Mistress.  I find myself smiling at the phrase, and certainly my lady's blood singing in my veins at this moment is laughing with the delight of amour and afterglow mingled with energy and amusement.  That smile lingers as Alex's young sexual viscera spasm with her climax.<br/><br/>I lap at the remains of her lubrication-- the sweet, clean moisture that lingers at the soft, healthy lips, the glistening pink pearl of her clit, the pale, soft down of her nether hairs.  I slow as she slows, I ease as her climax eases.  And when she's left there, stretched before me with her pert, pink-crested breasts rising and falling and shivering with spent breath, I let her catch her breath.<br/><br/>I sit up, shoulders back, astride her leg.  My body is long and lean, pale gold like milk-tinged honey.  I  can watch her now with some satisfaction, without the self-consciousness or the pretense of before.  She can see every inch of me for all she likes, and I can do the same to her.<br/><br/>I stand, stretch, look her over like a carpenter appraising fresh-hewed wood, finding it flawless yet needing again to see it.  Words would cheapen that moment, mute what I am about to do.<br/><br/>I turn, walk a step to the door, stretch my hand and lift my hat from the hook by the casement.  I put it on, smirking, and turn to walk a semicircle to where the girl's tied.  Alex is able to see me as I walk, tiptoe, around.  My breasts, smallish, don't even bounce as I move closer.  I straighten the hat, crossing my feet as I walk in a show of languid grace.  One hand lingers on the brim, while the other deftly looses the tie of my hatband.   It's simple, tiny beads of silver and turquoise chips from the New Mexico territories, black woven like arrowheads.  The cord's black leather, trails a few extra inches, and unties easily enough.<br/><br/>With it trailing from my fingers, I lean into the wall by the headboard and reach for the oil lamp.  I hadn't bothered to dim it before, happy for its light by which to study the girl's form.  Now, my mood's changed... but not the hunger.<br/><br/>I untie her wrists, for the moment, from the headboard, and gesture for her to present her throat-- my short-nailed fingers trailing from her windpipe down to her clavicle like the slow ranging of a lone bird combing the snow.