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Proprioception

There are more than five senses, as Patrick's hotwife learns on her new swing.
Proprioception

Patrick leads me up the stairs to the room above the boathouse at our lake home. This is a place that I often use during the day for lounging and reading; it has floor to ceiling windows all around, with a magnificent view of the lake, and is absolutely flooded with light. But tonight there’s a new moon, and the overcast sky blocks most of the stars and planets that usually bejewel the darkness; it’s as close to pitch black as this space can be, and I sense that we are not alone when I reach the top of the stairs. I can hear breathing and shuffling feet in the dark corners farthest from the lake windows.

I don’t know where Patrick finds the men, but I don’t need to know. Our agreement is that for adventures outside the home, I procure my lovers through a dating app, and Patrick has my passwords so he can listen in on our texts and even join in by impersonating me. For adventures at home, he has his own methods for selecting and vetting the participants, his only promise is that I will be pleased with the final result. He has not disappointed me so far.

Our lake home seems like it might be a different space with new rules. But for tonight we’ve agreed to negotiate those rules later – Patrick has chosen, and I am to trust his choices.

“Welcome, princess, to your tenebrous revels,” Patrick says.

“You and your thesaurus,” I say, going up on my toes to give him a kiss. He cups my ass through my flimsy white gown and seeks my tongue with his. “Did you blow a fuse with all that drilling and sawing I heard?”

This room has been off limits to me the last two days of our stay at the lake house; the window shades were drawn tight and the door locked by a key of which I don’t have a copy, so I had no way of sneaking a peek at what Patrick was planning. All I knew was that there was lumber involved, and a crew of three contractors wearing tight t-shirts and tool belts that pulled their jeans down deliciously below their navels, with Patrick and the crew’s manager looking over plans that Patrick never shared with me. Once I heard them talking about “supports” and “tensile strength,” and I saw a box labeled “pulley system” being carried up the stairs, but those were the only clues I had to go on.

“The darkness is intentional, princess,” Patrick says. “And will be quite absolute.”

He puts his hands on my shoulders and turns me around so I have my back to him and am facing the window. Out of the corner of my eye I detect movement in the shadows – there’s someone else standing nearby, certainly one of Patrick’s selected participants. Patrick’s hands appear in front of my face holding a strip of black fabric, which he pulls tight over my eyes and ties behind the back of my head. Then he takes my hand and gives me several spins as though we were dancing across a ballroom and dips me low in his arms, bending down to whisper in my ear, “We will be indulging senses besides sight this evening.”

When he stands me back up he grasps my gown’s shoulder straps and pulls so that it falls away, exposing me naked beneath. Though with the darkness of the room I don’t know how “exposed” I really am. A warm breeze tickles my skin; he must have opened some of the windows to let in the night air.

“Come experience the project we’ve been making for you,” he says, leading me with one hand on my waist and one on my arm toward the center of the room. I walk hesitantly in the pitch black darkness – normally there are a few lounge chairs up here and a chaise by the windows, a table and chairs for casual dining, a bookcase by the door. But I sense that all of the furniture has been moved out, and I can feel an echoing emptiness.

He stops me and lifts my hand in front of me; I touch – rope? A nylon strap? He guides my fingers along its length, and I feel that it extends from the ceiling almost to the floor, swinging freely when I pull at it. He takes my other hand and guides it down to knee height, and I feel more nylon straps dangling above the floor, some with what feel like metal buckles on their ends.

“You’re about seven stone and change,” he says, “and this is rated to forty; I had them marry extra beams in the ceiling to be sure it would hold up to the most vigorous movements someone your size could exert.”

“What is it?” I ask.

“Allow me to help you inside,” he says, taking me by the hand and positioning me next to the first rope. He guides my arms out to my sides and I feel that there are ropes to my left and right; I grasp them and give a hard tug, and he’s right – whatever this is, it will stand up to some solid torque. While I’m testing these two ropes, Patrick kneels in front of me and buckles a strap around each of my ankles. Then he wraps a strap around my middle and drops loops of smooth rope over my wrists, giving them a tug to tighten them.

