Friday, April 20, 2012

Bound By Burn


I knelt before him, clothed in only a tank top and panties. The wet grass under my knees and feet was cool, a small breeze giving a slight chill to the air.

He sat on the stairs of his wooden deck, his right boot the closest part of his body to me. When I dared a glance down at his leather, his gloved hand caught my chin and pulled my face back up. He wanted my full attention.

His eyes were filled with an intensity I had not seen before. Almost fearful, my eyes shot down to his chin, the first thing I could think to focus on.

He liked preparing his own cigar, depriving me of the ritual I so loved. I knew he did this not just for his enjoyment in the preparation, but also by the slight torture of my lack of the privilege. It went hand-and-hand with not allowing me to look upon his boot. Our play was as much psychological as physical.

He puffed eagerly on his stick, sending plumes of smoke into the air, a cloud he knew I wished to be surrounded in.

Patience, I told myself.

Gripping the cigar in his teeth, he freed up both his hands to ripe open the front of my shirt. Three quick tugs split the fabric down the center. My chest heaved slightly with each pull.

"Stand up."

Rocking back on my heels, I extended my left leg forward, propelling myself up, bringing myself closer to him. We were now at eye level. I could almost feel the heat of his body. My cunt almost touched his knee.

In a moment of bravery, I dared a glance into his eyes. His stare burned back at me.

In an instant, a hand was in my hair, wrenching my head back, my body bent. He pulled me in closer, my body against him now, my cunt on his leg, my face a breath away from his. I had no choice but to lock eyes with him.

Taking up his cigar in his free hand, he expelled smoke directly into my face. I welcomed the cloud.

Bringing the cigar to my cheek, the hot cherry was buried under maybe a half inch of ash. He held his cigar at an angle, lightly dragging it oh so close to my skin. I felt the heat, the threat of a burn, the singe of the delicate hairs by my ear.

I tried not to tremble.

Down my neck, he lingered on the sensitive skin. And then I felt it, the soft touch of him breaking off ash in the small crook of my neck. Returning his cigar to his mouth, he picked up the ash, breaking it apart in his hand.

Raising up the flecks, he smeared the ash into my hair, dragged the line down my face, and kissed my cheek with his hand. Again and again he slapped me, small puffs of ash billowing into the air.

Parting my lips, he shoved leathered fingers over my tongue to the top of my throat. I licked the treat as best I could.

Retreating from my mouth, he again slapped me, now wetting the ash he had previously laid. He drew his finger down my cheek; I felt the line created by the gray concoction.

"Pretty," he said, with a grin made of desire and painful intent.

Again taking up the cigar in his hand, his grip on my hair tightened. Pulling my face forward the few inches between us, in one long slow drag, he licked my face from chin to forehead.

"Tasty too."

His lips were upon mine, forcefully invading my mouth with his tongue. My tongueddanced with his, my desire to lick the ash from his driving me farther than I would have dared gone before.

My hips, without thought, began grinding my clit on his knee. My hands gripped the sides of my panties. I dreamed of touching him, but I wanted nothing more than to remain lost in his ash kiss.

Wrenching my head back, he stared at me for what seemed like forever.

"So, you want to be fucked."

He brought the cigar up to my eye line.


He held the cigar lightly, ash end away from us.

"Fuck yourself."

My eyes drifted to, and then lingered on his stick. I licked my lips, the thought of the act wetting me yet further, even though my pussy was already beyond slick.

"Oh, wait. You're still wearing underwear. Let me help you with that."

Pulling my hair, he guided me over his knee, my back resting on the thigh I had previously humped. With his boot, he spread my legs open.  My hands continued to grip the sides of my panties.

I felt the heat half a moment later. He held the cigar so near my clit, I wanted to scream, but I wouldn't. I would never scream, not unless he wanted me to.

As the heat grew, I grew fearful. It felt like... It felt like...

Quicker than I could've believed, his cigar was back in his mouth and his knife was out, rushing towards my crotch. With two quick cuts, the fabric of my panties fell limp in my hands. My pussy lips felt hot, but not burned.

His blade still in his hand, he lazily held it in the air, the point towards my body, dangling it over my abdomen. Reclined back over his lap, the shreds of my tank top had fallen aside, displaying my breasts before him. In the slightest of wisps, he barely touched my skin. Even still, I felt his knife was sharp. I worked to temper my breathing.

"No, no, not yet. You wanted to be fucked." Even through his clenched teeth holding his cigar, he sounded menacing.

Putting his knife away, he again took up his cigar, the end wet with his saliva. He drew the moisture across my skin, slowly leading down to where I yearned for it to be.

Finally, forever a long, he reached my clit. In small circles, he massaged the nub. My moans started low and slow. His grip lightened on my hair as my head reclined back from enjoyment.

I whimpered my disappointment as he brought the cigar back to his lips, puffing again. His ash had grown once more. I did my best to look on him longingly, hopelessly begging with my eyes, hoping it would be enough.

His hand rested on my abdomen as he lightly broke off his ash in my belly button. Returning the cigar to his lips, he crushed the ash with his hand and smeared a line down to my clit, once again circling the nub, but also using long languid strokes, parting my lips just so. My moans started anew. My hips rocked up to meet his hand.

I wanted more. Oh, I wanted more. And he knew it. Patience was the last thing on my mind, yet still my desire for pleasure could not overcome my desire to please him.

Retracing his path, his hand crawled up my body to my lips. I lapped up the mixture of ash and my juices.

Once again with the cigar in his hand, he drifted to the one place I wanted him the most. Tracing my lips, he teased me mercilessly, the tension in my body growing with each passing second, until finally he slipped the end of his cigar into my pussy.

I gasped, my legs wide, my hips sinking, trying desperately to have more of his tobacco in me. Much as before, his movement was slow, torturous. In and out, long languid thrusts. The heat inside of the cigar added to the tension in my body, the growing wave building up inside of me.

But before I could ask, he slipped the cigar from my pussy and placed it back to his lips. He puffed and puffed, then returned the stick to this hand.

"I'm going to give you a present."

I felt the bite of his knife simultaneously with the return of his tight grip on my hair. On my right thigh, I could not make out what he slowly, painfully, carved into me. The heat from the cigar he still held in his hand danced close to my skin, but never close enough to burn me.

His etching complete, he brought the flat of the knife to his tongue and licked off the few drops of my blood gleaming the tip. His blade away, he broke off ash onto the top of my thigh, then smear it down my skin to his present, rubbing the flecks into the wound.

"Now you are going to give me a gift."

His cigar had but a little ash built up. His stick in his mouth, he removed his leather gloves, setting them aside.

Laying his hand flat on my stomach, palm up, he broke off not only the hot ash but a sizable portion of the cherry into his hand. I registered only the slightest of winces on his part.

My hand moved towards his before he even grabbed my wrist. My left and his right closed onto each other, closed onto the heat.

Reaching to his side, he produced a short strand of red rope, wrapping the binding around our hands. I had no intention of letting go. It seemed neither did he.

As our hands burned, I felt bound to him; through the pain, through the searing struggle, I would never let him go.

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