24 Hours With Susie

by Knight of Passion

Story Codes: M/F, fantasy, tease

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My stories are works of fiction, and should not be interpreted as
condoning illegal acts.  Be smart.

Please send comments, feedback, questions or criticism to
x.knightofpassion.x@googlemail.com, or check my blog at
http://knightofpassion.livejournal.com.

Knight 
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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."



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