Amiga ISO Collection/AmigaDemoCD2.iso/ASCII/TEXTE/SEX/ADULTSHARE/M/MINDSCAP.TXT/text0000.txt

Text File | 1991-03-07 | 21.2 KB | 312 lines

   He is watching again, she notices, though she makes no attempts to
initiate some sort of recognition.  As always, her face is impassive, with
neither invitation nor rebuttal in her expression.  For the moment, she has
chosen to ignore him; hunting is not a high priority for her this day, so
the seat she has chosen in the lounge, which is now emptying just prior
to another class, is with her back to him, several seating-groups away.  With
a small, private smile, she acknowledges to herself the fact that his eyes
are hot on her head, and then turns her thought to other matters.

   Time passes; denizens and regulars file in and out of the lounge
throughout the day, as do they themselves.  Towards the middle afternoon, he
watches her come in from the cold, to sit down across the room, with her
back to him.  She takes off her boots and coat, pulls a book out of her
knapsack, and settles in, in no particular hurry to be anywhere.  It is a
Wednesday; he knows she will be around until sometime near six.  His friends
notice his distraction, but when questioned, he only laughs and says to them
that he is working on a new project in his mind.  The afternoon wears on;
soon there are only a dozen or so people around the lounge, including the two
of them.  He has worked himself up to a keen tension, a certain level of
arousal which would soon begin demanding a release.  For sometime now, he
has been waiting to act, and with pressure mounting, he becomes certain
that the time is at hand.  He watches, marking time with the pages of an
engineering textbook he has barely looked at all day, the weight of which
has become tantalizingly uncomfortable against his lap in recent hours.  He
waits, until ...

   She has reached the end of a chapter in her book, and sets it aside,
glancing out the wide windows, shifting restlessly.  Rising, she crosses the
room to the pop machines for something to do, and taking the cold can it
gives her, returns to her seat, but she does not pick up her book.  Instead,
she shuffles through the contents of her pack, fidgetting, feeling almost
bored, and waiting for time to pass, so that she might move on to her plans
for the evening.  She stretches, a luxurious feeling that brings every
muscle in her back and shoulders and arms back to life.  At full reach, she
wiggles her fingers, then throws her feet across the coffee table to stretch
them also, wiggling her toes as well.  Wriggling into a more comfortable
position, with her feet now tucked up beneath her, she stretches her arms
along the back of the couch until the strain across her shoulders becomes
too much, then brings her arms back to clasp her hands behind her neck,
fingers laced under her hair.

   She is somewhat startled by a firm grip enclosing on her joined wrists.
There is an irrepressable, instinctive twitch of her pleasure centres; the
contact is unfamiliar, but the potential meaning of the contact is not.  Given
her current position, she becomes very aware of a sense of vulnerablity, and
something far more intense: an immediate sense of arousal.  Without turning to
look, she is aware of a head approaching her own, and instantly there is the
feel of breath at her ears, and lips, gently tickling the hair that covers
her ears as it is brushed aside.  The whisper, the unexpected but anticipated
approach that would seal her fate, caressed her senses as it spoke:
    "You have a dilemma here.  You are vulnerable, and I have control," it
says, a bare smile almost audible in its tone.  "Does this bother you?"
    "That depends on your definition of 'bothered'", she replies.  He gives
her wrists a sharp squeeze; she must squirm to keep from gasping aloud.
    "I can't allow that kind of attitude," he muses.  "How should I
discipline you?"  When she does not respond, he crushes her wrists in his
grip almost brutally, feeling her body both tense and radiate heat in response.
"What should I do?" he repeats.  As the familiar trembling starts, she replies,
    "As you wish."  The grip releases her, but something compels her to
leave her arms where they are; nor does she turn to look at the one who
commands her.
    "Gather your things," he orders, standing up behind her.  Obediently,
she puts her book away, and picks up her coat and gloves.  In her periphery,
she sees him well enough to be satisfied with obvious physical details, but she
makes no attempt to either regard or confront him outright.  She has given
without question thus far, and would see it through.  When she is ready, she
turns to him, eyes downcast as is proper.  He motions for her to proceed him
from the lounge, and once out into the grand hallway, he turns her in the
direction of the elevators.  All during the wait for the elevator, he takes
the time to admire her long, muscular legs, rounded buttocks, the curve of
her back beneath her sweater; he likes the way in which her hair seems to
spread across the top half of her back in soft, layered waves, and has to give
himself a stern warning so as not to run his hands through that lovely mane.
Not yet, at least.  The car arrives, and they get in.  There are no other
passengers as he punches the button for the sixth floor, noted for the maze
of professors' offices and twisting, turning hallways.  She stands inside,
uncertain of what to do.  Roughly, he reaches out as the doors close, grabbing
a fistful of her hair and pulls her to him, kissing her with something
bordering on fury.  He opens her mouth with her tongue, pleased and aroused
by her acquiesance, but refusing to allow her any response.  As her tongue
moves shyly towards his own, he breaks the kiss and shoves her roughly away.
    "Face the doors," he orders, and as she turns, he delivers a stinging
spank to her undefended rear.  She cringes slightly, but does not break the
posture.

