|The Scent of Cedar (Sensual, Somewhat Romantic, BDSM Porn)
||[Jul. 20th, 2009|09:02 am]
I wrote this for my girlfriend, 'cause I love her and wanted to turn her on. :-)
The Scent of Cedar
“What do you want me to wear?” I’d asked, a week ago, on the phone. I had asked, wanting to please her, to give her the final say in how I would present myself to her for our first private play-date.
“Where something that feels good on your skin,” Morgan had answered. “Something that turns you on.”
I must have considered and rejected a dozen things over the course of the week between that phone call and our play date, but I finally decided on green silk. The night of our date, I dress carefully, zipping the dress tight over my ribs, my small breasts, and letting it fall from my hips, skimming my thighs. I pair it with my brocade cuffs, royal blue and deceptively strong, wrapped around my wrists. I straighten my hair, making it soft and feathery around my face, dab honeysuckle perfume in the hollow of my throat, loving the way my body warms the scent and makes it float around me.
I dither over footwear but eventually conclude that I’d be happier going barefoot, and so slip into my sandals, planning to leave them in the car when I get to her house.
An hour later, I pull into the driveway of a modest, brick house in one of the more residential areas of down town. White roses gleam in the light cast by the porch lamp. I can smell them in the muggy August night.
I swallow, setting my shoes in the foot well of the passenger seat and slide my hands over the slippery, emerald silk of my dress, thinking about all the secret desires that Morgan has uncovered in me over months of public play, and weeks of all-too-vanilla dates, the alchemy she works on my skin and in my heart.
My breath gets shallow and I feel my heart beat start to race, my pussy growing moist. It occurs to me that I could leave my underwear behind, turn up at her door in only this green dress, these cuffs, this heady desire.
I leave the pink cotton panties in the passenger seat. The light, slippery silk brushes my hips, my thighs, my now-naked pussy. I can feel the slick wetness of my own arousal, my hungry cunt already drooling, and I think that if this doesn’t convince Morgan that I’m hers for the evening, nothing will.
I ring the doorbell and wait.
I can see her coming towards me through the screen door, a shadow in deeper shadows, when she swings the door open, the porch light catches her and I am struck.
She looks like a priestess from Atlantis, bare breasted, her long legs hidden by a swath of deep blue cloth. There is a pearl necklace draped languidly around the column of her neck, and her copper curls hang in loose profusion down her back, framing her pale face, her warm, brown eyes.
“Beautiful,” she says, reaching for my hands, “Beautiful.”
I smile and shuffle my feet, suddenly at a loss for words, self-conscious even though I want her to see me as beautiful.
She takes my hands and guides me inside, letting the door swing shut behind us. Her hands smooth the silk that clings to my body, and I feel the warmth of her through the thin cloth. I can smell incense on the air, the scent of myrrh and honey, and catch the sound of music, quartertones dancing in the dark, playing in a distant room. This is so different from the club with its pounding base and strobe lighting. I am overwhelmed, understanding that I am in her domain.
“How was the drive?” she asks, pulling me into her arms. “You found me okay?”
I nod against her shoulder. We are of a height but, already, she seems to tower over me.
She strokes my hair.
“Do you need anything before we begin?” she asks, softly. “A safeword? Something to eat?”
“No,” I manage. Her skin smells faintly of apricots. I can feel the rise and fall of her breath, steady and sure, the swell of her breasts through the green silk sheathing my body. “I’m ready.”
Her fingers slide into my hair, gripping tightly, her knuckles against my scalp. She pulls, easing my head back and covers my mouth with her own.
Her tongue slides over the roof of my mouth, filling me. I open and open for her, wanting to take her in just as deep as she wants to go. I can feel myself sinking, melting into her. When she breaks the kiss, I am reeling, but she stays close, her arms still around me.
“I want you to wear something for me,” she says, lifting the long loop of her necklace off over her head. “I want to collar you,” she adds, draping the necklace around my shoulders. “Just for tonight.”
She slips one end of the loop through the other, tightens the slipknot about my neck, and the world narrows to her presence at the end of that long strand of pearls.
She wraps my sudden leash around her hand, closing what little distance there is between us.
“Mine now,” she murmurs, kissing me softly.
“Follow me,” she says, her words an order and an invitation at once.
