Would today be the day? Saturday morning was cool and crisp, and the woods were full of sweet, late-summer smells, and bright sun shimmered off the dew that decorated every living thing. She walked ahead of me, her movement hinting of beauty concealed in loose-fitting flannel shirt and baggy slacks.
Tomorrow would mark four weeks since I had agreed to be celibate. In that time, nature’s sexual inclination had been frustrated, starved, imprisoned-had transformed into a terrible, yearning need writhing just below the surface of every thought and feeling. All my senses, heightened by a condition I had imposed on myself to please her, had turned on me, continuously tortured me, demanded a response through every waking moment, and sometimes even in my dreams.
“You are so quiet, lately,” she said without looking back. “Is anything wrong?”
Of course, something was wrong! I was miserable! But I said nothing, too proud to allow her to suspect I might not be able to endure. Then, she stopped and turned to face me. She looked into me. Bright, blue eyes, with tiny flecks of brown in them, looked right into me, melting my protective covering.
“Sometimes, I think I can’t go on,” I said, unable to pretend any longer.
She kissed me with full, moist lips. The roundness of her body, her warmth, softness of her hair, tortured me with little touches as we embraced.
“Sure you can,” she said matter-of-factly, again looking into me. “You can endure it if you set your mind, because it pleases me for you to do that.”
She turned and continued to walk on. I watched her hips tease the fabric of those baggy slacks, and her flowing red hair toss about her shoulders.
I was steeped in my own uncertainty. Could I make it for another day? The emotional discomfort had grown to be as tormenting as the physical ache. Neither, however, could compare to the growing spiritual void, a loss of connection to meaning, a dissolution of my center. When she said, “Sure you can,” as if my hurt meant little to her, that pain magnified and further hollowed out my core. I wondered how monastic people ever got past this emptiness in the pursuit of true, lifelong celibacy-what kind of devotion must possess them to even consider such a thing.
We came out of the woods into what had once been part of an orchard. Construction of the bypass many years ago had cut it into a pie slice that was now grown up with brush and wild grasses. What was left of the orchard consisted of a handful of abandoned pear trees, wild and scraggily. We often ventured here because nobody else ever did.
One of the pear trees, heavy with growth from years of neglect, dropped its bows to the ground, forming a shady alcove. Except for the traffic noise from the bypass, which a thick hedgerow mercifully muffled, it was cut off from the world, a secret nook that occasionally we crawled into like children at play.
Before we entered, we paused and looked at the tree. Left to fend for itself, it had continued to produce, although sparsely. The fruit were small and uneven, but very tasty. Every year we came here and ate them as we sat in our shaded hiding place, partaking of a natural sweetness nobody else seemed to know about.
“This one is ready,” she said as a yellow pear came loose into her palm as soon as she touched it.
I was about to pick another, but she stopped me and said we would share.
Turning it over in her fingers, she studied the pear, then stooped, went in under the boughs, and sat down on the soft ground, leaning her back against the tree. Her eyes flashed at me, and she said she would like me to join her-after I removed my clothes.
She watched me undress. Cool morning air touched my skin as more of it became exposed. The last thing I removed was my under shorts, spotted with wet stains. I placed them on top of my clothes, which were piled on top of my shoes. My erection stood out, pulsating, oozing.
“Hand and knees,” she instructed. “Oh, and bring the belt. We will be needing it.”
I undid the leather belt from my pants and coiled it around my wrist, then got down on all fours, and crawled into our secret place. The high grass brushed against my shoulders and thighs and teased my genitals. Crawling that way, naked, my anus exposed and sensing the cool air, flooded me with vulnerability.
Inside, she took the belt from me and had me kneel up before her with my legs apart. Holding the pear gently in one hand, she continued turning it with her fingers. She held the belt in the other and allowed one wrap of it, about six inches long, to uncurl. She gently played it over the top of my penis, first along the shaft, and then onto he crown, where her touch became lighter and more teasing. The intensity of the sensations coaxed me to close my eyes, tilt my head back, and let out a sigh. A light smack of leather against the underside of the tip of my penis brought me back to reality.
“The fruit from this tree is not the only thing that is ready,” she said as she showed me the splotch of juices the smack had caused me to deposit on the belt.
“I’m sorry, Mmmm.”
She laughed, and I blushed with embarrassment.
“Looks like I know how to pick the really ripe ones, the ones that are just aching to give up their little seeds. Doesn’t it.”
“Yes, Mmmm, it does,” I replied, and smiled at her enjoyment of the moment.
