Author: Knight
Title: 24 Hours With Susie
Part: 1
Summary: When a woman like Susie agrees to be your slave for twenty-four


   hours, you'd better make sure you rise to the occasion!  Keywords: MF

   ----

   Note From The Knight:

   A paean to the erotic charms of the inimitable Susie
(sexy_susie.livejournal.com) who was brave enough to ask what I would do to
her if she was mine for twenty-four hours.  This is the result: I hope you
like it!

   And remember: more feedback = more stories!

   ----

   24 Hours With Susie

   You arrive at the beach house at six o'clock in the evening.  The warm
ocean air blows through your hair, and you absently straighten the shirt
you have chosen to wear for this, our long-awaited meeting.  The outfit was
my idea: a long skirt, a white shirt and hold-up stockings.  The style may
not have been exactly what you would have chosen, but the rules were clear:
for the next twenty-four hours, you belong to me.

   I meet you at the door, wearing a casual cream linen suit over a white
shirt, and smile in greeting.  I take your hand and brush my lips against
your knuckles, then take your light coat.  "There are six hours to
midnight," I say conversationally, draping the coat over my arm and leading
you into the beach house.  "I intend to remove one article of your clothing
every hour.  It should be a pleasant way of getting to know one another."

   "Yes, master," you say coolly, and I shoot you an amused glance.

   "I don't demand your subservience," I say softly, my lips twisted in a
wry smile, "merely your indulgence.  A woman like you should be a slave to
no-one.  You are free to leave at any time.  I, of course, hope you will
choose to stay."

   Hanging you coat by the door, I show you the rest of the house.  The
most prominent feature on the ground floor is an extensive lounge which
opens onto a terrace, offering an unobstructed view of the ocean.  A
well-appointed kitchen and a luxurious bathroom complete the ground floor.
We chat amiably, discussing your journey and the weather, passing the time
and becoming more comfortable in the other person's presence.  When, an
hour later, the grandfather clock chimes seven times, I kneel before you
and slowly remove your shoes.  The simple act is strangely arousing, a
display of intimacy and promise that makes your pulse race.  We relax in
the kitchen as I make a pot of coffee, remarking with a smile that we have
a long night ahead of us.

   When the clock strikes eight, I remove your shirt, and we walk barefoot
along the beach, the soft ocean breeze warm and invigorating again the
exposed skin of your shoulders; when it strikes nine, I slowly unbutton
your skirt and allow it to slip to the floor, whispering against your
stockings.  You step out of it elegantly, your chin held high, offering me
no glimpse of submission or surrender.  I smile warmly at your confidence
and beauty, then lead you out onto the terrace where we watch the sun sink
into the endless ocean and share a light meal of chilled fruits and white
wine, followed by expensive imported chocolates.

   At ten o'clock, I take you by the hand and lead you into the lounge. 
You follow, unresisting, as I lay you back upon a deep, comfortable couch.
I lift your left leg by the ankle, and gently run my fingertips up your
calf, feeling the smoothness of your skin through your gossamer stockings.
My questing fingertips run higher, brushing the back of your knees, dancing
over the perfect curve of your thigh, before slowly, teasingly, peeling the
stocking down your thigh.  Your breathing grows shallow, a strange heat
rising in your stomach, as I repeat the process on the other leg, before
throwing your stocking to the floor and leaning in toward you.  You can
fell the proximity of my body, the urgency of your passion, as my lips near
yours.  You close your eyes, half-ready for the kiss you have longed for -
but my lips twitch into a small smile, and I whisper "Champagne."

   I leave you on the couch, retrieving a bottle of chilled champagne from
the kitchen area, along with a pair of delicate crystal flutes.  You lean
back on the couch, considering the two articles of clothing you are left
with: your
scarlet silk panties and the matching bra.  I return quickly, pour you a

glass of champagne, then sit in the leather armchair opposite you, my legs
crossed, my gaze devouring the lush curves of your body.

   We talk of inconsequential things, of foreign vacations and favourite
books, of teenage crushes and broken hearts.  As the clock strikes eleven,
I join you on the couch and take you in my arms.  My fingers trace delicate
patterns on the small of your back before running up your spine, stroking
the clasp of your bra, before deftly unhooking it.  Slowly, holding your
gaze, our lips an inch apart, I pull the straps of your bra from your
shoulders, then let it fall to the floor.  Your nipples harden on contact
with the scented evening air, our proximity making your skin burn with
desire.  "Soon," I tell you in a deep, resonant voice.

   We barely speak for the next hour, sipping champagne and watching the
play of the moonlight upon the ocean, our bodies close, the anticipation
building with each passing moment.

   Finally, as the elaborate grandfather clock in the lounge softly chimes
midnight, I stand, cross to the ornate writing desk that sits with a view
of the sea, and remove a slim pair of silver scissors from a black leather
case.  The silver glinting in the moonlight, I return to your side, and
gently stroke the creamy skin of your thigh, then offer you my hand.  You
place your champagne flute on the floor by the couch, accept my offer, and
get to your feet, the soft light of the room accentuating the rich curves
of your beautiful body.  With exaggerated care, I slowly slide the cool
blades of the scissors across you hips, between your skin and the panties,
slicing through the diaphanous silk.  A second cut, this time on your left
hip, and the cool fabric slithers down your thighs to the floor, whispering
against your skin.  The sweet scent of your arousal is heavy in the warm
air, and a slow sigh of anticipation escapes your lips.  The waiting is
over.

   Suddenly, we are kissing, my arms around you, your fingers fumbling with
the buttons of my shirt, our mutual desire, contained for so long, now
boiling over.  When, finally stripped of my clothes, I push you back onto
the couch and plunge my cock inside your welcoming pussy, you feel a
violent surge of joy burn through your body.  You wrap your legs around the
small of my back and squeeze urgently, demanding more, unable to resist
your savage passion any longer.  The last six hours have been exquisite
torture, and now you hunger for your release.

   Your pleasure builds swiftly, and you are soon breathless, you thighs
squeezing my waist, your grip strong and sure on my shoulders, your
fingernails drawing tiny droplets of blood from my glistening skin.  I
growl in pleasure, my thunderous thrusts making your body shake as the
enormity of my passion is unleashed upon you.

   All through the long hot night, we pleasure each other, our desires
waxing and waning in perfect harmony: now holding one another tenderly,
moist lips brushing smooth skin, fingertips questing and probing, tongues
hot and insistent; now fucking wildly, recklessly adding fuel to the
inferno of our lust, desperate for it harder, deeper, faster.

   Eventually, the sun rises, casting golden light across the glorious
curve of your heaving bosom as I fill your quivering pussy with yet another
jet of sticky cum and you scream your pleasure to the heavens.  Finally
sated, we collapse in exhaustion and, our bodies still joined by the sticky
cocktail of our juices, we fall sleep.

   Hours pass in a dreamless sleep, until you suddenly awake with a rush of
pleasure burning through your shuddering body, to find my tongue and lips
busily working on your beautiful little clit.  I hear the sharp intake of
your breath, and look up at you with a smile.  "It's almost six o'clock.  I
guess my time is up."

   You sigh in pleasure and push an errant strand of hair away from your
face.  "I guess so," you breathe.

   I grin wickedly.  "But there's always next time, right?"

   "Right," you say with a nod.  "And next time: you belong to me."

   ----

   (c) Knight Of Passion 2006 Feedback, comments and criticisms gratefully
received at knight-of-passion@hotmail.co.uk

   _________________________________________________________________ The
new Windows Live Toolbar helps you guard against viruses
http://toolbar.live.com/?mkt=en-gb 
