Domino (The Domino Trilogy) (34 page)

He grazes the end of my riding crop along my belly, making tiny swishing motions up and down, up and down. My back arches underneath the touch, my toes curl under, and I whimper, begging for more than just this light bit of teasing. I want---and need---far more than this. But he will not satisfy me. Not yet.

He swishes the end of the riding crop up and down the length of my body, the loose leather strands becoming a virtual feather that sets all my nerve endings on edge. I open my mouth to beg, but no sound comes out. I realize then that I am gagged in my fantasy, just as I am in reality. But unlike the filthy rag in the back of the truck, this is a leather ball gag, flavored with peppermint oil. It is sweet and soft against my lips and tongue, not a hindrance at all. Though I cannot speak, I can still make sound.

“
Mmmmmmm.” My whole body hums with the force of it. “Mmmmmmm.”

I cannot speak, I am bound and tied, I have no way to speak or signal a
safeword. But I know that there shall be no need for one. As long as I am here, in this leather-bound room with Rostovich and his feathered domino, I shall be safe.

Come what may, I am safe here.

He settles himself between my legs. He transfers the riding crop to his left hand, and massages the seam of my sex with his right. He inserts one, two, then three fingers inside me, pressing up and in, up and in, deeper, deeper deeper. He presses hard on my secret spot, and I cry out against the ball gag. “Mmmmm!”  It is good, oh so good. I want more, more, more.

His fingers thrust in and out, in and out until I’m twisting and moaning against my restraints. It’s not enough. I must have more. I must have everything if I am to survive this blissful torture.

I struggle to open my legs wider despite the restraints. My knees bend upward, exposing more of the soft, moist flesh at the apex of my legs. He sees and takes the bait, leaning down and adding his lapping tongue to his ministering fingers. But it lasts only a second or two. He pulls away abruptly, and takes the crop in both hands.

Whack.
Leather-wrapped bamboo crashes against my belly
. Whack.
The crop lands time and time again. Every blow is like a firm kiss, ending with a bite. The leather smarts, leaving a trail of bright red lines up and down my belly, my thighs, even the round globes of my breasts. It is the most incredible kind of foreplay, this delicate balancing of pleasure and pain that tickles all the senses and mimics the firs violating rush that comes with the transition from virgin to full-fledged woman. With pleasure, first must come pain. With growth, first must come restraint. The two sides are inseparable, a blessed yin and yang that are each beautiful alone, yet the most powerful when they join forces together.

Whack. Whack. Whack.

The crop descends, lower and lower, until it is caressing the insides of my thighs perilously close to ground zero. My clitoris cries out for attention, my whole body screams for release. He starts to tease my clit with the end of the riding crop at first, which just sends me into an even deeper frenzy.  I want his firm thumbs on it, I want his tongue, I want his cock.  He denies me all three for now.

I try to speak against the gag.  Nothing comes out but that same thrumming “
Mmmmmm. Mmmmmm!” I grunt and moan against the gag, trying to communicate what I want. But my body does it for me. My seam bursts open, unfolding like a desert rose blooming in a storm. My clit swells, becomes a red-hot button that demands hard pressing.

Finally, he indulges me. His thumb seizes upon my most critical spot, pushing, rubbing, caressing in tight, fast circles. The thumb and first two fingers of his opposite hand thrust inside me, placing
counterpressure underneath my clit. Somehow he still manages to keep hold of the riding crop too, and its end dances against my lower belly, the streaming bits of leather tickling me with a strange light sensation that perfectly counterbalances the hard and fast rhythm of his hands and fingers against my sex.

The pressure builds and builds. My back arches again, my limbs go rigid, and I focus every ounce of my consciousness on that one tiny spot between my legs as it grows hotter and hotter, tighter and tighter.
I am on the verge of coming, but I know that I won’t until his most important part is deep inside me, thrusting hard at the core of my being.

