Authors: Natalie Dae
Tags: #Erotic Romance Fiction
I waited until five of his footsteps had sounded. I turned, glancing up to see in which direction he had gone. He was making for the wide staircase so he intended for us to use one of the more private rooms. Downstairs was for voyeurism, where people played openly for those who wanted to observe from the sofas or watch through glory holes next door. I should have known he’d choose the private route tonight. Our previous two sessions had been voyeuristic, and he didn’t like to be predictable.
I followed him upstairs, my heels sinking into plush, dark purple carpet, then along a corridor to the left, into a room four doors down. He waited to the right as I walked into the center and stood at the bottom of a king-size, four-poster bed that was just a mattress covered in red PVC sheeting. The bright red floor tiles complemented it, as did the white walls and red blinds at the windows either side.
I waited, breath held.
The click of the latch meeting its keeper was the sound I’d longed to hear. If he’d left the door ajar I could have expected visitors who might want to play with us. Tonight, it seemed, he wanted me all to himself.
“Get on the bed, sub.”
I immediately climbed on, my back still to him, the PVC sheet chilly on my palms and knees—and waited again, bare arse and cunt exposed.
“Turn around. Arse to the edge. Legs spread. Feet on the floor. Lean back on your hands.”
I did so, keeping my gaze low. He was still by the door, his shiny black dress shoes topped with the dark gray hem of suit trousers, which concertinaed where they were a tad too long. Slim laces, rounded not flat, lay in a spaghetti-like tangle, the only bit of imperfection on him, I knew. He was an expert at tying knots with rope, but securing shoes? No.
I found that endearing.
He moved to a table beside the door that was all metal tubing and had two flat shelves. On the bottom one was a spreader bar, a beast to look at, and not one I had seen anywhere online. It had been fashioned specifically for the cottage customers, looking more like a heavy-duty piece of machinery than anything else. The silver pole between the ankle manacles was thick, and from experience I knew it was heavy, ensuring that if I needed to lift my legs, I couldn’t.
Zum picked it up as though it weighed nothing then brought it over to me. He knelt, put my feet through the manacles. An odd-shaped, chunky key stuck out of each of them, and he twisted them in turn until the metal closed and was a sharp burst of cold on my ankles. The bar itself was around twelve inches across, but with the turn of another key in the middle, it began to lengthen. I braced myself, wondering how long he would make it this time. Inside the largest bar were several others that expanded to whatever the user required. Last time my legs had been spread a comfortable amount, but tonight Zum clearly intended to make them go wider.
While he was busy, I had a good look at him. His head was shaved, as was his face—the only hair left on him were eyebrows that had been expertly tidied and trimmed, either by himself or some lucky beautician. His skin was just like the dark muscovado sugar I used in my coffee, deep and beautiful, sweet and tasty. He turned the key a few more times, stared at the bar then turned it again.
“How does that feel?” he asked.
“It’ll be manageable, Sir. The pain, I mean.”
Should I reach out and smooth my hand over his head, draw him to me, cradle his face on my breast?
“It’ll ache after a while, but that’s the intention.” He stood, stared down at my feet. “Yes, that’s beautiful. A good meter apart.”
I was left with the sight of his legs from the knees down, wanting but not daring to lift my gaze higher. He moved away, back to the little table. While his back was turned to me, I eyed him some more. That suit. As usual it was expensive. Fabulous cut. The finest material. It could be said that it had shoulder pads, but that wouldn’t be true. It was muscle beneath the fabric and, from what I understood, it was all mine. Zum had said he didn’t play with anyone else. Not without me there, anyway.
“The reason for the use of such a heavy bar won’t be lost on you,” he said, touching something that clacked on the table top. “I want you immobile.”
I thought about my top half, how at the moment I could move it without an issue if he gave me permission.
“Which is why I need these.”
He turned, and I immediately shifted my sights lower, unable to get a glimpse of what he held. His approach had butterflies dancing in my belly, and I wanted to laugh at how deliriously happy he made me feel. Just being with him, having him
things to me… God, I loved him.
