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Barn Dance

A kinky rendezvous in an old barn...
I have this fairy-tale daydream about being stranded with Byron on a lush island. We kiss amid rustling palms and fragrant bougainvillea. Salty breezes wrap our skin as we stroll white sand beaches. We bathe in a turquoise lagoon, laugh, and make love in the sun.

Only in a dream can I make love with Byron. I make love with my devoted husband in our bed, in our house at the end of our quiet cul-de-sac. Byron is the man I fuck in sterile hotel rooms and places unimaginable to those who think they know me. Infidelity, cheating, adultery - choose a word. They’re all inadequate, though I’m partial to adultery because it’s so goddamn coldblooded.

Byron did not sweep off my feet in a romantic whirlwind of opera and roses. There was no cosmopolitan seduction while sipping coffee in a sidewalk cafe, no exploited moment of emotional vulnerability. I didn’t yield to get back at my husband. God, no, it wasn’t like any of that at all. Better if it had been, though, because I could rationalize the guilt.

So, what happened? Byron put me on my knees. The bastard snapped his fingers and to his feet I leapt, drooling and squirming like Pavlov’s favorite in-season bitch. He smashed my suburban America decorum, loosing a shameless, submissive slut I’d dared not admit existed, and, damn him for it, but I can’t control her. He sure as hell can.

I harbor no illusions about our relationship. We have nothing in common except visceral sex, and in sex Byron is the verb, and I am his object.

The slam of a car door splinters my tropical daydream like the crack of a frozen river shattering beneath me. Heart thumping, lungs flailing, apprehension wraps my body in sweaty tremors as I return to myself. In my head, my good angel’s anguished pleas to think of my marriage die away as my bad angel gleefully breaks her golden wings and drags her to some dark corner where she won’t be a bother - for a while, anyway.

The tremors fade, and I open my slut eyes to see feet dirtied with flecks of straw. I wiggle the toes to make sure they are mine.

I am standing on a straw-covered floor in the middle of an ancient, cavernous barn. It is a trysting ground for those times Byron finds civilization insufficiently deviant, and I hate it with the necessary hatred of the addict for her needle. An old barn, one of countless such relics, stubbornly enduring in the middle of nowhere, forgotten at the end of weedy farm track behind an unkempt wind break of geriatric Norway spruce - how many have you driven by and never noticed? Ever wondered what goes on in them?

The barn is empty except for rectangular bales of sweet, summer hay, hauled in by Byron; arrange, throw a horse blanket over them, and you’ve got a chair, table, or bed to serve the perversion du jour. If I’m a nasty enough girl, anyway, I get the horse blanket. Ever been bent over a hay bale with nothing between your skin and the hay?

Today, the bales make a broad semi-circle, stacked like bricks three and four high, and I warm to Byron’s pagan symbolism. Conjuring a torch-lit, prehistoric rite under a crescent moon, I imagine a pale virgin being led to the altar...

Yeah, I know my place in this temple.

Not a wisp of air stirs. Above me, sunbeams pierce like lasers through random holes in the rusting tin roof to cut brilliant slashes into the craggy beams and walls of an otherwise subdued and stifling space.

I arrived ten minutes before Byron, at his request, and dressed to satisfy only the minimum of public decency. I am not his slave, though sometimes I think I might as well be. Nothing forces me to obey Byron, and there would be no punishment if I refused him. But I seldom do, because I am desperately and humiliatingly receptive to his dominance. I don’t need a collar to know my place; he doesn’t need a whip to keep me there.

A form obscures the sunlight spilling through the crack between the double doors, but they do not open. Byron never comes to me forthwith. Brutal tease, that’s his method.

The sacrifice has readied herself. I am naked, my clothes hanging from rusty nails hammered decades ago into seasoned oak boards. Where once leather harness reins, traces, and collars hung in orderly tangles, my summer frock and diminutive panties droop like wilted pastel flowers.

No longer do I wait for that brusque “Get naked,” spoken the moment Byron pushes open the creaking barn door, or my hotel room door, or wherever. “Get naked,” spoken like he’s telling a dog to get off the sofa without looking to see if the animal is even there.

I just strip unbidden - whether waiting in this barn or upon entering a room ahead of him. It’s a vicarious swill of control slurped from a blistering sweet cauldron of submission.

