Crossing the Threshold

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There’s nothing like a woman in leather, especially when that leather consists of straps binding wrists and ankles. Naked and spread-eagled. Damn. It’s even better when the woman is a submissive like my savannah, already wet and glistening from mere anticipation. She’d been building for two months, and it showed in the breathlessness of her glistening face, in the pleading of her rock-solid nipples, those raspberries of flesh spiking upward from her full, graspable breasts, in the enticement of the shining fluids that coated her inner thighs and freshly-shaven loins. Each wrist was stretched nearly to its corner of the king-sized bed in which she was centered, a D-ring in each restraint providing purchase for the rope binding; her ankles were held spread wide by a black spreader-bar adjusted to its full 3-feet, her ankles locked in its leather restraints by tiny but highly serviceable padlocks. She wasn’t going anywhere, and the extent of that reality was just beginning to settle into her psyche and shine forth from her face.

She’d known this was coming since our last weekend. That’s when I’d discovered the potential, when I’d lit that fire in a slow burn of preparation. I’d felt her hunger, her yearning, from across the country, felt the images of her desire, known what she came desperate to discover on this occasion. It had been electrifying. Such possibilities! I had to control the potential tremor, the vibration of exhilaration, running through my body.

I heard savannah gasp as I ran the nails of my left hand along the inside of her left leg, slowly, sharply, from just above her ankle to within a breath of the hunger between her thighs. The glistening slit that punctuated the meeting of those powerful thighs twitched as her body grasped for the eluding digits, and her tiny cry tightened my chest. “Ah, yes,” I purred as I slapped that shining slit sharply with the finger-tips of my left hand. “Yes,” I repeated to the moaned, guttural “aahhhhh” that followed my act, and finished by slapping my cupped hand solidly upon that twitching vaginal mound.

Time to take a moment, I thought as I stepped back and reached for my coffee-cup on the institutional bedside-table that was this hotel room’s unremarkable furnishing. Time, in fact, to begin documenting my handiwork on this evening. Establish a baseline, as it were. I smiled as I drew the digital camera from the drawer. “Just for me,” I cut her off as she opened her mouth to object. “Just for me. And you. A before picture.”

The flush extended from the cheekbones of her broad, luminous face, framed by the flowing mane whose color seemed to shift subtly every time I saw her – existing somewhere in the badlands between red and brunette – down the delicate throat to the broad plain of her chest and the impressive swells of rose-tipped flesh that beckoned upon that pale tan expanse. She was strong, as tall as me and fuller, dangerous in her own right, a powerful frame whose wide, sensual waist and hips branched into well shaped, firm, defined and trembling legs that were currently spread into a wide, shallow “V” that shone forth from within the camera’s viewfinder.

Ridding myself of the camera, I reached across the bed, running my hands upward across both shivering hips, waist, upwards to settle with clenching fingers upon each strawberry nipple as I lowered my face toward hers, savoring the sharp intake of breath as I lifted the weight of her ample breasts against her swollen, pinioned peaks, as her chest arched upwards in response. My hands rose with her until she was at full arch; I braced my hands to hold her there as my mouth fell upon hers. I felt the shivering of her body through her nipples and her mouth as the muscles of savannah’s chest and back slowly fatigued, as her weight began to settle inexorably upon the suspension offered by my fingers. She moaned deeply and opened her mouth fully to my probing tongue as she surrendered her weight, and I could feel the twitching of her hips through the nubs of flesh that I held. I held her there until I could feel in her quivers, could hear in her whimpers, that we had reached her limit. I held her there just a bit further, just to that point … and released her, rising to view and savor the “Aaahhhh,”, the choked cry as blood rushed back into her tortured flesh, watched as her hips threshed and twitched without any shred of decorum, without thought of the slow puddle taking shape between them. Soak, rinse, repeat, I thought as my hands found purchase once again upon purplish mounds of flesh and I pulled her chest slowly but firmly from the mattress by those nubs, held her trembling and swaying there once again, her mouth parting in nigh-forgotten act of inhalation as I gazed down upon her, held her until whimpering held just that coloration of suppressed pain, of acceptance tested and yet found good, lowered her slowly once again, a now sinuously-writhing mass.

