Glory - outtake from a work in progress
Glory woke in the middle of the night. Looking at her alarm clock, she saw the time - 04:13 - and grimaced. Hours and hours until morning and every chance that she'd never get to sleep again. Ugh. Picking up her tv remote, she flipped through at least thirty channels before giving it up. Nothing! Fuck that, she thought, throwing the remote down in disgust.
Rolling across to reach into her night-table, she pulled the uppermost drawer open, taking out a well-thumbed copy of Morris' erotic classic "The Caged Tigress,' she turned up the lights and began to read:
'Genievre closed her eyes behind the binding that encircled her brow, concentrating on His breath.
École's soft steps were soundless; his stockinged feet sliding first on the polished wood flooring and then padding across the woollen rug. His chest began to burn with the self-imposed torture he'd chosen to suffer, heightening his anticipation of the delicious cruelties that were soon to follow. He smiled, savouring his wickedness and the wanton yearnings that bubbled up within his depraved corrupted mind.'
Glory shivered, enjoying the thoughts that began to flood through her mind. Placing herself on the rough wooden table in the kitchen where Genievre lay bound, she could imagine the chill of the old farm house in the depths of winter and the sensuality of the touch that surely follow. École's hands would be rough and calloused but hot like scorched and burned wood. His fingers would be sure and would move without doubt, bringing her promise of pleasures to come. And also pain.
Glory woke in the middle of the night. Looking at her alarm clock, she saw the time - 04:13 - and grimaced. Hours and hours until morning and every chance that she'd never get to sleep again. Ugh. Picking up her tv remote, she flipped through at least thirty channels before giving it up. Nothing! Fuck that, she thought, throwing the remote down in disgust.
Rolling across to reach into her night-table, she pulled the uppermost drawer open, taking out a well-thumbed copy of Morris' erotic classic "The Caged Tigress,' she turned up the lights and began to read:
'Genievre closed her eyes behind the binding that encircled her brow, concentrating on His breath.
École's soft steps were soundless; his stockinged feet sliding first on the polished wood flooring and then padding across the woollen rug. His chest began to burn with the self-imposed torture he'd chosen to suffer, heightening his anticipation of the delicious cruelties that were soon to follow. He smiled, savouring his wickedness and the wanton yearnings that bubbled up within his depraved corrupted mind.'
Glory shivered, enjoying the thoughts that began to flood through her mind. Placing herself on the rough wooden table in the kitchen where Genievre lay bound, she could imagine the chill of the old farm house in the depths of winter and the sensuality of the touch that surely follow. École's hands would be rough and calloused but hot like scorched and burned wood. His fingers would be sure and would move without doubt, bringing her promise of pleasures to come. And also pain.
Oestrogen and dopamine began to flood into her blood, heightening her sensitivities. Glory dropped the book, already knowing the storyline intimately through avid reading and re-reading of the words that were almost scarred into her memories. The skin on her breasts tightened and her nipples stood erect against the sheerness of her nightgown. The aching in her lower stomach began to twist a little tighter and secretions began to pool and stir within her sex, her void needing to be filled again and again and again. Reaching across and down, she began to stoke her lower lips tantalisingly as though it were École beginning his teasing and torturing on her instead of on Genievre, beginning that slow burn of desire that was due to grow deeper and hotter and more and more urgent.
Glory's fingers pushed harder against her wetness, three fingers clenched tightly together, being gratefully received as she relaxed her muscles to ease their entry, feeling both the slide and glide of her skin and her knuckles as they rubbed against her softness but also the sense of her own contractions as she quivered and roiled against her hand. The rings on her fingers felt cool against her gripping and the ridges they formed pulled deliciously up and down and up and down and up and down. Moaning as though already being pulled inside out from within, Glory began to tighten onto herself, feeling the heat and the sensitivity ramping up and up and up.
The night air stirred and the light curtaining began to float as the breeze began to infiltrate into the room. Or had it been there before? The lightest of touches penetrated Glory's gown as, laying on top of the bedclothes, she felt the movement of the air against her. Now, contracting both outside and in, her skin pulled in on itself even more, amplifying every feeling until the need grew too much to resist. With one hand pulling at her clothes, she opened herself to the night, offering her body to her own deepest desires. The other hand twisted and reached down into the cooler bag nestled in the alcove beneath the open drawer, pulling out a long velvet-sheathed object with a weight enough to pull at her wrist as she turned it back toward herself.
The softness of the crimson velvet draw-cord pouch felt slightly damp against her inner thigh. Brushing it lithely against her soft whiteness, it looked and felt like a tongue, lapping across one of her more sensitive areas of skin. She dragged it down toward her knee and then back up again, her hand tightly gripping the coldness of the glass within and the puckering at the top of the sac. Five slow strokes downward and then up stirred her needfulness to a new height and then, on the sixth languid slow journey to her inner knee and back, Glory loosened her grip on the top of the pouch, unsheathing the coldness within and then drawing it all the way back up again to nestle against the moistness of her opening.
Glory craned her neck forward, needing to see what followed. Her hand pushed upward and the rounded end of the ice-coldness slid inside her, her lips puckering and tightening in on it reflexively as it began to fill her, its presence burning as it warmed itself, stealing the very heat from her core. The undulations of the dildo pulled and eased away as it slid deeper, her flesh clenching tighter and tighter onto it as she tried to crush it and fully possess it. Glory's hand began to move, her wrist curling and flexing, pushing and pulling as her stomach tightened and turned more and more onto itself. He breath began to catch in her lungs as her hand quickened and her skin began to glow hotter and hotter with the heat of the blood coursing faster and faster through her veins.