Fortunately, I do not have to wait long. At the last possible second before I fall over the precipice, he positions himself over me, teases the tip of his rock-hard cock against my dripping sex. He traces the outline of my entrance first, taking his time before he plunges inside.  Every cell in my body clamps down in anticipation of what is to come.
I suck in a deep breath through my nostrils, and bite down hard on the ball gag as I feel him thrust inside me.

Oh God, it is glorious.

The domino mask and its sandy-haired occupant lean against my left shoulder. He palms his hands on the smooth calfskin, balancing himself on strong, rippled arms as his lower body works hard to satisfy my burning need. He is a firm and steady plank suspended over my spread-eagled, submissive body, levering himself in and out, in and out, up and down, up and down, hard, hard, harder. I struggle against the restraints to raise my hips to meet his thrusts. He pushes me down in response, deepening the penetration even more. He will accept no aggression from me, however small. I can only submit. And I do.

I surrender myself to his dominance. He pounds into me hard as my body sinks back against the supple calfskin, the priceless leather cradling me like a babe in arms. My knees fall to the sides, giving him even more room to plumb my hidden depths. The tip of his cock thrums against my deepest recesses, and my body emits animal-like grunts and groans around the ball gag with every thrust. He is a hammer, I am a nail. He is the wind, I am the trees. He is a man, and I am a woman. At long last, a woman.

My clit reaches its point of no return, and explodes. My whole body bursts into a thousand tiny splinters. The world comes apart and disappears into darkness.

The truck lurched to a stop, and I awakened. I had no idea how long I’d been asleep. My belly and crotch thrummed with the orgasm that had taken hold of my body while I dozed. I remembered my dream
in vivid detail, its images and sensation burned into my brain.

That leather-bound room and a naked
Rostovich in a black feathered domino had been real, as real to me as cold rain. I had no idea what hidden parts of my unconscious were behind that dream sequence---I had no real experience with that sort of bondage, with that sort of exotic sex, with those props. I’d only read about them marginally in books, if at all. I knew they existed in concept, but they’d never been real for me, not until now. But that hallucination, dream, fantasy----whatever you wanted to call it---had made them real for me. They occupied my mind like favored childhood memories now, and I wanted to reach out and touch them, make them mine in this world.

This world.
What awaited me in this world? God only knew.

The van cut its engine, and I felt the cab doors slam through the floorboards. There was a metallic rustling just outside, followed by the click of lock tumblers turning. At long last, the back hatch rolled up and dingy gray light penetrated the gloom. Wherever we were, it was nighttime, and what little light there was came only from the moon.

I could just make out the shadow outline of Hannah at the far corner of the truck as the rear hatch rose up. Two more dark shadows appeared and climbed into the van. They wore all black and thick knitted ski masks over their faces. Whether they were Rolf and Wilhelm or someone else, there was no way to know.

One of the shadow-men crossed to me, the other to Hannah. I saw the glint of a steel
boxcutter blade in the darkness, the
click
as my captor adjusted its length. He sliced my hands and ankles free of the duct-tape restraints, but left me gagged, then dragged me to my feet. I felt something cold, hard and metallic pressed against my back. A gun, probably. “Walk,” the masked man ordered. He had a deep and heavily accented voice, but that accent wasn’t German. My captor was neither Rolf nor Wilhelm then, but someone else. I had no idea who--or what--he was.

I had trouble walking at first. My legs were stiff and plagued with pins-and-needles sensations after being immobile for so long, which angered my captor. The gun barrel dug deeper into my back, and I tried my best to quicken my pace. We finally made it to the edge of the truck bed, and against my better judgment I jumped down, afraid of what might happen if I balked. My legs buckled underneath me and I landed hard on my backside.
My captor jumped down beside me and dragged me back to my feet by my collar, jammed the gun barrel into my back again---deeper this time, and I also heard him click off the safety---and pressed me forward.

