6 comments/ 37751 views/ 5 favorites West of Boston: Runner By: Softouch911 This story is part of a collection, "West of Boston." The stories can be read in any order. For Michelle, who helps this breathe Sometimes she crawls to him on all fours the length of the living room. She appears in a black merry widow, as stark black as her hair. Her breasts are pressed up and threaten to jiggle free. Her skin is pure alabaster against the tight, black fabric. She always smiles, full of joy and lust. Her ponytail curves on her back and falls over one shoulder. When she reaches him she rises to her knees, black eyes sparkling with sex. She grasps his hard cock. He takes her face between his hands and lowers her mouth onto him, soft wetness enveloping his length. Holding her head, he slides her mouth on him, slowly fucking her face. Just before he comes, he lifts her and cradles her in his arms then lays her on pure white sheets. She is spread before him, and he binds her with soft cuffs to the four corners of the bed. The trimmed black hair at her loins and the pink wetness of her swollen sex lies open for him. He lowers himself between her legs and plunges into her. Once again there is blackness, her sudden depths, infinite fulfillment. She smiles still, even as he penetrates her over and over, even as he probes her mouth with his tongue. and she struggles to move. After such wildness, he would waken, breathing hard with exertion, the sheen of sweat on him, his cock still throbbing and his come already chilling on his clothes and in the hollow where his groin joins his leg. Sometimes it would be easier to sleep afterward. But usually he would watch the room take slow shape in the dawn while he imagined her as he usually did, ahead of him on the road, running with her strong kick and graceful stride, her woman hips as vivid as in his dream. Every day he ran, not because of her, but hoping to see her. She was a good runner. Each time she overtook him she said "G'mornin,' Morgan" as she passed. She had a natural stride, practiced and easy like an athlete who trains often. He enjoyed watching her black ponytail bounce back and forth against her neck. Often, he quickened his pace so he could enjoy for as long as possible her long legs and the way the perfect split beneath her black nylon shorts was revealed at each stride. She always pulled away from him easily, probably unaware he had even sped up. He was past the point of running for speed. Eight minute miles were just fine. So every day he put in his three or five miles, and on many days she passed him. He had tried to remember the first time he saw her. It wouldn't come to mind, but the first time they spoke was clear enough. He had been signing runners up for a 10k charity event, and he spoke with her beside the road while she was stretching a tired muscle. He'd told her his name was Morgan and asked if she'd like to run in the event, set for Sunday in Fleming, three towns over. He'd been watching her as she ran since the first time he'd seen her, but he only noticed her eyes when he met her, deep black pools that didn't know to look somewhere else. Her look felt like a sad kiss. She was maybe 5'8" and slender from activity, not diet. She said she was interested in the race but would need to check on transportation. "There are three more going from town, and I'm taking my SUV," he said. "You're welcome to ride along." He saw her dark eyes cloud with confusion. "I wouldn't want to intrude," she said, but when he insisted, she accepted. He told her how to get to his place. On the ride, both up and back, she was shy, uncertain. She couldn't figure out where to sit in the car, and he invited her next to him, selfishly, because she was more than pleasant and very nice to look at. At the race, she won the women's division. On the way back, they stopped at a pub to eat; she couldn't decide what to order. He recommended a pasta and shrimp alfredo dish. She looked at him as she ordered it. He knew her name, but he had no need for it; every time he wanted to speak to her, her eyes were on him, dark and sad and trying to see something inside of him. It was on that trip he started to call her 'Runner,' an effort at first to relax her, but she seemed to like it. Not long after, on a summer night at a lakeside restaurant, he saw her across the room at a table with a man. The man was studying the menu intently; she seemed distracted and was looking about the room. She noticed him and smiled, so he went to say hello. "Hi, Runner," he said. She smiled. "I like my nickname." The man's name was Fred, and he was her husband. Morgan chatted with her about their running schedule, his most recent injury, the beauty of the lake. Their waiter came, and he began to leave. She said: "Please stay, if you want." She ordered, again a pasta and shrimp dish and, when she finished, smiled up at Morgan as if she were sharing a secret. Fred's head was still buried in the menu: "I'm just not sure. What do you think?" he asked her. She said he'd like the cod and he ordered that. When the waiter left, Morgan asked Fred if he ran, not wanting to leave him out. "No, not really," he said, looking to her to explain. "Fred prefers to support the rest of us," she said, never taking her eyes from Morgan's. He returned to