He Doesn’t Know Morta Is Here!
by D. Katarina
For obvious reasons the traveler’s guide to Vancouver doesn’t mention anything about the exciting options of discovering the local bdsm scene, yet the vibrations of intense imagination travel across the world and I find myself to be sought after by those who reside elsewhere, as distance a) covers the traces of their secret desires, or b) it portrays their decadent tendency in a bohemian fashion – by traveling for it.
It is Monday evening. Dinner is light, French wine dark red. I’m half ready when Morta buzzes in. She joins me in the washroom to share dark eye shadows and mischievous glimpses in the reflection of the mirror.
He landed a day ago, had to shave for me, not climax since last Wednesday, bring a bottle of white wine and arrive on time. (Being late results in extra strokes for each delayed minute.)
He doesn’t know Morta is here. I greet him at the door, tell him to neatly fold all his clothes and put them on a prepared chair. Morta’s silence in the other room charges me with erotic anticipation. It only rises as he, naked, crawls in towards me, then kisses my high heel patent leather ankle boots. I allow him to look at me, dressed in short leather punk skirt, leather corset and opera gloves, wearing fishnets and transparent black tank top.
I tell him my rules, among them the one prohibiting looking at me any more until I say otherwise. His shaven skin trembles under my gloved touch; he is very aroused and there is no way he can hide it. After I collar him and cuff his hands behind his back I tell him to stand up. Sitting comfortably in my armchair I push him with my foot, heel poking at his skin to keep the distance so I can take a good inspecting look at his body. I walk around him, reach for his nipples from the back, glide my hand down to his belly and then lower to firmly grasp around the base of his hard cock and balls.
My other hand working the nipple, teasing it with a gloved index finger, my foot forcing his legs apart, my breasts against his back, my knee on his ass gradually make him slide into the sweet surrender. At this point I pull him around, he blindly follows and meets his own half-closed eyes in the large mirror. He see himself helpless, under the spell of my smile and weights burdening his balls. He is taken completely by my going all the way, a couple of times, to the very dizzying edge of orgasm. Pleasure is mitigated by the sensation of a higher level of it – the pain.
I lay him on his back on a bench where he is restrained – secured, devoid of fear of falling – with ropes. A heavy leather flogger lands on his chest, I pull this ever soft and sexy material to his neck then over his face, slowly, so he can inhale the scent of its leather straps. Once again he is taken by his senses, yet it’s not an illusion. I bend over his face, look into his eyes, let him watch my thought-synced red lips and order him to take a deep breath. Then I plant my skirted ass on his face.
Torture continues: tweaking of the nipple clamps while hitachi works its magic is just the beginning.
Suddenly, but not to my surprise, glamorous and sexy, Morta walks in. The silence of my torturous teasing game is interrupted with the clicking of her shoes, approaching the audio space, visibly increasing his arousal as she draws near. And there she stands above him: tight, short sleeve blouse with deep cleavage exposing her plump breasts, satin, silver corset and tight, knee length skirt. She takes action right away. After brief, but sensuous introduction of her full décolletage to his face I pass her the pinwheel, knowing where she’ll apply its texture. From nipple to nipple she wheels it across his chest down to find the swollen, erect and very hard member. While she spends a generous time exploring that area I finger his mouth. He sucks like a slut looking at my lips. Not allowed to orgasm under any circumstances he has to simply ‘stop’ us nearing the edge, which happens multiple times. Again, pain and pleasure means that at these moments Morta puts a bit more pressure into the stimulating pinwheel. I can see the sparkles in her eyes: she can’t take them off the object of her torture. There is just pure pleasure; no resentful punishment in the way she administers her will. That comes later after we find him spent and boring. We want to see more meaningful reactions so we release him, shake him up a bit and pull him by the balls on a leash to the spanking bench….
Morta and I have developed a way of communicating, where just looking at one another is enough to know the next move. I guess these things are part of any interaction that is being enjoyed with a same or similar level of enjoyment.
We sit down almost silently and realize that there isn’t a better way to welcome reality than opening a box of bittersweet chocolate pralines the foreigner brought and let them melt with the night’s gifts on our tongues.