Edge Play X (10 page)

By then, the man was diverting his
eyes to the floor, trying his best to resist the urge to look at her face. From
above, X examined Compton, his subtle expressions, the lines that time had
left, the inscrutable presence of it, trying to read him, to measure him, but
all she was certain about was that the man was a conundrum. He had a kind face
and it frightened her that a man who might be a murderer could have a kind
face.

X lifted up her boot and put the ball
of her heeled foot onto his thigh, dragging the flogger over his belly, running
it and its undulating tentacles over his chest and up to his right
shoulder.
 

She leaned down to whisper in his ear,
“Do you have a little hard-on under that silly thing you’re wearing?”
 

Her breasts, right in front of his
face as she whispered, garnered
Compton
’s complete attention, and then, in a quick
contact that released a flood of pleasure that streamed through him before
concentrating in his little penis, the soft flesh of her breasts and the slick
pvc
of her bra grazed his cheek.

Compton shook his head yes. Yes, yes,
yes.

“Good for you,” she said, placing the
clamps on his nipples and yanking the chain to tighten them. Compton moaned
softly. “Do you like that?”

“Yes, X.”

“Get on your knees, Worm.”

Compton obeyed, and X flogged him
until the skin of his back was pink. That was how she usually began her
interactions with her
submissives
, with a good
whipping. Got the blood
flowing.
But it was more than
that with him. Each time she struck Compton, X hit him as hard as she was able.
There was anger behind every lash.

X told him, “I have to say, Worm, that
you look better without your mustache.”

“Thank you,
Domina
.”
Compton smiled.

“Don’t get conceited.”

The jock strap Compton was wearing
exposed his butt cheeks, and X started to strike his bare ass, continuing until
his rump was nicely red. Then the woman reached down and unsnapped the sides of
the jock strap, letting it fall to the floor between his legs.

“Don’t move,” she commanded.

Compton, staying as still as he was
able, became suddenly aware of the blood pulsing through his body nearly in
step with the beat of his heart, with the movement of his chest as he breathed,
with the blinks of his eyes, with the secretions of his salivary glands and
then his swallows, with the shifts of his muscles as they supported his
skeleton. Being in X’s presence enhanced every moment and sensation. Time
neither slowed down nor sped up, but instead concentrated and condensed itself
into the present, temporarily eliminating both the past and the future. He
liked the hyper-reality of it; that was part of his addiction.

“What a little penis you have—all
head, no shaft,” X said, a comment which only caused Compton to grow harder.
She clipped the bondage cuffs on his wrists together.

From deep within her bag, X pulled out
a black roll of electrical tape and a bottle of baby oil. Next, with the help
of a penknife that made its home on X’s keychain, she cut off four short pieces
of the black strip before telling Compton to close his eyes and then taping
little ‘
x’s
’ over his eyelids. Terry Compton, blinded
now by the
x’s
of electrical tape, recalled the
cartoons of his childhood, the ones that depicted the death of a character by
replacing the eyes with
x’s
, hoping that this was not
some kind of omen.
 

For extra effect, X put a red ball-gag
into his mouth, securing its straps behind his head. Then, on a sudden impulse,
the woman decided to embellish the scene as much as possible. With red
lipstick, she wrote
4-and-a-half-inches
on his belly and drew an arrow pointing down to his penis.

Now, as quietly as possible, X took
the digital camera from her tote and removed it from the velvet bag in which
she had concealed it. Simeon had given her a small camera that would turn on
soundlessly and not emit a flash. As X turned it on, she wondered if the
ambient light of the room would be sufficient to produce a clear image or if
the shutter of the camera would have to stay open longer to compensate for the
dimness, so before photographing Compton, she told him to stay still, don’t
fidget.

She fired off a few photographs of him
on his knees in front of her, his eyes
x’d
over with
tape, his hands attached in front of him in leather cuffs, his hard penis small
and exposed, his mouth gagged, a humiliating measurement written on his belly,
the harness wrapping around his chest. She fired off three shots in rapid
succession, inspecting each image as they appeared on the
lcd
screen and judging that in all likelihood that they would be acceptable to
Simeon. Then she turned off the camera and returned it to her bag.

X went over to the bar and fixed
herself a stiff whiskey sour and then took a seat on the wooden chair. She
watched Compton there on his knees, watched him as she enjoyed her drink,
watched until the man started to shake from the discomfort of the position.

X finished her drink and put her glass
on the floor, then went to stand in front of the man.

“I am going to remove my clothing and
get on the bed, and you are going to give me a massage.”

Before removing her clothes, she stood
as close to Compton as she was able without touching him. She was going to
tease him—that would keep his interest. It had worked with every other man. How
different could he really be? And keeping him interested might be the only
thing keeping her from being disposed of.

“Listen.”

In succession, heels were kicked off,
chaps unbuckled and pushed to the floor, panties removed, and bra undone and
tossed aside. Compton listened to the distinct sound of each garment rubbing
against itself in its journey off her body, and the noise bore its way into
him, coupling along the way with his vision of her nipples and pubis, uncovered
now but still a visual reality deprived to him.

X pulled the raw silk bedspread to the
foot of the bed, handed Compton the bottle of baby oil, and the woman proceeded
to lay face down onto the smooth Egyptian sheets covering the mattress.

Compton put his hands out in front of
him and walked in little geisha steps until his knees touched the side of the
mattress. Once there, he reached out his hands, touching the sheets, searching
for her. Finally, he touched the smooth warmth of her outer thigh. Slowly and
deliberately, Compton ran his hands slowly over her leg, gauging his location
and still carrying the bottle that X had handed to him.