his friends and their table, but throughout dinner he watched her out of the corner of his eye. She looked his way frequently and Fred talked earnestly. She didn't say much. Morgan recalled the two meetings because of the difference in her behavior, from shy and uncertain the first time to assertive and restless the next. He found her charming in both guises but wondered what it was that made her change so much. He had gotten into the habit of thinking of her as 'Runner,' and so never thought of her by name. He recalled speaking with her other times but not what was said, though once she touched his arm as they parted, a very womanly and non-athletic touch. He remembered how cool her touch had been. Since then, whenever they made eye contact it was more familiar and intimate than he would have expected. He felt she was looking for something in him. He wondered if he had what she needed. He felt protective, and he felt the interest of his heart and sex pique each time he saw her. On a beautiful afternoon, after she passed him and dwindled in the distance, he watched her disappear into the high school parking lot. Either she would make the loop and return, passing him going the opposite direction, or she would stop in the grass beside the turnaround and use the parking bumpers for one last stretch. When she didn't come out in a few seconds, he picked up his pace so he might talk with her again. She was still stretching when he got to her. "Hi, Runner," he said. "Oh, hi, Morgan," she said. Her smile was missing. As they talked, she was even more quiet than usual, and when she stood up, he saw a worried look. He asked if he could help. "I don't know," she said. "I forgot my keys again, and I'm locked out." "When will Fred be home?" She sighed. "Not until tomorrow afternoon. A business trip." "What if I help you force a window?" he asked. "Alarms everywhere, and I never remember the codes. Double and triple locks. Fred's such a worry wart." She was frustrated. "I just don't know," she said, sounding confused, "I could call his mother…. He'll be a wreck." "I have two bedrooms and a guest bath," he said. "Come with me." "Oh, no, I …." she began to say. Then she looked at him, trying again to see something in him. "Do you have any reason not to?" he asked. "Not yet," she smiled. He held his hands out to her. He was close enough he could touch her. She looked in his eyes. "Look at my hands," he said. She did and reached out to take them in her own. Her touch was soft and silky. "These hands will never touch you…" When he paused for emphasis, she looked back to his eyes. "…without your permission." He smiled at her. "C'mon," he said, "we'll eat beside the water and neither of us will be alone. He turned and began to run off. "But you'll have to run at my pace." "But I don't have clothes," she said loud enough for him to hear. He turned but kept going backwards for a few steps: "I'll take care of you." She ran to catch up. At his townhouse by the lake, they showered and grilled swordfish with tomato and lemon slices. He made pasta. They ate on the deck and finished a bottle of pinot. He had never seen her with her hair down. Out of the ponytail, it framed her pale face in soft waves of black. Everything he had wanted to ask her was possible. As the shadows grew longer and the mosquitoes began to dance above the water – and bite – they went inside. They watched a movie, or the movie was on and Runner watched. Morgan sat across the room and his eyes rarely strayed from her. She was dressed in what he had left on the guest bed for her while she showered: a pair of his boxers, and one of his blue dress shirts with a button down collar. He'd also left a pair of shorts, but they were so loose that she had decided the shirt covered enough and she wore it over just the boxers. In the medicine cabinet she found a safety pin and used it to snug the waist of the boxers. He didn't try to hide his staring, and every few minutes she looked over at him and smiled. Her hair fell softly onto her shoulders, and occasionally a wisp of it would fall across her cheek. She shifted her position on the sofa, her bare foot and leg lying down the length of the sofa and her other leg curled beneath her. When she felt him still looking at her, she ran her hands over the soft fabric of the shirt. "Very nice," she smiled again. "I like the way the fabric feels," he said, "but it doesn't look as good on me." "Thank you," she said, shy but pleased. "Smile for me," he said. She was suddenly radiant again, her smile not only showing her teeth but the heart that danced in her. He laughed with happiness. "It's fun to make you happy," she said softly, still smiling. "I like pleasing you." The windows and sliders to the deck were open and the soft night air caressed them. There was the sound of crickets, a couple of night birds, and far out on the lake the drone of an outboard as a fisherman returned home. "Doesn't it worry you that people may look in?" she asked. "No," he said. "But if you're nervous, we can shut them." "Oh no," she said, "but at home Fred …. well, Fred worries … about everything." "Poor Fred," he said. "He'll be worried about you. "You should call him." "I suppose," she said. He tossed his cell phone to her underhanded. "If you want privacy," he