At the side of the bed, he waited for a moment. “Flat on your back. Arms above your head. Stare at the ceiling.”
The ceiling had been decked out in swathes of red silk, coming in pleats from the outer edges to meet in the center around the light casing. Red, plastic teardrops dangled from a silver chandelier, catching the light and sending pink spots of color across the ceiling. It reminded me of staring at the sky earlier. All that was missing was the moon.
Zum enclosed one of my wrists in something rubbery—I couldn’t quite make out what it was without shifting my eyes across, and he would spot that—then tugged my arm as he presumably secured the other end to the post of the bed. He went round to the other side and did the same. Star-shaped, I was wonderfully open to him, to do with as he wished.
“Good,” he said. “Close your eyes.”
The image of the pink spots remained behind my eyelids, and I watched as they faded into blackness. Then, after the sound of him walking away filtered to me, the imagery was of him going to select whatever toy he’d be using tonight. I imagined he’d choose something away from the norm, something that would infect me with his wicked desire to inflict pain—wicked in the sense that it was good, very welcome and very wanted.
Last time I’d been free of binds, but of course, I still hadn’t moved. He hadn’t said I could. Despite me wanting to curl myself up each time he’d whipped my arse, I’d remained flat on the bed, panting, concentrating on the pleasure from the pain rather than the pain itself.
He was moving again, shoes tapping the tiles.
His scent wafted over me. He was close, and that electricity crackled again, to my left. My breathing chose that moment to go erratic on me, and I took a few seconds to compose myself, focusing on taking air in slowly then letting it out just as slow. The swish of something had me dying to open my eyes. Softness trawled across my pubis—leather, I would say, incredibly light and lovely.
“Oh, yes, Sir.”
He walked off again, and I couldn’t work out where he’d gone until the brief touch of material grazed one of my shins.
“What about this?” he asked.
The leather was dragged from just below my corset then down over my cunt, ghosting southwards to the tops of my inner thighs where it remained.
“How about those restraints?”
I tried to lift my body to show him how well secured I was but found the only thing I could raise a little were my hips and arse.
“You’re held nicely there, my precious. I must say, you look especially lovely tonight. What prompted you to arrive half naked?”
“I wanted to please you, Sir.”
“And myself.” My confessions were encouraged every week. “I decided to do as you’d suggested and follow what I felt and not worry what other people thought. But not you, Sir. I always worry about what you think.”
“I see. And it’s liberating, wearing only a corset?”
“Oh, God, yes. To leave my house like this, to know someone could have been watching out of their window. I haven’t felt free like that before—not when I’ve been by myself, Sir.”
“You’re learning to love yourself. To be yourself. I like that.”
How I loved his voice. Such rich tones that rumbled through me and settled in my cunt, the vibration of it setting off sparks of pleasure there. When he hummed against my clit he drove me wild.
“Your skin is such a splash of white on that sheet,” he said. “I adore it.”
As I adore you, Sir.
“And those manacles on your wrists are hiding the red marks. A pity. They’re nice. A sign of your obedience.” He paused, then, “I adore every bit of you, I hope you know that.”
“I do, Sir. Thank you.”
He moved the leather, drifted it down one of my inner thighs. I detected strands, more than two but no more than six, I thought, although of course, I couldn’t be sure. Some of them were like the inside lining of my leather gloves, similar to felt, soft and fuzzy, well worn.
“I’m going to flog your cunt,” he said.
I nearly opened my eyes. “
I’m going to flog your cunt…”
He’d said it as a statement. No need to question or query if it would be all right. I’d long ago agreed
was all right unless I said my safe word. Would I say it tonight? Would
fly out of my mouth in a less-than-sweet rush? I had no idea, but I didn’t want it to.
“Thank you, Sir.”
I sucked in a breath. Held it. Released it. Waited.
And he slapped the strands down onto the inner flesh of my pussy.
One caught my clit, sending a shock wave of undulating pain deep into my center. I cried out from surprise, even though I’d known it had been coming. My nub hardened, ached, and I instinctively went to draw my legs together. My bones protested, and the manacles on my ankles seemed to grip tighter. I lifted my head but dropped it back down, the strain too much on my neck.