Finally, brilliant light dissipates the gloom as the barn doors groan open, but I don’t have the courage to abandon the fascination of my dirty feet. It’s not fear of Byron, but fear of what else I might, in this vulnerable moment of initial contact, surrender if I look into his eyes too soon. Byron doesn’t close the doors. That any person who chanced by, a infinitesimally small probability at best, would see me naked isn’t lost on me.

“Hello, Tessa.” Byron’s words are smooth, enunciated, and matter-of-fact.

“Hello, Sir.” The appellation rolls unbidden off my tongue like bitter honey, vocalized by some subconscious need to acknowledge his dominance. Byron doesn’t give a damn what I call him, and I don’t need to see his face to know he’s amused. He collects the submissive tells that escape my mouth and body like precious gems, and, sooner or later, he hangs them around my neck.

His pack thuds to the floor. Nothing clinks, I note with disappointed relief. The soft crunch of boots on straw measures his unhurried circumnavigation of me at a distance beyond my downcast peripheral vision. The coarse and merciless examination resonates through me, sending perspiration trickling and tickling down my ribs, the backs of my knees, and between my breasts. Even my husband won’t look at me this way - he sees the wife he adores; Byron sees a woman he intends to fuck.

“Did you have a good flight?” Byron says as he circles me.

“Yes, Sir.”

“That’s a pretty dress you wore. I bet you’d sell a shit load of meds if you sashayed into doctor offices in that instead of a plain Jane business suit. Show some skin. Give the horny doctors a little whiff. I bet you’d get some quality face time.” He chuckles like it’s a private joke.

He is teasing me. I’m a pharmaceutical rep, and it’s my job to travel my region making sure hospitals and doctors prescribe my company’s drugs before the competition’s. I am damn good at it. How the hell do you think I met Byron? He’s a surgeon, and yeah, more than once he’s taken me on an exam table - a damn versatile piece of equipment.

“You want a whiff, Sir?” I say. “Come closer and I’ll drown you.” Realizing my hands are foolishly shielding my mound, I slide them to my thighs to complete my nakedness. My gesture earns a laugh that is gentle, encouraging, and deceptive.

“Touché, Tessa. You are more beautiful each time we meet.”

“Thank you, Sir.” The compliment rouses my nipples.

“Tessa, stop playing coy. Wipe that salacious smile off your face and raise your head.”

I’m smiling? A subvocal shift in his tone tightens my chest. Niceties are over, and, for a moment, I can’t obey, agonizing over and anticipating the bad things he’s going to make me do. My gut is in free fall, but my limbs are leaden.

“Tessa, look at me.”

Slowly, I will my eyes to journey from my feet to his dusty boots. I pause for a breath, then climb his blue denim jeans, shuddering at a conflicted memory of unbuckling his belt with my teeth, the leather sour on my tongue, pulling it out of the loops, and sinking to my elbows and knees with my ass high in the air…

Yeah, I’ll never again dare the man to do anything.

As always, Byron wears a crisp Oxford shirt, today a red pinstripe, the long-sleeves rolled to his elbows. I hardly notice, fixated on the coils of rope draped over his left shoulder.

Rope. My pulse revs as the warm dew between my legs thickens to a hot, yearning slickness.

My timidity falls away, and I stare boldly into his face, all masculine angles and planes, shadowed with a weekend’s worth of whiskers, handsome, but unremarkable except for his steel grey eyes - wolf’s eyes - framed by subtle crow’s feet that bespeak of roguishness and competence. His smile exposes gleaming teeth behind delicious, full lips, his canines sharper than the norm. Or, is it only my imagination? My eyes flick back to the rope.

“Yes, Tessa, the rope is for you, but not just yet. Now, spread your legs. It isn’t becoming for you to stand so demurely.”

I separate my legs. Byron contemplates my unmistakable condition of arousal with satisfaction, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a candy wrapped in ornate silver foil. It’s an imported Dutch dark chocolate, expensive and difficult to find, a favorite indulgence of mine. Damn him. My face grows hot.

“Does my pet want a chocolate?” He speaks like an alligator inviting a fawn for a swim. The foil flutters to the ground and the chocolate beckons in his outstretched palm.

