(continued from before)
I think this is when it truly hits me, finally, the reality of what's happening, of what I am doing, here in one of the most remote places in the country with a man I know nothing about, about to pull more walls down. I am slowly letting out the animal that lives in my mind, not really thinking about the one in his, and I am scared again, not quite sure if scared of him or of myself; and that fear makes my body ripple with desire, shakes me so much that I turn away, pick up a cigarette from among the debris on the worktop, light it, grab another glass, pour him a drink but not pass it on, lean back against the counter, looking at him.
“How are you, J?”
“I'm hard, M,” he replies after a pause, his eyes down to the floor, his voice quiet, almost hesitant.
I can't help but let my pleasure and relief show in a smile, drag on a cigarette to mask that, then reply without acknowledging what he said, “Your bedroom is on the right, it's en suite. Don't get dressed after you clean up, just come back to the living room.”
By the time he's done I have had a quick shower too, changed into black jeans and a white shirt; the corset replaced by my usual sheer lace black bra, the denim of the trousers rubbing against my swollen labia to remind me of my arousal, as if I needed to be reminded at all.
I am sitting on the leather sofa in the living room by the fire, the logs burning well, my legs stretched out on the rug, the first drag of a spliff I have just rolled and lit dry and rasping in my lungs, then mixing with alcohol and lust, spreading throughout my body in golden, red crested shimmers. He walks into the room, naked but for the towel around his hips, makes the few steps from the door towards me, stands there without a word. I can hear his breathing, then a muffled gasp when he sees what's there on the low coffee table.
“Get rid of that towel, J, and come down here,” I say, and he does as told, dropping to his knees by my feet, completely naked now, sitting on his heels, eyes down, as I straighten up, lean over, take the black leather collar off the table.
“Do you want this? Do you want to wear it for me?”
He nods, almost imperceptibly.
“Say it, boy.”
“Yes, M. I want it. Please, M,” he says, his head bowed lower, his shoulders visibly tensing, shaking slightly, then relaxing a little with a long exhale when I reach out around his neck, buckle the collar on, my fingers lingering as I check that is neither too tight nor too lose.
My right hand on the back of your neck, pressing slightly with just a little more than its own weight, the short hair at the nape rough under my fingers, your breathing slowing, deepening so I can see and feel the regular rising and falling of your shoulders, so I can believe, more and more, that you are actually here, on your knees, at my feet, your eyes down to the floor, my hand warm and steady, there, as the seconds and then the minutes pass, as the wonder becomes our reality.
I pull gently on one of the D-rings to get you to straighten up, my right foot moves along the slope of your thigh, slowly up to your cock, find you hard again, getting harder now that my toes are scraping along the shaft and curling around the cockhead, my heel pressing at the base.
“Down on your back,” I say and you stretch yourself on the rug along the sofa, your chest raising in exaggerated breaths, your cock under my right foot as my left one moves to your face, “You may use your hands, boy.”
You take my left foot between your hands and start kissing and licking, toes first, sucking each, your tongue between them, then back along to the tips of my dark red toenails and along the cuticle line.
I get your mouth to open a bit wider, push in for a short moment; it feels weird, as if I was raping your mouth with my foot, obscene beyond the drooling obscenity of a foot fetish, and yet hot, so hot I moan and press my other foot harder onto your cock, then lower to your balls, pushing them down towards your body, then the floor, crushing harder as my hips lift from the settee.
I withdraw my toes from your mouth, let you kiss and lick and suck more, lips and flat, slow tongue on the instep, up toward my ankle, then down to the sole, the curve of the arch, it would tickle if you did it with gentle fluttering touches but you seem to know that more pressure, broader strokes are needed. I move my foot slightly, press my heel between your teeth, the sole along your cheek, my toes by your ear, then back down.
There is something unbearably arousing in this prolonged contact between the very lowest point of my body and your face and mouth, and it's not just the immediate pleasure of your kisses and licks on my skin. They call it 'worship' and that's exactly how it feels, you down there prostrate under my feet and moaning for more.
I let the pleasure wash in waves over my body. The combination of tiredness, booze and weed make my skin feel like thick velvet, warm and furry; slightly numb and yet extra sensitive, new layers of response to the sensation appearing and developing, spreading; trails of feeling curling round my body up from my feet; I can immerse myself in what you are doing now, my muscles relaxing, my right foot letting go off your cock which springs back up as I adjust myself, pull my left foot away, reach down, grab the central ring of your collar and pull you up onto the sofa.
I think of passing the relit spliff to you, but then just lean over to you, almost in a kiss, your lips open, I take another drag, blow the smoke into your mouth, then again, feed you the tainted air from my lungs, so fucking cliche but then we are all the cliches here, so I might as well take it to its limits as we both sink into the mild stupor for a moment; your head sliding down my chest, lolling onto my lap, face down so I can feel the hot, damp breath even through the denim of my jeans, my hands on your shoulders and the back of your neck, the solid strap of the collar new under my fingers.
You are nuzzling in, and I know what you are after, what you want now, maybe I even want it too, or would have wanted, should have wanted, will want it; the promise of your tongue on my dripping, swollen cunt, I can almost feel it now as you are trying to work your face into my lap.
You must be able to smell me, hell, you are probably able to taste me there, and I do think of letting you lick me slowly, lick the tiredness out of me, utilise the way my skin feels now, both numb and strangely sensitised with dope and weariness.
I wonder if you could make me come like that and suddenly this possibility seems real even though I've never orgasmed with oral alone; and even if not, I could just slowly drown in enjoying that sensation. The moment of anticipation makes my pussy contract and my hips raise involuntarily towards your face as my hand presses on the back of your head, fingers in your hair.
But my thumb is still on the collar and my eyes are drawn left. I move my hand from your head and run it along your back, slowly, fingertips tracing the vertebrae, all the way from your neck to the small of your back, mapping the curve of the spine, forgetting everything else, entranced by the landscape of that blank space, the possibilities floating through my mind, my hands now sliding below your shoulder blades, down along the ribcage and lower, onto the softer flesh below, detailing the shape, to move inwards, rest on the muscles of your buttocks for a while.
In that moment you are nothing but your back; the warm, living skin, tiny shivers of your muscles tensing and relaxing under my hands as they return upwards to your neck to rest there for a second or two; my fingers curving, the animal inside me growling. I am shifting left so your head is now off my lap and resting on the leather of the sofa, your body over my knees, both of my hands on your back, their paleness contrasting with your darker skin even in the dim light.