"Oh fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuck meeee!" Her hand moved faster and deeper and began to angle as she sought that special clump of nerves within her, pumping and pistoning and thrusting as her blood began to hammer against her temples. Driving to the full depth, the knuckle of her thumb extended to grind against her fleshy hood at the bottom of each stroke, with her lower lip gripped between her teeth, she began to pant and yelp like an animal as the blood began to drain from her brain. Imagining the roughness of the farm labourer's hands on her shoulders, she arched her back and gave herself to the friction and the heat that filled her, her eyelids trembling as her thoughts and feelings collapsed inward until there was nothing but the feeling.
Glory WAS Genievre. Her arms and legs WERE pulled back so tightly so that her hips and shoulders ached with the pull of the rope on her wrists and ankles. And her head and buttocks WERE alternately knocking in pushing against the whitewashed wood of the table as École pounded her like a piece of dough against it. The Frenchman's breath WAS hot against her ear as he took her mercilessly for his own pleasure, not thinking or caring how it felt for her. Glory's idle hand reached below the bed as she pulled herself hard against the mattress, her other hand thumping and banging against her mound as the pleasure or pain grew within her, twisting and writhing through her back and shoulders as if travelled downward to gather in a tight knot in her gut.
And then the dam broke. In that moment every muscle in her body tightened and gripped at itself. Her back arched until she felt it might break and the Frenchman's manhood stopped it's ceaseless punishment of her vitals as she held it trapped inside her. Glory then began to fold slowly back in on herself, her used and abused body relaxing and pooling back onto the mattress, spent. The coolness of the breeze made itself known then, her skin beaded with sweat as her heat began to dissipate into the night. Still feeling the weight within her, she pulled her freed second hand from beneath the bed, relishing the pull as she withdrew the warm glass from between her legs.
Glory sighed, feeling fulfilled at last.
The night air stirred and the light curtaining began to float as the breeze began to infiltrate into the room. Or had it been there before? The lightest of touches penetrated Glory's gown as, laying on top of the bedclothes, she felt the movement of the air against her. Now, contracting both outside and in, her skin pulled in on itself even more, amplifying every feeling until the need grew too much to resist. With one hand pulling at her clothes, she opened herself to the night, offering her body to her own deepest desires. The other hand twisted and reached down into the cooler bag nestled in the alcove beneath the open drawer, pulling out a long velvet-sheathed object with a weight enough to pull at her wrist as she turned it back toward herself.
The softness of the crimson velvet draw-cord pouch felt slightly damp against her inner thigh. Brushing it lithely against her soft whiteness, it looked and felt like a tongue, lapping across one of her more sensitive areas of skin. She dragged it down toward her knee and then back up again, her hand tightly gripping the coldness of the glass within and the puckering at the top of the sac. Five slow strokes downward and then up stirred her needfulness to a new height and then, on the sixth languid slow journey to her inner knee and back, Glory loosened her grip on the top of the pouch, unsheathing the coldness within and then drawing it all the way back up again to nestle against the moistness of her opening.
Glory craned her neck forward, needing to see what followed. Her hand pushed upward and the rounded end of the ice-coldness slid inside her, her lips puckering and tightening in on it reflexively as it began to fill her, its presence burning as it warmed itself, stealing the very heat from her core. The undulations of the dildo pulled and eased away as it slid deeper, her flesh clenching tighter and tighter onto it as she tried to crush it and fully possess it. Glory's hand began to move, her wrist curling and flexing, pushing and pulling as her stomach tightened and turned more and more onto itself. He breath began to catch in her lungs as her hand quickened and her skin began to glow hotter and hotter with the heat of the blood coursing faster and faster through her veins.
"Oh fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuck meeee!" Her hand moved faster and deeper and began to angle as she sought that special clump of nerves within her, pumping and pistoning and thrusting as her blood began to hammer against her temples. Driving to the full depth, the knuckle of her thumb extended to grind against her fleshy hood at the bottom of each stroke, with her lower lip gripped between her teeth, she began to pant and yelp like an animal as the blood began to drain from her brain. Imagining the roughness of the farm labourer's hands on her shoulders, she arched her back and gave herself to the friction and the heat that filled her, her eyelids trembling as her thoughts and feelings collapsed inward until there was nothing but the feeling.
Glory WAS Genievre. Her arms and legs WERE pulled back so tightly so that her hips and shoulders ached with the pull of the rope on her wrists and ankles. And her head and buttocks WERE alternately knocking in pushing against the whitewashed wood of the table as École pounded her like a piece of dough against it. The Frenchman's breath WAS hot against her ear as he took her mercilessly for his own pleasure, not thinking or caring how it felt for her. Glory's idle hand reached below the bed as she pulled herself hard against the mattress, her other hand thumping and banging against her mound as the pleasure or pain grew within her, twisting and writhing through her back and shoulders as if travelled downward to gather in a tight knot in her gut.
And then the dam broke. In that moment every muscle in her body tightened and gripped at itself. Her back arched until she felt it might break and the Frenchman's manhood stopped it's ceaseless punishment of her vitals as she held it trapped inside her. Glory then began to fold slowly back in on herself, her used and abused body relaxing and pooling back onto the mattress, spent. The coolness of the breeze made itself known then, her skin beaded with sweat as her heat began to dissipate into the night. Still feeling the weight within her, she pulled her freed second hand from beneath the bed, relishing the pull as she withdrew the warm glass from between her legs.
Glory sighed, feeling fulfilled at last.
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