Red Cuffs, revised · Part 1 (1/2)
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And now for a kindler, gentler sort of erotic fantasy. [The Writer reminds the Reader that the contents, ideas, themes and events of this story are fantasy and are not to be mistaken for real thoughts or events. Reality makes the barest suggestion and the Writer creates the rest from imagination, fantas y, and a desire to titillate the Reader (with strong emphasis on "Reader"!) Also, if the Reader finds the sequence of experiences and fantasies excessively long, the Writer suggests reading them over a period of several quiet moments. Or several quiet days.]
The Red Cuffs, revised
She lay in bed motionless. She had awakened a few minutes earlier, langourous, her body thick with sleep. Her first thoughts had been about her husband, how he had just left for two days and she didn't remember kissing him good-bye, although she knew she must have. Certainly, she must have. There were certain conventions to adhere to. If even they began to deteriorate. The thought annoyed her. It hadn't gone this far without keeping to some sort of routine. Or had he just crept out in the early morning, leaving her deep in her dreams about…
She had dreamt of her lover and now her thoughts turned to her friend, the man she had, perhaps mistakenly, indulged with on her living room carpet…years ago. It wasn't that it hadn't been fun. Actually the thought made her frown and smile simultaneously. The look of shock on his face when she had asked him, "How long have you wanted to fuck me?" His look of stupified delight had vanished and, stunned, his cock hard, his face a few inches above her cunt where he had been licking her into a lather, he looked at her, amazed… It was warm and sunny in the bedroom and she felt pleased that her husband would be away. Today she had lunch with her friend and tomorrow she was to see her lover.
All day tomorrow. Wonderful. It had been two weeks since they last saw each other, and she was looking forward to spending the day in his arms. A light breakfast and she was sitting at the dining room table reading over some mail and preparing to work on a presentation for the next week. The doorbell rang. He was early. Not so surprising. For years he had had a crush on her, serving and servicing her as she allowed. He was a nice person, odd, creative, always sexualizing. It made her smile. There were some things she could always count on, things that made her feel happy and… feminine. Today he had a bottle of champagne.
"Two years," he said, "two years since we last had lunch." She wondered if he had come anticipating resuming where they had left off. Several times he had given her full body massages. They had been nice–pleasant and fun. But if he expected to resume such familiarity or, even more unlikely and preposterous, enact one of the fantasies he used to tell her on the phone, he was due to be disappointed. And, of course, a few months ago he had related a fantasy which included mild violence. It had surprised her. She didn't equate anger and violence with sexual excitement. Never had.
But when she expressed dismay and wondered at his motivation, he had taken great pains to assure her that it was all a fantasy, something he had thought she would find exciting. "If it bothers you, forget it," he told her on the phone. "My imagination runs wild sometimes. You know I'm really a wimp. Overeager. Your devoted sycophant. Why else would I go to the trouble of creating seventeen or eighteen fantasies for you?" He made a noise, ostensibly clearing his throat. "Of course in college I was different. In those days I was a monster, a macho bully whose only desire was to sexually abuse helpless women. But I've changed. You must believe me. I've reformed!" They had both laughed at that.
In college he had been quiet, unwashed, and amusingly insecure. And his phone fantasies had been fun, an enjoyable moment in her sometimes boring days. And he had always made her the center of the action. That was the best part. She imagined that if she wanted, he could be persuaded to do some fun things for her. So long as it somehow involved sex. He was a sexual obsessive. Luckily, she had better control of her life and thoughts. He had moved into the kitchen, working open the champagne cork. "I can't drink," she said. "I have a meeting this afternoon at four." "No problem. But you won't mind if I have a sip myself then." He walked to the cupboard in search of a glass.
Over his shoulder he said, "What a beautiful house! I had no idea. When you said it had won awards, well, I couldn't even have imagined." He opened the refrigerator. "Would it be all right if I used some orange juice? How about a mimosa, champagne with orange juice. Does that sound healthy and mild enough?" "Fine," she said, "but not too much champagne." They sat and talked about whatever came to mind. He asked her lots of questions, about her husband, about work, about her daughter. Today her daughter and the house girl had gone for a day trip. The little girl was talking quite intelligently already and could do her ABC's and count to twenty.