“Well, I feel pretty well immobilized,” I say with a laugh. A somewhat nervous laugh – we’ve done ropes and straps before, and I’ve enjoyed the restraints quite a bit, but I was always able to see my bindings then; these are invisible to me, and therefore entirely obscure.

“Oh, that’s just the start,” he says, and I hear him walking away from me. I hear a faint click from the other side of the room, and then the hum of an electric motor, and suddenly I’m pulled off my feet and suspended in the air, turning in a slow loop. I scream in surprise, and then laugh; I’m not surprised that there’s an intricate contraption involved, Patrick loves to play with toys.

I hear Patick come back, and feel his hand against my ass. He gives a little push, and I swing away from him; he catches me by the ankle and pulls, and suddenly I’m turning in a fast, dizzying arc. I scream again, and he catches me by my shoulders to stop me.

“Three hundred sixty degrees of rotation,” he whispers into my ear, “plus an electric pulley system that will raise and lower your arms, legs, and torso independently at the flick of a switch.”

“Independently?” I say. “As in, you could draw and quarter me with the flick of a switch?”

He kisses my lips and then steps back to give me a push, causing me to swing out from his hand. “So you’d best behave, correct, princess?”

“I don’t imagine myself able to do anything but behave,” I say.

“Tonight is about indulging your senses,” he says, “except, of course, for sight. Hearing, touch, taste, smell, and, most important, proprioception.”

“Propri – propo – what?”

He gives me another push, but this time with a clockwise spin so I twirl in a dizzying arc.

“The sense of the body in space,” he says. “And the sense of other bodies in relation to yours.”

I come to a sudden stop when a pair of hands catch my shoulders. They’re not Patrick’s hands; these hands are broad and calloused, not rough but definitely strong. I feel them sliding down my back, and I sense a face hovering just above mine.

With a little push I swing forward again, but again am stopped by hands that catch my feet and then slide up my calves and gently spread my legs apart; a body is moving between my legs, I feel it stop when it’s between my knees, hands sliding up to my thighs. Hands are on my back again – the same hands that stopped my spin and gave me the last push? – and then they’re stroking my sides and belly, and I feel the face above me again. It leans in close and kisses my mouth – strong lips, seeking tongue. The hands have moved to my breasts and are pulling my nipples into hard pebbles.

The hands on my thighs have made their way between my legs and are stroking up and down close to where they meet my hips, so close; a finger lightly grazes my pubic mound, scrapes across the silky hair, and then returns to gently squeezing my thighs. I want to move toward these hands, this body, but I’m held fast by the hands on my breasts and I have nothing to push against. My arms are held out to the sides by the straps, and I can’t move them more than an inch or two at the most.

Suddenly I feel a warm dampness on my belly, and strain to sit up and look, but I’m suspended and blindfolded and so all I can do is take a deep breath and feel. The warm dampness is tongue-shaped: there’s a tongue circling my belly button, playfully dipping in and out and arm, and there’s a new hand – this one feels softer than the first pair, with delicate fingers – squeezing my ass. I assume that the tongue and the new hand belong to the same body, but I really can’t be sure.

The body between my legs has moved closer to my center, and now its fingers are tugging and stroking at my pubic hair. I try to lift my hips and move closer, but my movements only make me swing slightly in the air. The mouth leaves my mouth and nibbles my cheek, my chin, works its way down toward my collar bone, while the tongue on my belly slides lower, leaving a damp trail toward the swell of my pubis. The hand on my ass sends a probing finger between my cheeks, and I squirm with a giggle when it tickles sensitive nerves. It retreats a little, stroking the cleft at the base of my back, and I flex to invite its explorations.

Something is warm and wet on my left finger now – a mouth has drawn the digit in, sucking, kissing, tongue flicking against the pad. So I can count three mouths – one on my finger, one moving toward my tit now, one sending a tongue into my tangle of pubic hair. The hands between my legs have become bolder, fingers stroking my labia now, gently, teasingly, drawing moisture from inside me. I clench my ass and pussy, urging the hand on my ass and the hands between my legs to be bolder still. The mouth on my tit has found my nipple and started to suck, and I gasp; the mouth on my finger has licked every digit on my left hand now, and is kissing its way down my arm, tickling my elbow, nestling into the pit, with a hand following close behind.