said, and nodded toward the stairs leading to the guest bedroom, "but you are welcome to stay." She shook her head and dialed. As she spoke with her husband, she looked at Morgan. She explained where she was staying and left the number with him. She reassured Fred that she was fine and comfortable and there was nothing to worry about. Her eyes twinkled at Morgan, but as the conversation went on she said less, said 'okay' and 'It's okay, Fred' more often, and her smile faded. When she hung up, she put the phone on the sofa by her hip and lowered her head into her folded arms. "Ohhhh, Fred," she said, exasperated. "He's worried," he said. "That's his thing," she said. "You'll be safe here. I would like to take care of you." She looked at him intently, as if making a decision. "Really?" she said. "Would you?" She looked out toward the water, a few fireflies lighting and disappearing in the dark. "I think that's what I want: someone who will take care of me, not someone who will just worry. "Does that make me weak?" she said. "I don't think so," he said after a minute. She looked back at him. "I only have the power you give me." She thought but still looked confused. He stood and walked across the room to where she sat. "Your trust makes me strong. It doesn't make you weak." She moved her leg to make room next to her. As she did he caught a glimpse of her skin far up the leg of the boxers. The side of the shirt revealed a little of her soft midriff. He grinned. She asked him why. "I was just thinking of how happy my boxers must be." She adjusted both her posture and his shorts but laughed with him. He went back to being serious and looked in her eyes, intent. "You know," he said, "being taken care of means you yield to ideas that aren't your own. The person you accept needs that right." She nodded, just as serious, and held his eyes again, "Yes. It's possible, and even good to think about … if you believe in his feelings … and if you trust him." She was quiet for a long minute. "I would like that," she said. "Well, you think about it," he said, and stood, holding his hand out to her so that she would stand with him. She smelled like musk, like night, like fresh air. He wanted to wrap his fingers in her hair and pull her to him. But he put his hands on her shoulders and gently moved her toward him, then put his arms on her waist and moved his mouth down so it covered hers. Her kiss was tentative. His was gentle but firm. He held her to him for a long minute, and then he felt her arms go around his neck and he touched her lips with his tongue. At first she did nothing. He touched, first along her upper lip, and then the lower. When the tip of his tongue pressed gently against her mouth, her lips parted and their tongues caressed. The kiss lasted. She began to press her body against his. He put his hand in her black hair and held her head hard against his mouth until they both were panting. They separated. He saw the lust in her eyes. He knew it was in his. "Think about it," he said again. "I'm going to bed," and he turned and went up the stairs. "Make yourself comfortable," he called back. Still breathing heavily, she watched his back and his strong legs as he turned on the landing and went up to the master bedroom. In the middle of the night he woke from a dream of her. He was very hard, close to his edge. He carefully did not touch himself. He lay on his back, trying to remove her from his mind so he could go back to sleep. He imagined what she looked like in her sleep. He dozed off but was suddenly wide awake. He thought he had heard something, like one of the chairs in the kitchen moving. She was up. He got out of bed, padding in his bare feet down the carpeted stairs. Over the railing, he could see her in the kitchen. She was raiding the refrigerator, and one question was answered. She slept nude. The refrigerator light outlined her so he could dimly see the fullness of her breasts and her flat, taut stomach. Her hair was mussed and fell about her face. He felt his pulse race again and felt his erection return beneath his shorts. She must have heard him. As she turned toward him and closed the refrigerator door he caught a glimpse of her hips in the light just before it went out. "I'm sorry I woke you," she said. "I wanted fruit." "That's fine," he said. The silence held. "I'm sorry if I embarrassed you." He had been walking toward her shape. She was a shadow near the moonlight crossing the floor. "It's your house," she said. "No reason to apologize." He saw her take a small step closer to him. The dark air filled with sexual tension. He said: "I'm going to kiss you." She didn't move. He gripped her wrists and backed her against the wall, spreading her arms out and up against it. He smelled the sweetness in her hair. As their mouths melted together, he heard her groan and felt their chests touch. He could feel the hardness of her nipples and the softness of her breasts. Her skin was warm. Her thigh brushed the thin cotton over his penis. They breathed their sexual rhythms into one another's mouths. He moved his hands down her arms to her ribs and then over her breasts. She kept her arms against the wall. He let his right hand continue until he felt the smoothness of her navel and abdomen. He felt his passion mounting. "Do you