JULIE'S SUBMISSION By Claire Thompson A Renaissance E Books publication ISBN 1-58873-157-X All rights reserved Copyright © 2003 by Claire Thompson This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission. For information contact: Renaissance E Books P. O. Box 1432 Northampton MA 01060 USA Email
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Claire Thompson
Julie's Submission
CONTENTS Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight
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CHAPTER 1 "How'd we do this morning, Lucky? How 'bout you, Lucy?" Ok, I admit it. I talk to my chickens. They seem to like it, though. I fancy it makes them produce more; knowing they're cared for. I love the feel of the still warm eggs, so fragile but with a sweet little heft to each one, as I carefully ease it out from underneath the sleepy clucking hens. Everything about that particular May morning seems to stand out in sharp relief. It was around 7:30, which is late for me. I had slept in after a restless night. My last dream was the kind that lingered, coloring the whole morning. Bits of it rose like dust from my pillows when I plumped them, creating a sense of erotic longing that left me, as usual, bereft and aching when I awoke. A soft wind rustled through the open door of the chicken house, blowing my hair back, kissing my face. It whispered to me; Randy's voice. Julie, my lovely Julie. I want you. Open yourself to me. Commanding me as usual. I set the basket down and let my head fall back, feeling my hair fall away from my face. I felt him, breathing gently against my neck, a whisper of a spirit. Sighing, I closed my eyes, forgetting the eggs, no longer hearing the squawk and chatter of the chickens around me. Running my hands over my body, my fingers lightly rested at my breasts, as the nipples rose with need. I felt the heat in my sex; the raw desire which had gone unmet for so many years now. I shivered and whispered my husband's name, slipping a hand in my jeans, following his whispered commands. He had been stolen from me; snatched from life by a drunk hit and run driver. Now, at age 36 I was still alone. I had barely looked at another man in all these years. I couldn't; the image of Randy was so strong in my mind and heart that I couldn't even fantasize about someone else. There was simply no room. The spirit of Randy enveloped and controlled me, just as he had done in life. I belonged to him and even his death had not set me free. I didn't want to be free. I think I was afraid to be.
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A hand slipped into my panties, with fingers long and strong. Randy's hand? I knew he couldn't really be there, and yet he was. Yes, they were my own fingers that pressed against me, but it was Randy's touch caressing me, easing the ache of loneliness. I moaned quietly as my own hand sought its pleasure. Then the hand jerked away, Randy's image dissipating in a mist as the rumble of a car engine caused me to turn my head toward the road. I straightened up quickly, the lethargy of my sexual need instantly erased as I listened, head cocked to hear better. Now who would be coming to see me at this hour? My nearest neighbor, Mrs. Jamison, coming to borrow some necessary ingredient for her family's breakfast? I really didn't have any friends to speak of. Moving from another town fifty miles away, Randy and I had bought the farm when we had married. We had been so absorbed in getting it up and running that it was really our whole world. Eventually we made a few friends in town, but Randy had been at the heart of our social life, such as it was. I was happy to be in the background, letting his larger-than-life personality carry both of us. When he died, my will, my desire, to keep up any contacts had died too. People had tried to be friendly at first, to visit and to include me, but it wasn't the same without Randy, and they gave up fairly easily. Frankly this suited me. I had always been in the shadow of Randy's warm light and had liked it that way. The car was in view now, an old gray Ford with a dented bumper and one mismatched door of faded red. It pulled up into my circular dirt drive and the man inside cut the engine. I stood still by the hen house, clutching my basket, suddenly wishing I had the gun that I kept locked in a drawer on Randy's side of the bed. I hate guns, but at this particular moment, as my heart started a little tattoo against my chest, I felt like I needed it. We don't get strangers much around here and I never got them. My heart quickened with a twinge of fear as I watched him climb out of the car. I stood with what I hoped was resolute firmness; chin stuck out a little, shoulders back, expression grim.
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A tall man emerged from the car. His dark blond hair was tousled and his face was dotted with a few days of stubble. I strode toward him, pretending a confidence I didn't feel. "Can I help you? This here's private property." The man looked apologetic, glancing at his watch as if he only just realized it was a little early to come calling. I peered at him, stepping a little closer to get a better look. He was a stranger to me. Who was this man? Answering my unspoken question he said, "Excuse me, are you Mrs. Bradley? That posted the ad in town? Needing a handy man? Because that would be me, ma'am. I can fix anything. And I could use some work. I'm new in this neck of the woods." His voice was deep, the timber pleasing, the twang southern. Ah, the ad. But why didn't he just call, like a normal person would? I guessed he must have asked someone in town where the farm was, since I hadn't put my address. I needed some work done, and with old Mr. Henley now rendered partially paralyzed by his stroke, I couldn't rely on my regular Mr. Fix-It. I had tacked the little flyer on the post office bulletin board last week, asking for a "handy man" to give me some estimates on various and sundry repairs I hadn't been making in these past years. "I'm sorry to come by so early, ma'am, and without calling. I don't exactly have a phone at the moment. I'm a very early riser and I thought maybe if I got here early, I'd have a better chance. I hope I haven't intruded, ma'am. I could just wait in my car till a more convenient time." He started to turn back toward his car. "No, no," I stopped him. "Seeing as you're here, we might as well discuss things. I'll show you what I've got and maybe we can work something out." "Thank you," he said, smiling, extending his hand. "I really appreciate it, Mrs. Bradley. My name is Bill. Bill Thompson. Pleased to meet you." I took the offered hand, noticing the strong firm grip of a well-calloused hand. A workman's hand. That was a good sign, at least. I couldn't help but smile back; something in his face compelled a response and I found my suspicions easing.
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We dropped hands and I hid mine, suddenly self-conscious of my stubby bitten nails and torn cuticles. We stepped back from one another. Surreptitiously I looked him up and down. A long lean body under a worn, soft cotton t-shirt of faded blue and jeans so bleached they were almost white. He seemed to be eyeing me as well, and I felt a shiver suddenly, as if he could see through my clothes. Perversely, my nipples hardened again, momentarily confusing me, since only my Randy could do that to me. I shifted slightly, covering myself protectively, hoping he hadn't noticed. The man looked away, pushing a thick lock of hair from his forehead. As we began to walk toward the hen house where the first repairs would be needed, he asked, "Is there a Mr. Bradley, ma'am?" I colored a little and almost said, "Yes, of course," but of course there wasn't. At least not someone anyone else could see. The fact that Randy was still realer to me than most living people was not something I felt would be readily understood by most folks. "I'm a widow," I said quietly. "That's why I need a handy man. I can do some of this stuff, but most of it's beyond me." "I'm sorry," he said simply, and left it at that, which I appreciated. We walked and discussed what needed to be done. Bill offered some very reasonable prices to fix things. I realized with a small surprise that I was actually enjoying this little walk and talk with someone on this spring morning. Usually it was just Randy and me. I would feel his presence like a palpable thing next to me as I collected eggs and walked the grounds, as I ran my pottery wheel in the shed, as I brushed my teeth and showered, and especially when I lay down to bed. He was always there, my secret spirit. Even when he had been alive, we had been a unit unto ourselves. We were our own universe, he used to tell me, still told me, if I were to be honest. As a result, when my husband was killed, nothing much changed in my life. My parents are dead, and my sister lives 2,000 miles away. I always consoled myself with the fact that I liked my solitude. I didn't need anyone else and I liked it that way. And yet I couldn't deny the smallest flowering of excitement, of anticipation at having this man,
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this stranger, suddenly walking by my side, with a promise of many more hours if he were to complete the discussed repairs. You don't need him. I'll show you what to do. I jumped a little; Randy had never "talked" to me before when other people were around. The voice was so loud in my own head I actually glanced over to see if Bill had heard! But he was walking quietly along, no indication that anything was amiss; no sign that he was aware that spirits from beyond the grave were buzzing in my head. Despite Randy's silent admonitions, I realized with a first pang of guilt that I didn't want to send this man away. When I had advertised for a handy man, for some reason I had it in my head that I'd get another grizzled old man like Mr. Henley to come up and "do for me" as they say. It didn't occur to me I'd get a young sexy guy, who admittedly looked a little worse for wear, but had sparked the first interest I had in another man for as long as I could remember. I smoothed back my hair, secretly trying to brush it with my fingers, whispering in my head to Randy that I was just trying to be polite. My hair is thick and hangs down to my shoulders, curling and waving however it feels like. I don't usually pay it any mind, but I realized with a small shock of surprise that I was self-conscious around this guy. I suddenly thought about my face, my 36 year old face, which had nothing but a kiss of the sun for color. No makeup graced its thin sharp planes. My nose is long and straight and my chin a trifle too prominent. Randy said I had a tendency to thrust it out when I was mad or scared. My eyes are brown and large, almost too large for my thin face. Randy said they were haunting eyes; lover's eyes, and I let him say it. And I'm your only lover, don't forget. Get another man for the job; this guy's the wrong one. Randy was whispering now, in that cajoling tone he used when he wanted to convince me to do something I didn't want to do. And in the end, if not sooner, I always did what Randy wanted. Since I was 16 and the 26-year-old bigger-than-life man had entered my life as a boarder at my parents' house, I had never said no to him. It was as simple as that. My family had approved of the older
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man who swept me off my feet. My dad especially had old-fashioned notions about someone taking care of me when he no longer could. Randy did court me like a gentleman, refusing to introduce me to the forbidden pleasures of sex until we were engaged when I turned 17. And when we married a year later, I promised to cherish him till death did us part, and it turned out, beyond. For some reason, up until that day when Bill Thompson pulled up in his old Ford, it hadn't troubled me that my dead husband still talked to me. I heard his raspy sweet voice all day long, keeping me company and keeping his memory vivid even after all these years. I could have gone to therapy, I guess, to stop the voice, but I liked it; I needed it. And I always obeyed it, as I had done when he was alive. I'm a strong woman, but I like a stronger man; one who tells me what's what. Just the way I'm built, I suppose. Today, for the first time, I decided to ignore him. I realized I didn't want to send Bill away. And yet guilt tugged quietly at me. "Oh, hush," I actually said out loud. "Excuse me?" Bill turned toward me. I blushed and mumbled something about the chickens scrabbling. I had told Randy to hush! What in the world would happen next? We finished touring the grounds and went into the kitchen to work out the numbers. I offered Bill some coffee, which he drank greedily, after heaping spoons of sugar and pouring enough cream to fill it to the top of the mug. I drank my third cup, feeling the jittery edge of too much caffeine, watching him over the rim, pretending I wasn't. It occurred to me as he drank it that the man was hungry. Southern hospitality came to the fore and I said, "I haven't had breakfast yet. Would you care to join me? Just eggs and bacon, but I have plenty." Actually I'd had breakfast, but I wouldn't mind another one. I've always had a hearty appetite. Randy used to tease me that I had a tapeworm in me, because I could eat like a horse and still remain slim. That was less true these days; I'd noticed my waist thickening a bit, but what was one little extra meal?
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"That'd be very nice, ma'am," he said, biting his lower lip, his eyes burning with a contained desire that I was certain now was hunger, restrained by politeness and caution. I smiled, wondering silently why this strong young man was hungry, why he didn't seem to have food to eat or a job to earn himself a living. But of course I didn't inquire. Instead, I directed him to the table while I went to scramble fresh eggs and fry some bacon. In a few minutes I dumped a big pile of yellow fragrant eggs on his plate, and a smaller amount on my own. Then I brought the bacon, which I had laid out on a paper towel, and gave him six pieces, and three for myself. He picked up his fork, and then set it down again, clearly waiting for me. I liked that; he had some manners, even when he was so clearly ravenous. After I poured him another cup of coffee, I sat across from him and offered the cream from the little cow creamer that I've had since I was a little girl. You hold it by the little curled tail and it pours cream from the mouth. The porcelain is a faded white with black spots here and there, like a real cow. I love that creamer, even with its pale crack from the time my sister dropped it and my dad had carefully re-glued it. "Eat up," I said now, taking pity on him. Bill at once grabbed his fork and began shoveling steaming bites of egg and bacon into his mouth. He paused only to slurp coffee and take big bites of toast. I felt curiously pleased; I hadn't had anyone to cook for in so long I had forgotten the sense of satisfaction you could derive from watching someone enjoy what you have cooked. Again I felt myself softening slightly toward him. Randy was silent for the moment. Bill didn't stop until his plate was clean. But when I offered to make him more he shook his head. "No, thank you though. I think I ate a little too much as it is. I guess I didn't realize how hungry I was. It was delicious." I nodded, and stood to clear the table. Bill jumped up to help. Randy wouldn't have done that. Women's work, he always told me, and I didn't mind. But I let Bill help, even allowing him to dry my old
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china plates after I had washed them. I realized I was prolonging the moment till he took his leave. I glanced sidelong at Bill, secretly admiring his thickly muscled forearms, hushing Randy in my mind. The little pull in my groin made me shift slightly, accompanied by a stab of guilt at my unfaithful body. I felt my nipples stiffen again against my blouse and I turned away from him, thinking how long it'd been since I'd lain with a man. This line of thinking made my face feel hot, and I was afraid I might be blushing! Julie. Where are you, baby? What's happening? Guilt overcame whatever desire there might be and I clamped my mouth into a thin line, determined to remain faithful to my dead husband, not yet admitting how crazy that line of thinking was. I showed Bill where to begin on the henhouse, and left him to it, angry with myself for acting like a schoolgirl in front of him. I took care of my daily chores and then checked back, to find Bill sweating and the henhouse roof mostly repaired. The work looked professional and I was pleased. Along with cash for the job, I brought him some lemonade, which he drank gratefully, making me wish I'd brought the whole pitcher. I almost offered him lunch, but decided I was being too forward, and let him go, watching him drive off in that old clunker of his, wondering where he was going. *** That night in bed it took me a while to fall asleep. I did finally drift off, only to be awakened from an instantly forgotten dream that had left me so aroused that just turning over and moving a leg had made me come. And then Randy was right there, guiding my hand, burying my thoughts of Bill, turning them back toward him, the only man I had ever lain with. Randy was inside my head, and he knew I was thinking about Bill, comparing the two of them, wondering about Bill's naked body, which was longer and leaner than Randy's compact, muscular build. Randy guided me to another orgasm, leading my hand in a little dance over my pussy, spreading my legs, kissing my mouth with his ghost of a mouth, playing with my breast with fingers he guided,
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making me forget anyone but him. After I came a second time, my little gasps muted by the pillow, I lay still, staring out the window. The moon was just past full, bright in a blue-black sky. *** As I got dressed the next morning I took more care than usual, brushing out my hair and wearing something with a little color to it. Not that Bill would notice, I was sure. I actually toyed with the idea of makeup for a moment, but quickly recognized how ridiculous that would be. And so obvious. An old widow dressing up for the hired help. I was angry at myself for even thinking about it. And yet, as I buttoned the blouse, an image, unbidden, of his thick fingers pulling them open popped into my mind. This was crazy stuff. Pulling on my jeans, I slammed out of my bedroom and went to my barn to throw some clay before I made a complete fool out of myself. When Bill arrived at our agreed upon time of 8:00 I didn't offer him breakfast, not wanting to appear overly friendly. He was, after all, just the hired hand. I had paid him in cash the day before, so presumably he at least had gotten himself some food. He was still wearing the same dirty clothes, and still hadn't shaved. What was with this guy? I left him to his own devices as he went from project to project. He took a break around lunchtime. I spied on him, sitting in his car, not eating, but drinking from a big plastic jug of water. Wasn't he hungry? He leaned back, tilting his cap over his head, in a pose to "catch a little shuteye." It suddenly occurred to me that he might be very used to sleeping in that position. Curiosity won out over politeness. I decided to find out the mystery behind this mystery man. To do so, I invited him to an early supper, to which he readily agreed. Over a simple meal of hamburgers and corn on the cob, we engaged in small talk about the jobs he was working on for me. Finally I came right out with it. "So, if you don't mind my asking, where do you live, Bill?" I half expected what he said but was surprised he was admitting it. "Right now I'm living in my car." "Your car!"
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"Yeah, you might say I'm between homes right now. It's been a couple of weeks. I'm trying to save to get the deposit for an apartment, as soon as I figure out where I want to settle. I've been on the move, doing odd jobs as I go. I responded to your ad because I like farms. I grew up on one, as a matter of fact, and I miss the country life." "Well, I know it's none of my business, but–" "But you want to know why a strong able-bodied guy like myself is such a loser with no home and no job, right?" I blushed a little and looked away, but didn't deny it. Loser, Randy echoed silently. "Well, I'll tell you straight out. I'm a drunk. At least I've been a drunk for most of my adult life. I've been sober now for about three months and I plan to stay that way. I left my girlfriend of five years right after she kicked me out." He laughed a little, but there was no mirth in it. "I left everything with her. All the furniture, the good car, the house. All of it. I want to start fresh and make my way up again. This time without scotch and rye to get me through. And I'll do it, too. I'll do it or die trying." He looked at me almost defiantly, as if he were daring me to disagree. I was surprised at his candor. But at least it made sense now. Dangerous, that's what he is. Throw the bum out. I ignored Randy, thinking about the courage it must have taken to just up and leave, and not turn to the bottle for solace. What better excuse than having no woman and no home? But instead here he was, working for me, trying to begin a better life. Well, I had a good life, even if it was a lonely one, and I could help him, at least a little. I didn't know how to respond directly to what he'd said. So I just nodded and offered, "Would you like to take a shower?" He seemed taken aback at first by my response. Then he laughed, his expression rueful. "I must smell like a pig in a pen! There's nothing I'd like better. Thank you." After he got some fresh clothes from his car, I showed him the shower in the downstairs bathroom that Randy had installed. He had lovingly restored our old farmhouse and made it quite livable, adding
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the modern kitchen and the second bathroom. Now I felt his displeasure like something physical as I led Bill into the bathroom, armed with fresh soap and a big towel. I found myself wishing, for the first time, that Randy would leave me be. I quashed the thought almost before it surfaced, and busied myself in the kitchen, turning on the radio to shut out the voice in my head. When he came out a while later, Bill looked like a different man. His hair was much blonder than I had first thought; it was almost white, bleached by the sun into fine pale gold. His eyes looked bluer against a freshly shaven face. I drew in my breath slightly, turning away. Bill drove away soon after that, with a promise to return in the morning to finish the last of the jobs I had given him. I realized I didn't want him to leave, to drive off in that old jalopy, doing odd jobs across Texas while he looked for something permanent to do. Then I had a thought, which at first I ignored, but which wouldn't go away. What if he stayed here? I had fallow land out back – land that had been laid to rest when Randy had been. I didn't have the heart or gumption to plant and plow the fields. And because of Randy's insurance, I didn't need the money. I lived very comfortably off the interest from the policy, which was safely invested. It allowed me to continue with my pottery and my puttering. I only kept the chickens because I liked them, and I liked the fresh eggs. But my farmland was good land, with good fertile soil, especially after this enforced fallow period while I mourned my loss. Maybe it was time to begin again? The thought of those green shoots of corn coming up, and the tall brown and yellow sunflowers, with their dusty black faces, made me long suddenly for what had been lost. Did I really care, or did I just want to offer something to keep Bill around? Would he even be interested? Farming is hard work, but at least I could offer him a place to stay, and good honest labor. I was anxious the next morning. Distractedly I nibbled on a fingernail, then stopped myself, thinking for the hundredth time that I had to quit. Too much caffeine and nervous fingers, a Nervous Nelly, Randy used to call me. Waiting for Bill to show, I knew my own
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motives were suspect, but I was offering him something of value. I laid it out for him pretty simply, describing the land and the crops we could grow there, if he was interested. "If you're willing to work, I've got several acres out back that haven't been farmed in years." The little ache as a flash of Randy, grinning, sweating, riding his tractor among the crops, passed my mind's eye. Would he want it farmed again, in honor of him? I didn't give the spirit time to answer, but went on, "Corn and sunflowers. Actually, this is the time to plant, for the best yields around here. I have seed, if you think it's worth it." I waited, pretending a casualness I did not feel. For some reason, for many reasons, I wanted this man, this virtual stranger, to stay. The world seemed to suspend for a moment while I tried to deny to myself that it mattered what he said. Bill said quietly, "You may just be saving my life. The answer is yes. Absolutely. I'll make sure I don't let you down. And if you need me to go; if it isn't working out, you say the word." I looked at him, feeling a crazy heat suffuse my neck and chest. His eyes were the color of the sea, aquamarine and piercing. I felt for a ridiculous moment as if they were penetrating my skin, my muscle and bone, right to the heart of me. I looked away, confused, aching, not sure if it was for him, or because of him, or because of Randy, and what could never be again. *** Bill had been living in my spare bedroom for two weeks. He was an eager and hardworking farmer, and had already gotten the land ready for planting. What he lacked in experience he made up for in enthusiasm. The work agreed with him, and his skin was soon bronzed, setting off his blond hair and blue eyes to great advantage. I found myself caught up in his energy. Randy's constant conversation in my head had quieted to a little whisper, but he was still there. I would watch Bill, thinking of him, comparing him with Randy in my mind. I tried to be discreet as I stared at his long lean body, and mentally compared it to my husband's. Bill was taller, and aside from his arms, more leanly muscled than Randy had been. But very sexy in his own non-Randy way.
