Forever Bound

Forever Bound Elizabeth Coldwell Giselle Renarde Ashley Hind Tabitha Rayne Kyoko Church Michael Hemmingson Maxine Marsh Medea Mor Annabeth Leong Flora Dain Heather Towne Rose de Fer ‘Forever Bound’ is special longer Mischief anthology that explores bondage, domination and submission in sixteen intensely erotic short stories.‘Forever Bound’ features erotica from Kyoko Church, Heather Towne, Medea Mor, Maxine Marsh, Rose de Fer, Kathleen Tudor and many more.Surrendering physical freedom to a lover in BDSM games is an enduring fantasy for many. For others it’s a way of life.Zoe takes a job at a large private estate, but makes sure to entice its charming owner into tying her up in knots.When Emma’s husband finally tires of her impossible demands and brattish nature, he uncoils the bondage gear and gets busy.Madeline is a world class classical music composer, but backstage she unwinds by giving a different kind of tuition to her adoring fans.Rachel attends an arm-binding class and is immobilised by just how sexy the instructor is. Forever Bound Bondage Erotica (http://www.mischiefbooks.com) Table of Contents Title Page (#uc78e7f8a-d035-5bd3-a1cd-7f0b06d037d2) Ring My Bell – Rose de Fer (#u322bec82-38d9-5cab-adb5-bddbfbda727a) Roped In – Medea Mor (#u77386845-ad7f-5df5-afc5-ab4c203a8b8b) Madeline and More – Giselle Renarde (#u46ad335a-2c4f-5f6c-8021-ba1f233aab31) The Billiard Room – Tabitha Rayne (#u38f80b12-ffc8-5ee5-bcb4-582b5b80a83a) Beginner’s Luck – Annabeth Leong (#litres_trial_promo) Getting Somewhere – Maxine Marsh (#litres_trial_promo) OOPS! – Flora Dain (#litres_trial_promo) Pierson’s Beautiful Cock – Ashley Hind (#litres_trial_promo) Taming Maria – Kathleen Tudor (#litres_trial_promo) The Demands of Mistress Miranda – Michael Hemmingson (#litres_trial_promo) The Belt – Elizabeth Coldwell (#litres_trial_promo) Putting on the Dog – Heather Towne (#litres_trial_promo) The Unicorn – Kyoko Church (#litres_trial_promo) More from Mischief (#litres_trial_promo) About Mischief (#litres_trial_promo) Copyright (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Ring My Bell Rose de Fer I don’t like the way he’s eyeing the ropes. No, that’s a lie. If I’m honest, I do like the way he’s eyeing the ropes. A lot. And I can’t help the little tingles of pleasure and the weakness in my knees as I imagine what he could do with them. But there’s no way I can admit that to him. No, my fantasies are my own dirty little secrets, nothing I could ever share with another person. But here’s the thing. Do I really have to admit it to him? Can’t I just feign nonchalance and pretend I’m not desperate to know how it feels to have my wrists bound and stretched up over my head, the position forcing me onto my toes? To have my ankles tied to the bedposts and my legs spread wide so I can’t close them? To have my long hair twisted and twined into an elegant knot and secured to a bar that holds my head in place? Can’t he just read my mind? If these images sound specific it’s because I’ve downloaded a few photos. Well, more than a few. Probably hundreds. I live in mortal terror of a computer crash that will send me to the data-recovery experts who will get a privileged glimpse into my private fantasy world. Or perhaps more than a glimpse. What if one of them found the pictures as arousing as I do and perused the whole extensive library? Would I be able to tell from the knowing grin as the guy handed my laptop back to me? What if he happened to be an expert rigger who was looking for someone willing to submit to his coils and knots? What if … Oh, who am I kidding? That would never happen. That’s the sort of ‘meet cute’ that only happens in cheesy romcoms. And anyway, why am I thinking about some nonexistent computer geek shibari master when Brian is weighing the lengths of spare rope in his hand and looking up at the bells like that? More to the point, why is he looking at me like that? Blushing, I avert my gaze, peering up into the tower as if I’m fascinated by the bells. In actuality what I’m fascinated by are the long ropes descending from them and held teasingly out of reach. They might be the legs of a fluffy multicoloured octopus suspended over our heads. ‘Pretty,’ I say. It’s an empty, meaningless word, just something to fill the silence. ‘Have you ever rung bells?’ Brian asks. He puts the coil of rope back on the scarred wooden table by the font and moves to my side. ‘No,’ I say. Then I remember. ‘Well, kind of. One time. When I was a kid.’ At his expectant look the embarrassing memory returns and I look down at my feet. Brian laughs. ‘You got pulled off your feet, didn’t you?’ I cover my face and nod, remembering the humiliation of the event. I’d only thought to ring the bell once and scamper away before anyone saw me. But the bell had other ideas. The vicar told me off, my sisters laughed at me and my parents looked as ashamed as if I’d spat on the altar. ‘You’re adorable when you’re embarrassed,’ Brian says, which only embarrasses me further. My face is burning. ‘So you know how to ring bells?’ I ask, desperate to change the subject. ‘I’m sure I haven’t forgotten. My uncle and I used to help ring the changes here when I was a boy.’ The image seems incongruous. Somehow I can’t picture Brian doing anything so churchy. With his ripped jeans and long hair and Celtic tattoos he seems out of place here. But perhaps he was once a rosy-cheeked choirboy, just as I was once a fresh-faced little girl in plaits. He runs a hand through his hair and I watch the simple gesture, remembering the feel of his hands on me in the club the night we met. We weren’t able to shout over the pounding dance beat but we managed to communicate well enough without our voices. And we’d spent the last few hours before the sun came up in a nearby Travelodge, where we didn’t sleep at all. Neither of us was keen to return to our respective mundane jobs in the morning but we kept each other company with rude texts throughout the day, reminiscing over our antics the night before. It kept me sane until the evening, when we could meet up again. We had dinner, then each other. I was only halfway out of the sleeves of my stretchy red top when he pushed me down on his bed and kissed me hard. In that one moment I felt a wave of excitement beyond anything I’d ever known. I was completely helpless until he drew back to strip me the rest of the way and all night I kept hoping he’d pin me down or suggest some other way of restraining me. A scene popped into my head from a film I’d seen where a man asked his lover, ‘May I blindfold you?’ ‘Don’t ask her,’ I’d moaned at the screen in frustration. ‘Just do it!’ I imagined Brian asking me politely if he might tie me up and it was like someone had thrown ice water over the fantasy. He knew my body so well already; how could he not know what was in my subby little mind? He shouldn’t need to ask; he should just know. A muffled bong snaps me out of my reverie and I blink in surprise, forgetting for a moment where I am. All those sleepless nights catching up with us, no doubt. Well, me anyway. Brian has released one of the long bell ropes and my eyes go wide as he takes hold of the fluffy grip. ‘Brian, don’t –’ But instead of the noisy clang I’m expecting, the bell only makes another soft bong. ‘It’s OK,’ he says. ‘The clappers are muffled.’ ‘So what’s the point of ringing them?’ ‘Oh, I don’t intend to ring the bells.’ Something in the way he says it makes it sound wicked. Did he really emphasise the word ‘bells’? ‘Then what …’ My voice trails off as he fishes a large key out of his pocket and heads for the door. A thousand thoughts flash through my mind at once. I’ve only known this guy for a few days and I’ve hardly slept since meeting him. He could be a psycho for all I know. He was vague about his job when I asked him what he did; maybe he doesn’t even have a job. Maybe what he does is seduce girls and suggest he show them this lovely old church, lock them in and slash them to ribbons on the altar in some blood-soaked Satanic ritual. Maybe. But somehow I don’t think so. Even if my judgement is impaired through lack of sleep, my body has its own instincts and it knows what it wants. What I want. And I want whatever he is about to do to me. I watch silently as he turns the key in the ancient door. The tumblers clank home like the lock of a jail cell and my legs begin to tremble. Then, smiling, he pockets the key and returns to where I stand beneath the raised tentacles of the bell ropes. One by one he lifts them down until the fluffy grips dangle free, encircling me. I feel like an animal caught in a brightly coloured cage. He smiles at me as he raises my right arm and loops one of the bell ropes around it. With a look he tells me to hold my arm still and I obey the wordless command, watching transfixed as he constructs a cradle with the thick rope, winding it around itself and knotting it above. I could easily slide my arm free of the loose loop but I suspect there is more to come. He does the same with my left arm and I test the strength of the ropes by gently leaning back and tugging down. The two bells I’m tethered to respond with a muffled ringing and Brian smiles. ‘Very nice,’ he says. I press forward for a kiss and he obliges me. Warm wetness pulses between my legs. All my life I’ve dreamed of an encounter like this. I’m familiar with the sensation of rope against my skin, but only from inept experimentation. On my own. It’s just not possible to tie yourself up in any convincing or arousing way without feeling a little silly or worrying what will happen if someone barges in unexpectedly. Or even worse: if you get stuck. I’ve ruined all such private moments with the ‘what if’ image of me hobbling to the phone and trying to dial 999 with my nose. Brian brings me back to the moment with another kiss. Something in his eyes says he knows my frustrations and desires. Perhaps he’s felt it too in his own way. When he pulls away at last he pushes my short skirt up around my waist. I glance nervously around, half expecting to be accosted by an outraged vicar. Is it blasphemous, what we’re doing? Even if I were one of the faithful flock I doubt I’d be bothered by this stage. Not when a lifelong fantasy is about to come true. ‘Don’t worry,’ Brian says. ‘We’re alone. I’ve locked us in.’ His words chill me as much as they reassure me. I am completely at his mercy and we’ll be undisturbed for however long he intends to play with me. He takes hold of another rope, loops it around my right thigh and pulls it taut. The tail of the rope is coarse and scratchy but the woolly handgrip is too high up for this job. The layered coils he winds around my leg create a wide band of support and I relax and watch him work. At one point he brushes the gusset of my knickers with the rope and I moan softly. Again he ties an elaborate knot somewhere out of sight above me and then he repeats the process with my left leg. Both ropes are wound several times around my upper thighs, holding me securely, but I’m not quite as trapped as I’d imagined I’d be, since I could still pull my arms free if I wanted to. He seems to read my puzzlement in my face because he gives me a wicked grin. Then he takes hold of the ends of the ropes he tied my legs with and begins to pull. And I give a startled little cry when I feel my feet lift off the stone floor. I gasp and kick my legs in surprise, losing a shoe in the process. ‘Be still,’ he says chidingly. I do as he says. I clutch the soft grips on the arm ropes and the wide loops take the weight on my underarms as the position tips me back. He raises my legs just off the floor until I’m sitting in a sort of sling. The position draws my legs apart and if I try to push them together the bells chime softly above me. ‘Comfy?’ Brian asks casually. I’m too astonished to speak. The sensation of being raised up off the floor is both scary and exciting. I make some sort of sound, a mousy little squeak he clearly knows how to read. I suspect he’s done this before. But instead of feeling jealous at the thought of past girlfriends, the idea excites me even more. I imagine him tying up a succession of girls, approving of the responses of some, finding fault with others. All at once I feel like a harem girl who dreams of being the sultan’s favourite. I am determined not to disappoint him. Like an obedient slave, I want to make him proud. Brian smiles at me and crosses to the table, where he picks up two coils of thinner rope. ‘Like I said, I used to ring the changes here when I was a boy. That meant hours of practice, often on my own. So I found ways to make it more interesting.’ He unwinds them and moves around behind me. I feel him take hold of my foot and I wiggle my toes as he slips off my remaining shoe and places it beside the other. The rope rasps against my ankle and I tremble as I stare around me at the church. I can’t help imagining rows of stern-faced parishioners sitting in the pews, turning round to look at me. I might be some innocent peasant girl on trial for witchcraft, at the mercy of the villainous witchfinder who must restrain me to do his duty. My sex throbs wildly with each fantasy as Brian knots the rope around my ankle and draws it back behind me, securing it to the rope around my thigh. Finally, with both my ankles secured, I realise I can’t close my legs at all. My knickers feel shockingly wet in the cool air of the church and I shudder in anticipation as I listen to him walking around behind me. At last he returns to face me and I wonder if he is pleased. I hang before him as though I’m kneeling in midair, my legs splayed, my crotch at the level of his chest. And all the while, the bells produce their muffled peal above us with every tiny movement I make. I wonder if anyone can hear it outside the church? He stands between my legs and gazes at my silky pink knickers. My arousal is more than obvious. With a finger he traces a line from one bent knee up along my bare thigh and across the loops of rope. I shudder with pleasure as he draws his finger up the soaked little crease. He teases me, stroking me through my sodden knickers, flicking my clit and pressing his knuckle against the warm wet centre of my sex, the place that hungers for penetration. I long for him to slip his finger underneath the elastic, to tear away the sheer material that separates us. The bells register my frustration as I twist in my bonds, straining with my hips to press harder against his questing fingers. Then he moves away and I whimper with longing, not daring to beg him or make demands. Some primal instinct tells me I must wait for his favours and rewards. Like a good little slave, I think, and the thought makes me even wetter. He returns with another rope and this one he fastens to the tangle of knots that bind my legs. It drops it down between my folded knees, where it hangs for a moment, loose and limp. But the look in his eye tells me that this rope is not as innocuous as it looks. And I understand when he swishes the frayed end of the rope through the air like a whip and then flicks it sharply against my pussy. I yelp, more out of surprise than pain. The little stroke makes my cunt throb and I hold my breath as he raises the rope again. He brings it down briskly on my swollen mound and this time I cry out in earnest. I struggle in my bonds but there’s no way I can escape the sweet torture. Again and again he inflicts it on me and each time I feel my sex burn more fiercely in response. My knickers are drenched by the time he finally stops but he isn’t finished with me yet. He draws the rope tight up against my sex and feeds it around behind me, forcing me to straddle it. He tightens it slowly, increasing the pressure until he is satisfied. The rope vibrates slightly as he secures it behind me. The pressure against my clit is immediately almost more than I can take. I whimper, writhing helplessly, but every movement only serves to increase the friction, to stimulate me further. Gasping and panting, I feel each little throb the rope forces from my tender sex. Brian’s hands reach around me from behind to clasp my breasts, and my nipples tighten like pebbles inside my T-shirt. I’m not wearing a bra and his fingers find the hard little knots and close around them, pinching them cruelly. I throw my head back and arch my back, crying out as the crotch rope presses into me again. I’m lost somewhere between pain and pleasure and I don’t know which is which any more. He drags the front of my shirt up to expose my breasts and then pulls it the rest of the way up over my head, anchoring it behind my neck so my breasts are fully on display. Goose flesh springs up along every inch of bare flesh but it’s not from the chilly air of the church. My muscles quiver, straining against the unfamiliar position. Every movement, however small, triggers an equal response from the ropes binding me. It is as though the ropes are a living creature, one that tightens its grip on me with each little struggle. Brian kneads my breasts from behind, playing with my nipples and kissing the back of my neck. My skin tingles all over and the crotch rope is in danger of wrenching a powerful climax from me already. Apparently sensing my nearness, Brian stops and loosens the rope. I whimper in protest. ‘No, no,’ he says with a chuckle. Bereft of its stimulation, my clit throbs even more insistently, its pulses so desperate they almost hurt. There is nothing in the world I want more right now than to come and I wriggle and squirm to beg for it with my body. ‘Please,’ I whisper. But he is a cruel, teasing master. ‘Not yet,’ he says firmly. The authority in his voice makes me melt and I close my eyes, abandoning myself to whatever further torments he has in mind. I’m desperate for release but at the same time I never want the moment to end. I moan with frustration until I hear the sharp snick of a blade. My heart leaps like a fish in my chest but I force myself to keep my eyes closed. He wants me to trust him and I do. Completely. ‘Stay perfectly still,’ he tells me, his voice a silky whisper in my ear. I nod to show him that I will, demonstrating with my stillness that I will do whatever he tells me, that I am completely his. There is the icy bite of cold steel against my bare thigh and I grit my teeth, willing myself to be absolutely still. He draws the blade along my trembling skin before slipping it beneath the edge of my knickers. The wispy silk falls away to one side and I writhe a little at the exposure. He slices through the other side and I am completely exposed for him. ‘Good girl,’ he says, rewarding me with the touch of his warm fingers against my swollen clit. I gasp and roll my hips, my thighs quivering and straining with the position. But the helplessness is exquisite. With both thumbs he spreads the lips of my pussy and my face burns hotly at the exposure. He teases the wet opening of my vagina and I nearly scream when he finally slips a finger inside. He swirls it around inside me and my body feels electrified. I throw my head back with a gasp and look up into the tower. If only the bells were free of their muffles; their wild jangling might serve as the voice of my body, filling the air with an unrestrained peal of ecstasy. I flash back on all the orgasms he has given me over the past few days and nights. After each I was certain there could never be another one as intense, as knee-tremblingly euphoric. And each new one proved me wrong. If I weren’t suspended as I am, I have no doubt that my legs would give way in response to what he’s doing to me now. I feel the pads of his thumbs on either side of my clit, pressing gently against it, circling it, sweeping across it. When he lowers his mouth to me I know it will only be a matter of seconds. The warm wetness of his tongue flicks across my clit as he splays my lips wide with his fingers. Then he closes his lips around me and sucks the hard little bud into his mouth. Sudden bright pain blossoms into pleasure and it takes me a moment to recover from the surge of sensation. He does it again and I feel his fingers slide closer and