Fantasy rebellion flares behind my eyes. I could walk to him and take the chocolate. I could tell him no thanks. I could slap him and tell him to shove it up his ass, put on my clothes, and leave. But no, straw is already poking into my palms and knees. He’s read my state of mind perfectly.

One hand in front on the other, I put on a show, slinking like a panther as I crawl. With each step my nipples ache and my pussy throbs. I nuzzle his leg.

Byron affectionately tousles my hair. “Good girl.”

I lunge for the chocolate, but all I taste is his hard fist closed around it. I try to worm my tongue between his fingers.

“Don’t get greedy, Tessa.”

Through his fingers I sniff the chocolate, it’s scent and my shame watering my mouth.

“Please, Sir.”

“That’s not how I want you to beg.”

Exposing my throat, I stare into Byron’s face, but only his mouth is smiling. My wolf is hungry, famished to the brink of reason, yet he isn’t above torturing his prey before the feast. I open my mouth to speak, to obey his command to beg, but I make only silence. It’s not words he wants.

What do I want? I can still ask this question, even as I rub my face against his thigh. We are alone here. He’s humiliated me before with mortifying ingenuity. With any other man, my ego struts like an Olympic champion. With Byron, it’s like a drowning man grasping for phantom straws in a perverse tempest blowing within my id.

I dismiss the Freudian bullshit. I have no excuses. The data do not lie. I am crawling naked in a barn to a man, other than my husband, who treats me like a branded woman-animal. What do I want? I want his uncivilized, uncompromising attention. I want the beast behind those primal gray eyes gorging itself on my flesh and spirit. And I want the goddamn candy.

So, the big bad wolf wants his slut to beg? I bark, not a yapping, girly bark, but a bitch-in-heat snarl. And I nip his hand for good measure.

A harsh smile graces me as I get the chocolate. Warm and soft from his body heat, the bittersweet confection quickly dissolves under my flitting tongue. I don’t stop licking until Byron’s hand is spotless.

“Please, Sir,” I say, sucking his middle finger and wiggling my butt. “May I have another?”

A violent jerk to my feet by my hair answers that question. Byron torques me around so my back is to his front, buries his face in my shoulder, tasting and biting a wet trail to my neck and climbing to my ear. I twist to meet his lips. His right hand grips my throat; his left descends to explore my pussy, forcefully groping me, testing my readiness. Flinching at his rough touch, I pass with dripping colors. A finger curls into me with a squish, expertly contacts my g-spot, and fucks me hard. Kittenish growls vibrate in my chest as I simultaneously ride his finger and grind my hip into his jeans - yeah, he’s bulging. All the while, our mouths make sloppy love.

I’m about to come and I want him in me now. My fingernails rasp against his fly trying to grip his zipper pull to free his cock. Byron’s thumb mashes hard into my tumescent clitoris.

“Ouch!” I break away, the spell obliterated.

Byron hauls me back. The finger that fucked me disappears into his mouth like a chef sampling his handiwork.

“Can I have some, too?” I slide my fingers down my belly.

Byron grabs my hand. “On your knees.” His words are powder dry husks poised to combust.

“No.” I want his cock and everything attached to it and grab at his face for another kiss only to be thrust back by his left hand squeezing my throat. Blood roars in my skull.

“Down, Tessa.”

My knees obey, lowering me to the straw where I splay open my thighs, and, pouting for more kisses, petulantly fold my arms across my breasts in an immodest display of modesty. Byron’s cock is a denim-covered lump threatening my face, and I get a visual of sneaking past the hotel concierge—the alert fucker always makes small talk—with cum tangles in my hair.

Surprise. Instead of feeding me cock, Byron turns his back as he unbuttons his shirt, tossing it aside and picking up the rope. An unnecessary examination of the rope commences. He checks the ends, pulls the thick braided cord through his fingers as if feeling for imperfections, and gives it an experimental jerk to gauge its strength.

Fascination and angst pummel me. I’m on fire, but he’s purposely cooling off, walking himself back from the edge, sticking to his plan, whatever it is. Damn his surgeon’s discipline. Rare are the times I’ve cracked his cool. If I could have gotten my hands, or, better yet, my mouth, on his cock…

Byron uncoils about two meters of rope. So much for a fast and filthy fuck. I give up playing schoolgirl shy with my breasts and extend my arms, wrists helpfully crossed.

