Revival

I brought her down from the branch that held her bound hands ever slowly, let her pool in my arms in a flow that would end at the earth. Stoppered there. Unable to slip between the fingers of clay as she would have slithered from mine had I not worked to keep her, so limp was she.

The reverberations of electricity and the shivers of unrequited need gave her skin a feeling of vibration. A humming felt in her muscles as my fingers pressed. The vision of her sprawled among the leaves, hands bound above her head, panting from the exertion of orgasm after orgasm denied from the very peak. The red lash lines across her poised and expectant ass. The view forces itself upon my lids even should they close in expectant ecstasy.

She would take anything given her now. The fatigue of her exertions and ebb of adrenaline has left her shaken and shaking. Empty and needing filled. After being held, outstretched, by her arms tied to the branch; loose, she couldn't stand up if she were forced to it. My mind flashes with the feeling of her legs wrapped around me, dangling by her wrists, my hard length shoving into her and making her bounce and whimper. The feel of her need and her struggles to consummate her desires maintain my erection as I stand over her form huddled on the ground before me.

Shall I push her roughly to face down position, grab her ass and lift it to the air, letting the poncho fall away from her delicate and flayed skin? Shall I grab handfuls of the hot muscled flesh and ram my pole into her dripping hole? Shall I shove and rage like a bull until flecks of her wetness spackle my thighs and drench my balls? I groan with the anticipation. Or shall I first bring her to full arousal again? Give the promise of culmination and the threat of greater torments their rein upon her already wintered mind and fragile ice covered nerves. Will the neurons shatter and chip with the next deliberate build to orgasm and, from the very peak, a crashing denial?

Her thighs glisten with the misty rain and perspiration that had fallen from her body as it hung there on the limb. My hands move to them first, caressing and soothing the quaking. She moans and it sounds more as a half sob or a vocalized sigh. Yes, I will soothe her, comfort her and bring her back to the edge of her senses.

"Do you want?"

"Yes." It's a programmed response. She needs anything I will give her. Hard lessons have taken her innocence and she knows that she craves what I will bring. "Yes" comes before thought and belief. It comes before reaction and brings a shiver of suspense and trepidation and far too late hesitation.

The muscles cease their trembling under my finger's ministrations. The long muscles pulled and the smooth pressed until her legs compose themselves. Sinuate one thigh over the other, exposing calf and a single rounded buttock. And my fingers play slowly past her knees (elicits a sigh), onto her misted lower leg (a light throaty moan) and to her ankles where they knead and press at the ligaments (now a deep pleasured groan).

Less than rain and more than fog, the weather lends so well to the willow, to the scene played out between us. Does she give herself freely as the rivulets? The drips from the leaves? Fully. Do I take her? Pounce upon her as a gale? Disregard her windswept pleadings? Utterly.

My fingers find her feet and they stretch and twine with pleasure at their manipulation. Her toes curl and her thighs bear down in a silent request for more when her ankles take the bindings and test them. There is a delicate contest against the restraint, but my hands have moved on and up her legs.

Back to massaging her thighs and her struggles lessen with the enjoyment. The dance of fingerplay moves to her hips and around the reddened buttocks. Before moving to her back, the palms slide the length to her knees and wrap a binding there, completing the trussing. She hasn't even the leeway now to chafe against the ties or to do more than squirm in lascivious want.

Her muscles enliven with the inhibition and the exhaustion gives way once again to apprehension. Before the cloth is fitted between her lips, my hard cock is shoved in and out until I want nothing more than to cum and the fabric stems the protests spewing forth: "no, hnnnh huh. Please." Her eyes tear as she watches me drop my pants all the way.

I turn her on her back, kneel over her stomach and shove my cock up between her tits. She loves this, I know, and would do anything to lick at the head as it thrusts up the valley. Her hands come down and I take them brusquely by the binding, holding them against my chest and pumping roughly along her cleavage.

Her moans come rhythmic through the cloth, punctuated by occasional squeals and attempts to beg and my cock starts jerking and fluid leaks from the tip. I twist her nipples for good measure and move my mouth to them. Suck and tug, suck and tug and the muffled sounds coming from her quicken and blend into a resigned mewling.

As I move down her body I pull her hands with me and by the time my lips reach her mons, her hands are pushing and pulling at me in expectancy, hope and delight. My mouth molds to her squeezed and swollen genitals, my fingers pull the flesh up from their entrapment to reveal her stiff and wholly vulnerable clit and my tongue slips down over it and into the well of moisture beyond.

Her hands are pushed up out of the way and entangle in my hair even as my muscle strokes open her drenched lips. My mouth suckles at them and nibbles at the exposed clit. She screams through the gag. A muffled expression of lost control and mindless sensation. It's a rhythmic keening, a stifled wailing that crescendos and fades with the deliberate licks and laps.

