My drone touched down delicately in front of me with the red-light warning about low battery life. The drone had lifted off with a full charge an hour ago, and, after taking pictures and videos of the acreage, it returned exhausted. The drone had flown across the massive estate. The property was green with pastures and dappled with patches of pines and oaks and watered by natural springs and sliced by languid streams. Horses roamed in wide-open fields. Cows ate lazily on the grass. A herd of deer perked their ears at the hum of the drone high overhead and then darted across a field, disappearing into woodland growth.
I packed away the drone and gathered my photography gear from my pickup truck. I had yet to go into the house, but I had seen it from above. I am not sure that it could be labeled as a house. It was of an enormity that matched the land in both size and style. The Real Estate agent, Ashley, dubbed it as a “barndominium.” A five-bedroom, five-bath country palace built around a red Dutch Gambrel barn. Set into the roofing shingles was the year in which the barn was built: 1872.
I hadn’t seen anything like a barndominium before, and I had been a real estate photographer for more than a decade.
“This place is unique, quite unparalleled.” Ashley had flailed her hands when she attempted to describe it. “I saw it from the outside and almost gagged. Not my taste, you know. I’m not the ‘farm-type.’ Then I stepped inside. It was gorgeous. I mean, I was shocked, completely shocked.”
Ashley’s Cadillac Crossover drove up the gravel driveway. She emerged from the sparkling SUV, talking on her cell phone. She brushed her shiny brown hair over her shoulder. Looking at me, she pointed to the phone, rolling her eyes at the conversation in her ear.
She was a lovely woman. Tall and lean. Long legs, emphasized by her above-the-knee pencil skirts. Impeccably dressed, often with wild, eye-catching heels. She was made for the city, although she had settled in this Midwestern town. No wonder the barndominium had, at first, gagged her.
I had been working with her on real estate projects for a few years now. It started because I had a drone, along with some photography experience. She and I found a compatibility. We were both lighthearted and coquettish, teasing and joking about ourselves and people. Homeowners, wishing to sell their houses, let Ashley and me go where we pleased to transform their abode to attract others to it. She and I had laughed at how people lived. At times, we had to force ourselves to laugh because we were weirded out by what was packed inside.
Ashley put away her phone and exhaled. “Some clients are never, ever happy. They find peace and joy in being upset.”
I hefted my photography gear onto my shoulder. “Those people are everywhere.”
She didn’t reply. Her mind was already inside the house. She fumbled through her large bag that hung in the bend of her arm, until she found the key. She glanced over her shoulder. “Expect to be infatuated.”
The foyer blended into the living and dining rooms and the kitchen. The rooms were the width of the 125-year-old barn. The floors were hardwood but were contrasted by the original posts of the barn. The wood anchor beams were broad and roughly hewn, obviously squared by hand with an adze. Arcade beams were roughly twenty feet high. Their age and quality were evident by the round trunnels, the rectangular mortise and tenon joints. Looking at the high nave and lofts, my mind expected the smell of long-stored hay and the mess of Holstein cows. But the place was fresh, clean but rustic.
“I thought the same thing,” Ashley interrupted my thoughts. “It doesn’t match what the mind expects.”
“No nails.” I ran the palm of my hand along a rough beam. “The ambiance of this place is a community of men with beards and calloused hands raising these posts with simple tools, all done in unison.”
“They did a good job. This barn has survived life for years.”
The reminiscence of the barn continued throughout the house despite the modern furniture, a wall of wide windows that stretched multiple stories, a trophy kitchen with top-quality appliances, rich cabinets, and shining granite countertops.
I began taking my first pictures, angling through the beams to show the variances of old and new, the space, the grandeur of the revivified barn.
I moved to another angle of the 15-seat dining room table and saw Ashley on the phone again, leaning on the kitchen countertop. Her skirt revealed her thighs. One leg was locked straight, while she tapped the toe of her pointed red patent leather Jimmy Choo heel on the floor. She then nonchalantly ran her shoe against her lovely straighten leg, from ankle to the back of her knee. I snagged a few pictures of her for later on. At times unaware, other times modeling, I had taken pictures of her during our jobs. The best pictures were when there was an intriguing panty line when she was wearing a weekend jogging suit, but I rarely noticed one when she was in business dress. A luscious thought always followed no obvious panty line. I also knew she had a tiny tattoo between her shoulders on her spine and a barely noticeable birthmark on the back of her right thigh. I often wished to kiss it.
“Jason, ready for more?” she called, her voice echoing in the place.
My colluded mind had to revert to its professionalism.
“Where to next?” I asked.
“Ready for the bedroom?”
I gave a sudden haha, because my mind hadn’t fully reverted.