    There is no one in sight when they step out of the elevator.  Taking
a quick look around, he satisfies himself with the emptiness of the hallway,
then turns to her.
    "You will take off your sweater," he tells her as he runs his hands
over her breasts, squeezing them gently, "then you will get down on all
fours and follow me.  You can carry you pack in your mouth."  Her eyes widen
at this command, and she glances apprehensively down the lighted hall.  The
delay in responding to his command is met with a sharp slap across her right
cheek, causing tears to obscure her vision.  In spite of this, she feels a
wet warmth coursing through her groin, and knows that she would not disobey,
even had she wanted to.  He compells her, and she is his.  She drops what
she is carrying and slips the sweater over her head.  Getting everything
into an easily carried bundle is a more difficult matter, and further
delay brings further spankings.  Granted, the cloth of her pants is enough
to take away most of the shock, but enough comes through anyways to cause fresh
tears to mark her face.  When she is ready, he turns and walks briskly down
the hall and turns a corner; she must scurry to follow him, lest she get
lost in the labyrinth on offices.  As it is, he has waited for her around the
corner.  He has taken off his thin belt, and now brings its leather tongue
down across her lower back, hard enough to sting and leave a welt, but
nowhere near hard enough to break the skin.  He has no intent of causing any
serious or permanent injury to a body he admires so much.

    In this way he shepherds her far from the elevators, until they
finally come to a stop before the door of a corner office.  They have
encountered no one in the halls.  Ignoring her, he pulls a small set of keys
from his pocket and unlocks the door, steps inside, and closes the door.  She
is left alone in the hall, and now she can hear distant voices approaching.
Her fervent if silent prayers are left unheeded as two men walk past the
entrance to her hallway.  One of them glances in her direction; his step
falters, and he stops, as does his friend, who, following his stare, also now
sees her.
    "Are you all right, miss?" asks the first, taking a tentative step
towards her.  She nods and smiles, holding a finger to her lips, hoping
they don't come close enough to see her back and ask uncomfortable questions.
She decides to take a risk in speaking, even with her commander on the other
side of the door.
    "It's a surprise," she explains in a stage whisper.  "It's his birthday,
and you kind of caught me off guard in mid-preparation."  The two men
suddenly go very red, making many excuse-mes, and leave, wishing her luck.
Once they have gone, silence returns, and she forces herself to wait, in
spite of the ache in her back, the bruises on her knees, and the fire between
her legs.

