Chapter 7: The Jogger
The spell that held her in place has broken, but she cannot move, cannot even turn her head to look away, to escape the sight of her own degradation.
The Stripping Swordsman steps back, his breath ragged, his body glistening with sweat, his cock still semi-hard, a testament to his insatiable hunger. He runs a hand through his hair, a sweeping motion that leaves it disheveled, wild, mirroring the chaos he has unleashed. His gaze, however, is not on the Cowgirl, but on the figure standing at the far end of the room, her body clad in little more than skimpy athletic wear.
The Jogger, her cheeks flushed from her exertions, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, freezes as she realizes the scene unfolding before her.
The Stripping Swordsman, his body glistening with sweat, his cock still semi-hard, stands victorious, his victim—the Cowgirl—lying broken and humiliated at his feet. But it is not the sight of the defiled cowgirl that arrests her; it is the realization that she is not alone in her vulnerability, not alone in her helplessness. For she, too, is under his spell, her body frozen in place, her willpower a futile resistance against his sorcery.
Surprise flashes across her face as she finds her voice, her words tumbling out in a desperate, hoarse plea. "Please," she begs, her eyes locked onto his, her body trembling with a mix of fear and arousal. "Please, strip me. I want it.
I want to feel your blade, your touch, your power," the Jogger begins, her voice steady and sure despite the tremble of her body. "Strip me like you did the Cowgirl. Make it slow, make it deliberate. I want to feel every slice, every caress of your blade, every stroke of your hand. Start with my sports bra. Cut it away, slowly, giving me time to feel the cool air on my skin, to anticipate your next move." She pauses, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, her eyes locked onto his. "Then, my shorts. Cut them away, one leg at a time, letting them fall to the floor, leaving me bare from the waist down. And then, finally, my sports bra.
Cut it away, slowly, like a treasure hidden beneath layers of wrapped cloth. I want you to savor it, to make me wait for it. Make me yearn for your touch, your blade, your power. Let the air whisper across my skin, let it prickle with anticipation as I stand before you, my chest heaving with breath and excitement. I want to feel the coolness, the liberation, the sheer vulnerability of having you unwrap me, bit by bit. My shorts, then. Cut them away, one leg at a time, teasingly, torturously. Make me feel the rush of air, the brush of fabric against my thighs as they fall away, leaving me bare, exposed, and utterly at your mercy. I want to feel the weight of your gaze, the heat of your desire, the edge of your blade. Make me crave it, make me beg for it.
I want to feel your hot, sticky essence coat my body, my breasts, my stomach, my thighs. I want it to drip from my skin, a glistening, unwanted baptism, but one I desperately crave. I want to feel you claim me, to brand me as your own, your seed marking me in a way no other man ever has. I want to feel it trickle down my skin, leaving a trail of your desire, your possession. I want it to pool at my feet, a testament to your power, your control over me. I want to be drenched in it, drowned in it, my body a shrine to your lust, your conquest. I want to be a monument to your pleasure, a testament to your desire. I want to be your canvas, your masterpiece, your ultimate conquest.
The Stripping Swordsman smiles, a wicked, hungry grin that bares his teeth and sends a shiver down her spine. "Your wish is my command, jogger," he murmurs, his voice a sultry purr.
With a deliberate, measured stride, he approaches her, his blade glinting in the dim light, a hungry serpent ready to strike. The air seems to crackle with anticipation as he closes the distance between them, his every movement exuding a primal, predatory grace. The jogger's breath hitches in her chest, her heart pounding wildly as she watches him, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and desire.
"But remember," he continues, his voice a low growl, his gaze locked onto hers, "once I begin, there's no turning back. You'll be mine, utterly and completely. Your body, your pleasure, your pain—all of it will be at my mercy." He pauses, his blade hovering inches from her chest, his eyes searching hers, seeking her consent, her surrender.
The Jogger, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, meets his gaze, her resolve unwavering. "Please," she whispers, her voice hoarse with anticipation, her body trembling with a mix of fear and arousal, "before you undress me, let me see you. Let me see what I'm about to give myself to. Show me your body, your strength, your power. Undress for me, slowly, deliberately. Make me wait for it, make me crave it." Her eyes, dark and hungry, rake over his naked form, lingering on the muscles that ripple beneath his skin, on the dark hair that dusts his chest, on the broad shoulders that taper to a lean waist. She wants to touch him, to trace the lines of his body with her fingers, with her tongue, but she cannot, for the spell holds her fast.
So, she watches, her breath hitching in her chest as he obliges her request. He steps back, his blade still poised, his eyes never leaving hers. He slides the weapon into a sheath hidden beneath his hip, his hands moving with a liquid grace that belies the tension in his body. His cock, already semi-hard, twitches and lengthens as he turns to face her, his body a silhouette against the dimly lit room.
He runs his hands over his chest, his fingers tracing the lines of muscle and sinew, his touch firm and possessive. He cups his hands over his pecs, squeezing slightly before sliding them downwards, his thumbs brushing over his nipples, teasing them until they harden into tight, sensitive peaks.