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The nights were hardest, when we were both in our separate rooms. We passed the evenings pleasantly enough, when Bill stayed around. He often drove away from the farm, saying good night before he left and I never got up the nerve to ask him where he went. When he did stick around, we would listen to the radio and read companionably on the porch, or watch some show on television. Bill was always the perfect gentleman, never dropping the slightest hint that he regarded me as anything other than his employer, and perhaps friend. We were on a first name basis, but it never went beyond that. Not that I expected it to. Or wanted it to. Or did I? Sometimes I thought I didn't know what I wanted. Part of me was relieved I didn't have to rebuff the advances of some guy, but another part of me was insulted that he never tried. Was it because I was too old for him? He was only 30, and I was 36. I had always been Randy's "little girl." I wasn't sure I liked being "the older woman." Of course, this line of thinking was ridiculous, as it implied that Bill thought of me as anything other than his boss, which obviously, he didn't. But at night, alone in my room, I would lie back, thinking about Bill, pretending to myself I was thinking about Randy. I would feel that familiar tightness in my pussy that until now only Randy had produced. Pressing my legs together, trying to ignore the new tender ache in my sex, I would turn over on my side, trying to find a cool spot among the tangle of sheets. I wasn't ready yet, I decided. It would be a betrayal. I closed my eyes, willing myself to sleep, hoping for no more fevered dreams. *** One evening we were sitting on the porch and an almost cool breeze blew my hair, which I had let down from its restricting ponytail as the air had cooled. Distracted, I put a fingertip into my mouth. "Why do you do that?" Bill startled me out of a reverie. "Do what?" "Bite your nails like that. What have you got to be nervous about out here in the peaceful country?"
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We were out on my nice old wrap-around porch. I was sitting on the step, sewing a button on one of Randy's old work shirts I had lent Bill, and he was standing, leaning against the railing, staring out across the flat plains of farmland. I leaned my face into the breeze, smelling the clean air before answering. "I don't know, really," I said slowly. "I've always done it. It's just habit, I guess." I looked down at my fingers, at the raggedy edged nails and ripped cuticles. I wanted to suck on my index finger where I'd bitten a little too low and it hurt, but I certainly wasn't about to do that in front of Bill now. Setting the sewing aside, I hid my hands under my thighs as I admitted, "I think I'm kind of a nervous person, really." "I don't agree." He sounded so certain; it was at once irritating and compelling. "Well, excuse me for saying so, but you don't know me all that well." "I know, but I get feelings about people. I think this nervous hyperenergy thing you do is a cover-up." I was at once annoyed and intrigued, not sure if I should be insulted or not. I waited for him to continue, which he did. "I think you're really a calm, deeply serene person who hasn't found what she is looking for yet. Yeah, life's dealt you some shit, but that doesn't change a person's underlying nature. "I think maybe something's missing in your life, and you rush around going nowhere looking for it. But you haven't defined it yet. Maybe it isn't any one thing, exactly, but more a state of mind. Maybe it's an acceptance. That's something we all work toward, I guess." "Huh," was all I said, but he got me thinking. In addition to the obvious stuff of being a widow, I did have a secret. A painful secret that I took out sometimes and wrapped around myself like a hair shirt, though less and less these days. I couldn't have babies. We'd tried for years, Randy and me, and finally after all the pills and poking and tests, they told me to forget
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about it. We could adopt, they told us. I was willing, but Randy wasn't. "You don't know what we'd get," he'd tell me. "Bad genes. That's why the kid's up for adoption in the first place. Bad genes. Bad parents. Bad news." I protested at first, but he was adamant. And we had each other, he'd remind me. What more did we need? His will was so much stronger than my own, and his ways were so winning, and I always backed down. Now I found myself wondering what would have happened if I'd insisted? Would he have gone along? Would I have a child now to nurture, now that my husband was dead and cold in the ground, and "our little universe" was just some distant sad little memory? I sighed deeply, shaking my head to shake out this crazy cobweb of useless "what if" thought. Leaning forward on my elbows, I felt Bill slide down so that he was sitting next to me on the top step. I was aware that he was next to me now, but I didn't turn toward him. Something had shifted in the air between us. I felt him move closer to me; saw him from the corner of my eye. The hairs on the back of my neck rose, but I wasn't afraid. He turned his face toward me, and slowly lifted his arm, like he was approaching a rabbit or wild deer. He brushed a strand of hair from my cheek. I started; he had never touched me before, till now even seeming to avoid being too close to me. His finger brushed my cheek as he moved the hair from my face. I felt the touch like something electric against my skin. Something alive. He didn't speak; he just stared at me, his eyes again penetrating the muscle, the bone, the essence of me until I turned away, flushed, my eyes downcast, heart thumping absurdly in my chest. His finger again on my face, this time under my chin, lifting my head, forcing me to look at him. He leaned down, his lips slightly parted. Oh my god, he was going to kiss me, I was sure of it. I jerked back, suddenly frightened, Randy's memory a screaming cacophony of protest in my head. This couldn't be happening. Shouldn't be happening. Julie! Randy!
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But Bill couldn't hear the spirit's silent shouts, and his other hand came around behind my head, holding me still, no escape. He continued to lean down, inexorably, until his lips found mine. It was a gentle kiss, but there was no question. No permission asked. He just took what he wanted and I found myself kissing him back. His lips were soft and warm, compelling, and I found my own mouth parting, seeking his offered tongue, enfolding it, accepting it like a little bird greedy for what I had forgotten I craved. This time when I pulled away he let me, watching me with those eyes, now hooded, his expression obscured. I felt flushed and I was breathing heavily, my mouth open, trying to get oxygen, trying to collect myself. I could feel myself falling, falling into something dangerous, something forbidden. My guilt was sharp as razor blades as the spirit of Randy slid up into my mind's eye, his face a mask of reproach. He'd always been a jealous lover and even in death he remained so. But his image paled as Bill leaned forward again, this time taking me in his strong arms. Those arms shaped to work the earth, to work machines, to work on me, to hold me, to embrace me, to own me. After another moment, he let me go. I sat still, trying to recover, my mind reeling with confusion. Randy, Bill, my own unmet, pent up desires, my insecurities around this virile man, the possibilities his kiss had just opened up before me, like a vast chasm that I could fall into or run away from. Ridiculously, I started to cry. Bill didn't move. He turned toward me, his face calm, his eyes understanding, but he didn't speak. He didn't wrap his arms protectively around me, for which I was grateful, because the broken dam of tears would have drowned us both. It wasn't a dainty cry, with tears slipping prettily down my cheeks, eyes luminous and filled with sorrow, like in the romance novels I used to read when I was young. It was a gut wrenching terrible heaving of grief, my reddened nose gooey with snot and gasping raspy keening sobs being pulled from deep inside of me. Bill sat calmly through it all, like this happened to him all the time – he kissed a woman and she burst into hysterical sobbing.
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Why was I crying? Was I crying for that lost baby I had never had? Was I crying at last the healing cry of true mourning? Was I only now admitting with my whole being that Randy was truly and really dead? He wasn't alive inside of me. That spirit that constantly whispered and directed me wasn't Randy. Randy was gone. And who would be there now that Bill had chased him away? The tears weren't purely sadness. No. It was a combination of that loss, and of a strange little tendril, a green wobbly shoot of, what was it? Hope? Desire? Surely that kiss meant nothing, or next to nothing, to Bill. To this rambling man who could just pick up and leave at the drop of a hat. He was a tumbleweed rolling through my life, just like in some corny western, where the girl is left longing while the man rides off in black, tall on his horse, the perennial loner. And yet to me that kiss, oh that kiss. I'd kissed other boys before, other than Randy. Groping stolen kisses in movie theaters and cars in the two years of high school before I'd met Randy. And of course Randy's kisses had sustained me for all the years of our marriage. I still felt the imprint of his last weak kiss, just before he died, on the stretcher before they loaded him into the ambulance and rushed him to the hospital where he was pronounced dead on arrival. I burst into fresh tears, quieter now. Instinctively Bill understood it was time to hold me, and he did, though still he was silent, waiting for me. Finally I quieted, exhausted, my face blotched, sniffing and wiping my cheeks with the back of my hand, totally unladylike. My shuddering breaths slowly eased and at last I was still, just letting him hold me, my mind truly empty for the first time I could remember. The night was still – just crickets playing their little violins, and the occasional bullfrog burping. Bill held me cradled against his chest and I became aware of the steady slow thump of his heart against my ear. He smelled nice. Like the loam from the fields, and something fresh and piney with a hint of lemon. A masculine smell. I tried, out of habit, to remember Randy's smell, and realized with a little jolt that I couldn't. I could see his face, hear his voice, but I couldn't remember his smell! I was losing him. Wait, that was crazy, he'd
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been dead for six years, I'd lost him years ago. But oddly it was only now I was realizing it, in my bones. "Oh my god," I said, "My husband's dead." Bill held me still; I couldn't see him. He must have thought I was crazy; I think I was, in fact. I had kept Randy like a pearl tucked between my breasts, as if that would shield me from the loss, like a secret talisman against living in the world without him. That kiss had unleashed something, either that or it was just that the timing was right, but for the first time since Randy had died, I wanted to, no, I needed to talk to someone about it. Slowly I sat up, and Bill's arms released me, giving me space as he shifted slightly away from me. Then, as if he could read minds, he tilted his head to the side. "Tell me." I breathed in deeply and looked at him. He sat there looking at me, a watchful, interested expression on his face. And something else too – tenderness. Suddenly I didn't know what to say, how to put it when I wasn't quite sure what it was. But somehow I began, and I talked and talked, talked until my throat was raspy. And he talked too, sharing about his own losses, and his own dreams until the sky went from black to indigo to gray and purple. Talked out, we went to bed, each to our own bed, though I wondered for a second if he'd suggest something different. I slept deeply that night, no dreams piercing my consciousness, and in the morning I realized that something had changed. After six years of walking in my sleep, something had awakened inside me. I only hoped I was ready for whatever lay ahead.
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CHAPTER 2 I dipped my hand into a blue-and-white speckled pan filled with Purina feed and threw it to the chickens in the yard. They ran every which way with their heads down close to the ground, trying their best to beat all the other chickens to each grain. After I emptied the pan, I walked over to the hose and rinsed it out and hung it on a nail on the side of the henhouse. The sun was just peeping out over the horizon as I wiped my hands on my jeans and walked back into the house. The smell of fresh brewing coffee wafted toward me, momentarily confusing me. I hadn't remembered putting the coffee on! In an instant I realized it must be Bill who had done it. I smiled, pleased at his initiative, but slightly flustered that someone had been in my kitchen, handling my things. He looked so happy there, sitting at the table, two mugs set out, my little creamer filled and ready next to my plate. I looked at him, feeling a little embarrassed about the prior night, about the tears and the kisses. Especially the kisses. He didn't seem in the slightest perturbed, instead, after greeting me, launched into his plans for the farm. He rambled on about the tractor, and some equipment and things he needed to get in town. After a hurried breakfast, he was off to see to his work. Nothing was said about the night before, by either of us, though I was fairly burning with it. Hadn't it meant a thing to him? Maybe he was shy like I was to bring it up. I supposed it was understandable. And while it had loomed so large for me, why should a young man like him bother with thoughts of an old widow woman who had talked crazy for a couple of hours about her dead husband who still lived on in her head and body. I sighed, turning to the dishes before I started my day. I waited for my husband's familiar chatter in my head, but Randy was silent. I felt the emptiness of his lack. I realized with a certain finality that he had disappeared and he wasn't coming back. I don't know how I knew this, but I felt it in my bones. I recognized with some melancholy that
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I was going to miss him. But I was also relieved. I tested that fledgling feeling of relief, waiting for the accompanying guilt. But it didn't come. A weight had been lifted somehow. I was being given a new chance at life. Or I was taking it. From the kitchen window I spied on Bill tinkering happily with the tractor. Touching my lips, I could still feel where his mouth had pressed against mine, still remember his taste, his touch. I felt my body remembering too, responding, wanting more. This was crazy! I had to stop and realize I was clearly making more of it than he had, that was for sure. Men were like that; a kiss could mean next to nothing to them, while a woman would analyze that kiss to death, muse on it; dream of it, recreate it until it took on a life of its own. Disgusted with myself, I went about my chores, forcing the sweet memory of that kiss from my mind. Of course, as soon as Bill joined me for lunch it all came flooding back. When he spoke to me I realized he had been asking a question and I hadn't even heard him. I was too busy staring at the shape of his mouth, and noticing how red his lips looked, like some sweet fruit waiting to be bitten. What was he saying? Something about the seed. I answered, avoiding his eyes, focusing instead on a point just past his shoulder. "What is it, Julie? Did I do something wrong? Are you sick?" I mumbled in the negative, but he pressed me. "Come on. I've been around you enough now to know you're out of sorts. What is it?" Irritation won out over shyness. "That kiss, you idiot! How can you kiss someone like that and then act like it doesn't mean a thing? Like nothing has changed between us?" I looked away, feeling my mouth bunched in anger, embarrassed that I had admitted what was so hotly on my mind. To my surprise, Bill threw back his head and let go a hearty roar of laughter. I was incensed. How dare he laugh at me? Just because I was older than he, perhaps not as attractive as what he was used to. I stood up abruptly, the chair falling over behind me, ready to flee from the kitchen.
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He blocked my way, putting his hands on my shoulders. "You silly, sweet thing," he said, still chuckling. He pressed me, forcing me backwards until I was against the wall. His hands were still on my shoulders and he leaned down until our faces were almost touching. I tried to turn away, still angry, mostly embarrassed that I had allowed myself to be so vulnerable in front of him. His mouth followed mine as he held me still, leaning his body in until I felt his hard chest press against my breasts, and his thighs against mine. "Silly sweet girl," he said again. "You just need another kiss, don't you? I'm sorry, angel, I didn't give you your good morning kiss." He was making fun of me. I didn't need any mercy kisses. I struggled against him, humiliated. But then his mouth was on mine, his lips insistent, his tongue forcing my mouth open. This kiss was different from the ones last night. This kiss was more demanding, taking what it wanted from me, forcing me to yield to its sweet command. Now his hard strong hands were on my face, cradling me, holding me still as he kissed and kissed my mouth with his, his tongue everywhere, his hard body pressing against me. I could feel his heat, and his hardness. This wasn't a mercy kiss after all. It was passionate and intense and I stopped thinking finally and just gave in to it, letting myself be controlled by his mouth, by his tongue, by his hands and body against mine. After a few seconds, or maybe it was an hour, he stopped and pulled away, regarding me through partially closed eyes, his lips parted, his expression enigmatic. My blood felt like liquid heat coursing through me. I wanted more, more kisses, and more than that. I would have lay down on the floor right then and let him fuck me if he'd wanted to. His kisses had aroused me to such a degree that my poor pussy felt swollen and wet inside my panties. And for the first time in my life, it wasn't Randy who I wanted to touch it. It was this man before me, this virtual stranger. I leaned toward him, begging him silently to take what I didn't dare offer aloud. Something in my upbringing had always made it difficult for me to ask a man for what I wanted sexually, and now was no
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exception. I had to hope he wanted what I wanted, and was going to take it. Instead, Bill stepped further back and stared at me a minute longer, until I felt myself begin to blush. I must have looked like a total slut, standing there, breasts heaving, lips glistening with his kisses, waiting to be "taken." I wrapped my arms around myself and consciously closed my mouth, wondering what was going on. "You're not ready for more," Bill informed me. How dare he tell me what I was ready for! I opened my mouth to protest but he silenced me with a finger against it. "Shh, don't say a thing, Julie. Don't speak. If I were to take you now, it would just be a gut response between two lonely people. It wouldn't be what I want with you. What I think you want with me. I'm going to go now and work outside. You know I'm right. Go wash your face. I'll see you later, sugar." Then the bastard kissed me on the forehead like I was a child, and left me alone in the kitchen with my hot needy pussy, empty arms and jumbled thoughts. *** Somehow I got through that day, and several more like it. Each day Bill would kiss me, just once, and each day it was like a little piece of heaven he deigned to shower down upon me. Each time he took a little more liberty – a touch on my breast, or pressing his ample erection against my hip. I would respond ardently, greedily, desperately, but he always pulled back, withdrew just when I was ready to pull off my clothes and beg him for what I needed. He left me each time aching, needy and humiliated that he hadn't wanted what I so clearly offered. By the fourth day I couldn't stand it. When he came toward me with that hooded expression that I knew meant he was ready for that kiss, I ran from him. "Get away from me, you son of bitch!" I yelled, running. He wasn't going to tease me anymore, no sir! This bizarre treatment had left me so swollen and hot at night that I only had to touch my pussy lips and I would come. Once the edge was off, I spent hours touching and playing with myself, half wishing he would burst in on me and make love to me, half wishing I had never met such a crazy man, such a
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"pussy tease" if there were such a word! And yet night after night, for three nights running, he had politely said good night after dinner and either gone out or gone to his room to do god knows what, leaving me alone and half crazy with desire. Bill came after me, his strides long and sure. But I got to my bedroom first and slammed the door shut. I leaned against it, fuming, and at the same time berating myself for missing my daily kiss, my daily dose of a hot tease that was better than nothing! He would have to leave; this was crazy stuff. Now that I knew I didn't want to spend the rest of my life as a lonely widow, I could find another man, surely. There were plenty of single guys down in town I could date, maybe. If I wanted to. Bill knocked on the door. "Open it, Julie. Open your door. Now." I wouldn't. I didn't answer; just shook my head silently. He wasn't coming in. Fuck him! I reached back and turned the little lock above the knob. Just as it was clicking into place Bill's hard shoulder slammed against the wood and the door swung open, knocking me forward as I stumbled to regain my footing. Bill was in the door, and he lunged at me, grabbing me, throwing me down on the bed. I screamed and struggled in his strong arms. "Get away from me, you bastard! I don't want your stupid kisses! I don't need your pity! Get off me! Leave me alone!" I was struggling against his firm embrace, yelling, angry, my blood boiling at all the perceived insults I felt his behavior toward me represented. He got me in a bear hug while I thrashed and cursed. But Bill still held me tightly, his arms strong and sure around me. He wasn't going to let me go until I quieted. Finally, out of breath and exhausted, I went limp. He eased his grip, but still didn't let go. After a minute or two he said, "Are you done yet, Julie?" I nodded, too tired and confused to respond aloud. I would send him on his way in the morning. I couldn't handle my feelings anymore. Then he said, "Are you ready for me, Julie? Are you ready for me to claim you now?" "What?" The language was strange. Claim me? What was this, the middle ages? And yet my gut understood just what he was saying.
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Completely. Still, I denied it, and demanded again, "What did you say?" "I want you, Julie, my beautiful girl. But only on my terms. I don't want to be your little fling. Your first affair after your husband. If I take you, and that's what it will be, it has to be on my terms, and you have to want it with all your heart. I don't think you're there yet, do you, Julie?" "I don't know what you're talking about, Bill. I just know you've teased me beyond tolerance and I'm not going put up with it anymore and–" "Shh. Stop, Julie. Don't do all that talking with your mouth when you know your heart feels otherwise. You've felt the connection; I know you have. I know you haven't had a lot of experience with men." He knew I'd only ever been with Randy, and the bastard was flinging it in my face. Or was he just stating a fact? I didn't know which way was up at that point. He continued, "I don't want to take advantage of you. Of your loneliness, or your need. You should understand something about me, Julie. I am not a tease, as you claim. I'm not out to turn you on so I can fuck you and then hit the road for the next conquest. I love what we're building here. What we're beginning together. I love this farm and the potential I feel between us. I don't want to blow it with a quick fuck. Do you understand? "For me a lover is more than just a sexual partner. You may call it old-fashioned, but I am a dominant man and I like my woman to submit to me. No. I demand that my woman submit to me. Completely. Heart, body, soul and mind. If you and I are going to "make love" as I know you want to do," I blushed, hiding my face against his chest, glad he couldn't see it, "it has to be a total commitment. I don't give myself lightly and I don't want you to. I know you probably barely understand what I'm saying right now. But I'm a very patient man, Julie. I'll teach you, but we're going to take it slow. Do you understand?" I didn't; not by long shot, as I was to discover. But I nodded anyway. I did understand that he had called me his beautiful girl. And that he wanted to make love to me. And something about
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commitment. Truth to tell, I wasn't sure I wanted a commitment. I hadn't gotten much past satisfying my own lust at that point, but lust is a powerful persuader, and so I nodded again, and whispered that yes, I wanted what he wanted. Bill responded, "You don't know yet what I want, and certainly not what you want. But I'll teach you, darling. I promise." And then he kissed me. A long lovely lingering kiss that left me flushed and aching, as usual. "Stand up." Slowly I stood beside the bed on wobbly legs. He stood and turned me toward him. He unbuttoned the row of tiny buttons down the front of my blouse methodically, not a touch through the lengthening opening until the whole was undone. I was shivering, partly with anticipation, but not a little with fear. I felt like a virgin and it had been so long, so long. I was passive as he pushed the open blouse off my shoulders, revealing my breasts in my practical cotton bra with the clasp in front. Leaning forward, he kissed me again, and then traced a line from my throat to the top of my jeans and back up, to the clasp of my bra. With a flick of his fingers my breasts fell out and he opened his hand to span them, his thumb on one nipple and his little finger on the other. His fingers traced tiny circles against my flesh, puckering the nipples as they hardened against his hand. He stroked down the undercurves. I tried closing my eyes, an image of Randy flashing inside the lids, but his hands came up to my face, thumbs at my lashes, and I had to look again, had to see that this was he, Bill, eyes dark and gray-blue, black-banded, flecked with the color of the sky. His curved lips, the crease at the tip of his nose. His large hands and his long fingers, on my shoulders now, holding me like I was some rag doll, malleable and under his control. He pressed me gently so I sank to the bed, my skin pulsating with fire where his fingers touched me. He unzipped my jeans; I still remember the sound of the metal teeth as he pulled the little tag down. It was as if sound was amplified and time was staggered to some
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slow-motion movie. I lifted my hips, helping him to strip me, eager for it. His mouth was gentle and warm against my belly and I closed my eyes again, and this time no images invaded me. Just sensation. Sweet sensation as he kissed my breasts, sucked the nipples, moved his mouth down against my ribs and tummy. I felt his hands, the fingers hooking under the elastic of my panties, and then sliding them down. My eyes opened and my reverie was disturbed for the moment by a shyness at being totally naked in front of him. My hands came up to meet his, to fight this last removal of my clothing. With one hand he held my two wrists gently but without recourse in his grip, while with the other he slid the soft fabric down to my thighs. I fell back against the bed, a gasp catching in my throat, my face burning. I felt his fingers on my thighs, smoothing gently, as if he were calming a startled little animal. Maybe he was? He still held my wrists in his hand and while this frightened me on one level, it deeply excited me on another. I was his captive; I couldn't resist his advances. But when I felt his hot breath near my sex I jerked away and involuntarily cried, "No!" "No?" he said, a smile in his voice, but also a certain steeliness. "That's the first lesson, sweetheart. You don't say no to me. Not in matters of the heart and body. You don't say no. You do as you're told." I struggled a little, but it was halfhearted. My mind was racing with his words. You don't say no to me. Who was this man, straight out of some Victorian novel, "claiming" me and telling me I must obey in matters of the heart and body? This was crazy talk. But while he spoke, his hands and mouth were making my body melt into a liquid pool of desperate longing. And then his mouth was there, on my pussy, which he had bared, forcing my thighs apart. His tongue was reading me like Braille, like he didn't want to miss a word. Randy, well, he'd been reluctant. On my birthday, maybe after we'd fought. For a special occasion, a contribution to some annual fund he could draw from if he "owed" me something. But not because he wanted to.
