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Erotic Literature

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Story of L

Life is full of temptations. Sometimes you grow by resisting them. Sometimes you grow by embracing them. Linda was the second kind.

Looking back, it's hard to remember just how Linda and I got to where we are. It's even harder to explain to friends who are close enough to us to read the signs but not close enough to be part of what's happening. And it would be impossible to explain to either of our parents or most of the people we work with, so from them we simply hide it.

The facts are these: Linda is my slave. I am her master.

Those are startling words, even to me, even now, two years after it became a fact. When I say them, sometimes a little voice still demands of me, What do you mean, she's your slave? What about the women's movement? What about the sensitive man? What's going on here?

The answer's not simple. I could tell you it's about power, or freedom from responsibility, or contact intensity. I could tell you it's about primal urges to take and be taken. All of those things are true.

But mostly it's about love.
We were friends first. That's important. Bondage and submission isn't a game you play with strangers. If you don't understand why, you're not ready to play at all. I can tell you how Linda and I met. I run a little print shop -- lithographs, silkscreens and the like, small runs, very high quality. Not much work comes in off the street, but people who need me seem to find me.

Roald needed me. He was an illustrator who was trying to even out the ups and downs by getting his off-the-wall work on the walls in the graphic art galleries around the city. Linda was his housemate, sometime lover, and informal business partner. She went to school part time and handled the running around so Roald could concentrate on the art.

She explained all of that and more the first time she came in. Not prattling or chattering. She was just open and at peace with herself. I felt myself drawn to her, and it was hard to stay professional. Dark hair, a happy shoulder-length tangle -- dark eyes, her gaze warm and direct -- an easy gentle laugh. I knew right then I wanted to know this woman better.

But it's bad manners to hit on your customers, and downright callow to meddle in someone else's happy relationship. So I contented myself with enjoying the rush of good feeling that came when she appeared, enjoying the sight of her, the sound of her voice. Yes, and enjoying a few fantasies when she was gone.

A month slid by, and she started to linger to talk when she came in. In time it seemed as though the work we were doing for Roald was only a secondary reason for her being there, and I wondered where we were headed. Then one day she came into the shop just before noon and asked me if I'd had lunch yet. There was a deli down the street she'd been wanting to try, she said, but she hated eating alone.

I only hesitated for a moment. "Me, too," I said, plucking my jacket off its hook. She took my arm as we went down the sidewalk, hugged me from behind while I fought my way to the counter and ordered for us. I felt wonderful, if a little confused. She cleared up the confusion as we were finishing off our sandwiches.

"Do you know what it does to me when you look at me that way?" she asked softly.

"What way?"

"That way. That look that says, `I want to take you and make you mine.'"

"You're not supposed to see that look," I said, showing a mock frown.

"Are you saying that you haven't seen mine? The look that says I want you to?"

"You and Roald --"

"Roald and I have an open relationship," she said. "Should I have told you that sooner?"

"Yes," I said.

"I like you, Christopher. And you have this way of looking at me that makes me feel like the only woman in the room. Like there's just you and me, and the rest of the world has gone away. It makes me want very much for you to make love to me."

I looked into her eyes for a long moment, just that way. Then I took her hand and led her out of the deli. I didn't let go until we were standing in my bedroom and I needed that hand to unbutton her blouse.
First times are always awkward. That's what my friend Bernard tells me, and he's had a lot more first times than I have. Before Linda, I'd have agreed. You don't know how gentle or firm to make your touch, how to read your new lover's responses, how to tell them what you like without making it sound like you're coaching a wrestling team. Not to mention all those nasty little anxieties rattling around in the back of your head.

But this was different. We undressed each other slowly, pausing to kiss newly bared skin, to caress soft curves, to explore the strange and wonderful new texture of each other's bodies. When we were both naked, she threw her arms around me and pulled herself close, her head resting on my shoulder, her breasts flattened against my chest, my erect cock pressed between our bellies.

"This is right," she whispered, "being here with you. This feels so right."

We sat Indian-style on the bed and fondled each other, I exploring her wetness, her my hardness. There were long kisses, wet and hungry, her lips soft and pliant. In between the kisses I could watch her face, a delicious intimacy, and enjoy the little catch of breath as I pushed a finger inside her silky folds, the dreamy look in her eyes as my fingertips traced circles on her clit.

She gave back in full measure for what she was receiving -- stroking my cock with long cool fingers, her grip firm but never rough -- cupping my balls in her hand, tracing the "seam" with a fingernail -- surprising me by playing with my nipples and delighting in my response. I returned the favor, rolling the crinkly brown nub of her right nipple between my thumb and forefinger, and she closed her eyes as though surrendering to a new imperative.

