Jungle Love

Jungle Love: Part II: The Silk Scarf Interludes Continue

As the gentle reader will recall, Saxby Chambers was on vacation in paradise. She strolled out of the seclusion of her tropical bungalow that morning to lounge au naturel on the beach.

On the beach, as she slowly rubbed suntan oil over her lithe body, she though of the silken scarves in her bedroom. She thought of the four posts of her bed. And Saxby thought back to the stories told by her friend, Susan Harriman. Bored in bureaucracy, Susan turned to her real interest, which was sexual exploration. Susan told her about asking a guy to assist in her explorations. Susan had asked this fellow, John, to tie her with silk scarves and to use her little 12" toy whip to gently tease her to multiple orgasms. At first, John was reluctant, concerned about the feminist ideal of freedom. But Susan was determined. She promised that there would be no actual knots, that she would be free to move. She assured that both of them would have delicious multiple orgasms. And thus it was arranged.

As the warm sun caressed her skin, Saxby's mind turned again to Susan's stories

of her afternoons with John. What were those afternoons like? They were burned into Susan's mind, and she had told it all to Saxby.

Like the day Susan arrived wearing a yummy "Volga Garter" with matching g-string under her raincoat. It made John want to fall to his knees in admiration. And so he did. He admired the intricate detail, the lovely jacquard straps and bows. Did he pause to admire the taut hips exposed by her g-string? Yes, it must be conceded that he did, but his vision was blurred by the Calais lace worked in floral motifs inspired by antique tapestries. Knowing that smooth flesh was hidden beneath the fabric made it somehow more tantalizing.

John thought of Montaigne saying that pleasure chews and grinds. Such harsh words. John wanted to nibble and nip. He wanted to nibble at the straps of her Flamme demi bra, appreciating the deep scarlet lace against her lightly tanned skin. He breathed through the delicate fabric and traced the undulating patterns of the lace with his tongue. As his fingers followed, moving lightly over the lace, she thought she might pass out from desire.

But then, just as Susan thought that she would be overwhelmed, his lips left the delicate fabric of her demi bra, and she felt his kisses trail over her tummy and head in a southern direction. The journey was slow, but she suspected it might end near the thin fabric of the g-string. Surely he wouldn't continue the practice of kissing through the lingerie fabric? Surely he would not kiss a g-string? Almost as soon as the question was posed in her mind, it was answered. Susan gasped and grabbed the hair on the back of his head as kisses began to descend on the thin fabric of the front of the g-string.

Gasping, Susan wondered if it would be at all polite to have a first orgasm so rapidly. But then the rain of kisses stopped. What was this pause? Surely there was no demilitarized zone applicable? Again, the question was answered swiftly. The kisses moved to her thighs. Shivering, Susan rolled over and buried her face in the sheet. Tummy down on the bed, she felt his kisses fall on the backs of her thighs, then on the tan lines on her hips. It went on and on until Susan again feared she would dissolve in orgasm.

Then it halted. Who declared a cease-fire? Then, suddenly, there were delightful little spanks on her hips. Yes, the same ones Susan had told John she liked. Yes, the same little spanks she had requested. The delicate little spanks that did no harm, left no marks, yet caused her hips first to flee the contact and then to hungrily seek it.

Then she felt it. Her head went up and she turned to see him kissing the soft, tan flesh at the top of her stockings. Inexorably, he continued. The little kisses on her thighs seemed at first so minimalistic, yet they seemed to work incrementally.

As he kissed her tan thighs, John contemplated the moment when he would assist her in removing the g-string. The garment was designed to tease the viewer and the wearer, and he would hate to see it go. Naturally, he looked forward to that moment as well, the time when the g-string would slowly depart. Perhaps, as the garment slipped past her tanned hips, there would be a glimpse of shaven labia. But John wanted to delay that moment. Her first orgasm would come, er arrive, soon enough. And so would his first. The afternoon stretched out before them like a land of dreams, so various, so beautiful, so new.

Would she request that her wrists be playfully and voluntarily handcuffed to the bedposts to enhance her vulnerability? She did feel vulnerable, but so aroused that she'd go along in a heartbeat, assured that restraint would result in only intensified pleasure.

Suddenly, she felt John slowly drawing off her stockings, and his fingers following, brushing down her thighs and calves. He reached for the bottle of baby oil and poured out a little. He began to massage her feet, his strong hands kneading the flesh of her archs. His kneading was hard, making the line between pleasure and pain a little blurred. Did she care? No. The massage was making her feel more relaxed and aroused than she ever had in her entire life.

She stretched like a cat, wanting to purr at the delicious sensations emanating from her feet. The massaging became more gentle, and suddently she felt a warm, wet tongue probing the delicate spaces between her toes. He took each one in his mouth, sucking gently, and she felt an electric thrill that traveled straight up her legs to her g-string. When he released her toes and gently licked the bottoms of her feet, she moaned in pleasure and grasped the bedposts to keep herself from dragging him up beside her, wanting the prolong the sensations. He continued to tease her feet with tiny nips and nibbles, circling her ankle with his tongue, then trailing infinitesimally up her calves to the sensitive place on the back of her knee.

He moved up beside her, but just as she decided he was going to dispense once and for all with the g-string, he grasped her wrists firmly and reached for the discarded stockings. Two shakes of a lamb's tail later, she was tied face-down to the bedposts and, a veritable Houdini of the bedroom, he had somehow conjured a couple of silk scarves to tie her feet to the bedposts as well. She heard a faint humming noise, and twisted toward it, a faint sheen of anticipatory perspiration breaking out on her skin. She closed her eyes and waited to see what part of her body would be teased first.

Perhaps he would use the Hitachi Magic Wand, the Cadillac of pleasure? It was a sturdy instrument, but a bit frightening and industrial in appearance. Perhaps he would use the blue Water Dancer Power Massager? It was only 4 1/2 " long, but it packed more power than most small battery-operated clitoral stimulators. The Water Dancer was a mini version of the Magic Wand.

Had he read about such toys in some erotic version of "Consumer Reports"? Had John conducted research to make certain that no toy rubbed her the wrong way, so to speak? As she writhed on the bed, face-down, eyes closed, Susan thought of such weighty matters. As she pondered, non-weak and non-weary, she began to grow impatient. The anticipation of the meeting, and the prior stimulation her body had undergone, had made her hungry.

Could it be that John was oiling a strand of plum-colored anal beads to intensify her pleasure? Susan knew that they were the perfect addition to any sensuous encounter, heightening orgasm to incredible levels when combined with intercourse or other play. They were flexible, yet firm, much like her own hips and political views. But no. She knew John would not use them to help provide her with an initial orgasm. No, life would not be that easy this day.

Then Susan felt the tickling strands of the little play whip slowly moving across her hips. She moaned again, and her hips rose, seeking added contact. Susan needed relief, needed to feel the waves of pleasure wash over her. Yet John was still teasing her. She knew that John would be enjoying her frustration. He would have a Mona Lisa smile on his face as he trailed the mini-whip over her hips. She knew John would also be enjoying the view as she writhed, slowly and sinuously, toward orgasm. He would see her legs secured to the posts, her firm hips, the shaven lips.

And with that thought she heard that ominous hum. And then felt the blue Water Dancer as it began to tease her inner thigh, and then march onward like Sherman toward the sea. The teasing became more and more insistent. She ground her pubic mound down on the bed, but the contact was insufficient to provoke orgasm. Susan continued to struggle, seeking sufficient contact to send her into orgasm. The tension was unbearable. Or almost. Finally, after what seemed like hours, the Water Dancer worked its magic and Susan moaned as the orgasm overtook her.