My gaze turned slowly from the gripping spectacle upon the bed to the formation of floggers, clamps, paddles, and assorted less well-identified items that lined the floor near the room’s window. One breast- and pussy-flogger of thin, flexible Pendik Yabancı Escort rubber strands, one of thin leather lashes, one of braided and knotted cords. One medium-weight flogger with half-inch falls or tails, one medium-flogger with thin, heavy leather lashes, long and potentially cutting. Elk-hide heavy-flogger, wide, soft tails descending in a supple dried-blood red-brown wave from a fine burnt-red wooden handle. Spring-loaded black leather riding crop. Such were the honored implements of this weekend, along with various apparati of clamping, of suction, and of electrical stimulation, each with their supporting roles to play. Ah, the look on her face when I’d pulled them carefully and deliberately from their traveling bag.

“Let’s start by increasing the blood flow and sensitivity of some of my favorite tissues,” I murmured, running my fingers and nails with full ownership across the freshly-shaven dampness between her legs. I smiled appreciatively at my quivering companion’s visible attempt to spread her bound limbs yet further in response, to invite my hand in rather than to suffer its titillating withholding. Little did she know.

Stepping to where the implements lay waiting in their formation upon the floor, I made a show of my contemplation and decision, though the outcome had never been in any doubt. Savannah’s face actually jerked — started and startled — as she saw me rise from my considerations with an odd and ominous looking artifact of rubber and clear plastic hanging from my right hand: a vacuum-pumping ball at one end, an oddly-shaped transparent cupping arrangement at the other, flexible rubber hose in the middle.

I purred as I returned to the bed, watching her eyes as she attempted to translate the object I held. A sharp intake of breath emanated from her as I placed the transparent plastic cup, molded to fit this particular area, upon her pussy, sealing her already-glistening loins. With a quick clenching of the ball in my left hand, the cup was vacuum-sealed upon her flesh. “We need to wake your pussy and your labia up, my love,” I said, running my now free right hand up her body to settle with rolling tightness for a moment upon her left nipple before returning to the task at hand. She gasped as I spent many long seconds creating a vacuum within that cup, seconds during which her entire genital mound was pulled upward, outward, expanding its tissues to fill the towering hollowness of the cupping device. The skin within glowed, aflush with blood, and I could watch as her labia thickened and extended, as her body attempted to extrude itself into the vacuum.

Holding her there, I watched her squirm from the vacuum-induced sensation, somewhat like being clamped except that the direction of force is outward and equally distributed rather than inward and localized as with a clamp. “The nice thing about this,” I observed, “is that it provides yet another handle. Quite effective,” I concluded, as I took the vacuum-locked cup in my left hand and pulled slowly upward against it, releasing my grasp before I broke the vacuum-seal but not before pulling several more moans from my shining submissive.

Her genital cleft had grown massively into the vacuum-cup, and savannah’s growing heat and moistness had steamed the inner surface into opacity. “So damn hot and wet, I can’t see a thing anymore,” I chuckled, watching my love’s face closely as I spoke to see her react to having her body’s eager responses drawn clearly out for her. Ah, yes, the delicate edge of discomfort, of taboo … the dawning self-recognition of and by a pain slut. Oh, but not just any pain slut. A specialist. “Yumm.” I pulled hard against the plastic cup, lifting her hips to a music of unprotesting groans as I pressed the vacuum-release and allowed the apparatus to pull away from the flaming, swollen, engorged tissues that awaited beneath. “Now, I think your pussy’s awake.” I ran my left hand, fingers, nails across the fiery flesh, savored the contrast between the scorching heat of her skin and the bottomless steamy pool that beckoned from deep within the engorged cleft, felt her hips buck as she cried out when my middle finger sank a knuckle within that liquid embrace.

Tight bands wrapped my chest as I took another photo of my project, for posterity. This was a rare treat, and I suspected that my dusky companion had a lot of potential. I didn’t know the half of it, and I was already in heaven.

Hands empty once again, I returned to savannah’s bedside. “Let’s start with a pussy-spanking, shall we,” I said, smiling and savoring the conflict of emotions and sensations that were still running through her. Swinging myself onto the bed, I knelt on my knees, straddling savannah’s waist with my back to her, her widely-spread pussy exposed helplessly before me. “First, however, we need to make your pussy even more sensitive,” I continued, taking her outer labia in a tight pinch between the thumb and middle knuckle of my right-hand’s index finger and pulling hard, turning her labia into a long, stretching handle of flesh that I rolled mercilessly for long minutes between my pinioning Pendik Yeni Escort digits. Kneading the intimate flesh, I pulled until I heard a moan of near-agony as her hips began to rise in suspension from those delicate tissues. Hearing that moan, I pulled harder for a moment, passing her limits just a bit for just long enough, then released.

