Chapter 5

Sprite

My girlfriend’s name is actually Nicole. But to me she will always be Sprite.

To start with she is incredibly tiny. Four foot-ten inches tall, she’s not an ounce over ninety pounds. Along with her close cropped raven hair, her crazy hazel eyes and mobile, expressive features, her diminutive body gives her an elfin beauty that is irresistibly captivating. I find her more impossible to refuse than I would the biggest, most aggressive and intimidating Amazon – mostly because her personality is equally sprightly.

Always cheerful and playful, she has a mischievous streak a mile wide, especially when it comes to bed-play. There’s no such thing as straightforward vanilla sex where Sprite is concerned. It’s like she’s never heard of the missionary position, doggy style, or anything but female superior. Sprite must always be the one on top, riding my sitting or supine body with an unbelievably infectious enthusiasm and abandon.

Sinking her fingernails deep into my shoulders, cruelly pinching and twisting my nipples or unpredictably leaning back to suddenly smack my face, she pumps her incredibly curvy little hips or bounces up and down on me with a lithe mobility that is absolutely astounding. Shrieking out her uncontainable ecstasy she is capable of orgasms galore. Indeed her sexual stamina so far surpasses mine that I’ve had to learn to first endure, then slowly accept, and finally reluctantly enjoy seemingly endless hours of what Sprite calls ‘pegging’, both before and/or after any foray into more conventional kinds of sex. In fact lately her pegging of me has become increasingly exclusive.

Sprite has admitted that she finds the domination factor involved to be so radically exciting and rewarding that she rarely wants anything else. These days she will only consent to ride me (or otherwise sexually indulge me in any way) when I’ve been particularly sweet, submissive, completely accommodating and utterly obedient to her every whim. Otherwise sex between us consists of just pegging, pegging, teasing and tormenting, followed by more and more increasingly extravagant pegging, without any orgasmic release on my part allowed. Tonight is entirely typical – at least at first. But eventually it takes me to places that I could never have dreamed possible.

I’m kicked back on our bed watching a soccer game on TV. Suddenly Sprite strides into the room. She stands between me and the screen, her hands on her hips and a smile of saucy accusation on her lovely little face.

“Guess what I’ve just done Kyle?”

“What?” I ask warily, restraining myself from trying to peek around her at the action on the pitch.

“Washed the supper dishes!” she triumphantly declares.

Right away I forget all about the game. Immediately adopting an attitude of chagrined contrition I gaze beseechingly up at her.

“You didn’t have to do that!” I implore. “Why didn’t you ask me to?”

“I think the question is,” Sprite smirks, “Why should I even have to ask you to?”

“You shouldn’t!” I immediately declare in outraged tones. “The very idea is ridiculous! And you will never ever have to ask me again. I’m really, really sorry honey. Please darling, how can I possibly make this up to you?”

We both know exactly how of course. This is all just theater. Yet Sprite revels in every nuance of this whole delicious drama.

“You can start by turning off that damn television. I’m sick of you watching sports instead of concentrating on pleasing me. Then you will turn down the bed covers, take off all of your clothes and lie back down, with your arms and legs spread out wide to either side. I want your favorite pillow under your butt and mine propping up your head. But before all that you’d better go into the bathroom, take a pee and drink some water. You won’t have a chance to do either one until I’m damn good and done with you!”

Caught between upset and excitement, resignation and anticipation, cursing myself for almost surely sacrificing orgasms for yet another unknowable eternity, I swiftly comply. By the time I’m positioned spread out naked and elevated as ordered, Sprite has a number of stout silken cords in her fist and is tapping her foot impatiently. Still despite her stern façade she can’t hide her own rabid excitement; her usual natural exuberance vastly multiplied and magnified by the prospect of sexually punishing me. Breathing heavily, giggling uncontrollably, she quickly ties me out tightly spread-eagled. Then with an amused contempt she slaps my stupid erection hard, setting it to waggling madly all around and giggling again at my helpless exclamation. Then she turns her back on me and dials down the rheostat. Leaving the room’s lighting just a low, sensual glow, she disappears into the bathroom herself for a few minutes. Then she returns, and as always my breath is taken away by the sublime sight of her heavenly naked body.

Besides being petite, Sprite is unbelievably slim and spare everywhere – except in those two most crucial areas.

Her hips are outrageously curved and her ass is excitingly bulbous. Each of these attributes is also unbelievably accentuated by her incredibly tiny waist and slender little legs. Likewise her breasts are much larger than you’d expect: remarkably heavy and yet dangerously pointy, wider than the rest of her torso and yet meeting together in the center. And in there of course she sports cleavage so deep and welcoming that my face and prick endlessly beg to bury themselves there. Yet despite even all this natural perfection I’m affected even more by the one true exception to Sprite’s glorious nakedness: the most momentous of the three things she eagerly carries toward me.

