Friday, July 31, 2009

Let go let go let go let go let go let go let go

Silver fish in the crystal pool

Later he would tell me that he thought about that scene, planned it, choreographed it to the smallest detail. He knew when I would whimper, when I would beg, when I would twist against the bark and spread my quivering legs. Later he would grin and lick his lips and tell me how beautiful I looked in the sunshine, how when I collapsed backwards against the ropes, then forwards into his arms, I made an ethereal, animal sound like an angel being fucked by the devil.

But right now, it’s happening and so intense, so immediate, so raw that I can barely express what it feels like. We’re out in the weeds and the trees on the dry side of the mountain. Ponderosa country. The air is hot and dry and smells of branches and dust, the vanilla of ponderosa sap, the bitter salt of sweat, cum, pheromones, and the thick, sweet musk rising from my damp, fertile valley.

The tree has my name on it, he said, looking it up and down, giving it a loving pat on the belly, tapping me gently on the ass. A perfect tree for the tree whore. My tree is sturdy and rough. The bark is warm against my skin. I can smell the pine oil in my tree’s exhalations. My tree. My lover. My ropes and buckles and straps. My desire. His lust.

My lover knows what I want and why I want it. He knows that the sun on my flesh is like food, that his lips against my blinded face and muted mouth are like fire that stokes my soul into believing that all things are possible. Our skin begins to melt in the heat and and our bodies become indistinguishable from one another.

Before he wraps the scarf around my eyes, he buckles the thick vinyl cuffs around my wrists. The sound of metal and vinyl, the smell of it heating up in the sun and against my damp skin makes me weak. I can feel my clit pulsing in the warm breeze. I can smell the molten core of my earth, bark and moss and spore, as the essense of me, distilled into liquid and perfume, is lifted gently by the mountain breeze.

A creek gurgles in the distance, “let go, let go, let go, let go.”

Next, my lover ties binds my torso and legs, the bark hot and harsh against my naked ass and back. He can’t stop grinning. He knows. He knows I have lived every day of my life for these few moments.

The blindfold is next. Suddenly, summertime is gone and I am left to dangle there in the wind and birdsong and creek babble, a feeling like floating and being tied to the tracks all at once.

The whip didn’t strike, it stroked. At first. The soft-as-silk elk skin fringes feathered across my skin like a thousand butterfly kisses. The darkened sky was comforting as he brushed my ears and neck with his lips and whispers, dirty, dirty words that make my nipples burn.

The next puff of wind catches a drop of wetness winding down my thigh. The sensation of it traveling across my skin – this tiny but significant offering to the sex gods, makes my legs begin to shake, my heart alternately beating and soaring like a winged thing.

The whip comes down hard on my belly, my breasts, my thighs, my pussy. The sting and scent of leather, skin, and lust causes a chemical reaction that replaces my blood with surging electrical currents.

I hear a gentle rattle and a sharp pain on my nipples as soft fingers clamp them between a heavy metal chain. My head swings sideways, hair clinging to the bark. The disembodied “he” is ready with a strip of tape that he presses firmly onto my skin with his large hand, tugging on the chain as he moves the whip handle between my legs. Suddenly the taste of me is on my tongue, the leather whip handle wet with my juice pressed against my lips, hard and wet. Very wet. He pulls it back and forth across my mouth. I am moaning into the tape. The drop of wetness is now a rivulet, a cool little river of cum leading from the mountains to the ocean.

Orgasm hardly matters anymore as shadow figures, voices, chants, growls, whispers, chains, slaps, leather sting and the thrust of silicone cock and vibration of thick, smooth plastic take over my body. I cum and cum and cum a thousand times, in my mind, in my mouth, my clit, my cunt, my heart, my head and he is in me now, sending me spinning from the inside out, master and mind, body and brain. I am spinning through space, the owl at dusk, the deer bounding in and out of dawn, the silver fish spinning in the crystal pool.

And then, the world stood still with this one whispered sentence, the sentence that flayed me more harshly than any whip or clamp or hand. His fingers fluttered against me when he said it, reaching deep inside and…..”You’re not wet lover. Why aren’t you wet?” The breeze caught the river of juice streaming down my thighs and my mind went spinning. “I am so wet,” I trembled, my lips now unbound. “I am so wet.”

“No, no you’re not baby. Don’t you like this? Doesn’t this feel good?”

“Oh, I moaned, it feels so good, so good.”

“I don’t believe you. You’re not wet.”

He is tugging on the nipple clamps. I am straining into the cuffs. My desire is as big as the sky. I am upside down. Not wet? Not wet? Lips on my neck. Hands between my legs. Nipples taught and burning. Not wet? Not wet? I have no choice then, no choice but to fall into the ropes, let go, over the edge, and tumble backwards off the flat edge of the earth into the moonless, starless night.

Later he would chuckle and lean across the table to kiss my cheek and nibble at my ear. “Sure had you going.”

“You sure did,” I would reply, a dark, damp spot spreading into my jeans at the steakhouse after work. “You sure did.”


Photo: Burning Man rope bondage found here:


BadAssKona said...

It worked!!

Craig Sorensen said...



I'll leave it to the word verification Gods who said...



Gina Marie said...

Yay! Thx for reading BAK.

Hey Craig -- hadme -- wow! AND smoking! Yes! Running off to play some more :)