Path: not-for-mail
Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage.stories
Subject: Title story: "Mindscape" Author: Arnora Dunestan 47558182
From: xHunter <ryzij@poczta.fm>
Lines: 412
Message-ID: <eXywe.143260$Hk2.82537@fe06.news.easynews.com>
X-Complaints-To: abuse@easynews.com
Organization: EasyNews, UseNet made Easy!
X-Complaints-Info: Please be sure to forward a copy of ALL headers otherwise we will be unable to process your complaint properly.
Date: Wed, 29 Jun 2005 15:16:30 +0000
===================
You can at any time to read and comment the Stories sent to us
OR You can always add a favourite story on here http://free.photoset.biz/addstory.html
OR Add a favourite site on here http://free.photoset.biz/addlink.html
The continue of this history http://free.photoset.biz
Free XXX photos on http://tgp.photoset.biz ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mindscape
He sometimes watches her as she sits in the Math Lounge, a place she seems to
always be between classes, or during spare hours on campus; often, she is even
there in the evenings, sometimes alone, sometimes in the company of groups of
men who, for the most part, treat her in a warm, friendly, but platonic manner.
There is nothing specifically striking in her appearance, but she seems enclosed
within a sphere that hints at something much more intriguing beneath its
surface. She remains apart from the crowd, though there is no hint of aloofness
in her manner. Yet there is something in her which smoulders, that seems to draw
the notice of others, always somehow managing to disturb their peace of mind. It
isn't that there are
no other women in the lounge; many of them are far more attractive than she, or
better dressed; rather, her casual, comfortable clothes, and the
dishevelled look of her hair instead suggest the attitude and glow of
someone recently come from the bed of a lover. That smouldering sensation
is one of complete, innate sensuality, brindling occasionally to a full-blown,
but not tawdry, sexuality. Such dynamicism must surely be felt by every
male - and even by more than a few of the females - within the confines of
the lounge, even though they may be unable to pinpoint the source of the
effect.
As he watches, she shifts, from time to time, alternately stretching her
long body from the seat to the table, or curling, feline-like, into a tight
corner of one of the lounge couches, feet tucked under her body. To watch her,
one would not necessarily agree that anything she did in
particular could be called "graceful"; there was, however, an undeniably
attractive elegance in her sense of motion. It was easy to see that her
movements were unconscious; she moved to ease stress, or make herself more
comfortable in the same casual, unthinking way a cat would, unconcerned - even
unaware - of the efect she had on others.
There are times when he cannot take his eyes off her, despite the card wars
raging among his friends around him; he finds his mind follows tracks for which
his normal studies leave lamentably little time. He is by no means uneducated in
the subtler, more pleasurable, human sciences, but approaching an unknown out of
nowhere is usually not his style, though he admits to himself that it has its
own interesting connotations. So patiently, he waits, and watches for something
- anything - that would allow him the slightest opportunity to engage in a more
intimate interaction. Sometimes the waiting becomes a spectrum of delicious
frustration. Illicit thoughts come to his mind, unbidden, and block out the
white noise and sights of the room and crowds around him. He sees scenarios of
approaches and more. He pictures doing things to her body, and of places he
could take her, many of them within the same building. He formulates countless
plans, and counts formless ideas, marking his time until everything falls into
place with an almost amused, mysterious expression on his face.
She knows the power she could have over men if she wishes. Granted, she has
never been one to consider herself a beauty, but given the interest or the
inspiration, it would not be difficult to have any man who appealed to her.
Most of the time, however, she didn't think of herself as being in the hunting
mode; rather, she preferred to pick a target and manipulate him into making
the advances. That way, she never had to take the upper hand, which suited her
just fine.
He is watching again, she notices, though she makes no attempts to initiate some
sort of recognition. As always, her face is impassive, with neither invitation
nor rebuttal in her expression. For the moment, she has chosen to ignore him;
hunting is not a high priority for her this day, so the seat she has chosen in
the lounge, which is now emptying just prior to another class, is with her back
to him, several seating-groups away. With a small, private smile, she
acknowledges to herself the fact that his eyes are hot on her head, and then
turns her thought to other matters.