I lied. “No, this painting, uh, caught me off guard.”
It was a Romanesque-style painting of a very amorous couple together.
“What about it?” She walked up next to me, shoulder to shoulder.
I smelled her fresh perfume of radiance and fantasy. “It contrasts the community of men building the barn who were from a different generation who thought affection was for the bedroom only and nowhere else.”
“That’s one reason I like this place. Pure contrast. Let’s go upstairs to see the master bedroom. It’s another contrast to everyday worker-men.”
She grabbed my hand like a young girl taking her best friend. She daintily high-stepped the stairs. I had a perfect view of her tone legs, the tendons and muscles constricting and relaxing with each step. Spellbinding.
I tripped on a step though. She stopped and turned. Her skirt fluttered, giving me a glimpse of the place where her legs disappeared into darkness. I couldn’t help it. I smiled, adding a tinge of clumsiness to conceal the real reason for a brightened face.
“The place bringing you to your knees or is it me?”
I regained myself and picked up my tripod. “A bit of both, but I’ll tell you, this house will reveal someone’s fear of heights.” I looked over the railing at the expanse below us.
“Then maybe I should go to the master alone.” She shrugged her shoulders teasingly and gave an offbeat gaze.
“I can make it. You’ve seen me before.”
We made it to the second floor. The doorway to the master bedroom was cased by an elegant header, fashioned like royalty. Stepping inside, there was a broad room with a chest-high bed with a tall wooden post on each corner.
“Wow. I was not expecting this either,” I said. “A king in a farmer’s barn.”
“Ever been on a bed this high, and with such elegant sheets and with a headboard and posts?” Ashley asked me.
I laughed. “Is that a real question?”
My shoulders shrugged an answer.
“Me neither,” she said.
Then her face became preoccupied. She tapped her bottom lip with her finger. “Could you get a few extra pictures?”
“I will have enough for the website. You already tell me that I send too many.”
“No, no, no. I mean pictures of me on it?”
I was stunned and tried to laugh to defuse my awkwardness. I attempted to be delicate because I wasn’t fully sure I was reading too much into her comments and assuming more than I should. However, I knew her enough that she would accept an apology, if I was out of line. Nevertheless, I prodded her on, hoping that she would clarify her intent.
“You want a picture of you on the bed to go online?”
“No, for my personal use, not for real estate.” She slid her hand down the bedpost.
“Tons of men would visit this place if they saw you in real estate pics, but—” I gave her a chummy wink. “—they’d require you in their purchase.”
She nudged me with her elbow. “These would be only for me. And, well, I assume you’d steal some after editing them.”
“I always keep original copies in case of an error. A safety precaution only … for my client’s sake.”
She huffed, leaning back against the post, her body airily moving down on the pole, like a stripper.
I tugged my collar. “You know I charge for pictures. And you know my fees.”
“I can make your payment easily. Trust me. You know.”
I smiled. “Trust you, huh? Know you?”
“Let me get ready.”
“I haven’t told you my fee for this.”
She ignored me. Instead, she walked to the other side of the bed. Her demeanor, from head to toe, conveyed that there was a way to pay me and I’d be satisfied—completely.
The stack of mattresses rose as high as her bust. She reached back, disappeared, the tossed one red heel onto the bed. She moved again, then tossed up the other one.
Again, she dipped out of sight for a moment. Then, she leaped, landing surprisingly flat on the bed like a child, with a swoosh of thick blankets and the silk comforter. She writhed to the top of the stack, like a mountain climber.
She rolled to her back and stretched out her arms. Neither one reached an edge. “This is amazing. I can roll over twice and barely touch the end. Sleeping up here would be, like, wow.”
She rolled to her stomach and her feminine feet fluttered back and forth like a fidgety little girl. “You need to get the camera ready. I’m ready.”
“I’m getting it out.”
“Only get out the camera!”
I slowly cast a sarcastic gaze. It was playful, but I hated that she said that. It tempered the unknown but potentially exciting shoot. I worked to prod it on though. I didn’t want to give up. “Only the camera—for now.”
She raised to all fours—her hands and knees. A transformed wolf, she prowled stealthily as if toward a sighted prey. Her buttoned blouse was slightly open and a gold necklace dangled low, swishing side to side. Her tightened skirt that was raised high on her thighs impeding, slowing, her approach. Bracelets clanked on her wrists as she advanced. My heart sped a quick beat. Actually, hoping to be her prey. I lifted my camera and fired the first shots, straight on. Knowing she’d been spotted, she raised her right hand and tucked her brown hair behind her ear. She wore a large hooped earring.
She put the red-painted tip of her finger between her teeth and fixated on me. Or the lens. I took a flutter of pictures, nabbing as much of her as possible.
