There's nothing like a woman in leather, especially when that leather consists of straps binding wrists and ankles. Naked and spread-eagled. Damn. It's even better when the woman is a submissive like my savannah, already wet and glistening from mere anticipation. She'd been building for two months, and it showed in the breathlessness of her glistening face, in the pleading of her rock-solid nipples, those raspberries of flesh spiking upward from her full, graspable breasts, in the enticement of the shining fluids that coated her inner thighs and freshly-shaven loins. Each wrist was stretched nearly to its corner of the king-sized bed in which she was centered, a D-ring in each restraint providing purchase for the rope binding; her ankles were held spread wide by a black spreader-bar adjusted to its full 3-feet, her ankles locked in its leather restraints by tiny but highly serviceable padlocks. She wasn't going anywhere, and the extent of that reality was just beginning to settle into her psyche and shine forth from her face.
She'd known this was coming since our last weekend. That's when I'd discovered the potential, when I'd lit that fire in a slow burn of preparation. I'd felt her hunger, her yearning, from across the country, felt the images of her desire, known what she came desperate to discover on this occasion. It had been electrifying. Such possibilities! I had to control the potential tremor, the vibration of exhilaration, running through my body.
I heard savannah gasp as I ran the nails of my left hand along the inside of her left leg, slowly, sharply, from just above her ankle to within a breath of the hunger between her thighs. The glistening slit that punctuated the meeting of those powerful thighs twitched as her body grasped for the eluding digits, and her tiny cry tightened my chest. "Ah, yes," I purred as I slapped that shining slit sharply with the finger-tips of my left hand. "Yes," I repeated to the moaned, guttural "aahhhhh" that followed my act, and finished by slapping my cupped hand solidly upon that twitching vaginal mound.
Time to take a moment, I thought as I stepped back and reached for my coffee-cup on the institutional bedside-table that was this hotel room's unremarkable furnishing. Time, in fact, to begin documenting my handiwork on this evening. Establish a baseline, as it were. I smiled as I drew the digital camera from the drawer. "Just for me," I cut her off as she opened her mouth to object. "Just for me. And you. A before picture."
The flush extended from the cheekbones of her broad, luminous face, framed by the flowing mane whose color seemed to shift subtly every time I saw her - existing somewhere in the badlands between red and brunette - down the delicate throat to the broad plain of her chest and the impressive swells of rose-tipped flesh that beckoned upon that pale tan expanse. She was strong, as tall as me and fuller, dangerous in her own right, a powerful frame whose wide, sensual waist and hips branched into well shaped, firm, defined and trembling legs that were currently spread into a wide, shallow "V" that shone forth from within the camera's viewfinder.
Ridding myself of the camera, I reached across the bed, running my hands upward across both shivering hips, waist, upwards to settle with clenching fingers upon each strawberry nipple as I lowered my face toward hers, savoring the sharp intake of breath as I lifted the weight of her ample breasts against her swollen, pinioned peaks, as her chest arched upwards in response. My hands rose with her until she was at full arch; I braced my hands to hold her there as my mouth fell upon hers. I felt the shivering of her body through her nipples and her mouth as the muscles of savannah's chest and back slowly fatigued, as her weight began to settle inexorably upon the suspension offered by my fingers. She moaned deeply and opened her mouth fully to my probing tongue as she surrendered her weight, and I could feel the twitching of her hips through the nubs of flesh that I held. I held her there until I could feel in her quivers, could hear in her whimpers, that we had reached her limit. I held her there just a bit further, just to that point ... and released her, rising to view and savor the "Aaahhhh,", the choked cry as blood rushed back into her tortured flesh, watched as her hips threshed and twitched without any shred of decorum, without thought of the slow puddle taking shape between them. Soak, rinse, repeat, I thought as my hands found purchase once again upon purplish mounds of flesh and I pulled her chest slowly but firmly from the mattress by those nubs, held her trembling and swaying there once again, her mouth parting in nigh-forgotten act of inhalation as I gazed down upon her, held her until whimpering held just that coloration of suppressed pain, of acceptance tested and yet found good, lowered her slowly once again, a now sinuously-writhing mass.
My gaze turned slowly from the gripping spectacle upon the bed to the formation of floggers, clamps, paddles, and assorted less well-identified items that lined the floor near the room's window. One breast- and pussy-flogger of thin, flexible rubber strands, one of thin leather lashes, one of braided and knotted cords. One medium-weight flogger with half-inch falls or tails, one medium-flogger with thin, heavy leather lashes, long and potentially cutting. Elk-hide heavy-flogger, wide, soft tails descending in a supple dried-blood red-brown wave from a fine burnt-red wooden handle. Spring-loaded black leather riding crop. Such were the honored implements of this weekend, along with various apparati of clamping, of suction, and of electrical stimulation, each with their supporting roles to play. Ah, the look on her face when I'd pulled them carefully and deliberately from their traveling bag.
"Let's start by increasing the blood flow and sensitivity of some of my favorite tissues," I murmured, running my fingers and nails with full ownership across the freshly-shaven dampness between her legs. I smiled appreciatively at my quivering companion's visible attempt to spread her bound limbs yet further in response, to invite my hand in rather than to suffer its titillating withholding. Little did she know.
Stepping to where the implements lay waiting in their formation upon the floor, I made a show of my contemplation and decision, though the outcome had never been in any doubt. Savannah's face actually jerked -- started and startled -- as she saw me rise from my considerations with an odd and ominous looking artifact of rubber and clear plastic hanging from my right hand: a vacuum-pumping ball at one end, an oddly-shaped transparent cupping arrangement at the other, flexible rubber hose in the middle.
I purred as I returned to the bed, watching her eyes as she attempted to translate the object I held. A sharp intake of breath emanated from her as I placed the transparent plastic cup, molded to fit this particular area, upon her pussy, sealing her already-glistening loins. With a quick clenching of the ball in my left hand, the cup was vacuum-sealed upon her flesh. "We need to wake your pussy and your labia up, my love," I said, running my now free right hand up her body to settle with rolling tightness for a moment upon her left nipple before returning to the task at hand. She gasped as I spent many long seconds creating a vacuum within that cup, seconds during which her entire genital mound was pulled upward, outward, expanding its tissues to fill the towering hollowness of the cupping device. The skin within glowed, aflush with blood, and I could watch as her labia thickened and extended, as her body attempted to extrude itself into the vacuum.