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Bill wanted to. At first I tensed up, guarded, thinking Don't, wanting to say he didn't have to, but no words came from my throat and no cohesive thoughts formed in my brain. His tongue lazed along, rendering me limp. I barely noticed he was no longer holding my wrists. There was no unwilling captive here; it was all voluntary, or more accurately, absolutely necessary. I think I would have died if he'd stopped too soon. I felt my body letting go some of the clenched muscles that had knotted inside of me so long ago. Turning inward, experiencing pure sensation, something that was half scream and half moan moved toward my vocal cords, but so slowly the wait itself was worth a scream, a long, rising scream barely heard from over a distant horizon, and then louder, and louder, forming a single word. His name.
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CHAPTER 3 He still hadn't fucked me yet. I found myself daydreaming about it, and wanting it so bad it was all I could do to keep from throwing myself at him. Pride wouldn't allow it, though. He would have to come to me. I also instinctively knew, I suppose, with that Southern girl sensibility, that the rose, meaning me, would smell the sweeter if he picked it himself. This particular afternoon Bill had informed me that he would be teaching me to properly suck his penis. I had blushed at his frank speech; Randy would have never spelled things out so bluntly, but Bill didn't mince words. After informing me of this, tease that he was, he'd gone out and done several hours more work, and then taken a leisurely shower before calling to me that he would like me on the floor in my bedroom, kneeling in panties only, to await his appearance. Part of me laughed at the imperious "master" ordering his slave girl about, but nonetheless, my pussy responded by getting wet and I found myself hurrying to obey his command. What was it about Bill that got under my skin? His sureness, his certainty that I would do what he wanted, obey him as he said. And yet I did. And I wanted to. It was enormously erotic to me when he said my name, "Julie, come here. Julie, kneel down. Julie, take off your clothes." Bill's cock was bigger than Randy's, thicker and longer, and I remember briefly hoping I could handle it without embarrassing myself. I wanted to do this; not only because he turned me on, but secretly too I wanted to impress him. To show him that I wasn't totally inept or a sexual novice. Randy had taught me how to suck cock and I hoped to impress Bill with my skills. Randy, while not so eager to give me kisses "down there" was always eager to receive them. I used to suck his cock to get him ready to fuck me. That was pretty much our pattern; I would suck him till he was hard as a rock, kneeling between his legs on the floor while he sat on the bed. I would start slow, teasing him, fondling his balls, licking up and down the shaft until I made him moan. He would close
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his eyes and let his head fall back. Sometimes I used to wonder who he saw there behind his lids, but I know he loved what I did. When he was about to come, he'd lift me up and we'd fall together onto the bed. He'd use his fingers to make me wet, and when I was ready, he'd slip his cock inside of me. Randy knew my rhythms, and he could always make me come, being careful to do so before he did, because once he came, he always fell asleep. I loved sex with Randy, but it was rather routine, in hindsight. It never really occurred to me that it would be any different with anyone else. Bill stood in front of me now like some imperious king, his hands on his hips, his penis bouncing at a perpendicular angle from his firm belly. I knelt naked except for some silky black panties. Bill was totally nude, his body tanned by the sun except where his shorts covered him. I started as I always had with Randy, licking his penis up and down, and then slowly taking it into my mouth. His cock was so smooth and silky, the skin taut over his erection. He tasted faintly of wood smoke. Bill sighed and I snuck a peek at him, but his eyes weren't closed like Randy's. He was watching me, and I looked down quickly, embarrassed. I felt his hand against the back of my head. "Don't move," he commanded, confusing me. Holding my head still with one hand, he slowly guided his sizable erection into my mouth. It was fine at first, but as he pushed it farther back into my mouth, I started to gag, trying to pull back. But his hand was steady against the back of my head and I couldn't move. I pulled back again, jerking to the side and his penis popped out of my mouth. "You need some lessons, don't you, Julie," he informed me, smiling. I was chagrined, and tried to take him back into my mouth, attempting to recover my own perceived loss of face with ardent kisses, cupping his balls in one hand and grabbing his butt with the other. "Don't try so hard, angel. Just go with it, let your natural grace come through," he said, unnerving and embarrassing me that I could be so easily read. I pulled back, sitting on my heels.
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"Sorry, guess I'm not what you're used to, huh?" I said, stung, crossing my arms protectively against my breasts. "Hey, calm down. It's not a big deal. We'll get there." Gently he smoothed my hair, a look of genuine affection in his face that calmed my hurt feelings somewhat. "We have plenty of time. Nothing but time. I'll teach you to deep throat. To take it all the way back. And slow down. There's no hurry. This isn't a contest. It isn't about how fast you can make me come, or how quickly you can get me "ready" to fuck you." How could he know that; that was Randy's MO and I'd never thought to question it before? I looked away, chagrined, uncertain, but also still inexplicably aroused. "Now, take your time. Slowly. Kiss it, explore it. It's all there is right now. There won't be anything else tonight. Just focus on pleasing me. Can you do that?" I nodded, not sure that I could, but willing to try. I settled back to kiss that silken shaft once more, this time taking my time, milking his response, teasing him as he had teased me, taking control until he cried out with pleasure, my name on his tongue. He held my head while he came in my mouth, down my throat. I swallowed it all, the spurting too far back for me to even taste it. He held me still several moments longer, his breathing deep and labored, dappled with sighs of pleasure. I felt happy, sure that I had pleased him. Slowly I became aware of my knees, which were sore on the thin throw rug I knelt on, and the fact that I wanted to close my mouth and massage my aching jaws. It was hot in the room, the fan barely moving the heavy stifling heat of that summer day. The little air conditioning window unit was wheezing with overexertion. Briefly I fantasized about a cool shower, but I didn't pull back, waiting to see what was next. He released me and sank down on the bed. "That was lovely, Julie angel. You definitely have potential." Bill laughed and tousled my hair. Then he pulled me up to him and cradled me in his arms.
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I fell back against him, loving his hot naked flesh against my own. I lined up my body against his, pressing my breasts against his chest, moving my hips seductively. "What do you want?" he teased. "You know," I answered, nuzzling his neck. "Tell me." I nuzzled some more, and tried to kiss his mouth, but he turned away. "Say it. Say what you want, Julie. Ask for it." I felt heat in my face. Why did he insist that I use the words? He knew I felt shy about it. Perhaps that was the point. He liked to demand things from me that made me uncomfortable. "Erotic discomfort" he called it. It was a power thing, and I had to admit, it was a turn-on. I felt like a total slut but I finally whispered, "I want you to fuck me." "I will, angel, I will. But not yet. You're not ready." "What?" I sat up, embarrassed and angry. This was too much. He pulled me back to him, while I struggled against him. "You're not ready. You're don't want it bad enough yet. You're used to getting fucked every time you do something to "earn it." It's all foreplay to you; foreplay as a means for getting fucked. I want to teach you a different way. Each act of physical intimacy is special all by itself. It isn't just about the fucking. Do you see?" "I see that you're a control freak!" I yelled, pummeling at his chest, hitting him as hard as I could, my sexual frustration spilling out over everything. Grabbing my wrists, he used his own body to pin me down against the bed. I continued to struggle, enraged but impotent against his strong body. "You just want to humiliate me! You don't want me!" All my insecurities were coming to the fore, as I continued to struggle against him, cursing him. Finally I gave up, lying there limp, trapped under him. He let go of my wrists and as soon as he did, I punched him in the chest again, hard, making him wince. "That's enough, Julie. You need to learn a little self-control. You're acting like a total brat." His voice had an edge now; the playfulness was gone. Before I could respond he had flipped me over and pinned my arms at the small of my back.
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"Let me up," I yelled, trying to wrestle away from him. He didn't answer, unless you call a swat to the behind an answer. It stung, though it took a second for my body to register the blow. "Ouch!" I yelled, trying to move, but his large hand came down again on my ass, covering both cheeks with his palm. I was struggling furiously, but my strength was no match for his. Again and again he spanked my poor bottom, until I was whimpering, my flesh tender and burning. Finally he stopped, letting go of my wrists and gently turning me over. The sheets felt cold against my hot ass. Somehow the anger had blazed out of me, and inexplicably, I was wet. Bill must have sensed what was happening, had probably planned it, because now his hand slipped down, stroking my breasts and lazing down to my pussy. He leaned over my face, kissing my mouth, gently biting my lips, while his fingers probed my wetness. I was confused. The man had just spanked me like I was a naughty little kid, and while my brain had protested, my body had responded with sexual desire. I felt his cock hard against my thigh while his fingers opened me, drawing a moan from my lips, which were covered with his. "Please," I said, murmuring into his mouth. "Please what, sugar?" he whispered back. "Please, oh please. Please fuck me. Please, Bill." Bill smiled so sweetly, his teeth white against his tan face. God, I wanted him more than I had ever wanted anyone. He shifted, raising himself over me, so that his weight was on his forearms, placed on either side of me. I felt his cock against my pubic hair and I shifted to allow him easier access. It was all I could to not grab his cock and stuff it into my poor needy pussy. He was staring down at me with those eyes, and I stared back, not even wanting to close my eyes, as I always had with Randy. I drew in my breath as I felt the large head of his penis press against my opening, which I knew was slick with desire. He pressed and a moment's pain was immediately replaced by a hot buttery pleasure rising up from my groin and spreading through my belly right to my heart. I arched up, moaning into him, feeling the
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length of him press fully into me. He stayed still for a moment, and then shuddered, his eyes still locked on mine. "Julie," he whispered, his voice cracking, and then he started to move, sending wave after wave of sizzling sensation through me. The breeze from the overhead fan barely cooled our heated flesh and soon we were both slick with sweat. When his arms reached under me to grab my still sore ass I yelped, momentarily distracted by the pain. But he used that grip to pull me up, forcing himself even deeper into me, so that the feel of the still stinging flesh and the fierce pleasure inside of me mingled inextricably, creating an intensity of sensation unlike anything I had ever experienced. I couldn't focus any longer, as my eyes fluttered shut and I gave myself over completely to what was happening. Don't let it end, I whispered silently, not wanting him to come too soon. I didn't know it, but I had been waiting six years for this. He continued for some minutes more, moving in a hypnotic but unpredictable rhythm that wrenched cries from me every few moments. I felt my orgasm coming, rushing over me, tearing through me as he increased his own tempo, totally using my body. I opened my eyes and saw that his, at last, were closed tight, his entire being straining forward, arching into me. I rose up to the feeling of him, our cries echoing each other like some sweet haunting refrain. *** "This is for you." Bill handed me the small package, wrapped in silver tissue paper, with pink ribbon tied in a lopsided bow. He looked almost shy as he waited for me to open it, and I was ridiculously pleased that he had gotten me something. Pulling off the ribbon, I unwrapped the paper and took out the soft silky thing nestled inside. It was a nightgown made of pale golden silk. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, a sheet of pale gold, moving with a subtle luster. I lifted my arm until it met the silk, the softest of strokes, like it might disappear if I moved too fast. It was a simple classic cut, with spaghetti straps and a low cleavage. It was full length, cut tight in the body and then flaring out. "Try it on," he suggested, smiling hugely at my obvious pleasure.
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I did, after sending him out to the living room, telling him I'd model it for him. Slipping out of my shorts and t-shirt and then my bra, I pulled it carefully over my head. It fell in luxurious softness over me, fitting against my breasts and hips like it had been tailor-made for me. I twirled in front of my mirror, feeling lovely, for once not critically censoring my shape. His big smile was all the approval I needed. And my kiss was his thanks and it seemed to be enough too. *** It was weird, but for the first time in my life, I wasn't biting my nails anymore. I didn't make a conscious decision to stop; I just did somehow. I realized it when I was scratching an itch and I scraped myself! I was so used to having to dig into my flesh that the new sharp little nails at the tips of my fingers took me by surprise. Bill noticed it too, as he took my hands one evening in his and kissed my fingertips. "Now your hands are lovely like the rest of you," he said, which made me smile. I was glad I had filed them that morning to pretty little half moons. I couldn't let them get too long because it got in the way of my work, but I would find myself stopping in the middle of something to admire my new fingers. They were symbolic, I suppose, of a new serenity in my life. I was starting to feel again. To feel alive, and to feel good about myself! It was new, but it was welcome and I nurtured it. I even took to wearing a little makeup. Why not, now that there was a man around again? I took more care with my hair and was ridiculously pleased when Bill noticed and commented on it. Randy had never noticed a change in my hairstyle or a new dress. When I would protest about this, he'd tell me it was because I was so gorgeous no matter what, and I'd content myself with that. But Bill noticed everything. Every nuance of feeling, every hesitation or fear, every tentative offer of love. He consumed my thoughts. Instead of 36 I felt more like 18! It was crazy. When I got this way, I would pull back sometimes, worried that I was getting too involved with a man who could very well leave the next day! My insecurities would manifest themselves sometimes aloud, like when I
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finally demanded one day, "Where do you go every Tuesday and Thursday? Do you have a girl in town? It's ok, you know, we aren't married–" He had cut me off with a hand to my lips, effectively silencing me as he smiled, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "I do believe the young lady is jealous," he grinned, and then added, his tone serious, "I go to AA meetings, if you want to know. Alcoholics Anonymous. I work my program, if you will. As wonderful as you are, I need the meetings too. I hope you understand. I should have told you where I was going, but I don't know." He paused, looking out the window. "I guess I was embarrassed that I need the help." He looked down and I realized, somewhat belatedly, that Bill was as fragile and insecure as I was, as we all are, I suppose. I fell a little more in love with him at that moment. I realized I didn't want him to go. Maybe ever. It didn't seem like he was leaving anytime soon though, I have to admit. And amazingly, he couldn't seem to get enough of me! He was always touching me, and coming to me in the night now. He had taken to staying through the night in my bed, and I liked it. I wanted him there. It was funny, because over the years I seemed to have shifted slowly to sleeping smack in the middle of the bed, and he would wake me up sometimes, sleepily ordering me to move over to my side and quit taking all the covers, just like we were some old married couple. Yet this relationship wasn't like any old couple I'd ever heard about! The first night Bill stayed in my bed, I lay sleepless next to him long after he'd fallen asleep. He snored lightly and I smiled; it was such a comfortable sound. A man in my bed, holding me, snoring, content. Eventually I slept, wrapping myself around him, as though the big bed were a small one, with the shutters flung wide to the starry night. In the morning I felt curiously rested, as if my body had only now uncoiled after being held tense these long years alone. *** Later that week, when I returned from shopping in town Bill was waiting for me in the bedroom. He'd taken the large mirror that
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usually sat in the corner and strategically placed it so it gave a full view of the bed. I ran up to kiss his cheek and he smiled, lightly touching my shoulder. "Sweetheart," he said quietly, "it's time for another lesson." I shivered, feeling at once that potent mixture of anticipation and a whisper of fear. Just the words seemed to lower my blood pressure. I felt a peculiar calm descend over me, while at the same time my pussy quickened with desire. I was expecting a new technique for kissing his cock or a new way for him to deliciously tease my body till I came. His words caught me by surprise. "I'm going to teach you to love your own body, Julie. To appreciate your feminine beauty. Specifically your sweet little pussy. Strip. Now." I was still for a moment. I knew I would obey, but I hesitated. Bill caught the hesitation and pressed his lips together, waiting. Slowly I pulled the t-shirt over my head. My breasts bounced lightly and I turned away, still self-conscious of a body six years older than his. I unzipped my jeans and stepped out of them, wondering just what he meant, afraid I knew. "Look at me," Bill commanded, "Keep looking at me while you take off your panties and while you lie down on the bed and spread your legs." I looked into his face, my eyes locked on his sea blue ones, trying to ignore the flush of heat his words generated in me. I peeled down the damp panties and stepped out of them, kicking them lightly away from me. Naked, I lay down, still looking at the man who now controlled my world. "Go on, spread your legs, Julie. Show me your little pussy." I closed my eyes, breaking the contact with him as I slowly pulled my thighs apart, revealing myself to him, feeling a prick of hot shame at being so exposed. Bill knelt next to me and I felt his strong fingers on my throat. "Show me your cunt."
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I flinched at the use of the word. Cunt. It sounded so nasty. So dirty. The fingers lay against a pulse on my throat. "Open your eyes. Now." I did, slowly, focusing again on his face, gasping as his grip tightened instead of loosening as I had expected. "Now listen carefully, my love. Here's what I expect from you. I want you to sit up and keep your legs apart so you can examine that sweet little pussy. I want you to spread the lips and really look at yourself. And tell me what you see. What you're feeling. That's not too hard, is it? Just to look at your own body and tell me about it. Tell me about your cunt." Again I winced and he caught it. "You don't like the word, do you? Cunt. Well, it's a matter of perception, isn't it? I love the word; it's so blunt, so pure. Earthy and honest. Cunt." He seemed to roll the word on his tongue like fine brandy. "Men have used it derogatorily, to insult a woman, to define her by her sex and diminish her in that way. But that isn't how I see it. To me it's nature's beauty and the core of you. You are defined by your sex, surely, though of course not entirely. And to me that is grace personified. Your cunt is lovely. I want you to learn to love it too, Julie. It isn't nasty or dirty or a secret. Do you understand at all what I'm trying to say?" His voice was almost pleading, and husky with contained desire. I was intrigued by his words but still it was hard to obey. He had managed to hone in on my secret shyness. For all my sexual openness with him, and my willingness to explore and enjoy what he offered, looking at my own pussy was not part of my fantasies. Even though I had always masturbated, and loved oral sex, there must have still been a vestige of that old school of thought that quietly but certainly believed that a woman's private parts were just that, and one didn't look at them or touch them any more than necessary to keep clean. Bill had of course sensed my reticence in the past, and even lightly teased me about it, but I had no idea it would come to this. "Bill," I started to protest. His fingers were still on my throat. "No, Julie. No explanations about why you can't do it. Don't even think of it as your body, if that
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helps you. It's my body. Your body is mine now. And I want you to look at it, and see what a lovely little flower sits right there between your legs. Look at its soft pink petals. I wish you could taste the sweetness of it; feel the satin kiss of it as it enfolds me. Now, don't insult me by saying you can't look at it, can't touch it in front of me. "Because that's just what I want you to do. I want you to touch yourself, and spread yourself, and look at your pussy, your cunt, in that mirror. Will you do it for me, Julie? Will you submit with grace?" His fingers were light now, almost tickling against my skin, and he leaned over and kissed me deeply, his tongue probing and teasing in my mouth. I let myself fall back into the bed, my muscles unclenching, my will yielding. What was it about this man, that I couldn't say no to him? Had he wrought some kind of spell that first time he had informed me I would never say no to him? Was he another spirit, not even really here, come to perform a classic sexual awakening on this poor foolish farm girl? Would he disappear when he'd finished working his magic? Suddenly that thought, that he would disappear, that he could be gone at any time, gripped me with an irrational longing and sense of loss. If I didn't please him, he would be gone. I kissed him back, and let him guide my own hand to my sex. Using my hand as his instrument, he rubbed and teased my pussy, my cunt, creating swirls of fire that emanated through me, making me moan out loud. When his hand dropped away, mine continued, touching and rubbing my own pussy, right there in front of him. And then his hand gently removed mine. He had gotten on the bed behind me, cradling my head in his lap. He pulled me up so we were both facing the mirror and when I let my head fall back against him he said, "Open your eyes, darling. Look at the beautiful woman in front of you." I did, seeing my naked body against his fully clothed one, my legs spread at a lewd angle, my pussy splayed. Instinctively I tried to close my legs, pulling my knees up to shield us from the view. His hands were there, stopping me and he said, "Stop. Look at it. Look at your pretty little cunt."
