I watch her. Light, cold from the fridge dissipates the gloom of the kitchen, turning murky again as indistinct shadows lap at her edges. Poise. Her soft curves at once appearing and disappearing as she plays tacitly with the milky glow. She has her own shadows. The red has subsided and given way she rides her son in law cock darker kisses.
Her thighs hide then momentarily reveal his attention; now subtle: then violent. Black whorls of haem: breasts; thighs; buttocks; obstinate and rude; cartographic; a quiet narrative tale of her adventure and acquiescence. Each subtle movement revealing further contour lines: from the pale alabaster of her skin graduating to sharper, aching colours, developing in monochrome detail, marking the intense change in altitude of foothills, valleys only u can control hot big ass bounce on playomb how excited can u make her hills.
Her purpose is indistinct, but she's hungry. Sugar isn't enough. It needs to be specific, but she can't put her finger on what, exactly, she needs to consume to silence her screaming brain. Delicate, sheer black knickers, accentuating the outrageous provocation of her arse; partially obscuring the evidence of blissful violence. One foot flat- the other pointing her toes into the floor; knee bent.
Her head sags. Bitten-lip self-inflicted pain echoes the stinging, searing, structured progression of punishment she endured 2 days and one night ago. Drifting as she leans on the counter-top, she is briefly but completely transported back to the table. He'd arranged her on the table.
Days had turned into weeks of seduction- no- not seduction- nurturing- nurturing thoughts- planting seeds. He'd made nuances turn to notions. Turn to fantasy. Then to structured thoughts. Then to precise, urgent, needs. Her nipples ache. Erectile tissue does its job, and in her personal midnight recollective cinema, she shudders as she sighs.
She rubs her wrists. The marks have gone now, but phantom ropes still grip and bite her now, and that cunt Pavlov does his job- even when the stimulus is an imagined one. With irritating causal certainty, she seeps. Her mouth is dry. The fridge, door open, whirs into life as the cold continues to flood into the kitchen. He hadn't been kind. His words had been murmured. Softly and with a level tone. Loaded with intent. His breath in her ear had occasionally overwhelmed her senses, and made her miss his instructions.
The lightest of touches. Breath becoming air on her cheek, distracting her from the depravity of her situation. As he turned his fingers inside her, the pads of his tips enjoyed the change in texture from smooth and slippery, to undulating furrows. Pressure, and rubbing, there, periodically, had complimented the fiery sting from her buttocks and confused the messages being sent to her brain. The pain was searing, yet well-calibrated, and his apparent awareness of just how much she could take was at once bewildering, and fucking irritating.
Just as she was about to utter their word, he stopped, and the fingers slid in and did their work. Denying her the soothing caress she instinctively craved, and at once reviled, but using the interfering nerve pathways to decoy her brain.
She knows what she wants. The raging of her head as she stands in her gloom finally picks a flavour. And a scent.
And a texture that she needs. Has to have. His rope was messy. In stark contrasts to the smooth outline of the sublime, architectural curves of her body, the lines pressing her into that shape are crude. Functional. Different kinds of rope. Some cotton. Some acrylic. Some jute. Immaterial materials. Her wrists bound to the table legs at one end, and long, long loops passing around and across the back of her neck, fixing her rigidly.
Then, her knees tied in such a way, wide apart, that she was compelled to offer herself.
Occasionally he paused from his ministration, and added some more lengths. He stood back, critically appraising his own creation, and where her body hadn't quite bent to the conception of his will, he bound it in such a way that he was happier. A topiarist, clipping and wiring branches to compel that perfect unnaturally natural form, for the admiration of the visitors to a garden.
Only this was for him, alone. Crossing the room, the light is at its most dim, but its warmth has increased, coincidentally, so far from the open fridge. She stands in front of the fruit bowl, fingers running over smooth skin.
Tears picked up the pigment from her makeup- that he'd had to stipulate, out of irritated necessity, should not be waterproof- and rivulets of her teary mascara and snot adorning his cock rewarded him.
Returning to the other end of the table, he sits, and folds his cuffs half-way up his forearms. Loosening rope, randomly yet with patience, he clasps his fingers, and presses his palms into the small of her back. She opens. Inhaling, millimetres from her, her scent changes the colour of his blood. Calm and methodical movements he'd shown whilst tying, and torturing her, became quicker and less precise.
Sweet. Salty. Incontrovertibly human. Mammalian. A long-forgotten attractant, but no less potent. Greedy and insistent, he forces himself to be more deliberate and calm. Finger tips provoke a plaintiff noise from her throat as they open her further. He inhales again. And pushes his face into her. Imprecise at first, he's simply selvaggia and anny aurora bottle service sluts a need.
It's not elegant. But it doesn't need to be. This is for him. Her noises: louder. Less coherent. Her movements, such as her shitty-but-effective straight-rope-mess will permit her- more wriggly. Why does her brain want to get away from this source of undoubted pleasure, albeit inflicted as opposed to nurtured onto her?
As much as the pain from his open, rapid, palm? Maybe more so.
As if on cue, he utters: 'Don't you fucking dare.' 'Don't you fucking dare, you ingrate. You fucking ungrateful slut.' The softly threatening, dusky words he'd fed her earlier have gone. This is guttural, insistent communication. One-way. She picks up an apple, and considers it.
She begs: 'Fingers…' 'Please?' 'I need you… I need your fingers…' Between his tongue-tip tease, at the holy-hot centre of her pain, almost imperceptible, to the insistent and relentless lateral thrubbing drum beat, also achieved with his tongue, she'd been taken to the edge of her orgasm for half an hour, and countless 'almost-rans', where she considered throwing herself off the cliff.
But she hadn't.
Knowing that he's simply leave her, still contracting around the space that his fingers leave behind, at the first sign of her orgasm. He'd just fuck off to bed. He'd done it before. 'Please. Please. Push inside me.' One, then two, then three fingers crammed happily, far-too-tightly inside. And that tongue came back. 'Please. Please.' Tears, ebbing away from her. 'Please.' The floral scent of the nectarine is soft. Endlessly complex. Nuanced. Indescribably, un-replicatably, sweet, appealing and calming.
As if the very smell of the unblemished fruit connects her with a basic need for nourishment, and safety. Her fingertips barely push. The skin resists. Then, it gives way as the capillaries of the flesh beneath collapse. She stops. Retracts.
Then does it again. Smooth, perfect and firm gives way to wet, cold, soft and breakable fibres. Her thumbs leading the way were probes initially. Now tools.
They push, deeper, hitting the stone, as she tries to prise the meat away from it. It's too soft.
Her mouth opens, then closes and opens again, as wide as she can, hands seizing the fruit, and not so much bringing it to her lips, as causing an urgent collision. Stinging sour at once gives way to sweet, heady, perfumed scent and taste. Her brain whites out for a fraction of a fraction of time. Then comes back into conscious, permitting her to devour; to absorb the orchestral sensations in her mouth, and nose, and body.
The juice runs down her chin.