She crawled forward again, only a few paces though. When I shifted slightly for another angle, she raised up on her knees. Suddenly, she undid a button, carefully, then the next one. Her black bra appeared. She ruffled her hair, making it 1980s untamed, and began swaying to no audible music. Sex, intrigue, lust.
I salivated from even her most mundane actions. My camera shutter captured image after image after image. Both it and I gobbled her up.
Her hands moved behind her, and worked down the zipper on her dark skirt. It loosened. The stretch marks across the front suddenly disappeared. It fell to the bed into a rumpled clump.
There she was in a bra and pair of matching tiny panties. My mind twisted, and my dick hardened, although it was set oddly in my jeans.
My finger kept pressing the shutter button, even after my mind had gone. It had worked with cameras for years so the press had become reflexive.
She grabbed a post closest to me and began to stroke it, and then rubbed her body against it. First her breasts, her tight tummy and her hips. She was amazing. She knew how to move in front of a camera. No doubt in front of a man too.
She pointed her finger at me, her eyes steeled, and she drew me forward. “You, here, now.” She remained as the hungry wolf, and me, a lured lamb. A willing lamb.
I set my camera on the tripod and switched it to video recording. This was not going to waste.
I found a stair at the side of the tall bed and climbed on. She was waiting for me. We were face to face, inches between body to body. She had a sharp nose and deep, hungry eyes. Her feminine fingers undid the lone button on my polo shirt. Then she took another approach. Her hands reached under the shirt, raising it up. I felt her hands glide up my sides. We pulled off my shirt, and she tossed it to the floor. It was forgotten. I grabbed the back of her head intensely and dragged her to my open mouth. Just as we began to kiss, we were startled back to life.
“Hello?” A voice echoed from downstairs.
The wolf and the lamb vanished. Ashley and I screeched involuntarily. We had been shoved into reality.
We scrambled to regain our natural selves, putting away the animals. She slid off the high bed and rushed toward the master bath. She hoped to avoid tripping over her skirt, with her opened blouse waving in her scramble. Despite my confused state, I still noticed her lovely body race across the large master bedroom. She had turned from the hungry wolf on the bed to a light-footed sprite. And a thought pierced through my mind: I can’t wait to see the pictures. And the video!
To ease the situation and give Ashley more time to dress and compose herself, I pulled on my polo. I left the room to find the caller.
“Hello,” I answered.
The 50-something woman was the owner of the barndominium.
“I’m the photographer working with Ashley.”
The woman was frank. “I figured. Two vehicles are out front.”
“Ashley’s up here, if you’re looking for her. Just arranging the room, making sure it’s set perfectly.” I smiled.
Ashley spooked me when she touched me and passed by. She called out, “Mrs. Petersheim! So happy to see you.”
She stepped down the stairs gently. “You’ve done up the house beautifully. My photographer and I were just admiring the contrasts.”
Ashley had her swank and was again put together like nothing had happened on the bed. Even her hair was smooth and shimmering.
She and Mrs. Petersheim talked downstairs, so I continued to shoot pictures of the master bedroom. The indented ceiling allowed the original wooden structural planks to show. Inset lights lined the beams. The closet in the bedroom alone was larger than the biggest room in my place. The clothes—both of the husband and wife—were in order, organized by style and then color. A rainbow in the closet. Belts were dangling, as were his neckties and her scarves. And there was a lot of shoes. First was ostrich-skin cowboy boots and Reebok high-top sneakers. But then there were purple avant-garde boots. Stripper-inspired platform heels. Classic glossy and flat black pumps. Dainty Tory Burch cap-toe ballerina flats. A well-worn pair of garden shoes. However, I was taken by another pair, if they were such. The pair had four-inch heels but there were thigh-high gladiator straps. They were wrapped around a pair of mannequin legs. I snapped a picture. The Petersheims might be an unlikely couple.
I went to the master bath. It was incredible too. The bathroom had a wall-length, tiled shower with four heads, and, in contrast, across the bath, a wide antique copper tub held up on claw-foot stands.
“Lovely, isn’t it?”
I turned. Ashley stood in the doorway.
“This place keeps getting better and better,” I said, saliva building up in my mouth. I took a few cheeky pictures of her in the door frame. Too bad she was dressed.
She didn’t return to her playful or wolfish self. My wish for her to undress must have been obvious to her. She wagged her finger. “Mrs. Petersheim is still here.”
“Ah.” So I went back to photographing the place.
Around a corner in the bathroom, I found the steam room. It had an appealing Scandinavian design with soft lighting and a clear cedar scent. The craftsmanship was top quality.
