Mountain Air 1

(Sir)

Pulling into the parking lot, the gravel crunching under the weight of the tires. He smiles at finally arriving. It had been a long journey, well, it seemed to him as though it had been. The clock inching forward earlier when he was snared in city traffic. But, as he inched forward, slowly the snare was released and he soon cruised easily along the county road. Victory at long last, arriving at the finish line.

Looking to his right, he is warmed. She is still snoozing, a pillow propped up against the window. She is stunning, the morning sun filtered through the forest trees, a spotlight gently illuminating her countenance. He stirs in anticipation, aroused with desire. She stirs, sleepily aroused from her dreams.

He opens the thermos, fills her cup with the black elixir. Noticing the cup warming in his hand as the liquid is transferred, he gently calls her name. She likes her coffee hot, scalding hot. She sits, taking the cup, smiles warmly, and greets him.

His door swings open, the cool mountain air greets. As he steps out, he takes in a deep breath, filling his lungs. The smell of pine infuses his senses, the sounds of the forest greet him.

He opens the doors to the trailer, metallic sounds ring out as the doors swing. The trailer rocks, at the movement within, big animals, strong, anxious. He calls out their names, "Bengal", and "Windsong". Benny and Wind. One a tiger, the other a lyrical spirit. Bengal an Arabian, Windsong a Paint, both handsome, proud, majestic. The horses nod and snort their greetings at the sound of their names.

Preparing for the day, the horses are readied. Saddles snuggled down tightly, bags lashed down. Blankets and lunch are loaded, the horses not forgotten. Bridles secured, the smell of saddle leather mixing in the forest air. Cool, crisp, yet warm, musky, sensual.

She steps around the trailer, backlit by the morning sun. He nearly drops his coffee cup at the sight of her, he is stunned. Her hair pulled back under the brim of her white hat. Feathers in the band, colorful, playful.

Taking her hand, he helps her into her place. The saddle squeaks its greeting, Benny shuffles, standing strong. Quickly he is in his saddle, hands on the horn. With his right hand he reaches down, pats Wind on her neck as she settles under his weight. Her snort is a greeting, an anxious plea to go.

Taking the reigns, they head out, the trail before them, winding upwards through the trees. The sound of hoof falls, the birds calling out their hellos, the creek in the valley singing a constant chorus. Upwards the trail leads, through the valley carved by the rushing stream. The morning sun rising over the ridge top, stretching into the day.

The trail forks, and he leads them to the left, down through a thicket, they emerge into a lush green meadow. The grass a brilliant green, daisies smiling in the breeze, waving white petals. At the edge of the meadow, along the stream, stands a cabin, constructed of rough hewn logs. A river rock chimney stands guard.

They dismount at the cabin, the steeds allowed to graze. Taking her hand, the lunch, and a bag, he leads her into the cabin. They stand, just inside the door, the air cool and dry. Dropping the load, he takes her into his arms, hugging her warmth close, kissing her deep, lightly nipping her upper lip.

He leans over, picking up the dropped load of bags and walks over to a large, round, rough hewn table. The wood of the table dark, thick, sturdy. Supported by a massive center beam, the table is strong enough to withstand the assail of an army. Above it hangs a wrought iron candle chandelier. Long, taper candles mounted in their rests, burned half way down, long, frozen drips of wax reach downwards. Drips of wax still adorn the table top. The bags rattle and bang as he drops them on the table.

He turns, walks across the living room, the pine floors polished and smooth. A circular rug rests in the middle, and the sound of his footsteps are muted by it as he crosses. Crossing the room, he reaches a massive fireplace crafted of large river rock. The grey stones mottled and beautiful from the pressure of their creation. The hearth is at ground level and is wide enough for a four foot long log. A giant iron grate awaits its load of wood.

Turning, he takes a log from the rack and places it in the fireplace. He adds another, and yet a third. Standing, he turns, sees her standing across the room, coat buttoned, hat still perched, as she watches him. He smiles, speaks, "present yourself girl!" He turns back to his chore, splitting cedar kindling with a small, sharp hatchet. The kindling placed under the logs, the match does it's deed, as the cedar pops and cracks to life. A faint, pungent aroma wafts upward from the cedar, its flame teasing the alder logs to life. As the alder catches, begins to glow, its sweet aroma mixes, and then drowns out the cedar.

