Swinging Act II

(If you haven’t yet, read Swinging Act 1)

Even though all I could see of Leigh was from behind her (which is never a bad place to be) I could feel the look on her face as she walked up to the hammock.

I know this look. It’s a deliciously quizzical, slightly sad eyed gaze with a dash of  some hesitation and a pinch of forced admission added to a roux of arousal. This in turn simmers in her soul over a low flame until it reaches a full roiling boil that, very often, spills over…and over…and over. Serves two.

I fired up the mower deck, throttled down and very smugly continued mowing of the lawn with almost a cavalier attitude.

She. Just. Won’t. Admit that, deep down inside, she is a filthy cock slut who adores being forced to do acts of perversion like, say masturbate at the height of the day in our side yard. But yet I know she is, and that she loves being forced to do so.

Yes, she chose to do this. I did not hold a gun to her head or threaten to kill puppies or something if she did not. Guess I suck as her Dominant that my simple request was accepted, huh? Sucked to be Me or her at that moment, didn’t it?

With a final gulp the beer was empty as I finished up the lower half of the yard with a final pass, just about the time the hammock came into view…with an occupant.

The Hammock™ is simply one of my favorite places on Earth. It’s a well crafted, hand-knotted one that is suspended between two massive maples, easily 60-70 feet tall, if not more. The trees are spaced about 10 feet apart, which permits the hammock to not sag very much and swing easily. To and fro. Back and forth. Just sway in the wind while gazing up through a thick canopy of branches and leaves that paint wondrous, abstract patterns across the heavens. It’s especially tranquil when a steady breeze adds a symphony of rustling leaves to the cooling, soothing motions all around. At dusk this splay of intertwined nature is spectacular with stars peeking through the gaps and voids created by the now ink black branches.

Truly one of life’s secret pleasures.

But instead of going from hectic to tranquil, Leigh’s delicate fingers were just beginning to bring about the opposite effect inside her in this same place. The juxtaposition of the two was exquisitely exciting for me.

The yard slopes gently uphill from the road that runs alongside our home. A neighbor’s driveway hugging the edges of our property frames the backyard. All I could see was the base of the white roped hammock and Leigh’s reclined head from my vantage point.

But there was yard which still needed addressed. Green grass growing wild near a red-head going wild. A Dom’s work is never done. So I proceeded up the slope to address both of the issues at hand, one quite literally.

Now before you think this was all about a cheap visual thrill (hopefully by now you know me better than that) I can assure you that I would have received 99% of the satisfaction from this if I was nowhere near her at the moment. I will confess to enjoying the sight of the hammock slowly starting to sway from the ministrations Leigh was administering to her smooth cunt. She would later share with me that the combination of her jeans simply being unbuttoned yet still on and the curvature of the hammock’s support made getting her hand down her pants not just difficult but an extremely cramped fit. In short she couldn’t masturbate as freely as she was used to. Her own clothing plus simple gravity made for some unintentional bondage, which both frustrated and aroused her in that she was forced to take longer.

She. Hates. Slow. Teasing. I love it. And that her free bondage was derived from a source made entirely of knotted rope? What beautiful irony!

She was lost in a fantasy somewhere. Or simply focused on the eroticism of the moment. Maybe she was simply enjoying teasing her clit with those soft, circular motions she uses? All I know is that she looked angelic with her hand shoved down her pants and the hammock turning her naughty motions into its own. To and fro. Back and forth.

Was I describing the hammock or her fingers? Or both?

With each pass along the top of the yard I converted another 42″ of mayhem into lawn. This required me to ride off about 30 yards from where she lay in her self-induced sexual build-up. The return swath brought her more into view. With each pass back and forth I grew closer and closer to the hammock, just as she grew closer and closer to coming. The roar of the mower’s engine and blades ebbed and flowed in her ears, telling her closed eyes when I was and was not nearby. Closer and closer. My task’s end matching her own.

The hammock started to sway more, betraying the fervor in which her hand was attacking her, by now, very swollen and aroused clit. It was so fucking erotic to feel her building release just through the pace in which the hammock moved. I could be a backyard away and know she was starting to build, that it was beginning to overtake her.

With a final pass I finished what need to be cut in the far yard. On my return I could see the hammock not moving as much but more often. Small, pulsing sways. To and fro. Back and forth. But a much tighter arc, staccato in nature.

She was getting close. I could sense it.

I drove the mower right along side of her. Fuck! What a vision she was! Her face screamed at hidden pleasures, contorted in her own beautiful agony. Flush with arousal her teeth clenched through pursed lips. Her right hand was a frantic bulge of denim motion, her red panties peeking through where she had undone her fly. It was almost hypnotic watching her dance with herself. So fucking hot. The contents of my jeans started to respond on it’s on, the position the mower’s seat had me in a poetic revenge for what I mentioned earlier about unintentional bondage.

I watched for about a minute not 5 feet from her struggling, focused form, then drove off for a quick lap to the house and back. I figured this may act as a form of edging her. I was right, for when I returned to the same spot a minute later I could tell it was almost here. Her hand was a blur, almost violent, in her undone jeans. But her face told me the rest.

With the mower still roaring I roared at her.

“C’MON BABY, COME!!! COME NOW, YOU FUCKING SLUT!!” I yelled. And I mean yelled.

“AND YOU BETTER FUCKING SCREAM WHEN YOU DO!!”

That did it. Her inner slut seized control of her, lifting her body into a arching orgasm that must have started at her toes they way she rolled skyward into its almost vicious release. She groaned loudly, her face contorted in pure lust as her fingers pressed hard into her very soul it seemed. As intense as it was, this groaning shit was unacceptable.

This is why I had the mower’s blades still roaring as I sat there with my foot on the brake and my hand rubbing my almost painful erection through my jeans. To give her audio camouflage. To mask her orgasmic sounds with fucking yard work.

“I SAID FUCKING SCREAM YOU BITCH!”

And, opening her eyes to make contact with mine, she did.

She. Fucking. Screamed. Her. Brains. Out. In our yard. At the height of daylight. Over and over she bellowed, gasped, cried, then collapsed into a sobbing, heaving mass of quaking convulsions, her face flush with post-orgasmic bliss. Our eyes never left one another’s.

Go out in your yard right now. Hear children screaming as they celebrate no more school? Perhaps. Go ahead. Scream. Loudly. Like when you come. See what it sounds like. Got the idea what she got away with in broad daylight? Good.

One last glance at her panting form, still shaking inside and out, and then I drove off to put the mower away.

I returned in a few minutes to her just lying there, using the hammock for more of its intended effects. Her face was a masterpiece. Totally fucked, mind, heart and soul. Relaxing. To and fro. Back and forth.

I wonder if the guy who walked his dog up and down the road, or the car that slowly drove down the neighbor’s house driveway while she was doing all of this saw or suspected anything?

The next time you are walking your dog or simply using a driveway and your eyes chance upon a hammock in a yard, just remember that looks can be deceiving.

I guess “swinging” is fun after all.

– Scot

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7 responses to “Swinging Act II

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