I walked in the direction my captor seemed to want. The night was black as pitch, I could only see a few inches ahead of me in the feeble moonlight.
I heard padding footsteps behind me and guessed they must belong to Hannah.

After several minutes of walking through the gloom, we came upon a long, low-slung building with a single bare bulb illuminating its only entrance. The single door was heavy black steel flecked with rust, and there were no signs, no windows, no i
ndication whatsoever what type of building this might be. Not a warehouse, not an obvious industrial building, and certainly not any kind of retail establishment----no, not out here, in the middle of God only knew where. No, the place had the look of a fortress, build solidly and inconspicuously, to hide and protect its contents and occupants from the outside world.

The gun pressed still
harder into my back. I expected to be shot at any moment. I would die out here in these dark woods, not knowing exactly where I was or why. I accepted this truth as self-evident, made peace with it as best I could. At least I wouldn’t die a virgin.

But my captor decided to let me live a bit longer---at least until I got to the other side of that black door. A firm hand clasped my shoulder, signaling me to stop, though the gun remained
right where it had been, square in the middle of my spine. I obeyed, and planted my feet a few inches away from the door. I heard Hannah’s footsteps come to a stop just behind me, but I didn’t dare crane my neck to see if she was OK. As long as I didn’t hear her scream or a gunshot, I would just have to take it on faith that she was still upright and breathing.

My captor let go of my shoulder and reached past me to press a button next to the door. A moment later, an electronic lock buzzed, and the door opened slowly on
hyrdraulics. My captor grunted and jabbed me with the gun barrel as a signal to enter.

The building was almost as dark and gloomy as the near-moonless night, but not quite. A single light burned in the far left corner of what appeared to be a single enormous room. My captor guided me towards it, and I obeyed, gingerly placing one foot ahead of the other. I silently wished I could be back in the truck. At least then I didn’t have a loaded gun shoved against my spine. One false move now and I’d end up paralyzed or dead.

I walked the length of almost half a football field before I could make out what was waiting for me by that single 40-watt bulb in the far corner. There was a single armchair there---black, like everything else in the building---and a single side table. A man sat in that single armchair, sipping a crystal goblet of wine. He wore a very expensive-looking black suit, a white oxford shirt open at the collar, and heavy silver cufflinks with lapis lazuli inlay and a matching heavy chain around his ample neck. As I got closer I knew the metal of said jewelry had to be platinum, and not silver. He also wore fine Italian loafers with geometric, angular vamps and a watch that probably cost more than most people’s entire annual incomes. Nothing but the best for this man, who could have been anywhere from his mid-fifties to mid-seventies. His bald head was polished to a heavy shine that produced a glowing reflection even in the dim light, and he had the strong jaw and angular cheekbones of a Slav.

I knew immediately who he was. We required no formal introduction; my reporter’s instincts told me before anyone else would have a chance.

Bluschencko.

He sipped his wine, then set the fine Baccarat glass down on the glass table beside him. “Ah yes, so this must be Nancy Delaney. And Hannah
Greeley just behind. I have waited a long time to see these two lovely young women in the flesh. I knew from the first time I saw them that I wanted them both added to my permanent collection.”

I opened my mouth to speak, forgetting for a moment that I was still gagged. But my hands were free now, so I tugged the filthy rag off my head and tossed it aside. “Mr.
Bluschencko, I presume?”

He smiled, revealing impossibly white and even teeth. Dentures, probably, or implants.
“Why yes. How did you know?”

“I do my homework.”

“Of course you do, Miss Delaney. You are a schoolgirl, after all.” His Ukrainian accent was slight, yet distinct. He reminded me somewhat of an old-school James Bond movie villain. “Do you know why I have summoned you here today?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Funny, I thought a hotshot young reporter like yourself would have figured that out by now,” Bluschencko sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. “But then again, you’re really not a hotshot reporter at all, are you? You’re just another cheap whore.”