When she turns, hips swaying, to walk away, there is no question of my following, only my swimming vision and the bottomless desire to obey. I follow her lead, feeling the vibration of her movements through the leash, breath shallow, trying not to stumble.
She leads me through her house, dark rooms that pass in a blur, and out the back door into the night. Humid air touches my skin and I am dimly aware of the buzz and chirp of nocturnal insects in the grass, dew-soaked already, under my bare feet.
There is a gazebo in the garden, points of light diffusing through the screens. She opens the door, leads me inside.
I can smell honey and sandalwood mingling with the resinous scent of cedar, there are smooth, dry boards under my feet.
Candles, bright in the darkness, are scattered across the gazebo benches, and a single lantern hangs from a hook, suspended from the middle of the ceiling. She reaches up, one-handed, to take the lantern down and I understand. She loops the necklace up and over the hook, tethering me at the center of this small, dark room. The lantern-light gleams on a bench of clips and carabiners, the familiar black leather bag that I know holds all her wicked toys.
For a second, only a second, I consider stopping. I’ve never played without something to lean against before.
But she moves, setting the lantern down on the bench, drawing a long, silken sash from the depths of her toy-bag.
In a moment, she’s behind me. I feel her body, warm and steady, her bare breasts against my back. I lean into her, feel her take my weight, wrap her arms around my body.
“You ready?” she murmurs.
I nod, reassured by her presence.
She kisses my shoulder, my neck, my earlobe, wraps the blindfold around my eyes.
My world goes dark.
I can feel her still with me, the tug as she tightens the blindfold at the back of my head.
“Very good,” her voice, her lips, her warm breath, soft against my ear.
Her hands slide down my sides, over the silk that hugs my ribs.
Her hands move on my body proprietarily, caressing my already-quivering thighs and sliding up, up under the hem of my dress. She cups my bare ass and I feel deliciously exposed as she moans her approval.
“You,” she murmurs, squeezing my ass as I press myself eagerly into her hands, aware of my own wetness, slick between my thighs. She runs her tongue along the curve of my ear. “You conniving little tart.”
She spreads my legs with one hand, and I gasp at her rough touch so close to my center.
“Look at you,” she growls against my ear while her fingers trace my labia with torturous lightness, only making me wetter. “You perfect, delicious, little slut.”
She rubs my pussy more firmly, covering my labia, my hard, arching clit, with my wetness.
I lean into her, grinding against her hand.
“So ripe,” she marvels, as my clit cries for attention and I moan, pleading wordlessly.
Her hips grind against my ass, and I feel the slippery silk on my bare skin, its softness a counterpoint to her hands – one on my belly, steadying me, the other cupping my drenched and hungry pussy.
“You want me in you now, don’t you,” she hisses.
“Uh-huh,” I manage on the third try. I can feel the itch in the depths of my cunt wanting, needing to be filled.
“Say it,” her voice is low and soft, but no less commanding.
“I want— oh, god,” I gasp. “I want you to t-take me,” I moan as her palm glides over my clit. “Fuck me, please!”
“Say it again!” Her fingers are massaging my pussy, slippery with my wetness, making my legs quake.
“Fuck me,” I beg. “Please, fuck me! I want it so bad! I need— oh, god!” I groan, cut off abruptly by her sliding two fingers, firm and steady, all the way into my cunt.
I lean into her, hips moving against her hand, her fingers inside me, her thumb pressing against the side of my clit. I can feel her little finger so close to my asshole. Her other hand slides across my stomach, making me moan, my body rippling with pleasure, and then further down to grip my inner thigh. Her fingers bite the tender flesh and I cry out as pleasure-pain burns through me.
“You want me to hurt you?” she asks, softly, caressing the edge of my ear with her lips, pressing against the roof of my cunt with her fingers so that my knees go weak with pleasure.
I groan, wanting everything she has to give.
“I said: Do you want me to hurt you?” She punctuates her repetition by tapping her fingers against the roof of my cunt. “If you want me to do it,” she teases, hooking her fingers inside me, like beckoning, “You have to ask for it.”
I am panting, leaning hard against her shoulder, wanting to come but wanting the sharp sensations she offers even more.
“Hurt me,” I gasp. “Hurt me…”
She withdraws one hand from under my dress, keeping her other steady, fingers still in my cunt.