She had benefited from the genetic strengths of her and her husband. He asked about her lover. She told him about the recent afternoon when she and her lover had taken a bath together. They sat in the bubble-filled tub facing each other. First they splashed each other with bubbles. Then, with a lascivious smile, she had reached beneath the bubbles into the water between his legs. Taking his limp cock in her hand, she had slowly stroked him, and, when he was hard, his body trembling with desire and excitement, her hand sliding up and down on his soapy cock, he had stood and soaped her also, lathering her breasts and her stomach, her ass and her cunt.
Still covered with bubbles they stepped out of the bathtub, pulled the plug and turned the shower on full hot. As the bathroom filled with steam he put a warm towel on the sink, pressed her backwards against it, and they kissed and stroked each other, their stomachs and chests and hands slipping and sliding over each other's soapy bodies as they caressed, probed and slithered, her lover's hard cock pinned to her stomach, sliding up to her breasts, slipping between her ass cheeks and anywhere else her lover could manage. When they showered off, he had turned her around, and, as she leaned forward, her hands on the wall, he made love to her from behind.
The warm shower water ran in long tickling strings of wetness off her back as he rammed his hardness into her wet secret place. Her breasts shook and she could feel him in her stomach on every stroke. They came together, his arms wrapped around her waist, his cock shooting and spasming inside her pulsing cunt, the bathroom steamy and hot, the water streaming off them. At the end of her story, her friend asked, "What are we going to eat?" "Well, I have some…" and she described the contents of her refrigerator. They made do with some vegetables and cold pasta…and he indulged in another mimosa. After he had washed the dishes they sat in the study.
The food and drink gave the room a warm glow in the early afternoon light. "How's your back?" he asked. "Fine. It hasn't bothered me in months." "May I rub your shoulders?" He moved her onto the floor and she sat in front of him as he rubbed her shoulders and neck. As always his touch was warm. Strong and gentle. He moved down to the center of her back. After a few minutes he guided her down to lie on her stomach. The carpet was warm, comfortable. He was good, attentive and sensitive to her tiniest stiffness. Surprisingly he found many little tight spots, little circles of tension in her neck, shoulders, back and arms.
Her body sank heavily into the carpet, scraps of thoughts and memori es flitting through her langourous mind. As his touch lightened slightly, she wondered if his intent had changed and his thoughts had become sexual. It wasn't going to work this time, she smiled to herself. But his massage remained direct and unlascivious and, after a few minutes, her suspicions were allayed. Beneath his touch, her muscles melted. She felt content and pleased with life. She felt contented in the languour of sunlight, lunch and t he slight hum of the champagne. He massaged her ass, but carefully, not moving onto her legs as she had expected.
"Here," he said, "I'm going to stretch your arms," and he moved away from her ass and began rubbing her arms. There was a rustling in the bag he had brought and left under the coffee table, but she thought nothing of it. The sun through the window was on her legs and it felt as though it was warming her very bones, heating her legs and flowing over them like a thick warm liquid. The weight of her breasts a nd pelvis in the carpet felt good. She smiled vaguely. After two years, he hadn't lost his touch with her. His massage was fulfilling, relaxing. His rubbing moved to her wrists and she noticed that he was rubbing her forearms and wrists with some soft material, something of velvet or felt.
As he rubbed he lifted one wrist and then the other and put the material around them, gently lower ing the arms back to the floor. There was the sound of a belt buckle and she wondered if he was taking off his pants, perhaps to masturbate over her. She wasn't sure she minded if he wanted to masturbate, but he was going to be disappointed if he expected her to help in any way. And he damned well had better not cum on my blouse, she thought with a start. With that annoying thought she lifted her head to see what he was doing. Her wrists were held by straps of velvet, red velvet. As she moved to sit up she was surprised to find her wrists were fastened to the foot of the desk.
"What are you doing?" she asked. "~This is stupid. I have to go to a meeting at four o'clock." "I know. And it's only one o'clock, which gives us two hours to relax and enjoy the afternoon sun. So lie down, take a few slow deep breaths, and let me make you feel good. Please. I promise you'll only enjoy yourself. The moment you feel t hreatened or unhappy, I'll take them right off. Of course, with the handcuffs you have to trust me. Some people like having someone serve them, having someone lead their pleasure. There are even slave and master love games.
One person is the slav e for an afternoon, the next time that person gets to be the master. 'Course, slave-master is not a game I expect you'd enjoy. Unless you get to be the master. But try this with the red cuffs. Trust me." "You had better not do anything hurt me or upset me. I'll be awfully angry" She gave him a stern look. "Don't worry. Have I ever done anything to you that scared you or hurt you?" He was creative and sexually obsessed, but he wasn't a hurtful person. Her stern look softened. Perhaps she should relax a little. Perhaps this would be interestin g, even enjoyable.
