Amiga ISO Collection/AmigaDemoCD2.iso/ASCII/TEXTE/SEX/ADULTSHARE/A/AURORA.TXT

Text File | 1992-02-15 | 10.0 KB | 216 lines

"I mean, I just don't think I could deal with it.  I like the idea, in
principle, of a needle forcing its way into me, or a razor cutting me
open, but I don't think I could handle it if it actually happened."

"But you want to push yourself, right?  To see how far you can go?  How
can you know unless you try it?"

"Some things you just know.  I prefer head trips.  I just can't deal
with blood."

"Hmmm"

***

"J's out of town this weekend, so we have the place to ourselves.
Come-- I made you a present to celebrate our 12-month anniversary."

I take your hand and lead you downstairs, into the den.  In the middle
of the room lies a plywood 4 x 8, with a flowered sheet stretched over
it.  The sheet is attached to the plywood by a series of staples running
along the edges.  A small round pillow, barely big enough for your head,
rests at the head of the makeshift bed.  Along the sides and top of the
bed are a number of black candles, melted onto small plates.

"Well, what do you think?"

"What the hell is it?"

"It's a bed.  Or, I suppose, you could look at it as a kind of
sacrificial altar, although we seem to be a bit short on virgins at the
moment."

"Very funny.  I notice that you've ruined the new sheets we bought you
barely a month ago."

"Well, I didn't want you to scrape yourself.  I know how you hate the
sight of blood.  Actually, stapling it down was no small task.  I had to
visit three different stores before I found a staple gun capable of
driving staples all the way into plywood.  Lesser guns leave the staples
sticking out, so that you have to pound them in with a hammer, but this
sucker drives them right in.  I'll leave it by the bed-- you never know
when you'll want to staple something to a sheet of plywood."

"I suppose the idea is for me to take off my clothes and lie down on the
bed?"

"I suppose it is."  I press my index finger between your lips, letting
you suck it briefly before I withdraw it and press your lips together.
"Ssshhh... No more noise."

While you get undressed, I light the candles, then turn out the lights.

"I always think that atmosphere is so important for these sacrificial
rites, don't you?"  You grin back, excited, but more than a little
nervous.

I spread your legs apart, then uncross your arms and stretch them out,
pulling you into an X shape.  "Don't move."  I can already feel a little
tension in your shoulders.  You trust me, but no trust is proof against
some fears.

I curl up next to you, running my hand lightly over your body.  You
shift slightly, but don't make a sound.  As my fingers probe more
insistently, I can feel you beginning to warm up and relax.  You close
your eyes, and begin to breathe a little faster.  Without warning, my
second hand tickles your armpit.  You catch yourself quickly, but not
before a brief giggle escapes your lips.  I'm impressed, but still...

"I'm so disappointed in you-- I thought you were supposed to be keeping
quiet?  Well, maybe a little assistance is in order."

I reach behind the couch, and produce the ball gag I bought for you
yesterday.  I dangle it over your chest, the ball swaying back and forth
in the slight depression between your breasts, the leather thongs
tickling your nipples..  Leaning over you, I do my best Harrison Ford:

"Do you love me?"

"I love you."

"Do you trust me?"

"I trust you."

I smile, kiss you briefly, and slip the gag into place.  As I fasten it
behind your head, I see a brief flash of panic in your eyes.  I run my
fingers through your hair, our noses almost touching, and the moment
passes.  This is new territory for us-- we've talked about gags, about
how your motorboat imitation would work as a "safeword", but theory is
one thing, and practice another.  I stand up, admiring the view from
above.

"You look ravishing...  but something's still missing."  I reach behind
the sofa again, and produce a blindfold.  I pause to kiss each of your
eyelids, then tie the blindfold in place.

The problem with gagging someone is that you can't really kiss them on
the mouth.  I make do with the rest of you, sucking your fingers, and
nibbling my way in along your arm.  As I work my way along your upper
arm, I run my fingers along the bottom of the arm, flattening a fold of
skin against the board beneath you.  "Hmmm..."  I work my way across
your breasts, and out along the other arm. Your breaths are becoming
deeper, less even.

I move to your feet, starting with your toes, and work my way up.
Eventually, I get to your groin.  I trace the very tip of my tongue
along the lines of your lips, grasp a few hairs between my teeth, and
tug lightly.  You briefly forget yourself, shifting your legs to give
you more leverage as you thrust upward to meet my tongue.  Big mistake.