want me to love you," he whispered. He stopped his hand just above her mound. She was quiet, and then each word she said became a thought: "Yes. Not now. I'm not ready. Yet. Morgan." He kissed her again on the lips, softly, and turned to leave. As he mounted the stairs, she said: "I've been awake thinking about what you said." "I hope you have," he said, and "Good night." She stood in the dark kitchen, and touched the places where his hands had been tight on her wrists. She touched the place on her lip where his teeth had been. The next morning they were both in good spirits and wanted to run early, before the rain. It was cloudy and, for late June, cold. They decided they would run their usual routes, though her starting point would be new. She had washed their gear from the day before. After they stretched she ran with him for a quarter mile as part of her warm up and then promised to meet him back at his house. When she picked up her pace, he watched her black ponytail disappear in front of him one more time, but now with more knowledge of what was beneath it. She was lovely and special. He was sure he was reading her right; when she decided to trust, he wanted to be the one. She wanted someone to direct her, to protect her from herself, and to tell her what was needed, not because she was weak or incompetent but because she was happiest in pleasing. Her desire to please was the way she loved. With her, he would feel the power her trust would give him and the joy of her runner's spirit. He could help her, and he would help her break dangerous habits, like losing keys. When he came to the road to the high school, she passed him at almost the same spot as yesterday. "I cut some miles out," she said as she passed. "I'll see you at the house," she said over her shoulder. He wanted to call out his desire. He watched her turn as usual into the high school lot. This time she came back on her return lap. She would be at his house and stretched and back inside and in the shower before he got there. He was not surprised. She had his key. As she ran toward him, he watched her radiant smile, her shining black hair, and the gleam of sweat on her face even with thick clouds and no sun. Her breasts were high and tight, held by a sports bra no doubt, but bounced with each step. She waved to him. He made sure he let his smile show the way he felt. Even running, the air was raw. It was starting to drizzle and rain. When he reached the drive into the high school, he went around the loop and returned to the road. In the distance he could still see her. She should have been over the hilltop by now, but it didn't look as if she was running. Perhaps she hadn't warmed up enough for the cold day and was stretching a spasm from her leg. He saw her falter and sit backward onto the ground beside the road. He ran faster. Clearly, she was in some sort of trouble. As he came close, she called out: "Watch for the hole." He saw what she meant. There was a sharp depression partially full of leaves next to the lightly-traveled road, the sort of thing you could easily break an ankle in. It felt colder, and the rain had picked up. He went to his knees at her side, breathing heavily. "You twisted an ankle in it, huh?" Her face was screwed with pain, but it wasn't so bad that she was crying. She bit her lower lip and nodded emphatically. Her left leg was out straight, and she held the injured right ankle folded over it, her hands wrapped around it. "May I see it?" he asked. She extended her foot to him. The stretch of muscle in her legs made him remember how she looked on his sofa. He was on his knees and placed her foot on his thighs. He moved her foot against the ankle gently, watching her deep, blue eyes for a sign of pain. They decided the sprain was on the inside of her foot. It seemed minor, but the pain was real enough and they couldn't be sure of a roadside diagnosis. West of Boston: Runner They were both soaked. He helped her stand because she could barely put weight on the ankle. "Do you want to keep some dignity, Runner?" he asked her, "or should I sling you over my back?" She laughed through her discomfort and he noticed her bright smile and the laugh dimples by her mouth were still there. The rain made her jersey cling to her tight breasts and showed the seams of her sports bra. Her shorts stuck to her, the line of her panties obvious and making her legs look even longer. He crouched so she could hop on his back and wrap her arms around his neck. "I'm heavy," she said. "You don't have to do this." "You have no one else," he said. "It's not a problem. I'll take care of you." She didn't say anything. She leaned forward on him to help balance her weight and he felt the warmth of her body and its soft parts against him. He enjoyed the sweetness of her breath. Once, she told him she would try to walk if he would put her down, "You keep the rain off," he said. "I may not be a weight-lifter but you aren't heavy." The water was plashing on the road about them. The water dripped from them both. At his townhouse he put her down in the foyer long enough to be able to pick her up in his arms. "I don't want to bang your head on the ceiling." He turned and carried her up the half-flight of steps to the kitchen. He went down the hall to a closet and brought