To my surprise, there was a sudden harsh gush of water and then a steady flow. I stepped from the steam room and found the tub being filled with hot water.
“Are you here, Ashley?”
I checked in the shower. I checked in the closet. I checked around the kingly bed. I checked the lower level from the top stair. No one.
From the window of the master bath, I saw the two ladies chatting by a heavy-duty dually pickup truck. But the tub was filling up and Ashley was outside. By that time, the water had filled a quarter of the bathtub.
Did Ashley remember she left the faucet on? Was there a reason for filling up the tub? If so, I didn’t want to turn it off. She may have considered a staged bathtub—water flowing from a faucet? That didn’t make sense. She did not have a taste for obviously staged rooms and the faucet wasn’t eye-catching, not worthy itself of a picture.
I decided to close the faucet. If she wanted water, then she could turn it on again when she got back. It’d be better than a wet floor.
Soon, I heard the gravelly start-up of the dually. A few minutes later, there was the clack of Ashley’s shoes on the stairs. She was coming up again.
I couldn’t see the bedroom door, so I simply called to her. “You know you left the tub water running?”
I heard back, not an answer to my question though. “I want some pictures from the balcony of the floor below. We need to give some perspective on the layout of the place.”
I stood by her on the balcony. She put her arm on my back to describe the pictures she wanted. She pointed to the shining flooring.
“Let the pictures follow the hardwood boards. See what I mean? At that angle.” She then directed further. “Next show the height of the second floor. Try to get the fireplace, wide chimney and the outline of the house. I want to emphasize the Dutch Gambrel barn design. See it there?”
I turned my head toward her slowly, markedly. “You don’t think I can see it?”
“The owner wants specific pictures, so I am passing her comments along. You know, some clients can’t be satisfied.”
“I know exactly what you mean about needy clients. Got a client who’s just the same.” I eyed her, and she swatted my arm.
“I am not that bad. No one is ‘Petersheim’ bad.”
I shrugged like I was a dufus. “I’m off to take the pictures, as someone ordered me.”
She laughed. “I have to direct your photography to make it better. I know when people need help.” Then she added, “I’ll be up here. Come see me when you’re done.”
She disappeared, and, a moment later, I heard the water gushing again.
The interior of the house continued to amaze me. Its sheer size, the quality both from which it was first built and the modernizations made thereafter, and its utter uniqueness. It was one of a kind. A true barndominium. Having taken the pictures as ordered, I called out, “Ashley, before I come up there, do you want any more pictures down here? I’m not climbing up these stairs to go back down and then back up again. If you don’t tell me now, then you won’t get those pictures.”
From somewhere upstairs I heard her. “I will get all the pictures I want—any picture I want, wherever I want, whenever I want.”
“I have standards too, you know. I don’t just give in or get taken advantage of. Even by women.”
“Just come see me up here,” she called back.
There was a gentle splash of water.
“You wanting to have a picture of a full bathtub, suds and all?” I asked as I entered the bedroom.
“Yes, yes, I do—minus the suds.”
In the bedroom, I found her blouse tossed frivolously on the floor. A few feet away was her skirt, in a clump. She had simply let it drop and then stepped out. Bracelets were on the the dresser. Then I saw, on one bed post, her bra. It dangled at the tip-top of the post on the giant bed.
“Holy shit,” I whispered, as my eyes were dragged higher. There were her tiny panties, hanging from the ceiling fan.
Two thoughts crossed my mind, and I am disappointed about the first. I wondered how she was going to get the underwear off the fan. That was a flash thought. The second thought was better and lasted longer: She had tossed them up there, so she was naked now!
From the bathroom there was a lazy laugh, followed by a tinkle of water. I passed into the large bathroom and saw Ashley lounging in the tub. She was facing away from the door.
She didn’t turn but simply massaged a washcloth on her left shoulder. It was obvious that she loved having eyes on her. And she could attract attention.
She raised her arm high and let water from the washcloth slide down her arm. Sensuous. Her hair was in a twisted bun. Her lean neck merged delicately with her feminine shoulders. All else, though, was hidden by the copper tub.
After a moment of taking in the sight, I finally got a hold of my mental faculties. I grabbed my camera, and took a few pictures. “Are you wanting more pictures of yourself?”
“You said I would be the selling point for this place, so, yes, get more pictures of me.”
I took a few more close-ups of the nape of her neck. “I want a share of the profits on this house. The price is going up and up and up. I mean, I am making it all come together. I deserve it.”
I moved around her, snapping pictures, although she was still covered by the tub.
She flicked water at me. “You are getting your share right now—a fair share.”
“No. I am getting a show right now, not a share.”
“A show is a share.”
