Loading...If time could be recognized, then we would have no need for clocks or calendars. These things are metres set against a background of haze and dream. The truth of time is that we live it. We breathe in moments and release seconds to the atmosphere where they bound and prance, teasing us before disappearing completely. They taunt us with their ephemerity.
Never have I known this so well. There is a phrase that I’ve often heard, growing up in a redneck family: “never bullshit a bullshitter”. There’s others I’ve grown with, but none so poignant in immediacy. If my family saw me now, there would be a shotgun involved. But they’re not here. It’s just me and the hay. The feel of leather and steel and the vague scent of horse sweat. I can slump and feel the rough hewn timber against my back that holds the flecks of well ridden flesh and the oils of time.
Without a way to measure the passage of moments it becomes nothing but want. I want to know how long so that I can know how much longer. I want the next installment to the series that will give me freedom and loss. Freedom from the torture, loss of the feelings that inhabit my every nerve. I want to keep feeling the thrill and the allure and the hope and the expectation and I want the end of it. Both.
Each swing of the door on the well oiled hinges gives me a shivery drip that slips into the space the spinal column occupies between brain and vertebrae. If he came in and used a wood burner on me it wouldn’t feel so different. My flesh and my nerves have melded and will not be separated.
Will he drop me onto a hay bale again, my hands tied before me, my feet strapped together, and fuck me until he cums? Pound my dripping hole with animal thrusts? Before lifting my arms back over my head and leaving me hang once more? When he did that before (was it yesterday? Was it an hour ago?), I would have cum over and over were it not for his grunts in my ear “don’t you dare cum.”
The hay roughed my tender breasts and the cool night air after was so soothing on them that I could have let slip into a sweet shuddering. He knows when I feel like that, though. He knows me so well. That feeling of building orgasm brought me ten burning lashes to my wet ass.
Another time he fucked me while I hung there. Oh the bliss of wrapping my legs around his waist as he shoved his rock hard cock inside me. That time he stopped before either of us came. Climax, for me, (and I knew this) would be hours. I was used to it. Normally, he’ll hold on with me for at least much of it. After he lets me cum the first time, I’m always free to cum as much as I want. Usually this is more than I want and far more than I need in such a short time. The feelings get so intense.
When he came in and started rubbing me with oils, my entire body, bit by bit, I would have had little orgasms not even a year before. Not just ten months ago. Even as we first dated, he let me cum as I wanted. Encouraged it even. Now, I cum only when he says and the cums that are right there for me to have (just on the tip of my clit) are only there to tantalize me more. His hands slide along my body, smoothing the muscles, soothing the nerves. His hands feel so good I would have them on me all day every day and especially now.
He takes me down from the beam I was tied to, takes me gently in his arms and kisses me easily to the ground. The hay smells sweet and is covered with a downy comforter. It feels so nice. Soft. My hands are still tied together. He secures them above my head somewhere. My legs are separated and tied to the sides.
The oil is light and sweet. His hands relaxing and knowing. I’m between the edge of sleep and easy, barely breathy orgasm. By the time he’d come this time, I’d been hanging and suffering for hours. At least in my mind. It’s hard to know for sure because, like I said, time slips by in moments and events, not in seconds and details. Seconds and details are what we breathe out. What we throw back at the world.
This is what I’ve come to love. The uncertainty, the hope, the need, the craving. I know I’ll get to cum. I know it’ll be more and better than the last time. I know I’ll want the next one. I have no way of knowing when or what’s next or how.
This whole escapade was mine (or maybe not, I don’t know anymore). Remember the “don’t bullshit a bullshitter?” I dressed so well for this. Hot. On my way to our date I had to stop at a store and a man ran over a kiosk of crackers watching me. I didn’t giggle out loud, but it was a near thing. I had the garters and the silk slitted dress on. The hose and the lace. Each shift of the sheath like dress would reveal a glimpse of lace this time and a glance of strapping the next. There were guys falling all over. I met him at the restaurant. It was supposed to be a quiet dinner. Just the two of us. The waiter kept hanging around. The manager came over. Twice.
The half bra pushed my substantial tits up so far that men were hoping I would lean over so the nipples would plop out. I folded my arms once and they bulged so I could hardly see over them. I may have overdone it a bit. When you have big tits it’s easy to overdo and usually comes down to a what the hell attitude about it.
At one point, he leaned over and whispered, “are you teasing me on purpose? Is that what you had in mind?”
My stomach completely fell through my groin. I shivered outwardly. “I want you to want me. I want you to want me so much that you lose control. I love it when you lose it.” My voice sounded meek and very unlike me when it came out.
I was trying to voice all the things I was feeling, how incredible it felt for me to have him throw all restraint and pretense out the window and fuck me like an animal in desperate heat. The throbbing and spurting that comes after he’s been pounding in me are the sensations of my dreams. How to tell him all this? How to tell him that I wake having dreamt that very thing and it feels so real that I expect jism to leak from me when I turn over in bed.
