1. Other Colors -- Ch.16


    Date: 12/23/2014, Categories: BDSM, Author: mascodagama, Rating: 3, Source: LushStories

    yourself. Or I’ll do it for you.” I don’t know. I might have taken him up on the offer. To be held down by him would always come more naturally to me than holding still. But there was a cold and dissuading edge in his voice. I think perhaps he was daring me to defy him, as if to illustrate it very early on—that my actions here had consequences. At that time, he’d never truly punished me for disobedience. I’d never given him the opportunity. And nor would I for another three days at least. But that night, though what he asked of me seemed beyond the bounds of possibility, I was not yet prepared to tell him ‘no’. His hand was still at my throat; not quite tight enough to choke me, but enough to remind me that he could. I drew several slow, shallow breaths, and much as I'd unbuttoned my dress for him, I went down, one-by-one, tightening up each fiber and sinew in my body. It started in my neck; my scalenes hardening beneath his hand, and it didn't stop until I'd drawn the tendons of my toes tight as piano wire. Honestly, I can't explain my logic. I imagine it was something to do with tensegrity. But from within the wanton, blue haze with which he'd poisoned me, tempering myself to his touch was about the best I could come with. And strangely enough, it sort of worked. At least, it did at first. I suffered stoically beneath his fresh caresses. My body was as a statue; a caryatid, strained, load-bearing, and serene. And each wave of indigo electricity with which he struck me, I ...
    internalized, spreading out the anguish through my limbs and hips and torso, until at last it began to dissipate, and disappear. Even so, my ground wire had its limits, and as each stroke of his hand left behind a swiftly building residual resonance in me, I knew it was only matter of time before his touch tore me apart at the seams. My wait was not a long one. Without warning, his hand abandoned my throat, and swept down the length of me; over my breastbone and my navel, coming to rest at the little, black band of my panties. I gave a shrill gasp as he snapped them open. But I kept myself still, even as I felt his hand slip lower. Yet he didn't touch me. He let his hand hover there, barely an angstrom off my skin. And once again, in agony, I had to stay patient. All the while, his other hand moved in seamless, interlocking circles over my breasts, grazing with ever greater frequency the tips of my stiff and swollen nipples. The touch he used, with its measured pressure and abiding pace, it was like a ceramicist raising a vase out of clay. And the higher he raised me, the more fragile I felt. Once more, his hand moved lower. Like some pitiful arthropod, I sensed him through the tiny tufts of my hair. I panted shamelessly. I knew my lips were disgracefully slick for him. They were almost weeping. But that was very much beyond my control. Every shred of executive function I still retained over my body was funneled into staying still for him. Already, my nails had dug as deep into ...
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