“Sure, a show might be a share, but I don’t want to be shorted on my share.”
She gently swished the water into swirls and then cupped water so it rushed up her chest. “What can I do to get you a fair share?”
She sat up, baring more and more of her breasts. Suddenly her nipples rose above the water. She let them hover there. Small waves swishing and swashing around them.
“You like?” she asked.
I kept taking pictures, capturing her pink nipples as they balanced evenly with the water level.
She then rushed the water in a tidal wave that rose to the base of her neck. She cupped her breasts, squeezing them and flicking the nipples. Her chest lifted from the water slightly as she breathed and exhaled in the fun, or the wonderful torture of me. She touched her finger at the tip of her chin and ran it along her neck.
I finally had the mindset to answer, although it was simple.
“Good. What do you want me to do next?”
The options were so overwhelming, so vast, too exciting. I thought out loud. “Hmm … What should you do?”
“Yeah, you’re the photographer. What should I do for you?”
However, she didn’t give me a chance to direct her. Instead, she raised one foot from the water and set it on the rim. Her toenails were a glowing red on her dainty toes. Her other foot surfaced and rested on the opposite side. Her legs were open wide. She was hidden by both the tub and the water, but I knew there was so much more than my eyes could see. I wanted more.
Knowing she had captured me, she pulled her feet back under the water and, with a giant whoosh of water, she turned over. She raised up to rest her forearms on the rim of the tub. Then her cute butt rose from the water. Two equal mounds of light flesh.
She looked over her petite shoulder. “Still just a show?”
I gulped again. “This is a share, definitely a share.”
“I want a share too.” She bobbed her ass on the water, as if humping something submerged. Maybe me.
“Oh, you will get your share after the sale.”
“I know I’ll get that share, a huge share, but that is not what I meant.”
She shifted in the water again and then stood. The water ran off her body. Down her breasts, nipples, navel, her hips, the tiny trimmed bush, her thighs.
My camera was not letting any of these moments go to waste or ever be forgotten.
She grabbed a towel as she stepped out of the tub. The water slapped onto the floor.
Drying herself, she asked, “Where to next?”
I knew there were so many places that would be a perfect backdrop for a nude woman. But I had to take control or I would be dragged everywhere and nowhere.
She rubbed the towel under her breasts, lifting and squishing them just for me. “Well, where to?”
This time, I directed her.
“Out here. I want you in front of the bed.”
I rushed to the closet and tossed a red Salvatore Ferragamo necktie and two belts over my shoulder and then grabbed the mannequin legs with the gladiator heels.
“Put these on. I want to see them on you. Transform into Venus, become the great goddess of love and beauty.”
“Hmm, I like the thought of that.” She removed the heels from the fake legs. While her attention was diverted, I knotted the belts. One of the belts was studded. The other had eyelets. I wrapped one around a bedpost.
She checked out the heels as if at a shoe store. “These are nice,” she said.
I slipped the other belt over a post. She finally latched the leather strap on the shoes.
She modeled the pair of heels that rose high up her gorgeous legs. “Well?”
“Beautiful. Simply beautiful.”
I directed her to the bed. “Stand next to this post and lean against it. Put your hand on it like it was a dick that you need, have to have.”
She grinned. “You’ve got a dirty mind. Dirtier than I thought at first.”
She wrapped her hands around the post and stroked up and down.
“Stop there. Hold that position. No, I need to adjust your hands.” I moved one of her hands and then slid the belt around her wrist. I tightened the belt and buckled it. The leather and the metal buckle pressed against her soft skin.
“What is this?” she asked. Her eyebrows scrunched. She had a concerned face.
I took her other hand, raised it to the belt on the opposite post.
“Is this some fantasy of yours?” Her voice creaked. She hissed with the tightening. The buckle dug into her feminine wrist.
In a moment, she was cinched to the bedposts, arms spread wide. Her breasts were set precisely, separately and with a slight sag, because they were real and spectacular. Her chest rose with deeper inhales.
I began taking pictures and it eased any concern she had. Even in this position, she liked the attention.
“If you would’ve told me about this fetish, I might have been more forward in playing along.” She continued to model. She lowered her head and pooched out her butt for a more flowing shape of her form.
“You’ve got it.” I climbed onto the bed. “Gonna get a few new shots from a different angle.”
She glanced over her shoulder with her lips giving luscious kisses. She twisted her head and let her hair cover most of her face, while giving a wild sultry stare.
I stood before her and tucked her hair behind her ears. “Lovely,” I whispered. “And now …”
I covered her eyes with the red necktie. Her warm breath touched my neck when I yanked it tight. I knotted the tie.
“I like this,” she said.
