three of us stripped bare, goofing off. I poked a stick at a line of tree worms wagging their scaly asses across the sand, lost for a moment in their motion, wanting to be wiggling my ass like that.
"Your turn." The Scrabble board beckoned as my whiskey-soaked and marijuana-smoked brain tried hopelessly to analyze and plot a smart move.
What I wanted was not the perfect move but to touch her hair. It was loose, let out of that cute little bandanna, and it sprung around her face in red hot kinky curls. I could barely stand it. And it had nothing to do with sex. Well, hardly.
He pulls the leather across the curve of my lower back, lifts it high and then, slap! God, such pleasure. Fuck! Want! He brings the whip down on my ass and back and thighs and my fingers are in her hair, deep in the thickness of it, touching it like quenching a thirst, like when I dip my fingers into rice kernels or thrust my hand into the center of wet, dew-dropped ferns along the trail.
Slap! The whip strikes again and I am held there, bound by legs and hands, my brain spinning wildly. The heat of him, the strength and lust that he radiates, even just walking down the street in casual clothes, is overpowering. In this setting, I am molten.
Suddenly the camera stops clicking. His hands are between my legs and slapping my ass and breasts. Then, a cane comes down across my thighs and butt, painful but not agonizing, a hundred tiny stings across my skin, the man behind the camera emerging for a moment to give rise. The stinging quickens, slapping, fingers rubbing my clit, hot mouth on my nipples. I am moaning, hips twisting, hanging now, thank God for this chain or I'd be a puddle on the floor.
Sometimes when I'm on the brink of orgasm the sound of her coming -- soft, high moans under a grey sky, her gently twisting hips in my peripheral vision while I slip my tongue gently across her lips, throaty little pleasure sounds coming with her ragged breaths, nearly pushes me right over the edge. What does send me flying, is remembering how I watched him while I kissed her and touched her breasts, caught glimpses of him in the corner of my eye, the man behind the whip, the knife, the strap, bent over her smooth, hard clit.
But I can't come right now. He hasn't said the words. I'm spread wide into him, the cane snapping against my hot skin. I push away the remembering, focus on the moment, the sound of metal, the pleasure of pain, the sound of beating blood, the powerful eroticism of braving the unknown.
At last the bees take flight and the camera begins clicking again. Hands smooth my burning cheeks and his face is pressed into mine now, kissing me deeply, his lips and tongue a balm, a relief, a joyful reminder that this is as much about love and trust as it is about lust. His low voice in my ear beckons as he finger fucks me with agonizing gentleness. "Do you want to come? Do you baby?"
"Oh yes, yes, please," I whisper. His hands find the small of my back, my breasts, and he pulls me tighter into him. I am gone, my mind, that is, aloft, looking down at us from the rafters. I am perched there, a small bird, watching and waiting.
There is a juniper tree out past a turn-off along the highway in pine country. It has a thick, low branch. The branch is perfect for small hands to grip. Ideal for fucking. The fucking tree. He memorized the mile marker. It's a summer place. Unlike the summer places most people dream about. There are no bikinis or beach balls here. Just pure, raw sex, and the intoxicating scent of juniper oil and the taste of blue sky while he fucks me. "Don't let go," he growls. "Don't let go of the branch 'til you come.'"
I'm hanging by that branch, naked in the warm summer air as the camera whirs, light and sex sucked into the lens, hanging there, kissing her, feeling him, watching them. Such pleasure. God, it is good. Yes! Oh fuck yes! The blood rushes out of my hands as I arch against the cuffs and the chain, head tossed back while he finishes me off with small flicks of his fingers and tongue. The small bird of my brain has flown back inside and I am fully present, the electricity of pleasure filling my clit with blood, sending shock waves down my legs and into my toes, sending me hurtling at light speed over the edge, every drop of moisture in my body rushing to the surface and exploding. I am screaming and dripping, spasm after spasm jolting my body from the inside out.
Well. That was fun.
The blindfold is removed and I am lowered to my knees, arms still held taut above my head. My smile cannot be contained by walls. His hands are in my hair now, pulling my chin upward. He pushes his hard cock deep into my mouth. The camera is inches from my face. I close my eyes and enjoy the moments, the precious moments, the mingling of our genetic spiral, the way we fit together, front to back, back to front, top to bottom.
It is that pre-dawn time when I wake up and know his cock is hard while he sleeps. I know that if I roll over and touch it, it will be hot and ready. And when I kiss it, it will jump up at my lips. At this hour, after I kiss him awake and slide on top of him, grinding my cunt into him, using him mercilessly for my own satisfaction, sucking his balls dry with my lips, we simply fold back into that origami shape and go back to sleep. It is morning and this cock is mine and I could care less who is watching. Because I will fuck this man anywhere.
There are 600 photographs. Later, I'll sit on his lap back home and we'll drink wine and go through them one by one. Our own little erotic show.
But right now, as we sip whiskey and chat with the photographer, put the cuffs, rope, and whip back into the duffel bag, there is one thing I have to know.
"What was that thing you used -- the sharp thing?"
The photographer holds up a tiny, shiny tool and spins the head. "Wartenberg pinwheel."
Truck wheels kick up clouds of alkaline dust as we speed across the desert. He slows and clicks on the cruise control. I pop my head up through the sunroof and climb onto the top of the truck. There is nothing but empty playa stretched before us. Playa, pussy and cock. He leaves the driver's seat and finds my hot, wet crotch with his lips. My head is back, the wheels making no sound as we crawl slowly across the ancient lakem bed. Dust devils whirl and spin in the distance. The wind whips my screams away.
The pinwheel, the cock, the juniper, her orgasm, the worms, and the lens.