Infinity (7)

In the later part of the morning, she roused. The coffee and aspirin seemed to do the trick, for she felt fine. Stretching, she rose and padded to the bathroom. She still had her shirt on, so she rather thought he’d been the gentleman and not used her horny, drunken state to fuck her. That pleased her deep down in the place where she still hoped chivalry lived. It was an odd feeling for one who also wanted to be tied up and used, will she, won’t she. Stepping into the spray, she let the thoughts bubble through her head–it gave her great fodder for her novel.


He watched her from above, her sundress rippling in the ocean breeze, her body unmoving except for her hands dancing over the keyboard. Fascinated, he watched as one hour rolled into a second, a third. There were occasional head shakes, fist-clenchings and punches thrown  skyward. Then there were those few times where she leaned back in her chair and stretched. An enticing curve of tit was exposed during those stretches, where he could almost follow the soft curve up to a peaked (or so he imagined) nipple. His cock stirred. He had better control than this, he knew. She fascinated him, all unknowing of the spell she wove around him as she worked.

Shaking his head, he turned from the window. He had things to do, dammit.


A loud rumble from her middle  was the first warning that she’d been at this for a long while.  A deep breath, lifting her hands overhead, and gently moving her head from side to side, she began the task of uncramping muscles. The morning had slid into early afternoon, and she now had a tremendous body of work ready to send to her editor. A novel had never woven itself together so quickly. She’d even gotten ideas blooming about a follow-up story, though she rarely wrote two novels about the same characters. Plot points had danced so strongly in her mind that she’d drafted a quick outline so that she wouldn’t forget–though she doubted that she would. This story had her by the throat…and other areas too.

She had to give credit to location–it was easy enough to work here. The breeze, the sun, the scent of the sea air blowing up the cliff face, the call of gulls riding the wind; all conspired to relax her and allow her ideas to grow quickly. Stretching once more, she tipped her face to the sunshine, wiggled her toes, and breathed in the exotic scents of the blooming riot of flowers. The hiss and boom of the ocean drew her attention…really, this location was fabulous. Rising, she walked to the railing and looked down at the tireless waters below, imagining her characters dancing on the wide open patio, her female lead experiencing the hard bite of fear as the villain bent her back over the railing.

Shaking off the spell of the book, she looked out to sea, noting that there was dampness between her thighs. It was sometimes a bit embarrassing to realize that her own words could turn her on. She was always proud to arouse her readers, of course, but herself? The tale’s sudden dark twist had flicked a switch in her, one that would be hard to shut off. The fear of the ‘bad guy’ also created a different sort of sexual energy. One that was not prettily wrapped in a neat package. It was a minor scene, but an important turning point when the lead male character realized that Miranda had gone missing, and how conflicted his feelings were about that.

Of course, that lead her to thinking of how it would be to surrender herself the way Miranda had in the last scene she had written, allowing the Dungeon Master to take her to a private area and secure her to a frame to be whipped.

Whips scared the piss out of her, yet the thought of  the sharp snapping sound in the air as her flesh waited for the blow, the burning sting of it kissing her back, the welts and marks it would leave behind–all of that was an erotic turn-on. How strangely wired she was to be so turned on by that which made her very nervous. Fearful, even. Between that, and the feeling of being secured, unable to move away, to stop it. 

Acceding control.

That was the heart of it, really. That and the wild rush that pain delivered. That feeling when pain erupted, was consumed, allowing it to grow and throb on the flesh while the mind relaxed and began to fly was one sought after by every submissive. Of course, that feeling had gotten her in way over her head with her last dominant. But she wasn’t going to think about  that now.  Her stomach rumbled again, and she turned her back on the sea, her novel, and headed for the kitchen for breakfast.


The afternoon had slid into early evening as she puttered about the house. She realized she was waiting.  She didn’t know how she felt about that, actually. She who had prided herself on becoming a successful, independent submissive. Now she had morphed into being the “ultimate girl”. She wondered if he would call. Would he ask her to dinner? Or offer to stay in. Would she offer him a drink, a snack, sex?

Yes, that last one was the real kicker. He was attractive, to be sure, but the attraction went well below skin level, and deep into that crevice between her thighs. Dammit. Though he had an agent to handle the rental of this house, perhaps it would be better to think of him as the Landlord, rather than as a Dom.

It was pretty fucking hard to not think of him as a Dom.

She sighed, shaking herself out of her mood. Having given most of the day to her craft, she decided to head outside and explore the neighborhood. She’d been to town, but not gone to the cliffs edge. Hadn’t found the wee path that might, maybe if she was lucky, lead her down to the water. Maybe she’d stand in the surf so she could brag of having been in both oceans in her lifetime.

The sound of the doorbell carried across the patio, echoed in her pussy. It had to be him. As excited as her stories heroine, she moved towards the front door.