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Message-ID: <27708asstr$975953404@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: cymbidia <cymbidia@my-deja.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Story: Hooded
Date: Mon,  4 Dec 2000 13:10:04 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Hooded
by cymbidia


He slipped the hood over my head and smoothed it down over my face.  My
heart was hammering; I was sure he could hear it beating from where he
stood, his hands on my arms, as I fumbled with the fit, insuring the
breathing holes were directly over my nose.  The leather smell was
strong and I tasted it too, after the gag was seated between my tongue
and the roof of my suddenly dry mouth.  Not even a sliver of light
showed beneath the blindfold, held tautly in place by two strong snaps
at my temples.

I lowered my hands and he moved behind me to finish lacing me into the
hood.  It was tight but not claustrophobically so.  Made of glove
quality leather, it caressed my face, my head, in an almost sensual
manner.  I moaned quietly, the sound drawn from me and muffled into the
leather encasing my head.

He touched it with his fingers, stroking me through the leather.  His
whole hand cradled my head and I felt him kissing me through the
leather, low murmurs of admiration and reassurance reaching me through
the soft blackness that enveloped my awareness.  Fingers, his whole
hand, his mouth, touched and stroked my face and over my head, and
moved down my naked body, drawing more moans from me as I responded to
his familiar touch.

He stood, gathering me to him.  "Are you okay?" he asked, his lips
moving against the leather over my ear.

I nodded, speech denied me by the gag, and reached blindly for him,
hoping to touch him, to hold on to him.  New to me, the hood was far
outside my comfort zone.  He knew it, of course, but wanted it for me,
to stretch where i'd been, where he would take me.

Avoiding my reaching hands, he guided me to the bed, positioning me
face down on the softness of the bedspread.  With eager fingers, he
fastened cuffs to my wrists and ankles, then drew my hands back, behind
me, and attached all four cuffs tightly together.  Hogtied.  He'd
hogtied me.  Faintly, I heard the snicking of the padlocks as he
completed the bondage, locking me into place.  Tendrils of excitement
and futility curled through me when I pulled hard, testing, and could
barely move.

I always tried to find a way out of my bonds.  If I could get loose, I
would.  If I could get loose, the intensity and eroticism of what lay
between us was hugely diminished for us both but I had to try.  We were
well matched in that way.  I had to try to get loose and he had to
insure I could not.

He stood, I imagined, and watched me struggle as I rotated my wrists
and ankles inside the custom, made-for-me, cuffs, my fingers wrenching
toward buckles and ties.  I pulled hard on the chain holding my limbs
together, and twisted and strained trying to find a weak place in his
work.  My legs began to tremble, the strain of the position already
taking a toll.  Finally, panting a little, beginning to sweat a bit
inside the hood, I lay quietly, accepting my bondage, waiting for
whatever he had planned.

No speech was possible for me.  No sound.  No sight.  No movement but
for minor shifting.  My body began to respond to the absence of
stimuli, anticipating the touching to come, and slickness gathered
between my legs.  My nipples and clit became erect and need fisted deep
in my belly, spreading out over my skin, into my body.

He touched my back lightly, stroking down over my butt, gently,
softly.  I moaned, shivering, small bumps of sensation following behind
his touch, pebbling my skin.  Down one leg and up the inside of the
other his hand moved, nudging between my legs, touching lightly against
my pussy, checking for that which can't be faked.

He leaned over me, kissing me from the other side of the hood, his body
pressing hard on mine.  "You okay?" he asked again, knowing how afraid
I'd been of this for so long, and I nodded, my breathing coming
raggedly through the small air holes as the heat of his touch singed
into my skin.  I felt awake, alert, focused on his muffled words, on
the almost-delicacy of his touch.  I could hear my own breathing, hear
the blood pounding through my veins, and smell my arousal perfuming the
air.  He leaned over and brushed a tender kiss across the place where
the leather hood met my neck and I shivered, the sensuality of his
touch almost overwhelming from inside my dark bondage.  He withdrew,
and I continued my slow slide into the moment, into waiting, into a
kind of crystalline immediacy in which only right now existed.

And then .. PAIN.  Hot and red and explosive.  Pain, one butt cheek
then the other, then the first again.  Over and over.  Sharp and
stinging, growing more pronounced with each stroke.  The tawse, its two
wicked straps made of thick and stiff leather, left twin-tipped tattoos
in my pale skin with every stroke.  It was only after I was writhing
and crying out behind the gag that he stopped.   I sagged in relief
just as the futility of escape, of my ability to alter the content of
this time in any real manner, crashed into my awareness.  I was in his
hands.  My safety, my pleasure and pain, my deepest needs and desires
were his to call forth, to use and to play with.  I couldn't alter his
touches, however they came, in any way at all.  I was completely and
utterly at his disposal.

On the heels of that gut-level knowing, not a rational thought at all
but a primal flash of fact, came the kiss of the flogger, its heavy
thuddy suede almost a relief after the sharpness of the tawse.  Soon
enough though, that relief gave way to a further blooming of red
sensation, pain spiraling into my brain, into the deep parts of my
heart, into the wet and slick places in my body.  I gasped quietly,
lost in my darkness, in my silence, blow after blow.   Except for
involuntary body-flinches after each hard caress from the many flogger
tails, I was almost still, accepting and submitting, feeling and
responding.

He stopped.  While my skin was still on fire, he unfastened me,
encouraged me to stretch for a long moment, and then turned me onto my
back.  Working with sure hands, he fastened my left wrist to my left
ankle and my right wrist to my right ankle, each pairing locked with
one of the small padlocks we had bought the week before while cruising
Home Base.  I pulled, moaning at the hard and tight ache to my
shoulders, wordlessly, almost soundlessly, protesting the dull pain
shooting through each wrist.

"You look good," he said into leather covering my ear, his voice
sounding ragged, his hands working down low, pushing my legs apart.  A
moment, and I felt his face slide between my thighs and then the tip of
his tongue pressing hard against the throbbing wetness of my clit.
Stunned at the explosion of sensation, I stilled, trembling, gasping,
and lifted my hips the inch I could move them, trying to push against
his mouth, silently begging for more.  He pressed more firmly against
my clit, and flicked, and i screamed.  I screamed against the black
leather thrust between my teeth, the fire running up and down the
insides of my legs, my body already beginning to spasm into orgasm,
begging permission

"Yes.  Now." I heard his words, hoarse, giving me what I needed to
fully lose myself in the pleasure.  His tongue continued its dance
against my clit.

I shook and screamed, totally lost in the sensation, the heat and pain
in my backside completely subsumed into wild fierce pleasure.  Writhing
and trembling, slowing slowly with shudders and small quakes, my great
wild gasps for air became more controlled.

He flowed up my body, pressing into me, his hands unsnapping and
removing the gag.  "Mine", he said against my lips, his voice
hoarse.  "My slave."

"Yours," I answered from the deepest part of my submission, the word
sounding rusty coming from dried lips and a drier mouth.  My legs were
shaking almost uncontrollably; the position I was locked into putting a
huge strain on my body.  "Yours," I said again, the word a long low sob
as he ran his hands over my breasts, his lips brushing over mine, the
double sensation flooding me with heat.


--
"All joy emphasizes our status; always reminds, beckons, awakens
desire. Our best havings are wantings."
 .. C.S.Lewis

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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