She had been reluctant to let him fuck her on the balcony. She had told him she was his slave, that he could fuck her in any room of her high-rise inner-city apartment – but when he’d tried to bend her over the balcony railing, and fuck her in full view of the street, her tits and hair hanging down over the dizzying ten-storey drop, she’d resisted.
Now she was learning her lesson.
He had stripped her nude, of course, and then he had gotten out his rope.
Now she was tied to the outside of the balcony railing. Nothing supported her but a simple harness of rope securing her to the palings of the balcony. Her bare feet, spread wide apart, dangled over the city. Her arms, bound by her side, could not reach the railing, could not grip the rope, could not find any purchase of any kind.
She had never been more terrified. She had never been more aroused. The vertigo disrupted her brain. She couldn’t think properly. She felt like she was in free-fall. It was a kind of sensory deprivation, shutting out every rational sensation, except for the throbbing of her cunt.
Between her legs, a vibrator was secured in place, buzzing relentlessly against her pussy. She was so wet that her arousal dripped from her, drop after drop falling from the plastic surface of the vibrator to plummet ten storeys downward to the pavement below.
She could see people watching through the windows of the apartment block opposite. At this distance, she couldn’t tell if their expressions betrayed lust, amusement, or disgust. She didn’t care.
He had said he would take her down in two hours. And then tomorrow he would try and fuck her on the balcony again. He told her if she didn’t get wet from the fear of being bent over the railing, then he would tie her up for another session outside the balcony, and again, and again, until being afraid of heights made her inevitably and uncontrollably aroused.
She thought that wouldn’t be necessary. She thought she was very likely to get very, very wet on each and every trip to her balcony from now on. She wondered if he might tie her up again anyway, if she asked very nicely…
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This is the first story I’ve read from you to contain any form of spelling error. Congrats on being a generally good speller.
I have typos in stories all the time – I rarely proofread, and have a high turnover of content every week – but I confess I can’t find an error in this one, and neither can my spellchecker. Could you enlighten me?
I’m fairly sure it’s still spelled stories and not storeys even when it’s about floors of a building.
Only in America.
While my stories are often vaguely set in the United States (out of deference to the majority of my readership), and while I use “ass” and “mom” rather than “arse” and “mum” so as not to offend US sensibilities, my work is generally written in Australian English, and in every form of English outside of North America the correct usage (for buildings) is “storeys”.
But do let me know other typos you find – it’s helpful to continually be improving the quality of my back catalogue.