| Lesbian: BDSM: her beautiful capture (1/10) |
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Sharing a cheap apartment building with half a dozen other women, I had long ago perfected the art of silent masturbation, but this time I almost cried out in sheer erotic job. I was lying on my face in my own bed, my wrists tied behind me, my nipples and my bush painted with the lipstick she had specified, and with her soiled panties clenched in my teeth. This woman came to me when I was at a low ebb, recently divorced and just beginning to realise that all the men I met now, at work or in singles bars or clubs, who were around my own age, or older, and were either married or had been married and had fucked up, fucked around or fucked off. Don’t get me wrong, I would have preferred, at least at first, if it had been a man, who rang, but then I would have been more wary and it would have stuck to being a telephone thing only. But then, why should I supply telephone sex to a man? - I was hardly the type. Educated, a good job, pretty particular really. So why was I doing this? Did I think it was safer with a woman? How wrong can you be? The first night she rang I thought it was a wrong number. She said she was just making initial contact, intriguing me, but I was not even sure if she knew me, then she rang off saying she would call again the next night at eleven. I was waiting. She rang while I was in bed. Said, “You’re wearing panties, aren’t you?” I said: “What’s that got to do with you?” She chuckled. “There are only two types of women: those who wear their panties in bed and those who don’t. I know which type you are.” “Do I know you?” I asked. “You’ve seen me, but you don’t know me. You’ve looked through me once or twice. Please don’t hang up yet and don’t ask me who I am. I can’t tell you just yet.” “Can you... can you prove you know me?” “Well, you’re about forty two, five three or four, dark with a snooty expression and pale skin. You’re pretty.” “Go on.” “You keep an apple and a spare pair of pantyhose in your desk. You’ve got a small eczema spot on your lower back, just above your ass.” Her voice was intriguing, deep and warm, with a slight British accent, yet something else as well. Australian? But mostly just American. Was she someone in the office? Could she have seen me at the changing room at the gym? “Have you got a hair-band, one of those elastic things?” came her educated voice over the phone. Three minutes later I was lying on my back with my wrists tied together behind my back underneath me. Well, just with the elastic hairband, but she told me I couldn’t release my wrists unless she gave her permission. And I was beginning to believe her. And she was telling me, through the phone propped against my pillow, what she would like to do to me. She would sit high up on my chest, on my throat, make me surrender to her, and then she would make me eat her pussy. She sounded as though she’d said this many times before, that it was pretty banal stuff to her, but it gave me an |
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Oh yes..