The thought of bondage used to terrify me. My fear had less to do with trust than the fact that I’m a borderline control freak. My head couldn’t span the chasm from my control space to a space where I couldn’t fight back, where I could not choose how and where I was touched, where ‘no’ might be a waste of breath. I couldn’t do it on my own, I should say.

It was on our second fuck that Byron seized me by the scruff of the neck and threw me bodily across that chasm. I didn’t see it coming, and he sure as hell didn’t ask permission. In the middle of some delightfully rough foreplay, he seized my arms and in a heartbeat I was a captive flailing on his bed with my hands lashed behind my back with my bra. Shock silenced my panic—screams couldn’t pass my constricted throat—but it didn’t stop me from pissing myself silly. All Byron did was laugh while I fountained, then rip off my soggy panties, force my legs apart, and bury his face in my cunt. His tongue painted a new dimension into my reality, and, oh, Jesus, did I come.

Lightning fast hands manipulate the rope. A half dozen loops and a two cinches later, my wrists are comfortably but inescapably secure, and Byron is stepping back, studying the barn space above me. He throws the free end of the rope over a rafter and hauls me to my feet. Up I go until my arms are stretched and my heels barely graze the floor. I concentrate on breathing through my nose.

Byron drags a hay bale in front on me and sits. The conflagration that nearly burst loose is now locked up in that forge of a mind behind a dangerously impassive face. Only his eyes move as he takes a painstaking tour of my vulnerable body. I can sense the heat from whatever fire he’s stoking, know I’m about to be plunged in, but I can do naught except leak my approval.

“Turn,” he commands.

“No.”

“Tessa, you are in no position to be difficult.”

“Kiss me first.” Yeah, I’m submissive to him, but it doesn’t mean I have to roll over like a puppy. Still, I hold my breath, waiting, again reliving the episode with his belt.

Exasperation colors his shrug. Byron holds my face, his fingertips stroking behind my ears, and kisses me. It’s a good and dirty French kiss, a wet, sucking, tongue battle like you wage face-to-face in the heat of coitus. I close my eyes and wallow in it, lust tendrils snapping and crackling from my scalp to my toes. Too soon, always too soon, he pulls away and returns to the hay bale, but I’m happy and I pirouette on point like a bondage ballerina. Once, twice, three turns, until a scary smile ghosting across his face tells me ballet time is over.

“Tessa, I need you to pick a number between one and ten. Take your time.”

“A number between one and ten?” I echo. The instruction flanks my expectations and a hot tingle races down my back. Suddenly, the rope feels very tight.

“That’s what I said,” Byron says in his best ‘good doggy’ voice as he pulls off his boots and socks.

I’m intelligent enough not to over analyze my position. Yet, like an idiot, I pull at the rope binding me, experimentally putting all my weight on it. I am a bone to be chewed.

“Six, Sir,” I say.

“Six.” He smiles. “Too chicken for ten; too curious for one. That’s my girl.”

That sends a cold tingle racing down my spine. Byron opens his pack, takes out six chocolates, and arranges them with precision on the hay bale. He reaches into the pack again, and fresh sweat breaks loose all over me. Wooden clothespins. He knows I’m a dedicated, unrepentant pain pussy; he’s also discovered a little vinegar with the sugar can sometimes reveal secret doors in my head. What slut fantasy lurks behind door number three? The trick is to not crawl to him with the key in my mouth.

He pairs a clothespin with each of the six chocolates.

“Tessa, close your eyes for a moment… good. You may open them now.”

Byron is holding out his closed hands. Five chocolates and five clothespins remain on the hay.

“You will choose my left or right hand,” he says. “Pick a candy, and you get the treat. Pick a clothespin, and I attach it to you. Is that acceptable?”

“Yes, Sir.” What the hell else can I say?

“If you pick three treats, the game’s over, you win, and I take off any clothespins immediately. Three tricks, you lose. I get to attach the remaining pins, and I decide when they come off. Oh, I chose were the clothespins go. Fair enough?”

“Hang one of those things on your dick, Doctor, then ask me.”

“Don’t get bitchy. Now, Tessa, left hand or right?”

“Left, Sir.” I don’t like this game, but the jeopardy it presents is making me even wetter. I breathe through my nose trying to slow my accelerating heart.