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Still reluctant, I obeyed at last, focusing on the dark pubic curls and then my vulva, spread and engorged from the stimulation. I felt myself blush, felt the heat in my face and neck, knowing he was staring at my sex along with me, examining it, no doubt comparing it to all his other lovers before me. I had never seen another woman bared like this, of course, and had no idea how I compared, but I doubted I rated very high in the pussy department. Again I tried to close my legs, but his hands were firm on my thighs. "It's beautiful," he said, his voice reassuring. "Tell me what you see, angel. Forget the religious stereotype guilt dirty sex crap, and just tell me objectively what you see. Look at the fragile labia, the delicate curves, and tell me." Something in his voice, in the clear admiration he seemed to have must have finally gotten through to me. I realized I had, up to that moment, assumed that the vulva and vagina were ugly. A source of pleasure to a man, surely, but basically funny looking little flaps of skin beneath hair, all of it dirty and never to be focused on, except in the throes of sexual passion, in a word, when you were horny. I had never, not for one second, thought of my pussy as something beautiful, something delicate and sensual. Now I looked, and for the first time without that censoring filter. It was kind of pretty, I admitted aloud to him. The little labia were dark pink, and I gently touched one side, moving it so I could see the little hooded clitoris nestled and waiting. When he told me to spread it, I did, noticing the little inner labia, even smaller and more delicate, and the small entrance below, a dark crimson, hidden in shadow. It was like a little flower, something lovely and exotic like an orchid. I actually laughed out loud with pleasure, completely surprised at my own reaction. Bill laughed too, and let go his grip on my thighs. Leaning over me, he kissed me again and sighed. "I want you to love your body like I do. Thank you for trusting me, sweetheart. There's so much I want to explore with you. We've only just begun." *** I was sitting on the porch swing and even though the sun was down, it was still stiflingly hot. I remember my palms were slippery
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with sweat as I gratefully took the glass of iced tea Bill brought out and held it to my cheek. He had something else in his hand. "I wanted to show you something," he said, handing me a large magazine. The magazine was printed on fine heavy paper, slick and shiny. There was a woman on the cover, kneeling over on her knees so that her rather prominent bare-naked ass was sticking up. At first I thought she was wearing some kind of strange black outfit, until I realized she was in fact bound with hundreds of tresses of black rope, like the tresses of a whip. They covered her entire body, except for her bottom, and bound her arms to her thighs, forcing her into that uncomfortable looking position. Her face was obscured by her long blonde hair, which was falling forward. The words, "Bound Erotica" were printed in bold type across the top of the picture. "What is that?" I asked, staring at it. "It's a bondage magazine. One of the better ones, actually. There's some really cool stuff in here I wanted to show you." He seemed so guileless as he spoke, like this was an everyday thing, to sit down and look at bondage magazines together. Randy would have had a heart attack if I'd brought something like this home, and I would have been equally shocked if he had. As racy as he ever got was Playboy, and he certainly didn't share it with me! Bill sat down and took the magazine from my hands as he settled comfortably next to me. "I wanted to show you this one picture that reminds me of you. What I want to do to you, when you're ready." He flipped open to a page that revealed a full-scale glossy photograph of a naked woman bound in rope. It was black and white, and artistically the image was arresting. You couldn't really see her face; her head was thrown back, with long dark hair streaming loose around her shoulders. She seemed to be bound in thin air, the ropes a stark white against a black background that no doubt concealed whatever she must be lying on. Her body was pulled taut, her back arched so that small high breasts were raised against her long narrow ribcage. She was thin and the ribs were clearly etched under her flesh, which was creamy against the black. Her legs were spread, but from this angle all you could see was lush pubic hair against pale skin. There
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were beads of water or was it sweat, across her cheekbone, between her breasts, along her thigh. The light caught the droplets so that she fairly glowed with it. I was mesmerized by the image. It wasn't only beautiful as a work of art; it captured something delicate but intense that I couldn't quite define. As so often happened with Bill, he seemed to hear my thoughts and he said, "It's about giving up control. It's about letting go. It's about giving in to your most wild and deep seated impulses." I stared at it a while longer, offering no comment, somehow not wanting him to see how strongly the image affected me. After a while he flipped through the magazine, showing me other pictures, discussing the merits of them, making comments and checking my reactions. When he put it away I didn't ask him about it again. But that one image was burned into my brain, and I would take it out again and again in my mind, examining it, thinking on it, feeling it burrow inside of me like a little seedling waiting to flower. It would bloom sooner than I expected. *** It had been two days since we'd had sex. I was like some randy little filly and he knew it. I hadn't been like this with my husband; he was almost always the initiator in our sexual relationship. Bill said it was because of my age. "God save us from women in their thirties," he'd tease. "You're worse than 18 year old boys, because you not only know what you want, you know how to get it!" I punched him playfully, embarrassed, but whatever the reason, it was true that I couldn't get enough of the man, and sex always seemed to be on the edge of my mind these days, no matter what I was doing. "I've got to get to my meeting now," he reminded me. "When I get back, I'll see what can be done for you, little slut girl. Meanwhile, promise me you won't touch my little pussy. Promise? No sampling the goods till I get here." I nodded, determined to distract myself with some pretty new glazes I was working on for my pottery. When I got out in the shed, however, I just couldn't concentrate. I went back inside and sat on the couch, looking around idly for something to read.
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My eyes landed on that bondage magazine he had shown me earlier in the week. Ah! Now I could examine it at my leisure, without Bill breathing down my neck and gauging my every reaction. I flipped through the pages, stopping to examine the one with the redhead with too many moles and a bright red ball gag in her mouth. She was on her belly, and hogtied, wrists and ankles tied above her back. Her eyes were wide with surprise, like she didn't know how she had come to be bound like that. I found myself wondering what that would feel like. It couldn't be too comfortable! How could you focus on sex, when you were hogtied like that? But I realized that the ropes weren't really for her. She was a model, and it was the idea of someone bound like that, that was supposed to titillate the viewer. Did Bill want to tie me like that? That wasn't the picture he had showed me, though. I flipped past an Asian woman wound with a ridiculous amount of rope so that she looked like a mummy. What was striking about the image was that she was suspended by one ankle from a tree, upside down! Her long black hair streamed below her and she looked as if she were asleep. Was she waiting for her prince to wake her? At last I found the one I was seeking; the woman suspended in the blackness by white silk ropes. My hands slipped into my shorts as I contemplated her lovely, lithe form stretched and suspended, it seemed, in the inky air. She reminded me of some forties pinup girl, I realized, with the creamy white flesh against the black background. I wished I could see her face, read her expression, feel what she was feeling. My fingers were moving against my hot little pussy now, easing the ache I felt. I let the magazine fall against my leg as I became absorbed in my pleasant task. I didn't hear the door open; I didn't know Bill was there until I saw his legs, clad in their faded blue jeans, standing right in front of me. He was looking down at me, his lips pressed together, his expression grim.
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Jumping up, I guilty pulled my shorts in place and smoothed down my t-shirt, trying to act innocent. "What were you doing?" he asked, as if he didn't know. "Oh, Bill. I didn't hear you come in–" "Obviously," he cut me off. "Now answer my question. What were you doing?" Reaching down, he took the bondage magazine into his hands, snapping it closed, waiting for my reply. "Well, it's just that, you see…" I started again. "Julie. Stop it. When I left what did I tell you?" "Well, um, let me see." "What did I tell you? Did I tell you to touch yourself?" "No, um, I wasn't really…" "Don't compound the transgression with a lie, Julie. You were playing with yourself. Admit it and be done with it. You're going to have to accept the consequences. I gave you an express direction not to touch yourself, and now I come home to find you with your hands in your panties like some naughty little schoolgirl." I flinched, embarrassed and offended, but he wasn't done. "And now, like the naughty little schoolgirl you're acting like, you're going to get a sound spanking. Understand?" My hands went instinctively to my bottom, like some little kid; I remembered all too well that other spanking. I started to back out of the room, protesting, "Come on, Bill. This is crazy. Come on. It wasn't what you thought, really. And anyway, it's my body, you know. You don't own me." He hadn't moved; he wasn't following me. Quietly he said, "Don't I?" I stopped my backward retreat. The question had permeated the very air around me, freezing me in my tracks. His words were loud in my head. Did he? Did I want him to? His thumbs were hooked in his jeans pockets, suggesting a casualness that wasn't present in his demeanor. His eyes narrowed as he waited for my response. I was still for a moment, unsure what to say, unsure how I felt. "I don't know," I said finally.
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He seemed to relax. "Ah, thank you. Honesty is back. That's so much more important than anything else, Julie. You don't have to know right now. I shouldn't have asked, but you push my buttons with that stuff. After what we've been discovering together, to pretend it has no meaning." "Oh, please Bill! It does! I swear to you, I've never experienced anything like what we have." "Are you sure, sweetheart? Really sure? Because this is too important to me for us to just be fooling around and acting like teenagers. Do you want what I offer? Do you want to learn to submit with grace? Or are we just two horny lonely people passing time with some kinky games? That's ok, I suppose. I mean, as you say, I don't own you, certainly that's clear at this moment. Maybe it's not meant to be. We can still have fun." I looked at him. Now it was he that was lying. I could see that it mattered a great deal to him, and he was pretending a lightness he didn't feel. Perhaps he sensed that he was pushing me away with his intensity. Maybe he was, but at the same time I realized I did want more than just sex games. I was more than a little in love with him, but it was even more than that. There was no denying that he had awakened something deep buried in me that might have never come to light if not for his skillful probing. I was submissive and had a deep-seated need to express that submission sexually with someone like Bill. No. Not with someone like him – with him per se. I wanted what he offered, even if at the same time I was scared of it, or it sometimes made me uncomfortable. I also knew that I wasn't especially articulate at the best of times, and now, after having made such a fool of myself, I doubted I could explain my new feelings without botching things up even more. Instead I held out my hand to him and, thank God, he took it. Walking over to the couch, I gestured that he should sit, which he did. I pulled down my shorts and panties and laid my naked self across his knees, waiting for the spanking I'd earned. He sat still for a moment, and his large hands smoothed my ass and thighs, though I was clenched for a smack. Instead the most curious
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thing occurred; I felt the hot splash of a tear fall from his face onto my back. I was filled with tenderness and tried to turn around to see his face, but he held me firm. Then, with one hand on the back of my neck, he lifted the other and smacked one cheek and then the other in rapid succession. I yelped but didn't try to squirm away, as I had the last time. I was determined to submit to this spanking, to mutely prove to him that if I wasn't his yet, well, I was willing to learn. My plan to lie still and noble didn't work out so well when he really started smacking my poor butt. Soon I was squirming and whimpering, and it felt like my ass was on fire! I even tried to cover my cheeks at one point, but he smacked my hands so hard I pulled them away, only to be subject to a rain of blows against impossibly sore flesh. At last he stopped, when I was crying in earnest. He turned me over gently and kissed away my tears. Cradling me in his arms, he began to kiss my mouth. My poor bottom burned against his jeans, but I loved that kiss, and couldn't help but respond ardently to it. His fingers slipped down to my neglected pussy and I felt my thighs fall open. He pressed in one finger and then two and whispered, "You are so wet. So wet." I forgot to be embarrassed as his fingers made me mewl with pleasure and need. His mouth covered mine so that I moaned into his kisses while he finger-fucked me to orgasm. Was it my imagination, or did fact of my sore tender ass actually enhance the experience of sexual pleasure I was feeling? I didn't know for sure, but I forgot to think about it as I exploded with pleasure in my lover's arms.
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CHAPTER 4 Our days and nights were a mixture of hard work and even harder sex. My pussy seemed to be constantly swollen with need. It was as if I were making up for six years of being alone. No, it was more than that. It was as if Bill had discovered some hidden vein of desire inside of me, and now I couldn't shut it off. As corny as it sounded, he had "awakened" me somehow. And every day seemed to find some new adventure as he led me further and further down the path of submission. This evening he'd had me wait in the living room while he prepared the bedroom, tossing me the silk gown and warning me, on pain of death, not to enter until he said so. I was half expecting to find whips and chains and torture devices, but instead the vision that I beheld made me draw in a breath of awe. Bill had lit a raft of candles that marched the length of the side table – tapers and pillars and votive lights, white and colored and striped and gilded, blazing in the dim room like a skyful of stars. The room was transformed from a plain farmhouse bedroom to some kind of magic fairy place. "It's beautiful," I breathed, captivated. "So are you," he said, smiling, pleased that I liked it. "I thought since you like to touch yourself so much," I looked chagrined, as he reminded me of my "transgression" from the other night, "that we'd set up the proper atmosphere for it tonight." Immediately my pleasure at the sight of all the pretty candles evaporated somewhat. Touch myself? Here, with him watching, no doubt. I started to protest, but before I could say anything he interrupted. "Wait, Julie. Before you start to tell me how you just can't touch yourself in front of me, think about who you're talking to. It's me, Bill. Your lover. The man you've shared your home, your bed and your body with for the past several months! "Don't let your gut reaction, your "old" way of responding, guide you tonight." His voice was almost pleading as he continued, "Instead let the new Julie, the real Julie, come out tonight.
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"Show me your grace. Take off your gown and lie down on the bed. You look so lovely with the candlelight reflecting on your beautiful face and shining in your soft hair. Trust me enough for this, Julie." How could I refuse such eloquence? I slipped the nightgown from my shoulders and stepped out of it, carefully folding it across the chair before going to the bed and lying tentatively down upon it. "Close your eyes. Yes, that's good. Now, raise your legs up, yes, that's right. Let your thighs fall open. Come on, Julie. Do what I tell you to do. Make me happy." I let my thighs fall open, aware he was probably staring at my bare naked pussy. I covered it with one hand. "Yes, that's right, touch it. Feel its sweet hotness in your hand." He had mistaken my modesty for me touching myself and I didn't disabuse him. I touched the delicate folds, hesitant, dry. "Lick your fingers, that's right. Now touch it again. Do what you do when you're alone. Touch yourself." Uncertainly I did as he told me, rubbing my little clit and the folds that surrounded it, enjoying the sensation even though I still felt self-conscious. "Open your eyes, baby." I did and saw that Bill had stripped and was standing there as naked as I was, his big erection in his hand. I watched in fascination as he slowly slid that hand up and down his cock. It was so erotic, watching him handle himself like that, and suddenly I had an inkling that me touching myself might be equally as erotic for him. Slowly I began to masturbate, breathing slowly and deeply, letting myself really feel the pleasure of it, my eyes still glued to his body, to his hand, to his cock. As he began to pump harder I began to rub harder. I was breathing fast, near an orgasm. It felt wonderful and I knew I was going to come soon. My eyes fluttered shut and I was so close. Just a little more, yes, yes, when–"Stop." My eyes snapped open. I couldn't have heard him correctly, but in my surprise I had in fact stopped rubbing my pussy. "That's right. I said stop," Bill said, his hand also still but still lightly holding his big cock.
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"Play with your breasts for me. Touch your nipples. Make them hard." "But Bill," I whined. "I almost–" He cut me off, "I know you almost, but you aren't going to. Not yet. Remember, those orgasms belong to me, not to you. You're my slut, not the other way around. Remember?" He smiled, but I knew he meant it. I sighed audibly but began dutifully to touch my breasts. I liked the feel of my nipples hardening under my touch. I rolled the nipples, enjoying the zinging sensation of the many nerve endings at my tips. I wanted to touch my pussy again and he, as usual, read my mind and told me I could. This time there was no modesty, feigned or otherwise, as I began rubbing and finger-fucking myself with abandon. I was aware of Bill still standing near the bed, his penis perpendicular to his flat belly. He was bathed in the glow of the myriad of candles that made the whole room look golden. My crazy imagination had cast him as some kind of fairy king from ancient times and I was his captive slave girl, naked and trembling on the bed, waiting for his command. "Slow down, baby," he murmured. "Take your time; this isn't a contest." Deliberately I forced myself to slow my pace, to match his languorous rhythm as he slowly massaged his erection from base to tip. My fingers slowed their staccato dance against my clit and I rubbed the silky folds of my pussy, feeling a delicious intense heat building up inside of me. It felt so good that I couldn't believe this was my own hand doing this to me. I'd masturbated in the past, but really only to scratch the itch, as it were. I would rub hard and fast, as I had been doing at first with Bill, and I would come. Nothing earth shattering; just a nice little swell of pleasure and a shudder and it was over. I didn't figure there could be much more to it, at your own hand. Indeed, I think I even figured there was something wrong in having too much pleasure at one's own hand. The idea of the man, the husband, as the be-all and end-all of my sexual experience was fairly well ingrained in me by the
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culture I grew up in, I suppose. There was something vaguely sinful about taking too much pleasure in self-pleasure. Of course, I wasn't musing on these rather academic thoughts while lying naked and spread before my lover, bathed in the same golden light as he. No, I wasn't thinking at all anymore, just feeling, my body warm, my pussy on fire, my need intensifying. I was so close again, and determined to come when again, "Stop." This was too much. I wailed in protest, and continued to touch myself. Bill was on me then, forcibly pulling my hand away. "I said stop, slut! My god, are you really that undisciplined!" I was chagrined, and annoyed. I needed to come. "Get up. Kneel here on the floor and suck my cock, you slut." As he spoke, Bill didn't wait for me to obey, but pulled me unceremoniously by the hair, dragging me to the floor. With rough hands he forced me into a kneeling position, took his cock in one hand and my head in the other and forced my mouth open with his stiff insistent member. He held me still, his hand still entwined in my hair. When I tried to pull back, he wound his hand tighter, pulling my hair, yanking it hard. "Take it!" he yelled. "You know you want this, slut, now suck my dick before I spank you again!" One part of me said, this should really be pissing you off, how dare he talk to you like that, but most of me didn't say a thing. It just responded with sluttish abandon. I loved what he was doing. No, more than that, I craved it, I longed for it; I was born for it. Boys and men had always treated me like such a "little lady" and now this man, this virulent sexy man, was commanding me to suck his dick like I was some two dollar whore. And instead of being offended, I was deeply, fiercely aroused. I didn't just suck his cock. I inhaled it. I took it deep, deep into my throat, my gag reflex completely relaxed by my passion. I didn't let up until he moaned with pleasure, thrusting against me, nearing his own release. "Julie," he moaned as he held my head, forcing his cock even deeper down my throat. He jerked against me, pulling my hair,
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holding me captive so that I could barely breathe, while he fucked my face, bucking, completely out of control. He cried out and arched into me, coming in long spurts down my throat. At last he stilled and let me loose. I fell back, gasping for breath, still on fire with lust. He sat heavily on the bed and said weakly, "Man, you're going to kill me!" But he was grinning. Patting the bed he said, "come here, you little slut angel, and come for me. I promise I'll let you this time. Show me what a total whore you are." And I did. Sprawling next to him, completely uninhibited now, I spread my legs and finger-fucked myself to a hard, bucking orgasm. I tried to keep my eyes open, locked on his, but at the last minute I lost control, as usual, and they shut of their own accord, squeezed tight as I cried out with pleasure. Then I promptly fell asleep. *** "What you got there?" I asked casually, noticing the coil of white silky rope on the bottom of the bed, knowing before I asked, feeling a catch of something. Panic? Desire? "That's for you." "Excuse me?" The image of that woman in the bondage magazine leaped full-blown into my mind. I waited, tensed. "We're gonna try something new today. Something to help you let go. Something to help remove your need for control." I bit my lip, part of me knowing already what he was planning, part of me wondering what I was doing there. I shifted, my hands behind my back, rubbing my wrists as if I could already feel the ropes. "Open it." "What?" "You are slow today, sugar. Open the package. Open the rope. Use that utility knife there. Open the package. You're going to cut your own restraints." Restraints. Restraints were used on crazy people. Psychos locked up in wards, tied down to their beds so they couldn't self-mutilate or attack the orderlies. I felt a little edge of panic, just a hint, rising up in my belly. "Uh, I don't know if this–"
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"It's ok, Julie. You don't have to know. You just have to do what I say." Something in my face must have clued him in that I was having trouble with this because his toned softened and his voice was soothing as he said, "Come on, baby. It's me. It's your Bill. You know I would never do something you couldn't handle. You're my brave angel. I want you to be a part of this. I want you to take a new step in submission. I want you to be the one to cut the ropes I'm going to use to bind you." He handed me the little knife, holding it out so I was forced to let go of my wrists behind my back to take it. It felt small and cold in my hand. I pushed up the little blade and knelt down next to the plasticcovered package. Inserting it into a corner, I slit it and the rope sprang out, still in its neat coil. "Cut it in four lengths, each about twice as long as your arm," Bill said in a matter of fact manner, like we were discussing how to shell peas or distribute chicken feed. "That should be about right." As he spoke, he put his hand on my head, and let his fingers trail down my cheek to my throat. His fingers caused currents of electric desire to run through me. "I want to tie you up, Julie. I want you to experience what it's like to be truly helpless. You remember the girl in the magazine, don't you? You liked that picture; I know you did." He had no idea. Like wasn't the word precisely; I was obsessed by it, but afraid of it too, of what it offered. "Do you trust me? Can you trust me enough to let that happen?" I didn't answer, still focused on the rope before me. Gently he took my chin in his hand and forced me to look up at him. "Julie. Who do you belong to?" I wanted to answer. I wanted to say, You, Bill. But instead I licked my lips and swallowed, my eyes sliding away from his. He waited a few moments longer, and when I still didn't respond, he stood, brushing down the front of his jeans. He didn't press for an answer, but instead stood quietly, his expression impassive, waiting for me to cut the lengths of rope. Images of myself naked, arched and bound in the rope, had made me
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feel almost dizzy. I was aroused at the image, but at the moment a sneaking panic in my belly overcame the arousal. I found that my hand was shaking as I tried to unravel the rope sufficiently to cut off a piece. Bill watched me for a few moments and then knelt next to me, gently removing the utility knife from my trembling fingers. "It's ok, sweetheart. I can see I'm rushing you. I don't want to do that. You let me know when it's time, Julie." Enfolding my hands in his larger ones he held them while he leaned over and kissed the top of my head. Touching my face he slipped a loose tendril of hair behind my ears. For some reason this made tears fill my eyes. Part of my response was to such tenderness, and part of it was chagrin that I'd obviously disappointed him. "You're not ready yet. It's no big deal. We'll try another time, darling." Another kiss on the head and then he stood and smiled. "I think I'll try to get a little more work done out back. Later." And he was out the door. I sat there on the floor, not sure what had happened. Was he angry with me? His voice hadn't been harsh and there was no anger in it. His tone was casual, easy. I had let him down, that was my thought, though I hadn't protested as he had left. He was right. I wasn't ready. The thought of him tying my wrists, binding me somehow so I couldn't "escape" his attentions – just the thought sent a shock of cold fear through my guts and a prickle of sweat under my arms. I wasn't ready. I guess I didn't trust him enough for that. Maybe I never would? When he came in later we ate our spaghetti dinner and watched a movie on TV. Neither of us mentioned "the rope incident" as I had come to think of it, obsessing about it all afternoon. I had put away the stuff, placing it carefully back in the plastic packaging, stopping to daydream about the woman in the magazine, wondering if I would ever have the courage to let him do that to me. We went to sleep that night, nestled against each other's bodies. It was comfortable and warm, but I lay awake long after he had fallen asleep, thinking about ropes and bondage and trust.