I feel her shift, feel her hand under my chin, tipping my head back.
“Remember,” she murmurs, kissing my shoulder, “You asked for this.”
A shudder runs down my spine.
When she sinks her teeth, hard, into my shoulder, I groan, gratefully.
This is what I need!
Slowly, she withdraws her fingers from my cunt. I feel the slide of flesh on slippery, pulsing flesh, and I whimper, still so eager to be claimed and taken.
I feel her slick fingers at my lips, smell the thick, musky scent of my own sex.
“Open,” she tells me, and I do, parting my lips to suck her fingers into my mouth. I taste myself, sharp and salty, on my tongue.
I feel her pull the tab of my zipper, feel the back of my dress fall open. The silk straps slip from my shoulders and the dress slithers over my body, pooling at my feet. I feel the warm night air, the furnace-heat of her body, against my skin. Her hard nipples press against my back, the fabric of her wrap is soft against my ass.
“Lift your feet,” she says.
I lift each one in turn, and feel her whisk the dress away, and her presence fades. Only cedar boards under my feet now, only this long strand of pearls, these cuffs at my wrists, night air raising goose-bumps on my skin, despite the heat. I can hear her footsteps treading lightly, hear the clink of metal on metal, and wonder what’s in store.
I feel her take my wrists in her hands, lift them above my head, secure my cuffs to the hook in the ceiling.
“Lovely,” she says, trailing her fingertips down my arms, and further down over my tits, my ribs, so lightly that the tiny hairs on my body stand up. I shiver, my nipples tightening to hardness.
I arch my back, tits straining towards her touch.
Her breath, warm on my ear.
“You like that,” she observes.
My breath comes out in a long, ragged sigh as I nod. Her she traces the curve of my hipbone, the curve of my ass, trails her finger over my stomach and up again, between my breasts, sending tingles through my body and making my breath race.
She catches my nipple between suddenly vicious fingers and I groan as pain lances deliciously through me.
“Spread those legs for me,” she says, her arm snaking around my hips. I do as I’m told, planting my bare feet carefully on the smooth wood.
She plains the inside of my thighs with the broad flat of her hand.
“Mmmmm,” she murmurs, cupping my ass and rubbing it gently. “Very good…”
I arch towards here hand, new heat blooming between my legs.
She starts out gently, barely brushing my ass with her palm, then swatting lightly.
“Who’s been a very good girl?” she asks, and I feel a thrill of excitement. “Who’s been a very good girl?”
I feel her tongue, broad and warm and moist glide firmly along my lower back, just above the curve of my ass.
“I think my very good girl needs a good spanking,” she tells me.
“Yes, please,” I beg, gleefully, arching my back to offer her my ass. I’ve been daydreaming about this all week.
“Good,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice.
The first blows fall almost gently, lightly stinging the curve of my ass and wetting my appetite for more aggressive use. In the darkness behind the blindfold, I let myself melt into the sensation, the slap of flesh against flesh, as her blows fall harder. The hot night air clings to my skin and I can smell sweat – mine and hers – mingling with the resinous scent of cedar, the sweet smoke of candles and incense.
Suddenly the rhythmic sting of her hand is replaced with the smooth, light touch of silky fabric on my skin, and then the slip of sweat-slicked skin on skin. Her hands firm on my hips and her thighs, belly, breasts sliding over my enlivened ass, making my knees go weak and my stomach clench.
“I think you’re ready for something heavier,” she murmurs, sending a thrill down my spine at the thought of what ‘heavier’ could mean.
I wait in darkness, listening to her footsteps on the cedar boards, the rustle and clink as she digs through her toy bag.
Finally, after what seems like an eternity of waiting, I feel the soft caress of her elk-skin flogger, its falls trailing over my shoulders, my breasts, my hard nipples, pleasure shooting through my tits, making me shudder, rooting in my clit.
She starts light, but builds the intensity quickly, the falls landing heavy against my shoulders, my ass, making me groan with pleasure, my muscles twitching, tightening, then relaxing under every blow. My body suffuses with warmth even as the night air begins to cool and I catch, as if from a great distance, the sound of rain falling on warm ground and cedar shingles.
She stops flogging, soothing the burn in my body with soft caresses and the cool stream of her breath. She presses kisses into my neck, squeezes my shoulders, my arms, my hands. I squeeze back, letting her know that I’m fine, more than fine, and wanting more.