The Jogger watches, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, her eyes wide with a mix of shock and arousal as she takes in the sight of him, her body frozen in place, her willpower a futile resistance against his sorcery. He continues his descent, his hands now splayed wide, palms pressing against his washboard abs, the muscles flexing beneath his touch. He pauses, his gaze never leaving hers, before sliding his hands lower, his fingers hooking into the waistband of his trousers. He tugs, a slow, deliberate motion that causes the fabric to slide down, inch by inch, revealing the dark hair that trails from his navel to the thick, dark bush at the apex of his thighs.
The Jogger's breath hitches, her eyes widening as she catches the first glimpse of his cock, hard and proud, straining against the confines of his trousers. He pauses, his eyes locked onto hers, a dark, hungry hunger burning within them. He cups his hand over his erection, stroking it through the fabric, his touch firm and possessive. The Jogger's body trembles, a primal response to the raw, primal display before her. She watches, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, her eyes never leaving his, as he slides his trousers down, his cock springing free, hard and throbbing, a testament to his arousal. He palms himself, his stroke slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving hers. "You see what you do to me, jogger?" he growls, his voice a low, guttural sound.
He grips himself tighter, his strokes becoming faster, more urgent. "Look at you, jogger, so prim and proper in your little shorts and sports bra. But I see the truth, the desire hidden beneath. You want this, don't you? You want to be stripped bare, to feel my blade, my touch, my power."
The Jogger's breath comes in short, sharp gasps, her chest heaving with excitement and fear. She watches, mesmerized, as he stands before her, his body taut with arousal, his cock in his hand, hard and throbbing. She can't look away, can't break the spell that holds her in place, her body frozen, her willpower a futile resistance against his sorcery.
But her words, they're still her own, a weapon she can wield, a bargaining chip she can offer. She meets his gaze, her eyes dark and hungry, her chest heaving with excitement and fear. "Please," she whispers, her voice hoarse with arousal, with anticipation. "Let me see you. Make me crave it, make me beg for it."
Her words seem to ignite something within him, a dark, hungry spark that burns brighter, more intense. He steps closer, his body bare, his cock still hard and throbbing in his hand. His eyes, they're never leaving hers, never breaking the connection between them. He runs his free hand down his chest, his fingers tracing the lines of muscle and sinew, his touch possessive, deliberate.
But the jogger has had enough of watching, enough of waiting. Her voice, urgent and desperate, cuts through the dimly lit room. "Don't tease me, swordsman. Don't make me beg. I want this, I want it now. Undress me. Let me feel your blade, your touch, your power."
He halts, his hand on the hilt of his blade, his eyes searching hers, a dark hunger burning within them. "You're sure, jogger? Once we start, there's no turning back." Her laughter, a shaky, nervous sound, echoes through the room. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life. Do it. Undress me."
He raises his blade, the metal glinting in the dim light, a hungry serpent ready to strike.
He presses the edge against her sports bra, just below her left shoulder, the cold steel sending a shiver down her spine. He begins to cut, slowly, deliberately, his breath hitching as he watches the fabric part beneath the blade, revealing a glimpse of her smooth, pale skin. His cock, hard and throbbing, twitches in his hand, a testament to his arousal.
"He drags the blade downwards, his movements precise, controlled, a dance of dominance and submission. The sports bra falls away, one strap at a time, exposing her breasts, her nipples puckered and hard in the cool air. He pauses, his gaze locked onto hers, his breath ragged, his cock pulsing in his hand. "Your body is magnificent, jogger," he murmurs, his voice a low growl, thick with desire.
"Let's free it, piece by piece." The blade moves to her right shoulder, tracing the same path as before, the fabric falling away to reveal more of her smooth, white skin. The jogger's breath hitches, her eyes never leaving his as he works. "Yes," she whispers, her voice sultry, her words an encouragement, a plea. "Cut it away, feel it, taste it. Make me yours."
He hesitates, his cock throbbing in his hand, a beast clawing to be released. He wants to devour her, to claim her, to bind her to him in a way no other man ever has. But he resists, savoring the moment, the anticipation. He looks down at her breasts, exposed and heaving, her nipples hard and begging for his touch.
"You want more, jogger?" he asks, his voice thick with desire. She only nods, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps. He steps closer, his blade tracing a path down her sternum, over her belly button, and to the waistband of her shorts. He pauses, his breath hot on her skin, his cock throbbing in his hand.
"Do you want me to cut these away too, jogger?" he murmurs, his gaze locked onto hers, his voice a low growl thick with desire. He runs the tip of his blade along the waistband of her shorts, the cold metal sending shivers down her spine. She moans softly, her body arching towards him, her need for him palpable. "Yes," she whispers, her voice hoarse with anticipation, her eyes never leaving his. "I want you to cut them away, slowly, teasingly. I want to feel the rush of air, the brush of fabric against my thighs as they fall away, leaving me bare, exposed, and utterly at your mercy."
With a slow, deliberate motion, he begins to cut, the blade sliding through the fabric with ease. She gasps as the cool air hits her legs, her body trembling with anticipation.