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The next morning again nothing was said, and Bill talked about the sunflowers, and the market for corn, prattling happily as if nothing was unusual. This, of course, only made me focus all the more on it in my head. The day was ridiculously hot, and humid as well. I made up a big pitcher of lemonade for when Bill came in to have lunch. The kitchen air was hot and close. No breeze stirred through the screen, where two fat green-black flies buzzed and bumped. I handed Bill a glass of lemonade. He drank deeply, draining the glass, letting the ice hit his lips. He took one piece in his mouth and set the glass down on the counter. Moving toward me he said, "You look so hot, your skin is on fire." I backed away slightly, but already aroused as he approached, taking the ice from his mouth and touching it to my neck. I stepped back from the sudden chill, finding myself against the wall. He moved toward me, again touching the ice to my heated flesh. It immediately began to melt, the little rivulets of water sliding down my throat and wetting the neck of my t-shirt. "Take that thing off," he ordered, gesturing toward my shirt. Slowly I lifted it over my head, letting my braless breasts bounce free. He reached down and pulled open the snap on my shorts, pulling the zipper down, but leaving them on. "Put your hands over your head, and don't move," he said, taking a fresh piece of ice between his fingers. He touched my cheek with it, and then trailed it down to my breast, touching the nipple, making it stiffen to a rounded point, like a little gumdrop. I shivered but otherwise stayed still. The sexual lethargy, the almost hypnotic effect he had on me when he took control like this, had settled on me, leaving me with a deep sense of peace, which only barely covered a ferocious but contained desire. He took a second piece of ice to the second nipple, making it too erect. Placing a small piece of ice in his own mouth, he leaned down and kissed me, his tongue cold against my hot one, slipping the piece into my mouth as he withdrew. Then his hand reached into my panties and he placed a large piece against my pussy. The cold water melted into my panties and I shivered despite the heat.
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Stepping back a moment he pulled off his own shirt and leaned into me again, bare-chested. His mouth sought mine and found it willing, opening eagerly for his kiss. My hands were still over my head and he took my wrists, pressing me against the wall with his hips and his hands on my wrists, pulling them high up against the wall as he pressed his erection into my belly. Erotically he moved in little circles against me, the rough feel of denim against my bare flesh. "Bill," I managed to gasp between feverish kisses. He didn't answer at first and I had to repeat myself. "What, baby?" He stopped kissing my mouth, moving his lips down my throat to my breasts. Gently he bit and teased my nipples, making me moan. "I want to," I managed to whisper. "You want to what?" He licked a nipple and blew gently on it, giving me goose bumps. I forgot to respond as he continued to suckle and tease my breasts. He reminded me, "What, Julie? What did you want?" "To be tied up. You know. The ropes. I want to." Even as I said it I started backtracking in my head. Did I really want to? Was it only his lips and teeth on my nipples that pulled that response from me? Did I only want to please him? Would I panic and refuse again, when it really came down it? He stood back and surveyed me, looking carefully into my face, gauging my true desires. When he looked at me like that, it felt like he was looking right into my soul. I felt naked, but also understood somehow. It was at once disconcerting and comforting to have someone so intensely in tune with me. Slowly I lowered my arms to my sides, still leaning shirtless against the wall, my nipples red and distended from his kisses, my shorts unzipped and pushed down a little, my face flushed with heat and desire. "Are you sure?" he asked quietly. I nodded, not sure. "Because I'm not going anywhere, unless you want me to. I'm not going to leave when you don't do something I ask. You're not rushing
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into something you don't want just to please me? This isn't about that, is it?" Was it? I thought for a long moment, wanting to answer him honestly. No, I finally decided. It wasn't fear of loss that motivated me, or a desire to please. At least not entirely. Ever since the day before, when I'd knelt there trembling in front of that little packet of rope, I'd been thinking about the possibility of being tied down. I had imagined the feel of it against my wrists – would it hurt, cause a rope burn? What would it be like to be pulled taut, spread on my own bed like a captive, naked and vulnerable, completely helpless? The image of the woman in the magazine came into my head again and again until I got the magazine down from the shelf and stared at the picture, now seeing it as myself there suspended in the black. And what was the real danger? There wasn't any, surely. This was Bill, kind and easygoing Bill who was so in tune with my every nuance of fear and desire that I rarely had to voice them; he just seemed to know. We were connected somehow on a visceral level where words weren't really necessary. I had become obsessed now with the idea of being bound. I wanted to see what it was like. And I did trust Bill. Slowly I shook my head, and said again, "I want it." He nodded. "Go to the bedroom. Put on that pretty little gown, get out the ropes and wait for me." I went as he directed, pulling off my sweaty shorts and panties, slipping the lovely cool silk over my naked body. I couldn't help but twirl about in it; it made me feel supremely feminine. I would have worn it all the time if I could. I took the little glass bottle of Wings perfume and sprayed it on myself, careful not to get any on my silky golden gown. Finally I retrieved the little package from the bureau. My hands trembling slightly, I pressed up the little razor point and measured out a length of the rope I'd refused to handle before. With a pull up I had neatly cut a two-foot length. Three more and I laid them neatly out on the bed. Kneeling by the bed, I bowed my head, waiting, hands clasped demurely in front of me, almost as if I were in prayer. I heard his
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steps behind me but I didn't turn around. I realized I was holding my breath, and I let it out slowly, willing myself to be calm. "You're sure you want this, Julie?" I nodded again. The images of the bound models in the magazine flashed in my mind again. Especially "my" woman, the pinup girl, as I thought of her, face obscured, the ropes tight around her thin wrists, her back arched up, pubic bone prominent, shapely legs taut and spread. "Tell me." "I want," my voice rasped from nerves. I cleared my throat and tried again. "I want you to do this. I want to be tied up. I want to experience what she did." "What she did? Who?" "The woman. In the magazine. You know." "Oh, yes, of course. She was lovely, wasn't she? So open, so completely at the mercy of the camera, of the man who did that to her, wasn't she? Yes, as you will be, sweet girl, my girl." I shuddered, unable to control the tremor of desire his words aroused in me. But I was still afraid. Mostly I think I was afraid I wouldn't handle it well; I would get scared and get out of control and embarrass myself. I didn't want to do that. Act with grace, Bill's mantra for me, had become something I wanted to incorporate within my psyche. He held out his hand to me and I took it, letting him help me to stand. The folds of soft silk fell around me, just flaring slightly at the hip. I could feel my nipples straining against the silken fabric, which outlined my breasts and the gentle curve of my belly. Bill said, "Lift up your arms; we're taking that off." I didn't want to take it off! It was my shield. It made me feel so pretty and it covered all the flaws of my middle-aged body. But I could see by his expression I had better not argue. Submit with grace, I whispered in my head, and obediently lifted my arms over my head, biting off the sigh that wanted to come out. Bill drew back the quilt and blanket. Completely naked, I was directed to lie down on my back and spread my arms and legs so my
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body formed an X on the bed. The rope was soft but strong. The white sheets felt cool against my flesh. He tied a loop knot and slipped it over one wrist before tying it to the bedpost. Then the other wrist. My nose immediately and perversely began to itch, which kept me distracted while he tied one ankle and then the other, pulling them taut so I was forced to arch my back slightly, like the girl in the picture. The itch was forgotten as I tested the strength of the bonds and recognized rather quickly that I was indeed immobilized and at his mercy. My breathing had quickened. Even though I trusted him, my body was responding of its own accord to the situation. I could feel my heart pounding and my mouth was open as I tried to catch my breath. Bill leaned over me and kissed my forehead, smoothing an errant strand of hair from my cheek. Then he stood back and looked down at me, his naked plaything bound and helpless on the bed. "How are you feeling, sugar?" he asked, smiling, though his voice was husky. "OK, I think," I managed, smiling weakly back, licking lips suddenly dry. "You look beautiful," he breathed. "Ravishing." The word echoed in my head. The use of it wasn't lost on me – the old-fashioned meaning, of seizing a woman by force and having your way with her. I watched him unzip his jeans, revealing his strong leanly muscled body. He stood in front of me completely naked, luscious. I watched mesmerized as he took his penis in his hand, running his fingers up and down the rapidly hardening shaft, his eyes locked on mine. I could literally feel the pull in my sex; feel the moisture his beautiful body pulled from me. Fuck me I said inside my head, biting my lip to keep from saying it out loud. Bill knelt between my legs and leaned his shaggy blond head down. I felt his hot tongue licking the folds of my pussy, drawing a long hissing sigh from my mouth, and then a gasp of surprise and pain. That soft tongue was replaced by the sharp slap of his open palm against the delicate flesh. The loud smacking sound reverberated in the room, followed by my cry.
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Unperturbed by it, or perhaps urged on by the cry, Bill remarked, "I love the sound of that." And he did it again, striking my spread vulva with his hand, sending a searing sting along my nerve endings that erupted in another cry of pain. Then his mouth was there again, with feather light kisses that eased the ache and went further, arousing me so that my hips began to gyrate of their own accord against his sweet mouth. Smack! He hit me again, hit my bare little cunt, and then again his mouth would be there, soothing and then further arousing me, until, as was so often the case with my strange lover, pain and pleasure were inextricably mingled, with the sensation of one geometrically heightening the experience of the other. My gasps and cries of pleasure and pain echoed through the room. The ropes were tight against my wrists and ankles, forcing me to remain open for his kisses and slaps. I teetered on the edge of an orgasm, desperate for release. I longed now to grab him, pull him into me, make him fuck me, make him fill me up like I needed, so bad, so bad. I arched and moaned, pulling against the ropes, desperately needing him to finish what he'd started. Bill was connected on a visceral level, as usual, and he whispered, between kisses, "Beg for it. You know you want it. Beg for it, Julie." Then his mouth fell on my pussy, licking, teasing, no more butterfly kisses, but hard sure strokes of his tongue so that I screamed, "Fuck me! Fuck me, Bill! Do it! Do it now!" He teased me for another few minutes, till actual tears of frustration pricked my eyelids. I wanted it so bad I could taste it. At last he relented, rising up over me, pressing his impossibly hard erection into me. It slid into the slick opening and filled me so perfectly I screamed and came just as he entered me, writhing and arching up into him, oblivious of the rope burns I caused that later I would touch, daydreaming about my strange lover, wondering if I were losing my mind or finding my soul. *** When Bill came back from town the next evening he had a package from the post office. He set it down on the kitchen table and said, "I
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have something for you. I ordered it from my favorite catalog and it's finally here." I was curious and of course delighted. He had gotten me another present! I sat down at the table, eagerly pulling off the brown paper and the additional wrapping inside. I got to a large blue velvet box. Good things come in velvet boxes. I opened it slowly, and wasn't disappointed. Inside were several lovely silver bracelets, of a heavy brushed pewter. They were a series of simple Celtic love knots linked together to form bracelets of different sizes, each joined with a little clasp. "These are beautiful!" I exclaimed, holding one up for closer inspection. It was heavy in my hand, a good solid heft. "But why so many? I only have two wrists." "There are five. You'll notice there are two of one size, two of another, and the fifth is a necklace, or more of a choker, really. Actually, it's a collar." A collar! Animals wore collars. And slaves. I looked up, feeling a heat suffuse my features. He spoke my thoughts, as he so often did. "That's right, it's a slave collar, for my little slave girl. Bracelets for your wrists, anklets for your legs, and a collar for your lovely throat. So you are reminded with each step, with each gesture, with each word, that you belong to me. Totally. Completely. Without reservation." As he spoke, he took the heavy but delicate necklace and opened the clasp. With a gesture he indicated that I should lift my hair and bend my neck to him. I did, feeling that strange serenity descend as it always did when he took control like this. The silver felt cold for a moment as it touched my throat and the back of my neck. It quickly warmed against my skin. Then he attached each bracelet to each wrist. I felt a special sort of delicious vulnerability as I held out my hands for him. Bill knelt at my feet, anything but subservient, as he carefully clipped a chain over each ankle. They felt heavy against my legs. I closed my eyes, almost feeling scarves of silk against perfumed flesh, like some harem girl claimed anew by her lord and master.
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CHAPTER 5 "Who do you belong to, Julie?" "You, Bill," I said, feeling that familiar serenity descend over me at the commanding tone in his voice. "And what would you do for me?" "Anything," I breathed, my voice husky with desire. "Are you sure about that?" "Yes," I answered, but wondered inside my head if it were really true. The man excited me beyond all reason. So far I had risen to every challenge and submitted with some amount of grace to each request. But would I do anything? I was about to find out. I had been sitting in my favorite chair, reading a book. I was wearing a little sundress with not much underneath. "Stand up," Bill said, holding out his hand, which I took, my book forgotten. He helped me to stand and then pushed the straps of my dress down past my shoulders. He continued to slide them down, raising my arms out of the dress, and then sliding it off my body. I stood naked but for my panties. Bill held my shoulders and leaned down to give me a long, lingering kiss. He held me so that I couldn't wrap my arms around him, as was my impulse. His hands firmly gripped my shoulders as he kissed my mouth, melting me into a pool of desire. Finally he let me go, leaving me standing, weak-kneed in front of him, knowing he had me right where he wanted me. "I want to introduce you to someone. A woman. A friend of mine who may be passing through our part of the world in the next few days. Would you be willing to meet her?" Alarm bells rang, but still I knelt there, naked at his feet, my head bowed, pretending a submission I didn't feel at that precise moment. "A woman?" I parroted. "Yes. A woman. Her name is Ashley, and she is what you would call a Dominatrix. A professional dominant. You know what that is?" I licked my lips, liking this less and less. "I, uh, I think so. She does it for money? I mean, like she spanks little sissy boys for
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money? That kind of thing?" Images of a tall striking brunette with flashing eyes and blood red lips flashed before me, wielding a huge bullwhip over some poor little naked runt of a guy, cowering at her stiletto-booted feet. "That's right," Bill nodded. "Not just sissy boys, though. Big strong men and beautiful young women too. Women like you, Julie. Women just like you, who want to please someone just like me." I sat back on my heels, submissive pose forgotten. "Oh, Bill," I said, "I couldn't. I just couldn't. What we have is private. It's special. Another woman? No, no way." "So much for doing anything for me, huh, Jule?" His tone was light, but his expression was closed. I hated that face; it shut me out, left me feeling utterly bereft. "Oh, Bill, please. I, I do want to do anything for you. Let me think about it." Oh shit, what was I saying? But the light sprang back to his face. He lifted me up and held me in his strong arms, making me feel small and feminine as he kissed my neck and trailed down to my nipples, licking and sucking them until I was on fire for him. "Don't take too long to decide, Julie baby. I want this. I want to see you with her. And I want you to do whatever I tell you to. We'll talk about it later. It has to be consensual. It has to be something you agree to before she gets here. It has to be something you want." And then he kissed me again, spreading my legs and reaching into the center of me, enslaving me with his hands and mouth, completely sapping my will to resist. Later, after dinner, Bill brought it up again, as I knew he would. I had been thinking of nothing since, wondering just what he had in mind. Was this woman going to whip me? Put me in chains? Or was this going to be a more standard menage a trois type of thing, an excuse for Bill to get off with two women? I realized I didn't know anything about her. Was she young and gorgeous like I was imagining? Nobody named Ashley could be over thirty. Was she an old flame of his? Why was she "passing through our part of the world?" When had they been in touch? I realized I was jealous. It
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had just been Bill and me all this time. Just the two of us in our own secret world. Admittedly it was a world that got stranger and stranger, at least as gauged by my former "vanilla" existence. I wore my slave collar all the time now, not even removing it to shower. Bill liked to lead me by it, pulling lightly against the soft silver, directing me downward with a pull. Just thinking about it now made my pussy hot. When he was ready to dominate me, he would take the lovely bracelets and anklets from their velvet pouches and lovingly clip them into place. I loved the heavy feel of the silver against my wrists, ankles and throat. It could happen at any time – while I was peeling potatoes, or feeding the chickens, or putting up jam. Whatever I was working on would be forgotten as I became subsumed in his delicious tortures. So I was his sex slave, right? As crazy as it sounded when I articulated it in my head, I belonged to this man. And this man wanted me to be exposed to someone else. "It's like this," he began to explain. We were sitting together in the porch swing, me leaning against one side of it, with my legs spread over his lap. He lightly ran his hands over my calves and feet as he talked. "Ashley and I are friends from way back. I met her at a party. A "scene" party." I must have looked quizzical because he explained, "That's where a bunch of people into "the lifestyle" as they like to say, get together and kind of swing. But it isn't the same as traditional swingers, you know, "wife swappers." I mean, there's very little sex. There's usually Doms and their subs. You know, dominant guys or sometimes women, like Ashley, and their slaves, like you." He pinched my calf playfully and tugged at my ankle bracelet. "They just hang out, and sometimes there's something like a demonstration on proper whipping techniques or something like that. It's usually pretty staged and kind of silly. I stopped going to those sorts of parties a long time ago. "But Ashley and I have kept in touch over the years, and we've shared a slave or two." Shared a slave or two! I realized suddenly I knew almost nothing about this man, about his past. Our lives had
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been so focused on the present; we really knew very little about each other's history. "There's never been anything between us, probably because she's a Domme, and that turns me off. I like my women submissive, as you know." He grinned and slipped his hand up under my skirt, pressing his fingers between my hot nether lips, at once humiliating me that I was so "easy" and exciting me for precisely the same reason. I tried to be still as he fondled and teased my poor little pussy, but finally he drew a little moan from me. Abruptly he withdrew his fingers, leaving me aching for more. I knew he did it on purpose, and this maddened but also excited me. I loved the way he controlled my body. He kept me on the edge for hours, even days at a time, and I had never felt so alive. I pouted, emitting a little whimper. Bill laughed and told me I was a slut. This clearly was a compliment in his book, and I couldn't help but grin at him. He continued, "Ashley isn't gay, but she does like to use girls for her pleasure. It's more of a dominance thing, a power thing, with her, than a sexual thing. And she's good. She's very, very good." "What would we, I mean, if I agree to meet her, what would we, um, be doing?" My voice sounded high and childish to my ears and I cleared my throat, annoyed with myself. "You would do whatever I told you to do. If I told you to take off your pants and let her whip your sweet little butt, that's what you'd do. If I told you to kneel between her legs and lick her cunt, that's what you'd do. If I told you to suck my cock in front of her, that's what you'd do, and you'd swallow every drop and then sit back and be quiet, like a good little slave girl. You'd be my property, which I would be showing off to another Dom. It would be a huge turn-on for me, Jule. And for you, if you let it be. "I've watched how you look at those pictures of women in the bondage mags. And it isn't just about the ropes is it." It was a statement, not a question. "I know you're just a little curious about being with another woman. What woman isn't?" Oh my god, how did he know that? I had never said a word. But it's true; I do love the female form. I love looking at naked women
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and fantasizing I had a body like that. Was that really all it was? Wishing I was them? Or perhaps did some secret part of me want to know what it would be like to be with them? But looking and dreaming are a long way from kneeling between someone's legs! I realized the idea terrified me. There was just no way! Perhaps Bill saw the panic behind my eyes because he quickly said, "Julie, if we meet her, I want it to be something wonderful for you. Something to help you explore beyond whatever we have now. Something to test you as a submissive, yes. But that's how you grow, angel. Taking risks is what life's all about. You spent six years living in a kind of suspended animation. Now you're living again. "And I'll be right there for you. I know it sounds kind of corny, but a good Dom never takes his sub farther than she's ready to go. If we go there, it's because you're ready. You may not always realize it, but that's where the trust comes in. "If you can trust me the way you have so far, there's nothing my little slut angel can't do." He smiled with genuine affection and bent toward me for a kiss. I thought about what he'd said. Trust. It was a matter of trust. *** When I first opened my eyes my stomach did a little flip flop of nerves. It took a few seconds for my mind to catch up with my brain and remember that today was the day Ashley was due to arrive. Instead of my usual jeans and blouse or t-shirt, Bill wanted me to wear the lovely new dress he had purchased for the occasion. It was pink, not a color I usually wear, with darker pink roses and a lovely scooped neckline. It was a soft cotton and I loved the large heavy skirt that fell in pretty folds around my knees. He had laid it out for me, along with pink lace thong panties. No bra today, and no shoes. The veritable barefoot slave girl! I felt very sexy and feminine as I dressed, my dark hair lose around my shoulders the way he liked it, and minimal makeup. My lipstick matched the dress, as did my coral-painted toenails. I touched the silver necklace, admiring the way it lay against my neck, the silver glinting in the light. This farm widow cleans up nicely, I thought,
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grinning to myself. I sprayed some perfume in the air in front of me and walked into it, the way I had seen in a movie one time. I was as excited and jittery as if I were in high school going on my first date! Bill surveyed me critically, smiling his approval. "Just one more thing is needed," he said. He got out the "slave bracelets" as he called them and clipped them to my wrists and ankles. Whenever he did this I felt so feminine, at once so vulnerable and so powerful. He had tried to tell me once about "masters" and "slaves" and about how they really "own" one another. At that moment I understood just what he was saying. Bill had told me to relax, just sit on the couch and read. He'd get the door. I was trying to focus on the same paragraph I'd just read about six times when the doorbell rang. My heart lurched up into my throat and I looked up, waiting for Bill to come out of the kitchen. The woman at the door was in her early forties, a good-sized woman, maybe five feet ten. She wasn't obese by any stretch, but she carried a lot of weight on her frame. The women in her family probably described themselves as "hearty peasant stock." Setting the book aside, I got to my feet, not sure if I was supposed to offer my hand. Bill followed her into the room and introduced me to her. "Ashley, may I present Julie." His usage of the phrase, of "presenting" me, made me flush slightly, though I was probably reading more into it than he had meant. She offered her hand to me then, taking mine in a strong grip. Her nails were long and polished a dark burnished red. She slid her hand through her hair, which was coppery, a cross between red and dark gold, and smiled at me. There was a slight gap between her front teeth that made her look exotic. Instead of the black latex overall I had been imagining in my mind, she was in fact wearing a fitted bodice of soft pale yellow leather over an ample bosom, and a yellow skirt of raw wrinkled silk. Her feet were shod with soft low-heeled boots of a darker yellowish gold. The effect was elegant but subdued. I immediately felt inadequate in my country bumpkin pink dress and no shoes. "She's lovely, Bill," she said, her voice a pleasing deep register. "Such a little slip of a thing though; don't you feed her?" Bill laughed
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and said not to worry about my appetite, which made me flush slightly. He had warned me not to speak until spoken to, so I bit off the retort that rose naturally to my lips. We all three sat in my living room, making small talk. Bill and Ashley both seemed relaxed and completely at ease. I, on the other, was about to jump out of my skin from nerves. Bill poured Ashley and me a glass of red wine and excused himself to get some more ice for his lemonade. I had been surprised when he came home with the wine, since I knew he didn't drink. "It's for you and our guest," he told me. "But won't it bother you, having wine around?" "No, I don't think it will. I was fine buying it. Wine was never my drink of choice, anyway. Takes too long. I went straight for the hard stuff." "You won't be tempted to take just a little sip?" He looked at me, his expression somber. "To tell you the truth, I do believe if I took just one sip, it would kill me." I must have looked surprised because he hastened to add, "Not right away, but if I started drinking again, I don't think I would stop. And if I did that, I would kill myself. It isn't an option for me anymore. I'd much rather live. I have so much to live for now." As he spoke, his expression was so tender and eloquent with feeling for me that I actually blushed with pleasure. I smiled at him, now knowing what to say. Finally I said, "Well, if you're sure." "I am, and thanks for your concern about that. If I do think it's going to be a problem, I'll just get rid of it. How's that? But to tell you the truth, I really don't think it will be. There's things now I want way more than wine." Now, sitting alone in the living room with Ashley casually inspecting me, I was deeply grateful for this "courage in a bottle" as I'd heard it called. I gulped mine while Bill was out of the room and quickly poured myself another. Ashley smiled at me but made no comment, sipping her wine delicately as she surveyed me over the rim.
