Postcards

My C drive is littered with fragments of prose that have never managed to develop into stories. Perhaps a tidier person would clear them all away and leave only works that really are in progress and stories that have actually been finished, but I have magpie instincts when it comes to writing, I hide away bright shiny words, even though they seem to be of no immediate use.

When “Postcards” was originally conceived, I found myself with a number of  D/s scenes that floated without plot or characterization. Many of them were written in the second person, a point of view new writers tend to embrace and more experienced writers shy away from when they realize how hard it is to sustain. “Postcards” was written as means of  weaving some of those bright shiny words about D/s through the lattice of a story, like silk ribbon through a wicker basket.

Of course, it didn’t quite turn out that way. The wicker basket asserted its independence and demanded that I generate some strong characters and give them a reason for sharing D/s scenes. So now, “Postcards” tells the story of married couple keeping their passion alive during periods of enforced separation.

“Postcards” appeared in “Aqua Erotica 2“, a waterproof book that enables you to read erotica in the bath.

Annette had promised herself she would not open the latest postcard until the evening, but she had woken to an arousal she couldn’t ignore, so here she was, at the computer, searching for stimulation; something to light up her mind’s eye while her fingers worked their magic on her demanding flesh. If things had been different she might have searched the web for fuck-tales to lubricate her lust, or lurked in chatrooms where strangers would spew their fantasies over her. Instead she double-clicked on the folder that held the “postcards” from her husband.

Annette knew by heart the first postcard her husband had sent her, the one that had caught her by surprise, the one that had changed things between them. She smiled as she remembered how pleased she had been to receive an e-mail from him after only one night away. She had opened it expecting his usual humorous observations on people and places. What she found made her catch her breath. It read:

“In my mind last night, my cum was on your breasts not my hands.

You were kneeling. Your arms were tied behind you so that your palms met, as if in prayer, between your shoulder blades.

Your breasts jutted outwards until I caught them in my hands and squeezed them together making a channel for my cock.

The vibrator in your cunt was making you sweat as I oiled your breasts.

The clamp on your clit made you gasp when I placed it there.

Standing, leaning forwards, pushing you back on your heels, I fucked the soft meat of your tits.

My cum splashed your neck and chin and dripped slowly onto your breasts.

Afterwards, I watched you struggle to climax while my drying sperm puckered your skin.”

He had never written to her like this before. Nor had he ever restrained her. From the immediate tightening of her cunt and the hardening of her nipples, she had realised it was something she had wanted him to do but which she had never spoken to him about.

Sex had always been the heartbeat of Annette’s marriage. The strong sex drive that had been hers since puberty was amplified by Olivier’s presence until her lust for him became central to her life. She hungered for him, needed to feed from him daily. He was the cocaine her libido was addicted to, yet their marriage was anything but harmonious. He was very French: passionate, verbal, fond of argument. She came from a long line of combative Irish New Yorkers. They fought, they sulked, they embarrassed friends with the vitriol they would pour on each other’s egos. But always they came back; their bodies forced into fiercely passionate struggles that ended with both of them exhausted and nothing resolved. Each day the tension would start anew, pulling at them, inflaming them, holding them together.

In the first three years of their marriage they had never once spent a night apart. Then the company started to ask Olivier to travel. He would be away for a week at a time, usually in a different time-zone.

The first time it happened, the week had seemed to stretch forever. When he returned she fell upon him in a frenzy of need. That weekend was a blur of sweat and sex, but the fucking was too frantic to be satisfying. An anxiety had entered Annette’s mind, marring her enjoyment. Olivier was an attractive man who needed the company of women and the release of sex. How many weeks could he live in hotel rooms without seeking solace in the arms of a stranger?

Before he left in the early hours of Monday morning, Olivier had woken Annette by placing his hand between her legs and kissing her still closed eyes one at a time. She opened her legs but kept her eyes closed.

Pushing his fingers gently into her he had whispered, “You are my desire. Remember that.”

Then he was gone, as fleeting and insubstantial as a dream.

The next night the first postcard had arrived. Annette knew that this was Olivier’s way of staying focused on her. She imagined him in his hotel room; naked at his laptop, conjuring erotic images to stoke her desires and to prove his love.

Olivier returned late on Friday. Neither of them mentioned the postcard, but the sex that night had an extra edge. Olivier was strong and forceful, holding her hands above her head as he fucked her, each stroke driving her back into the mattress.  She had worn a silk scarf around her neck that evening, not her usual style of dress, and had taken care to leave it by the bed.

When he took her for the second time, Oliver used the scarf to bind her hands behind her back as she rode up and down on his cock, struggling to keep her balance. She did not resist, knowing she had invited this, wanted this. At the end Olivier grasped her breasts tightly, pulling her down on to him, forcing himself up into her. Her orgasm was intense. She collapsed forward on to him and fell asleep with her hands still tied.

Annette still had the scarf. She liked to keep it near her when Olivier was away. Sitting in front of her computer, the scarf wrapped around her wrist, she let her fingers slide over the smooth warmth of her inner thigh. On impulse she avoided the newest postcard and went instead to the second one she had received.

Olivier had been home for two weeks and then had suddenly been called away. The day after he left, the second postcard arrived. It read:

“I’m in Madrid thinking of you.

A rope is between your legs. Unless you stay on tiptoe it rides up into your cunt.

Your nipples are clamped. An elastic cord stretches from the clamps to bolts in the floor. If you stand on tiptoe your breasts are pulled and stretched.

Your head is pulled all the way back. Your hair is gathered together and tied to a butt plug, lodged in your arse, forcing you to arch your back.

A lit candle is in your mouth.

You are waiting.

For me.

And my whip.”