The Stripping Swordsman slides the blade down, inch by inch, the fabric of her shorts pooling around her ankles, leaving her bare from the waist down. "You're beautiful, jogger," he breathes, his eyes devouring her, his cock pulsing in his hand. "Your body is a work of art, a masterpiece to be savored." He steps back, his gaze sweeping over her, his cock throbbing in his hand.
"Your body is a symphony, jogger, and I'm going to play you like an instrument," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. He moves the blade to her hip, then down, tracing the edge of her shorts, "Now, these," he says, his fingers hooking into the waistband. "Tell me you want them gone, jogger. Tell me to cut them away."
"Yes," she gasps, her breath hitches, her eyes locked onto his, her body trembling with anticipation. "Cut them off, slowly. Make me feel the cold air, the rush of freedom. I want to be bare for you, utterly exposed." He presses the blade against the fabric, the metal biting into the material with ease.
"Tell me you want them gone, jogger," he growls, his voice a dark purr of desire and command. The jogger's breath catches in her throat, her eyes never leaving his as she whispers, "Yes, please. Cut them off. I want to feel the rush of cold air, the freedom of being bare for you." He pauses, his gaze intense, his body taut with anticipation. "Say it," he urges, his voice a low rumble. "Say you want me to cut them away." She swallows hard, her voice barely above a whisper, "Cut them off, swordsman. I want to be bare for you, utterly exposed and at your mercy." He doesn't wait for her to finish her sentence, the blade slicing through the fabric with a swift, decisive motion.
The jogger's panties fall away, pooling at her feet, leaving her completely bare except for her sneakers. She stands before him, her body a symphony of curves and shadows, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps. He takes a step back, his eyes raking over her, devouring her, his cock throbbing in his hand. "You're exquisite, jogger," he growls, his voice hoarse with desire. He circles her, his blade trailing after him, the tip of the metal brushing against her skin, leaving a tingling, electrifying sensation in its wake. He pauses behind her, his breath hot on her neck, his free hand cupping her breast, squeezing gently. "Now, jogger, show me what you can do with this." He presses his cock against her hand, his voice a dark purr of command and desire.
"Show me, jogger. Make me feel it. Stroke me, like you want to be stroked." She hesitates for a moment, her body trembling with a mix of fear and arousal. But as she looks down at his cock, hard and throbbing in her hand, she can't deny the raw, primal need that courses through her. She wraps her hand around him, her grip firm and sure, her thumb brushing over the sensitive tip, causing him to hiss in pleasure.
He groans, a deep, guttural sound that rumbles through the grand, empty room, a primal symphony of desire and dominance. "That's it, jogger. Like that. Show me what you can do." She begins to move her hand, her strokes slow and deliberate at first, her eyes locked onto his, never breaking the connection between them.
He groans, his hips thrusting forward, his cock twitching and throbbing in her grasp. She increases her pace, her grip firm and sure, her thumb now brushing over the sensitive tip with every stroke. He hisses, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps, his body trembling with pleasure. As she milks him, he steps behind her, his blade poised and ready, the metal glinting in the dim light. He presses the edge of the blade against the heel of her sneaker, the cold steel sending a shiver down her spine. She gasps, her body tensing as she feels the blade bite into the fabric, the sneaker falling away, revealing her bare foot. Her strokes falter for a moment, her breath hitching in her chest as she feels the rush of freedom, the cool air on her skin.
His blade slices through the last of her clothes, and she stands before him, utterly bare, her body trembling with anticipation and fear. He groans, his hips thrusting forward, his cock throbbing and pulsing in her hand. With a final, desperate stroke, he comes, his hot, sticky essence coating her skin, her breasts, her stomach, her thighs.
She shudders beneath him, her body convulsing as she takes every drop, licking up the excess from her skin, her tongue darting out, tasting him, savoring him. She moans, a sound of pure, primal satisfaction, her eyes locked onto his, her chest heaving with breath and excitement.
"Thank you," she whispers, her voice hoarse with emotion, her body trembling with the aftershocks of their shared pleasure. "Thank you for stripping me, for making me feel this way. I've never felt so alive, so free." He smiles, a slow, sensual curve of his lips, his eyes never leaving hers. He presses a soft kiss to her forehead, his hand gently cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear.
"The pleasure was mine, jogger," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire and satisfaction.
He steps back, his eyes scanning the room, his blade still poised and ready. As his gaze falls upon the girl dressed in heavy winter clothes, a wicked smile curves his lips. "But it seems I'm not done yet," he says, his voice a dark purr. He turns to her, his eyes gleaming with a hungry, predatory light. "I will enjoy baring you next, winter girl. Your layers intrigue me."
The girl in winter clothes watches him with wide, frightened eyes, her breath misting in the cool air. She clutches her coat tighter around her, her hands trembling slightly. "Please," she whispers, her voice barely above a whisper. "Leave me alone. I don't want this."
He laughs, a low, throaty sound that sends a shiver down her spine.