Morton's Island Ch. 02

Still Morton was silent, and Jane was too excited to stop.

"I think his goal is to make me come under the lash. But I don't. At least I haven't yet. Of course, I'm aching to come, and when he's decided my body has taken all it can, Igor will use his fingers to bring me off. When he does, I come in spades. It's truly amazing. Like nothing else. My whole being dissolves in one mighty orgasm that goes on and on, as long as Igor allows it to. Actually, I think it's me that stops it, at least my body. The orgasm is so focusing I forget to breathe. Or my body just refuses to. My cunt, though, that could go on vibrating for ever and it keeps on humming for a long while after he has released my leg from the restraint and eased me over to a mat on the floor. Then he disappears leaving me lying there panting. I suppose he's watching, though, because he never returns until I'm still, all of me, even my cunt walls. Then he appears to administer the coup de grace. He brings up a low bench and makes me arch my back so it goes under my butt. He fastens my wrists to the floor on one side, stretches out my legs so that they're almost as wide as in the ballerina position. I'm sure you can picture it. My body stretched out over that bench, tits flopping sideways, cunt wide open to --- whatever he wants to do. Usually, well always actually, recently. He fetches a thick leather thong, like a short belt, stands over me facing away and begins to tease my mound of Venus and my clit hood. Everything he does is so deliberate. He knows I'm urging him to get on with it and he strings me out until I'm practically screaming 'Whack my cunt, for Christ's sake!'. I never do because he seems to know when the urge to do this becomes overpowering. That's when the blows begin. They land on my mound first, then as he gains steam, move down so the thick thong lands on my clit hood. After a while, my clit is sticking out far enough to take the blows. If you want a definition of excruciating pain and unbelievable ecstasy at once, that's it. I can't explain it even to myself. I'm hollering like hell, my head's shaking from side to side as though I want it to end. But my cunt --- well it has a will of its own. It seems to reach out, inviting the next blow, wanting it harder, harder, ever harder...."

Jane paused and took a swig of Cognac. It slid down a treat. When she continued, it was as though she was talking to herself.

"I'm sure he wants me to come under that lash. Sure of it. I'll bet that's where he's headed. But he hasn't made it yet. The urge to come has returned with a vengeance, but he can't take me over the top. Not until he stops flogging my cunt and gets to work with that vibrator. OhMiGod! He leaves me lying there while he fetches it. My body's twitching already in anticipation. He strings me out, the devil, so the slightest touch of the damn thing on my cunt lips starts me off. I can't see him because he's knelt between my legs. He can't see my face, which is probably a good thing given the contortions it makes as he moves that vibrator around my cunt, teasing every part of it, higher and higher, until the tiniest touch on my clit sends me off. I'm writhing around in my restraints, but I can't close my legs and there's no way off that bench, so there's nothing whatsoever I can do to escape. He teases me, brings me off, teases me brings me off again, each orgasm more powerful than the previous one. On and on it goes, until everything shuts down. All of me. My entire being."

"The French call the female orgasm 'le petit mord' and I'm sure this happened to me often with you, Morton, when we got done fucking. Well, all the time, actually. But this is different. By the time Igor is finished with me, I no longer know whether I'm awake or dreaming, on earth or in heaven. Nothing 'petit' about it. Nothing whatsoever."

"I'll bet I'm right, though", she continued in a sort of playful tone that contrasted with the content of her monologue.

"Igor's goal is to get me off with the lash. But I'm determined he won't, no matter how long or how hard he thrashes my cunt. Important to have a goal, isn't it."

Morton had been strangely silent through Jane's monologue. Now, though, he spoke.

"Indeed, Jane. It is indeed," he said with a touch of wistfulness.

"I sometimes wonder about Igor though. Here's this woman --- and, you know I'm not vain --- a pretty nice body on her. He spends hours whacking the hell out of her nipples and her cunt. It gets so red and puffy, I wonder sometimes whether it will ever recover, though it always does, or has so far.

I think that's why he focuses on my nipples and my cunt. Whatever punishment they've taken, they seem to rejuvenate overnight. Blood supply, I suppose."