    After several more minutes, he finally opens the office door.
    "Come in and get up on the desk," he says simply.  "I suspect that you
know which position to adopt when there."  She follows his orders, settling
back on her heels, knees spread an almost uncomfortable distance apart, fingers
laced together behind her neck.  She does not meet his eyes, keeping her gaze
instead fixed upon the door beyond his head.  He walks around her, taking her
in with his eyes.  Tension seems to be building to an unbearable point as he
faintly runs his fingertips down along her spine, smiling as she flinches from
the contact with the reddening welts.  From behind, he reaches to cup her
breasts, kneading them almost roughly as he brings his lips to her shoulder
blades, feeling her press into him ever so slightly.  With one hand, he reaches
down between her legs, feeling a low pulsating in the cup of his hand, which
comes away warm with her humidity.  He pulls away now from her warm body, and
pulls a chair out in front of the desk.  Seating himself, he motions for her
to step down from the desk.
    "Get undressed," is all he says.  She obeys without the slightest
hesitation, her movements slow and fluid, gauged to entice the watcher's eye to
every curve of her body.  When she has finished, and her clothes are folded in
a neat pile on the floor, she stands quietly before him, hands at her side.  He
stands and approaches her, and with no warning, pushes a knee between her legs
and kicks her feet apart, at the same time sliding two fingers into her wet
vagina.  Unprepared, she allows herself to fall forward against him, her lips
on his neck.  He pulls out of her abruptly, pushes her upright, and slaps her.
Feeling that perhaps a simple slap might not be enough, he turns her roughly
and bends her over the desk, positioning her hands in a grip of the opposite
edge.  A small soft-cover book is selected from the book-shelves to serve as a
paddle, which he applies repeatedly to the soft flesh of her rear-end, until
her whimpering convinces him of her atonement.  Before she can get her thoughts
together, she is turned, more gently this time, onto her back, the cool surface
of the desk soothing against both old and new welts.  He uses her socks to bind
her ankles to the legs of the desk, leaving her spread wide for his inspection.
Her hands still remain locked at the edge above her head, and she closes her
as she feels his fingers probing gently at her clitoris.  She is unprepared for
the sudden sting of the belt on the inside of her thighs.
    "You will keep your eyes open and you will watch me," he growls,
pinching the tip of her clit until she gasps out her obedience.  Their eyes,
now locked together, never waver from each other as he lowers his head to kiss
the welt on her thighs.  She makes no sound, but fidgets with the edge of the
desk with her fingers, and tries not to strain against the bindings on her
ankles.  Watching her, he runs the very tip of his tongue over the slightly
swollen strip of flesh on her leg, intrigued by her self-control.  She does
not fight him, but she makes it clear that, at this moment, he does not control
her.  With an almost casual slowness, he touches his tongue to tiny, random
points on her upper thighs and lower abdomen, his eyes twinkling in a smile
his mouth is too preoccupied to provide.  He is rewarded; her breathing catches
in her throat when he finally brings himself to the taut lips of her inner
sanctum; the smell of her instinctive eagerness fills his head as it fills
the room, but he ignores the silent challenge in her eyes and pulls away.
    Caught by her own, beginning frustrations, she sighs, but has no time
for much else as he returns to her, invading her before she is aware of the
fingers thrust deep into her vagina.  Almost angrily, she arches from the desk,
the wind knocked from her lungs by the force of entry, caught back only in sobs
timed to his thrusts before he pulls away completely.
    He smiles to himself.  He has caught her off-guard, and now she is
unsure of herself.  Bringing the chair closer to the desk, he leaves her
feet bound where they are, but pulls her forward, off the top of the desk,
to be bent forward over the chair.  It is an uncomfortable position for her;
her feet are still almost flat to the floor behind her, stretching the muscles
in the backs of her calves and thighs almost unbearably.  Gently, almost
reverently, he touches the fading welts on her buttocks, before releasing a
mighty swing that connects the palm of his hand with her reddened flesh with
a sound that echoes between the four walls of the office.  Another falls, and
another; she loses count of both the barrage and the number of tears which
respond to her pain.  It is perhaps a dozen or so spanks which have fallen, and
in the brief moment of silence which settles afterwards, between the sounds of
her own crying breath, she hears the unmistakable rustle of denim being pushed
down along skin.  She grasps the edges of the chair in preparation, waiting.
    But he is smarter than that; he has seen her tense in anticipation,
and knows that penetration is what she wants.  It is too soon for her to be
satisfied, he thinks as he folds his own pants on top of hers.  With one
strong hand, he supports her as he removes the chair, settling her on the
floor, feet still tied behind her.  She still regards him coolly through damp
eyes; he may still command, but he does not yet possess.  He grabs her hair
in two handfuls andpresents himself to her, pressing his hardness against
her lips.  She refuses.  He forces her head back with one hand, delivering
a stinging blow with the other.  She whimpers, but refuses again.  He switches
hands and strikes her again.  Swaying on her knees, she raises her face to his
member, for the moment giving up, if not giving in.  Only barely does he wait
for her, thrusting deep into her mouth as soon as he feels the willing
contact, and with both hands, he forces her head into place, feeling her
struggle to breath and swallow, fighting the gag reflexes.  Instinctively her
hands come up his own naked buttocks, but he grabs the wrists in one hand and
stretches them over her head; his other hand return to the insistent grip
behind her head as he begins a fast thrusting motion with his hips.  Her
throat is tight, wet and warm, and he feels her tongue running over his swollen
dick as he plunges into her mouth.  He begins to rock on his heels with each