The hand between my legs seems to have caught my hint and traces a line up between my pussy lips and grazes my clit. I tingle all over, electrified by the touch, and try to lift my hips to meet it. The finger circles my clit, never quite touching it directly, then dips between my pussy lips and pries them gently apart. I can feel the night breeze against the dampness, and then suddenly the warmth of a mouth descending on my pussy and I gasp when the tongue licks a line to my clit, joined by lips that suck my hard button. I hear a chuckle beside me as the mouth on my armpit has now reached my left tit, sucking in time with the mouth on the right, and the tongue on my belly suddenly leaves and I feel it replaced by a tongue sliding along the cleft of my ass cheeks. I am suspended and be-tongued and groaning in my restraints.

Then I hear Patrick’s voice: “Time to spin the wheel of fortune.”

Suddenly all of the tongues and mouths disappear, and I sense bodies moving away from me. I desperately reach out with arms and legs, but I can’t move, can’t make contact. I feel my body lurch in the swing, rising up and then suddenly dropping; my belly clenches – did Patrick’s engineering fail, am I crashing to the floor? – and then my fall is arrested and I feel a hand on my shoulder give me a push and I’m spinning.

I try to count my revolutions – four? Six? With no point of reference it’s impossible – all I know is spinning, my world is nothing but movement. And abruptly I stop when my hips strike a body, the hands of which slide down my legs and across to my pussy, fingers running through my pubic hair. The hands have all returned now, but they’re bolder than before, stroking and poking and pushing, squeezing my tits and rubbing my belly and probing into my cunt, finding my juices and spreading them around my labia. I strain at my straps and arch my head back, moaning.

My moaning is interrupted when I feel flesh against my mouth. I can’t move my hands, so I explore with my tongue and am pleased to find the shaft of an erect cock against my lips. I work my lips and tongue to pull it inside my mouth and suck the head, tasting salt at the tip. It has a pleasant, clean, musky taste, and I hum a little as I suck.

Something nudges my left fingers, and I curl them around another cock, this one thick and warm. I can’t move my hands very much, but the cock’s owner is ready to assist; I feel a trickle of moisture – lube? It smells like lube, is viscous like lube – fall on my palm, and then the cock slides back and forth against my hand. I wrap my fingers around the shaft, and he gently fucks my palm.

The cock that lands in my right palm is already slippery, and I squeeze that one tighter; it’s a little thinner than the one in my left hand, and I feel a distinct curve. It pulses, and I hear a voice beside my grunt with each push of the hips behind this cock.

I’m so busy with these three cocks that I almost don’t notice the one nudging at my pussy before it’s inside me, and I cry out around the cock in my mouth and squeeze the ones in my fists as I’m fucked in long, slow strokes. Hands are holding my legs open, running up and down my thighs, while the cock works along my tunnel, probing deeper and deeper. Where I was be-tongued before, I am now be-cocked, and I relax back into my straps as I’m filled.

“Time!” Patrick yells again, and I am suddenly uncocked, hanging as a void in the night air. I can feel the empty space all around me, and also the empty space in my hands, mouth, and pussy that only moments before were filled with hard penises. I squirm and groan in protest, and then suddenly I spin again.

I don’t spin as long this time, before my turns are arrested by a hand on my hip. I arch my back in my restraints, eager to resume, and my four cocks don’t disappoint. I taste the lube from hands on the cock that slides into my mouth, and the cock in my right hand feels suspiciously warm, as though it had just been nestled in my cunt. The cock that slides into my pussy has a bend to the shaft that causes the head to slide along the front wall of my vagina, sending a shiver through me as it begins to fuck me with powerful strokes that make me swing backward and take the cock in my mouth deeper into my throat. I want to wrap my legs around the waist of the man who’s fucking me, but my legs are held fast by the straps and I can only tense them, my thighs and calves tight and hard.

