The Mask, Part 2

[Kate]

“I do not think you should have done that, querida,” he said, and pulled her up and threw her over his arm. She dangled there, helpless as a child. She tried to jerk herself around, but he had an iron grip. She felt him pull her over his knee, his leg braced against something. “No, I think you should not have done that, querida. You have made me angry now, and I think I am going to have to do something about it.”

His hand struck her bare bottom, then again, slowly, deliberately—and hard. He did not strike her in the same place twice, but each time in a different place, moving all over her buttocks and thighs. Then the blows began to increase in speed, and she jerked whenever one landed on her tender flesh. Even though he had her tied, she bucked against him, trying to escape the strong arm that held her prisoner. “Cabron,” she spat, using the worst Spanish epithet she knew, but that obviously made him angrier for he delivered an especially vicious slap to her cheeks. And she made a desperate attempt to free herself--all for naught, because the harder she tried to escape the harder hand spanked her already-sore buttocks.

Now she lost the stubborn resistance she had tried to maintain. Now tears were drenching the scarf binding her eyes. She began to cry out, “No, stop, ouch, stop stop stop—pleaaaase stop!!!,” in rhythm to each smack he delivered to her. Now she began to wail, to scream. “Aieeeeee, stop, no stop. God damn you, stop this!!” She bounced with each blow, couldn’t help herself now, wondering if the helpless wiggling of her bottom was giving him pleasure.

Her legs jerked up and down. The harder he spanked, the more her movements increased until at last she collapsed over his knee and offered no resistance--just sobbed and hoped that he would stop soon, because her bottom had gone from warm to hot to a source of unbearable pain. And didn’t notice at first when he did stop.

He lifted her up and laid her in the cool sand. It provided a little comfort to her painfully sore bottom and soon the sand felt as warm as her ass. She lay there for a moment before she felt her legs being untied and her trousers and panties slipped off her legs. “Noooo,” she moaned, this time in a different voice, but just as helpless as before. There was a moment’s pause before he pinned down as he freed her arms. She could feel that his legs were now bare and soon he was lying on top of her. But he not yet removed the scarf from her eyes.

The lips were on her breasts again, then moving down her breastbone before they touched her stomach, then moved further down. She felt him gently bite her pubic mound, then her legs were pried open and she felt his tongue move down to her clit. He began to tease it, moving sometimes down to the entrance of her vagina. And the tongue knew what it was doing and now he was bringing forth the wetness that hadn’t been there before—and didn’t let up until he felt her relax and yield to him.

And then she felt a cock pushed into her—large but not too large, seeming to fit her. She heard him whisper, “oh yes” as he began to move back and forth inside her, gently at first, then harder.

She didn’t want to cry out, didn’t mean to move with him, didn’t mean to hold him closer. Didn’t mean to so surrender so completely as he expertly brought her to the brink. Then, just before she came, he ripped the scarf off her eyes.

She found herself staring into what must be a handsome face, but he wore a black satin mask covering his eyes. The cave was faintly lit with candles, and a kerosene lamp turned down low, so she couldn’t see much. What she could see was an oval face with high Spanish cheekbones, black hair cut just below his ears; and what she could see of his eyes—dark eyes—was that they were fringed by long lashes. His body was long and lean, the cut of his muscles apparent in even the dim light. And she let out a loud moan as he brought her with him, and he held her tightly to him as he came.

He rolled over, not letting her go. And that was how the next few hours were spent: making love; he seeming inexhaustible, she wondering if she could take anymore, and each time somehow could.

At last he got up, and poured water from a aluminum bottle into a goblet. “Here, drink,” he said softly and lifted her shoulders. She drank deeply, welcoming the feel of the cool water as it poured down her throat. She began to grow drowsy, her eyelids growing heavy. “Yes, sleep little one, sleep,” she heard him whisper softly and she sighed and sank into a deep slumber.

She woke with a start and found herself lying in the sunlight on the sand in the vacant lot where she had been kidnapped the previous night, her head pillowed by her canvas bag. She stood up, brushed the sand from her clothes and shook as much of it out of her hair as she could. She rubbed her eyes, and looked at her watch—6:30 the hands read. She shook her head slowly, wondering how she had gotten there—and if the night in the cave had been a dream.

She walked home in a daze, wondering what had happened. When she got home, she fixed a pot of coffee to chase the fog from her head. She could feel dried semen on her legs and her pubic hair before she took a shower to wash the sand from her body and hair. She ran her hands down her legs, remembering the touch of his warm hands.

The phone rang, bringing her out of her reverie. She picked it up, and in a faint voice said, “Hello.”

“Alana, this is Maria. We wondered if you had gotten home okay. We were going to invite you to a late supper, and tried and tried to call you. We even dropped by your place, but you didn’t answer the door. We were worried about you, where were you?”

How could she explain it? “I was tired and unplugged the phone,” it was the only excuse she could think of. “And I must have fallen into a deep sleep, so that was why I didn’t answer the door.”

“Well, no wonder,” Maria scolded, “You’ve been working so hard lately, and some nights you stay way too late. We’re going out again tonight. We’ll have dinner at the Coyote Café, and then go to the cantina. What do you say?”

“Sure, I’ll go. I’ll meet you at the Coyote,” she said and hung up. Why not, she thought, she felt tired enough to take a nap despite the coffee, and would be rested enough to go out. She’d feed her cats--who had gone without their dinner the night before--and then take a long nap.

She took extra care with her toilet that night. She wore a short-sleeved black dress—her favorite--that clung to her body, and put on her favorite silver earrings and bracelets. She slipped bare feet into her most comfortable pair of black heels, and then brushed her hair until it shone.

She felt energetic even after a heavy, but delicious, meal and was more than prepared to laugh and flirt the night away at the cantina. And the crowd at the bar didn’t disappoint, and her eyes sparkled as she moved about, feeling more alive than she had felt in ages and wondered why.

When she stepped up to the bar to get another drink she could feel someone’s eyes boring into her back. She gripped the bar tightly, and turned her head around to see who it was and saw a handsome, Spanish looking man sitting on a stool against the wall. He smiled and lifted his drink to salute her and she felt butterflies in her stomach--and swore she could feel a voice whisper softly, “senorita”.

[Nomad]

That was a fantastic story. And I must say it is not just for the girls, but for the guys that have always wanted to be the dark stranger behind the mask!