 |
|||
|
|
The Music Room The sequel Ch1
It’s nice of Lola to forget my birthday! I mean, the girl is gorgeous. She is smart, hot, only has this big hang up about anal sex. Touch her back there and she turns into a block of ice, a tight block of ice. It must have been all those years at a nun school. They have messed up her head.
I love this girl, don’t get me wrong, but I am not going to go through that again. If she doesn’t get over this hang up, I cannot stay with her. I already had enough of hang ups with my ex; I am not going there again.
I let myself into the penthouse. I half expect a surprise party, but nothing. In silence I walk to the bedroom. Taped to the door there is a letter. “She could have chosen a better day to leave me” I think.
I pick up the letter written in purple ink, on crimson paper.
Dear George:
I very much want to be the woman you want me to be, in all respects. I am sorry that I cannot, willingly, give you what you want. I guess the nuns messed me up more than I thought.
I do however want you to have whatever you want from me so:
You are just going to have to take it yourself.
Your present is in the music room.
Don’t say anything.
Happy Birthday my love.
I rush to the music room, with bated breath, I open the door.
In the dim light, by the corner window, Lola, brightly lit by the quartz track lights, nude, hangs from her wrists from the overhead beams. A black blindfold covers her eyes and forehead; her back is towards me, she faces the window.
I approach her, silent, amazed. Despite the cool temperature, a thin sheen of sweat covers her body. Around her neck, a black ribbon, and a note:
“No safe words
No limits
No mercy
Happy Birthday”
I remove the ribbon from around her neck and touch her, a tremor. I nuzzle the nape of her neck, taking in her smell. I inhale her body’s fragrance, sweet, musky, but today, it is different. There is a subtle, acrid, touch of fear to the musk. I feel her groin, her pussy lips, wet, she trembles. I bring my exploring finger to my nose; musk, arousal, and throughout it all, fear.
She says nothing, but I can hear her breath, fast, almost gasping, aroused.
I take a step back. The credenza is dimly lit by a single lamp. A box and something else, I cannot see clearly in the dim light. I come closer. I am astonished by the sight of the cruel looking bullwhip, the crop and the cane. I cannot believe this! There is a box, on the box a note and a ball gag.
“Darling:
I am giving you everything. Tonight and always. But I may not be able to control myself. That’s what the gag is for. Tonight only moans and screams should come out of my mouth, and only … you, should be coming in. Use the gag if I say anything or object, or simply if you feel like it.
Remove it if you want to hear me scream or moan.
Have fun with me.
Lola”
I look into the box. KY jelly, Dildos, one of them is really gigantic, and butt plugs, one of them really huge. I am elated. I feel desire building in my gut, bursting into my chest.
No wonder the smell of fear in her sweat.
The sight of her, her shoulder length, curly red hair, her blue eyes, that I cannot see, and her tiny nose, peeking out under the blindfold, over her slightly open, pink lips is breathtaking. I see the tips of her white teeth. Her head is thrust back, trying to listen, that being the only one of her senses that connects her with the room.
Her breasts, very white, with pink areolas and small darker nipples (Has she rouged them for me today?) are flattened by the suspension, but still prominent to see on her chest. Firm, soft, irresistible.
Her flat tummy, with her wide navel, flatter today, as she hangs there ends in a freshly shaven pussy. The day may come when I shall miss the fiery red, neatly trimmed, bush that used to grow there, but it is not this day.
Her thighs, firm from dance class and biking, alabaster, are long and tapered to her calves where, the cream of her skin is slightly marred by a few scattered freckles.
Her feet, small and pedicured, hang, a mere two inches from the hardwood floor; a tribute to the care she took in setting this up.
Women should be seen naked, and from the rear. There are too many distractions when seen from the front: eyes, lips, nose, breasts, bush and so on. From the rear, the hair, points the way down to the vulnerable dorsum, which tapers, like a cello, to then widen at the hips, where symmetrical diamond dimples adorn the twin globes of a firm, pert ass. The thighs, seen from behind, without the interruption of the knees, flow seamlessly into the calves, which in turn, if the feet are properly extended, as in this case, represent the upright of an exclamation mark. Between the thighs, just a soupcon of her nether lips can be glimpsed, if the angle is quite right.
I shed my clothes, down to my boxer shorts and grab the whip.
|
|
|