I was slightly confused that someone would like being tied up and blindfolded. She was captured, having lost control of herself. She was in the hands of someone else. I guess I was not one who wanted to put my trust in anyone else. I put those thoughts aside and became a photographer again.
She was silent. Her sight was gone, so her other senses had to compensate, especially her hearing. As I moved, her head would motion toward the sound. She must have heard the camera’s click, because she moved and continued modeling.
“How am I doing? Am I looking good?”
“Have you ever not looked good?”
“All right. Stupid question.” She smiled and posed sexily again.
I stepped to her and put my hand on her soft left breast. I massaged it, as if dough, but then I dragged out her large nipple with a pinch. She hissed. She bit her lips.
“No,” she answered through gritted teeth.
“Really? Not painful?”
I grabbed her right breast and kneaded it harder, with more tension. She shrilled and tapped her foot on the floor. Her arms pulled against their bonds. Like before, I dragged out her nipple. She hissed until I tweaked the flesh before I let go.
“Painful?” I asked domineeringly.
She didn’t answer. Her face had become stale and austere. To test her resolve, I patted each breast, like playing ping pong, so they bounced into the other, swaying back and forth. Then I smacked them a couple of times. She gave a momentary grimace but no sound.
I set aside the camera and grabbed both of her breasts at once. I pinched her nipples until she was hissing and wrestling against the wrist restraints. But she did not tap out or complain. There was no give-in. It was rare that she would, to be true. That is exactly how she reached success in Real Estate. “No” was not an option.
Again, I took pictures of her reddened breasts and her hard nipples, even capturing in the same image her covered eyes and hands belted to the bedpost. A powerful woman under control.
I quietly stepped away. Ashley stood for a moment, but she broke her silence. She began to ask what was happening. “Are you still taking pictures?”
There was an ease in her voice. The sternness was gone. “Wanting any new poses, although I am a bit limited in what I can do.”
I didn’t reply or take pictures.
“Just tell me what you want … Hello? Jason, are you still here?”
Without a word, I slipped out of the room. Leaving, I heard her call my name louder. “Jason?”
Downstairs in the kitchen, I found a perfect metal spatula and a worn wooden spoon.
Ashley knew when I returned. “Where’d you go?” she asked as I walked in. “Just leaving me like this. My arms are getting tired.”
I slapped her thigh with the spatula. A light slap to let her know what I held in my hand.
She hopped and said, “Oh, no, you didn’t! You wanting to play games, are you?”
Quietly, I stepped away to get another necktie and came back with a blue paisley one.
I heard her ask, “You going to smack me again?”
But I took the tie and wrapped it around her head, catching it in her mouth. She tried speaking through the silk.
“Wha’ ah you d’ing?”
“I’m selling this house.”
“Ah ‘op so,” she struggled to say.
I yanked the tie tighter and knotted it. She coughed.
“I think this’ll grab a lot of attention. From all sorts of people.”
I ran the spatula along her inner thigh and swatted the tender flesh to make her spread her legs farther apart. High enough, the wooden spoon lightly brushed her pussy. She jittered at the unexpected touch.
Seeing the jitter, I let my hand cup her mound. She gave a slight yip, and then bit on the paisley necktie in her mouth. My middle finger dug between the lips. Her face gave a grimace of a different nature. Not angry but intense.
“This video is going to be so good,” I said.
“’Ideo, Ah on ‘ideo? E‘cor’ing ‘e?”
“Yes, you are being recorded, yes. You’re a superstar. The biggest thrill of any star,” I said and then whacked her with the wooden spoon. She hopped from the unexpected hit.
I smacked the side of her cute butt a few more times until a reddened spot appeared, matching the size and design of the wooden spoon.
“Feel good?” I asked.
Like before she went stern and quiet, absorbing the sting.
Soon I noticed the waning strength of her arms linked to the high bedposts. They hung limply, and her shoulders slouched. When I loosened her hands, she went to her knees.
The woman who had been in charge this afternoon, directing me and teasing me with her humor and beauty—like she had many times before at other houses for sale—was sore, tired and stinging with that nice paddling. Her eyes were covered, her mouth gagged by the paisley tie. I was not yet finished.
I looped a belt into makeshift handcuffs and tightened them around her wrists. Arms locked behind her back. She was a prisoner. No longer telling me angles and types of photos and she wasn’t leading me around by a dog collar as she teased.