Just as I feel like we’ve found a rhythm, the four cocks and me, Patrick yells “Time!” and I spin.

“Fuck you!” I yell at Patrick, laughing. “I was getting close!”

“No,” says Patrick, “fuck you …” and all the cocks are back again, but in a different configuration. I feel the thickest cock sliding into my cunt, and I feel the bent cock in my throat. I know that I’m spinning in space, are the men circling me and trading places when I turn? I try to do the math, figure out all the possible configurations of the four cocks and my body, but the fucking is too distracting. A finger finds my clit – I have no way of knowing whose – and that pushes me over the precipice. I shout around the shaft in my mouth as an orgasm ripples through me.

“Holy fuck,” I gasp when the cock in my mouth retreats. The men pull away again and I spin, counterclockwise this time, and then stop. This time instead of finding a cock in each hand I find that I have just one in my left hand and two nudging at my mouth. I open wide and feel a cock on either side of my tongue. They start to take turns invading my mouth, wordlessly coordinating a rhythmic back and forth; I try to hold one fast in my mouth with my lips, and then the other, but they’re relentless and determined in their alternation.

The cock at my pussy is rubbing against my clit, stroking my lips, and then suddenly plunges inside. Hands grasp my buttocks to hold me still and I am well and truly fucked, the pistoning cock pounding hard. I feel another climax coming on when the cock pulls free and I feel a hot stream of jizz splash against my belly, accompanied by a man’s groans.

And again the retreat, again, the spin, again the halt and the return of the cocks. The one in my left hand feels warm and is slowly losing its rigidity; I’m gentle with it, letting the head nestle between my fingers.

The cock in my pussy is anything but gentle, though; it rams into me with power and urgency, and its owner grunts with each thrust. In only a few minutes I hear him yell, “Fuuuck!” and I feel my pussy flooded with come. As he staggers back, making me shake in my swing, the man in my mouth gives a warning and I feel his cock twitch. I run my tongue around the head as the jizz shoots down my throat, almost gagging me as I swallow.

“Spin!” Patrick calls, and spin I do, clockwise, air blowing across the cum cooling on my belly and lips.

And then I stop, hands on my feet, and only one cock approaches me this time, plunging straight into my cunt without warning. With no other bodies against me I am swinging more freely, bouncing at each thrust, and I’m able to pull my body more upright by tensing my arms.

I’m also able to speak with no cock in my mouth, and so I shout, “Fuck me! Fuck me hard! God damn it make me come I need to come and I need your cock!”

My fucker groans and fucks me harder, fingers on either side of my clit; I imagine his hips must be a pistoning blur. Hard as it is, I want it harder; I can hear his shaft sloshing in the cum left behind by my last fucker, I can smell the jizz on my belly cooling in the breeze, I can taste the jizz in my mouth, salty and musky. I wish I could bring my hand down to stroke my clit; frustrated I pull at my restraints and yell, “Rub my clit! Rub my fucking clit!”

He complies, slowly at first and then faster, matching the speed of his fucking, and I’m over the top with a mighty roar, legs shaking in their straps and cunt clenching around his shaft. He cries out and lets loose with a flood of semen, and when he pulls free I hear drops of our juices falling on the floor below me. I lie back in my straps, spent and used, and I hear the shuffling feet of men walking away and down the stairs.

Patrick’s familiar fingers trace a line through the drying cum on my belly and up to my breasts; my nipples are tender from the rough sucking they received. I hear his footsteps behind me, and he stops behind my head and gently unties the blindfold. When it falls away I’m still in darkness, my eyes adjusting slowly to the dim light. The clouds must have cleared a little, because there are twinkles of starlight reflected in the dark water of the lake. When I look up toward the ceiling I can make out an array of ropes and straps and pulleys, a carefully orchestrated contraption that managed to make me feel both confined and strangely weightless.

He bends down to kiss my lips, his tongue seaking the taste of the jizz the strangers’ cocks left behind. “How did my princess enjoy her trapeze ride?” he asks.

I relax into the swing, luxuriating in the cool breeze off the lake and the tingling buzz all over my body. And I close my eyes again, because some things are better in the dark.


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