It was
a cold and blustery December afternoon as we tramped through the fallen
leaves. The sky was gray and threatened
rain, but it didn’t smell like it. The
scent of moldy leaves, wood smoke, and the early scent of snow permeated the
air. It wasn’t cold enough for snow
though. Mike the Hardware Guy trudged
along beside me. He was quiet and I felt
a bit guilty even asking him to come along. We had tried the romance thing,
instead of just the slam bam type of relationship I’m good at. It hadn’t really worked and I was the
problem. That made things tense between
us. Mike hadn’t taken it well and vowed
to remain my friend, regardless of whether or not we could make a romance work.
Well,
friends with benefits.
We were
both dressed for the cold, but I had been feeling a bit whimsical that morning
and had also met Kari for lunch before finding Mike. Instead of my normal attire of South Texas
Farm girl, I was a lot more fashionable.
A calf length broomstick skirt, dark chocolate in color and quite warm,
covered me from the waist down. A pair
of black leather boots that rose to meet the skirt graced my feet. A stylish button-up white blouse lay under a
black, bolero style sweater, open at the bodice so that the white shirt was
visible, over which lay the coat that Kari had bought me.
Both
Mike and I had backpacks as well. Mine
looked overstuffed but light, while Mike’s bag looked heavy, but clearly had
more room.
“How
did you find this place?” Mike asked me.
“It’s a bit off the beaten trail.”
“Becca
and I found it last year while trying to do Master Dan’s Twelve Days of
Christmas,” I told him.
Mike
frowned. “Did I miss that one?”
I
shrugged. “I started writing it up, but
the whole thing turned out so contrived and hokey that I didn’t even finish it.
I’ve still got some of it, like the day I met David.” It came out innocently, but the look on
Mike’s face was enough to tell me I’d said another stupid thing. Geesh.
I do that a lot, don’t I?
“I
don’t recall being busy last Christmas,” he said stoically, putting on a brave
face while I felt like shit.
“Well,
like I said, it was me and Becca,” I said.
“It was a ridiculous assignment with clamps, a butt plug, vibroballs,
and laps around an empty field.”
He
chuckled, clearly the thought of me in such a situation appealing. “Sounds like fun.”
“For
you maybe,” I said grumpily. “Anyway, we
spotted this old forgotten picnic table and I thought it would be perfect for
this assignment. It’s out of the way, no
one is around, and we should be uninterrupted.
“If
it’s still there,” Mike amended.
I gave
him an irritated glare. “What part of
‘forgotten’ doesn’t compute with you?”
Mike
held up his hands in surrender. Five more
minutes of walking along a trail maintained only by the local fauna finally
brought us to a tiny clearing. Off to
one side, under the spreading arms of a massive live oak that was at least as
old as our state, was a dilapidated picnic table that looked like it had seen
its glory days during the Korean War.
The
frame of the table was made of galvanized steel pipe and was rusted in a
variety of places. Three planks of some
unidentifiable wood lay warped across the top, bowed down in the center,
forming a shallow concavity. One bench
was broken and only splinters remained.
The other, cracked and breaking.
“Wow,
Breanne. You sure can pick em’,” Mike said, surveying the picnic table and
trees. He dropped his backpack on the
ground and I heard a loud, metallic clank from the contents. He walked over to the picnic table and put
his hands down on the top, pressing hard.
It creaked, but held. Mike then
bent down underneath and looked at the underside. Seemingly satisfied he stood up and nodded at
me.
Both of
us went for our backpacks. While Mike
brought out an assortment of bundled ropes, metal clips, and a set of pulleys,
I retrieved three beach towels from my bag.
The largest and fluffiest of the towels went over the picnic table top
like a cloth cover. I set the other two towels at either end, rolled up. Mike was busy getting his pulleys attached to
a few overhanging branches nearby.
“Up or
out?” he asked suddenly. “Bre?”
I
glanced up. “Can’t we do both?”
