by Tori Siikanen
(05/15/02)

His eyes widen and his breath stops. Teresa can feel his cock jumping in her. She turns her head up and watches his face as he loses himself with each jerk. She bites her lip for him, turns smoldering eyes to his as he shudders and subsides. Breathless, laughing, he comes down to his elbows and kisses her face and neck as he withdraws from her and holds her in his arms.

"Your turn."

Teresa slips her hand between her thighs and rubs the aching hardness of her clitoris. She pumps her hips against her hand, closes her eyes, and the climax wrenches out of her with a groan. The jarring sensation bucks her hips and pushes wetness from her. She sighs, high in her throat. She retrieves her sticky hand and sucks her fingers clean of the tastes of her and Joe together.

Joe usually kisses her and licks her lips, but now he doesn't. His arms are slack around her. She snuggles into his chest, in the cleft between and rubs her cheek against the hair there. But Joe doesn't growl and squeeze her playfully or roll on the bed. Teresa raises her head to see what is wrong with him.

Joe watches her.

"What's the matter?"

"I want you to do that for me."

"I come for you, baby."

Teresa sinks. It's always like this. It's always okay, for a month or two or three. Then they sulk about how she never comes for them, not under their hands or tongues or cocks. They try harder; they knock themselves out with trying harder. But it doesn't matter how long they try or how hard.

"You will," he says. "I've got it all figured out."

He ties her with thread. Delicate, bright yellow loops of cotton thread, a sex toy for a few dollars at a craft store. She giggles at the lengths of it around her wrist and ankles that link to the posts at each corner of her bed. He pulls the thread tightly enough that she can't move -- or else the fragile strands will break.

"If you want me to stop, break a thread," he says. He bends his head to kiss her thigh and she giggles and kicks a little bit. The thread breaks.

Joe unties her and kisses her goodnight.

"Wait a minute...that's it?"

"Break the thread and it all stops."

"That's the most sadistic thing I've ever heard."

Joe ties her with thread; yellow strands of cotton around her wrists and ankles. Their breathing comes hard after the bruising kisses just inside the door of her apartment; up against the wall and his hand up her skirt, possessive and vulgar. Now, on the bed, she lifts her arms, spreads her legs obediently.

His lips and hands all over her, he exults in his captured prize. He smiles, kneels on the floor and ducks down under the bed. Teresa notices how the deep gold in his hair stands out against the chestnut. She relaxes and remains still as Joe emerges from under the bed, bearing a wooden spoon.

It's the wooden spoon from her mother -- an old one, the bowl nearly round with a deep, blackened cup, the wood smooth and dark from decades of use. Joe must have found it in the kitchen and hidden it under the bed. Teresa always picks that spoon out of the kitchen drawer first to mix batters, to stir the sauce, to lick and sample and taste her efforts.

Joe brings the cupped end of the spoon down on her breast, covering her nipple. He slides it in little circles and Teresa bites her lip, whimpers, screws her eyes shut. When she opens them again, Joe smiles. He watches her nipples wrinkle into hard buds, pale roses.

"If you want me to stop, break a thread."

Teresa relaxes. Nods, shifts her hips up a tiny bit.

Joe brings the spoon down on the side of her breast. A light sting, certainly not the agony she fears. Blood rushes to the spot, warming it.

"Do more," she says.

Joe starts a spanking rhythm with the spoon, the strokes light and quick. The heat builds; the pulse of her body beats out a tattoo in her nipples. She jiggles a bit and moans, watching him. He moves around, strikes her breasts with the spoon. He watches them swell and go round with heat and blood. He watches the yellow threads on the posts, unbroken.

She wants him to bring the spoon down on her nipples. Wants it desperately. She tries to move enough to get an edge of the aureole under the strike zone, but can't move far or the thread will break.

Oh, please don't let those threads break.

Joe tosses the spoon down and caresses her breasts with warm fingers. The pads are hard with calluses from years of rough work with his hands, with his body. All of him is hard.

"You're doing very well," he says. His hand travels down her belly, down to her center. He feels the wetness there as it drips from her and runs in a trickle down the cleft of her ass and into a puddle on the clean sheets. He smiles.

"Very well." His fingers stroke her, velvety through the stickiness. He lifts his hand to his mouth and tastes the clear sweetness. "Delicious." His hand dips down. It nears her mouth, which she opens, but instead he paints her nipple with the shiny juice. The light glints off it just before he lowers his head to lick, to sample the dish from a new plate.

His teeth come together on the peak and she shrieks, she flails...

Three threads.

"Please," Teresa says. "I gotta come, you're killing me with this."

"No."

"Please! Oh Joe, that drove me wild, I have to -- just fuck me a little. I'm ready to come, I swear."

"No."

Teresa starts to cry. Joe rubs her back and soothes her to sleep. He keeps her hands away from him, and from herself.

He binds her with thread and she hates it. That spool of yellow, so much thinner now, measures her failure by the meter. How many remain from the original thousand?

A kilometer's worth of failure. Joe sleeps with her every night. He holds her wrists in his hands, gentle and strong, and kisses her when she screams that she hates him for this.

Once again, she spreads her arms, spreads her legs, and vows to relax as he ties her to the bed.

"If you want me to stop, break a thread."

Teresa just closes her eyes.

Joe's hands are gentle on her, soothing and relaxing. She sinks into the mattress and accepts his touch, warm and full of love. She's limp. This is so easy, compared to pleasure that pulls too tight on strings too weak to hold it. She revels in the feeling of his hands on her, every roughened bit of skin on her softness.

He touches her everywhere -- spends an eternity just on the sole of one foot; finds another eon to spare on the other. The soft caresses take her to the edge of sleep.

She sighs softly and doesn't move when his tongue slides up her lips, when his hands slide up her breasts; they flicker with pinches and bites. She is far away. She is right here, so deep into here that everything he gives, she takes.

"An hour," he says. So little time? "Very good. Do you want to stop?"

"No."

He grasps her to him, breaks a thread. His teeth worry at her nipples, one after the other, devouring. He pulls her into his lap; another thread. She slides down on the cock, hard, thrusting into her, meeting her again after weeks. It feels so strange, so full. He drops her back on the bed; two threads. He pulls her legs up and rides her hard, drives and thrusts into her. He raises himself, angles his body away from her, stares into her eyes as his thumb slides down to caress her clit, slippery from her own wetness and his tongue.

Teresa screams. She bucks. She quivers around him, thrashes and howls. The yellow threads flutter like victory banners. She flies up, grabs at his back and sinks her teeth into his shoulder as time stops and she feels like she's falling.

Then she does fall, back into the pillows. A trickle of blood flows from Joe's shoulder as he dives after her.

Joe comes to her apartment. Teresa waits for him at the door, a new spool of yellow thread in her hand.

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