push, disregarding the occasional contact with her teeth as she struggles to
match his motions.  He feels his own tension beginning to peak, and starts to
ram hard into her mouth, knowing that she is being thrown off balance, but
not concern for her comfort as he feels his crotum constrict in the inevitable
climax.  His own laboured breathing explodes in an almost agonized groan as
her throat swallows around him, accepting as much as she can without setting
off gagging reflexes.  He releases her, pulling out of her mouth as he reaches
for his pants.  Unbidden, she wipes her mouth, risking a moment to settle
back on her heels to rest the muscles of her legs.  There is no reprimand
for this behaviour; rather, he seats himself on the edge of the desk behind
her and reaches out to stroke her hair.  His bare leg brushes lightly against
her bare shoulder, and she shivers at the tingling sensation that trails
along behind it.  There is a delicious feeling to the goosebumps that swell
on patches of already red and welting skin, and she sighs, concentrating on the
pleasure.  This reaction does not go unnoticed by him, and with a single tug
he releases each of the bindings in turn.  With gentle but unyielding hands,
he positions her on the floor, on her stomach, spread-eagled.  There is
nothing to hold her in this position except his will and her whim, but she
accepts his fether-touch without question as he strokes her skin, toying
periodically with the sensitive areas left in the wake of her whipping for
the sake of seeing her squirm in pleasure or agony.  Sometimes he uses the
tips of his fingers, sometimes the smooth surface of his palm, but always he
has the contact with her, touching her feet or arms, legs,back or neck.  He
discovers the sensitive spots along her spine or sides, and the charming
rippling effect he can evoke with light touches across the base of her neck.
Her head is turned to one side that she may breathe, and he criss-crosses
the exposed side of her face with the touches, until she turns slightly to
kiss his fingertips.
    Slowly, he brings from behind him his belt, but this time, it is not
meant as a weapon.  Instead, he reaches out, and gently draws both of her
arms together abover her head, binding the wrists with the supple leather.  He
does not speak as he pulls her to her feet and leads her to a space on the
wall between the door and the bookshelves, hooking her bound hands over one
of the shelf struts, and firmly separating her feet.  They lock eyes again as
he runs his hands, somewhat more insistently this time, over her body, cupping
her breasts and bring the nipple of each in turn to his warm mouth.  She
moans slightly as his teeth nip them to an enticing hardness over which his
tongue dancing.  Distracted, he slowly progresses the attentions of his
mouth towards her neck and ears, as his hands independently move to her hips,
squeezing them in a slow rythm that soon encompasses the kneading of her
buttocks as he pulls her unprotesting body against his willing own.  She feels
him waiting for her; she is aware of how desperately she wants her own
release, but resigns herself to patience, knowing he will do as he wishes when
he is ready.  Her own excitement has been steadily climbing, and this
new, gentler interaction is almost enough to send her crying into her own
orgasm.
    His lips meet her own, and this time, he does not refuse her active
participation, accepting her tongue's contact with his own.  Strong hands
lift her hips slightly, forcing her up on her toes, and she feels him slip
his dick between the outer lips of her vagina.  He lifts her again, and with
incredibly slow precision, settles her down over top of his erection, only
allowing her tiny fractions of penetration at a time.  She quirms against
him, but his legs are bent just enough, his body is just far enough below
her own to frustrate her.  With just the head of his member, he strokes
the entrance to her vagina in slow strokes, listening to the sound of her
breathing as she strains to catch him.  Her head rolls forward as she struggles
but there is no punishment this time.  Crushing her mouth, he feels her body
tense for his next stroke, and, wrapping one arm around her shoulders, and the
other around her waist, he breaks the tension with one thrust all the way
into her, smiling as the sound of her cry of victory washes over them both.
With his second slow, powerful thrust, she brings her legs up to wrap around
his waist, supporting all of her weight from the binding on her wrists as she
throws her head back against the wall.  Even his breath is rasping as he
buries himself in her, forehead pressing against her neck, licking the sweat
from her body.  The pressure has almost reached its zenith; she is grasping
at each of his thrusts with the muscles of her vagina, holding each throb just
a little bit tighter, each breath just a little bit more like that final
groan of release.  She is almost pleading now, almost crying, almost
screaming.  His fingers are almost clawing at her back, digging almost
painfully into already tender skin.  The motion has become animalistic, tribal,
baser than any other known to man, a rhythmic pumping that has no other
meaning.  Her legs tighten on his waist, and the convulsion forces them both
over the edge.  She slams her body back against the wall, pulling him and his
final thrust with her, driving it deep into her as he releases his own
orgasm with a cry and a violent shuddering, his arms clinging tightly to her
slick body as he churns the last few thrusts, emptying himself.  At last,
there is only silence.  Both of them catch their breaths; heart rates slip
into more familiar rythms, and he finally pulls away from her, lowering her
legs gently to the floor.  Her head is still back against the wall, but now
she opens unfocused eyes to watch as he gets dressed.  He has everything he
came with ready to go before he unhooks her hands from the shelf and undoes
the belt.
    "Be in the lounge at the same time tomorrow," is all he says as he
leaves, shutting the door softly behind him as he goes.

--

Mail rec.arts.erotica submissions to [e-mail].
Most software will automatically mail your postings to that address.
--
David Zinkin ([e-mail]) -- RGH Radiology and CWRU Psych/Chem ('92)

"You know, you perplex me.  Normally, people who lack physical appeal make
 up for it with an actual personality!" -- Dr. Frasier Crane ("Cheers")