aroused her.
It turned out that Christine had two fantasies. In the first, she was a naughty teenage girl away at some kind of summer camp. She imagined her instructor catching her masturbating and then the man in her fantasies proceeded to punish her by bending her over the bed and fucking her roughly from behind.
Okey-dokey. No problems, I decided. In fact it fitted with my own fascination for domination and submission
But there was a problem with the second fantasy. I pride myself on being able to please a woman, but with Christine I met my Waterloo. Her second fantasy was to be lost in a forest. Suddenly the vines of a tree wrapped themselves around her wrists and her ankles, restraining her so she could not move. Then… and I am not making this up… another vine appeared from out of the tree and impregnated her with ‘tree semen’.
What the fuck…?
I stared into her eyes and looked for signs of madness then said in a firm voice, “Welcome to Camp Jason, you naughty girl!”
* * *
I asked Christine to show me how she pleasured herself. She peeled away her bikini top and ran her hands over the magnificent mounds of her breasts and then glided her fingers down between her parted thighs. I watched with avid attention.
Christine told me she needed a lot of pressure on her clit in order to orgasm, and then she began to touch herself. One of her fingers dipped between the lips of her pussy and reappeared slick and glistening with her juices. Christine began to rub her clit and slowly – very slowly – her breathing became deep and sonorous and her eyes closed. Her lips parted and she licked them with the tip of her tongue.
“Help me,” she said softly.
I took over massaging her pussy, applying firm pressure with the tips of my fingers across her clit. Christine cooed but begged for more. I pressed more firmly. Christine’s lips curled into a languid seductive smile, but still she needed more pressure. By this point I was pressing down on her clit so firmly I thought I might break her, but for Christine it still was not enough and I realized I had to find another way to arouse her. If I didn’t, I was going to end up with the muscled forearms of a pro tennis player.
“Show me again,” I insisted. Christine nodded bravely and her head kind of drooped to the side. She took a deep breath and began to push down with her palm and at the same time thrust upwards with her hips so that the sound was a slapping collision of her sensitive bud against her hand. It went on for a long time until Christine was panting and gasping for air. I watched with a mixture of fascination and mortification until at last she began to squeal.
I edged away on the mattress and gave her space. Her body began to undulate and writhe and then the sound of her coming rose higher and higher in pitch. She was arched off the bed, frozen with her shoulders and heels digging into the mattress, but the rest of her body elevated off the sheets. The squeal reached a crescendo and then suddenly she collapsed panting and gulping fresh air into her lungs.
Either Christine had just orgasmed, or she had pressed down so hard on her clit that she had fractured her own wrist.
* * *
After that first afternoon together in her bedroom, Christine and I never met again at her home; she always came to my apartment, and always of an evening.
Normally when she would arrive, we would engage in a few minutes of small-talk and then, as if by some telepathic understanding, we would drift into the bedroom.
Sometimes she would arrive angry and flustered with a sense of agitated restlessness about her. On those occasions she was especially passionate. Christine gave great angry sex. But normally our time in the bedroom followed fairly simplistic dominant - submissive principals; she was willing and obedient, but never enthralled .
Do you know what I mean by that?
Maybe it’s not the right word, but it’s the best one I can come up with sitting
It turned out that Christine had two fantasies. In the first, she was a naughty teenage girl away at some kind of summer camp. She imagined her instructor catching her masturbating and then the man in her fantasies proceeded to punish her by bending her over the bed and fucking her roughly from behind.
Okey-dokey. No problems, I decided. In fact it fitted with my own fascination for domination and submission
But there was a problem with the second fantasy. I pride myself on being able to please a woman, but with Christine I met my Waterloo. Her second fantasy was to be lost in a forest. Suddenly the vines of a tree wrapped themselves around her wrists and her ankles, restraining her so she could not move. Then… and I am not making this up… another vine appeared from out of the tree and impregnated her with ‘tree semen’.
What the fuck…?
I stared into her eyes and looked for signs of madness then said in a firm voice, “Welcome to Camp Jason, you naughty girl!”
* * *
I asked Christine to show me how she pleasured herself. She peeled away her bikini top and ran her hands over the magnificent mounds of her breasts and then glided her fingers down between her parted thighs. I watched with avid attention.
Christine told me she needed a lot of pressure on her clit in order to orgasm, and then she began to touch herself. One of her fingers dipped between the lips of her pussy and reappeared slick and glistening with her juices. Christine began to rub her clit and slowly – very slowly – her breathing became deep and sonorous and her eyes closed. Her lips parted and she licked them with the tip of her tongue.
“Help me,” she said softly.
I took over massaging her pussy, applying firm pressure with the tips of my fingers across her clit. Christine cooed but begged for more. I pressed more firmly. Christine’s lips curled into a languid seductive smile, but still she needed more pressure. By this point I was pressing down on her clit so firmly I thought I might break her, but for Christine it still was not enough and I realized I had to find another way to arouse her. If I didn’t, I was going to end up with the muscled forearms of a pro tennis player.
“Show me again,” I insisted. Christine nodded bravely and her head kind of drooped to the side. She took a deep breath and began to push down with her palm and at the same time thrust upwards with her hips so that the sound was a slapping collision of her sensitive bud against her hand. It went on for a long time until Christine was panting and gasping for air. I watched with a mixture of fascination and mortification until at last she began to squeal.
I edged away on the mattress and gave her space. Her body began to undulate and writhe and then the sound of her coming rose higher and higher in pitch. She was arched off the bed, frozen with her shoulders and heels digging into the mattress, but the rest of her body elevated off the sheets. The squeal reached a crescendo and then suddenly she collapsed panting and gulping fresh air into her lungs.
Either Christine had just orgasmed, or she had pressed down so hard on her clit that she had fractured her own wrist.
* * *
After that first afternoon together in her bedroom, Christine and I never met again at her home; she always came to my apartment, and always of an evening.
Normally when she would arrive, we would engage in a few minutes of small-talk and then, as if by some telepathic understanding, we would drift into the bedroom.
Sometimes she would arrive angry and flustered with a sense of agitated restlessness about her. On those occasions she was especially passionate. Christine gave great angry sex. But normally our time in the bedroom followed fairly simplistic dominant - submissive principals; she was willing and obedient, but never enthralled .
Do you know what I mean by that?
Maybe it’s not the right word, but it’s the best one I can come up with sitting
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