Compton climbed onto the bed, kneeling
next to her body. His hands followed the line of her leg up and over the smooth
crescent of her buttocks before ending at her lower back. Once there, Compton
fumbled clumsily with the cap of the bottle until he finally got it open and
squirted some oil onto X’s back before replacing the cap. It was a difficult
task to complete with his hands bound together and his eyes taped shut. The
feel of the cool oil on her skin caused her to scold him.

“Put the oil in your hands first and
rub it around so it isn’t cold.”

“Yes, X.
 
Forgive me,” Compton said through his gag.

Compton’s hands, splayed against the
warmth of her lower back, spread the oil up to her shoulders, spreading it in a
warm slick over muscles that he silently named as he touched them: the
posterior
trapezius
, the deltoid, the
teres
major, the
latissimus
dorsi
, and then down and over the gluteus
maximus
, the wonderful gluteus
maximus
,
a muscle that she gratefully did not admonish him for running his hands over.

The man was javelined by lust. What
blessed luck! What barbarous ecstasy might await? Her body was the providence
of heaven, a verdant world, eternal as the stars.

Why did X allow him to touch her so
intimately when she despised him? She had hoped that through his touch that she
could read him, somehow discern the magnitude of his cruelty. Instead of
malice, X found herself yielding under his caress. Muscles formerly tense
relaxed under his touch, softening, loosening, and slackening. Even with his
hands bound together, Compton managed to stroke her with enough skill to cause
her to relax under his touch, and then X closed her eyes, sinking deeper into
the soft bed.

There was no indication of any
maliciousness. Simeon himself had admitted that perhaps Compton had not been
the one to murder the
CIA
agent, that perhaps he had paid another person to
complete the act. Then she reminded herself that it was a very good possibility
that Compton had nothing to do with the woman’s murder. Who could say what
other intrigue the woman was involved in under the scope of her work? He was a
rich man, yes; a pervert, definitely.
But a murderer?
X wasn’t so sure. For all she knew, Simeon had lied and said he was a murderer
so that she didn’t start to like the man and divulge to him that the government
was on his tail.

There was another motivation in X’s
decision to let him touch her so. She wanted to drive him to the edge with his
desire, have him long for her completely, burn the feel of her body into his
psyche, enslave him under his lust. If she needed to allow him to touch her to
accomplish this, if it would help her from joining the ranks of the
disappeared, so be it.

Compton ran his hands over her sides
and up to her shoulders and the nape of her neck where he lingered. X shivered
a little at having the man’s hands so close to her throat. She told herself
again that the man didn’t have it in him. The government was probably interested
in him because he donated money to charities that they didn’t like. A part of
her understood that she was trying to write Compton off as a threat in order to
quell her fear but the tactic was effective.

She allowed her mind to wander. She
remembered the other men she had sought to drive wild with their desire. X
would torture Compton the same way she had done to all the others,
interspersing pleasure and torment until he was in a full frenzy. All those
other men, once they had yielded to X completely, given themselves to her
utterly and entirely, she had always abandoned them, crushed them under the
adoration that she had nurtured. X had sown adulation and then reaped it before
leaving them fallow.

That was the cruelest blow, the true
end-strike. It was her nature to leave men only after their love for her had
completely bloomed, and it gave X pleasure to do so, to control them with
leashes tied not just to their loins but also to their hearts. X had found
pleasure in their heartache, in having given them and then released them from
the greatest bondage, one that they had desired, the slavery of love. She could
barely admit the ashen truth of it to herself.

That was her modus operandi. But in
this case, X couldn’t just leave. There were repercussions to her actions. She
was unsure exactly how she would be released from this predicament and knew
that it was likely that she would have to free herself.

Compton finished massaging her
shoulders and then ran his hands down to her buttocks. There, he paused, picking
up the bottle of oil, clumsily opening it again and pouring it into his palm
before sweeping it over her backside. As he took his hands away from her body
to return the cap to its bottle, X opened her eyes and looked back at him long
enough to see him rubbing the oil briefly over his penis, making his organ
shine nicely in the soft light of the room. In any other circumstance she would
have been aroused.

X allowed Compton to run his hands
over her ass and then down and around the soft flesh of her inner thighs. The
sound of his breathing could be heard now, a respiration interspersed with
little moans. Her approach was proving effective.

“Rub my feet,” X commanded, and he
traced his hands down her legs and the topography of her body until he found his
destination. Once he had arrived, he pressed his nimble fingers over the soles
of her feet, heels, and each toe, finding every crevice, rolling over every
curve.

The blindfold had a purpose. As he
felt her flesh, X wanted him to see not the reality of her body but instead to
idealize it in his mind’s eye. She wanted him to touch, but not see—to see, but
not touch. It is one thing for a man to see what he cannot have, and, she knew,
another thing to touch it.

X told Compton to stop what he was
doing and then she flipped onto her back. The woman sat up momentarily,
unsnapping the straps of his gag, then removing it and tossing it to the floor.
It sat there, a crumpled wad, a foul remnant, waiting for the maid who would
later rinse it and hang it back onto the pegboard, a look of disgust on her
face.

Compton, still kneeling on the bed,
his ass sitting on his heels, felt surprise as X’s feet ran along the tops of
his thighs. He threw his head back in delight.

“Kiss my feet,” X said, remembering
how his list had included a foot fetish.