Byron opens his left hand and I relax with a sigh. Chocolate. He unwraps the candy and feeds it to me while I nibble it and lick his fingers. I try for a kiss when it’s gone, but I don’t get one.

“Close your eyes. Left or right?”

“Left… oh shit.”

A chocolate falls from his right hand. OK, he’s playing fair, not that he would ever cheat. It doesn’t take a genius to calculate where he’s going to hang the damn clothespin—he’s a man and I’ve got tits. Byron lovingly strokes my right breast with the pin, following its curve from my armpit, around the bottom swell, and converging on my areola. With clenched teeth, I’m determined to meet the impending agony with stoic resolve.

Yeah, right. A whimper dribbles from my lips as the open jaws settle astride my naively hard nipple. I can’t watch.

“Tessa, this will hurt, so take a deep breath and let it out slow. On three. One, two, three.”

A hornet sting blossoms in the tender flesh just beneath my armpit. Tricked, all right.

“You fucker,” I spew, furious at my gullibility to his mind fuck. I try to shake off the pin - big mistake.

My yelp merits a chuckle. “Number three. Close your eyes… left or right?”

“Right.” Chocolate. Byron feeds me the treat, this time kissing me when it’s gone, holding my face and sucking my tongue. His lips assuage the pain of the first pin, now an indistinct sting masquerading as a burning ache.

“Left or right, Tessa?”

“Right.”

A chocolate spills from Byron’s left hand, and I kick straw at him in frustration. No toying with me this time, he pinches a sliver of skin beneath my left armpit and sets the clothespin. I forget to breath and the pain jolt races ahead me.

“Shit!”

“Correct breathing is important, Tessa,” says Byron in his best condescending doctor’s voice. “It helps you process the discomfort.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

He feigns offense. “You should me more appreciative. Do you have any idea how many clothespins I had to sort through to find ones with springs strong enough to keep you entertained? Now, time to choose number five. Left or right? Make a good choice, and I’ll take those nasties off.”

“Left,” I snap. “Sir.”

Byron opens his left hand. Clothespin.

“Oh, my sweet Tessa. That’s the third pin. You lose. I get to decorate you with this one and one more. Four total. Would you like the chocolate as a consolation prize?”

Not waiting for an answer, Byron unwraps the candy, squeezes my mouth open like he’s feeding a pill to a dog, and shoves it in. I crush it into a gooey mess, intent on splattering it all over his face, when his hand clamps over my mouth.

“Before you spit on me,” says Byron, “you should give some thought to how many of these bastards I brought with me. At least ten, I should think, given the game parameters. But, are there more?”

In perfect harmony with my better judgement, I swallow, then his lips claim mine in an aggressive, mean kiss. His tongue scours my mouth, polishing my tongue and teeth. I love it. Sure hands capture my ass, fingers spreading and squeezing my cheeks, pulling me into him. I throw my legs around his waist and dry hump his hard-on as I chase his tongue back into his mouth and do a little mean kissing of my own. Too soon, I sense him about to pull back and I bite his lower lip to hold him.

A finger pokes my anus and I jump, losing the kiss.

“Kiss me more,” I beg.

Byron dodges my mouth, disengages my legs, and checks the knot confining my wrists.

“In good time,” he says, kissing and cupping my breasts. “First, we have to finish the game. I have two pins left to play.”

Despite his gentle fondling, panic ripples through me. “No, Byron, please not my tits. Let’s bargain. Blow job?”

He ignores me. No surprise, because it was a ridiculous offer. I look around the barn in desperation, like there’s a solution hiding somewhere, see my dress—Byron prefers me to wear dresses—and get a very bad idea.

“You pick a dress,” I say breathlessly, “any length, plunging neck, slit hem - anything goes. I’ll wear it to any restaurant in town. I know you like showing me off.”

No reaction, damn him.

“Nothing under it,” I add with my best salesperson’s smile.

Zilch. This is like selling fire to Satan. He’s staring at my breasts and snapping the springs on the clothespins and if he doesn’t stop doing that I’m going to pee on myself.

What the hell - in for a penny, in for a pound. “I’ll play with myself at the table.”

That, at least, raises an eyebrow, if only momentarily.

