Free A Dirty Little Deal by Theda Hudson Page B

little scuffed, but I sanded it in the garage and then painted it with a glossy black acrylic. Afterward, I carefully added a design of golden swirling lines and dots of paint that are reminiscent of the bead pattern on the mask.
    The domino lies on the faded pale blue satin like a treasure. Mr. Twist spent some money on it. It could be Venetian for the care that went into the construction. What feels like raw silk is accented with graceful lines of fine, jet-black seed beads. The edge is lined with short, black, fluffy feathers that remind me of the baby chicks I held in my hands at my grandmother’s farm when I was a little girl.
    I stroke the mask and sigh. The refuge it represents allows me, Tasha Carlson, to become Mr. Twist’s Cara Mia, who can, so far, brave any embarrassment, rise above any indignation, and revel in every naughtiness that he has thought of.
    Lifting it, I hold it up to my face, let it cover my pale skin. My doe-brown eyes shine through the eyeholes. I wink and smile, thinking of the party and the little surprise Cara Mia has for Mr. Twist.
    So far, he has been the instigator of every game, new position, and dirty word that she has enjoyed, that has made her blush even as she cries out in pleasure. But it is time for Cara Mia to step up to the naughty plate with a serving of something tasty and fun.
    I sit on the vanity bench, settle the mask on my face, and tie the mask ribbons before opening the bottom drawer.
    Cara Mia moved a pile of scarves to reveal a large brown leather bag. After she pulled it out, she unzipped the bag and rummaged around, enjoying the silkiness of the ropes coiled inside it.
    She caught hold of one and lifted it out. The climbing rope was three-eighths of an inch thick, black with orange dots speckling the length of it. She was amazed at how many colors the rope comes in. She was also amazed at the number of philosophies and systems that abounded in bondage circles.
    After reading a bit and exploring various systems, I have settled on Japanese bondage as one that I wish Cara Mia to explore. Leave it to that culture to develop bondage that is as visually beautiful and sensual as it is effective.
    The Big Book of Japanese Bondage lies at the bottom of the bag. Kinbaku, the Japanese art of using ropes for artistic, sensual, and sexual purposes, suits Cara Mia’s new hedonistic exploration without banging on the BD/sm drum that I had so far found inelegant.
    If I pull the book out and open it, the pages will fall open at three places. I have spent a great deal of time looking them.
    They all three move me in different ways. First, the sheer aesthetic beauty of the design is astounding. Second, the care the rope master takes to place the ropes on the body of the woman suits my precise nature. And third, the pleasure the bound woman received from the artfully placed knot on her genitals titillates me.
    I read a blog about a woman who, by dint of careful and orchestrated squirming, could produce a volcanic orgasm. I don’t believe that the orgasm truly erupted with a quantity of fluid, but I like to think of how pleased Mr. Twist would be to witness such a thing and how very surprised he would be that his Cara Mia would be able and willing to produce one.
    The idea excited Cara Mia and, carrying the coil of rope, she lay down on the bed, rucked her skirt up over her belly and pulled her panties down, slipping one leg out while allowing the panties to rest on her other leg.
    The idea recreated every naughty schoolgirl fantasy she had ever heard about that. That made her shiver, and she felt her pussy swelling. Then, with a bit of lube, which smelled of tropical flowers, on her fingers, she laid them between her pussy lips and over her clit, allowing the oil to cover the flesh. Yes, a good dollop there, to make the skating as smooth and exciting as possible. The heat of her skin warmed the oil and she was surrounded in a cloud of musk and floral sweetness.
    Masturbation, yes. Having