He whacked me again, harder, the strike seeming to have come from a greater height. My eyes watered, but not from upset—no, never that. The pain this time was a silent splash, a ripple effect that spread throughout my body, exiting through my fingertips. My skin went cold then hot immediately afterwards, and my throat dried as I panted.
I’d never felt anything like it. The slice of a bullwhip on my arse didn’t compare—that was a different kind of agony that went bone deep. This kind…oh, it was a softer yet totally exquisite sort, something I wanted more of.
He gave me more, three quick slaps of those strands, the ends sticking to my wetness as he drew the toy away. With minimal time between strikes, I didn’t have a chance to anticipate the next, so all three connections coalesced into one massive whack. I adored it, craved more, and clamped my lips together so I didn’t ask for it.
“Such a pretty blush on your cheeks,” he said. “And your hair, splayed out that way, looks like a blonde peacock’s fan. You”—he hit my cunt again—“are the most”—and again—“beautiful woman”—again, again—“I have ever seen.”
That last bite—God, it bit. Harsh, coming close to how it felt when he paddled the backs of my thighs. A flush of stinging rampaged over my cunt, the flesh seeming to inflate, fill itself with pain and pleasure. My clit throbbed delightfully, crying out for more, more, more. I grew wetter, so wet it seeped out a little, and my outer lips…I’d swear they were puffy. I wanted to see, see his glorious handiwork, the color he’d turned my skin, the reaction it had had to his toy.
“Oh, you look wonderful,” he said. “The blush on your cheeks matches the one on your cunt.”
A nip of jealousy went through me that he had the delight of looking and I didn’t. And what other delight did he feel, I wondered? Was his cock hard, straining against his trousers? Did he want to pull it out and wank until he came over my abused pussy? See the difference in color between it and the cream of his spunk? Or would he prefer to drive that cock of his inside me, shove it in to the hilt then ram and ram and ram, our skin creating a friction that exacerbated my already burning lips and clit?
The images my thoughts produced danced through my mind, teasing me, giving my excitement a nudge to the next level. That I couldn’t see him wielding that toy, couldn’t see it flying through the air, excited me all the more.
Another succession of hits landed, bittersweet pleasure-pain, glorious spikes of heaven-hell sensation. I reveled in the experience, a small compartment of my mind asking the question of whether he would do it again or wait, the rest not caring if he did or he didn’t. For now I’d take what he’d given and let it do what it would to my body. I shook, as though sent out naked into the cold. My skin was clammy. The manacles rubbed against my wrists and ankles, the muscles in my arms and legs pulled to straining point. My cunt lips expanded again, rising, widening, and my clit—oh, God, my clit was on fire.
Something cold dashed against me down there, and my hips rose involuntarily, as did my head. It was too much effort to keep them up, and I flopped back down, wanting to claw between my legs, press hard with the heel of my hand to make the chill go away. Yet oddly, I wanted it there too—to stay.
Fingers touched me, Zum’s beautiful fingers, massaging the coldness over the hotness, soothing it, numbing it. I sighed, relieved and yet not, wondering why he had decided I’d had enough, why he hadn’t pushed me further.
“Good girl,” he whispered. “Such a good girl.”
I smiled, seeing him in my mind’s eye, leaning over me and fondling my sex. Was he watching what he was doing or looking at my face? Was he undecided as to which blush he liked best?
“Better?” he asked.
“Yes. And no, Sir.”
“I wanted you to carry on. To make it hotter, make it hurt more, Sir.”
“Such a greedy little thing, aren’t you?”
I didn’t feel he wanted an answer.
“There is more hurt to come,” he said. “Just not from that.”
His fingers left me, and again his shoes tapped the tiles. Water splashed. He was at the sink in the corner, then, washing his hands. Shoes tapping again, then the dip of the mattress beside me and the blessed feel of a cold, wet flannel being placed on my forehead, left there for a moment then dabbed onto my cheeks.
“There is a new toy,” he said. “I’m going to try it. Your position is perfect for it.”
“Thank you, Sir.”