OK, got to give him something really good, for him at least - hard to do when he takes what he wants, but there is one fig leaf of dignity he hasn’t peeled away, one detour into slut-hood not yet taken. I brace myself to speak the words, not sure it’s a better choice, but the thought of those goddamn clothespins pinching my tender nipples…

“Ass fuck?”

Yes! No! The infernal snapping stops and warm fingers brush damp, matted hair off my face. Byron’s head tilts in a noncommittal way while he wiggles the two clothespins gnawing at my upper arms. I hiss like a cobra as he eases them off. I know what’s coming and I’m not disappointed. Blood courses into the molested flesh; numbed nerves wake with scorching fury. I vent the pain in a long, satisfying curse, while in my head imagining the sensation in my nipples, amplified a hundredfold.

Yeah, a dick in the ass sounds like a picnic.

“Don’t get excited,” Byron says. “I’m only repositioning them while I consider your offer. Leaving them too long in one place isn’t healthy. Let’s see…”

His fingers poke and prod my belly, find what they’re searching for at my bikini line, and collect a tidbit of skin. This time I remember to take a breath, but the pain, though fierce, is nothing like on the sensitive flesh under my arms. He quickly clamps the second pin high on the inside of my left thigh. It stings as bad my arms. I launch a kick that misses as the wicked bite takes hold.

Byron retreats to the hale bay to take off his jeans and shorts, exposing an angry, mouthwatering erection. Enraptured, I can’t take my eyes off it. He makes another slow orbit before coming up behind me to wrap his right arm around my waist, locking us skin-to-skin with his cock lodged hot into the small of my back. He’s holding a clothespin in his left hand.

“So, Tessa, you want to cut a deal?” Kisses to my shoulders and neck send erogenous currents zinging to my core, even as Byron strokes the bottom of my breast with the dreaded pin. Each stroke carries it a millimeter higher.

“Yes, Sir. You can, uh, you can fuck me in the ass.”

“I want more.”

“More?” I whisper, fighting to not hyperventilate.

“Four ass fucks, Tessa,” Byron says, breath surging into my ear like a raging storm tide. “Four. One for each clothespin. I want the dress, too, just like you said. And I promise I’ll parade you all over the city more naked than not, to dinner, to parties, anywhere. You’ll be my trophy cunt for everyone to envy. Deal or no deal?”

“Not… not fair,” I stammer. “One ass fuck—you’ll be the first I swear to God—and the dress at dinner. Deal?” The clothespin grazes my nipple, caressing up and down, back and forth.

“No, Tessa,” says Byron, “my offer’s final, so take it or leave it.” The clothespin squeaks open to embrace my nipple. Oh god, he’s gonna clamp just the tip…

“It’s a deal,” I yell, stamping my feet like a little girl. “It’s a fucking deal.”

The clothespin doesn’t waver. My clueless nipples jut like they can’t wait to make the damn thing’s acquaintance. A shiver runs through me as Byron’s nose nuzzles into my ear, his sharp whiskers piquing my skin. Oh god, to feel that on my pussy...

“Four ass fucks, Tessa.” His voice is a jagged, chocolate flavored whisper, his cock a white-hot iron prod in my back.

“Four.” I nod in violent agreement.

“I choose the dress.”

“You choose the dress, Sir.” The wooden jaws touch my nipple.

He tastes behind my ear. “Any amount of skin.”

“As much as you dare, Sir.”

“No brassiere, no panties.”

“Can I at least have shoes?”

“Stilettos. I dress you, and you go anywhere I desire to take you.”

I close my eyes and swallow. My surrender resonates in his throbbing cock, in the leathery timbre of his masculine scent. Dreadful visions of Byron’s favorite uptown restaurant, the theater, late evening socials, all starring me hanging off his arm in borderline indecent glory or worse, flicker against my eyelids. I’ll be his slut on a leash - in public with no place to hide.

“Anywhere,” I say. Thank God I am a stranger in Byron’s city.

A testosterone laugh vibrates in my ear. “Then, my sweet Tessa, we have a satisfactory agreement that gives us something to look forward to on your next visit.”

Just like him to wait six weeks. Time enough for me to stew to a pulp in anticipatory dread, and time enough for him to find the perfect slut rag for me to wear.

