Thirty minutes and any number of bumps later, the car pulls into a driveway and you hear the engine turn off. Blindfolded, you're a mess. Bound behind you, your arms yearn to move and stretch. Your breasts ache from the clips on your nipples, your anus feels stretched from the buttplug you've been sitting on, and your pussy throbs without fulfillment from the vibrator that hums rhythmically between your legs. Your juices have flowed and soaked your skirt and the towel on the seat. I reach over and remove your seatbelt before getting out and coming round to open your door. There's a smell of the sea, beach, sand in the air.
"Slut. Look at the mess my little girl's made. We're going to have to make sure this doesn't happen again." I take the vibrator and guide you out and through a door. Your asshole indicates that it's tired of the buttplug and in a small voice you tell me.
"Is it? Pretty little Sandy's ass is full? Pooor Sandy." I lift your skirt, its pussy scent billowing in the air, and stroke the smooth full cheeks before popping out the plug and tossing it in the trash. "I suppose you'd like to have those clips removed as well."
"Yes, please." I press them open and take them off your black turtleneck. You breathe a sigh of relief until the blood flushes to the nipples and you groan, hunching your shoulders, and never hear me opening the freezer door. I stand behind you and you feel my hands rise under the ribs of your shirt. . . O my god! You gasp when the ice chips slide on and around your nipples, cooling and shrinking them.
My body presses against yours, hands sliding the melting chips in dissolving circles on your breasts, my mouth kissing its way up your neck in front of your mane of hair, my teeth nipping at your earlobes. You sigh at the sensations, relax into my embrace, body tingling as my hands smooth over the widening expanse of your belly below your ribs, fingers extended in swirling motion over the gentle curve descending from the indent of your navel, holding the width of your hips before rising over your narrowing waist, your tingling skin, back to your breasts, now filling and swelling with my attention. Another sigh, the ball of heat rises deep within you as I kiss and nuzzle your neck, throat, cheeks. With no vision, the room quiet but for the sounds of my mouth and your breathing. The caresses and licks and kisses go on and on, always above your waist. Time evaporates, you're inflamed, and we both hear, beyond your sighs, a small splat, a tiny noise from down below.
"Sandy, you naughty little slut, you dripped on my floor." "I'm sorry. You make me wet."
"Are you blaming me?" You quiver. "That's not what I meant. I'm sorry." I take your breasts in hand, hefting them before suddenly pinching both nipples, hard. "AHH!" you gasp, reflexively trying to double over.
"Not so fast, little girl, but that's the idea. Now get down and lick your cunt's juice off my floor." I pull you back, unfasten your skirt and remove it before pushing you down to your knees. Crouching beside you, I take in hand your brunette locks and pull your face down to the floor. Your nose bumps and you stick your tongue out tentatively, and lap the floor.
You're quite a sight in your brown leather mid-calf boots, ribbed black turtleneck, wrist binds, and blindfold. Your calves, thighs, and waist folded as you lean forward and down, supported lightly by my hand on your hair, pink tongue lapping your own special flavor on the linoleum. So exposed, so vulnerable, so. . . excited. I lean back to look between your legs, where the spread of your pussy parts your thighs, and catch the next drip.
"Jesus, Sandy, there's a goddam waterfall back here!" The slap against your pale, full buttock is sudden, stinging, but not unexpected. Whack! Whack! Whack! My open hand rains down on your now blushing bottom and the impact sends more of your juices spraying on your thighs and my floor. Oh, how you love this. I pause.
"I don't like using this word, but you, you are a cunt. Nothing more or less than an overripe, uncontrolled fuckhole. Get your mouth back here." I pull you round by your tresses to lick the broader expanse speckled with cunt juice. As you bow down again, I scoop more of your fluids, press my palm against your mouth, and smear them on your face, immersing you in the smell and taste of your cunt.
"Get up." I help you, palm your pussy, stick my middle finger in your slit, hook and guide you to the bedroom. There, I strip you of your turtleneck and boots, untie your wrists only to wrap them and your ankles, once your boots are off, in simple leather gauntlets. In short time you're on your back, torso and head raised by pillows, each ankle pulled back and linked to your wrists. You can't see but feel a warm breeze course over the prominence of your breasts and bare pussy, the smell of the shore blending with soft leather that blinds you. Memories of the ice evaporate as your nipples and clit fill and wwell, firm and erect, the highest points of your naked, vulnerable, helpless body. There's a stillness in the room, a comfortable silence broken only by the far sound of the waves.
You feel me climb on the bed.
"Is this it, Sandy, my little whore-girl? Daddy takes your pussy, penetrates you, pounds your bound body, sprays sperm way up your slippery wet grotto, gets his rocks off at your expense?
"As if you had a choice. And you don't. You'll get your jollies when I decide, not just because I've relieved you of the right to choose. Frankly, I'm astonished by your excitement. Look at my little girl's clit, it's a little boy's penis."
You know. Too well you know. The size of your clit has always a source of excitement and embarrassment, making it so easy for you to get off but also a target for others' pleasure forced upon you. Like that time in high school, where four of the bigger, aggressive girls on the soccer team heard your little cries in the shower stall and caught you focusing the pulsing nozzle between your upturned hips. They seized your cowering body and dragged you dripping to a bench, stuffed a pair of damp panties in your mouth, and one by one mounted your thumb-sized erection while the other three held your wrists and squirming legs. The friction of their pussies on yours was unbearably exquisite for nearly an hour. It was also perfectly painful over the course of your four orgasms that matched their shrill-voiced climaxes. After that, you'd been prey for the next two seasons. That had been a senior year to remember.
Now, after sending me a photo of your distended, pink, glistening glory above the full, orchid lips of your pussy, you've offered me the real thing. So hopeful, so horny, so trusting, so scared. . .
A hand, clad in lambswool, glides over the soft rhythms of your body, your belly gently rising and falling with each breath from your mouth, lips moist and parted. As it spirals up each breast to the pinnacle, I pull away until you feel on the edge of sensation, only individual curled strands brushing the sensitized nerves in your nipple. You arch your back to get more contact when it stops completely. You feel me straddle your thighs, the end of my erection resting between your pussy's blooming lips, just below your clit. Before you can react to the sound,
Whap! The leather loop of the riding crop strikes the side of a nipple that shakes, like a gumdrop on jello. Your hips reflex up and my cock head slides against your clit as you cry out.