Time passes; denizens and regulars file in and out of the lounge throughout the
day, as do they themselves. Towards the middle afternoon, he watches her come in
from the cold, to sit down across the room, with her back to him. She takes off
her boots and coat, pulls a book out of her knapsack, and settles in, in no
particular hurry to be anywhere. It is a Wednesday; he knows she will be around
until sometime near six. His friends notice his distraction, but when
questioned, he only laughs and says to them that he is working on a new project
in his mind. The afternoon wears on; soon there are only a dozen or so people
around the lounge, including the two of them. He has worked himself up to a keen
tension, a certain level of arousal which would soon begin demanding a release.
For sometime now, he has been waiting to act, and with pressure mounting, he
becomes certain that the time is at hand. He watches, marking time with the
pages of an engineering textbook he has barely looked at all day, the weight of
which has become tantalizingly uncomfortable against his lap in recent hours. He
waits, until ...
She has reached the end of a chapter in her book, and sets it aside, glancing
out the wide windows, shifting restlessly. Rising, she crosses the room to the
pop machines for something to do, and taking the cold can it gives her, returns
to her seat, but she does not pick up her book. Instead, she shuffles through
the contents of her pack, fidgetting, feeling almost bored, and waiting for time
to pass, so that she might move on to her plans for the evening. She stretches,
a luxurious feeling that brings every muscle in her back and shoulders and arms
back to life. At full reach, she wiggles her fingers, then throws her feet
across the coffee table to stretch them also, wiggling her toes as well.
Wriggling into a more comfortable position, with her feet now tucked up beneath
her, she stretches her arms
along the back of the couch until the strain across her shoulders becomes
too much, then brings her arms back to clasp her hands behind her neck, fingers
laced under her hair.
She is somewhat startled by a firm grip enclosing on her joined wrists. There is
an irrepressable, instinctive twitch of her pleasure centres; the contact is
unfamiliar, but the potential meaning of the contact is not. Given her current
position, she becomes very aware of a sense of vulnerablity, and something far
more intense: an immediate sense of arousal. Without turning to look, she is
aware of a head approaching her own, and instantly there is the feel of breath
at her ears, and lips, gently tickling the hair that covers her ears as it is
brushed aside. The whisper, the unexpected but anticipated approach that would
seal her fate, caressed her senses as it spoke:
"You have a dilemma here. You are vulnerable, and I have control," it says, a
bare smile almost audible in its tone. "Does this bother you?"
"That depends on your definition of 'bothered'", she replies. He gives her
wrists a sharp squeeze; she must squirm to keep from gasping aloud.
"I can't allow that kind of attitude," he muses. "How should I
discipline you?" When she does not respond, he crushes her wrists in his grip
almost brutally, feeling her body both tense and radiate heat in response. "What
should I do?" he repeats. As the familiar trembling starts, she replies,
"As you wish." The grip releases her, but something compels her to leave her
arms where they are; nor does she turn to look at the one who
commands her.
"Gather your things," he orders, standing up behind her. Obediently, she puts
her book away, and picks up her coat and gloves. In her periphery, she sees him
well enough to be satisfied with obvious physical details, but she makes no
attempt to either regard or confront him outright. She has given without
question thus far, and would see it through. When she is ready, she
turns to him, eyes downcast as is proper. He motions for her to proceed him from
the lounge, and once out into the grand hallway, he turns her in the direction
of the elevators. All during the wait for the elevator, he takes the time to
admire her long, muscular legs, rounded buttocks, the curve of her back beneath
her sweater; he likes the way in which her hair seems to spread across the top
half of her back in soft, layered waves, and has to give himself a stern warning
so as not to run his hands through that lovely mane. Not yet, at least. The car
arrives, and they get in. There are no other passengers as he punches the button
for the sixth floor, noted for the maze of professors' offices and twisting,
turning hallways. She stands inside, uncertain of what to do. Roughly, he
reaches out as the doors close, grabbing a fistful of her hair and pulls her to
him, kissing her with something bordering on fury. He opens her mouth with her
tongue, pleased and aroused by her acquiesance, but refusing to allow her any
response. As her tongue moves shyly towards his own, he breaks the kiss and
shoves her roughly away.
"Face the doors," he orders, and as she turns, he delivers a stinging spank to
her undefended rear. She cringes slightly, but does not break the
posture.
There is no one in sight when they step out of the elevator. Taking a quick look
around, he satisfies himself with the emptiness of the hallway,
then turns to her.