When she held the belt up to my lips, I licked away the salty splotch. She put the belt down in the grass, where it rested menacingly in a partial coil.
She instructed me to place my hands behind my neck and stretch upward with my elbows pointing to the sky. She said in a soft voice how much she liked me this way, torso stretched upward, biceps curled, and armpits wide open with hair fluffed out. Mmmm loves male armpits, and takes great delight in men showing them off.
Making a circle with her index finger and thumb, she slipped it over the tip of my penis and slowly stroked. Anything else I could endure, but she knew this was the one sensation I could not struggle against for long-if she kept it up it would soon milk me of resolve. Again, my eyes closed, my head leaned back, and I sighed.
“I will lose it,” I complained. “Please, Mmmm, don’t make me lose it.”
“And, why is that, my bullyboy? Any other man would welcome the opportunity to spend his seed at his woman’s beckoning. What makes you so different?”
“My need is to endure for you, Mmmm-because it pleases you.”
She slowed her movements, lengthening the torture to my raging erection. “I am a few inches from your cock, my bullyboy. You are just aching to befoul me with it, aren’t you-watch it splatter on my face and then ooze down.”
“No, Mmmm,” I whined, afraid I was about to lose control. “Unless it would please you, Mmmm.”
“That would not please me-not today, anyway. Today, it pleases me to have you endure. It has pleased me for many days to know the suffering in your face, in your demeanor, in your long bouts of silence.”
Mercifully, she stopped. Grabbing me tightly around the shaft, she forced me to rock forward and back on my knees. She laughed at the way my scrotum swung to and fro.
“Now, you do it,” she said, releasing her grip. “I want you to rock so I can watch your balls swinging.”
I did as instructed, aware of the cool air surrounding my testicles as they swung for her. My penis, oozing strings of dew, bobbed in tune to the motion.
“How long has it been, my bullyboy?”
“Almost four weeks.”
“Hmm…that long. I hadn’t paid attention. And tell me, bullyboy, what has been the most difficult thing for you during that time? Other than my teasing you just now, what has led you closest to losing it?”
As I was thinking, I stopped rocking, and she reminded me to continue.
“Well?”
“At night. When we are going to sleep. Sometimes I hear you teasing yourself. When you play in your pubic hair, it makes a sound that gives it away. And the bed pulsates as you grow more excited. And as your sex opens up for you, I hear those little wet clucking sounds just before you climax. And sometimes you do it over and over, far into the night.”
“I didn’t know you were so tuned in to my self-pleasure. My masturbating gives you a hard-on?”
“Oh, yes, Mmmm, and sets my mind going.”
“What do you mean?”
“Images. Smells. Memories of your touch and warmth and hair and eyes and… then I am afraid you no longer want me, or need me.”
“I like knowing that. Thank you for revealing that to me. I’ll remember it in the future.”
“Yes, Mmmm.”
She told me to look at her, to watch her as she unbuttoned her shirt. Sliding it off a shoulder exposed her small breast to the air, the coolness of which immediately gave goose bumps to the areola. She held the pear close to her, and lightly touched the curved end of the stem to her nipple, subtly poking and probing the little orb of flesh, while her face took on a childlike look of fascination.
“You see?” she said without turning toward me, “Not a sound. So sweetly does it endure my tormenting.”
“Yes, Mmmm.”
The nipple responded to her ministrations by forming into a firm, thimble-shaped bud. She hooked the stem around it and pulled it, forcing it to yield over and then suddenly stand out again when released.
Toes against heels, she pushed her shoes off, and then told me to remove her slacks while she continued to sit against the tree and tease her breast. Pulling the slacks from under her rump and off her legs released her aroma. As I completed the task, she told me to remove the panties too.
“Wear them for me,” she instructed airily, “the way I like you to.”
I slipped them over my head, the front of the waistband under my chin, leg holes for eyeholes, center panel covering my nose and mouth, her scent filling my nostrils without mercy.
She opened her legs to her luxurious, red thatch. At the surface, it presented a canopy of wispy, translucent fuzziness that asked me to imagine lightly brushing my palm over it. Underlying that was a darker, thicker array of long strands, all leading toward a meeting place over her sex, where they tangled together to form a protective tuft of lush curls. The fingertips of her free hand explored those curls, tasting their tactile delicacy, teasing them to unravel and part. They did part, and then her sex opened like a flower, pink and glistening with dew.
“Watch me,” she whispered, putting the stem in her teeth and tearing it from the pear’s flesh. She pawed the back of my head to force me into a position she desired, with a full, close view of her sex.