Mike
gave me a hesitant look. “The tree isn’t
as cooperative as I would like…”
I
looked at the tree. It didn’t seem to be
resisting him too much. “Can’t you just
hang them higher?” I asked.
Mike
smiled patiently at me. “Sure. Let me get my ladder.”
I
blinked. “You brought a ladder?”
“Yeah,
it’s here in my pocket.”
I
rolled my eyes as it dawned on me that he was being facetious. I sighed noisily. “I suppose the angle is
more important.”
Mike
nodded. “Can I make a suggestion?”
“Is it
perverted?” I asked, getting out a medium sized bottle of baby oil. I hadn’t had time to put it in a smaller
bottle. I set it down on the table and
it fell over, rolling into the center.
“If we
go with your knees, rather than your ankles, I think we can get both up and
out.”
I
shrugged. “I’m game. You’re the rigger,
Mike. I trust you.”
Mike
went about his business and it wasn’t long before two lengths of rope were
stretched down to the table. When it
looked like he was ready, I pulled the last item out of my bag. It was a candle, albeit one I doubt anyone would
recognize. It was scarlet, dyed crimson
and began life as a two inch thick, nine inch tall, pillar candle. An hour’s worth of work with a paring knife
and a homemade double boiler had dramatically altered the shape of my latest
dildo. First I had trimmed the base into
something resembling the tip of a man penis.
Then with just hot steam and some pressure, I had bent the entire length
into a curve.
“Okay,
I’m ready,” Mike announced a moment later.
He came over to the table. “Hope
you brought a lighter.”
I
laughed and fished one out of my purse.
I handed it to him and then climbed up onto the table top. Lying back, I put one of my extra towels
under my head. The other was for support
later on. With both hands I then began
pulling up my skirt, tugging it out from under my bottom until it was scrunched
up around my waist. Mike moved down to
the far end of the table, his eyes bright with excitement as he got a good look
at me.
I
wasn’t wearing panties of course. Cold
air slipped against my skin but it wasn’t bad.
I was wet, which is hardly surprising. I usually am. But today I was also stuffed with my ben wa balls. I reached down between my legs and pulled the
balls out by the string, groaning lightly as they popped free of my pussy. I
bent my knees as I set the ben balls
aside and spread my legs wider. Then I
nodded at Mike.
One
thing I have to say about Mike is that the man is skilled when it comes to
rope. He knows his knots, his lengths,
and his hemp like a cowboy. I just had
to lay there and occasionally straighten a leg in order for him to wrap twenty
feet of soft nylon securely around my lower thighs, just above the knees. He tied off the two strands of line that led
to the pulleys, and then moved around the table, his fingers gliding along my
body.
“Here
we go,” he said in warning. I braced
myself as he pulled on the rope.
Immediately
my knees were drawn both outward and upward.
My bottom came up off the table as my spine curved, effectively folding
me in half and giving me a beautiful view of my own glistening slit. I grunted from the stress of the
position. It was a bit intense. Mike had outdone himself though. I had only needed to be curved, especially
after the modifications I made to the candle.
Having my thighs spread so widely apart was completely unnecessary, but
definitely a turn on.
Mike
tied off the rope and came back down to the business end of the table. He took a look at my boots and then grabbed
one. “On or off?” he asked.
I considered it for a moment. There’s something erotic about a girl’s bare
feet – or feet in heels. It’s about the
arch, the curve, and an offering. But it
was also cold out and I didn’t want my toes getting frozen. I shook my head.
“No. Not today.”
Then I plucked the bottle of oil from where it had rolled by my side and
held it out to him.
“Want
to oil me?” I asked.
He let
go of my boot, grinned and popped the cap. Mike poured a liberal amount all
over my exposed sex. Oil coated my
petals, but then he went to work, spreading the thick fluid around gently. He didn’t just rub me either. He massaged me, almost from my belly button
down. My skirt was bunched up nicely at
the waist and in the small of my back.
Mike touched everything in between, his fingers probing, lubricating,
penetrating. He even thrust his pinkie
into my bottom, making me gasp, while at the same time slipping two oiled
fingers into my sex. With my knees bound
open and exposed, it was almost more than I could handle.
