I watched the snowfall outside, coating the trees in the wood behind my home, making it look like one of those surrealistic paintings by the guy that hides the Indians and wolves in his drawings. I couldn't recall the artist, but had always loved his work.
The Weather Channel played in the background, talking about the winter storm and warning people to stay indoors and off the roads and how the storm had caused a multitude of traffic accidents and fatalities already. My house was far enough out in the country and off the road that I barely heard the traffic in even the best weather.
I waited, staring off into the snow, waiting for Master Tom to call, waiting for him to instruct me as he had in the past. Informing me how to dress for him, to put on my webcam so that he could see me as I obediently performed his commands, then logging off the cam and typing me a brisk message stating when he'd arrive here. It had been a mere seven days since our last time together, but in my mind, it was far too long.
"Carla, be ready for me tomorrow at 10!" is what he'd put in the IM just before I went to bed last night. I'd been ready and I still had marks from our last session, but I needed him again, I needed the pain, the release.
I remembered our last session, and every session before it, as if they had happened yesterday. Yet, it seemed so long ago. I brushed the waterfall cascade of dark hair from my shoulder, stared out my window at the snow and imagined his touch on my skin. He loved watching these seasonal scenes with me, and I loved the feel of his strength as he would stand behind me, wrapping his arms around me, his breath on my shoulder sending signals to my pussy as he'd plant gentle kisses there.
Some mornings, we'd stand here dressed in nothing but blankets or robes - depending on the season - as we gazed out at the view, a live painting for us both to admire outside my kitchen window. I'd feel his touch against my cheek, then his fingers gently caressing my hair until they would slide into the edge of the blanket, or the collar of my robe, and ease it from my shoulders to "kissing each freckle" as he liked to say when he trailed little pecks, bites and sucklings down my neck and back.
I loved being naked for this man. He was so unlike those gruff and demanding lovers of my past who expected me to be their personal play-toy, at their beck-and-call for a fuck, a flogging or a quick blow-job. Tom was different because he cared. He understood when I had deadlines to meet for work -- though he'd make me suffer for it later on! He was compassionate and generous, both with his love and with his money. He didn't have a lot, but he did what he could to spread it among his lovers.
Yes, his lovers. Master Tom was poly. Not only that, but he was married -- and happily so to one of the most understanding, kind and gentle women I'd ever met.
I'd been introduced to his wife, Julie, a few months back and she was a beautiful woman in her own way, substantially taller and larger than I, but still beautiful. She had an aura about her that made you feel immediately comfortable -- a true earth-mother type. She knew about me, about what Tom and I did, and approved. She didn't offer any advice that wasn't solicited and didn't ask about our affairs, but simply thanked me for taking care of part of Tom that she couldn't.
I think we loved each other as sisters and she probably would have welcomed me to their bed. But that wasn't an aspect of the relationship that Master Tom wished, nor was it one of mine, though I'd have done it for him if asked. I just wasn't into women. Julie sensed this, though and never asked it of either of us. Like I said, she wasn't the least bit selfish and knew that Tom loved her, just as much as he loved me -- just in a different way.
But what I adored about him was how he could stand there with me and just "be." I loved the way he alternately worshiped and used my body for his pleasure, making sure I came as well -- unless I deserved some sort of punishment, in which case he might delay it until the end of the weekend, just before he'd leave. I'd cum and cum, but would be so worked up that I'd be needy and want more; getting frustrated when he wouldn't be able to provide it.
At other times, he'd bind me, sometimes in simple knots, sometimes in a complicated macramé of rope that enveloped my body so that he could suspend me for punishment, ravishment or for simple experimentation.
The phone rang, jarring me from my thoughts. I walked over and looked at the caller ID, but it wasn't him. I recognized the number, but I didn't answer. I didn't care to talk to anyone but him. Tom was one of the few that understood how I got at this time of the year, how the lack of sunlight affected me. We were going to celebrate Candlemas together, building a bonfire out back and dancing around it naked, but he hadn't called to let me know when he'd be in.
In my back yard, I'd stacked all the branches and scrap wood I could find into a big pile. A friend of mine had donated several railroad ties that formed it's base and outer workings. He and his wife would be over as well to share in the celebration. They liked Tom and what he did for me. They said they'd bring a few other pagan couples over as well and we'd all celebrate sky-clad. Hell, even Julie was going to join us that day! I just needed to let my friends know when Master would be here.
I sighed softly as I stared at the two-hundred year old oak tree out back with the one thick branch that jutted out from the trunk at an almost 90 degree angle about fifteen feet off the ground. How many times in the past had he put a collar and leash around my neck and led her out there, naked (or semi-so), then throw a thick, heavy rope over the slick plastic sleeve protecting the bark on the branch and haul me up until I dangled, then flog me, whip me and punish me until I begged to cum, allowing me to orgasm myself into a stupor so that he could lower me to the turf and have his way with me?