My companion’s hips were slowly convulsing as her pussy melted. Having gone suddenly from an excess of stimulation to none whatsoever, her body was yearning, grasping, for more, a fact attested by the pleading moans and whimpers that came to my ears as I watched, entranced, the shining loins dancing before me upon the bed, helpless hips thrashing involuntarily.

With a sharp “thap”, three fingertips announced their slapping presence to the pussy that gaped beneath me. Her pubis bucked as that impact fell, and then it trembled before me with anticipation in the quiet moment that followed as I relished her expectation of the spanking to come. Extending the moment, the fingertip-paddle fell again, and again I drew out the expectation that followed. With the next blow, a fourth fingertip joined the paddle and we initiated a slow, solid rhythm that danced upon the surface that spread itself between her gleaming thighs.

Several minutes of slow, steady rhythmic spanking, and she was writhing beneath me. She was anticipating, riding it, and the gasp that was torn from her when I delivered five blows in quick succession was, shall we say, breathtaking. Fast, slow, clustered, individual blows … tempo, rhythm … it was time to start to really play with the glowing, flowing instrument unfolded between my legs. The chorus of gasps, moans, quiet cries that crept to my ears from the bed behind me bore witness to the effects that my play was having upon my beloved, the background vocals for our little performance. Soft, sensual, sharp, stinging, slapping, spanking, steadily-deepening tissue impact-massage. Regular refrains emerge, repeated rhythms, building in range of intensity, rising to a sharp, slapping, devastating crescendo, followed by cessation and the convulsions of a body grasping vainly for the stimulatory overload that has just been withdrawn. There’s no instrument quite like it, and this lover was the most amazing pussy-torture aficionado I’d ever seen. The hips beneath me quaked and writhed, light gleaming in flashes from drenched, shaven skin as the ruby cleft opened and closed, shaking spasmodically between quivering thighs, and a long, low, keening wail of pleasure and need and sudden void came from the mouth hidden behind me.

I swung slowly from my saddle across savannah’s waist and moved to my feet, alongside the bed and its moltenly erotic tableau. Savannah squirmed between the bonds that spread her limbs snugly. Her eyes were open but unseeing, mouth gaping wide in a face arched toward the headboard, chest reaching desperately for the ceiling above. A smile spread across my face mirroring the expansive elation in my chest as I realized, from my partner’s response, what was to come. “Oh, my goodness,” I purred, reaching forward to rake my fingernails across the hot, glowing tissues that had become my playground. “I’d suspected that you were a pussy-pain slut, my dear, from our last visit, but I don’t think I knew the half of it. Until I leave, my love, we will be exploring your pussy’s love of torture. What do you think?” I waited for a long moment, then brought my full right hand slapping hard upon her still-trembling pussy. “Tell me what you want. Now.” I barked.

“Why do I need to say?” she whispered, pleading.

“Because I want to hear it, and I won’t continue until you ask for it.” I punctuated my statement with another sharp spank that splashed within her aching, hungry loins.

“Whip my pussy,” she whispered, pleading. “Please whip my pussy.”

“Good girl,” I said gently. “You needed to hear yourself ask for it, so you have to confront how badly you want this. Now, you have to live with having asked for it, and have to accept that you want it and that it’s you.” I scraped the nails of my right hand slowly but firmly back and forth across her labia, savoring the gasps that I drew forth. Shifting, I scratched firmly up and down the length of her dripping vaginal cleft, scraping the delicate inner labia. Savannah’s hips rose toward the biting edge of my nails, and I had to move with her to keep her from seizing control over the intensity of sensation, denying her that control. A “mew” of desire came from her thrashing head, and I chose that moment to attack a clitoris already swollen by vacuum and punishment, flicking my insistent nails back and forth across its surface. A long, keening wail burst from my love’s broad, shining, thrashing face, glowing with the fires that had been kindled within her flesh.

“I think we’ve gotten your pussy woken up, don’t you?” I asked rhetorically as I tugged my eyes from the glorious spectacle. “Hmmm. Now, what?” I knelt near the assortment of floggers, clamps, and assorted other instruments that covered the floor near the room’s heater. (As if I didn’t already know the answer, Pendik Masaj Salonu as if it hadn’t been predetermined.) The short black leather genital flogger, its tails hanging like enormous black earthworms, came easily to my hand, the steel ring chiming from its handle. “I think this is what’s called for next, my dear,” I announced, rising and turning to display for my lover the object, with whose hot, stinging bite she was already familiar from our last encounter. Her mouth pursed soundlessly as shining eyes dripping with desire fell upon the lashes, as she anticipated their sensual burn.