Like I
said, he took his time and enjoyed himself.
I actually had to stop him when things got a little more intense than I
intended and I was only a few more seconds away from a powerful orgasm.
“Might
be fun, going at this cold,” he observed.
“And I
might end up scalded before I manage to cum,” I objected.
“I
think that might happen regardless.”
“Well,
I’d rather not start off handicapped,” I said.
I could tell Mike was disappointed.
He liked the idea of working me into an orgasm so that it would be
harder for me to have another one. Yes,
I’m multi-orgasmic, but it still is an expenditure of energy, risking
sensitivity. The more orgasms anyone
has, the more likely they will need extended recovery time. It’s a fact of life. He stood there, looking at my clit and I
decided to head off mutiny by being decisive.
I grabbed the candle and without another word, jammed the first three
inches firmly into my waiting, well-oiled slit.
“Go
ahead and light it,” I told Mike. He took the cigarette lighter and a moment
later the candle, curved so that the wick pointed upward and at an angle back
toward my face, flickered. The wick
caught instantly, the flame casting a warm glow on my outstretched thighs. With my hand still wrapped around the middle
of the candle, I pushed it in a little deeper, feeling the folds of my insides
part as the thick, two inch thick pillar candle perforated me. It felt good actually, especially after
spending all day sexually frustrated with the ben wa balls. I kept pushing and the candle slid in easily,
all the way in until I almost burned my hand.
I pulled the candle out with a moan, then drove it in again hard.
The
first drop of hot wax landed on the back of my hand, scalding me. Experienced wax players know that dyed
candles, especially red ones, burn the hottest and that you really want to
maximize the distance the melted paraffin falls in order to mitigate as much of
the excess heat as possible. I had
patently ignored all that, opting instead for the worst possible combination of
extremes. I began thrusting the candle
gingerly, trying to keep from flinging wax droplets all over the place. It didn’t work that well. While I did manage to plough a pretty serious
furrow through my petals, more wax began to fall on my hand. Then I felt a hot spot on my mons, an inch or
two above my clit, which certainly got my attention. Another splatter of boiling wax fell, this
one even closer to my sex and I jammed the candle in as deep as I could.
“Freeze,”
Mike suddenly said, his voice urgent. I
froze as ordered, craning my neck and glancing around.
“What?”
I hissed, my heart pounding with adrenaline.
Suddenly
he smiled. “Nothing. I just wanted more
wax to melt. Go ahead.”
Had I
not been tied up, with a God damned candle stuck in my cunt, I swear I would
have killed him right then and there. I
gave him a screwy look instead and began to move the candle out of my depths,
relishing the feel of it moving inside me.
As it came out, a long spill of wax flowed down off the candle and
coated one of my petals almost completely.
I let out a loud sound, half groan and half cry. It burned.
“Nice. Keep going, Breanne.”
I
tugged on the candle, breaking the melt.
Then I pushed it back down. Pleasure, punctuated with flame, burned
through me and I picked up the pace. The
candle flame flickered as I moved the candle up and down, losing myself to the
waves of sensation. Wax began flying in
all directions, hitting my hand, thighs, and loins as I masturbated wildly.
Then a
huge drop fel on my clit, searing me and making me come up off the table with a
pain ridden gasp. Suddenly the agony and
the ecstasy didn’t seem so different. I
moved my wrist and this time deliberately set the candle so that more melted
paraffin would fall on my self-destruct button. I wanted to explode and this
seemed the easiest way. In seconds m y
clit was fully coated, crimson paraffin encasing it beautifully. I was crying out now, frantically thrusting
the candle, fresh melts falling on my shaved petals, flowing down through the
creases and crevasses of my body’s natural curves. It burned my skin, inside and out as I rammed
the candle in deeper.