I poke at her firm nub with a softened tongue and her lamentations are punctuated and throaty. I stoke with a limp muscle, long, slow motions, up and down, separating the delicate folds and she forces stifled moans and sobs through the cloth. And oh, she wriggles!

Undulates with disregard to the exhaustion her hour of hanging on the tree had left her with. Surges, billows, heaves and ruffles in ways that give me new heights of aching hardness and need. A deep and insidious agony. I will take her. From my need and want and abject depravity, I will shove her face into the leaves, trussed hand and foot and knees. Weary and wanton and unable to resist anything I would do with her. I will grab her ass and tug it upwards and thrust my engorged pole to her full depth in an outrageous stab. I will yank and drive, wrench and ram.

My hands in her hair, jerking and twisting and I will pound her mercilessly. With all the savagery in my heart I will ram her. With every touch of my tongue, she is writhing now and inflaming my every sense. Frenzied, furious, and so completely out of control that it's only good that we have come so far and there is no longer the willow switch in my hand to swipe at her in time with my bestial lunges.

She nears that apex and my cock is beyond my need and power. It is a spear left on its own, hard past feeling. Separated from my will and want and driven only by the desperate craving for her. I will feel her squirm and struggle on it as it pierces her soul. The exquisite sensation of her spasms as they surround and engulf the length. As she convulses in wave after wave of finality.

My tongue moves in a delicate unfolding of her inner turmoil. She breaks upon the rocks. And as the foam rises and her cries swell in sharp agony -- clear and piercing even through the muzzle -- I stop my ministrations and throw her over. I grab her and jam my pole to her very heart and rage inside her, pounding and pumping, jabbing and thrusting.

The orgasm that broke over her continues and another comes. And another. Each only fuels my need and desperation. Her tremors, the spasms throughout her inner muscles drive me out of my self and sanity. How long do I fuck her? Rut like a crazed and deprived animal? Longer than time allows me to count.

She tells me how it feels for her. The absolute loss of self that happens somewhere between my delicate proddings and sadistic cravings to watch her leave her security. How she feels her control slip from her. Oh, not just because her hands are restrained or she becomes immobilized. These aren't indicators of her inner self. Her control over her internal world, these are but props to feed the illusions of external safety until she leaves the world she knows completely behind. Until I take her away from objective wandering.

She tells me what happens to her when I so persistently and patiently take her from her self made comfort. How she feels herself resisting. When I use the bindings and limit her resistance, still she has a strength of will that allows her individuality under adversity. It is this that I take from her by bringing her past her barriers and pushing her beyond her inhibitions. It is this loss and stress of trying to hold together that causes her anguish. And when she's beyond her own abilities, past her control and thought of self, then to give it all back in a torrent of emotion and sensation, completely overwhelms her.

And for me, it's the same. The need consumes me. The feeling of her trembling and dissipating pushes me from my carefully constructed being. The knowledge of her separation from her reactive corpse fuels my desire. Her body splits away from her thought and should she say "no" or "don't" or "please", her flesh will beg for more and the merest suggestion that I might believe or listen to her pleas will dissolve her into tears of hopelessness.

She wants me to ignore her wastrel mind and hear her rampant heart. Listen to the beguiling siren that lives within her breast of solvency. She begs me to let her lamentations fall to the musty leaves of late Autumn and to hear it as the puling of a frightened, weaker being. She gives me to hear the willow that rebounds within her. The tree that needs planting. And I do.

And tonight, with the mist covering the sheen of our sweat, our exertions having taken our every gasp of energy, we will slowly come back together. We will lie, completed and needless until able to rouse just enough to totter back to our world. To cover the veneer of animalism with human skin and waft through an estranged landscape of bizarre colors and heightened visions.

I will shower her. Bathe her in the water of renewal. Cleanse the last of the evidence from her body, leaving only the etched souvenirs of willow and wrap across buttock and around limb. As we stand in the deluge, so distinct from the vague mist we will walk through to leave the arbor behind, the memories will press forth fromout deep muscle and fiber. We will wrap in full warm towels and collapse in crisp linen and cling to each other as though there were nothing else in our world.

Somewhere in that dark, we will love with a gentleness deep as the wild vehemence that took us under the bough. We will move like ghosts through the fog of our reminiscence and I will tell her of the sights and sounds that stirred while she describes the feel and flowering that filled. We will share our time anew from the eyes of each other.

When we cum it will be delicate and unnecessary. An outpouring of shared dreams. She will speak of the bliss and hope, the ache and stretch and how she lies before me naked in my arms and I will tell her of my turmoils taken and the beast she pulled from me and how I lie bared with her. We will whisper the delicious wends and wishes til sleep washes o'er.

We will wake in the morning with the strength of life well lived and well sought and we will move into the tumult with vim and hope and a secret wellspring of awareness that we are beyond the ways and whims of vagrant breezes. We are willows in our very selves.