back a bath towel. He said, "I'll make hot coffee." While the coffee dripped he put her foot on a chair and brought an ice pack from the freezer. He wrapped it around her ankle and told her to massage it. "Thank you," she said. "I haven't had this kind of treatment in a while. It feels very good." While they talked his voice was quiet, but his dark eyes showed eagerness. He hadn't felt this way in a long time. He poured coffee into mugs and added cream and cinnamon. He sat next to her to look again at her ankle. "The ice feels good," she said, sipping at the coffee. The swelling was already going down. He sat back and asked her "What did you mean about special treatment?" "It probably doesn't seem special to you," she said. "You're just very different from my husband." She rushed ahead to apologize for Fred. "Oh, he's very nice, but he … he waits for me to take the lead … on things … and …." "And sometimes you'd like to be told. You don't want to be strong all the time," he said. "Yes," she said, quietly, looking in her coffee and swirling it. "It's tough to get up in the morning when all you can think of is how long the day is going to be. "Fred, bless his heart, is no help. Whatever I want is fine with him." He waited before he asked: "Do you really want someone to take care of you? To decide?" She knew their conversation had taken a turn. She looked into his eyes again. "I think so," she said, then she looked out over the lake. "I mean, yes. "I have a lot to learn I imagine. But for such a man I think I could do anything." "A man like that," he said, "will expect it." She looked back at him. The air in the room was charged. Something electric flowed between them, an unspoken promise. "Why would a man do these things for me?" she asked. He ran his hand on her calf. "He would be getting things he needs from you: power, fulfillment, and because it's you, joy." "What would a man like that want of me?" she asked. She was so intent she was leaning toward him. "Your trust that gives him power," he said. "Your complete effort to accept his will. A love that will fulfill you both." When she spoke again, she was talking of Fred, and her voice was low, steady, and on the edge of passion. "I am so tired of protecting him, of trying to make him think I'm happy." Her eyes filled. "It's alright, Runner" he said. "Thank you," she said. "In spite of my ankle, and being wet, I feel good. You make me feel good." "Well, you're not good," he said, looking at the water beneath their chairs. "We both need showers and dry clothes." He stood and picked her up again, one arm around her back and the other beneath her thighs. She put her arms around his neck and held to him up the two flights of stairs to his bedroom. She whispered. "I feel safe." "You are," he said. He brushed his lips across her forehead. He again felt the soft places on her against his chest, his stomach, and his hand beneath her thigh. He wondered if he would get hard in his running shorts and hoped not. Even wet, she smelled good. He sat her on the edge of his bed, turned the bathroom lights on, and laid a fresh towel on the vanity along with a hair dryer. From the closet he brought her a white terry robe. "I'll help you to the shower," he said, "then leave you to yourself." He helped her to stand. "I'll wait in here. If you need me, say so." He led her into the bathroom. She leaned against him and placed her hand on his chest. She propped herself against the vanity and gingerly balanced on her sprained foot. She winced. "Okay?" he asked gently. "Maybe I should wait to shower," she said. "You need a shower," he said firmly. She looked at him. She reached out and took his hand. "Thank you," she said. "I'll try." "Yes," he said, and left the room, pulling the door shut behind him. He was getting his own clothes together to clean up after she was done when he heard her call. "Please?" he heard her say. He opened the door slightly. "I'm here," he said. "I need your help," she said, "with my balance." "What is it?" he asked, watching her shape through the translucent shower glass. "I need you." "You're weird, Runner," he teased, then more seriously: "Think about what you said." "Please?" He had an overlarge shower in his bathroom. It had a massage nozzle and a hand shower and a large seat. He opened the shower door. She had her back to him, the warm water pouring down her body, her sprained foot held just off the floor. He looked openly at the lovely curve of her rear, the water pouring down her crack and off her cheeks. This was the first time he had seen her naked in daylight. She had the hips of a woman and, as lovely as she was, she probably wouldn't approve of herself if she quit running. Her shoulders looked soft but strong. The dimples on her lower back made his breath catch. "What do you want?" he asked. She was quiet, her head tilted down as if thinking or embarrassed. "Answer me," he said. There was a pause as she took a deep breath. "I want someone who loves me for myself. I want to be myself." "I want you," he said. "I want everything you will give." He took a deep breath. "Do you trust me?" "Yes," she said, "Never before…. But I do trust you." "I want to touch you," he said. Her head remained down. He could see her take a deep breath. She asked, "Will you let me