And
then I was there, the heat of the burning wick and the cold of the air became
one. The thickness of the candle and the
slick wetness of my own need a perfect machine, pumping, thrusting, working me
into orgasm. I arched my back, my mouth
open, letting the power of my release escape in the only way I knew. I let out a cry of sex soaked pleasure so
loud and so strong that birds roosting took flight yards away. Had anyone been close they would have come
running just to witness the epiphany of sexual satisfaction I felt. I sagged backward, relaxing on the table, my
head pillowed by the towel. The candle
was still lit, still in me, and I reached down to pull it out. Assignment
complete.
Mike
grabbed my wrist.
I
looked up at him in shock as he snagged my other hand as well and pulled my
arms above my head. I felt new heat from
the candle as fresh wax splattered down on my already coated labia, warming the
melts already there.
“What?”
I stammered as a fresh strand of unused rope appeared. Before I could even contemplate escape Mike
had the hemp line wrapped around my wrists and then tucked between my hands,
binding me completely.
“Mike!
What are you doing?” I demanded, the heat of the candle between my legs
scolding hot, coating my mons with more and more wax. He didn’t respond verbally, but instead tied
my hands, still above my head and pulled tight against the picnic table, to the
metal frame beneath the boards. A fresh
surge of heat slid through my crotch and I felt hot wax seep down through the
crack of my ass.
“Mike!”
I squealed.
He bent
over me, his fingers working at my shirt, unbuttoning it as more heat burned at
me. Then there was a flash of coolness
over my bared breasts.
“No
bra, huh? Guess I shouldn’t be
surprised,” Mike muttered.
“Mike!
Please! The candle!” I almost screamed.
He
continued to ignore me and instead began rubbing my nipples, hardening
them. I jerked my head up, relieved to
see the flame of the candle flickering two inches above my actual flesh. I thought I was actually being burned the
paraffin melts were so hot. As it was,
my entire slit was covered in a sweeping melt that conformed to the curves and
folds of my flower. A sharp pain in my
right breast drew my attention back to Mike and away from the looming fire
between my legs. An adjustable pressure
clamp had been attached behind my piercing.
I gasped as Mike flicked it with his finger, another sharp pain exploding
through me. He leaned across my body and
did the same exact thing on the other side.
I gritted my teeth, arching my back and pulling on my bonds.
Mike
bent down and retrieved something from his bag, but I couldn’t see what it was
until he moved down to the end of the table, right between my legs and above
the flickering candle. He let a few more
drops fall on my clit as he tugged the candle free of my cooked slit. That’s when I saw the sap.
“This
is simple, Bre. I’m going to beat the
wax off you and you’ll try to have another orgasm before I finish. If you don’t manage to cum by the time I’m
done, then we’ll light the candle, get you coated all over again, and go for
round two.”
I
didn’t know what to say. I just stared
at him, too shocked to find the words.
“Also,
I’d avoid cumming during the hot waxing part, because if you explode then it
won’t count,” Mike continued. He blew
out the candle, tossed it aside, and raised his arm. The sap rose above my sex, held ready. I looked at him, my chest heaving, eyes wide
in disbelief, my entire body taut and tense.
And he swung.
Those
of you who know me, either personally or through my writing, can attest to the
fact that my absolute favorite position to be bound in is on my back with my
legs spread wide. And the most favorite
thing to have done to me is exactly what Mike was doing, sans hot wax and
candle threats. For some bizarre reason,
having that flat piece of leather slamming hard against my clitoris and petals,
mashing the flat with each stinging blow, is the kind of thing that overloads
my brain and turns my entire body to Jello.
The only thing I wasn’t prepared for, or wanted, was the wax. And make no mistake – the wax was my enemy.
As Mike’s sap bit into my flesh the wax snapped and cracked and chipped. Shards flew like snow. The oil Mike had worked into my sex prevented
the wax from actually sticking to my skin.
It took less than twenty strokes to flick off every little splash and
melt, leaving a pattern of lilies and roses across my mons, downward.
I
almost got there. The clamps on my
nipples, the sting of the sap that turned into heat, the slow burn of arousal
that came from the circumstances of my predicament. Despite having just cum minutes before,
Mike’s incessant strokes to my sex were almost enough to drive me over the edge
and satisfy his own requirement.