On impulse, I turned the gentle pressure into a pinch, and she moaned softly. A moment later there was a new rush of wetness between her nether lips, and she slowly leaned forward until her forehead rested on my shoulder. Her arms went around my shoulders, and she clung tightly to me as I orchestrated her pleasure, two fingers of one hand gliding over her swollen clit, two fingers of the other alternately teasing and squeezing her nipples.

The rigidity in the arms that embraced me spread to her whole body moments before she came, back arching, fingers clutching. She made the most wonderful sounds, first hard exhalations that were somewhere between gasps and moans, ending with a pure erotic cry of pleasure. A moment later, she raised her head from my shoulder and her lips seized mine in a grateful kiss. She lay back and tried to pull me on top of her, but her scent had been working on me for many long minutes, and I wanted a taste of her first, musky and all female. My tongue found her clitoris and teased it to erection, and I felt her fingers in my hair, their gentle pressure a plea not to stop.

I didn't stop. The response of her body to my tongue's probings was all the reinforcement I needed. As her excitement mounted, I pushed the middle three fingers of my left hand deep inside her well-lubricated pussy. When she came, crying out as before, her muscles clamped down on my fingers in a powerful rippling spasm.

That was when my own pleasure became the imperative. I climbed atop her, bringing her a kiss flavored with her own juices. She spread her legs wider to invite me inside, clutched at my buttocks and whispered an urgent plea for me to fill her with my cock. I entered her with one smooth thrust and we began to move together, finding the rhythm that was uniquely ours. There was a ferocious intensity to her lovemaking such that I had never known before, and it roused in me in turn a need to take her and possess her. I drove my cock deep into her with powerful thrusts that were almost assaults, riding her hard against the mattress. Eyes wide with surprise and delight, she opened herself to me fully.

It was a closed circle of passion channeled round and round between us, ever increasing, ever intensifying. Then her fingers found my nipples, nails biting deep into the flesh, and my body shook in an electric, convulsive shudder that left me wobbly-armed and gasping. My cock still deep inside her cunt, I dropped to my elbows, and we held each other in a tender, peaceful embrace.

Nothing needed to be said. There was a special connection between us, almost frightening in its power, a recognition of the self in the other, reality and reflection. We both knew it, just as we both knew that we had just begun to explore what we could be together.
Having -- or being -- a lovely, compliant, responsive slave is a powerful fantasy. It touches deeply-rooted archetypes of masculinity and femininity, suggests a quality of mutual obsession not attainable in the complex, rule-ordered everyday world. But it also evokes lurid crime-magazine headlines and invites harsh assessments of your sanity and morality. You admit to having the fantasy at considerable social risk. You admit to desiring the reality at even greater risk.

So there is in my library a small collection of books that no casual visitor sees -- classics like "The Image" and "The Story of O," newcomers like "9 1/2 Weeks" and "Exit to Eden." I don't know when Linda saw them. She insists to this day that she never did, that her understanding of what I wanted -- what we both wanted -- came from some deeper reading of our word games and the energy we generated together in our lovemaking.

The night it began, we had eaten a dinner we had cooked together, enjoyed a glass of California wine and our favorite Thursday evening comedies while cuddled together on the couch. As it always seemed to, our cuddling progressed to familiar fully- clothed teasing and touching.

By wordless consensus, we retired to the bedroom. She guided me to a spot in front of the bureau, then stepped back and began to disrobe. When I started to unbutton my shirt, she reached out and stopped me.

"I want to be the only one naked," she said.

There was an erotic fire in her eyes which promised much, and I let my hand fall back to my side. There are many ways in which a woman can shed her clothes. Linda showed me a new one. Not coy, not teasing, not flaunting her curves and treasures. She made herself naked with the deliberateness of a ritual, as though it were my right and privilege to see her so, her loving duty to display herself.

Then she came and knelt before me as she unzippered my jeans and gently fished my erect cock out through the opening. Her lips parted and her tongue flicked across the swollen crown of my manhood, then she cradled my cock in both hands and plunged it deep into her warm, wet mouth.

A minute or so of this was enough to make my knees weak and me wonder if I could coax her to the bed. Then, with a last lingering caress, she drew back and sat on her heels with her knees spread wide.

"Will you tie my arms behind me?" she whispered, looking up at me hopefully.

I could not answer. I was struck dumb with desire.

"There's rope in my bag, on top," she added.

I looked for permission in her eyes, found it, and went to where the bag sat. She stayed where she was, on her knees in the middle of the floor. When I knelt behind her, she crossed her wrists behind her back for me.