"You will take off your sweater," he tells her as he runs his hands over her
breasts, squeezing them gently, "then you will get down on all fours and follow
me. You can carry you pack in your mouth." Her eyes widen at this command, and
she glances apprehensively down the lighted hall. The delay in responding to his
command is met with a sharp slap across her right cheek, causing tears to
obscure her vision. In spite of this, she feels a wet warmth coursing through
her groin, and knows that she would not disobey, even had she wanted to. He
compells her, and she is his. She drops what
she is carrying and slips the sweater over her head. Getting everything into an
easily carried bundle is a more difficult matter, and further delay brings
further spankings. Granted, the cloth of her pants is enough to take away most
of the shock, but enough comes through anyways to cause fresh
tears to mark her face. When she is ready, he turns and walks briskly down the
hall and turns a corner; she must scurry to follow him, lest she get lost in the
labyrinth on offices. As it is, he has waited for her around the corner. He has
taken off his thin belt, and now brings its leather tongue down across her lower
back, hard enough to sting and leave a welt, but nowhere near hard enough to
break the skin. He has no intent of causing any serious or permanent injury to a
body he admires so much.
In this way he shepherds her far from the elevators, until they
finally come to a stop before the door of a corner office. They have encountered
no one in the halls. Ignoring her, he pulls a small set of keys from his pocket
and unlocks the door, steps inside, and closes the door. She is left alone in
the hall, and now she can hear distant voices approaching.
Her fervent if silent prayers are left unheeded as two men walk past the
entrance to her hallway. One of them glances in her direction; his step falters,
and he stops, as does his friend, who, following his stare, also now sees her.
"Are you all right, miss?" asks the first, taking a tentative step towards her.
She nods and smiles, holding a finger to her lips, hoping they don't come close
enough to see her back and ask uncomfortable questions. She decides to take a
risk in speaking, even with her commander on the other side of the door.
"It's a surprise," she explains in a stage whisper. "It's his birthday, and you
kind of caught me off guard in mid-preparation." The two men suddenly go very
red, making many excuse-mes, and leave, wishing her luck. Once they have gone,
silence returns, and she forces herself to wait, in spite of the ache in her
back, the bruises on her knees, and the fire between her legs.
After several more minutes, he finally opens the office door.
"Come in and get up on the desk," he says simply. "I suspect that you know which
position to adopt when there." She follows his orders, settling back on her
heels, knees spread an almost uncomfortable distance apart, fingers laced
together behind her neck. She does not meet his eyes, keeping her gaze instead
fixed upon the door beyond his head. He walks around her, taking her in with his
eyes. Tension seems to be building to an unbearable point as he faintly runs his
fingertips down along her spine, smiling as she flinches from
the contact with the reddening welts. From behind, he reaches to cup her
breasts, kneading them almost roughly as he brings his lips to her shoulder
blades, feeling her press into him ever so slightly. With one hand, he reaches
down between her legs, feeling a low pulsating in the cup of his hand, which
comes away warm with her humidity. He pulls away now from her warm body, and
pulls a chair out in front of the desk. Seating himself, he motions for her
to step down from the desk.
"Get undressed," is all he says. She obeys without the slightest hesitation, her
movements slow and fluid, gauged to entice the watcher's eye to every curve of
her body. When she has finished, and her clothes are folded in a neat pile on
the floor, she stands quietly before him, hands at her side. He stands and
approaches her, and with no warning, pushes a knee between her legs and kicks
her feet apart, at the same time sliding two fingers into her wet vagina.
Unprepared, she allows herself to fall forward against him, her lips on his
neck. He pulls out of her abruptly, pushes her upright, and slaps her. Feeling
that perhaps a simple slap might not be enough, he turns her roughly and bends
her over the desk, positioning her hands in a grip of the opposite
edge. A small soft-cover book is selected from the book-shelves to serve as a
paddle, which he applies repeatedly to the soft flesh of her rear-end, until her
whimpering convinces him of her atonement. Before she can get her thoughts
together, she is turned, more gently this time, onto her back, the cool surface
of the desk soothing against both old and new welts. He uses her socks to bind
her ankles to the legs of the desk, leaving her spread wide for his inspection.