But he
stopped.
“Awww,”
he crooned mockingly, clearly not sorry.
“Looks like we’ll have to wax you again after all. Remember, better not cum until I’m sapping
you again.”
My
chest heaved as he put down the sap. I expected him to pick up the candle and
lighter, but instead he had the bottle of oil in his hand. He came around the table, took off the
pressure clamps on my nipples, and drizzled some of the oil onto my chest. Mike used both hands to rub me, working his
palms in slow circles over my nipples as the blood rushed back into the crushed
tips. Then after I had let out an
agonized sob, he began to lightly drag his fingers across my nipples, teasing
and tantalizing me. After the clamps it
felt amazing and sent shivers through me.
Then he moved back between my legs, fresh oil making me reddened petals
and clit slippery and shiny. And he
didn’t just work the oil in. He rubbed
me. He massaged me, his fingers flitting
across my clit, every touch like a bolt of lightning, forcing me to the
metaphorical edge of orgasmic bliss.
Again
he stopped, right before I was ready to leap into the abyss, sensorial
satisfaction sending ribbons of adrenaline and dopamine through me. I was desperate, so close to popping that a
single pinch of my clit would have sent me into orbit. Instead of helping me along, he picked up the
candle, lit it, and then held it an angle, just few inches above my clit.
We were
lucky that we were in the middle of an abandoned park, surrounded by acres of
empty woods, because the scream that I let out would have brought the police,
Amnesty International, and the entire Porn industry in a heartbeat. Another drop of hot wax fell, completely
coating my clit, scalding me deeply.
Mike didn’t stop though and continued to drip boiling hot paraffin
between my legs, despite the overly vocal orgasm.
“Too
bad that one didn’t count, right?” He teased me. He coated everything, even letting flows of
wax puddle and then slide over my perineum and down into the crack of my ass,
all the way to the small of my back. The
heat had me bucking, twisting to the left and right as I involuntarily
responded to his torment.
“Can’t
have that!” he declared. He hammed the
candle back into my sex, driving it in deep and eliciting another gasp from me
as I was suddenly deeply and thoroughly fucked.
I groaned as he grabbed another length of rope and I tried not to
tighten up. I was worried I’d literally squeeze the candle out, letting it fall
over and burn me, or worse landing on the towel and setting me and the table on
fire. Just as the candle was about to
fall out though, Mike came back down to my loins, shoved it back in, and
proceeded to securely wrap the strands of hemp line around my hips, right
through my crotch, though he was careful not to cover up my sex. I could feel the line run up my inner thigh
and nothing I could do would allow me movement.
I was
about to lose my fight with the candle again and he pulled it out. I expected him to extinguish it, to pick up
the sap, but instead he brought it around to the other side of the table, right
across from my bosom. He held the candle
above my left breast and let a single, heavy drop fall, splashing down upon the
turgid nipple. He coated my areola
first, then worked outward in expanding circles until my entire breast was
covered with hot wax. Then he moved on
to the other side and it felt as if someone had dipped my entire chest into
molten lava. He was slow, methodical and
deliberate.
I was
already lost when the first blow of the sap hit my breast. Mike didn’t pull his blow either and the pain
of having my bosom spanked, flattened even, just added fuel to the fire. Wax chips, fresh ones, flew in every
direction and my arms pulled hard on the rope holding my hands to the table as
my body struggled with the impossible desire to protect the soft bits, to curl
up and huddle.
Then
Mike went back to work on my sex. My
blood pounded in my ears as candle melt shattered, heat and pressure, pain and
pleasure, all built up between my legs.
Mike was merciless, focusing more on getting rid of the crimson streaks
of wax instead of aiming for my clit and just as before he managed to get the
wax off before I managed to cum a third time.
I shuddered as he put down the sap, my mind trying to wrap itself around
what was happening.
