She is swaying her hips to the ethereal song of a flute, played deep in the shades of the columned hall. Somewhere a fountain is burbling and the smell of jasmine and honeysuckle hangs heavy in the air.
Diaphanous, flowing sleeves of lavender silk encase her slim, muscled limbs, the leggings being held up by garters connecting to gold-inlaid, snake-leather belt around her slim waist. Full breasts sit high on her chest, supported by two thin, white silk straps, crisscrossing her chest and providing just enough material for her pale pink nipples to press against, while leaving her muscular midriff bare.
A curtain of fine gold chains hangs from the belt, her sinuous hip swings doing more to emphasize the prominent, ivory-smooth swell of her sex than to hide it. A single scrap of silk, transparent with her juices, clings to the swollen lips of her sex. Her body rolls in tune with the flute, her oiled muscles gleaming a pale ivory gold in the lamp light.
If she rolls her hips just right, the barbell capping of the gold piercing in her mons is brushing against the sensitive flesh of her erect clitoris, sending sparks up her spine.
If she stretches just right the gold chain fastened to the top of her mons piercing tugs deliciously on the rings in her nipples.
Time slips as she loses herself to the rhythm of the melody, the feathery caress of his eyes on her body, the slow gyrations of her body.
The flute becomes faster, more demanding. Bracelets clinking, she falls on her knees then backwards, her legs widely spread, arms stretched overhead, taut as a bow, body parallel to the ground, thrusting obscenely with her pelvis.
A thins sheen of sweat mingles with the scented oil on her body, she can feel his gaze on her exposed center, making her face and chest flush a pale pink and making the pulsing heat originating between her legs and crawl up her spine.
She has no shame and precious little self-respect, where her boy is concerned.
She wants to slip her fingers beneath her sodden loin cloth, grind her stiff, pink pearl against the inside of her wrist, release the ache in her creamy pussy, hart and fast. She won't, though. She will not let herself come until her boy is utterly spend and she will not let him come until she is satisfied she owns him.
The flute falls silent and she takes a few heartbeats to catch her breath and refasten some of her inky locks, that escaped the pearl diadem, holding them in place.
Not trusting her wobbly legs to support her she crawls to where her boy is waiting for her. He is lying on a down feather mattress, attached to the floor with padded leather straps, his head supported by pillows.
Wiry muscles, messy hair and moss green eyes, she lets her eyes wander over sun kissed limbs, held immobile by leather straps over his wrists, ankles, elbows and knees. His member is straining against the loose green silk pants, the only piece of clothing she permitted him. Her mouth waters, eyeing the dark stain, where the tip presses against the silk. He is beautiful and helpless and utterly at her mercy. Her sex spasms at the thought.
She wants keep him safe and warm and shield him from everything that would hurt him.
She wants to make him beg and scream and whimper her name in agonizing pleasure.
She drinks him in, a desert traveler and a clear forest spring.
She kneels over his chest, close enough to feel his hot breath on her sensitive skin, but not close enough to let him touch and slips the loincloth from her belt, baring herself to his view.
The scrap of silk is sodden enough to be transparent and peels away from her hairless sex, drawing strings of her juices.
He moans low in his throat and pulls on his bonds, when she presses the silk against his mouth and nose.
Her pink lips are brushing his ear, when she whispers: "I'll break you tonight. I'll make you beg and scream and cry. I'll hold you over the abyss a thousand times and pull you back, until you think you can't take it anymore. Then I'll do it some more.
I won't let you come until I'm convinced I have dragged every dirty fantasy out of you, until I own the last scraps of your heart, until there is nothing you wouldn't do to, to get release, until your balls are so full of un-spilled semen that they ache."
She feels his heart skip a bit, sees his eyes darken from emerald to jade with arousal and fear.
She gently nibbles his earlobe. "Are you ready, beautiful?"
She has no intention to untie him, so she rips his trousers of his body. Her nails lightly skim his nipples and follow the trail of sparse hair over his chest and abdominal muscles to his pubis, where it ends. His privates are perfectly smooth, she shaves him daily in the shower to make certain of that.
His member is rock-hard and straining, a drop of fluid shimmering on the tip, making her heart beat faster. She can't resist temptation any longer and with a relieved moan wraps her full lips around the head. Her eyes flutter shut as she uses her lips to roll back his foreskin, tongue swirling around his glans. She takes him as deep as she can, nose brushing against his belly, before she lets him go.
Tying his balls off in a figure eight-shape with a silk cord before looping it repeatedly around the base of his erect manhood, makes him groan.
Gently she scratches her fingernails over the taut skin of his balls before sucking them into her mouth. His body is her instrument, the tensing of his muscles and his quite moans her music.
Her mouth wanders lower, tongue swirling around his hole, before she thrusts it into the tight ring of muscles.
Raising her head she meets his half-lidded gaze, the need and lust and beautiful surrender. The world for all its random cruelty has handed her this precious gift, the opportunity to own her boy, to protect him and take care of him and never let him go.
She doesn't think she loves him. The term does not really do justice to the enormity of her feelings, that she can hardly contain and even less begin to comprehend or put into words.