With the small, tapered end of the pear, she lightly touched the opening of the glistening flower, tentatively probing like a bee about to collect nectar. And, like a bee that had decided to go about its task, the tapered end entered and moved about, exploring. Mmmm put her head back and let her mouth hang open as she took shallow breaths. The pear ventured further in, and then retreated, and then went in again with a tiny thrust.
Her knees came together suddenly against the sides of my head, as she sighed. Just as quickly, she released me and then pushed against herself with the pear, forcing the flower. A high whine came from deep within her throat. She worked the small end of the fruit in and out, pushing on its wide base, threatening to further splay her sex.
The activity made little sucking sounds. Her breath turned raspy. Two fingers of her free hand found her clitoris and caressed it on either side. Holding the bottom of the pear to keep its buried taper in place, she worked her clitoris. She leaned her head back, stretched her throat, and whined upward into the tree branches like an injured animal. Pushing me away, she drew her legs up to her torso, and rolled over onto her side, where she lay quiet and still.
“Are you all right?” I whispered, kneeling on all fours, kissing the outer curve of her hip.
She said nothing at first. Much later, she whispered yes. She sat up and pulled the panties from my head. Taking the pear from between her legs, she told me to open wide, and thrust the tapered end into my mouth. My saliva immediately flowed, embracing the fruit and mingling with her juices.
“All fours,” she said, and picked up the coiled belt.
She only let about a foot of the belt uncoil. No doubt, had she not just enjoyed sexual release, she would have given me much more of it, if not all. And yet, I knew that using it on me in a shortened state did not guarantee gentleness, because in the past it had seemed to suggest the freedom to swing harder.
The belt went swish and slap. Swish and slap. Over and over, evenly paced sequence of fiery visitations to my shoulders, upper back, buttocks, thighs. Unrelenting. First from one side, then the other. Not hard enough to make me cry out, but enough to make me tremble and whimper and grunt out my endurance.
“I like the way the end makes all these red scallops,” she said quietly. “I try not to mingle them, but I’m running out of places to safely raise them in your flesh.”
“Mmmm,” was all I could say around the pear.
“Trouble is, bullyboy, I’m nowhere near satisfied yet. I suppose I’ll just have to double them up-you know, put new ones on top of the ones already there. You wouldn’t mind terribly, I’m sure.”
“Mmmm,” I said.
She followed the entire procedure again, applying the same swish and slap to all the same places. When she finally finished, I had not cried out, and she commended me for my endurance. I thought it was over, but she said she wanted to do one more thing, and had me put my forehead down to the ground so my ass was high in the air.
“Hold on to your balls, bullyboy. I don’t want to damage anything.”
A new series of swish and slap, much harder, all directed in the same little area at the center of my ass, soon had me crying against the fruit. I writhed on the ground, struggling to keep my ass up for her, all the while pleading with wordless voice.
“There,” she said as she finally put the belt down. “That’s about right, don’t you think?”
“Mmmm,” I whimpered.
She had me turn over on by back, and straddled me, impaling herself, and rode me roughly, causing the ground to sting my welts. Gravity drew the mixture of my saliva and her juices down into my throat, which required me to keep swallowing. Having already climaxed once, she rode and rode for a long time, vigorous in the effort to chase down another orgasm. But chase it she did, and finally, with help from those two fingers caressing her clitoris as she rode, she did catch up with it, again stretching her throat and whining to the tree branches. She collapsed on my chest, my erection still within her, sensing the little quivers that slowly subsided as she slipped into a few moments of sleep.
When she stirred, she kissed my chest, gently biting my nipples.
“Keep it in me,” she said as she rolled to the side and coaxed me to roll over with her and end up on top.
“Now fuck me, bullyboy,” she hissed. “Don’t climax until I say.”
I rocked her in soft little motions, feeling her open further than she usually does. She raised her hips and locked her legs around my waist. The tip of my penis found her cervix, and I knew she had opened herself to me completely. The motion became more forceful, and with each thrust the entrance to her womb kissed me with sweetness that was overpowering.
“Be gentle,” she whimpered against my increasingly roughness.
But, I had already gone beyond gentle. We had gone beyond lovemaking. We were fucking, now. Fucking long and hard. I suddenly bit through the pear. The wide end plopped onto her chest, leaving a splash of juices as it rolled off her to the ground. I swallowed the tapered piece whole. I lapped up the juices from her chest, then hungrily surrounded and sucked on a mouthful of tit. Again, she stretched out her throat and wailed to the branches overhead. I answered with a growling noise. Millions of my waiting little seeds exploded into her.
For once in almost four weeks, I had not done her bidding. Or, had I?