Some places have no name. She knows this in her heart, but ever the question comes to her lips "Where?" or "What?" and sometimes even "Why?"
He suffers her constant testing of his limits with patience. She pays for it, though. She knows each time she is unable to stop herself from asking such questions or from turning away from his pleasures, or from pushing her own needs onto him, she will be given the consequences. There are so many things she can't help. She was always a bundle of need with so little control. Until now.
The whip cracks and her scream is involuntary. Not the sting, but the sudden noise that sends her into shivers. Her ass must be a mesh of red lines crisscrossed into a pattern her fingers will trace for the next several days.
She is in love with the marks he leaves. The patterns discernible through the bruising of the edges. He wields strap, whip or paddle with the same deft hand that he uses to send her reeling drunkenly from one orgasm into the other.
Her shoulders slump, her breasts ache. Her body is full and alive at the same time. The bark of a tree roughs her nipples when she squirms and leather cuffs chafe her wrists. Tears burn in her eyes, the fatigue has swarmed over her in an irrefutable storm.
Another crack. Another scream and burning line. Another drizzle of liquid spurts from her sex and sizzles into dry leaves piled between her bare feet. The cushion of layers once green and supple buoy her soles and free her mind to run laughing through a lonely meadow hidden within the dark forest.
Rarely do people know what they seek when they look for adventure. Not really. You can read up on what you want to know, watch videos and how tos, but it pales when the real thing is suddenly thrust into one's consciousness.
She sifted through a lot of answers to her ad before deciding on someone to try. She nearly ran from that disastrous meeting and was wont to try again except that she knew in her heart that this is what she wanted. On the second try, he showed up.
Innocence is often overlooked and frequently misunderstood. It is not always an unwillingness, but an inexperience. Not simply naivety, but more a lack of opportunity. He never uses blunt trauma and didn't that first time. It has always been patient training.
"Why do you think you will like this?" His fork moves a bite of apple tart into his mouth. The flakey crust sends a light crunch out between them. It is clear from his action and manner that he will listen. This is an interview, not a date.
"I feel it. My toes curl when I think of it. I've been spanked before." She speaks this last with an attitude of defiance.
Weight settles onto the table. Drifts down like a dislocated feather. He chews with deliberate enjoyment. Her pastry is left untouched. She is not quite uncomfortable. Not with him, anyway. He is kind and gentle with his words and glances. It is his stares and questions that leave her grasping for answers within herself. There is an atmosphere of silence that he easily allows and she feels the need to break or deflect. She wonders if a scream or cry lives in that space. Known by its absence.
"I'm not talking about spankings." His voice is level. She squirms. "I look for extraordinarily strong women because this is a journey that will leave you marked forever. Opened, healed and scarred for life."
She becomes intensely aware that her panties have soaked through to the seat of her chair. If she were to rise now, the puddle would be obvious. She isn't sure why, but she knows it is the way he talks with her as much as the subject matter. She is enamored by every rich syllable that rolls softly from his tongue.
"If you're looking for me to take you home right now and whip your ass, it's not going to happen. That wouldn't give you much anyway." He paused. "I don't work like that anyway. I'm here for my pleasure.' Another hesitation. "I like anticipation. Anxiety. Uncertainty. I like the build up to something great and I like to feed that until it nearly bursts on its own. Then I devour the resulting delight."
He takes another bite. Just a bit of apple with tiny flakes of crust clinging to it. The little cafe is really a find. Very French and excellent. She tries to measure him with her eyes, but can't seem to get a handle on him.
"I'm not mean. Don't get the wrong idea." His fork settles onto the outer edge of the small plate, out of the way of the remaining food. "I'm not nice, though. I will take my pleasures and that means ripping you out of your comfort places and pushing you past any of your wild little fantasies." He is even and direct.
"You want to hurt me?" She tries a little humor.
"I want so much more than that." He smiles.
The clamps send shooting stars through her breasts. Her nipples stabbing at her lungs, keeping her breath short and sharp. When the tips scrape across the tree her knees buckle with the agony of it all. Another crack of his whip and the leaves at her feet take more of her inner organs as they melt and run out through her open petals.
As soon as her wrists were tied to the tree, he pulled her nubs taut one by one and clipped bands on them to keep them jutting out. As though they needed help, but the constant jolts and reminders give her one more continuous ache to manage.