“Well, you are certainly hot.” He smiled. “How very interesting and enjoyable. I am teased and it is very exciting. If you slide your hand into my lap right now you can feel how incredibly sexy and delicious I find you. Tantalizing. Teasing. Delectable. I’m not the only one either. Look at all the guys panting around like wet dogs. I’ve told you before how amazingly stunning and sensuous you are.”
He had told me that. Many times. Like many women, I have a difficult time believing it. Remember “don’t bullshit a bullshitter?” Don’t tease a teaser. I should have known. I should have known when he enjoyed my shining so very much that I had to walk out the door just in front of him, feeling his arousal brushing against me as we jostled our way in a line. My curves covering his tented trousers. Oh my god he was hard! I should have known then.
Yes, I’d made it worse. Squeezed his member under the table. Little, gentle nudges. Tongue to the corners of my mouth, licks and tempts. Promises of wet sensations slipping up his pole. And back. Fingers barely kneading his arm and thigh. I laid my tits on his shoulders again and again. Oh, I did everything I could think of. Oh well, fuck a queen if you’re going to jail for fucking.
Don’t tease a teaser. And he’s such a marvelous teaser. I’d never felt anything like it before him. The way he holds me on the cliff, the narrow ledge where one small pebble’s fall will bring an orgasm crashing down around my soul. When you’ve been held there until you ache from fatigue and hunger and thirst and want, then and only then does he push you over to fall lost in wave after wave. Buffeted by the winds and shivers. It wasn’t long after we started before I would do anything for that desperate orgasm.
My hands were tied before we left the parking lot. He’d driven to a more secluded spot and secured them at the wrists. He made me jack him off. Right there. My hands tied at the wrists, breasts straining at the shoulder harness, my mouth open, wanting nothing more than to take his throbbing purple prince in and lick it to its coronation. He blew so hard I tasted it. He held my hands down and let the blob drool its way off my cheek. My tongue working frantically to catch it and getting just the tail of it at the end of its trail onto my bosom shelf. Before he released my hands it had traced its way over the right globe and deep into my cleavage.
I licked and tasted for the next miles as we wove our way out of town. Soon we were off the highway and out onto our country road. The one that leads to our drive. He went right by the turn. I nearly spoke out, I was in such heat. It’s amazing what a wretched bitch he makes me. I catch myself whining and whimpering, panting and pooching. And still he has something else for me the next time. Something that throws me off and out again. Don’t tease a teaser.
I have no way of knowing if this massage will lead to my blessed release or if it will only soothe me enough to be able to manage more torture, more of the ache that reaches beyond my body and into my soul’s core. The oil is incredibly sweet and fragrant and on my raw and flayed nerves it is like nectar. The kind that doesn’t just slake your thirst, but brings you to heaven without ever leaving you know you had been parched. His hands are working me over so totally that I would right now cum if I even half believed he would let me.
As these thoughts are winding me around, he takes my clit between his thumb and forefinger and draws it out of its shroud. I scream with agony or pleasure and I have no idea which. The slap on my ass is the same. Sting or bliss? If I could talk I would babble. Is this it, then? Is this my time finally? Will I get the release? Do I even want it?
Since I realized he was bringing me to the old barn and not the house. Since I realized he had planned this, the hay new and fresh and sweet. Since I felt the clamp of the old bits he’d made into shackles and the leather strapping he’d fastened to the beam (he’d told me how he would use it the day he’d finished it, told me then what he would do to me one day). Since the moment I was blindfolded, I was living for this. It was all I had. The moment of absolute release.
There have been orgasms I have had that have frightened me desperately with their intensity. The feelings so potent and overwhelming I have felt that I had nowhere to turn or hide from the power and the fear that they would cause my death was real. I’ve passed out and everything but. He’s been there every step. Whispering me through it, holding me, caressing, bringing me back. I need him now more than I ever had for any of those times.
Has it been hours? Days? I have no way of knowing truly. Time, for me, withdrew as my hand stroked downward that last time, sending the burst of pearl spewing out across my face. I’ve been lost, here. Hanging, fondled, fucked, caressed, kissed, tendered.
My swollen, throbbing, bloated, thumping pussy lips are pressured apart. His cock has grown outrageously, or so it feels. The blindfold is lifted and as he punctures my very being, the sun peaks the hilltop. He’s cooing to me as though he knows I haven’t even the strength for the scream that could go on and on. Can I stop this moment? The orgasm I want so badly? Need so desperately? Can I hold back? I don’t even feel the release so lost am I. Just his cock shoving me over the edge and again and again. Thrusting me past knowing.
Were it only moments that made up our lives, we could arrange them like coins. We could change them and hoard them, spend them and cherish them. It’s events that make us what we are. Happenings that occur between breaths. Time left me behind with a splurge of thick opalescent dew. It made its way gradually back. Weaving among the rushes of dreams and wafting aches to come to rest at the center of my tormented heart.
The fresh hay, limp now and long scented, scratches at me. The night closes as we stir and wake and he takes me up into it wrapped in a down comforter. It will be a briefly lavender scented bath of forever distance that leads to a hallway ending in crisp linen delight and a morning of melon scented moanings for me. That’s what I trade for a few spendthrift moments.
And I’ll do it again anytime.