said she wasn’t going to…
She cracked it down on her leg, the one hoisted up. I flinched at the sharp snapping sound of leather on leather. So did the man. His cock bobbed.
Zara’s lips tightened, giving her face a stern, determined, don’t-fuck-with-me look. She removed her foot and walked around the form on the floor, studying him like one would eye something they were thinking of purchasing.
Her long legs were elegant and slim, the boots as sexy as I’d ever seen a pair of footwear. A sudden image of her thighs wrapped around my hips, while she was wearing those boots, besieged me. The material would be cool, sort of slippery but maybe not once it was laced with sweat. As I pumped into her they’d cling to my skin, tug, squeak. Maybe the sharp silver heels would catch my buttocks, prod me, urge me on.
God, I was at full hardness now. The same as the man on the floor. It wasn’t comfortable in jeans.
His physical form was twice that of Zara’s frame, yet he was cowering down, unmoving, his body tense as though he was unsure of what she would do to him next.
She traced the strands of the flogger down his back.
He trembled.
A tingle ran over my spine.
With a sudden flick of her wrist, the strands whipped his right buttock. He made no sound, but the forward flinch of his entire body told me it had hurt.
Damn it, my own buttock smarted and I clenched my arse cheeks, raising them slightly off the chair.
Why would he let her hit him like that?
I leant forward, spying a drop of pre-cum on the end of his cock. It hadn’t been there before. Fuck, my prick was so bloody hard, straining against the tight denim of my jeans. The tingle in my spine and the heat in my buttocks were racing to my dick, enlarging it, engorging it.
Why the hell was I turned on by this crazy shit?
Zara moved, so her back was to me, and walked over to a silver trolley heavy with implements I had no definite names for. The hot-pants were so tight, so short they travelled up the gulley of her crotch and exposed the entire bottom third of her bum cheeks. Her inner thighs didn’t touch—even right up to her cunt her legs were a half inch apart.
I clenched my fists, blew out a long, slow breath. The criss-crossed lace of the corset hung down a few inches, swaying like a short tail, matching the swish of her sleek hair.
She spun, looked directly at me and held up a long, black, tapered dildo, the end shiny, as though greased. For a moment she didn’t move, just stared at me, quizzically, as if curious to see my reaction.
I kept my face neutral, my lips pressed together and chin tilted. I couldn’t deny the thought of watching her use a dildo on herself didn’t turn me on. It did, a lot. Especially when I was sitting in here, in safety, and nothing was required of me but to watch and enjoy. Feast on her spectacle and see how she made herself come. Maybe it would give me some tips for the future—if I decided to fuck her, that was.
She tilted one side of her mouth, as though she’d read my thoughts. But of course she hadn’t. How could she?
Her attention left me and she wandered over to her plaything. With slow, teasing strokes, she swept the flogger down his back several times. He was shaking slightly, his right buttock now burnt red from the swipe she’d given him.
Suddenly she treated the left buttock to the same hard whack. Again I jumped—it seemed as though I was rushing to imagine the sensation, the skin on my bum tingling and warm.
His head snapped up, and he drew one hand, though pressed onto the floor, into a fist.
That had hurt. Zara had put all her strength into the blow, and with what, about nine, ten, tails to strike his flesh, it was a lot of strips of agony to cope with.
But now she was squatting behind him, smoothing a palm over the blushed buttocks. Caressing sweeps of her hand rubbing away the pain. He shoved backwards onto her touch and hung his head low. She manoeuvred him slightly so his arse was angled
She cracked it down on her leg, the one hoisted up. I flinched at the sharp snapping sound of leather on leather. So did the man. His cock bobbed.
Zara’s lips tightened, giving her face a stern, determined, don’t-fuck-with-me look. She removed her foot and walked around the form on the floor, studying him like one would eye something they were thinking of purchasing.
Her long legs were elegant and slim, the boots as sexy as I’d ever seen a pair of footwear. A sudden image of her thighs wrapped around my hips, while she was wearing those boots, besieged me. The material would be cool, sort of slippery but maybe not once it was laced with sweat. As I pumped into her they’d cling to my skin, tug, squeak. Maybe the sharp silver heels would catch my buttocks, prod me, urge me on.
God, I was at full hardness now. The same as the man on the floor. It wasn’t comfortable in jeans.
His physical form was twice that of Zara’s frame, yet he was cowering down, unmoving, his body tense as though he was unsure of what she would do to him next.
She traced the strands of the flogger down his back.
He trembled.
A tingle ran over my spine.
With a sudden flick of her wrist, the strands whipped his right buttock. He made no sound, but the forward flinch of his entire body told me it had hurt.
Damn it, my own buttock smarted and I clenched my arse cheeks, raising them slightly off the chair.
Why would he let her hit him like that?
I leant forward, spying a drop of pre-cum on the end of his cock. It hadn’t been there before. Fuck, my prick was so bloody hard, straining against the tight denim of my jeans. The tingle in my spine and the heat in my buttocks were racing to my dick, enlarging it, engorging it.
Why the hell was I turned on by this crazy shit?
Zara moved, so her back was to me, and walked over to a silver trolley heavy with implements I had no definite names for. The hot-pants were so tight, so short they travelled up the gulley of her crotch and exposed the entire bottom third of her bum cheeks. Her inner thighs didn’t touch—even right up to her cunt her legs were a half inch apart.
I clenched my fists, blew out a long, slow breath. The criss-crossed lace of the corset hung down a few inches, swaying like a short tail, matching the swish of her sleek hair.
She spun, looked directly at me and held up a long, black, tapered dildo, the end shiny, as though greased. For a moment she didn’t move, just stared at me, quizzically, as if curious to see my reaction.
I kept my face neutral, my lips pressed together and chin tilted. I couldn’t deny the thought of watching her use a dildo on herself didn’t turn me on. It did, a lot. Especially when I was sitting in here, in safety, and nothing was required of me but to watch and enjoy. Feast on her spectacle and see how she made herself come. Maybe it would give me some tips for the future—if I decided to fuck her, that was.
She tilted one side of her mouth, as though she’d read my thoughts. But of course she hadn’t. How could she?
Her attention left me and she wandered over to her plaything. With slow, teasing strokes, she swept the flogger down his back several times. He was shaking slightly, his right buttock now burnt red from the swipe she’d given him.
Suddenly she treated the left buttock to the same hard whack. Again I jumped—it seemed as though I was rushing to imagine the sensation, the skin on my bum tingling and warm.
His head snapped up, and he drew one hand, though pressed onto the floor, into a fist.
That had hurt. Zara had put all her strength into the blow, and with what, about nine, ten, tails to strike his flesh, it was a lot of strips of agony to cope with.
But now she was squatting behind him, smoothing a palm over the blushed buttocks. Caressing sweeps of her hand rubbing away the pain. He shoved backwards onto her touch and hung his head low. She manoeuvred him slightly so his arse was angled
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