Dusting his hands off against each other, he stands, places the hatchet next to the pile of wood, and turns. He smiles, feeling his desire spring at the sight. She has obeyed, a delight to him. Her hat rests on the top of a chair, her coat draped around its back. On the floor the rest of her clothing rests, and will rest for some time. Oh her knees, legs spread, arms behind back, wrists intertwined, gazing down, she presents.

He steps towards her....

(girl)

As we entered the cabin still dazed from that lingering kiss my eyes squinted adjusting to the change in light. As my vision cleared I stood motionless absorbing the scene. He immediately busies himself, clanking bags on the table, making me jump. I watched as he builds a fire in the hearth. The cabin was clean, used, but had the musty scent of being left. Candles still half burned stood proud in the chandelier above the table. The oak beams dominated the room. I shuddered as anticipation builds.

He had not spoken, as if in a dream, as if I was not actually there but a spectator looking in. Then the silence was broken by his voice, "present yourself girl!" I snapped back into reality, kicking myself for not pre-empting.

I replied quietly, words struggling to escape, "yes sir".

Placing my hat and jacket on the chair and table, I slowly started to strip, the texture of my clothes brushing against my now hard nipples, exciting me more. I continued to remove my clothes folding each item on the pile like performing some ritual, a baring of my soul, a submission, step by step. He did not turn from his task of methodically building the fire. It was as if he could sense my every move. I searched for expression on his face but could not see him. Naked, I knelt, back straight, legs spread, arms behind my back, eyes down, vulnerable, and waiting. The smell of my perfume filling my nose, I shivered watching the newly born flames flicker, casting shadows around the dimly lit room. He turned, his gaze searching my pose, I felt his eyes invade every detail. I dared not raise my gaze to meet his, my excitement building, I felt my juices start to flow. I was his and he knew what pleasures lay ahead...........

(Sir)

Seeing her, obeying, kneeling, presenting herself, brings a smile to his face. His heart warms, his mind delighted, his loins stirring at the sight of her and her submission. He stands in front of the fire, his back warmed by the growing flames. The wood crackles and moans as the flames kiss and lick at the woody fibers. The faint smell of wood smoke, the scent of the wodden sacrifice replaces the cool damp smell of the cabin.

He gazes upon her form, admiring, smiling as he sees her eyes steal a glance at him. Her breathing regular, but shallow and rushed, he watches her chest rise and fall. Her breasts, full, firm, round, separated by a luscious valley. Beautiful breasts, whose peaks stand alert, pointing, firm, quite hard. Just as the rock outcropping of a mountain top, so too her nipples jut outward.

He walks past her, his boots soft on the carpet, firm on the pine floor. He goes to the table, she is facing away, towards the fireplace. Reaching the table, he takes a large leather duffle into his hands, zipping open its top. The zipper sings its happy greeting, alerting the bags contents that their release is at his hands. His hands reach deeply into the bag, rummaging, feeling, finding his goal, grasping, emerging from the leather sack.

He lifts the implement for a review. His eyes travel its length, insuring it is true and ready. A short handle, strong and solid, covered with a leather weave providing a sure grip. The strands of leather, intertwined, a weave of three, hug the handle, climb its length, surrounding it securely. But the woven strands of leather stretch further, extending, reaching beyond the limits of the handle. Woven together tightly, a full half meter, reaching their length in a small flourish of pointed ends. The strands separate, extending their individual freedom, just a few inches. They tease, they torment, they beg to touch the flesh of the one in the room. Together they are strong, separately they sting.

He transfers the whip to his left hand, snaring it securely; he reaches back into the bag with his right hand. Glancing to her, he smiles, she is stunning in her submission. Beautiful in her obedience as he sees her kneeling, waiting, quivering, listening, wondering, while being warmed by the fire now fully alive. He watches her round shoulders rise and fall smoothly with each breath. Back into his bag he peers, while his right hand retrieves a coil. Soft, and smooth, leather thongs, long and narrow, strong and sure.

Taking the threads of hide, he walks to a sink, and with a liquid splash, turns on the faucet. He plunges the thongs under the rushing water, soaking them thoroughly. They begin to feel slippery and silky in his hands as the water, now warm, washes over his hand and the strips of hide. Once he is convinced that they are thoroughly soaked, through and through, he turns off the water and shakes the loose droplets of liquid from the strands.

