At the secluded house, far from the city, we dine together on the porch: me in the Adirondack chair, and you at my feet.  We spent the day outdoors, enjoying the sun and the countryside: hiking, mostly, and swimming in the ponds and streams we happened across on our way.

The sun is setting now, the pink disk trimmed with gold dropping fast behind the line of trees.  The deer, who habitually emerge in late afternoon, have retreated, and we are alone.  The nearest neighbor — if you can call him that — is more than a half-mile distant, and nobody ever travels this road.  I pour us both more wine and grasp your shoulder, feeling you thrill to my touch.  I look down at you, look around at the porch, and smile.

“What?” you ask.

“Take your clothes off.  Now.”

You look around; the road is only thirty feet away, with a clear view of the porch.  You look at me, and you comply.  From somewhere I produce a silk scarf, and tie it around your eyes: a makeshift and effective blindfold, allowing you some measure of enjoyment of the sunset and no more.  I kiss you, and you kiss me back.  “I am yours,” you say.

I touch you between your legs first, the wetness greeting me like an old friend: warm and comfortable.  My hands run along your ribs, raising your arms above your head where the rope, until now unseen, awaits them.  I pull the end, and you are forced to stretch your legs to relieve the strain on your arms,  Your slit is weeping moisture, and I slap it hard for good measure, then strike your cheek with my open, wet palm.

You feel the first clothespin bite your left nipple and cry out, which earns another hard slap.  You fare better with the next clothespin. All the while you pray silently that the next sound won’t be that of a passing car, which surely would slow to enjoy watching the festivities.  You feel my fingers thrust deep inside you and stifle a moan, harder to supress with my tongue on your ear.  I flick the clothespins and watch you writhe.

You aren’t prepared for what comes next: you feel the cane almost before you hear it.  Your ass and thighs are soon a welter of red stripes, some slightly raised.  Sitting will be difficult for the next day or two; kneeling will not.  You feel a blow on your pussy, and another, and then my fingers again, thrusting roughly, the wet running almost like a leaking faucet along my hand.  I flick one of the clothespins and you begin to beg me: to stop, to continue, to do what pleases me, to allow you to come.

One of the clothespins is removed, and you feel it clamped instead on your other breast.  The stiff, sore nipple is in my mouth, my tongue caressing and swirling, my lips pulling, my teeth clamping it now gently, now not so gently, while my fingers continue to move in your pussy and threaten your tender ass.  You hear me sip, and feel my mouth again, cold from the ice water.  My mouth warms to its task, then disappears, and returns piping hot.

My mouth travels down your abdomen in this fashion, now cold, now hot, and I sit comfortably on the floor between your legs, my lips to yours.  You flinch and sigh at the icy cold, and again at the heat.  My cold tongue probes as deep inside as it will go, and my slickened fingers slide into your asshole while my icy, hot, icy, hot tongue devours your secretions

I pop an ice cube into my mouth and slide it from my lips, in and out, until it melts away from our combined body heat.  My mouth releases your clitoris, which I’ve been sucking, and you wait for the application of heat.  Instead, you feel something else, a new tingling, something familiar but out of place, and you aren’t sure what it is.  You feel my lips and tongue, and my fingers continue to work.  You beg, beg, beg, for release.  I stand, my hard cock poised at your entrance, and slide in, thrusting hard.  I can feel my fingers in your ass, fingers and cock working together to keep you on the wave.  I twist your bare nipple, and then the clothespin.

I hiss in your ear that you may come, now, do it, now, and then our mouths meet.  The wave crashes, and in that same moment you recognize it on my tongue: the pugnacious flavor of a ginger Altoid.