"But it's really odd. When he spreads my lips he must be able to see right into my vagina, which of course is dripping wet. You'd think this would be more than enough for any man --- that his dick would be straining at the leash, urging him to fuck me ---- you know, like you did that time I masturbated in front of you. I'd expressly forbidden it, and you'd made a solemn promise to yourself, but you couldn't stop. Well Igor's not like that. Not once has he made the slightest attempt to fuck me. Seems to have no interest in this at all. I have not to this day seen his dick. Isn't that odd?"

"He's a Dom, Jane," Morton said, resignedly. "He pursues his art. Your pleasure is its expression. He no more thinks of be-spoiling this than an artist would take a knife to the canvass on which he's just painted a masterpiece."

"Yes, I suppose you're right," Jane sighed. "I'd never thought about it that way. But it makes sense. He does seem to enjoy our sessions, more and more, I believe. Though enjoy is perhaps the wrong word. Appreciate, perhaps."

"I'm sure you're right Jane. It's not likely he has another canvass as responsive and versatile you."

"If that's true, Morton, he doesn't show it. I know he appreciates me, but not because of anything he's said. Just monosyllabic grunts. When he's done with me, he unties me, removes the bench so I flop down onto the mat, comatose. Then he clears up the dungeon and leaves. Without a word, not even a glance in my direction. I have to heave myself off the floor, stagger over to the bench by the door, put on my dress and shoes and fight my way up the stairs. You'd think he'd at least have the decency to call me a cab."

"He's a Dom, Jane, an artist. His art does not stoop to the level of ordering cabs, or doing anything other than paint his canvass."

"I suppose so."

"You know," she continued, "I often think of you, especially when Igor takes me to a point beyond all reason. Sometimes I think you'd make a great Dom. We had so much sex, you and I, and it was so great. It really was. Fantastic!"

"In a sense, Jane," Morton said, thoughtfully, "I was a Dom. I didn't wield the whip, and I'm not sure I'd be able to if asked. But I can understand how a man, your Igor, for example, can enjoy immensely the culmination of his art. It's not the flogging. That's the preparation. It's bringing you off, watching you writhe in an ecstasy that you could never experience without the lash."

"You think so?" Jane was doubtful.

"Maybe. Who can say where the art lies, except Igor."

"And he won't," Jane replied, caustically.

"Not that it makes a difference," she added. "I truly don't care where Igor sees his art. It's working for me. Well, so far, anyway."

She fell silent and Morton said nothing. He was back on his island, fucking a Slave whose cunt had been tortured beyond all bearing, yet who writhed beneath him in ecstasy as his cock thrust in and out of her, driving her into the soft sand. Her pleasure had been his. For him, though, it had in the end not been enough. Maybe for Igor, it was. Maybe for Jane, it was. Maybe they were a perfect match? Who knew?

There was a long pause. Cognac was appreciated.

"You've come far, Jane," Morton said, shaking off his reverie.

"I have. I would never have believed it possible. And it's all thanks to you. If you hadn't placed that ad, I'd still be ....."

About to continue 'simulating orgasm in hotel rooms for rich bastards pumped full of Viagra', she stopped herself in time. Morton had never asked about her former life. Best he didn't know. Even if he did, he probably would not care. Anyway, that life had long since disappeared into insignificance.

Morton seemed not to notice that Jane had halted in mid sentence. He was preoccupied. With himself, with her?

Jane thought a bit. Her monologue had left her horny as ten nymphos after a week of abstinence.

"There's one thing missing, though," she said wistfully, eyeing Morton wickedly.

"And that would be?" Morton replied, absently.

"When I get home I'm still horny. Sore, Yes! My cunt's on fire and it stays that way for ages. But it still aches for --- well, a man. A real, live male with a stiff dick who'll fuck me stupid."

There was a long silence.

"So?" Jane said, her eyes, shining bright, directed at Morton's. In her voice was an unmistakable tone of expectance.