Again
he oiled me, working his fingers around and across my nipples and my breasts,
then down my body, over my bunched up clothing, only to do delicious things to
my nether regions again. Suddenly he
grabbed one of my boots and tugged it off my right foot. Cool air swirled around my foot.
“Hey!
That’s cold!” I whispered, feeling just a bit worn out and tense, not to
mention aroused again. I groaned in
pleasure as he poured oil right onto my toes and then rubbed my foot with light
circular motions. It almost tickled,
which sent shivers of delight down through my body.
“Don’t
worry, it will be warm again soon enough,” he said, one hand rubbing the sole
of my foot, the other fluttering at my sex.
In just a few minutes I was squirming, my hips rolling up, trying to get
his butterfly touches to go in deeper.
He played me like a master musician plays his instrument, working me
slowly and gently, over a twenty minute span, right back up to the point where
I needed to cum.
And
yes, he began at my clit.
The
candle wax fell and it was the perfect counterpoint to his massage. I was so ready, so hot and bothered, that
when the flaming wax hit my clit it was like the most intense stimulation
possible. I had cooled down too,
temperature wise, so it wasn’t like the heat was mitigated by already being
hot. No, all the heat was inside me, a
raging tempest that demanded satisfaction.
I
tried. Really. But it was a lost
cause. Mike had made sure of that. I exploded as he coated my clit, my body
straining upward, the keening cries of my panting need filling the tiny
clearing. Mike was patient with me,
waiting until the orgasm was over, my pink breasts only lightly heaving, the
toes on my right foot visibly uncurling, and then went right back to pouring
hot wax on my skin. Pain shot through
me, the heat intense as he coated my labia and crotch for a third time. I was starting to get really sensitive
too. Paraffin melts ran down the crack
of my ass and once I was sporting a wax bikini bottom he went to my breasts and
gave me the matching top. It was
torture, pure and simple, with an underlying sexual component that even three
orgasms couldn’t quell.
Then he
did my foot and I practically lost it.
I’ve never had my FOOT waxed before. Have you? Oh sure, my breasts, my sex, my bottom, even
my back and stomach and some of my arms.
But to have those droplets land on the underside of my toes and drip
down the arch toward my heel? Pure evil.
And what little energy I had left after the last orgasm pretty much went
to maintaining consciousness and breathing.
Of course I twitched though since that part of me wasn’t tied and Mike
had to grab my leg and literally hold me still as he put enough wax on my foot
to make it look like I was wearing a ruby slipper.
Then
the beatings commenced. He started at my
breasts, wax flakes flying in a flurry, landing everywhere. I didn’t know it then, but I’d have to hand
wash my sweater just to get all the pieces out.
My blouse would bear stains from red hot wax falling on it, they dye
seeping into the material. And my skin
would need daily applications of lotion just to recover from the multiple
cookings it had received, though admittedly that was sort of fun.
After
my bosom was bare again he moved to my foot, the sap lancing out and smacking
my arch painfully. I curled my toes up
again and wax fell away, but Mike continued, even grabbing my big toe at one
point and bending my foot outward so he could concentrate on the arch. I’ve been caned on the soles before and
frankly that hurt a lot more than the sap.
Mike’s leather paddle just couldn’t impart the same amount of
concentrated force and the sting it left was minor. The bad thing was that I wasn’t really
feeling any arousal at all and Mike moved to my sex.
The sap
landed, just like it had before, impacting on the wax right above my clitoris
and smashing my folds downward. I
bucked, letting out another cry that was more sob than anything else. Mike kept at it though, whacking down with
the paddle, flicking wax off here and there, melts flying and coating the table
and ground around us. My head rolled. It was too much. I was too tired. I wasn’t going to be cumming
again, not in these circumstances. And I
think there was a cramp developing in one of my legs.
And
Mike, to his credit, realized it. The
last few strokes were light, just kisses compared to what he’d already done to
me. And then he loosened the rope that
held my hands above my head, though he didn’t free my wrists. Then he pulled the hemp line that held my
bottom to the table, throwing it aside.