Last New Years, he'd done that. Oh, that memory! I smiled to myself as I reveled in it, touching my nipples as I did so and feeling them grow hard and sensitive!
It was much as it was now, several feet of snow on the ground. He let me wear knee-high boots, but nothing else other than the silk rope harness that he'd spent the last hour tying me into a complicated weave of ropes, using different colors. Master Tom always did this in front of a mirror so that I could watch the process. Seeing him tie the knots seemed to make me almost as horny as the suspension.
Once tied, he'd led me out there, walking down a path he'd dug for himself earlier, but making me walk in the foot-deep snow next to the path he'd made, forcing me to lift my leg high while wearing my thigh-high, stiletto boots so that I could plunge my foot down. He would laugh at the seriousness of expression on my face when I'd not lift my leg high enough over a drift or would step on a rock, stumble and struggle to regain my footing -- not easy to do in these shoes when your arms are bound -- and he'd wait until I stood straight again before giving the leash a tug, telling me to move forward.
Master had spent three months teaching me how to walk properly in these heels, making me balance a book upon my head until I could walk in them in a way that was "floating not waddling". I got so many compliments after that when I'd show up at publication events. I'd had more than one younger girl ask what finishing school I'd gone to and how I'd learned to walk like that. They confessed to being sore and stumbling around in these kinds of shoes, whenever they wore them, while it looked as if I were born into them.
"Quit wearing flats and walking shoes," I'd tell them, then explain how I'd practiced for weeks and months with the book atop my head, how to place one foot in front of the other and how not to come down on the heel, but the toe and ball of the foot. What I didn't tell them was that I did this naked and that Master monitored the process. He would use a crop on my naked ass and thighs if I didn't do it right. But it paid off when I heard comments about my ass being "poetry in motion" whenever I appeared at a gathering wearing heels.
But, back then, right after Master had said he 'approved' of my skill, I was walking in the deep snow with my favorite boots on.
It's odd. When we would first step out the door, I would feel the initial chill, that bite of the cold and wind, but after walking just a few yards, I would focus more on the ropes, how and where they wrapped around me, digging into areas of the skin and especially the placement of the knots between my legs (one on my clit, one pressing up into my pussy and another wiggling into my back pucker).
I'd concentrate on the feeling of the silken strands wrapped around me, between my legs, binding my breasts, catching my nipples between two tight strands and I'd get lost in the feeling so that the ropes would morph from a restrictive restraint, binding me and preventing movement, until it became a cocoon of sensual release. While it held my body, it allowed the rest of my senses a freedom they wouldn't normally enjoy.
My sense of sight became more acute. My world would suddenly have sharp contrast and focus. Minutiae would become fascinating until I'd slip and be jolted back to the mundane. My aural sense would become so attenuated that I could almost hear each snowflake falling.
And, it's that moment after a heavy snowfall that is probably my favorite time. The world becomes muffled and still within its winter blanket. New sounds emerge. You hear the crunch of your own step, the ice crystals forming from your mouth as you breathe out, the pop of the icicles hanging from the soffits as differing temperatures cause them to crack, the groan of the rope as you walk, the sound of the wind caressing through the trees and the gentle moan of Brigid, mother earth, as she snuggles with her lover, Cernunos, under the blanket of white.
The phone rang again, pulling me back from my memories. Glancing once more, I see that it is still not him and I am impatient, frowning a bit and wondering why he doesn't call. It goes to voice mail and I ignore it, choosing to stare out the window once more. My hands are caressing my breasts through the silk of the robe I'm wearing and I can feel them stiffen, sending messages to my clit and pussy, causing the first to harden in sympathy and the long, hanging lips of my pussy to engorge and spread. I can almost see how they glisten with my need, but I keep my hands on my breasts for now as I fall back into the memory of last winter celebration.
I stared out the window, remembering how he took me to that tree and made me stand there and kissed my lips passionately as I shivered, but not allowing our bodies to touch. Snow had found it's way into the tops of my boots and I could feel the coldness of the melting flakes as they slowly slid down my thighs like a lovers touch.
Oh, how I wanted him to touch me there like that, to throw me down in the snow and just take me, plunging his fat cock deep into my holes, grunting as he rutted, making the harsh crystals of snow scrape across my stiff nipples and sending tingles of pain and pleasure up and down my spine! He'd do that eventually, but not just yet. No, that day he kissed me and then reached into his big grey canvas bag that was dirty, worn and greasy on the outside, but lined with leather inside.