She was on her knees in a candid yoga child’s pose, ankles crooked due to the gladiator heels. Her face and her shoulders were resting on the thickly carpeted floor. Ass in the air, I swatted it at the crease of her buttocks and thighs. I thought her ass looked nice a bit reddened. It was lovely like she was. I dragged the wooden spoon up through her ass, deeply and slowly. Her tired, contorted body adjusted to the unnatural sensation. Then I spanked her again. Ashley kept silent, except when she exhaled or winced from the spoon. I knelt beside her and ran my finger along the tan lines that were low on her waist and high on her thighs, which showed what she revealed in the sunlight and what was hidden. Not much was hidden.
My finger was drawn from the tan line to the two luscious pussy lips that were pooched out because her ass was raised and her legs close together in her position. I fondled the lips gingerly, a graze as light as a breeze that tickles. I was glad to hear her release a quiet pleasurable moan. She liked it, in spite of tired arms, a sore ass and tight leather restraints. I nudged my finger between the tight lips. It was a warm, damp place. A couple of prods deep and my finger came out covered in a glistening savoriness.
I moved to her side and told her to open up. She weakly opened, despite the tie. Seeing her willingness, I pulled down the tie. She licked my finger clean.
“You want some more?” I asked her. “It’ll get your hands loose faster.”
“Yes.” She mustered some remaining strength to roll to her side. The thigh-high straps from the gladiator heels constricted against her legs. The paisley tie was like a scarf around her neck.
I helped her off the floor like a police officer helps a criminal, and thrust her toward the tall bed, pushing her chest against the mattress with pressure from her bound wrists.
“What’s gotten into you?” she asked when I pressed my body tight against hers.
I growled the words into her ear. “You have wanted this for as long as we’ve worked together. You like rough sex. You love being put in your place.”
“I …” It was all she could say. I replaced the necktie in Ashley’s mouth, tightening it so her lips were pulled back making her straight, white teeth visible. She was unable to speak or to form even a syllable.
“You play all prissy and self-reliant with your nice clothes and expensive SUV, but you’d rather be on your knees. You like begging, naked, tied up, just like you are now.” I lifted her wrists slightly to force her harder into the stack of mattresses. “Am I right?”
She was stoic, not even moving her head.
“I wonder what makes you want to be domineered. Too many punks bowing to you through the years, eating your pussy at your command? That’s not me. I’m not here to eat pussy. I’m here to fuck you, and fuck you hard. You better be ready.”
She remained stoic.
I unzipped my pants and let them drop along with my boxer shorts. My dick was hard and very ready for Ashley’s pussy. Her body eased for a moment when I slapped my cock against the side of her butt.
I spoke into her ear. “Been a while since you felt a real dick?”
I spread her feet wider apart, and I let myself rub along her wet pussy. I felt the opening and then drove in. In a moment, she was on her tiptoes to counter the hard thrusts. She was trying to grunt but couldn’t close her mouth. Instead they released as guttural aches.
Ashley adjusted to my blitz by raising her foot to rest it on the rail of the bedframe. Her face winced with the fucking. Her breaths quickened. Her neck strained, the tendons tightened. Her chin pointed toward the ceiling. I neared my peak quickly. She had a tight cunt.
I pulled out a reddened and glistening cock. I moved her from the bed, knelt her down and took the neckties from her mouth and her eyes.
“My god!” she said.
I put my cock between her eyes. Her eyes were momentarily crossed, seeing the large head directly in front of her. It was the first time I had seen her eyes since I tied her up. They looked especially bright blue but slightly droopy.
She opened her mouth largely. And I shoved my cock into her mouth. She gagged on it. Drool soon was dangling on her chin as she gave a salacious blowjob. Her tongue and lips constricted on me, suctioning my dick, daring me to resist. I couldn’t. As my own body tensed from an oncoming onslaught of pleasure, I grabbed Ashley’s hair and pulled back her head to release my cock. A moment after it was out of her mouth, several strands of cum splattered on her forehead and cheeks. I eased my own breathing and shivering as the remaining surges of pleasure leaked from my body. I shook the last lingering bit of thick goo on the tip of her nose and her lips. After her face was covered, she finally and cautiously opened her eyes one at a time. She kept focused on me, now standing high over her. A piercing stare. Her lengthy tongue reached the end of her nose to nab the cum. Then she smeared her tongue over her lips to wipe up all the reachable white goo. Her stare remained steadfast on me. I pulled her head to my dick again. She cleaned it nicely.
I laid her flat on her stomach on the floor to let her rest. Meanwhile, I cleaned myself further and then returned.
“Let me go,” she said, still sounding worn out. “I did what you wanted.”
“You think you did all of it?”
She strained her neck to look up. “Yes.”
I crossed my arms, looking down at her sternly.
“Haven’t I?” she asked with a slight whimper of concern.
It was a lovely sight to see her look at me with cum drying on her cheeks and forehead. “There’s one more thing,” I said.
