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Desert Anyone? A Taste


Cover 200x300Chapter 9 –  Desert Anyone?

Just a taste of my newly published book. Tell me what you think.

 


 

Showering with you is a constant adventure. I thought I had been worn through, sexually exhausted by a day of being constantly on the edge and a final release that was so cataclysmic it was close to pain. I never knew pleasure and pain could be so intimately tied together, though I am learning with you the two are simply different sides of the same coin. As the hot water beats down on our shoulders, you hand me sponge and soap, offering to stand still while I wash you from top to bottom. With each swipe of the sponge the water rinses you, and I leave kisses in place of soap, nipping you with teeth in place of lips. I slowly work my way down your water-warmed body scraping you first with soap and sponge then with lips and teeth, until I reach your still soft penis. I gently wash it and your balls letting the soap rinse away before rolling you across my tongue and pulling you completely into my mouth, the difference between you hard and you soft against my tongue and lips excites me, and I pull you deeper into my mouth as I feel you hardening, before you push me away.

“Stand up, we don’t have time. We have dinner to finish,” you chide as you take the sponge from me, turn me around and begin to soap my shoulders and down my back with soft sensuous circles. Gliding the sponge down between my ass cheeks, still tender from this morning and sensitive to your touch, I am beginning to feel the flush of sexual build-up your touch immediately starts in me now. Slowly turning me to face you under the water, you stare into my eyes and smile, “Patience. Dinner, remember?” It is as if you knew what I was thinking. With deliberate movements you begin the slow circular massage of soap and sponge down my front, across and under breasts, down waist and across stomach and then you sit to take first one leg then other, working up from foot to thigh until with the last leg you reach my now swollen pussy.

“Stand still, just like that. Don’t move.” Holding one leg next to you on the seat spreads me wide and with long swipes from back to front you move the sponge across the delicate folds of my pussy, each time eliciting a soft moan, each time I am closer to orgasm and closer to collapsing in a heap. Then you stop suddenly pulling the handheld water toward you and pointing it at me you spray me clean of soap, and I do fall forward against you, unable to stand any longer.

The only sounds are my sob and your deep laughter then the words, “Mine, I told you mine.” I am beginning to fear this might be true, but I won’t admit it to you, at least not out loud, not yet. You gently push me back under the spray for a final rinse before we towel off, so we can finish our cooking and finally eat a full meal.

As you leave the room I stumble toward my writing clothes. I wonder what you will think of what I wear when I write. I pull out the calf-length, black lace dress with the slit up the side to the thigh; it clings to every curve I have, hides nothing yet reveals nothing either, a strange combination of virtuous and courtesan combine to make this one of my favorites. Though normally I would be barefoot to write, I know you love heels, and this one can take a heel. I slip my feet into sky high red mules and add lipstick. When I join you in the kitchen your eyes travel the curves of my body encased in lace and then alight on my face. I can see the heat in your eyes as you smile. “This is what you write in?”

“Yes, this or something similar; though usually, I am barefoot.”

“Always wear heels in the future. This is how I want to picture you when you write.”

“Alright,” I whisper.

“Alright, what?”

“Alright, My Master. I will remember to always wear heels when I write.”

You stare into my eyes trying to determine if I understand what I have promised. You don’t know yet if I will keep my promises when you are away, if I will promise what I will not do, if “My Master” is a term of endearment of something else entirely. I stand quietly under your scrutiny until you turn away, back to the stove and then back to me, “Sit, rest, read a book for a while, but do not under any circumstances come into the bedroom or touch yourself; do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand,” is the only response I can give to this direction, the only I believe you will accept.

“Huh,” you reach over to pat my ass even as you pull me in for a long and shattering kiss, lasting for what feels like an hour. Even as you release me and turn away I think, How the hell does he do that? I watch the timer on the oven, forty-five minutes ‘til we eat, and you have locked yourself away in my sanctuary, my bedroom. I am curious and even in a small way scared. What do you have in mind? You have introduced so much already, there are times I believe my world has tipped upside down, and I am a bit frightened by where we are going and my reactions so uncontrolled, yet so absolutely controlled by you.

Over a delicious and tame dinner we chat, inconsequential chatter really, yet all the time you watch me as if I am on the menu. Now and then, you reach out and stroke my arm or leg, gently as if I am cherished and in need of attention, I always lean in for your touch. With dinner complete I begin cleaning up after us, you leave the room with only one instruction, “Come when I call you. Stop what you are doing and come.”

“Of course, Beloved Master, of course.”

“Huh.” Smiling, you return to the bedroom. Twenty minutes later, time enough for me to finish the dishes, I hear you call, “Woman, come in here. Bring ice and honey with you.”

I enter the bedroom with what you have requested. At first glance, I don’t notice anything different; then, I see what you have done. In the center of my headboard you have put a large screw eye and attached to it is a swivel lock. Hanging from the lock are matching brass chains at the end of each dangle handcuffs covered in what appears to be soft fur. You are sitting on one of my chairs, from which you can see my reaction. I wonder what you see. You have left my scarves in place, they seem tame in comparison. I feel you behind me. Your hands on my arms, stroking me as I stare at what you have done to my bed and what you are suggesting you might do to me. It doesn’t feel quite as safe.

You continue to stroke my arms, then one arm pushes around me pulling me close against you, “Trust me?”

“Body, My Beloved Master, body.” With indrawn breath I give one over to you.

“It will do for now, the rest soon.”

From behind me you pull something over my head and suddenly I am in darkness; you have blindfolded me. Your hands move down from my head to my shoulders, hooking under the thin straps of my dress and pushing them down my arms baring my breasts. I can feel you move in front of me. Your hands are on me, twisting nipples and pulling them making them hard nubs, then running along my ribs until you again reach for my dress, pushing it further off my body, over hips and ass until I can step out of it.

I feel you once again step away from me. Then, I feel a tickle like feathers or a brush, and I smell honey as it hits my skin, collar bone, nipples, ribs, hips, the dimple above my ass. Every spot you find is sensitive to your teeth and lips. You mark me; even the outer lips of my pussy do not escape your painting of my body. All I could think is, What were you planning?

About Scarlett Baker

Writer, artist and thrill seeker. Scarlett is a mystery, even to herself at times. Her exploration of love stories with a touch of the dark began when she found herself single and dangling by a thread of hope mixed with a splash of the terrible. Faced with being alone for the first time in nearly twenty years, with not a clue what to do with a vast future she decided to explore the world of her fantasies, something she had done little of up until now.

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