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Then she said, "What beautiful jewelry you're wearing. May I see?" She stood and moved closer. I felt a warmth of pride as she examined it. "A gift from Bill," I said. "It's truly lovely. Especially the collar." I looked quickly at her, surprised; I hadn't told her it was a collar but instinctively she knew. When Bill rejoined us she turned to him and said, "Has she ever been whipped, William?" I barely had time to register her use of Bill's proper name, which irritated me for some reason, because the import of what she had just said was reverberating around in my head. Whipped? Jesus, what had I gotten myself into? I looked quickly at Bill, about to speak. He silenced me with a comforting touch of his hand on my arm. "Not yet, Ashley. I was waiting for you, actually." He turned to me, "Ashley makes whips, the finest, softest, best weighted leather whips you could ever hope to buy." Was I supposed to respond to this? I stared at him. He went on, turning back to Ashley. "I thought we'd start with a heavy one, Ashley, for her first time out. Something really soft, with lots of tresses." Ashley laughed, looking at me, "Calm down, Julie, you look like you're going to bolt right out of here! I can tell you've never had a whipping or you wouldn't be so scared! It's actually way less of a sting than a spanking, and I'll bet you've had a spanking or two, if I know my William, and believe me, I do." I blushed hotly then, confused and angered by her obvious familiarity with Bill, and by her innate knowledge of me, of my spankings and my lack of whippings! Before I could speak Bill said, "Come here, darlin', relax. Ashley's having a bit of fun, that's all. But she's right, you know. A good whipping with a well made whip is more like a massage than a punishment." As he spoke he pulled me over onto his lap, enfolding me in his strong arms. I leaned back into him, somewhat mollified, aware of the effect of the two glasses of wine I had drunk too fast. I closed my eyes and settled against his strong chest.
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Ashley said, "A slave needs to experience the lash. Not as a punishment, but to put her in the right frame of mind. And the right physical space. I never use a whip to punish my slaves. Oh no, to the contrary, it's a reward." When I opened my eyes, she was smiling at me, her expression mischievous but her eyes warm. I looked away, embarrassed but intrigued. Bill's hand was still on my leg; he had pushed my dress up and his hand was stroking me, moving slowly up the thigh, causing my nerve endings to tingle with anticipation. Ashley was watching him and I suddenly felt shy in front of her. I tried to sit up straight and brush his hand away but he took my hand in his other hand and continued to caress me in front of Ashley. "She's not very obedient, is she, William?" "Usually she is. It's a new situation for her, don't forget, Ashley." Well. At least he was defending me, I thought. They were silent for a time, as Bill continued to stroke and tease my thigh, inching ever closer to my crotch, pushing the folds of my dress aside. As if it were perfectly natural in polite society to fondle your girlfriend in public, the two of them began to make small talk about mutual friends and acquaintances while Bill's hand moved smoothly up and down my bare leg. I wasn't focusing very well on what they were saying until the conversation shifted back to me, and whips. Bill asked Ashley to show us what she'd brought and Ashley excused herself to go to her car and bring in her "toys" as she called them. While she was out of the house Bill turned to me and kissed my cheek. "I'm so proud of you, Julie. You're so beautiful and so sweet. Don't disappoint me now in front of Ashley. We'll go slow; we'll take your cues and let you adjust to things. You trust me, right?" I nodded. I did trust him, but there was no denying I was nervous. Ashley did seem like a nice person, not some crazed Dominatrix brandishing a bullwhip and screaming at me to lick her feet. I was secretly pleased that she was a little heavy, and older even than I was. It made my insecurities lessen a little bit at least. "Who do you belong to, angel girl?"
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"You, Bill. You know that." I nestled back against him and felt his strong arms enfold me again. "Good. Then don't let me down. I'll be right here with you. If you want us to stop, you just say, "stop." I won't take you where you don't want to go. I promise." His words did comfort me, and I sat up, moving off his lap and smoothing my dress around my legs, sitting demurely, pretending to a calm I didn't feel. I was a grown woman with two grownups who were going to whip my butt, what was the big deal? Ha! I almost smiled at the crazy situation, but deep inside I was also curious, excited and aroused. The wine gave me perhaps a false courage, and I was feeling its full effects now. Still, I knew the heat in my cheeks was only partly due to alcohol. Ashley came back in, pulling a long duffel bag with wheels on one end. She stopped in front of us and set it down with a flourish. "Wait'll you see my newest flogger," she said excitedly to Bill. "I used black cherry for the handle, and the tresses as so soft, like velvet. I can't wait to try it out!" As she spoke she unzipped the bag and fished around a minute, pulling out a long handled whip, or "flogger" as she'd called it. I stared, fascinated. The handle was long and thin, flaring slightly at the end. It had a strip of leather looped around it, which Ashley slipped over her wrist as she held out the whip, showing us the long dangling strips of leather that looked like suede. She handed the whip to Bill, who took it and held it balanced in his open palms. He whistled appreciatively and said, "Ashley, my girl, you've outdone yourself. This is flat out gorgeous!" Ashley smiled, a beneficent smile like a queen might bestow on her subject. What was so great about that whip, I wondered, the ugly head of jealousy rearing itself for a moment inside of me. He had never seemed that excited about my pottery, and that was art! "Get up, Julie," Bill commanded me. His tone wasn't as light as it had been up till now. I recognized the "master" in his tone and the "submissive" in me responded at a gut level. I stood up, licking my lips, feeling hot suddenly, even though the air conditioning was cranked. "You are one lucky woman," he told me. "To be the first
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one to experience this, oh my." He stroked the handle as he spoke, and then handed the whip to Ashley. "Turn around, Jule. I want to unzip your dress. You won't be needing it." "But Bill!" I panicked suddenly, remembering I had no bra on. I clutched my arms protectively around my waist and took a step back from him. His eyes darkened. Ashley intervened, "Don't worry, honey. It's just me. I've seen breasts before, silly. It's really no big deal. I promise." Her voice was warm and she smiled again at me, seeming genuinely concerned that I feel comfortable. I did relax a little. She was right, really. They were just breasts. I let my hands drop to my sides as Bill unzipped the dress. I didn't protest as he slipped it from my shoulders, though I found I was having trouble catching my breath. "Bill, she's trembling, the poor darling!" As Bill took the dress from me, I crossed my arms protectively over my chest. Ashley was right there, enfolding me in her big embrace. The soft leather of her vest felt good against my bare skin, and her perfume was spicy and musky, with a trace of cinnamon. I found myself responding to her, and I let my arms fall. It wasn't exactly a sexual response, but more one of trust, of a desire to please her, to be held by her for a moment longer. Shyly, I put my own bare arms around her waist, and she responded by holding me tighter. "There, there," she whispered into my hair, "You're safe with us, little girl. We want to play with you, and to introduce you to something wonderful. Bill would never have invited me if he didn't think you were ready, I promise." She let go of me, and I resisted the impulse to hold on. I took a deep breath and stood in front of them, in just my little satin panties, while they both looked me over with obvious admiration in their faces. As ridiculous as it might sound for a person in their mid-thirties, I realized as I stood there that Ashley was only the third person to see me in such a state of undress, after Randy and Bill, and certainly the first woman. I had always been modest to a fault in high school,
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avoiding the school shower when possible after P.E., preferring to wait until I'd gotten home to the privacy of my own bathroom. Bill had helped me these past weeks to get more comfortable with my body, and I did believe that he genuinely liked it, but having this woman stare at me with such frank appreciation was disconcerting. I started to cover my breasts again but Bill ordered, "Stop. Put your hands down, Julie. Stop being a silly child." I flushed and looked down, but let my hands fall to my sides. Ashley meanwhile had moved to her duffle, and she withdrew a thick piece of material, about two foot square. I saw that it was lamb fleece, thick and inviting. "Here, sweetie, kneel on this," she said, her voice warm but brooking no dispute. I did as she commanded, feeling a strange calm descend on me that I didn't yet really understand. Ashley was one of those "natural dominants" that people, especially, apparently, submissive people like me, just naturally want to obey. I knelt obediently on the soft fleece. Ashley stood behind me and gently pushed my back until I was bent over, my cheek resting against the soft rug, my hands hanging awkwardly at my sides. I felt her long, strong fingers smooth the flesh of my back. "She's so soft, William. That's what I love about women, their soft skin. Don't you?" I didn't hear Bill respond, but I did like her cool fingers smoothing my body. I could feel tension easing out of my muscles as she caressed and massaged me for a few moments. "Stay as you are, Julie," she said. "Bill's going to sit in front of you, and keep you safe. I'm going to whip you with this lovely cherry flogger and I promise you, it'll be like nothing you've experienced." I started to lift my head as I heard Bill in front of me, but I felt his strong hand on my hair. "Don't move, sweetheart. This is just perfect." He settled in front of me, taking my hands in his lap. I couldn't see his face, but I could feel his warmth and smell his comforting lemony scent. My arms were extended in front of me, my head bowed, my legs tucked beneath me. I felt Ashley's hands smoothing in swirls down my back. She got to my bottom and her hands slid over the satin of my panties. I jerked a little, but my hands were still held firmly in Bill's.
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"Shh," whispered Ashley. "Hush, little girl. I'm going to take these little panties off. You won't be needing them." I considered jumping up then and there, but her hands felt so good on my back, and Bill was sitting in front of me, holding me. I could feel his desire for me to obey fairly emanating from him. His words echoed in my head, "Don't let me down. I'll be right here with you. If you want us to stop, you just say, "stop." I won't take you where you don't want to go. I promise." Ashley pulled down my panties and left them at my knees. I didn't have time to focus on being embarrassed that she was surely staring at my naked ass, because her hands were on my cheeks, moving down in sure strokes to my thighs. And then her fingers strayed down and in between my legs. As her fingers found my pussy I jerked again and let out a little involuntary gasp. Bill calmed me, whispering that I was being wonderful, and telling me to be still and trust Ashley. I couldn't deny her fingers felt good as they teased across my nether lips, touching me with little butterfly caresses. She slipped a finger in the little cleft and spread my labia slightly with her hand. It felt wonderful, even as my hidden face burned with embarrassment to be touched like this by a woman! Her touch was gentle, much more gentle than either Randy's or Bill's had ever been. A woman's touch, I supposed? Her fingers danced across my center, drawing an involuntary moan from me. She laughed, a low little gurgle of pleasure in her throat, and pressed a finger into my entrance. I arched involuntarily against her hand and she laughed aloud this time. Her fingers were drumming and twirling against my clit and inside of me, and I felt like I was going to come! "She's soaked! Your shy little country girl is hot as a New York whore!" I was shocked out of my sensual pleasure, as, humiliated, I tried to close my legs. "Stop it!" Her voice was harder now, the sweetness gone. "Enough of that coy shit. Take it; you know you need it. I'm not going to stop until I feel like it, so just go with it." Bill held me tighter as Ashley's fingers continued their relentless onslaught. In
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spite of the humiliation, or perhaps partially because of it, I couldn't help but respond to her expert touch. Feeling the pleasure mount again, I realized I was moaning aloud, a long breathy sound that was being wrenched from me by her fingers. I was close, so close, to coming when the fingers were abruptly withdrawn. It took me a second to figure out that she had stopped. I wanted her to do it again! Bring back that hot sweet pleasure. No one had ever touched me quite like that before and I wanted it back! I wanted to come. I was on fire. But Ashley had me right where she wanted me. "You want to come, don't you, girl?" she asked, her mouth now close to my ear. I nodded and she laughed, that low gurgle of pleasure. "Well, you have to earn it, slut girl. You have to earn it. It's time for your whipping." I heard her behind me and then I felt the soft tresses of her whip slide across my back and stop on my ass. I tensed, the impending release of orgasm receding quickly. My heart started to thud and my breathing was a staccato of fear. Again the tresses slid across my back and down to my ass. It was soft and almost tickled. She raised the whip and let the lashes fall a little harder against my ass. The suede strips, when taken together, were heavy and made a sound a little like rain against a window as they landed on my flesh. I jerked a little, but it really hadn't hurt at all. It felt heavy and soft, and I now understood her remark that it was really like a massage, as she dropped it again and again against my ass and back. I was feeling lulled, I suppose, by the gentle, heavy tresses slapping against me. Then suddenly the gentleness was replaced by a stinging smack on my ass that made me jump! "Ouch!" I yelped, taken by surprise. Before I could respond further, it happened again, just below the spot where it had landed before. Bill gripped my wrists now, effectively holding me down, as the stinging lash struck again and again. My ass was tingling and my breathing was labored and interrupted by my yelps. Part of me knew I could just say, "Stop," and they would stop. I knew they would. And
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yet another part of me didn't want them to stop. This was different than the spankings Bill had given me. I understood now on a gut level the difference between the "punishment" of his spankings, which indeed were much harder to take than what was happening here, and the sensual sting of this whipping. As if to reinforce this fledgling idea in my head, I felt Ashley's fingers again at my sex. They were sweetly insistent, pressing me open, drawing out the sticky wet need in me, making me almost collapse with pleasure. Again, just as the edge of a wave of orgasm was threatening to roll over me, the fingers were withdrawn and the whipping began again, on an ass now tender, and on my virgin back. The blows were harder now, and I could hear the whistle of the whip that fraction of a second before it struck my flesh. I yelled now, no demure sighs or whimpers, and yet, perversely, I still didn't want it to stop. Ashley understood my need perfectly. She played me like I was an instrument, one that she had fashioned and crafted for her pleasure, and mine. She knew just when to stop; when the sting of the lash was one stroke away from real pain, and then her fingers would find me, and tease me to the edge of searing pleasure. And then again, she would withdraw, the torture of denied release exquisite, while the whip found its mark, making me cry and moan. But never did the word "stop" cross my lips. My flesh was on fire and my legs were asleep beneath me when at last she took pity and her fingers completed their dance against my sex, making me cry, a mewling howl of pure lust, as I came harder than I had ever done before, my wrists still held in Bill's grip, my face wet with sweat, and oddly, tears. At last the spasms that wracked me subsided and I slumped to my side, no longer in the least self-conscious about being naked in front of this stranger. Stranger was the wrong word, as I felt somehow she knew me more intimately than anyone ever had. More so than my husband of twelve years, or this lover who had fallen into my life. She seemed to understand some essence in me that I hadn't been aware of, and she
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had pulled it from me, like fire from tinder. I lay, completely spent, my mind empty, my body sated, my spirit flying. I was dimly aware that Ashley was speaking, though it wasn't to me. "She's a natural, Bill. She was born for the whip."
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CHAPTER 6 Ashley stayed for dinner, which I had prepared earlier. I had fallen asleep right where I lay on the little lamb's fleece. Bill had carried me to the bedroom, where they let me nap a while. I woke up disoriented, the sun slanting in at my window, low in a sky replete with gold and purple like something royal. I felt groggy and confused. Remembering what had just happened, I came awake more quickly, gingerly feeling my bottom. It was tender but otherwise none the worse for wear. I grinned at myself, feeling a curious pride that I had "taken a whipping." I realized as I stood and examined myself in the mirror, that I was hoping for a repeat performance. My pink dress and panties were laid out neatly on the end of the bed, and I put them on again, going out in search of my "guests." What I really wanted was another whipping, but I didn't have the nerve to ask, and knew instinctively it would be "unbecoming" for me to do so. Still I kept rehearsing it in my head. As I served them my beef stew, while I was ladling a portion into her bowl, I could say, "Well, Ashley, how about a repeat performance after dinner?" "No, that wouldn't work. As I sliced the blueberry pie, pleased to see that my crust was perfect this time, I imagined remarking casually, "So, guys. How about that whipping thing? Shall we try that again? I think I have the hang of it now." I could just imagine Bill's wry, amused expression, and Ashley's big guffaw, as they discussed what a slut I was in front of me. "So much for your retiring country girl," I could just hear Ashley say. "You're quiet tonight, sweetheart." Bill's comment brought me abruptly out of my humiliating daydream. Of course I was quiet; I was too busy having an entire conversation in my head! I shook my head, as if that would shake out the thoughts, and offered them each more coffee with their pie. As with so many things in my life, if I'd just been a bit more patient, I would have had what I wanted. After dinner Ashley
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casually asked Bill if he'd like a try with the new whip. "Now that I've broken it in, that is," she laughed. I felt my heart lurch up into my throat. I did want the whipping, but now that she was offering it again I felt nervous. I could actually feel the flesh on my ass tingle in anticipation so that I had to squirm on my seat. Bill watched me and laughed. "I think you've created a monster!" he teased, and I flushed with embarrassment. He took the offered whip from Ashley and held it again balanced on both palms, enjoying the balance of it, the solid weight. It was a beautiful whip, with the dark cherry red wood and the long soft tresses of black. Turning to me Bill said, "Are you ready, Julie? Do you want another whipping?" I nodded, feeling shy, but wanting what he offered too much to pretend otherwise. "This time you'll take it standing. And I think you're ready for a little restraint. It'll keep you from moving around too much. I wouldn't want to miss the mark." "Oh yes!" Ashley chimed in eagerly. "I was hoping we'd get to use restraints. I have some terrific little leather cuffs that'll fit just right on little Julie's wrists. Would you like that, honey? To be cuffed?" She didn't wait for an answer, but said, "Let's see," as she surveyed the room. "Well, will you look at that? That'd be about perfect, wouldn't it, Bill? Do you think it'd hold her? It's a pretty big hook." She was pointing up to the sizable plant hook that held one of my many hanging potted plants. The plant was a simple ivy, and had grown large, its vines hanging long over the edges of the pot, almost touching the floor. It was a big plant and she was right, the large hook that held it was firmly embedded into the ceiling beam. "'Bout perfect, I'd say," Bill agreed. I was feeling increasingly nervous, as they talked around and about me. Standing up and cuffed to a plant hook? That would be a lot harder to take, I was thinking, than kneeling, hiding my head in the comfort of Bill's familiar lap. "Um, I'm not sure about this," I ventured, but Bill interrupted me. "That's all right, sugar. You don't have to be sure about it. That's the beauty of your position. You don't have to be sure, or unsure, or
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anything at all. You just have to take it. You have to trust me, remember?" His words frightened me, but also excited me. There is something deeply freeing about being told you "have no choice." I didn't have to consider if I was behaving "properly" or anything else. He took my hand, regarding me warmly, his face full of love, his eyes bright with excitement. Ashley hurried over to her duffle bag and got out the little leather cuffs she had referred to. They were lined with the same soft fleece she had had me kneel on earlier. "Hold out your wrists, Julie," she ordered, kneeling in front of me where I sat on the couch. I did as she commanded, feeling nervous, but excited. First she unclasped my "slave" bracelets and set them carefully in a little pile of silver on the coffee table, after glancing toward Bill for his approval. It felt so odd, and yet so right somehow, to have her asking his approval to remove my jewelry, instead of me. Of course, from her perspective I was his slave girl, and it made perfect sense that she wouldn't have to ask me anything at all; I belonged to him. There were several oblong holes on the cuffs, so that she could adjust the length of it to fit over my wrists. "Your wrists are so tiny!" she exclaimed, and I noticed hers were thick and large, like a man's, but then, she was a large woman. She slipped the metal ring into the farthest notch on the cuffs and then used a metal clip to secure it. The cuffs felt snug and warm against my wrists, but not tight. She turned them each a few times, seeming satisfied with the fit. However much I protested my uncertainty, I wanted this. I stared at the soft black leather bands now securing my wrists and felt my pussy tingle and moisten so that I had to squeeze my thighs together. "Stand up, dear," Ashley said. "We need to get that dress out of the way, don't we?" The question was rhetorical, as she waited for me to stand up and obey her. She was clearly used to being obeyed. I stood, feeling a little shaky. Ashley unzipped the back and removed the dress. She left me my panties, for which I was grateful. I was still very shy to be naked in front of her.