"I'm trying to make allowances, since it's our anniversary, but I'm
going to have to insist that you follow my instructions.  If you don't,
I'll just have to fasten you more firmly in place.  Maybe a little
warning will help you stay focused on the task at hand."

I pick up the staple gun, and fire eight staples into the board, two
next to each ankle, and two next to each wrist.  From the look on your
face, and the change in your breathing, I can tell that you're trying to
decide whether you're in too far; whether you need to end the scene.  I
pause briefly, resting my head on your chest, and tracing the taut lines
of your neck with my fingers.  When I feel you relax a little, I resume
my exploration where it left off.

I withdraw abruptly, leaving you gasping around the gag, but,
remarkably, not moving.  I take my time getting undressed, opening the
package, and rolling on a condom, watching you twitch.  At last, I kneel
down, driving into you in deep, slow strokes.  Under normal
circumstances, you could never stay this still-- you must be well
motivated.

Your self-control is truly impressive-- you really deserve to win this
round.  Sadly, however, life is not fair, and you are not fated to get
off this easily.  Still moving within you, I rest myself on one elbow,
the other arm taking a candle from the row at the head of the bed.
Holding the saucer clumsily with my left hand, I tilt the candle back
and forth, building up a small pool of wax.  At last, I turn the candle
on its end, letting a thin dribble of molten wax pour onto your abdomen,
just below the ribcage.

Through the gag, I hear you yell, more in surprise and momentary rage
than in pain, and am almost thrown off you by the force with which you
writhe beneath me.  In a moment, it's all over, and your limbs are back
in their appointed places, but the damage is done.  I return the candle
to its place, then withdraw from you and stand up.

"I just don't know what I'm going to do with you-- you can't keep quiet
even with a gag, and despite my repeated warnings, you keep flailing
around like an octopus in heat.  It looks like we need to take somewhat
more direct measures to keep you in your place.  I wonder-- how do you
suppose I could fasten someone to a sheet of plywood?"

I pick up the stapler, aim, and pull the trigger.  A staple arcs through
the air and lands a few inches short of you, bouncing off the plywood.
I fire three more times, landing staples on your stomach, your breasts,
your thighs.  Each time, you wince when you hear the stapler, and twitch
away from the staples as they bounce off your skin and fall to the
board.

"Well, what do you think?  Am I going to have to staple you down, or do
you promise to be good?"

You don't dare make a sound, but nod your head up and down.

"Very, very, very good?"

More nodding.

"No, I don't think we'd better chance it.  I'm afraid I'm going to have
to staple you down."

I slowly run the stapler over your body, exploring, probing.  I press
your arms against the board, stroke your breasts back and forth.  I
trace the outline of your hipbone, and, pressing the stapler almost to
the bone, pull the trigger once more.  You cry out from reflex, then
pause, confused.

"Damn.  Out of staples.  Well, that's easily remedied."

I slowly but noisily reload the stapler.  Your breath is coming in gasps
now, and I notice that your shoulders are quaking slightly.  Looks like
it's almost time to bring you down...

I kneel down beside you once more, and resume my exploration of your
body, using both the stapler and my free hand now, probing harder.  I
move to above your head, moving the candles out of the way, and start
stroking your face, pulling your hair out of the way and laying it
against the board in a fan emanating from your head.

Abruptly, I pin your left elbow down with my knee, and grab your hand.
My previous "warning shots" had served to fasten a length of nylon
webbing to the board next to each wrist and ankle.  I grab the closest
length of webbing and, wrapping it once around your wrist, I staple the
other end to the board, pinning you in place.  There's a little more
slack than when I tested it earlier, but it seems to be holding you OK.
Moving quickly, I pin the other wrist in place.

Next, I grasp your forehead with one hand, holding it steady.  With the
other, I repeatedly staple your hair onto the board, making it
impossible for you to move your head more than an inch or two in any
direction.

Finally, I move down to your ankles.  You've got the idea by now, and
are thrashing your legs, desperately trying to keep them away from the
webbing.  Your movement is restricted, however, by the staples in your
hair, and it's an easy job for me to catch your legs one by one and
fasten them to the board.

At last, you are almost totally immobile.  Once more, I kneel between
your legs, and slip inside you.  I want to take you slowly, to nibble
and pinch my way across your body, but we're both already too close to
the edge.  You cry out one last time, and I am moments behind you, my
teeth almost drawing blood along the side of your neck.  We lie still
for a long time, slowly relaxing, melting into each other.