wash … you?" "Are you …," he began, then realized she would not be asking if she was uncertain. The water was pouring down his arm, his hand still gripping the valve. "And Fred?" He was checking with her. She turned slightly toward him. He could see the soft curve of her breast and the point of her nipple. He felt his erection grow harder. She had placed her hand over her groin. "Fred … doesn't make me feel this way," she answered quietly. "I'm so tired …," she began, and paused, looking for the thought, "of running from my heart, and toward … nothing." "This time," he said, "there is no going back." "Yes," she whispered, then she looked at him and said it louder: "Yes." He removed his wet clothes. He stepped into the shower behind her. As the warm water poured over them, she leaned into him. He felt his erection touch her back, just above the separation of her cheeks. "I want to keep you safe." he whispered. He reached around her, stroking her breasts, fondling her nipples, her little points of electric hardness beneath his fingertips. He squeezed and pulled at them. He felt the quick intake of her breath. "Yes." she said. "I will do whatever you wish. I want … your way." As she leaned against his right arm, he slid his other hand toward her sex. She shuddered as he stroked her mound, the water pouring over his hand and the little strip of her wet pubic hair. He cupped her so his middle finger was at her cleft. He drifted it into her slit where her moisture was. He heard her begin to croon. She turned her face into the side of his throat and began kissing his wet skin. "I will not ask of you," he said. "anything you do not want nor need." "Alright," she said. He put his arms beneath hers and lifted her in the air. She put her hands out to balance against the wall. Neither of them spoke as he lowered her so her sex was just above his penis. She spread her legs, and he felt his cock nestle at her cleft. The only sound was of water and their breathing. Neither spoke. He carefully lowered himself onto the seat with her on his lap. He spread their legs, hers on top of his, so she was open to him. He lifted her slightly, again from beneath the arms, so she could place him at her opening. He slid forward on the seat, and she lowered herself onto him; the feeling of tightness, sexual heat, and fullness was exquisite for them both. The warm water poured over them. She tilted her head back and her mouth fell open as she began to move herself on him. He spoke into her ear: "Touch yourself." She began to move her hand down, then stopped: "I haven't …." "You want this. Don't make me repeat," he said. She lowered her hand to her groin. He could feel her fingers brushing against his shaft as she stroked herself. His hands were holding her breasts where, once again, he grasped her hard nipples and pulled and twisted at them. Each time she rose and fell on him, she would shudder and plunge him as deeply into her as he could go. His hands were balancing her, and the strength of his arms beneath hers was helping her to bounce faster on his cock. It was as if he were using her to stroke himself. Their excitement that had been building since he found her beside the road now made them come quickly, together. Even as he moaned with the approach of his own orgasm, he could hear her gasping with each thrust. She reached between her legs to touch her clitoris, his shaft, his balls. She whined as she came. He could feel the sperm exit his body in hot ropes and he gritted his teeth and groaned with each spasm. They held their embrace, his shrinking penis locked into her, and the slow leak of their fluids washed away in the warm water. Their breath calmed. "Thank you," she said. He waited a minute longer. "We skipped a step, Runner. When you commit serious errors, you shouldn't have pleasure until they've been corrected." She was silent. "Do you agree?" he asked her. She was quiet. He waited. "Yes," she said softly. "And accept?" She took a breath and let it out. "Yes." "If I am to protect you," he said, "I can't ignore it when you put yourself in danger. And you knew better. Leaving your keys put you at risk. Letting me take you home when your mother was available was dangerous." "I understand," she said. "It was wrong, but I am with you now." "And I am with you," he kissed her. "We are both very lucky." "The punishment is not for the outcome," he said. "You should get ready." "I've never done this," she said. He felt her shiver. "Teach me." "Dry us off," he said, "and then we'll go into the other room." He helped her out of the shower and to get her balance against the vanity. He draped a towel over her and she began to dry him. "May I kiss you," she asked. "Yes," he said. "I would like that. And that you asked." Each time she dried a section of his body, his arm or his pectorals or his thigh, she would cover it with light kisses. When she reached his groin, his penis had begun to firm again. She stopped. "May I…." she asked. "Yes," he said. "Make me hard." She held him with her hand and licked around the crown of his cock with her hot tongue. Then she swallowed the head of his cock. He didn't need to look to know she had brought him back to full erection. She finished drying him, stopping to lick and suck his cock a second and third time. Then