He moved her gently to lie down and once again went to work on her neck, stretching the muscles, working slowly down her back. With a sigh she gave up and decided to see what happened before making a fuss. With her head to one side on the carp et she noticed a pen that had rolled under the desk. But she forgot about it as her back again warmed under his touch. He worked with slow broad strokes of his hands, gently pulling the blouse out of her skirt, sliding it up to the nape of her neck. He unfastened her bra. "You have a beautiful back, you know.
Nice muscles." With his hands he drew and worked the muscles in a ripple down her back, just to the waist of her skirt and then back up, tracing circles around her shoulder blades. His hands were warm and his touch strong but gentle. Warm repeated strokes on her back, each time a little lower until they were almost to her buttocks. She took a breath and released it with a sigh. His hands left her back. There was a pause. And then a touch on her ankles. Almost a tickling followed by a slow, firm skittering scraping of fingernails drawn gently up the insides of her legs. "Wouldn't it be nice to have a tongue crawling up the inside of your legs.
An erotic slug, so to speak, seeking refuge and haven. Somewhere above the Tropic of the Knees." "You're being silly," she said, laughing. Sliding her skirt up to her ass, he scratched gently up and down on the insides of her thighs, moving closer and closer to her crotch, the panty hose accentuating the tingling sensation. "Does this feel good?" And she started as she felt his tongue, ambiguous through the nylon, but a tongue clearly, on the back of her leg. The sun had moved and she could feel its heat on her naked back. The tongue, damp and warm through the n ylon, moved in slow circles, advancing gradually upwards until he was licking the fabric at her crotch.
His hands worked her buttocks, massaging deeply into them, releasing the muscles in her hips, muscles she had never really noticed before, muscles pleased to be released. Her legs moved gradually apart as he worked. His hands kneading her buttocks, his tongue massaging happily the crotch of the panty-hose. The wetness of his mouth was beginning to be joined by a slight wetness of her own. Moments later his hand reached under the waistband of the skirt to pull down the panty hose, and a second after that she felt the tongue on the inside of her thigh, again making its way upwards. She felt his scratchy cheeks on the tender skin immediately below her cunt.
A pause and then his tongue plunged inside her, pressing the lips of her secret place apart, his hands on her thighs, then her ass, his fingers pressing her ass, molding it, rolling the muscles of her cheeks even as he slowly licked her. She shivered when his lips found her clitoris and he sucked on it, pulling in gently, first with his lips and then with a gentle nibble of his teeth, sucking on it, licking it as his hands pressed her pelvis forward, pulled her ass up to give his insistent tongue better access.
From the clit he moved upwards to the sensitive spot between ass and slit and he toyed there, the tip of his tongue teasing her, waiting for a reaction, waiting for her to move her pelvis in response. She was looking to the left, her nose in the carpet. It smelled clean, the carpet smelled like the vacuum cleaner. She could see the legs of the chair a few feet away, sunlight spilling over the chair onto the floor. His tongue still doing its service to the gateway of her melting insides, he slid a finger into her cunt. She moaned and moved to make his access easier. He added a finger and began to love her wet secret place with two fingers. She moaned.
"This is only the warm-up, the preview to the main event," he said breathlessly. Still sliding his finger in and out of her moist cunt, he finally moved his head away. His other hand took hold of her shoulder and pulled her onto her back. She looked up at the ceiling, and, closer, the edge of the desk. They seemed miles a way, years in the past. He reached to his left, took a cushion from the couch and propped it under her head so she was looking across the room at a picture she and her husband had bought several years ago. Her friend's head disappered once again between her legs.
She felt his hot wet lips on her clit, pulling it, working it around and around, letting it slide out and then diving back onto her cunt a second later. She bent her knees and slid her feet up, opening her knees apart. "I'm going to take you on a fantasy, alright? See if you like this well-hung man you're going to meet without so much as a word." "You're going to visit your lover," he said, "and you're at his house, for some reason or another. His wife and kids are away for the week, so you go into his house to surprise him. But he's not there, so you change into a t-shirt and shorts and sit at the kitchen table to wait for him.
Red Cuffs, revised · Part 1 (1/2)
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