Morton understood only too well. She wanted her 'Elektra'. Of course she did. It was the one component she was missing. For a long while, they gazed at each other across the table. Eventually, Morton said, in a monotone,

"I don't think that would be a good idea."

Jane sighed. Even as she'd hoped for another, she'd expected this answer.

"I suppose you're right," she said, in a tone that failed to hide her disappointment.

The limousine drew up outside Jane's apartment. During the brief ride they'd avoided eye contact. Now they looked at each other directly. She leaned forward to hug him and he accepted her hug, though without enthusiasm. She broke off, eyes still bright.

"Are you quite sure, Morton...?" she said, in a sultry tone with a faint hint of begging. She allowed her skirt to edge up and her thighs to part, exposing cunt lips ripened to proportions she herself had never dreamed was possible.

These, surely, Morton would not be able to resist.

As she'd leaned forward to hug him, Morton's eyes could not restrain themselves from ogling her tits, noting their splendiferous nipples, as proud and stiff as guardsmen on duty. When her skirt rode up, revealing silken thighs, wet and willing cunt lips, grown to gargantuan size, desire welled up in him. He tried to still it. But could not. It was too intense.

Yet he made no move.

He pictured himself with Jane on her bed, how it would begin, just as it had in the past. Begin and never end, until one or both of them was physically drained. He could tell from the light in her eyes and the signals from his aching cock that it would be a long time, a very long time indeed before either of them would succumb. And what would happen then?

He'd wait for her while this Igor character whipped the hell out of her cunt, as the Dominas on his island had flogged his cock, and gave her orgasm after orgasm, took her to a state of ecstasy that all the Dominas in the world could not generate for Morton? Nadja and Olga had spent long enough at it, Lord knows, but never induced in him the kind of state Jane described. Perhaps men and women were different in this respect? Perhaps it was just his own natural response, and Jane's?

He could try to explain this to her, how what at first was thrilling and arousing evolved slowly into enjoying their, the Slaves', passionate responses to the thrusting of his cock, their nails clawing his back, heels pounding on his butt. He'd known it was over when even the sight of Elektra's perfectly formed breasts bobbing up and down, the nape of her neck as her head went back presaging orgasm; as even this perfection of womanhood towering over him, riding him expertly, failed to raise the pollen to fever pitch.

Jane would return to him from her session with Igor, her cunt afire, as he had gone to Elektra with his cock ablaze. For Jane, the icing on the cake. But for him? If he gave in now to this almost irresistible desire for her, what was there for him down the road, except a slow descent into misery? A male equivalent of Elektra he could not be.

Morton sighed within himself. A life devoted to sex had been very fulfilling indeed. While it lasted. Even more so than his previous life in the world of high finance. He would not change this phase of his life in any respect. But he had reached the pinnacle and begun descent. He was a man, with a more than healthy ego, but a realist too. Perhaps it would evolve for Jane as it had for him. Perhaps the nerve endings in her cunt would grow impervious to the pain, and the ecstasy that followed it would lose intensity. Perhaps it would not. Perhaps her experience with Igor would lead her somewhere else, to some new pasture of the human condition that neither she nor he knew existed. Wherever the pathway led for Jane, there was no pleasure for him with her that would compare with that which they had already enjoyed together.

All this flashed through Morton's brain in the few seconds that elapsed between Jane's entreaty --- 'Are you quite sure?' --- and his response;

"Quite sure, Jane," spoken in a quiet tone, but with an air of finality.

"You mean, you're going to leave me like this? A drooling cunt and nothing but my hand?" she said, now in open plea, amazement in her tone.

"And a thousand wonderful memories," Morton replied. "Don't ever forget, as I assuredly will not. But there is no place for me in your new life. Igor is your man now."

A few months later Jane caught an item in an online newspaper. A brief article. A group of climbers had been caught by a freak storm as they descended from the summit of Nanga Parbat. She scoured the article. But names there were none. Was Morton amongst them? Had he finally, fatally overreached?

No! she comforted herself. This was not possible. Igor may be 'her man now', but he was not really. The man she would always think of as 'hers' was Morton Henry Stanley. And he was immortal

THE END