A Masturbation Monday submission, inspired by Molly’s image here
She stands side on to you, this woman, this Irene Adler, this alabaster slenderness, this queen. She is quite naked, beautiful, smile like an upraised whip. Her outstretched arm holds out the blindfold. It is flat black leather, padded along the seams to wholly block out the light. As you reach for it, your eyes follow the sweep of that smooth arm. They linger in the hollow of her armpit, the smooth-shaven cleft, the echo of mons in the crease of her shoulder. You reach out and take the blindfold, and standing behind her, put it on.
She is a sculpture. A warm and breathing statue. As you tie the blindfold your glance takes in: the sudden contrast of her black glossy hair springing from the deep hollow of her nape; narrow, domed shoulders; the web of muscle that covers her scapulae; the knobby groove of spine between the long, tight stretch of lats; the thumbhole dimples above the swell of hip, and her sweetly divided glutes. You want to press yourself against her; bosom, belly, thighs. But that will come.
With Adler blindfolded, you turn to the spread leather tool-roll where she’s laid it,on the bed. Leather shackles first at wrist and ankle. These you apply from the front, careful not to touch with more than eye, and perhaps breath, the sharp cinnamon-pink peaks of nipple, or her smooth belly, the thumbnail nick of navel or her smooth cusp – the naked swell between her thighs.
This self-restraint is especially difficult when knelt, and at her ankles. The fine inturned groove of her is at eye-level, pale skin blending darker as it dips in and down, and down in those shadows underneath just the hint, the barest hint of parting. A tiny glimpse of inner kiss.
This close to you can smell her. The slight sourness of her skin, clean and unadorned.The dark earth of her cunt. And you can smell yourself too, through the layers of severely cut cloth, the skirts and bodice, petticoats and bloomers. You smell a little earthy too, a touch marine. The smell of a beach covered by the pooling tide. Beneath your costume, you swell and thicken, slick petals moving against each other, unfolding.
Thus shackled, you guide your prize to the bed, to the heaped-up pillows in its center. With a firm hand you bring her to this altar, kneeling and bend her over it. You lay her just so. Her rump in the air and her face in the sheets, arms stretched out and wrists strapped to the headboard. In manoeuvring her ankles you nearly break, again.
You part her legs, wide, wide apart. Her feet towards the corners of the bedstead, strapped tight. Now the columns of her thighs are spread, the dark between them free and open, split like a fig on the heady pink within. Her cunt glistens, calls to you, and you tremble in response and long to touch and taste.
Now though,with Adler shackled tight, restrained, displayed, it is your turn to prepare. You turn towards the long and watching mirror, and you strip. The many buttons of the bodice take an age and yet they part so pleasingly that you gape slightly and bite your lip as it falls away under the weight of your breasts within. Slowly you reveal them to the mirror and, in turn, you show your ribs and belly and your bloomered thighs. These baggy things you unlace and let fall upon the puddled dress beneath and step closer to the glass, your breath a little cloud upon it. Your nipples touch it, cold, unyielding and, in unscripted delight you press yourself, your whole yearning body against the freezing pane.
You twitch and gasp and touch yourself, here so hard and eager, there so soft and wet. The cold mirror against your wrist as you part yourself draws from you the night’s first cry and you grin with glee at the indrawn breath behind the glass.
Now muscles taut and stepping high you move back to the bed and Adler’s tools. There are whips and crops and paddles, pinwheels, clamps. Dildos, plugs, vibrators, wands, and,in pride of place among them all, a long black sweep of ebony. Its head is bulbed and ridged and rippled and its base recurved, kicked upward like a nike swoosh. It is smooth and polished from long care and use and it lies there gleaming, begging to be used. But there is more to do.
You begin with long strokes that circle her backside and thighs, her lower back. Slowly at first then faster, rubbing, building heat and friction, bringing the blood up to the surface of that alabaster skin. And then with short fast taps and steady tempo you begin to spank. It takes a lot to make Irene Adler squirm and long before she does your thighs are squeezed tight about your crux, your legs crossed where you stand. As she begins to grumble throaty cries into the sheets, you tremble, croon and gasp. Your cheeks are pink as the redness that you’ve conjoured. The blush spills down your throat and it blooms across your breasts. Your nipples tighten, knurl.
Breathless you continue your drumming, switching from your stinging palms to a flat paddle that brings with it welts and the dark hint of bruises in the morning. By now Irene’s cunt is fat and open, bright and eager, soaking, ready. The smell of her is fit to drive you mad, and it’s with shaking fingers you set down the paddle and take up the great black hook.
There is little need for lube at all and you are no longer fully in control. You were supposed to plug yourselves first but your cunt can’t wait and you long to feel this, this thing. You reach and split yourself, your fingers slithering as you slip the shorter end within. You swoon and drift as its slow bend nests home, set firm inside the curve of you, and tight against the muscles of your arse. You look down. The other end juts proudly from your crux,a great black polished cock springing from your pretty muff.
You love it. You stroke it, slather it with lube, tug. You feel the answering drag and pulse within. The slippery whorls and ridges slide beneath your cunt-wet fingers and its clever shape teases at your clit. The presence of this cock, your cock, centres you again, and you remember Irene’s second-last indignity. There are the leather garters, and here the clips. Cock bobbing and deliciously jabbing against bed and bedposts and the legs of your victim, you strap her upper thighs with broad black leather cinching them tight into the crease of thigh and hip and then with eager fingers and a cruel curved lip and growl, you take each peach-flushed lip and pull it wide, and clip it back.
Now. Now it is your turn to kneel. Your turn to fuck. You arrange yourself behind her, laying the broad black bulb against her hole, you straighten, push and sink. It is delicious. The heady power of it, the long moans and farmyard grunts it draws from her, the way you grind her face into the bed, the spit-dark sheet. Her arse under your merciless grip, the joy of thrusting. And, God, the feeling of the hook. There is no care for Irene’s delight now, no giving, only the glory of this thing. The sight of your black length sinking driving pushing stretching and the deep sense of heat that swirls and thickens around the giant’s thumb that sits inside you. Your inner eye sees it, a great fat intrusion, curved and pressing on the honeycomb flesh of your deepest parts. It is black as night, the invisible black of the spaces between the stars and, the throbbing blood-light of you, this galaxy of you, this cat’s cradle of light and lightning, blood and spittle and ache from your half lidded eyes to your open mouth and its bit lip through the peaked-up strain of nipple to the shaking of your limbs and the thrusts of belly, all that, all that light. All that light can’t touch it. Until it does.
It comes upon you like a wave, a wave that lifts you, poised on bended, scuffed and bed-burned knees, teetering on them and the pillar of your temporary dick. You hang on the crest of it, breath stuck, strangling weird noises from your open throat, every muscle twisted rigid. Till it breaks and you do, and you fall, dick sliding out of Irene, out of you,and slipping off your sprawling, sticky thighs to a sudden hefty clunk on the wood floor.
Gasping, stranded on the tumbled linen you turn a flushed and sweaty face to hers. She’s laughing at you, pleased and happy, and you wonder briefly who was actually fucking who. But, like a good and gentle lover should and as she has done for you now many times, you gently, shakily, release her bonds and blindfold, and you curl together on the bed, stroking, cuddling, murmuring with pleasure at the after-softness. While behind the mirror your audience packs up.