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.
She is far over her head. She knew it when he began to tell her about the clinical side of what he planned for her. "Spanking is easy to manage. Anytime there is but a single stimulant, the body easily assimilates it into their experience. A spanking might be hard and sudden, but it is still only a spanking."
He takes her hand where it has frozen on the edge of the table. He fondles each finger, stroking the length up and back in a sensuous parody of a penis. At least to her mind. She feels the loosening of juices once again.
He says the one thing she needs to hear. "It's far from unusual to enjoy spanking as sex play. It's not really a fetish so much as a stimulation of the area to heighten sensation. Most people know this semi intuitively."
"In order for a single swat of a paddle or belt to be truly effective, you have to loosen the ties to the physical self. That is where we start getting into fetishism. I have a particular inclination toward violence and, at the same time, a distinct bias against harming others. I'm not interested in just spanking some girl to get the blood flowing to her nether regions and opening up her vagina for sex. I want to make you completely open. To strip you of your defenses, shatter your boundaries and I want you to feel it in your bones."
Her beautiful clothes lay forgotten in a pile somewhere behind her. Not her body, but her self. The buttons of her new blouse undone with care as he smothered her chest in kisses and suckling noises. She writhed with the enjoyment of it all. When he is sweet with her, she flies into a deep trance. He makes her dance in ways no one has ever tried before. The methodical way he makes certain that every bit of her flesh is electrified. Tingling and desperate for his next touch. As the shirt came off, he tasted every inch of skin. Down the right arm, raising it up where he had tied it to the other one, up the left.
Shivers mean nothing to her when they blend into one complete spasm. She should be used to it. Although there are many times he is tender the entire time they are together and some times when he is rough the whole episode, there are even more times when one or the other is used only to enhance the opposite. The delight he gives her now with his fingers massaging her so thoroughly is merely the sensitization of her body to deepen the agony and the torment he is about to bring her.
"Crack." Her back is to the tree. Somehow, she missed his hands firmly molding to her sides, lifting her slightly and turning her until her raw and flamed ass scrapes the rough tree and her delicate back arches to keep from scratching open. The belt strikes across her ribs, just underneath her delicate globes. He is so perfect with his every stroke.
The next sends her fragile thighs flaring. She wants to close her legs, cross the muscles and show only the most defensible parts, but she knows the trouble she will create for herself by avoiding the slaps she receives as consequence of just such an action. She cries out in her desperate need for both avoidance and acceptance. He stops and moves in close. Reaches in the backpack he has brought with him.
"Sensory overload without overwhelming the body into shutting down is an art, really." He speaks as though they are already intimate. "I want you to crave the feelings even as you fear the journey. The intensity so strong that it is all you can handle. Even frequently too much, without breaking you or harming you." His fingers press into the muscles of her hands, her palms tingle and make her think of how he'll feel deep inside her.
"You may certainly believe that you want this very much, but it is a raw and painful journey." His fingers are dancing light across her forearms and sending waves of delirious fantasy up her limbs. "It's not what it may seem. A few spankings and maybe a bit of pain to enhance the tedium of in and out sex. I am not a believer in sex for relief. It is a labor that brings great connection. An intimacy like this takes work. I will know your every physical need better than your own mind."
Her orgasm seems always on the verge of her thin consciousness. She has only to turn the right way or to touch herself to the right part of him and she will explode in a light year's worth of particles. Pieces of her mind storied and latent. He keeps her like this for eternities. "I should be used to it by now." She wavers at the thoughts that fluff around her head like butterflies in a garden of lilies.
