His face was intent, intense, as he led me to the chair. I could call him Angel, he said.
But no angel would do what he planned to do to me.
Hemp rope. The earthy raw smell of hemp rope. The smooth roughness of hemp rope. He made a game of it, dragging the rope across my skin, staring into my eyes the entire time. I began to trust this stranger, the man called Angel.
He tied my wrists, right hand first. I watched him passively, now already nearly his, I released. Gave mySelf over into subspace.
He secured my ankles, my thighs, my upper arms. He bound my breasts so tightly to the chair that I could barely breathe. Yes. This is what I wanted, what I needed.
It was my turn.
I was in the chair, spread eagle, my body exposed, my pussy exposed. Some gawkers stopped, some moved on. One guy watched, masturbating.
Watched the man called Angel as he topped dangerous. This man I had followed compliantly into this dungeon. This man I had never met before who promised nothing, and eventually delivered everything, or at least enough. Yes more than enough.
What are your safe words? He asked
Yellow, Sir, to slow down, check in. Red means stop.
He looked deeply into my eyes. He pinched my nipples, already sore and bitten and bruised, and clamped them with a pair of clothespins. I recoiled from the pinching, the searing, burning and then at last relaxed into the blessed numbness.
He stroked me so lovingly that for a brief moment I forgot that I was in his power. And then he reminded me.
A clothespin on my left outer labia. Such a tender crushing caused me to clench my legs against the bindings. Then breathe it in. Surrender to the sensation.
A clothespin on my lower lip. Exquisite, constant pressure.
A clothespin on my right outer labia. I’m moaning now. The Watcher increases his stroke.
The man called Angel decorated my entire body with clothespins: the soft tender flesh where my arms bend in toward my body, the rigid nails on toes and fingers, folds and pinches of skin and nerve endings wherever he could find them. And he found many. Each clamping required a bit more letting go, a deeper and deeper sinking.
I counted 6 clothespins buried in my left breast, and could not force myself to look at the right breast. I could not see anything anymore. I’d lost track of the Watcher. All I could see were his eyes. The eyes of the man called Angel.
The clothespins on my labia were tied together somehow, and he made them flap by pulling a string. This sent electric pulses throughout my pussy, waves of pleasure throughout my body. I felt safe, beautiful, admired, and cared for in an extreme way. I rode this pleasure, surfing the orgasm, which seemed at once so very close and so very far away.
He offered me his dick, large and soft and pliant and I begged him wordlessly to place it in my mouth. I looked up into his eyes and tickled the head of his dick with my tongue. I tongue fucked his dick, sucking deeply as he pulled in and out of my mouth. His dick was at that beautiful stage where I could still take him entirely into my mouth. His dick was rubbing up against that spot in my mouth just behind my upper teeth, that spot that feels like a g-spot to my tongue and responds like a g-spot in my body. I was very wet and he was slamming in and out of my mouth, and pulling the clothespin string which sent me into paroxysms of pleasure and pain.
I felt his energy shift, gather, as he prepared to come, and then he did. His salty semen spraying into my mouth. I held it and his cock in my mouth, swirling my tongue gently over him. And when he began to remove the clothespins, he kissed me, and I shared the gift of his cum with the man called Angel.
The tenderness of the kiss, the energy of the cum, and the jolting return of sensation when the clothespins were removed were intensely powerful. I lost track of myself , and then he began to lick my pussy. My pussy wet and slick with want. He licked and licked and licked my pussy wet with longing. He pulled and sucked my clit until, finally and with reckless abandon, I tumbled over that edge. Leaving behind simply surfing the pleasure, riding the pain, the bobbling on the edge….I plunged into the sea of this orgasm, and then that one. And then the other, while he licked me and sucked me and drank in my cum.
And in my release I wept. I sobbed as he released my chest harness, then untied my feet and finally my hands. He cradled me closely to his body, murmuring to me sweet words of loving comfort, as I cried.
He dressed me carefully and led me to a bench under the stars.
He held my face between his hands, his right thumb gently wiping a stray tear from my cheek and finally spoke, “What makes you think you are so dangerous?”
“Why do you call yourself dangerous?” he whispered.
I don’t call myself dangerous, Sir. It is the tops that call me dangerous, I sob.
“Why would a Top call a sweet crying grrl dangerous?” he pushed….
It’s because they fall in love with me, Sir.
My tear stood poised on his right thumb. The man called Angel looked into my eyes, and licked his thumb.
A still featuring Veronica Vera and Annie Sprinkle from clips shown during @Cinekink's A Tribute to Club 90, which celebrated 5 film stars from the "Golden Age of Porn.' When these movies were made, I wouldn't have had the courage to see it in a theater, [Flickr] - viviane212 posted a photo: [image: A still featuring Veronica Vera and Annie Sprinkle from clips shown during @Cinekink's A Tribute to Club 90, which cel...
5 days ago