Lastly he added some slack to the ropes strung through the pulleys and
letting my legs down a bit so that my spine was no longer curved. I made little whimpering sounds as he did all
this. Then he grabbed me by the legs and
pulled me down to the end of the table, my legs hanging off out over air, my
bottom literally four or five inches over the edge.
I
didn’t hear the sound of his zipper, but I felt the soft tip of his hard cock
sliding into me. There was no
resistance. There couldn’t be. His shaft slid in like I was made for
him. His hands held onto my legs, still
bound outward and up, the ropes taut again thanks to my new position. But it felt amazing. It was sex, but without the urgency of any
kind of need on my part. I was too
exhausted, even with a thick cock sliding through me. So I just laid there and enjoyed the
pleasure, the softness, and even when Mike got to his own need and explosion,
filling me completely with his cream, I was nothing more than a willing,
totally open, receptacle.
He let
out a sigh as he finished, pulling out only after he had gone soft inside
me. He leaned down and planted a kiss on
my bare instep. His fingers began
untying knots and I felt bits and pieces of me released and let loose, one at a
time. Finally he untied my hands, the
last bit and I sat up, my elbows taking my weight.
“You
are an evil man,” I said with a small smile on my face. I felt… well, the first
word that comes to mind is used. Well
used. I know that sounds wrong, but it
was like the feeling of being clean for the first time in days, or jumping in a
cold pool in the middle of a hot summer.
It was like running a marathon and feeling the languid exhaustion that
comes with collapse at the end. Every
part of me felt as if it had been fired in the crucible, worked like steel, and
come out a forged sword.
Or um…
a plow… or anything made of metal not vaguely phallic.
Damn
metaphors.
I
rolled off the table and was fortunate enough to have Mike catch me, because I
realized suddenly that my legs didn’t seem to be working right. He lowered me to the bench, my skirt
falling back down around my legs. I
folded in half, putting my head down on the towel covered table as Mike began
collecting the rope and metal attachments, putting it all away. Finally he came over, sat down beside me, and
ran his hand through my hair, rubbing my head.
“You
okay?”
I
nodded, my face still buried in the crook of arm. I wasn’t crying, and I wasn’t
asleep. The best way to describe it was
that I was resting. He knelt down next
to me and gently put my boot back on my right foot.
“That
was pretty amazing,” he finally said.
I
didn’t say anything.
“Bre?”
I
finally lifted my head and looked at him.
“You
okay?” he asked.
I gave
him a weak smile and nodded. “Just –
tired.”
He
stood, then packed my backpack, shaking off the thousands of flakes of red wax into
the tall grass. He stowed everything
away easily while I just sat there, half awake, my entire body feeling like it
had been pulled apart and only barely put back together. Then suddenly he picked me up completely and
sat me down on the hard edge of the table.
I didn’t know what was going on.
His hand pushed at my knee and I resisted, at least until he held up my ben wa balls, which I had completely
forgotten about.
“NHPS
Rule #1, remember?” he said softly. I
whimpered in reply, but let him push my knees apart.
Give
the man credit, at least he was gentle and he used a bit of the left over oil
to lubricate the ben wa balls so that
he didn’t have to stimulate me into arousal.
I let out a keening moan as the golf ball sized spheres were pushed in,
my clit aching as did the rest of me.
When he was done he wiped his thumb off on his jeans and I closed my
legs hard, the knees knocking together.
Having the ben wa balls back
in was difficult, but I was used to it.
I grabbed hold of his arm and hopped down.
And
fell on my ass.
I could
have gotten up, maybe forced myself to stand.
It was just the shock you see. I’d been on my back for over an hour and
a half, tortured half out of my mind. Is
it surprising that my first step sent me to the earth?
But
Mike reached down and scooped me up, cradling me in his arms. He snagged the backpacks too and then
suddenly he was walking, firm steady steps down the trail, back to the old
parking lot where he had parked his truck.
I put my head on his shoulder, clinging to him as he carried me to
safety, to home, to friendship.
With
benefits.
Breanne Erickson is the author of over the wildly popular
"Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut" Series!