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She was so casual about it, though, which helped me to relax. I don't know why I thought it was such a big deal, my being naked. It was obviously something she had seen many times before. Bill meanwhile got the small stepladder from the kitchen and removed the old plant from its hook. Ashley provided him with some sturdy rope that he looped through each cuff clip, tying an expert little knot through each one. He led me to the hook and I remember making a conscious effort not to stumble on my trembling legs. Yet I wasn't afraid. I felt kind of like a queen or something; totally the focus of their attention, standing only in my panties and wrist cuffs under the hook where I was to be bound for their pleasure. And mine, yes definitely mine. My heart was already thumping a little too hard against my sternum as Bill raised my arms and pulled on the ropes, standing on the little ladder to reach the hook. When he was satisfied he had secured them properly, he pulled up, forcing my arms to rise over my head. Ashley stood in front of me, and I realized fully that I was completely helpless now in front of them as she gently took each breast in her hands and cupped them. She tweaked each nipple and I blushed painfully, enjoying the sensations she was creating, but also embarrassed that a woman was doing this to me. Then she did something I hadn't expected. Gently taking my face in her hands, she knelt down, bringing her mouth to mine. She kissed my lips lightly, tentatively, as if asking permission with her mouth. I was startled but I didn't protest. She tasted sweet, like strawberries. Her mouth was soft and the skin of her face was so soft, so different from being kissed by a man. She kissed me, her lips still closed, for a few moments. Then she parted her lips slightly and touched my lips with her tongue. Feeling incredibly bold, I parted my own lips, allowing her tongue entrance to my mouth. It was small and felt different from Bill's insistent kisses. Where he usually claimed me with his tongue, she was tentative, careful, exploring my mouth delicately as she held my face in her hands, the embrace soft.
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I began to respond to her, forgetting the stupid questions that had leaped into my brain as she kissed me – was I gay? Should I let her kiss me? Did Bill mind? I forgot it all as I just responded to her sweet ministrations. My heart had slowed from the initial thunder of fear at being suspended naked in front of Ashley and Bill. I found that I loved those kisses and I let myself just experience them. I kissed her back, sighing with pleasure, wishing for the moment my arms were free so I could touch her face as she was touching mine. I got lost in those kisses. "How you doing, baby?" Bill's voice came from behind me and I jumped slightly. I felt his strong long body behind me and I leaned back into it. Ashley pulled away then, smiling at me, her eyes bright and her expression soft. Bill moved in closer to me, perhaps a little jealous? His face was next to mine and I turned toward it, feeling the grip of the cuffs against my wrists, feeling his mouth against mine as he kissed me. His kisses were so different from hers, so masculine and demanding where hers had been gentle. And where her kisses aroused feelings of tender desire in me, Bill's brought out the more primal animal response of pure lust. He kissed me long and hard, claiming me as he always did, and a deep arousal was ignited low in my belly. Dimly I was aware that Ashley was in front of me, again twisting and teasing my nipples until they were stiff and erect. I startled slightly as I felt her warm tongue and lips against a nipple, but Bill held my face, keeping me quiet with his kisses while she explored my breasts. At last they released me and I could feel the heat staining my cheeks and neck, not from embarrassment, but from pure, raw lust. I was breathing deeply, but I wasn't afraid. I wanted this, and felt ready for whatever was to come. Bill stood away from me then and Ashley said, "Julie. Are you ready for your whipping?" I nodded and Bill lightly smacked my ass with the whip. It tickled and I shifted a little, getting my balance. He did it again, and again, smacking my ass and thighs lightly.
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As I stood there thinking I was so cool and could take a whipping so well, he let one go that made me yelp as the leather slid across me. It was harder than any of the strikes from Ashley earlier that day. He did it again, and again in quick succession so that I was dancing about, my arms high above my heads, but my legs free to move as I tried to shift away from the blows. "Ah, you're feeling a man's touch now," Ashley cooed, as she placed her hands on my waist to steady me. "You can take it though. I've been watching you. You don't just want this. You need it." Then she leaned forward and pulled down my panties, pulling them completely off, leaving me naked. Bill didn't wait for me to adjust to being totally naked. He just went on, using the whip against my ass and thighs. He was hitting me a lot harder than she had, but it didn't hurt, not exactly. It stung, and I felt the force of it, but I could tolerate it. I was aware that he was increasing the intensity and tempo, but he did it slowly enough to allow my body to adjust to the lash. I forgot about Ashley in front of me. My eyes were closed and my whole being was focused on the lash, on where it would strike next – my ass, my thighs, sometimes my back. That was harder to take, and it would make me jerk and sometimes cry out. But mostly the only sounds in the room where the swish and whoosh of the lash, and my shallow ragged breathing. I was almost hypnotized, in a trance brought on by the lash against naked flesh, punctuated by Bill's leaning in to kiss me and smooth my hair out of my face. And always Ashley in front of me, touching me, caressing me, her cool long fingers a contrast to the whip heating me from behind. I felt weak kneed and like I wanted to lie down, and yet at the same time I didn't want it to stop. Bill hit me steadily harder until one especially sharp lash cut into my flesh, making me scream. It was Ashley's mouth on mine then, and I was too taken up in the moment to worry that she was a woman and not my lover, Bill. Her kisses were fervent, her tongue long and probing. Bill continued to whip me while Ashley kissed me, holding my head in her hands so I couldn't turn away. Not that I would have.
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She stepped back finally, and after just a few more licks, Bill stopped too. The room was silent for a moment, except for my still ragged, but deeper, breathing. I shivered, realizing that I was covered in a sheen of sweat. My arms ached and I needed to be let down. I didn't have to voice this, because they both sensed it and moved with one accord to quickly release me. When my arms were no longer supported by the ropes I started to slump down where I stood, exhaustion completely overtaking me. I hadn't come, but I felt as if I had, my body heavy with the languor of all those sexual endorphins released with the pleasure/pain I had endured at their expert hands. Bill was behind me, catching me as I fell, lifting me in his strong arms, and carrying me again to the bedroom. Ashley didn't follow, and I wasn't sure if I was glad or not. I was curious now to experience her kiss, but perhaps this wasn't the time. Bill laid me on the bed, on my belly. My back was stinging now; the sweat had dried and my back and ass were sore and stinging. I felt a cold but lovely sensation and realized Bill was gently massaging a heavy cream into my skin. It felt wonderful and I sighed deeply with pleasure. "That's lovely," I murmured. "You're lovely," he responded. He continued to gently massage my back and bottom for a while, until I felt soothed and almost asleep. Suddenly remembering my duties as hostess I wondered aloud, "What about Ashley? Is she out there alone?" "Why, you want her more than me?" Bill joked, his voice light and slightly ironic. "Oh, no, Bill!" I started to protest, but he cut me off, laughing. "I'm just teasing, sweetheart. Regarding Ashley, she and I discussed earlier that she'd bow out after the whipping. She says she'd just like a quiet night and you got the guestroom all ready, right? So don't even think about it, just relax. You've had a pretty intense day. "But don't think I didn't watch you out there. You are bisexual, you know. No," he went on, when I had started to protest, "I didn't think you knew. It's amazing how many people don't know their own
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sexuality. At least not fully. Our society certainly doesn't encourage any sort of exploration along those lines. No, if anything, it strongly discourages it! "But that's OK. You and me have all the time in the world to figure it out on our own. No pressure. We can find out more about your interest in girls, sugar. We've got lots of adventures ahead of us!" Again the teasing tone, but it was food for thought! My gut reaction to deny it didn't really make any sense, given how strongly I'd responded to a woman's touch out there this evening. I was quiet, thinking about it a while, and he was quiet too. His fingers still playing on my flesh, Bill said, "God, I want you. Oh, Julie, I want you." His voice was low and intense. I heard him pulling off his clothing and my perverse little pussy, as tired as I was, perked right up to the sound. "Get on your hands and knees, Julie. I want you from behind." Summoning what little was left of my strength, I complied. Randy often liked to fuck me like this, and I liked it too. It felt primal and though I hadn't labeled it as such with Randy, submissive. He slid his already deliciously hard cock into my embarrassingly wet pussy with one fluid motion. Holding my hips, he eased himself in even deeper and then began a rhythmic rocking motion and made me moan with animal pleasure. I didn't want him to stop, and was dismayed when he pulled out. He was smearing something on his cock, some lubricant, which confused me. Surely I was already sopping wet! "I want to fuck you in the ass, slave girl," he said. I wasn't sure I had heard correctly and stupidly said, "What?" "Your ass. I'm going to fuck your ass." He didn't ask me if it was ok, or if I'd ever done it before. He just informed me that that was what he was going to do. Randy and I had never done anything like that, and though I was aware people did it, I wasn't at all sure it was something I wanted! "Bill, no, I've never–"
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He cut me off. "Stop, Julie. For once don't use your head. Shut off the voices in your head and just let your body respond. I haven't led you wrong, yet, have I?" I had to admit that he hadn't. If anyone had told me before he fell into my life that I would let a girl kiss me, and like it, that I would play with myself in front of someone else and come, that I would be suspended from a plant hook, for god's sake, and whipped! Well, I would have been certain they were completely out of their minds. Still in an altered state from the whipping, my shields were down and I wanted to do as he said and just let it go. He must have felt me relax slightly against him because he murmured soothingly, "Yes, baby. That's it, just relax. Good." I could feel his hard penis pressing against my virgin entrance. The head, slick with lubricant, popped in and it hurt! I yelped and could feel myself tensing again, which only made it worse. He held me still by my hips, not withdrawing. "Hush, darlin'. That was it. That was the worst of it. Just take it easy, baby, take it easy. You are so hot right now. I want this. I want to do this to you. Just relax and let yourself go. God, you're so fucking sexy right now. Your ass is so beautiful, so hot and pink from its whipping." His voice was low and raw, strained with contained lust. Feeling his hands on my hips, his cock pressing against my tight little asshole, my own heated flesh from the whipping, as I knelt like some animal on my hands and knees, stirred me to a fever pitch of arousal. "Yes," he whispered, his voice sibilant with his own ragged breathing. "That's it, beautiful girl. Just let go. This is what you need. This is truly a submissive act, to give me your ass like this. Let go, and let me enter you fully. It doesn't have to hurt. It can be as powerful as anything you've experienced." I was still scared, but lust is a good anesthetic, and I let him continue, willing my own body to yield to his. He pressed harder, his cock now fully entering my ass. I felt an intense pressure, but it wasn't pain precisely.
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"Oh, man, you are so tight," he moaned, shifting against me, beginning to slide in and out of my ass. I was embarrassed suddenly, now that the "worst" was over and he was inside of me. I felt my face hot, blushing there in the dark with my lover. But then he put his hand on my pussy, reaching around to cup it, and then tease the delicate folds. I forgot about being embarrassed then and finally truly let go, arching and thrusting against him and he took me harder and faster to his own release. We both came hard, moaning and sighing together, and then he fell against me heavily, making us both collapse in a pile of sweaty legs and arms. I don't think we moved till morning. *** Ashley left early the next day, declining breakfast. "No thanks. I don't do breakfast. I don't really do mornings, to tell you the truth, but I've got to be about five hundred miles from here by nightfall and I really can't be late. It's a show and I've got a lot of customers waiting." She hugged us both and kissed Bill full on the mouth, which annoyed me slightly, but how I could protest; the woman had had her hands in my pussy, for god's sake! As we watched her drive away I asked, "What does she sell?" "Whips. "Whips by Lady Ashley". She gets up to $1,000 for some of those babies. She's literally famous for it. To have a "Lady Ashley" is to be a serious collector. She does it all, too. Bullwhips, chain floggers, heavyweight suede floggers, like she used on you, cat 'o nine tails, braided floggers, riding crops, you name it. She's got a partner; he does the woodwork, she does the leatherwork. They fly around all over the place finding the right woods and leathers. A real labor of love, you might say." I was impressed. A thousand dollars for a whip! Seemed crazy, when you could get a decent horsewhip for about twenty bucks! And all those different types he'd rattled off. He brought me out of my musing by saying, "Guess what?" "What?" "She left you that flogger. A present, she said. It's one of her finest."
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Wow. She'd left me that whip! My little butt began to itch in anticipation. My reaction must have been clear on my face because Bill laughed and tussled my hair. "Oh no," he teased, "What has that woman gone and done! Now I'm going to have to whip you every day, aren't I? Oh, my poor arm." I punched him playfully in the chest, chagrined but happy as he grabbed me in a bear hug and carried me into the house, not stopping till we reached the bedroom, where he proceeded to make me forget everything on the planet but the taste of his skin and feel of his body against me.
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CHAPTER 7 "Now there's a welcome sight!" Bill brought out the bandana he kept in his back pocket and wiped his forehead with it before gratefully taking the tall iced glass of tea I held out for him. It was the end of another hot summer afternoon, not long after "Lady Ashley" had graced us with her presence. Bill was just finishing up for the day. We stood together by the tractor for a moment, both looking out at the crops that he had coaxed out of the dark earth. He drank long and deeply from the tea, and took the second glass I poured from the full pitcher I'd brought along, knowing what a powerful thirst hard work can create. The tractor was parked in the shade of an old oak tree on the edge of the property. Bill was looking at me now, surveying me in that way he had which made me feel like I wasn't wearing any clothes. "You'd look awful cute up there on there on that tractor, Jule. Why don't you scramble on up there and let me see you. But take off the shorts and top first, why don't you?" So casual, just strip off your clothes and get butt naked up on the tractor outside in full view of the squirrels and neighbors and who knew what! The man was impossible. I started to laugh, but he said, "I'm serious, Julie. I want to see you up there. Go on, take off your things and get up there like a good girl." His eyes were locked on mine now, and I felt his compelling will taking me over. Slowly I slipped my tank top over my head, and then took off my bra, letting my breasts free. More hesitantly, I took off my shorts and panties, damp with sweat. It felt strange to be naked outside. I looked around nervously, especially out toward the road. I didn't think anyone could really see us from this angle, but still I was uncomfortable, being naked outside! Bill thoughtfully placed my tank top on the seat of the tractor, so the big metal seat wouldn't burn my bare bottom. I climbed up, feeling strange, but excited, as I waited to see what my lover had in store for me now.
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"You look like an angel up there. Spread your legs for me, baby. Let me see that sweet little cunt of yours. Hold your thighs open with your hands. Yes, that's right. You obey me now so much better than you used to, you know that? You are becoming such a fine little slut. Such a submissive lovely little slave girl. Oh my, yes." As he spoke, Bill peeled off his t-shirt, which was soaked with sweat. As he climbed up over me I could smell the pungent odor of his sweat and of hay. It wasn't a bad smell, just very masculine and as such, very arousing to this girl sitting naked and spread, balanced on the big bowl of the tractor seat. "Remember that whipping?" he asked, leaning in close to me, as if I could forget it! Not really expecting an answer he went on, "Well, guess what, it's time for another. I'm going to whip you today, to get you nice and hot so I can fuck you right outside under this tree." His words thrilled me, even as they unnerved me. I was excited at the prospect of another whipping, but as usual, he had thrown something into the mix to leave me off-balance. This time it was the fact that we could be discovered. My conservative Texas neighbors would not take kindly to witnessing the scene that Bill was proposing. I had wanted to submit with grace, but had to warn him. "Bill, this could be really dangerous. We could get caught." "Caught? This here's private property, as I believe I recall you telling me when we first met." I couldn't help smiling then, remembering how I had wished at the moment I first saw Bill that I had my gun handy. "And we are two grown and consenting adults. And truthfully," he said, his voice soothing now, "No one can see us from the road. I've checked it out, baby. I wouldn't do something to put you in a compromising position." I relaxed a little, musing for the moment over the fact that he'd "checked it out" in advance. Did he drive back from town, looking over this way, imagining the scene in his head, trying to see the tractor under the tree, knowing that later he'd put me up here naked? He must have.
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"Wait here, sweetheart," he told me, as he went over to the barn. He came back with the whip in his hand! It looked ominous now, and I hugged myself, nervously licking my lips as he walked over to me. "Today I'm going to whip those lovely thighs. Did you ever read The Story of O? No, of course you didn't," he amended, as I looked blank. "I'll have to get that for you. It isn't exactly a romantic tale, but it leaves a very definite impression. "Anyway," he went on, while I sat naked, nervously eyeing that whip that he casually balanced in his big hands, "there's this great scene in it where O is suspended, sitting on her butt, with her thighs spread. And these other slave girls whip her, really hard, on those bare thighs. But all O can think about is her bare naked pussy there for all of them to stare at. She was very self-conscious." He laughed and shook his head. I was wondering about someone called Oh. He later told me about it being her initial; like she didn't rate to get a real name. She was "just a sub." Bill said that was why he didn't really like the book. It didn't have any romance for him. O was treated like an object, which is not what submission is about. As Bill came toward me I saw he had something else in his hand. "It's hard to keep still when you're getting your thighs whipped, and I wouldn't want you falling from this tractor, so we're gonna use these. They'll keep you secure." Bill showed me several large loops of rope, which he must have prepared in advance for this. Carefully he wrapped them at my knee and the top of each thigh and attached them strategically through the holes that circled the edges of the big tractor seat. "Do I need to tie your hands too, sugar? Or are you going to be a good girl?" I needed my hands to balance, once he'd tied my legs open. It was so bizarre to be up there, naked, legs splayed, leaning back holding the back rim of the seat, waiting for a whipping! But he certainly didn't force me up there; I wanted to be there. My heart was thudding and my mouth felt dry but my perverse little pussy was soaking wet. Bill drew a finger along the edge of my spread vulva and then pressed a finger into the wet opening. I moaned, feeling so wanton and needy for his touch.
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Dragging the heavy suede tresses over my thighs, he passed it between my legs, crossing to the other thigh, and back again. "Ready?" he whispered. I nodded, closing my eyes, leaning my head back under the big oak tree. The whip hit my left thigh first, and it stung, but not too bad. Then the right, and then alternating between them in a sharp stinging rhythm that mysteriously set my pussy throbbing. Without realizing I had done it, one of my own hands had slipped down to my pussy, and my fingers eased the sexual need just a little, as I rubbed and played with myself. Bill didn't stop me. My moans of pleasure were punctuated with cries of pain when the sting of the lash caught my tender flesh a little too smartly. The pleasure and pain became one now, lifting me off the tractor seat with each strike of the whip. I was near to orgasm, my eyes squeezed shut, my head back, my hair wildly whipping my face. "Take your hand away," Bill commanded. I ignored him at first, but he said it again, more insistently, and I obeyed. But instead of the kiss of his hot mouth that I was expecting, I received the tip of the lash, and its kiss was not sweet, but a stinging pain that made me scream and pull hard at the ropes that bound me open. "No! No, no, no!" I yelled, almost in a frenzy, knowing I couldn't take another cut of that lash against my tender sex. Bill knew it too, and this time the kiss was from his mouth, as his gentle tongue licked and soothed the flesh that had been bruised by the whip a moment before. Somehow he got me untied and off the tractor, laying me gently on the quilt he had spread on the ground. Kneeling between my legs he kissed and suckled my pussy until I had completely forgotten the sting of the whip. I was so close to orgasm, but his mouth was withdrawn, pulling with it a sigh of frustration from my lips. It was quickly replaced by his beautiful cock, which he used to enter my body in a long fluid motion that was pure poetry. I wrapped my hot, still stinging thighs around his strong back and pulled him into me, wishing for that moment that we would never have to let go.
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CHAPTER 8 I still remember the way the sun was slanting into the kitchen window that morning. It lit up the curtains and I noticed that they were faded, the little blue cornflowers looking pale against the yellow. I was spying on Bill, as I often liked to do when I was having my second cup of coffee at midmorning. He looked so strong and capable out there on the tractor, the sun glinting off muscled arms and pale blond hair. I watched him manipulate the front-end loader, lifting the bales of hay he'd made the week before, getting ready to plant a new patch of ground. I watched it like some horrible silent movie. I watched as the frontend loader seemed to lift too high. I watched the bale of hay balance and then tilt back, suspended in midair for a moment that lasted a lifetime, and then slide with a silent thwack into Bill's chest, throwing him from the tractor like some rag doll hurled by an angry child. Then the world clicked back on, and I could hear a sound, and it was me screaming, "No! God, no, no, no!" as I fumbled for the phone, dialing 911, desperately babbling into the receiver. I could feel the blood drain away from my brain. Clamminess and nausea filled me up like a well. I have no idea what I said now, but it was enough to get them there, thank God, though it took 15 minutes from town. By then I was out back there with him, staring down at my lifeless Bill, his face the gray pallor of death, his body twisted into an unnatural position. I touched his cheek, expecting ice, but he was still warm, and his chest rose and fell slightly as he continued to breathe. The medics let me come with them, but they wouldn't let me ride in the back of the ambulance. I had to sit up front with the driver, trying to control my shuddering sobs. He wasn't dead. I clung to those words, watching as they lifted him carefully. They told me he wasn't dead, but there could be internal bleeding, and they had to hurry and get him to the hospital and see what was what. Was I his wife? His sister? No? Any relation? "I'm his – his fiance," I lied, realizing they might not let me in with him if they
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knew he was "just the hired hand." Just the hired hand who happened to be my lover. The medic looked at me skeptically, but a fresh wail of terror as I saw them strapping him to the gurney must have convinced them I had some kind of legitimate interest in the guy. My mind was like ice, the blood in my veins frozen with abject terror as we sped along, sirens blaring, to the little hospital in town. I wanted him flown somewhere, I told them, but they would take him here first, they said. See what was up with him; stabilize him. I didn't need to worry, they assured me; they had the best care in fifty miles. There, at Baytown Hospital, where Randy had died moments after being wheeled into their emergency room. Oh God, I couldn't go back there. I couldn't. But I had to. Bill was going there, and he needed me to check him in, get him settled, get the right tests or whatever it was he needed. Keep him alive! I spent the next interminable period of time sitting numbly in a waiting room painted that awful pale hospital green. The orange plastic chairs were molded together in groups of four. There were two other people in the room, an older Hispanic couple. They sat silently staring up at the TV that had the sound muted. They didn't seem to notice when I came in, though the woman did look at me sympathetically when I hiccupped a sob. Who knew what brought them there. A sick child, perhaps, maybe one with an inoperable illness. I looked over at them, wishing to somehow convey my sympathy, offer an encouraging word, but they were both glued to the silent TV. At least my Bill was alive! Oh God, hurry, doctor, come and tell me how he is before I explode. A brief fantasy of standing on the plastic chair, keening and wailing, flitted before my mind's eye. I needed to get a grip. Finally the doctor came to me in the waiting room. I was sitting very still and upright, almost as if I had frozen there, bits of used tissue flowering around me. I felt as if nothing was left inside of me but a dead stillness and the renewed bitter taste of grief like bile in my throat.