"If it pleases you, there's another piece for my elbows," she whispered as I tied the first knot.

It pleased me. Binding her elbows thrust her breasts out and up in a most flattering way. I stood and walked around her admiringly, then moved close so she could once again take my cock in her mouth.

Her mouth was hungry, her lips and tongue silken on my hardness. I stroked her hair, cradled her face in my hands. She was eager to draw an orgasm from me. I did not think I could come from her oral attentions alone, could not remember even having done so without the knowing touch of her hands on me. But I rode the exquisite pleasure she could give and the special thrill of seeing her that way until I forgot about "couldn't."

My eyes were closed, my head thrown back, my whole body tensing for release, when she paused just long enough to whisper, "Can you see us in the mirror?"

I glanced sideways at the bureau. I don't know that I'll ever see anything more beautiful than what I saw in reflected there at that moment: Linda on her knees before me, naked save for the white ropes that held her arms severely behind her, her mouth full of my cock and her eyes looking up at me as though to say I give you this moment as a gift, because your pleasure is my pleasure, because I love you.

It was the picture that she wanted me to see, had orchestrated free and uncoerced. The sight pushed me over the top in an explosive rush that left my whole body trembling. I dropped to my knees and shared a salty kiss with her, then quickly unbound her arms so that I could feel them around me.
Six weeks later, after much talk, a private shopping trip, and some further explorations, Linda formally became my slave. It was all symbolic, of course, yet very real. Symbols are real, after all. They speak for things that can be expressed no other way. It was sexual theater, very simple, yet very powerful. The room was lit only by candles. She came to me naked, unadorned by jewelry, and knelt before my chair. I placed a black leather collar on her neck and secured it with a silver padlock. She looked up at me and her eyes glowed. Somehow, the collar changed her.

"I have something I want to give you," she said. "May I go get it?"

I had her bring me a glass of wine first, watching her move and enjoying her beauty. Then she left the room for a moment, and returned carrying something before her. Until she was very close I could not see what it was.

It was a short-thonged many-stranded whip. She offered it up to me on her open palms. The black leather strands were soft and supple, the wooden handle shaped like a cock. It was almost a work of art.

"You know I'll use it on you," I said.

"Yes," she answered.

I reached down and explored the cleft between her legs. It was wet and fragrant with her sweet nectar. "Get on the bed," I said. It took only a few minutes to make her ready. I bound her face down and bottom high over the low round rail of the footboard, legs spread wide and tied to the legs of the bed. Then I stepped back to enjoy the sight, as I knew she wanted me to. Her bound hands were between her legs, her fingers already working against her swollen clit. Her cheek was pressed against the bedspread, the bright red cloth of her gag deep in her mouth. Her eyes were closed, and yet communicated her blissful state.

I raised the whip and brought it down on her buttocks. She jumped and gave a little cry that was muffled by the gag, but her fingers never slowed. I varied the time between strokes, varied the target -- left cheek, right, upper thighs, full across the ass -- never letting her know when to expect the next fall of the whip, until I marked the familiar signs of her approaching orgasm.

Then I began to lash her ass briskly and rhythmically, alternating between left and right cheeks, using the cushion of her self-pleasure to push her to more intense feelings. When she came, the moans and cries could not be contained by the gag, and her convulsive movements stressed the knots I had tied. I moved to the side of the bed and removed her gag. She raised her head from the bedcovers for a kiss. I have never kissed softer, more pliant lips.

I freed her and made long, slow love with her there on the bed where I had whipped her.
We have many more bondage toys now, have become fond of some and found others wanting. We have explored different shadings of the dominant/submissive dynamic, tested our joint and separate fantasies, even reversed roles on occasion.

Every variation is a celebration of our diversity and unity, for the one essential is the feeling between us. She gives to me her trust, a precious gift never to be abused. The trust comes from the love that we have, a love that is fully mutual, never one-sided.

For all the liberties she allows me, my greatest pleasure is to pleasure her. When Linda comes, moaning and grasping and arching, I am in awe. There is nothing more compelling, nothing more gratifying than to know that it is by my touch that she achieves such rapture.

After an orgasm, she floats for several minutes on an exquisite high, and I love to push her higher. Bound, she has had more than a dozen orgasms in a span of a half-hour, each more shattering and draining than the last, until the sheets are damp with perspiration and her body limp with exhaustion. Linda's magic is that she gives me, willingly, what I could not and would not dare demand. I give her in return the means to surrender to her body's imperatives and fully experience the world of sensation.

It is the happiest of contracts, with both parties enriched.

There aren't many games with two winners. I consider myself blessed to have found one with her.

Author: Linda AKA BlkleatherSporty

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