Her hands still remain locked at the edge above her head, and she closes her as
she feels his fingers probing gently at her clitoris. She is unprepared for the
sudden sting of the belt on the inside of her thighs.
"You will keep your eyes open and you will watch me," he growls,
pinching the tip of her clit until she gasps out her obedience. Their eyes, now
locked together, never waver from each other as he lowers his head to kiss the
welt on her thighs. She makes no sound, but fidgets with the edge of the desk
with her fingers, and tries not to strain against the bindings on her ankles.
Watching her, he runs the very tip of his tongue over the slightly swollen strip
of flesh on her leg, intrigued by her self-control. She does not fight him, but
she makes it clear that, at this moment, he does not control her. With an almost
casual slowness, he touches his tongue to tiny, random points on her upper
thighs and lower abdomen, his eyes twinkling in a smile his mouth is too
preoccupied to provide. He is rewarded; her breathing catches in her throat when
he finally brings himself to the taut lips of her inner sanctum; the smell of
her instinctive eagerness fills his head as it fills the room, but he ignores
the silent challenge in her eyes and pulls away.
Caught by her own, beginning frustrations, she sighs, but has no time for much
else as he returns to her, invading her before she is aware of the fingers
thrust deep into her vagina. Almost angrily, she arches from the desk, the wind
knocked from her lungs by the force of entry, caught back only in sobs timed to
his thrusts before he pulls away completely.
He smiles to himself. He has caught her off-guard, and now she is unsure of
herself. Bringing the chair closer to the desk, he leaves her feet bound where
they are, but pulls her forward, off the top of the desk, to be bent forward
over the chair. It is an uncomfortable position for her; her feet are still
almost flat to the floor behind her, stretching the muscles in the backs of her
calves and thighs almost unbearably. Gently, almost reverently, he touches the
fading welts on her buttocks, before releasing a mighty swing that connects the
palm of his hand with her reddened flesh with a sound that echoes between the
four walls of the office. Another falls, and another; she loses count of both
the barrage and the number of tears which respond to her pain. It is perhaps a
dozen or so spanks which have fallen, and in the brief moment of silence which
settles afterwards, between the sounds of her own crying breath, she hears the
unmistakable rustle of denim being pushed down along skin. She grasps the edges
of the chair in preparation, waiting.
But he is smarter than that; he has seen her tense in anticipation, and knows
that penetration is what she wants. It is too soon for her to be satisfied, he
thinks as he folds his own pants on top of hers. With one strong hand, he
supports her as he removes the chair, settling her on the
floor, feet still tied behind her. She still regards him coolly through damp
eyes; he may still command, but he does not yet possess. He grabs her hair in
two handfuls andpresents himself to her, pressing his hardness against her lips.
She refuses. He forces her head back with one hand, delivering a stinging blow
with the other. She whimpers, but refuses again. He switches hands and strikes
her again. Swaying on her knees, she raises her face to his member, for the
moment giving up, if not giving in. Only barely does he wait for her, thrusting
deep into her mouth as soon as he feels the willing contact, and with both
hands, he forces her head into place, feeling her struggle to breath and
swallow, fighting the gag reflexes. Instinctively her hands come up his own
naked buttocks, but he grabs the wrists in one hand and stretches them over her
head; his other hand return to the insistent grip behind her head as he begins a
fast thrusting motion with his hips. Her throat is tight, wet and warm, and he
feels her tongue running over his swollen dick as he plunges into her mouth. He
begins to rock on his heels with each push, disregarding the occasional contact
with her teeth as she struggles to match his motions. He feels his own tension
beginning to peak, and starts to ram hard into her mouth, knowing that she is
being thrown off balance, but not concern for her comfort as he feels his crotum
constrict in the inevitable climax. His own laboured breathing explodes in an
almost agonized groan as her throat swallows around him, accepting as much as
she can without setting off gagging reflexes. He releases her, pulling out of
her mouth as he reaches for his pants. Unbidden, she wipes her mouth, risking a
moment to settle back on her heels to rest the muscles of her legs. There is no
reprimand for this behaviour; rather, he seats himself on the edge of the desk
behind her and reaches out to stroke her hair. His bare leg brushes lightly
against her bare shoulder, and she shivers at the tingling sensation that trails
along behind it. There is a delicious feeling to the goosebumps that swell on
patches of already red and welting skin, and she sighs, concentrating on the
pleasure. This reaction does not go unnoticed by him, and with a single tug he
releases each of the bindings in turn. With gentle but unyielding hands, he
positions her on the floor, on her stomach, spread-eagled. There is nothing to
hold her in this position except his will and her whim, but she accepts his fether-
touch without question as he strokes her skin, toying periodically with the
sensitive areas left in the wake of her whipping for the sake of seeing her
squirm in pleasure or agony. Sometimes he uses the tips of his fingers,
sometimes the smooth surface of his palm, but always he has the contact with
her, touching her feet or arms, legs,back or neck. He discovers the sensitive
spots along her spine or sides, and the charming
rippling effect he can evoke with light touches across the base of her neck. Her
head is turned to one side that she may breathe, and he criss-crosses the
exposed side of her face with the touches, until she turns slightly to kiss his
fingertips.