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The doctor hurriedly assured me that Bill was alive, and in stable condition. "He's incredibly lucky," he informed me. "He didn't break his back, which I would have expected from the description of what happened. He did rupture some disks, and will need plenty of bed rest for the next couple of weeks, if not longer. It's his head I'm worried about right now, since he's still unconscious. Of course he's suffered a concussion, and a pretty serious one, to still be out. We're keeping him in intensive care until he comes to. You probably should go on home and get some rest; you look pretty beat yourself. We'll call you if there's any change." "No. I'll stay here, thanks." I remember being vaguely surprised that I could speak, that I could form words out of my frozen grief. Maybe it was something in my tone, but he didn't argue. He told me where the cafeteria was and suggested I get something to eat. They'd page me, he said, when Bill woke up. I just sat there, looking at my hands, noticing the pale blue veins just under the skin. I noticed my new fingernails, the pretty white half moons at the tips. And where was that fledging serenity now? That peace that had allowed me slow my pace, calm my constant nervousness? It had been obliterated by the horrors of this endless day. Perversely, deliberately, I put a finger in my mouth and bit the nail off, tearing it slowly, as I had done so many thousands of times before. Methodically I bit each nail until they were as ragged and ugly as before Bill ever came into my life. Why had I let him in? What was I thinking? What was I thinking? The question echoed and ricocheted in my mind as I sat unmoving. I had been fine, fine, fine alone on my place with my crazy thoughts and my dead husband living on inside my head. With my jam making and my pottery and my chickens. I had been safe. I was numb but at least I didn't hurt! And now the pain was so sharp I felt it like a knife ripping inside of me, a jagged dull blade of grief blooming up inside of me, compounded no doubt by Randy, by my babies that I had never had – all of it irrationally mixing and growing inside of me like a cancerous bread rising, filling
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me up, crowding out the fledging sense of peace and joy that had been poking itself up through my psyche these last wonderful months. Unconsciously my hand reached up to the cool silver of the necklace, the collar, he had given me. I hadn't removed it since that day he had placed it around my throat in the symbolic gesture of ownership. Now it felt constricting, heavy. Were these few months of sensual pleasure, of companionship, worth the pain of loss that I was feeling now? I was still sitting there in that dank little waiting room, the old couple long gone, when the doctor came back, and said I could go see him for a few minutes. I shifted, as if waking from a sleep, though I was sure I hadn't slept. I realized that my butt was asleep and my mouth was dry with thirst. "He awakened on his own, but now he's fallen back asleep. This time a natural sleep," the doctor told me, smiling, his own face gray with fatigue. "There's no internal bleeding that we can see, but we want to keep him another 12 hours or so and make sure." I felt almost boneless with relief, and found it difficult to stand. But I followed the man's white-coated back down the hall and to the small room they had moved him to. The other bed was empty; it was just my Bill. The doctor and nurse left me alone for a few minutes. I stared at Bill, and put my hand on his, whispering his name. He was sleeping, with tubes stuck in his nose, and an IV taped to his wrist, needles poking into the flesh on top of his hand. My big strong Bill looked so small and pale in that hospital bed. "Hey there," I whispered, my voice trembling with the effort to keep from crying. "You wanna come home?" Home. Where was Bill's home? Did I really want this man to share my home with me? To leave me vulnerable to loss again? I felt something inside me cracking at that moment. And through the cracks it was like a fog, a gray fog descending over the brightness that had been ours. Fear overtook love in that instant, and I felt myself shutting down, almost against my will. I'd nurse him back to health and send him on his way. I really couldn't be expected to do anything more. Certainly he would understand. He would have to. For me it was a matter of survival.
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Bill's eyes fluttered open. He looked disoriented as he moved his head weakly. As I came into his line of vision, his mouth shifting in what was meant to be a smile. "Julie. You're here. What happened? What the hell happened to me? I remember being on the tractor." His voice was groggy, the words slurred. After a moment's horrid certainty that he was brain damaged, I realized it must be the pain medication dripping into his body via that IV that had slurred his speech. "I must have fallen, right? Are you OK?" He was asking if I was OK, when he was the one in the hospital bed. I grinned despite myself and assured him I was fine, which I wasn't. I told him what had happened, and that he was going to be OK. "I'll be able to play the violin again, doc?" he said, smiling a lopsided smile, and then wincing. "Jesus, my head feels like someone took a bat to it. When can we get out of here?" I told him what they said about observing him overnight. "I'll get a ride back to the farm so I can get my truck and get you out of here," I told him. Now that he was conscious and clearly alive and still himself, the numbing panic was receding and I felt almost human. The grip of fear released its chokehold on me, at least for the moment, and I bent down to kiss him lightly on the cheek. He turned his face toward mine, seeking my lips with his, but I pulled away. The nurse stuck her head in the door calling out brightly that it was time to check vital signs, and I took this as my cue to exit, stage right. When I got home I knew I should sleep for a while. I was bone weary. I had expected to toss and turn, but I guess my body won out. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow. *** The next morning it took me a minute to figure out what was wrong with the bed. Then I realized – Bill wasn't in it. No. He was in the hospital, and I needed to get back there and get him home. I jumped up, feeling a nervous, almost frenetic energy consume me. I had to get his bed ready and get some supplies. What would I need? I started rushing around, throwing his old sheets from his bed into the washer and getting fresh ones from the linen closet. It wasn't until I was tucking in a final corner that I acknowledged to myself that it
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was "his" bed I was making. Without thinking about it consciously, I had chosen the guest bedroom as the appropriate place to put "my patient." Not "our" bed; the bed we had come to share like husband and wife these past weeks and months. Well, of course, I told myself sensibly. He couldn't very well sleep with me, could he! With a hurt back and all! He'll need to be kept very still. Not bothered with my tossing and turning and stealing the sheets. I tried to smile as I remembered his teasing me about stealing the covers and hogging the bed, but my face refused to comply. I couldn't quite fool myself about the bed thing. While it did make sense to have him in his own bed, that wasn't why I did it. No. It was fear, plain and simple, that was motivating me. I realized that I was terrified. It was as if all the strides in opening myself to another person that I'd made over these past months had evaporated when I saw him being thrown from that front-end loader. While I knew it was just an accident and the doctor had said that he would recover fully, some part of me was still apparently too wounded. I realized that I hadn't recovered as much as I had thought from Randy's death six years before. Perhaps the wild sex had blinded me to my own still fragile ego and state of mind. Perhaps a secret certainty that Bill would one day be "moving on" had allowed me to get close without ever actually committing. I realized in that shocking instant that neither one of us had ever said, "I love you" in all the time we'd been together. For all our professed closeness – my "giving myself" to him, his "owning me" – really it was all just a game in the end, wasn't it? I was still married in my head to my dead husband, and who knew what motivated Bill? A free place to stay while he got back on his feet; got sober? What did I know about the man? How had I dared to get so close, to bare myself so completely to a man I hardly knew? I shook my head, mentally admonishing myself to stop all this craziness. Right now Bill needed me to get back to the hospital. Even if he left me right after he was better, I owed him the chance to
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recover. After all, he had been hurt on my farm, taking care of my crops. We weren't really lovers. No, he was the hired hand. While my brain was otherwise engaged, I found that my hands had reached back behind my neck. My fingers touched the necklace with the Celtic knots that symbolized eternal love, and those fingers unclasped it and let it fall. *** I'm a no-nonsense kind of nurse, not squeamish, not over-coddling. I enjoyed preparing Bill's meals, bringing them attractively displayed on the tray, with a little sprig of something fresh in a vase. He ate well, and was a good patient, not complaining, though I could see he was in pain sometimes. He refused to take the pain medication the doctor had sent home. "You forget, because you haven't seen me in action, that I'm not "normal." I'm an alcoholic, and a hop, skip and jump from being a drug addict. It's all the same thing really. Alcohol was just my drug of choice. "You don't want to see me loaded. Trust me. I'm not a mean drunk. Just a selfish one. It becomes just me and my bottle. My bottle is my lover and my mother and everything else in between. You would disappear. I'm afraid it's the same with the pills. I might like it just a little too much. And I'm not willing to find out." I had to respect that; never having been there, I had to take his word for it. I tried to make him as comfortable as possible, in spite of no medicine, taking care of basic needs, helping him to the bathroom, feeding him and sponging him down. They wanted as little movement as possible, and a shower was out of the question, at least for a few days. It was awkward when I sponged his body on the third day, after the morphine they'd given him in the hospital had totally worn off, leaving him fully alert. As I moved the sheet, keeping his private parts covered, he shifted so the sheet fell away and said, his voice teasing, "Julie, you're forgetting this part of me. What's the matter; shy all of the sudden? Forgetting who belongs to whom, after just three days?" I pulled the sheet back into place and tried to stand up.
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Bill held my wrist tightly, so that I was forced to remain kneeling at his side. "Julie. Just because I hurt my back doesn't mean anything has changed between us. Does it?" He looked into my eyes, his expression at first playful, and then darkening, forcing me to avert my gaze. I was aware that he was waiting for a response; that much might hinge on my reply. Extracting my hand from his grip I said lamely, "I don't know." I felt confused and as though the room was closing in on me. Up until then, since he'd been home from the hospital Bill hadn't shown the slightest sexual interest in me, and it had suited me. I was happy to take care of my patient, and forget whatever had gone on before. I guess some part of me foolishly expected that he would do the same. I left the room, mumbling something about food in the oven, desperate to get away from his penetrating gaze, and from the rise of his desire that I'd covered back up again with the sheet. After that he didn't try again. Bill wasn't one to plead and cajole, as Randy had been. Whether it was pride, or anger, or perhaps an understanding of my insecurities and fears, I didn't know. I certainly wasn't willing to discuss it with him, just relieved that he let me be. Days passed and Bill was finally able to get up on his own, showering, sitting in the den watching TV, trailing me in the kitchen while I cooked. He still didn't try to bring up what had happened, or the obvious fact of my change of heart. He talked to me, but it was about impersonal things, like the crops, the weather, my pottery, his love of music. But the carefree, easy way he had had was gone. It was as if the light had gone out of his face. I tried to tell myself that it was because his back still hurt, or his head ached, but I wasn't fooling anyone. Sometimes I wanted to reach out to him; to rediscover what we had found together, but fear always stayed my hand, silenced my tongue. I couldn't seem to do anything other than what I was doing. I felt frozen in time, suspended, all our joyous adventures shut away in a corner of my brain, filed neatly somewhere where I might pull them
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out some day and examine then. When I was alone again, as I was destined to be. So was my twisted thinking. He let me be, going to his own bed early, no longer trying to come to mine. I handled the unspoken tension between us with my usual overexertion and nervous energy – cleaning, making jar upon jar of jam, throwing pots on my wheel and painting glazes until well after midnight. I was avoiding Bill, avoiding "us" and of course he knew it. Hopefully it would be a matter of time and he would be on his way. Corn and sunflowers be damned. They had been an excuse to get him to stay; I didn't care if they rotted in the fields. It was a stupid idea in the first place. Eventually, feeling strong again, Bill went out to the fields, to see what needed tending to. With my permission (which brought home yet again that he was my "employee," not my mate) he had called in some part time help to keep things going while he convalesced. Today I watched him through the kitchen window, admiring against my will his long, lean form, and the way he moved. The sun was glinting gold against his hair. I shut the curtains when I saw him approach the front-end loader. Stupid man! The old adage about getting back on your horse when it threw you no doubt was being applied here, but I didn't like it. I was afraid, of course, but couldn't even admit it. I turned my back on him and left the kitchen. He came in some hours later, sweaty and dust covered, looking happier than I'd seen him since before the accident. As we sat down to an early supper, he went on about what he had accomplished, and when the harvest would be ready. I nodded and smiled, surprised at my own profound relief that he'd come back inside without getting hurt again. I knew it was an irrational fear, but that didn't seem to stop me. Still, a tiny piece of that block of ice that had formed when he fell seemed to be melting. I noticed his face while he was talking, though I wasn't paying proper attention to the words. I hadn't really looked at him in days, I realized. Not since the accident. Now I drank in every detail of his strong young face, the faint golden stubble on his chin, the firm sensual mouth, the slightly
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crooked nose and the strong neck, the broad sweep of his brow and the deep-set eyes, such an intense blue-green they dazzled beneath the shock of sun-bleached hair. Shit, I thought. The bastard's getting to me again. I can't let him! I won't! I turned away, avoiding his eyes, busily beginning to clear the dishes. He took my hand, stopped me. "We'll do that later." I felt the hardness of his workman's hand as he smoothed the contour of my cheek, ran a finger tenderly along the length of the bone, touched my brow softly. "Julie," he whispered. "Please." His voice was an entreaty, a plea. Then his mouth was on mine, drinking me in, catching my every breath. I let him kiss me, feeling his soft sweet lips against me, and his strong arms wrapping around me. It felt wonderful. I loved the taste of him, the feel of his mouth against mine. I relaxed into the kiss, savoring it, forgetting for a moment that this was no longer an option for me. My stupid, overactive brain stepped in, however, and the image of him lying on the ground, crumpled and pale, flashed in my mind's eye. I pulled back from him, gasping, alarms clanging in my head. "I can't!" I cried, and ran from the room, not even sure what I was running from. He didn't follow. That night I had a dream that was so vivid it took me some moments after I awoke to realize it wasn't real. I lay in the gray light of dawn, my body in a sheen of sweat, reliving it, my heart still thudding in my chest. Bill and I were walking on a beach. There was a just a slender moon over us, but it cast a brilliant light against the waves, making them almost translucent. I was so aware of his scent, his nearness as we walked along, barefoot in the cool white sand. He caught my hand in his and turned me gently to face him, putting his hand beneath the soft hair at the nape of my neck, pulling me closer. He was in control, like before the accident, unbuttoning, lifting my arms out of my shirt, laying me half naked against the pillowing sand. Moonlight pearlized my skin, tipped my breasts with lilac, silvered my parted lips, glimmered from my half-closed eyes. I was weightless in his arms, my inhibitions gone. He stood in front of me as I lay, his clothes falling away, revealing his narrow-hipped lithe
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body. Golden hair dappled his chest, and as he bent over me he smelled of sea salt and wind. I was open to him, needing him, willing him to fill me. But he fell forward, knocking the wind out of me. I tried to push him off, panicked, wrestling with his dead weight. When I finally managed to fling him over in the sand, I leaped up, and he fell over on my feet, his body ice. It wasn't Bill; it was Randy lying there, bloody, his face a death mask. *** I planned to let him finish the harvest. It seemed to matter to him. When winter gave a hint of arriving I would send him on his way. Part of me was surprised that he hadn't cleared off already. Didn't the man have his pride? Another part of me was in fact deeply relieved. He hadn't abandoned me, even though my every action invited, even commanded him to do so. He was "sticking it out." Did this mean he loved me? We didn't discuss anything "real." I wasn't willing and he didn't press me. This allowed us to move about in a kind of limbo, but how long could it last? Human nature seems to push to a resolution, even if that resolution isn't satisfactory. What was that thing I'd learned in high school physics that always struck me as kind of poetic? 'Nature abhors a vacuum.' Something had to happen, even if whatever it was tore each of us apart. *** Was it because he was so considerate? So careful never to push me, never to press his advantage when I might be vulnerable? He treated me with kindness and respect without being subservient. He seemed to accept that things had changed between us, and he let it be. One afternoon, while dusting the furniture in my bedroom, I came across the large blue velvet box where I had put the jewelry, the 'slave girl' jewelry, that Bill had so lovingly clasped around my throat and limbs. I laid them out in lines, looking at the pretty Celtic love knots, thinking how fragile love could be. For a moment I actually held up
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the necklace to my throat, remembering how prettily it rested against my collarbone. But I put it down again, and put them all away, packed in their little box like I was trying to pack my feelings. When I turned around, Bill was standing in the doorway. I had no idea how long he'd been there, but when our eyes met, he smiled sadly and turned away. I half expected him to mention something about the jewelry at dinner, but he didn't say a word. He seemed quiet, but relaxed and accepting as usual, still giving me "space." Perhaps it was that space, that total lack of pressure, that I required to begin my own recovery. Whatever it was, after a time I found myself less tense, and more willing to just "be" around him. It was a relief to know we could just be "friends" without all that wild sex stuff to make me crazy and confused. God, what a total liar I was. I still wanted him. I still craved for, yearned for, longed for, what he offered. I was just too frightened and too cowardly to seek it out again. I had always taken the easy way out, and this time was no exception. Fool. He was leaving soon. I could feel it in the air. He hadn't said so yet, but I could tell by the way he kept "finishing" things. He was ticking off the completed projects, and then telling me how to maintain them later in the event something else needed doing. Needed doing "when he was gone" – although he never specifically spelled this out. I was going to lose him, and it was 100% my doing. Self-destruction at its finest. And yet I couldn't seem to do anything else. *** I shifted on the rumpled sheets, coming out of a dream, waking hot and fluid with desire, wanting him. Only during dreams did my true, uncensored feelings come to the fore. Sometimes in my sleep I forgot to be afraid of loss. I forgot to hate myself for my fears and cowardice. I forgot to raise my elaborate barriers. When I awoke my hand was in my panties; I must have slipped it there in my dreams. I could feel my own sex, swollen with need, wet. My mind was still empty, allowing my body to give in to the sensation
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of fingers rubbing and swirling on my pussy, opening me, satisfying the immediate need for release. I moaned softly, wishing for that moment that Bill were beside me, on me, in me. The content of the dream was lost, but the feelings of it remained like a net of passion over me. I moaned again, caught between dreams and reality, arching up to my own fingers. I could feel myself about to come, and I rubbed harder, my eyes squeezed shut, my mouth slack and breathing accelerated. Just as I was coming another hand came over mine. My eyes flew open and I screamed a stifled little gasp of shock. Then his other hand covered my mouth, as Bill continued to massage and fondle my pussy, leaning his strong naked body over mine. "I heard you, Julie. I heard you calling my name. I came to you because I know you want me. I just can't stay away any longer. I know you're afraid, but please, please stop shutting me out. I'm not Randy; I'm Bill. I'm Bill, and I'm alive and I'm here for you. "I'm not going to "take you" now, like we used to do. I want to, God knows how much, but it has to be your choice, Julie. It has always been your choice, you see. Submission, true submission, is completely voluntary. It isn't something you "take" without permission. It's something freely given. And that makes it ten times more intense and more beautiful. "All those times I'd tell you that you had no choice, of course you did. Not to refuse me in that specific instance, but to withdraw your beautiful gift of submission. And now I'm begging you, Julie, begging you, to give us another chance. To let us start to rebuild what we had. It was so special, so amazing. I won't die without you, Julie, and you won't die without me. But what a loss. What a terrible loss, to give up what we have together, angel." Then quietly he said, so I had to strain to hear his voice, "I was going to leave in the morning, Julie, if you hadn't called my name just now." I had called his name? "Oh, Bill," I whispered, tears slipping down my cheeks. He leaned in to me, his hand still cupping my pussy. It
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felt so good, so right, and I leaned back into the darkness, sighing with pleasure as he began to tease me in that hot sweet way of his. It felt so good; so easy. I moaned, deep and low, and bucked against his fingers. Whatever fears I had were at least temporarily held at bay, slipping away for the moment. I heard my blood pounding in my veins as I succumbed to the lure of that other world where all that mattered was the way he made me feel. Sensual. Female. Alive. Bill was lying on the bed beside me now. Lifting myself up, I straddled him, pausing for a moment as our eyes collided. His eyes were bright with the reflected moonlight, and for once I didn't look away. We stared into each other's eyes as I ran a hand down his strong neck, across his chest, feeling the muscles tense beneath my teasing fingers, knowing how urgently he wanted me. His hands found my nipples and I flung back my head, groaning with pleasure, pressing down on his hardness. *** Then it was all passion and fire and nothing else mattered except the way I felt under his hands, and what he did to me, what I did to him. And then he was over me, pressing into me, filling me, splitting me open, using me, all his own pent up need exploding inside of me as he cried out my name. He came hard and fast, holding my shoulders so hard it hurt, his eyes tight, the tendons in his neck distended, his breathing labored. When he fell against me I could feel his heart thumping against my chest. And afterward, the exhausted, tender silence while the hearts that had thundered together gradually slowed. "Please," he whispered. "Come back to me, Julie. I don't want to lose you. Please." I didn't answer, except to hold him, wrapping my arms around him. When I awoke in the morning, he was there, still in my arms, his golden skin hot against mine. "I love you." THE END
