The desire of taking or being taken…

Black leather garters overlay a laced corset and cling to smooth curves that hold up black stockings at the thigh; contoured legs are accented by the strap at the top of her heels. She isn’t wearing panties and her white skin is a dramatic contrast to the leather and silk. She is shaven and her slit is centred between the two front straps of the garter as a result of one leg in front of the other.

The opposite page is of a woman in full leather — a plain and heavy corset overlaying a patent leather catsuit is the centre of the photograph. Leather gloves hold both a flogger and leather whip with the tails, the thong and fall tangled in front of her. The light shines off the leather creating a contrast of black and white.

Two photographs found in a photoworks collection I recently found tucked away in a box.

****

“I think it’s just because you like leather.”

“That may be true, but I also see them as the two sides of the desire coin.”

“How so?”, Simone asked as she motioned to look at the book of photographs again.

“Well, I think we have a desire for taking or being taken and the two photos dramatically represent each of those desires. Of course, they are the extremes, and like everything, it’s a spectrum but we all desire it.

Simone was intently flipping through the book and smiled as she turned it to show me a man and a woman fucking. “Look Honey, they were fucking back in the 1800s.”

Laughing, I said, “Yes, I’ve heard we’ve been fucking for a very long time.”

Simone flipped through the photoworks collection a little longer and then rested the book on her lap and looked at me with sparkling eyes.

“So which do you desire; to take or be taken?”

 I met her gaze and simply said, “Both, like I said.”

“Well, now I want to go shopping, and depending on what we find, tonight we’ll have to explore which desire it really is.”

Placing the book on the table, Simone stood knowing.

W

Image and inspiration by Gunter Blum

Crush

We found ourselves standing in front of a painting I insisted Simone look at. She had gotten invited to a gallery opening and I was her plus one. I loved being her plus one because my only responsibility was to stay by her side, and as she liked to say, ”look pretty”.

The painting was the partial face of a woman with short red hair and alabaster skin; her lips were painted red, and her mouth was forced open by a red ball gag — a black leather strap crossed her cheek and disappeared under her hair. A long strand of drool fell from her lower lip and was lost in the luminescence of her skin at the bottom of the painting.

Simone nudged into me, “I really like it. I can feel her desire.”

“It’s simply mesmerizing. I can almost hear her pleasure and desire for more”, was my response as I continued to stare.

People would join us as we contemplated the painting but would rarely spend much time as it wasn’t to their taste or they were simply in a hurry as they made their way through the gallery. Our trance was broken when we heard a soft voice off to the side.

“This is my favorite”

A casually dressed woman of average height with shoulder length red hair had joined us; her skin was alabaster which made her green eyes even more dramatic, and as she looked at us, bright red lips parted in a lovely smile.

“It is beautiful”, I agreed.

“I just love the artist. I have quite the crush on him “, she replied and then a moment later added, “He’s hiding around here somewhere — he just hates these things”.

We went back to looking at the painting when Simone looked at the woman and with a smile of acknowledgement said, “You are the woman in the painting”.

“Yes, that’s me. As I said, I have a crush on the artist. Even after he told me what he wanted to paint, I said yes”

“Well, he captured your beauty and what I can only describe as your raw desire”, Simone replied.

She looked at Simone for a moment as if reflecting on what she said and then stepped in slightly. “I would say it is more raw pleasure. Along with the ball gag, I was wearing leather cuffs that held me between a doorway and my legs were held wide by a leg spreader. I was spread wide as he sat behind his canvas.”

She was quiet for a moment as she looked at the painting and then began to whisper almost as if we weren’t there.

“He stared at me from behind the canvas for a long while and then asked me if I was ready; getting up from his chair he came to me and softly began caressing my pussy. He didn’t go back to his canvas until I came for the first time.”

She paused briefly and her eyes sparked.

“It took him six hours to finish the painting and I don’t know how many times he made be cum; sometimes he fingered me gently, sometimes so hard I would be on my toes, and sometimes he would get down on his knees and fuck me with his tongue. Each time, after he made me cum, he would go back to the canvas to paint.”

“Muffled moans of pleasure, and of pain, would fill the room followed only by the sound of his brush strokes. My pussy was beyond sensitive, and my body was exhausted, and I wanted it to be over — although I also wanted more. He would stare intensely each time I came and even smiled once as juices flowed down my legs.”

“The last time he got up from the canvas he came over and kissed me on the cheek and began to release me from my restrains and caught me up as I collapsed into him. He held me for a long time before I asked if I could see the painting.”   

When she finished, she pensively looked at the both of us for a moment. “I should go find that crush of mine. Enjoy the rest of your evening”.

She winked and turned away. Simone and I watched her walk away and we then turned back to the painting.

W

Trust me

From the moment she met me at the door, our chemistries intertwined like a medieval alchemy. Over dinner we talked and laughed and shared our philosophies — we talked about dreams, ambitions, sensuality, of men, and of woman.

Our chemistries swirled in a transmutation as we kissed and when I dropped her home, she invited me in under the pretence of a glass of wine. On the couch, as we laughed, she taught me how she wanted her breasts caressed and how she wanted me to glide my tongue along the outside edge.

She led me by the hand into her bed where we explored and caressed under linen sheets — the alchemy took shape.

In the darkness she spoke about cane on flesh and about the point when I would come to desire more. She went on about the coarseness of jute rope and how the body takes on a blissful state when tied correctly. Gently caressing my cock, she talked about restraining me, milking my prostrate by candlelight, and watching my cock throb before cum spurted all over my stomach. She talked about how if I was attentive, and fucked her just right, she would soak the bed and that her juices were sweet. I would beg for more.

She talked of erotic stores where she would buy me a heavy stainless-steel butt plug with a fury tail — and after she positioned it properly, wanted me to fuck her like an animal and roar as I came. She was especially excited, when the proper time came, to go shopping for a collar, a harness, and a dildo that was a little too large for me to take. She wanted me to surrender and let her fuck me the way I fuck her,

She spoke of being surrounded with candles and the sensation of wax being dripped onto her chest and the joy of the marks left behind — she wanted to share that with me. She said she had so many things to share.

In the silence, when she had finished talking, the alchemy was complete. There was only the sound of the sheets as she moved in closer and kissed my chest.

She broke the silence in recognition of the alchemy, “Trust me”

 W