Slowly, he brings from behind him his belt, but this time, it is not meant as a
weapon. Instead, he reaches out, and gently draws both of her arms together
abover her head, binding the wrists with the supple leather. He does not speak
as he pulls her to her feet and leads her to a space on the wall between the
door and the bookshelves, hooking her bound hands over one of the shelf struts,
and firmly separating her feet. They lock eyes again as he runs his hands,
somewhat more insistently this time, over her body, cupping her breasts and
bring the nipple of each in turn to his warm mouth. She moans slightly as his
teeth nip them to an enticing hardness over which his tongue dancing.
Distracted, he slowly progresses the attentions of his mouth towards her neck
and ears, as his hands independently move to her hips, squeezing them in a slow
rythm that soon encompasses the kneading of her buttocks as he pulls her
unprotesting body against his willing own. She feels him waiting for her; she is
aware of how desperately she wants her own
release, but resigns herself to patience, knowing he will do as he wishes when
he is ready. Her own excitement has been steadily climbing, and this new,
gentler interaction is almost enough to send her crying into her own orgasm.
His lips meet her own, and this time, he does not refuse her active
participation, accepting her tongue's contact with his own. Strong hands lift
her hips slightly, forcing her up on her toes, and she feels him slip his dick
between the outer lips of her vagina. He lifts her again, and with incredibly
slow precision, settles her down over top of his erection, only allowing her
tiny fractions of penetration at a time. She quirms against him, but his legs
are bent just enough, his body is just far enough below her own to frustrate
her. With just the head of his member, he strokes the entrance to her vagina in
slow strokes, listening to the sound of her breathing as she strains to catch
him. Her head rolls forward as she struggles but there is no punishment this
time. Crushing her mouth, he feels her body tense for his next stroke, and,
wrapping one arm around her shoulders, and the other around her waist, he
breaks the tension with one thrust all the way into her, smiling as the sound
of her cry of victory washes over them both. With his second slow, powerful
thrust, she brings her legs up to wrap around his waist, supporting all of her
weight from the binding on her wrists as she throws her head back against the
wall. Even his breath is rasping as he buries himself in her, forehead pressing
against her neck, licking the sweat from her body. The pressure has almost
reached its zenith; she is grasping at each of his thrusts with the muscles of
her vagina, holding each throb just a little bit tighter, each breath just a
little bit more like that final groan of release. She is almost pleading now,
almost crying, almost
screaming. His fingers are almost clawing at her back, digging almost painfully
into already tender skin. The motion has become animalistic, tribal, baser than
any other known to man, a rhythmic pumping that has no other meaning. Her legs
tighten on his waist, and the convulsion forces them both over the edge. She
slams her body back against the wall, pulling him and his final thrust with her,
driving it deep into her as he releases his own orgasm with a cry and a violent
shuddering, his arms clinging tightly to her slick body as he churns the last
few thrusts, emptying himself. At last, there is only silence. Both of them
catch their breaths; heart rates slip into more familiar rythms, and he finally
pulls away from her, lowering her legs gently to the floor. Her head is still
back against the wall, but now she opens unfocused eyes to watch as he gets
dressed. He has everything he
came with ready to go before he unhooks her hands from the shelf and undoes
the belt.
"Be in the lounge at the same time tomorrow," is all he says as he
leaves, shutting the door softly behind him as he goes.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The continue of this history http://free.photoset.biz
Free XXX photos on http://tgp.photoset.biz