He walks back to her, carrying the whip and the thongs. He circles in front of her, notices that she is several feet from the fire. He speaks, in a quiet voice, "move closer to the fire, on your knees". He watches her shuffle from knee to knee, tells her to "stop", when she is about 6 feet from the hearth. He wants her warmed, but not too much, and not too fast. He lays the whip carefully on the floor, between the fire and her, where her eyes are gazing. It is laid out, stretched, its full length revealed.

He sees her quiver at the sight of the whip while he uncoils the thongs. Long, strings of wet hide are untangled. She is sneaking a look at what he is doing, as he begins to stretch the leather. He stretches it to its length, extended, and pulled to its limit. Satisfied, he walks behind her, taking a strand, he loops it under her right breast, circling its base. Pulling the circle snug, he circles it again. Crossing the ends in her cleavage, he circles her left breast, snug once, and snug twice. Then, back and forth he circles and weaves, her breasts with the slippery, silky threads. Not too tight, just snug, for now.

Tying a knot in the middle, her tits now secure, the loose ends are pulled up, one over each shoulder. He pulls upwards, watching her breasts rise, strain slightly towards her collarbone. He ties the loose threads behind her neck, noticing their slippery, stretched wetness. The fire warming her, warming the thongs, the heat seeking the moisture, striving to drive it away. The fire longing to replace the silky stretched wetness, with rough, shrunken tightness.

Stepping in front of her he retrieves the whip, lifts it, the fire light causing it to glow in anticipation. It is warmed by the fire, and will soon warm the flesh, creating its own fire. The whip, as if alive, seems to smile at the anticipation. He gently and lightly traces her breasts with the tip of the whip. Around them it wanders, touching, desiring to kiss and caress them. The woven section of the whip, he places along a nipple, rubbing it up and down. She feels the roughness of the weave, he sees her quiver. He continues to draw the whip easily across her skin, touching every square inch of her. He waits, watching as the thongs begin to slowly shorten, her breasts, begin to swell, the blood starting to pool as the thongs tighten their grip.

(girl)

As I kneel naked vulnerable, exposed, lost in the vision of the leaping flames, listening to the cracking of the heating wood and smelling the pine resin bubbling, I hear him. I hear his soft footsteps I wonder if he's watching? I straighten, tensing my muscles, kneeling to attention just in case. I hear a bag hitting the table, a zip, I shudder wondering of its contents, wondering what will come first. It seems like an age while straining at every sound, not daring to turn, my attention diverted occasionally by the screaming of escaping gases from the newly lit fire.

I hear water running, my mind wild with questions, curiosity burning as brightly as the fire in front of me. He comes, I hear him, his methodical footsteps approach, and then he speaks "move closer to the fire!" Beginning to move, he demands, "On your knees!" I shuffle forward, thigh muscles tight from the earlier ride, I shuffle until he says "stop" ..."Sir, yes Sir" I reply.

I feel the warmth of the flames, my skin starting to glow in its reflection, he lays down a whip in front of me, revealing its full length and reach. Tentacles exposed, menacing and teasing me as my juices start to flow. My body aches for its touch, the stinging kiss of its embrace.

My transfixion is broken by the sound of the wet thongs I glance trying to see as I smell the damp leather and hear him stretching it. I wait in wonder, shuddering, quaking, curious.......

The coolness of the wet leather contrasts my warming skin as he wraps the slippery strands. I jump as he binds my breasts, nipples hardening as their weight is lifted tight enough to be secure but comfortable in their support. Knowing that this will not last for long as I feel the leather tightening, drying, and squeezing gently, my breast filling with hot blood. I try not to smile as I watch him admire his work, controlling my emotions knowing I have to last.

He retrieves the whip, my legs begin to quiver, the fire reacting chuckling in its crackles. I feel the warm rush of air and then the soft brush over my nipples, I quiver deep inside, mouth watering, anticipation driving me wild as he traces my breast and body. My skin taught with trapped blood, every touch an electric shock, there is no control over these feelings, my journey has begun. I close my eyes; begin a dreamy drift carried upon the sensations. I am lost in his will and slave to his touch............

(Sir)

He smiles as he leans over towards her. His nostrils filled with the sensuous aromas that dance lightly in the air. The smell of a warm wood fire, the leather whip, the wet thongs as they dry, the pine wood floors, the lingering hints of burning candles from days past. His head next to hers, inches from her hair, she smells incredible. Her scent is strong, musk, silken strands of hair, leather on her skin shrinking in its embrace, her perfume is warm and spicy, and her lust rises on the currents of warm air, penetrating his very soul. He longs for her, sighs and smiles at the same time, eyes closed as his mind floats in his thoughts of bliss.