She exhaled, thinking she had accomplished all of my demands. “What else is there?”
“I’ll be back.” I rushed down to the freezer in the kitchen for ice cream and a scoop. While I rushed back, I calmed my pace, my heart, my breathing, my thudding chest, before entering the bedroom again. I wanted to be cool and in control. She had so easily taken from me, despite her bonds. Back again, I showed her a large, round container of vanilla ice cream.
“Going to make me eat my way to freedom? I thought I’d had enough in my mouth.”
I laughed. “Eating for freedom. Hmm, not a bad idea. But not today.”
“You got an ice cream fetish?” she asked. She was now mustering a smile, but her eyes spoke louder. She was completely confused, even worried.
I knelt and lifted her right foot, and then slowly worked the gladiator heel off. And I did the same for the left. Then I picked up a clump of ice cream and put it in her mouth. She accepted it, sucking it off my fingers as a playful gesture.
“Not an ice cream fetish per se,” I said, “—although no one outgrows the love of vanilla ice cream like they do gumballs and giant orange circus peanuts. More so, I enjoy seeing how a person reacts to the unexpected. You have a desire for ice cream.”
She was even more confused. “Me?”
“Yes, you.” I dug out a large scoop of vanilla and then let it drop onto her lower back. I then lifted her feet and placed scoops of vanilla on the soles of her feet.
She hissed as the cold seeped into her skin. She twisted and the scoops slid off of her.
“And that earned you a spanking.” I took the wooden spoon to her ass. Several swats and her butt turned red again. I dug out another scoop of ice cream and dropped it on her back and feet like before. This time, she balanced them. I grabbed a smaller piece of ice cream and smeared it where I had just whacked her.
“That should be a little cooler.”
I continued to speak to her, relaxed on the carpet. “What’s more, you haven’t been tied up in a while. Actually, you’ve been the one doing the tying.”
“Me? I don’t even have …”
“Understand me, people, particularly men, give in to you—bowing down, willing to make you happy, so they get on your good side. You in essence tie them up and bind them until they do what you want.”
She stared ahead.
“But you bind yourself too. You haven’t had fun food in a while. Keeping your shape binds you to healthy food. Today is not a day for low-calorie foods or weak men. Both of these things, food and a femme fatale, have a power over you. Recognizing the things that have such powers actually shake our minds back to reality.”
I stroked her lovely hair. “Welcome back to reality, little girl.”
The larger scoop on her back was slow to melt, yet it was beginning to break up and small rivers glided over each of her hips. I took a handful of ice cream from the container and smeared it over her ass, mashing it against her and massaging it into her skin. I set another large scoop between her shoulder blades and a small piece directly on the birthmark on her thigh. Lastly I set a large scoop on her butt, a bridge of sorts connecting the two cheeks. That bridge would not last long.
With a bound woman flat on the floor and covered with melting dollops of ice cream, I grabbed my camera, snapping several pictures and then recorded a quick video detailing her delicious body. Strange indeed.
The cold scoops became rounded clumps. The largest, which was over her ass, began to disappear into her dark crevasse, likely covering her asshole and then warming further around her pussy.
In this time, Ashley’s neck and back eased too much, so I smacked the top of her thigh. It sparked her to rise up and stiffen. I removed the ice cream from her back and smeared it on the newly emerging red spot on her leg.
Just then, in the middle of my playing, Ashley’s phone buzzed. I looked at the screen. The name on it: Petersheim.
“I need to talk to her. Put the phone on speaker.”
“Mrs. Petersheim, it’s good to hear from you. How can I help you?” Ashley had shed her current situation from her voice. “Yes … yes … not a problem … about ten minutes … Great pictures. You’ll love them. I already do.” She glared at me. “Thank you for giving us the entire afternoon … Yes, I will provide the pictures within 24 hours, as always.” She eyed me again. “All right, Mrs. Petersheim, yes. Have a nice afternoon.”
I ended the call and said, “Seems like our afternoon reality check is finished.”
I loosened the belts on her wrists. They were red and the leather had left its marks. When free, she lay flat, arms at her side.
“I will have the pictures to you soon. They’ll be fabulous. This house and all that’s in it will make it sell quickly.”
“You owe me a few extra pictures—special pictures,” she said, still not moving her body.
“And you’ll get a few of those too.”
I left her to rouse herself and clean up. I took what was left of the ice cream. That night, I ate the ice cream while editing pictures. I typed a message to Ashley to go with the images. “For decades, ice cream has brought together boys and girls, men and women—from malt shops to seasonal dessert stands—and has created something special, a memory, love itself, or, for some, the initial sweet treat of an evening. And all the cream comes from a barn. Thanks.”