Returning to the bed, I knelt beside savannah and began by laying the flogger gently upon her vaginal cleft, drawing its tails slowly upwards, letting its weight and its myriad edges announce its presence as it stroked her delicate tissues. I lingered upon the act, making tails no longer than my hand seem to stretch on forever as they traveled the length of that steaming vale. The gleaming and bloated ruby labia to either side of that vale twitched as the abrasive sharpness of the ebony leather strands brushed across savannah’s hot pink clitoris, the latter already larger than I’d ever before seen it and protruding obscenely upwards from the puddle of steaming intimacy within which it was set. Lather, rinse, repeat, I thought as I slowly reprised the process, and again, and again, relishing the anticipation being kindled within her and flickering from her face, eyes, mouth, hips, pussy … throwing off sparks of desire like an electrical charge building within the moist battery between her legs.

The first strokes were slow, light, lazy, beginning with no more impact than high grass in summer, more pet than flog. My target rocked gently from side to side as savannah’s buttocks clenched spasmodically in response, in eagerness. “My, my,” I observed, “this little pussy can’t wait. What do you want? Tell me. Tell me, or I’ll stop right now,” I commanded.

“Whip my pussy,” came the choked reply, breathless, panting.

My rhythm became slow, cadenced, regular, sharp impacts landing flat against the length of the cleft that shone dark and carmine against the flushed, engorged labia that framed it. Many long minutes passed without a break as blow after blow fell, regular as a metronome, sharp and stinging, exactly along the line of that cleft. The incoherent sounds from the full-lipped mouth behind me could have been pleasure or pain, pleas or hosannas – at that moment, any of the above were one and the same coin. It was a sweet music, I thought, but time to change the channel. With a sharp swat, the tails landed hard on the delicate, heretofore untouched flesh just to the right of that soaked, angry ruby smile, and my lover’s powerful body surged as she cried out with surprise. Hard and fast, now, from side to side, leaving pink lash-lines as vertical framing for the pussy that now gaped, forgotten and orphaned, jealous and yearning. The shrill, choked cries were a steady stream, the musical accompaniment for our performance.

I’ve been a pussy-torture specialist for years — ever since I got my hands (and fingers and clamps and quirts and clothespins and … you get the idea) on my first willing pussy. I’ve found that nearly every woman, with notable exceptions, loves some degree of pussy torture. It’s the psychological aspect of it that’s hardest for most of them. There’s something absolutely primordial about being ruthlessly tormented through the agency of one’s vagina, tortured through the most intimate flesh that one possesses. It’s the ultimate victimization taboo, and to force a woman to embrace that she craves it is the most amazing and rare of pleasures. Here, spread before me, so to speak, was the most powerfully responsive pussy-pain slut that I had ever met, it was clear — responsive enough that I took a moment to spread a towel beneath savannah’s pussy and hips to contain the wet stain creeping beneath her before continuing.

I built the pace and intensity of the flogging that her labia and loins were receiving, increasing the length and speed of the strokes, climbing to a crescendo which was reached with a strong, sharp, full-swing blow upon the gaping, enflamed central cleft, a blow which tore forth a shriek from the panting throat behind me. And then, there was silence as I rose from the bed, admiring the handiwork that twisted and squirmed before me upon that padded platform.

A moment, now, for posterity, to photographically document the condition of the pussy that gaped and grasped blindly between glistening thighs. Another long moment followed, to linger, theatrically but silently, over my choice of toy for the next round (again, as if there were any real choice to be made, but my dusky companion didn’t know that). A wolfish leer spread across my face as I rose with my choice and turned to display it to my nervous, wide-eyed victim, her expression torn between fear and fascination with the craving she was just beginning to discover. It was a long, thin, braided flogger, starting out as a single braid, then branched to two and branching again to four thin, biting, knotted lashes the length of my middle finger. The entire flogger, handle to tip, was the length of my forearm, and it’s apparent fragility, delicacy, and lack of substance was a magnificent illusion. Those long, thin, knotted braids, all innocence and safety, hid a secret that my lover was about to discover.

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