As he stands up, the floor creaks under his weight, he chuckles at the thought that invaded, intruded into his mind. The floor longs for her too, it calls out in its faint, creaky voice. Stimulated, aroused, warmed, smiling.

He flicks his wrist, and the whip comes to life, singing quietly in the mountain air of the cabin, its tendrils landing on her now swollen and red breasts. Her nipples hard, nearly crying out. Her breasts firm, and continuing to feel the constriction of the leather as it dries. He thinks that the thongs should be beginning to dig soon, magically transforming from a caress to a torment as it digs and her breasts become taught with her blood. Again the whip falls, leaving its kiss to glow on the skin of her tits. Her nipples feel the leather of the whip as it lands, stinging. Again, and again, back and forth the whip dances, faster and faster, harder and harder. Her breasts now nearly covered with the evidence of the intercourse of the whip.

Her breath catches with each blow, she moans, first quietly, then louder. He strikes firmly, she yelps at the blow. She quivers, she shudders as the whip makes love to her beautiful, engorged breasts.

Stopping, he smiles, admires the beauty of her in the firelight. He walks to the table, rummages in the bag again for a moment and returns, standing behind her. He kneels behind her, one knee on the floor, the other foot flat on the knotty pine. He reaches around her, beginning to fondle and caress her tits. He enjoys so much their firm feel. He can feel the skin, tight, succulent, tortured heat. He takes her nipples between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing tightly, rotating, twisting. He feels her jerk at his touch.

Taking his hands away, he retrieves the clamps, opening them, putting one on each erect, screaming nipple. He pulls on the clamps as he removes his hands. Running his right hand down her belly, he places two long, hot, fingers into her wet pussy. He feels he lean back against him just a little, hears her gasp and moan as he enters her. His thumb lightly stroking her clit, causing her to quiver, and breathe deeply. His left hand hangs a one ounce weight on each clamp, it's dense desire to pull downwards, earthward, pulling her nipples along their journey. His fingers find her g spot deep inside, his thumb continues to stroke. He leans in to her closely, and whispers in her ear, "oh little one, so beautiful, so delectable, so desired, don't cum, not until permitted, don't cum". His words taper off as he continues to tickle and tease her clit and now dripping pussy. He can feel her muscles contracting on his fingers, he smiles at the delightful feel of her clamping on him.

Taking his hands away, he stands suddenly. Walks in front of her and orders her to, "stand...stand...now!" She is sleepy, dreamy, lost, a little confused as she is jolted back to her place kneeling in front of the fire. She stumbles a little, struggling to find her balance; she is still floating in the ecstasy of his touch, the torment of the whip. She finds her balance, regains herself, and rises to her feet. She is quivering, not from the cold, as the fire has warmed the room nicely. He reaches out and taps the weights, causing them to swing, not wildly, but smoothly, tugging and pulling as they sway.

Taking out a knife, a very sharp knife, he shaves a small patch of hair off of the back of his hand. Letting her see the sharpness, the thinness of the blade. He places the blade against her skin, and slowly cuts the thongs away. The blood running for escape from her swollen breasts as the bindings are cut free. He continues his work, the blade never leaving her skin as he moves it from thong to thong.

Once free of the thongs, he takes her hand, leads her to the table. Gently he places her in front of the rugged and round slab of wood. The candle wax drips still cling to its surface. Cool, and explicit reminders of past waxy flows, intriguing glimpses at future pleasures. He contemplates what lies ahead, leaving her to stand there for a few minutes to do the same.

(girl)

I hear the floorboards creek as he transfers his weight, I wait pensively, kneeling. I hear his chuckle, menacing, teasing. My breasts are full, skin taught, my nipples hard, I feel the leather tighten. The smell of the fire, hear the crackle of the wood, I feel the heat of the flames dancing in the mountain air. Then the air cracks as the leather whip breaks it, I feel the first strike dancing across my nipples burning into my flesh. I yelp, eyes shooting open in time to see the next lash land. There is no escape the sweetness of pain, the sting, the bite, the blood trapped within my swollen breasts. I pant, trying desperately to control the sensations, flinching with every strike my pussy wet with excitement. And then there is calm, my breathing steadies as I cross the threshold of pleasure the pain changes, each whip mark added sends me deeper, I rock with the motion, my body guided by the whip, riding the wave of the leather as it stings, but suddenly he stops.