he took the towels from her. "Are you warm," he asked. He could see the little beads of water still on her skin and knew the air of the regular rooms would feel colder to her. "No," she said. "It doesn't matter," he told her. He took her into the bedroom. Her nipples were fiercely erect, whether through arousal or chill he didn't know, and they puckered around the hard little nubs that invited his mouth. But he waited. He had her kneel in the middle of the room. In this position, the pressure would be off her gimpy ankle. He brought a hassock and placed it in front of her. "Lean across it," he said. "Don't look up. Don't say anything. "You're safe. I will take care of you. "But you have endangered yourself. Do you understand? I have to punish you. Do you agree?" "Yes," she said. "Yes, what?" he asked. "Yes, I understand and accept, Morgan," she said. "I am going to spank you. It should be thirty strokes. Because you are new, I am giving only ten." She was already tensed up. "Thank you," she said. "Part of the point is the self-discipline we learn together. You have to trust me and do your best to handle what I give you quietly. I'll help you. But you have to make every effort to keep from flinching, or from crying out. Will you try?" Her answer came slow this time, "I have never really been spanked. I don't know if I can bear it, Morgan." "I'll keep you safe, and secure. I will be sure you can bear what I give you if you trust me." "Thank you, Morgan. I trust you, and I accept." "Relax. It will be easier." he said gently. "Do you like having your hair brushed, Runner?" he asked. He showed her a lovely, pearl handled brush and ran it across her scalp then brushed her hair tenderly. "That feels very good, Morgan," she whispered. He held the brush in front of her. "You see the handle?" he asked. The grip of the brush was shaped like a short, narrow phallus. He turned the brush and, touching the inside of her thighs with it to direct her to spread her legs, he ran the brush handle along her sex. He ran it back and forth several times. She began to move her hips to feel it better and closed her eyes. Then he removed it. "It smells of you now, sweet and warm and wet." He moved so she would be able to see him lick the handle. "And the flat of the back of the brush is used for punishment when you need it," he said. Her elbows were on the hassock. Her breasts hung down from her chest and he touched each of the hard nipples with the back of the brush. He admired her shiny hair, the gentle curve of her back into her buttocks, the curve of muscle down to her long thighs. He knelt beside her and slid the cool head of the brush across her ass cheeks. She may be a runner, he thought, but her hips are those of a woman, heart-shaped. "Tell me when you are ready," he said, "and I will begin." He had already decided that, for their first time, he would not use the brush until the very end, if at all. He laid it on the hassock in front of her eyes. He reached behind him for the feathers he also wanted for this first time, and he placed those next to the brush. She breathed deeply and said "I'm ready," and again, "I'm ready, Morgan." He raised his hand half way and brought it down on her cheek solidly. His palm smacked, and in the small room it was surprisingly loud. Her flesh trembled and her alabaster skin immediately pinked. He did the same to her other cheek. It had been a long time since he had done this, and he was glad he had not forgotten how to restrain himself. He waited until her breath relaxed before he began again. "These will come quicker, Runner," he said. This time he took full strokes, once on each cheek, close together. The quickness of the second surprised her and she yelped. Then she put her head down. "Why did you lower your head?" he asked her. "I made noise, Morgan," she said. "and I think I moved." He waited. "I'm embarrassed." "Be patient. You're learning," he said. "There are many people who can't do this at all. Should we try again? "Try to be disciplined as much as possible," he said quietly. "Yes, Morgan. I'm ready," she said, the tears rimming her eyes. "This time, begin to count. That was four. I'm adding ten so we can get this right. We have sixteen to go." "Yes, Morgan," she said, her determination in her voice. He ran his fingers across her cheeks, gentled his touch along her flesh and the lips of her sex. She understood what he wanted her to do immediately and spread her legs further apart. He kneeled between her legs and he took her. He slid his cock into her and heard her groan with the joy of desire and their fucking as he sunk to the root in her. He moved in her, slowly and without stopping, pulling nearly out and then, at the bottom of his stroke, grinding himself against her. He took her hair in one hand. He was glad he had just come. He raised his hand again, and this time as he pulled out of her he used a full swing of his arm. The smack of his palm against her was loud. He felt her tense with the sting, and then relax. She was gaining confidence and he told her so. He switched hands. She moved back into him, joined with him in sexual rhythm. He struck her other cheek. The pink of where his hands slapped against her flesh was beginning to surface on her skin. He caressed her, and her skin felt warm. The