The clothespin falls harmless at my feet. I kick it away like it’s a vermin and struggle to face Byron, but he holds me tight.

“Fuck me, damn you,” I plead, fighting the rope and his arms, trying to lever myself onto his cock.

Typical for Byron, my appeal accomplishes nothing. Instead, he flicks the clothespins still hanging from my belly and thigh. Just touching the things ignites the compressed flesh and I reward him with a profanity-laced howl as he eases them off. He massages my skin until the burning subsides.

“Lift your feet, Tessa,” he orders.

I hold my breath and obey. Byron grabs my hips, and, suddenly, the barn is spinning wildly. I kick my legs and swing like a kid on a playground, staggering to a stop when the rope falls slack.

Pulling the rope free of the rafter, Byron begins coiling it around his arm, reeling me to him. I’m salivating at both ends watching his rigid cock, yet I drag my feet with faux reluctance. His eyes are narrow, predatory slits, and the last tug sockets my navel to his glans with a wet smear.

“Come on my face,” I taunt, slavering my lips like I’m eating ice cream. He ignores my suggestion and drops the rope on the bale.

Byron’s strong preference is to take me from behind, and, trust me, I’ve been rigorously trained to assume the position, but, for the hell of it, I make him manhandle me onto my belly across the bale. The prickly straw digging into my breasts and spread thighs sets my teeth on edge - the rope is a piss poor substitute for a blanket - but I’m beyond caring. Byron’s steely grip is as sure as ever, but impatient, even abrupt, as he positions and repositions me to his satisfaction. I smile at the subtle change. Red fire is beginning to glow through cracks in the forge.

His cock plows down the cleft of my ass and nuzzles its fat head between my slick, distended labia. For a long moment, we balance on a knife edge, the barn tomb silent, then my shriek splinters the peace as I am broached by his balls-deep plunge.

We fuck like pigs. There’s no other way to describe it. I grunt in feral bliss, rolling my ass into every thrust as my pussy swallows his penis with obscene fluidity. Byron ravishes me with barbarian fervor, beneath his hot breath calling me filthy names that would make by mother weep. The wet smack-smack-smack of our colliding bodies fills the space around us. Somewhere in my head, pernicious flames consume every respectable and reputable fiber of my existence, but I don’t care. In this moment, pinioned by Byron’s merciless cock, I am every vulgar, spittle-flecked epithet he utters and I love it.

Byron’s hand shifts from clamping my neck to fisting my hair. He yanks my head up and, on cue, my cunt clenches in staccato rhythm. Byron synchronizes his thrusts to each clench, grinding fiendishly hard into me, and I come screaming in a long, beautifully tortuous wave. Trapped in my pleasure wake, Byron’s cock swells and erupts semen in frenzied spurts. He thrusts through his climax, catapulting me to a final, titanic orgasm and I forget to breathe...

* * * * * * * * *

Mired in a syrupy, halcyon fog, my brain leisurely organizes my senses. I am curled on my side on the straw in the center of the circle, wrists bound, comfortably numb, and trembling all over. Wasn’t I bent over a hay bale? How did I get over here?

Byron.

I roll over, straw sticking to my wet skin, to find Byron sitting on the hay bale, glistening from head to toe, diaphragm heaving, but otherwise icy calm and watching me through razor sharp eyes that aren’t yet finished with me. Fuck slop - sweat, semen, and pussy juice - dangles from his scrotum and cock. My thighs are slick with it.

An image of my wonderful husband waving as I emerge from the airport arrival gate suddenly intrudes into my debauched mind, but I shunt it away. Not yet, good angel. Time enough later to dip your barbed needles in acid guilt and drill them into my bones.

Byron slowly unwraps an unused chocolate and dredges it up and down his cock and over his balls, thoroughly corrupting it with the muck of our passion. He extends his palm, the defiled chocolate beckoning.

With my arms tied, I don’t so much crawl as shuffle on my quaking knees to Byron’s hand, the rope trailing between my legs. I extend my tongue but his fist closes. Adulterous slut that I am, I raise my eyes to him, unable to suppress an indecent smile as I lap cum oozing from between his fingers. The cum sliding down my throat lubricates the rising growl.

Yeah, I’ll beg for my chocolate.

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Copyright © Copyright 2016 by visioneer. All rights reserved.

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