Little Miss Muffett (4, fini)

He caught up to her in the parking lot. She was bending into the back seat, looking for her spare pen in her rucksack, when His voice carried to her.

“Now that’s a view a guy can appreciate. Waaaay better than sunset on a beach!”

She backed out of the car hurriedly, whacking her elbow on the headreast supports, and cursing under her breath.

“Little one get an owie?”

“Oh, now see, You’re just being sarcastic,” she complained, with a laugh. Still, she let out a soft moan as He cupped her abused elbow in his hand, squeezing and kneading it expertly.

And used that elbow to pull her closer, until her well-rounded bosom was scant inches from his chest. She felt the breath catch in her throat when  her eyes were caught in the depths of His intense scrutiny. His mouth came to within a millimeter of hers, pausing a moment, asking a question she thought she didn’t have an answer to.

Except, she did.

She rose to her toes, just a whisper of movement, bringing her lips into gentle contact with His.

His free hand wrapped around the back of her head, his fingers combing through her hair, holding her, pulling her into His kiss, his tongue probing into her mouth, dancing with hers.

The heat that sparked between them was nearly incandescent.

She felt her nipples rouse, rising to press insistently against her bra, seeking Him. Her pussy renewed its thrumming beat, wetting her panties once more.

The memory of His rope singing against her flesh, his hands roaming her body resurged through her. She was His in a flash, all the heat and lust He had generated during his performance rising to the fore once again.

A lust she had tamped down ruthlessly, the moment the last bit of rope has slithered down her body to lay, wet with her juices, between her feet. She had looked at that knot, knowing that He knew, He saw, He understood, far better than she, what was happening to her.

She had looked at Him, smiled. Thanked him. She had bowed to the audience when she was finally released, then melted into the crowd.

She was here on a story, dammit.

She’d spoken once more with Ruby, been introduced to her Dom, who was also her husband.

By then Ruby was handcuffed, and being led to a cross-like structure. She’d watched, mesmerized, as Malcom had pulled off her gown, his hands twisting and turning her brutally. Yet she’d smiled. He pushed her, ungently, to the cross, then had cuffed her to it, hand and legs opened wide, back to the room.

She had gasped when the lash first fell with a crack against Ruby’s naked back. Ruby had arched, crying out, the welt purling up her back, brilliant against her pale flesh.

Before that cry had died away, another stroke of the lash, another cry, another welt.

She watched while Malcom created a pattern on her flesh, a series of cross-hatched lines down her spine. Then he put down his whip, and taken up a strange kind of fancy paddle, which looked oddly familiar to her. Intricate whorls had left an openwork design there…wait! Her grandmother had one of these by the fireplace, used to beat the rugs out on windy days.

The whack of it against Ruby’s ass was a curious sound. Ruby had cried out, then panted through the next few blows. It left a curious outline against her reddened cheeks, first white, then deeply, intensely….ruby.  She tried not to notice the thin silvery line tracking from between Ruby’s legs, wetting her inner thighs, nor the shudder that took her between strokes of the beater.

She’d seen Tie once, His tall frame easily recognizable across the room, and had sneakily ducked down to sit in a chair and pretend to be fascinated by some wax work happening a few feet away.

It had been fascinating, but the pulse of her pussy took more of her attention than the man having a rainbow of hot wax ribbons poured over his cock and balls did.

Almost.

Once she could no longer see Tie, she made her way out. And yet, here He was. His tongue half-way to her tonsils. Or was that her tongue going for His tonsils?

She pushed back a bit. Tried, anyway. She couldn’t explain why her fingers were balled into tight fists into His Fisherman’s Knit sweater.

His lips moved against hers. It took a few minutes for the sense of them to percolate through the boiling of her blood.

“Come with me, Muffi”

“Come with me, Muffi”

She shivered, then boiled again as He nibbled, then outright bit, her lower lip.

“Come home with Me, Miss Muffett, and let me tie you to My tuffett…”

She giggled out a laugh.

“Well, when you put it that way, Spiderman….”

Somehow, she knew she was already caught up in His web.

10 thoughts on “Little Miss Muffett (4, fini)

  1. Hey – you’ve got my carpet beater!! LOL. Well, Sir D’s carpet beater, that is.

    You do write beautifully, ‘Nilla, and I’ve loved this story…

    aisha

    1. i had to, *had* to. That beater was just toooooo kewl to *not* wind up in a story!! i’m glad you enjoyed this!

      nilla

  2. Now that you have finished this fine, fine story, and cost me another $30 in rope, would you please finish the story of the friends visiting the lady and having their way with her (I think that was suppose to happen.

    1. laughs. that’s a LOT of rope, Sir!

      i am *finally* working on the next installment, and i did promise you. Before this week is out, it shall be done. i finally have my writing groove back.

      nilla

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