One hand holds a pair of elastic-strapped black leather eyeshades. The other clutches a big frilly peacock feather fully two feet long. Most telling of all however, her wonderfully tight little vagina securely grips the perfectly designed inner extension of her feeldoe, while the outer portion of this wondrous device curves elegantly up and out from the very base of her completely bare crotch. Thanks to its brilliantly strapless design, my gorgeous little lover now sports a desperately compelling dildo nearly eight inches long that looks just as natural jutting out from her tiny body as her incredibly large breasts do. Glistening with lubricant in the soft, sexy light, the sight of this eager erection causes my own already throbbing cock and heart to pound even harder. Whimpering with a familiar, paradoxical mix of fear and need I drink up the sight of her as she approaches (smirking smugly and literally thrumming with eagerness herself) like a desiccated plant in a desert downpour. Sprite climbs onto the bed then, and seeing the way I can’t tear my gaze away from the powerful penis she’s once again sprouted for me, she laughs wickedly down.

“Oh no, my perfectly perverted boy – not yet. First we have the teasing and tormenting to get through, until I at last have you mindlessly, desperately begging me for a pegging. Then maybe I’ll finally consent to do you as usual. But no fucking promises!”

With yet another gloating laugh Sprite fits and slips the shade down over my eyes, blindfolding me. After that I feel her shift her weight down the bed until she’s kneeling next to my mutely pleading erection. But naturally she ignores this, at least at first.

Out of the blackness of my cleverly imposed blindness comes the slightest tickling touch of that feathery fringe on the bottom of my nose. Helplessly I sneeze, and try to turn my head to the side. Yet no matter how I squirm and thrash that feather follows me everywhere, continuously brushing my nostrils and septum, tormenting me unbelievably. And of course this is but the first and least stage of my undeniably just punishment. Next comes the true tickling.

First, that feather attacks my vulnerable underarms (always kept shaved bare like my groin and legs the way Sprite insists), then the soles of my roped-wide feet, then my helplessly hitched up belly and then all of these forever in unpredictable succession. Can one actually laugh one’s self to death? Soon I have no doubt, as I gasp for air and suffer wild paroxysms all over my bound body as Sprite continues to tickle me relentlessly.

Say what you want about caning and whipping or whatever – I don’t know as I have (so far at least) ever experienced them – but how could any amount of pain be worse than this excessive titillation? And yet finally the true titillation begins, and as always proves even more extreme. At last that feather moves on from endlessly tickling me to taunting and teasing my haven’t-been-emptied-in-almost-two-months genitals.

Oh my lord! Those closely packed, thread-fine barbs jab repeatedly against my pee-hole and ultra-sensitive tip. They brush constantly up and down the underside of my desperately straining shaft. They tickle me all over and around my bloated, tingling balls. Giggling delightedly at the way I groan and cry, twist and thrash, strain at my bonds and fruitlessly lift my already elevated hips, Sprite wickedly stimulates my genitals for what seems like hours with an expert precision: just enough to drive me incredibly wild without ever approaching the possibility of orgasm. And of course the more she torments me, the more the memories of our increasingly distant intimacies gain in potency.

Once upon a time Sprite gripped not her cock but mine in her tight little channel. Eagerly she rode me wildly, my hotly burning length sliding swiftly in and out of her. Once upon a time she took me all the way through her tightly gripping lips and down her open throat, bobbing constantly up and down on me and massaging my tingling testicles even as she expertly fellated me, until finally I grunted and jerked and suddenly pumped my thick hot spunk up and out of my cock and down into her greedily accepting stomach.

Sprite used to pump me between her fabulous breasts to get me off, and even give me insane hand-jobs lasting an hour or more. Bringing me to the brink again and again and again, she would repeatedly, presciently back off at the last second before finally finally relenting and jacking me so enthusiastically that I spurted out so forcefully that my issue would actually hit my face and trickle stickily down my cheeks and chin. Hell, beautiful Sprite at least even used to let me play with myself: sitting naked and splay-legged on the edge of the bathtub and giggling wildly at the sight of me lying below her, panting and moaning and shamelessly wanking my crank, my worshipful eyes crawling greedily all over her matchless body sitting in laughing judgment of me until the proof of my untinctured devotion finally splattered out explosively all over the place.

Of course now these desperate recollections form the most insidious torment of all. How could I possibly have been so fucking stupid as to let a soccer game (even a World Cup qualifier), take precedence over pleasing my wonderful beloved?

Seriously, how many of these excruciatingly frustrating lessons must I endure before finally learning my proper place in this relationship? (And incidentally, how many times must I beg for and revel in an endless, orgasm-less pegging before my formerly impressively virile manhood becomes vestigial at best?) As always since they first occurred to me these questions remain presently unanswerable. And yet as always, my irrefutably lovely Sprite knows exactly how to exploit them. Pitilessly she propels me onward toward our obvious (to her at least) final resolution by suddenly ratcheting up her madly teasing torments by yet another impossibly arousing increment.