joy he felt was for her, and the sense of fulfillment was more than sexual. He struck again. As much as possible, without losing his penetration, he varied the rhythm and pace of his blows and the location of them on her buttocks. She counted each slap, unhesitatingly. He encouraged her each time. When he got to twelve, he heard her voice crack. He waited before he struck again. Her sex was pliant and wet and she moved on his cock eagerly, but her voice told him he should hold off. He couldn't see her eyes, but when he reached beneath her to touch her breast, he also picked up the brush from in front of her and she tightened, aware of what he was about to do. He told her she was doing well, that he was proud of her, that she was strong, that he would keep her safe. Even through the hurt, she smiled over her shoulder at him, and he could feel her arousal. Tears were in her eyes and one had rolled down her cheek. He asked if she was enjoying herself. "Yes, Morgan, I want to do it for you." "I like loving you," he said. She was fantastic. He knew he would have to be strong with her. If he didn't resist the temptation to be easily manipulated and gentle, she wouldn't get what she needed from him. He understood what may have happened to Fred who had forgotten or didn't know to love her in the way she needed. Instead, Fred worried that something would happen to take her away, and he had lost her. Morgan kissed her and rubbed softly at her reddened ass. He reached for the white feathers in front of her and teased her stinging skin with their exquisite touch. He felt fluid at her lips and on her thigh. He told her to bear down. "These last will be fast and hard and will land on tender flesh," he said. "You will not forget your keys, and you will not put yourself in needless danger again." He was teasing her clitoris lightly to keep the tension of their lust slowly spiraling toward a peak. When she started to move with increasing passion, he increased the pressure of his touch. He began to thrust hard into her. They were both ready to come again, and he took her clitoris between his thumb and forefinger and twirled it in time with their faster fucking. She raised herself high off the hassock, her head thrown back. He could see her breasts jouncing with each of their thrusts. West of Boston: Runner She reached between her legs and cupped his balls as they tightened against his body. He felt her tighten and release, tighten and release, her vagina sucking at him as he pulsed in her. As the orgasm took her body over, he knew the time had come and he swung the hairbrush down onto the soft flesh, first on one cheek and then on the other. He leaned his arm tightly against her back so she could not fall or wriggle free and rapidly cracked the brush down on her tender skin. In her coming she squealed pleasure and pain together, arching her back. Now that it was done, he allowed himself to come, and he roared with the intense sexuality of their fucking with a sense of completion that was more than physical. Because of her pain, he did not allow himself the pleasure of going soft in her this time but pulled out. She had collapsed onto the hassock. He drew her to the floor and held her in his arms while she cried softly. When she stopped, he moved so he could tenderly sooth the reddened flesh he had caused, smoothing aloe onto the enflamed skin and along the lips of her sex. Her head rested on the inside of his thigh. As he softened, she caressed his cock. Morgan's head was on her thigh and he lazily and gently soothed her rear and pussy with his fingertips. Later, he dressed her in his shirt again and let her use the hairbrush. "This isn't bad for hair, either," she said. He laughed. He dressed to take her to her house. When she was ready, he looked at her. Even in a man's shirt she was as erotic as anything he'd seen. He could feel his groin responding, even after his orgasms. She pressed her hand to his cock, and smiled up at him. "I am so glad I please you, Morgan." He carried her to the kitchen again. They decided to finish the coffee. She sat on his lap for more than an hour. They were locked in an embrace that was both strong and gentle. He caressed her head, her shoulders, and ran his nails up and down her thighs. When she separated her legs for him, he slid his hand between her legs and stroked her sex. When she was aroused, he entered her with the tip of his finger. He whispered in her ear: "I want you to do something for me," he said. She whispered back and looked through her half-closed eyes. "Yes, Morgan?" "Tonight I want you to fuck your husband more wildly than he has ever been fucked." She blushed but nodded and held him tighter. "And after you have done that for him, I want you to think of me and to touch yourself until you come. Think of the very best sex you can dream of. "When I see you again," he said. "We will fuck the way you did with him, and we will fuck the way you imagined it." She said. "When will I see you?" He smiled into her eyes, lifting her chin up so he could kiss her, gently this time, as he stroked her sex. "I need you, Morgan." She was now pouting playfully. "I'm bad," she said. "…and I'm not sure I can be good if I don't see you." "When?" he asked. "Tomorrow," she said. "Have you ever been cuffed?"