I feel her shifting, then feel her fingertips on my ears, my cheeks, my lips. I open my mouth and she slides her fingers deep inside. I can taste the salt of her sweat, and suck her fingers for all I’m worth, caressing them with my eager tongue. I wonder if she’ll fuck me again, if I’m readying her fingers for the furnace of my cunt. As if my drenched pussy wasn’t slippery enough on its own.
She slides her fingers out of my mouth, trails them, wet, over my chin and down my throat.
“You make me so hot,” she murmurs in my ear.
One arm snakes around my waist and then I feel her moist fingers between my legs again. She trails them lightly over my labia, making my cunt, my stomach, clench hard.
“You want this, don’t you,” she asks, and I can hear the wicked grin in her voice.
I nod my head vigorously, as she circles my slippery clit.
“You want it bad?”
“Yes,” I gasp, as the pressure in my cunt starts building again. “Please, yes!”
She sucks my earlobe into her mouth, her tongue teasing with the same cruel precision as her fingers. She brushes my ear, my cheek, with her lips.
“I think,” she says, when the pressure in my cunt is almost unbearable, when my clit is so hard and slippery and alive that I’m about to explode, “that you’re not ready yet.”
She pulls her hand away and, cunt clenching, I almost sob at its absence.
“Hungry little slut, aren’t you,” she chuckles approvingly, as I pant and gasp. “I think we can take you higher.”
She lets me go, trailing her fingers gently, teasingly, over my breast bone, making my whole body tremble with desire.
I hear her rummage in the toy bag, hear the sharp swish of a cane. My thighs and ass tense in anticipation, a shiver running down my spine.
“Not yet,” I hear her murmur, and know that she meant me to hear it.
If she wanted me off-balance, it worked.
Every nerve in my body stands up, a thrill of fearful excitement coursing through me. What will she do?
With a jolt, I find out. The sharp sting of her rubber flogger slaps across my sternum, and I cry out half in shock, half in pleasure. Heat from the blow spreads through my breasts, making my tight nipple burn even as the second blow falls, stinging, across my chest.
I arch toward her, nipples hard and straining, wanting her to use me as hard as she can, as hard as I know she wants to.
The blows fall, relentlessly, pleasure-pain washing over me, though me, stripping away all thought.
There is only sensation now, heady and burning. I can feel my mouth gaping, hear myself moaning and screaming as pleasure courses through me, lava in my veins. In the depths of my stomach, I feel the pressure building. I feel it building in the base of my spine, feel it building in the hard nub of my engorged clit, feel it building deep, deep inside my gushing, clenching cunt.
My moans deepen, each blow a wave of fierce sensation buffeting me, pushing me that much closer to the edge. The sting burns through my core, sweeping through my body like wild fire, followed by the longed for wash of euphoria, the high, singing bloom of pleasure where I hover until the next blow pushes me even higher, even deeper. The explosion of my orgasm rips through me, a supernova in my center that shudders, pounds, burns through me, leaving every part of me tingling, floating in high, bright bliss, pleasure singing in my veins, my very skin incandescent.
My knees are jelly and my body slack, before I come down enough, float down enough, to realize that she is holding me up, that the aftershocks making my body twitch and shudder are caused by her fingers, soft and gentle, on my breast bone.
“That’s my good girl,” she murmurs in my ear, her hand over my heart and her arm, firm and steady, around my waist.
She presses her lips to mine, and I melt into her kiss, opening to her tongue, breathing her breath, leaning into her gratefully.
I feel her hand slide up my arms, feel her loose the clips that had bound me in place, feel her lift the necklace of pearls from the hook above our heads.
She does not let it settle against my chest.
Instead, she holds me, rocks me, strong arms around me as I rest against her shoulder. She holds me as I float back into my body, until I am aware, again, of the floorboards under my feet, the sound of soft rain falling outside, the warmth cast by unseen candles, of honeyed smoke on the warm night air, and of the scent of cedar.
So there you have it.
Suggestions and concrit (and, y'know, fan letters) are always welcome.
In particular, how was my descrition of what it feels like to climax from flogging?
The description is a re-write (it wasn't even close to accurate before) and I'd like to know if I'm in the right general area now.