This image was harder for her to accept. Pain had never appealed to her, so the whip made her anxious. She had had anal sex, but never with Olivier and although she owned a little blue vibrator to help her through the night, she had never pushed anything into her asshole. She tried to imagine Olivier tying her like that, wondering how she would seem to him, how it would feel to be so helpless.

The next day she had made her first visit to a sex shop. Nervously she had selected a butt plug and some lubricant. She went directly home, stripped, and pushed her new toy into place. She felt incredibly full. She knew it was already evening in Madrid. She phoned Olivier’s hotel.

“Olivier D’Or,” his voiced sounded rich and strong.

“The butt plug is filling me,” she said, needing to let him know immediately, not wanting a preamble.

Silence. Then the sound of a zipper being opened.

“I’m pretending it’s your fat cock forcing its way inside me.”

She could hear him stroking himself but he said not a word.

“It hurts. It hurts so good. I want you to take me. And take me again. To stretch me. I want to feel your seed shoot inside me. Fuck me, you bastard. Fuck me hard. Use me.”

Leaning back on the bed, the phone trapped against her neck, she reached for the little blue vibrator.

“I’m pushing my vibrator into the base of the butt plug. God it feels good.”

Olivier was breathing hard now. She pictured him wanking in his hotel room listening to her playing the whore.

The vibrator made her shiver from the base of the spine up. She forgot about painting verbal pictures for Olivier and focused on her own needs, working her clit with her free hand.

She heard the familiar sound of Olivier coming as she thrashed on the bed, then she let her own orgasm possess her.

When she was still, she put the receiver to her ear again and said, “If you were here now, I would lick you clean and suck you until I could have you again. I need you. Come home soon.” Then she put the receiver back in the cradle and ended the call.

Olivier didn’t contact her for three days, long enough for Annette to think about the phone call time and again. Sometimes she would be convinced that she had gone too far and Olivier thought she had slipped into a sexual dementia. At other times she’d work herself up into anger: he should be grateful to her, she’d decide; men paid good money to get that kind of call.

Once Olivier was in front of her again though, her strongest emotion had been lust. Even after a long-haul flight, he moved as if he owned the world. People parted before him like a shoal of minnows in the path of a shark. Her cunt ached at the sight. She had decided to meet him at O’Hare. She had intended to slap him for not calling her. Now all she wanted to do was fuck.

Olivier’s face changed completely when he saw her. That, stay-the-fuck-out-of-my-way look that his face habitually wore when he travelled was transformed for a second into joy before he recovered himself and tried to look severe.

When he reached her, he gathered her in his arms and lifted her off the floor. When their kiss ended, she said, “Why didn’t you call?”

Olivier smiled and whispered in her ear, “I wanted to keep fresh the memory of your fucked arse.”

His left hand had found its way to Annette’s buttocks as he talked. He used it to push her up against his erection as he said, “I haven’t let myself come in three days.”

Annette felt his strong fingers pushing against her asshole through the fabric of her summer dress and struggled in that too public place, but Olivier held her in position.

“Tonight I will stretch your arsehole with my cock until I hear you scream and beg for more,” he promised.

Now, as she sat in front of her computer, her fingers moving lightly over her labia, Annette remembered that night, the first night that he had sodomised her, and smiled. It was as if that was when her marriage had really begun, when he had finally made her his.

She could smell her own sex now. Her nipples were starting to ache. It was time to open Olivier’s latest postcard. With two fingers pushing into her cunt she read:

“In the mirror in front of you, you can see how distended your breasts look, pulled straight out by the clothes-pegs on your nipples, which are fastened to the base of the mirror by elastic ties at full stretch.

The bright blue ball gag keeps your mouth open so wide that your jaw aches. Saliva runs from each side of your mouth.

Your hands, wrists, and elbows are tied closely together and stretched above your head so that, were your ankles not tied to the chair, you would barely be able to stay on the seat.

The “seat” is a birthing stool, designed to keep your legs apart.

Aimed at your clit is a high pressure hose. At random intervals and for random lengths of time, it punches water at your clit. Sometimes hot. Sometimes ice cold.

I have told you I will be back in an hour.

There are still five minutes to go.

So far you have come twice. “

Annette groaned and bit her lip. How did he do this? How did he know the secret images that would consume her with lust? She read on:

“I enter the room early and switch off the water. I am carrying a whip made out of small lengths of hosepipe. The handle is shaped like a cock. You know it fits, just, in your arse.

I kiss you on the forehead and whisper ‘lets see your breasts change colour.’

The hoses are only eighteen inches long but there are four of them. At the end of each hose is a plastic bead. You know that the beads leave angry red depressions in your skin.

Holes have been punched into the beads so that they whistle as they move through the air towards your flesh. The beads bite where they touch and a line of fire traces back from those bites across the tender surface of your breasts.

At first you cannot believe the pain. You scream into the gag, desperate for me to stop. Then the rhythm takes you. You become the pulsing points of pain. You stiffen when you hear the beads move through the air and shudder when they hit. You thrash and moan and stare in disbelief at the marks that have transformed your breasts.

You look relieved when I go to unclamp your crushed nipples and then scream into you gag once more when the blood rushes back in to your abused flesh.

While you are still screaming I force the whip handle up into your cunt, then I stand behind you, wrapping my cock in the soft strength of you hair, pushing myself through it, brushing against your cheek, until my cum splashes over your face and up into your hair.”

Annette was panting now. The images were so raw and so violent that they frightened her. Despite that, she felt her cunt contract around her fingers and coat them with her spend.

In the warm afterglow of her orgasm, Annette knew that Olivier would never hurt her so badly in reality but she hoped that he would return home on Friday with a bright blue ballgag ready for her to try.


© Mike Kimera 2006 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk


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