closer until he fills me again, this time with more than one. He draws his head back and brushes the tender head of my clit with his lips, exhaling hot breath on it before lapping gently at it again. At the same time he draws one wet finger down the dewy crease of my sex and up between my clenching cheeks. And as he tongues my clit with his fingers deep inside me, I feel him slip another finger into my arse. The combination of sensations overwhelms me and I surrender to the most powerful orgasm I’ve ever experienced. Not caring who hears, I send a wild and primal scream up into the tower. The bells may be gagged but I’m not. I thrash in my bonds, securely restrained and powerless, at the mercy of devastating waves of ecstasy. When the last little throbs finally begin to diminish, I lie panting in my cage of ropes, swaying gently back and forth as my body tingles and tiny fireworks dance behind my eyes. I let go of the fluffy grips and the ropes support me under my arms. Limp and utterly spent, I feel as weightless as an astronaut adrift in space. I could just float here forever. I don’t know how long Brian waits before speaking. Minutes? Hours? Days? I have absolutely no sense of time and I barely even recognise my own name when he says it. But I can feel my limbs beginning to protest, and the tingling eventually brings me back down to earth even though it’s the last place I want to be. I’m struggling to find words but when I see the delighted expression on Brian’s face I realise I don’t need to say anything at all. All my shame has been purged and I don’t care what a lewd exhibition I make, splayed and exposed and suspended from the bell ropes of a little village church. The pins and needles remind me that there is a price for everything and Brian holds me as he unties me and gently eases me down onto the floor. Once there, I curl into a foetal position, still buzzing from the experience. He replaces all the ropes as though concealing evidence of a crime and I close my eyes as the bells at last fall silent, their muffled peal fading with the last twinges of my climax. I think of all the pictures on my hard drive. All the elegant, artistic Japanese ones; the rough and functional damsel-in-distress ones; the rude and nasty hardcore ones. I had my favourites, of course. The reliable ones I’d return to again and again for inspiration when I clicked through them with one hand on the mouse and one on my vibrator. Suddenly they all seem bland and boring. Not a single one of them can compare to what I’ve just experienced. Rope marks are imprinted on my skin and in some places I can feel bruises. ‘Don’t worry,’ Brian says, misreading my expression. ‘They’ll fade in a few hours.’ I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him. ‘No,’ I say. ‘Promise me they never will.’ Roped In Medea Mor Emma Grafton was wrapping up the tiramisu her mother had asked her to bring when she heard her husband’s voice behind her. ‘Strip.’ She turned around, a little disbelieving. Connor stood in front of her, holding a large coil of rope in his hands. The smile playing across his lips told her he had plans for her, the kind that usually involved either tons of patience and discomfort or copious amounts of sweat and semen. Unfortunately, they didn’t have time for such plans. They were supposed to be at her parents’ in an hour, to celebrate her brother John’s thirtieth birthday. The whole extended family had been invited, and her mother had insisted that they come early. She couldn’t believe Connor had forgotten about the party, especially after she’d been slaving away in the kitchen to prepare the tiramisu that was a favourite with all her nephews and nieces. ‘You’re aware that we have to be at my parents’ in an hour, right?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice neutral. She wasn’t questioning his judgement; she was just reminding him of something that appeared to have slipped his mind. He wouldn’t take offence at that, would he? ‘Very aware,’ he assured her. He grinned at her with the nonchalance that had stolen her heart six years earlier. It still affected her today, after five years of marriage, mostly because she’d come to associate it with their weekend sexcapades. This was the grin he reserved for when he was about to do dirty things to her – the sort of things that tended to take more time than they had at present. ‘So … maybe we shouldn’t be doing this now,’ she suggested. The grin disappeared, only to be replaced with a frown. ‘Are you being contrary, Em? I thought we had rules about that.’ Oh, they had rules, all right. Rules which stated that they were equals during the week, but that she was to obey him in everything on the weekends. Generally, she loved obeying him, to the point where looking forward to the weekend had taken on an entirely different dimension since she’d met him. But this was a special circumstance. It was John’s birthday, and she didn’t want to be the person who showed up an hour late for the festivities. Not today. Lord knows she’d done it too many times in the past. However, one look at Connor’s increasingly stern face taught her the error of her ways. Whatever he had in mind, he seemed to have set his heart on it and, when Connor had set his heart on something, it was best not to mess with him. Not on a weekend, anyway. Emma had learned that to her detriment on a few occasions. She’d had trouble sitting afterwards. With a sigh, she took off the top she was wearing, then the elegant grey trousers she saved for special occasions. Her eyes were focused on Connor’s as she unfastened her bra and stepped out of her knickers. When she was naked, she assumed the position he’d taught her. Standing tall, she pulled her shoulders backwards, thus making her breasts more prominent. She pressed her heels together and did her best to lengthen her neck. Then she put her hands behind her back, assuming that Connor would want to bind them. He usually did. He surprised her, though. ‘Lift your arms sideways, feet slightly apart,’ he ordered. She obeyed, and watched with bated breath as he uncoiled the rope, a good thirty feet of thickish hemp. Hemp was tricky, she knew. It held knots extremely well, but could be abrasive, even though Connor had done his best to make it less so. She’d sat next to him as he’d burned off loose fibres and had endlessly sanded the rope in order to make it smoother. It was much smoother now than when he’d bought it, but it still irritated her skin when she struggled too much. ‘That’s the idea,’ he had explained to her with a mischievous smile when she’d had the audacity to complain. ‘To teach you motionless submission and prevent you from struggling.’ She watched a little nervously as he folded the rope in half and slid the loop around her neck. Two inches below her collarbone he tied the two lengths together in a large, flat knot. He then proceeded to tie three more roughly equidistant knots, until the rope reached her pussy, where he re-tied his most recent knot several times before he appeared to be satisfied with it. Then, smiling at her as if it was the most natural thing in the world, he slid the rope between her labia and, stepping behind her, pulled it backwards through her legs. She could feel it tightening in her crotch and arse crack as he lifted it and began to tie more knots in it behind her back. Then he looped it underneath the rope at the back of her neck, leaving her with a vertical line down both her front and her back. She knew now what he was making. It was going to be a karada, a decorative rope harness in the Japanese style. He’d practised it on her a couple of times before, on both occasions turning her into artfully trussed meat. From here, she knew, the two ends of the rope would be separated again, and each end would be wrapped around one side of her waist, weaving back and forth between the central rope on her front and the one on her back until her skin was criss-crossed with lines. There would be diamond shapes and triangles and interesting geometrical patterns. It would be a veritable piece of body art, one which no one but the two of them would ever see, but of which Connor would be rightly proud. As he walked around her, directing the ropes between and underneath her breasts to create a hemp bra, she watched his fingers, so meticulous and assured. With great dexterity, he slipped an end of the rope into the space between two knots on her belly and pulled it backwards again to loop it into a similar space on her back. He repeated this process several times, moving further down with each repetition. She watched transfixed as the diamond shapes began to take form on her belly, luxuriating in the sensual feel of the rope sliding across her skin. She’d heard karadas described as rope prisons. She herself didn’t think of them that way. To her, a karada was a caress, a hempy kiss to go with the sweet caresses Connor would occasionally bestow on her neck and breasts as he arranged and re-arranged the ropes. She relished the intimacy of the experience, the perfection of the patterns, the meditative ambience that Connor had assured her was the most important aspect of bondage. Most of all, however, she relished the way the crotch rope shifted each time he looped an end beneath it. It wasn’t long before she found herself responding to the movement, feeling chills of pleasure run up her spine with each subtle shift. And then, suddenly, Connor stopped. ‘Aren’t you … aren’t you going to bind my arms?’ she asked a little hesitantly when the harness was complete and Connor had tied the ends of the rope on her back. He looked at her, his head cocked to one side. ‘Do you really want me to deliver you at your parents’ doorstep naked and with your arms tied behind your back?’ She chuckled at the notion, a little embarrassed. ‘No, I guess not. But what …?’ Her voice trailed off as she saw his face. ‘You’re going to go to your parents wearing this karada under your clothes, to remind you that you are bound and bonded to me, and that only I can set you free. You’re going to feel my hand on you even when I’m not physically touching you. And wait …’ He walked to the dinner table and came back with a pair of nipple clamps that he had apparently removed from his toolbox while she’d been busy wrapping up her four bowls of tiramisu. To her relief, they were tweezer clamps, which weren’t too painful. Of course, their relative painlessness did have a downside, which was that Connor often made her wear them for several hours on end, which was uncomfortable. She waited patiently as he played with one of her nipples to make it stiff, then attached a clamp and slid the ring sideways to determine the amount of pressure. He repeated the process with the other nipple. Then he stepped back to admire her from a little distance, looking satisfied with his own work. ‘Yes, that will do nicely. Now go and get dressed. The purple skirt, I think. A top that fully covers the harness. No underwear, no stockings. And don’t put up your hair. I want it down.’ She nodded respectfully and spoke the words he wanted to hear whenever he gave her a direct order. ‘Yes, Connor.’ Once in the bedroom, she found the loose purple skirt he had specified, plus a thick black sweater which she thought would do a good job of hiding the harness underneath. As she slipped into the skirt, the crotch rope dug into her arse crack, an unsubtle reminder of its existence. For the time being, though, the nipple clamps were a greater source of discomfort than the harness. When she was fully dressed, she turned around in front of the mirror to see if the rope and clamps were visible underneath her clothes. After satisfying herself that they weren’t, she went back into the living room and presented herself to Connor, who subjected her to an equally thorough examination. ‘OK,’ he judged eventually. ‘Now let’s get on the road.’ As she slid into the passenger seat, Emma once again felt the rope dig into her crotch, a feeling that was both uncomfortable and surprisingly pleasant. With a start, she realised that the bottom knot was right on her clit. No doubt that was intentional. Connor wouldn’t have redone that knot several times if he hadn’t intended it to be exactly where it was. ‘How long will I be wearing this?’ she asked, trying to hide her excitement by making small talk. ‘For the duration of the party and our drive back. Unless you’re bad, in which case I’ll let you wear it until bedtime.’ Until bedtime. It was a scary thought. Emma didn’t think she could wear the harness that long. At some point the hemp would start chafing, and possibly even rupture her skin. ‘For my information, what constitutes being bad?’ ‘Anything that goes against my wishes. Listen to my instructions and you’ll be fine.’ So there would be instructions. Bad ones, most likely. The prospect intimidated her a little, but it also sent a thrill of excitement through her. She remained quiet for the next ten minutes, aware of nothing so much as the knot between her labia. It was right on her clit, and every time she shifted, it pressed down on her like Connor’s fingers, except a little drier and itchier. The hemp felt harsh on her tender flesh, but not unpleasantly so. Feeling experimental, she tilted her pelvis a little, trying to get the knot where she wanted it to be. A thrill shot through her as it hit the right spot. She tried it again, with the same result. Soon she was rotating her pelvis in a series of rhythmic movements, so small that they were barely visible to the human eye. Except to Connor’s, obviously. ‘Enjoying yourself?’ he asked, looking sideways at her. Judging from his smirk, he knew exactly what she was doing. He always did. Undoubtedly he’d been waiting for her to do this, for her to discover the self-pleasuring properties of the rope. No doubt he was hoping to have her randy as fuck by the time they reached her parents’. A little shamefully, she had to admit that it was a distinct possibility. ‘It’s … interesting,’ she said. She slumped in her seat, which made the rope grow a little tauter between her legs, then brought her pelvis upwards a little. She could barely suppress a moan as the hemp tightened over her clit. Connor grinned. ‘I’m going to have fun watching you this afternoon. Seeing you get yourself off while chatting with your uncles … I’ll gladly suffer your mum’s food for the pleasure of that.’ ‘That’s because you’re a horrible sadist,’ she answered, shifting ever so slightly against the rope. He just laughed at her. ‘Too right, sister. Don’t you forget it.’ * * * As she had expected, Emma was half mad with desire by the time they arrived at her childhood home. She felt a little embarrassed as she congratulated her brother and watched him unwrap the present she’d bought him, a set of Blu-rays of films he’d loved as a child and had said he’d love to watch with his own children. The paranoiac in her was certain that he could smell her arousal or, failing that, would notice she wasn’t wearing any underwear, or that there was a chain dangling between her nipples. Who knows, he might even hear some rustling as her thick sweater interacted with the hemp harness underneath. She couldn’t hear it herself, but his ears had always been sharper than hers. However, if John noticed anything out of the ordinary, he didn’t let on. Nor did her father, who had an uncanny knack of spotting things that she felt self-conscious about, and a nasty habit of pointing them out in public. Nobody at the party said anything about her looking unusual or uncomfortable; if anything, they seemed to think she was looking healthy and rosy. But, although they didn’t seem to notice anything, she was very much aware of Connor’s amused glances, and that they made her every bit as wet as the rope and clamps she was wearing. She soon learned to move as little as possible, so as to prevent the rope from chafing her skin and the chain between her nipples from visibly moving under her clothes. She spent at least half an hour rooted to the same spot, waiting for other people to come to her rather than the other way around. Eventually, though, she had to leave her spot and mingle. It would be rude not to. As she flitted around the room, chatting now with a cousin, now with an aunt, she was aware of Connor’s eyes following her. He smiled every time she shifted her position ever so slightly in an effort to get the knot on her clit in the right spot. He shook his head almost imperceptibly as she scratched herself under a breast, surreptitiously trying to displace the itchy rope that was digging into her skin. He grinned sardonically whenever she glared at him, telling him with her eyes how hard she was finding his torment. And, judging from the bulge in his jeans, he found her predicament as arousing as she did. Finally, when she found herself without a conversation partner for a moment, he sauntered over to her, turning his back to the other people in the room to hide his erection from view. ‘I bet you’re sopping fucking wet,’ he said under his breath as he handed her a glass of wine. She coloured, hoping that no one would have heard the words. ‘Well? You’re dripping, aren’t you?’ She nodded, speechlessly. ‘Tell me,’ he instructed her. ‘I … I’m wet, Connor.’ She glanced around, checking whether any of her relatives were within earshot. Only Aunt Muriel and Uncle Fred seemed to be close enough to be able to hear them, but thankfully, they gave no indication of having overheard anything they shouldn’t have. Her words weren’t good enough for Connor, though. He wanted details, as he always did. ‘Tell me how wet you are, Emma.’ Flames erupted in her cheeks. She didn’t want to be having this conversation in public. It was too embarrassing. And yet she couldn’t deny that it was turning her on immensely, as Connor would undoubtedly have known. ‘I’m … I’m very wet, Connor.’ ‘I suspected as much,’ he answered smugly. ‘Tell me, my little slut. Are you so wet your juices are running down your thighs?’ Her mouth went as dry as her pussy was wet. She couldn’t believe he was doing this to her at a family get-together. She couldn’t believe that he had the audacity to be having this conversation in front of so many people, and that she was actually indulging him. ‘Yes.’ ‘Tell me.’ ‘I … I’m so wet it’s running down my thighs, Connor.’ She whispered the last few words in a voice so low that it was barely audible. ‘Show me.’ She stared at him, not believing her ears. ‘I said: show me. Find yourself a quiet spot, stick your hand between your thighs and show me how wet you are.’ She let out an involuntary groan. ‘Connor …’ ‘No remonstrations. Go touch yourself, Emma, then show me your hand. Show me what a dirty girl you are.’ Just then, she felt a trickle run down her left thigh, agonisingly slowly but surely. It was ridiculous how wet Connor’s games made her. ‘Now, Emma.’ She sighed, then took a few sips of wine for extra courage. With her heart pounding in her chest, she put down her glass and made for the toilet, brushing off the two nieces who accosted her. Once inside the small cubicle, she lifted her skirt and put her right hand between her legs. She didn’t even have to push the rope aside to feel how extraordinarily wet she was; she could feel the cool moisture pooling on her inner thigh. She ran her hand through it, then pulled her skirt down with her other hand. When she emerged from the toilet, her cheeks were aflame, burning at the thought of what she was about to do. She walked over to Connor, relieved that he had removed himself from the crowd. He was standing at the table, helping himself to some of the finger food her mother would have spent hours preparing. She held up her hand for him to see. With a bit of luck, she hoped, it would look from a distance like she was showing him a ring. He inspected her hand, then her face. ‘So fucking wet,’ he murmured appreciatively. ‘Go on, lick your fingers, you little tart. Clean those dirty fingers.’ Again, she couldn’t help staring at him. ‘Lick your fingers for me, Emma,’ he repeated in mock exasperation. ‘Stick your fingers in your mouth and lick them clean for me, one by one.’ She noticed with some alarm that he wasn’t even trying to keep his voice down. It was a good thing no one was within five yards of them, or they would have heard his order, loud and clear. There was nothing for it. She stuck her index finger in her mouth and licked it, slowly and methodically. She experienced the taste of herself on her tongue, a little salty but not disagreeable. It was the taste of her submission, a taste she fully associated with Connor. No other man had ever made her taste herself. No other man had ever got her to do the things he did. Without taking her eyes off him, she licked her middle finger, then her ring finger, lingering a little longer over her fingertips. She tried not to think of what the other people in the room might be thinking if they happened to be watching her. She tried to ignore the flood between her legs, as well. ‘Good girl,’ said Connor softly when she had withdrawn the last finger from her mouth. ‘I bet you’re twice as wet now as before you went to the loo, aren’t you?’ You have no idea, she thought. She was so wet that she could feel a steady trickle down her left thigh. If this went on much longer, her wetness would start showing under her skirt. Either that or people would start smelling her arousal from across the room. ‘Do you want me to fuck you?’ Connor whispered. ‘Do you want me to shove my hard cock between your dripping thighs?’ Her heart stopped a moment. With a flash, she realised that this was what he’d intended all along – to fuck her at the parents’, after getting her all worked up without anyone even being aware of it. She also realised she’d never needed to be fucked more badly. She needed his cock, pounding her into submission. She needed it now. ‘Yes, please, Connor,’ she whispered. She couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes. He lifted her chin with a fingertip, forcing her to look up at him. ‘Beg me for it,’ he commanded. ‘Beg me to fuck you, you dirty little slut.’ Her mind went blank. She was reduced to nothing but the throb between her legs, an ache that urgently needed a release. ‘Please fuck me,’ she whispered. ‘Please give me your cock, Connor. I need it.’ He grinned. ‘Go upstairs, to your old room. Bend over your desk and lift your skirt. Part your legs. Wait for me.’ She did as he told her. As she climbed the stairs, the rope between her legs dug into her cunt, making her clit pulse like a sore tooth. It was an uncomfortable feeling, but she’d never been randier in her life. Her childhood room hadn’t changed much since the last time she’d seen it. The only difference she noticed at first glance was a pair of suitcases in the corner next to her bed and the stacks of books her parents had placed on her desk. They seemed to have decided to turn her room into a storage space for things that didn’t fit elsewhere in the house. She placed half of the books on the floor beside the desk, and pushed the others to the side. Then she bent over the desk, wincing as the rope grew even tauter between her thighs. There’d be some abrasions there the next day, she suspected. Her nipples, too, began to throb even more furiously, as they always did when she bent forwards while clamped. No doubt that was part of the reason why Connor liked having her bend over for him. Knowing him, he’d probably yank the chain between her nipples while fucking her, making her whole body explode with pain and desire. Propped up on her left elbow, she extended her right arm behind her to lift her skirt and pull it over her back. Then she waited, clenching her thighs rhythmically to hold on to the immense throb inside her. Connor kept her waiting for a long time. Throughout the wait she wondered if he’d been drawn into a conversation by one of her relatives or if he was just testing her patience. She was painfully aware that he was very much the kind of sadist who’d keep her waiting just because he could. When she eventually heard footsteps ascending the stairs, she had an irrational fear that it would be her mother, or the nieces who had tried to ambush her earlier. What would they say if they found her like this, greeting them with the sight of her sopping, rope-bisected pussy? She couldn’t begin to imagine the embarrassment, the mortification. No doubt her mother would press her to seek a divorce from Connor at once. Thankfully, the footsteps turned out to belong to Connor. He whistled softly as he entered the room, then closed the door behind him. ‘Wow, look at you, Emma. What a gorgeous sight.’ She knew what would happen next. He’d position himself behind her and make endless comments on her appearance, her wetness, her shame. He’d prod her and inspect her, taking his time to do so, while she was burning up, waiting for him finally to give her what she so desperately needed. That was their ritual. The prospect of it frustrated her, but she couldn’t deny it turned her on beyond reason. True to form, Connor slid his fingers along the rope that was splitting her pussy, inspecting the results of his elegant torture device. ‘Fuck, you’re wet. You can’t wait to have my cock in there, can you, dirty girl?’ He softly pulled on the rope, making it dig into her flesh even deeper. ‘The rope is soaked. I’ll have to wash it tonight. I may have to punish you for that, Em.’ So unfair. And yet such an utterly delectable prospect. ‘Or alternatively, I may make you wash the rope yourself, to give you a proper appreciation for how insanely wet you get when I tie you up. Would you like that, kitten?’ She couldn’t restrain herself any more. ‘Please, Connor …’ ‘Please what, kitten? “Please let me wash the rope I’ve soiled with my filthy pussy juice”?’ His hand glided upwards, to her bottom, away from the spot where she wanted it to be. ‘You know what I mean,’ she muttered, a little exasperated. She’d had enough of the foreplay and the shaming. She needed him to fuck and finger her senseless. ‘I have no idea. You’ll have to be much more explicit, kitten.’ He patted her backside as if it was a small child in need of some encouragement. She nearly groaned in frustration. ‘Please fuck me, Connor,’ she begged. ‘Please fuck me into oblivion.’ He chuckled. ‘That desperate, eh? All right, you filthy hussy. I’ll give you what you want. But first we’ll get rid of these nasty clamps, shall we?’ He pulled down her skirt, and his hands crept under her sweater, hot and searching. With a dexterity born of experience, they loosened the clamps before taking them off altogether. The pressure on her nipples disappeared, but as the blood flowed back into them they tingled with lingering sensation, a throb that was even more painful than when the clamps had been on. She squirmed against the table, shocked by the pain, but also by how much her body seemed to crave it. She was still squirming when Connor pulled down her sweater and lifted her skirt over her back again. The next moment she heard the sounds she’d been waiting for. His belt being undone. His jeans and underwear being pulled down in one swift movement. He put a hand on her hip, then hooked a finger of his other hand under the taut crotch rope and pulled it aside, exposing her slick entrance. She felt the rope dig into the tender skin where her groin met her thigh, but ignored the sensation. The rope was not what mattered now. Her newly exposed entrance was. He didn’t even bother to open her up with his fingers. He just put his cockhead against her opening and pushed it in. She was so wet that he nearly slid out before he was properly inserted, but a second hard thrust solved the problem. No sooner was he inside her than she forgot all about the abrasive rope and the dull ache in her nipples. All that mattered was the cock that was claiming her, giving her what she needed. He drove into her aggressively, his hands gripping her hips tightly. His hard loins whacked against her buttocks, making an obscene sound that she was sure could be heard outside the room. If anyone were to come upstairs now, they’d have no doubt as to what was happening in her old room. As Connor rammed himself to her depths, pushing her a little further into bliss with each stroke, she found herself moaning despite her fear of being heard. She couldn’t help it; he always had that effect on her. This time, though, he didn’t seem to want to be heard. ‘Quiet,’ he groaned as he ground his pelvis against her arse. His next thrust was so hard she actually let out a small shriek, provoking Connor to give her another warning. ‘Be quiet, or I’ll let you wear this for the rest of the day, until we go to bed,’ he hissed. ‘I warned you about that, didn’t I?’ She didn’t answer. Instead, she rode back against him, shifting her buttocks towards him in anticipation of his delicious thrusts. ‘I asked you a question, Em. Did I or did I not warn you about wearing this all day if you disobeyed me?’ He punctuated the word ‘disobeyed’ with a ferocious thrust that had her thighs banging against the desk. She could feel the wood digging into her flesh, another indentation to add to the ones created by the rope. ‘Yes, Connor,’ she managed. ‘You did warn me. I’ll try to be … quieter.’ ‘Good. Now finger yourself, slut. Go on, show me how hard you need to come.’ Her fingers flew to her clit, eager to finish the job started by the rope. As he gripped her hips and shoved into her again, she worked her cunt feverishly, in time with his raw thrusts. Gradually, her orgasm built, coming closer with each stroke of his thick cock, each single flick of her fingers. Just then, he twisted his fingers into her hair, pulling her head backwards to him. The pressure on her scalp was enough to bring her to the edge. ‘Oh, God,’ she moaned. ‘God, Connor …’ He pulled harder, as if to punish her. ‘That’s it, you noisy slut. You’ll be wearing this for the rest of the day. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ She didn’t care. All she wanted was to come, right there and then. ‘Please … Please, Connor …’ ‘Come,’ he commanded. ‘Come all over my cock.’ He shoved into her again, and the next moment her release exploded through her, all the more intense for having been so long in the making. The muscles in her cunt tightened around him, squeezing his erection. Her whole body went weak, and she was wrenched by the contractions of one of the most powerful orgasms she’d ever experienced. She just managed to swallow the shriek which had been building inside her throat, fearful of what might happen if she let it out. No sooner had she come than Connor eased his cock from her body. ‘On your knees,’ he commanded, his voice hoarse with urgency. She dropped to her knees, ignoring the rope that dug violently into her groin as she did so, and opened her mouth for him. As he jerked himself off in front of her, she couldn’t wait to see him explode onto her tongue. She wanted to see the tremor in his thighs just before his semen spurted out of him, just before … He shot his load into her. She could feel it pool on her tongue and lips, all soft and runny, and only just managed to resist the urge to swallow it before he was fully done. Eventually, though, she did swallow, feeling the semen go down her throat like a spoonful of salty jelly. His hands tightened in her hair as she sucked his cock dry of its final oozings, cleaning him as she’d like to be cleaned herself. Not for the first time, she realised that she loved his hand in her hair, loved the possessiveness of his claiming her like that. Even more than this ropes, her hair was her leash, the one with which he enforced her absolute obedience. When she’d got to her feet, he placed the rope between her labia again and helped make her look presentable, pulling down her skirt and smoothing her hair as best he could. ‘That was sensational,’ he whispered as he put his lips to her forehead. ‘I look forward to seeing what the evening will bring.’ The evening. With a pang, Emma realised she’d be wearing the harness for the remainder of the day. Six more hours until bedtime. Six more hours of this itchy, uncomfortable torment, which was leaving marks on her body that would take hours to fade. Oddly, the thought didn’t bother her. As they descended the stairs, ready to mingle with her relatives again, she felt the excitement of anticipation settle over her like a fever. The evening wasn’t over yet. It was only just beginning, and it was going to be fun. She knew it in the itchy spots beneath the rope, where wisdom lay. Madeline and More Giselle Renarde Madeline chain-smoked two packs a day. Used to be three, but she cut down because she didn’t want her skin to start looking like a catcher’s mitt. She reminded me of a white witch. Her hair was long and straggly, and she always had on wispy skirts that brushed her ankles. She usually wore white or grey, or shades of blue and green. Never black, except on stage, which struck me as strange because she was famous for writing requiems. To look at her, you’d never guess Madeline was a world-famous composer. But I guess people have outdated ideas of what composers look like. The first year our choir collaborated with Madeline, I remember the other sopranos asking, ‘How does such beautiful music come out of such a hag?’ That hurt me, right to my core, because I thought Madeline was gorgeous. For four years she’d been writing original choral music for us to premiere at our annual Christmas concert. Having the words ‘World Premiere’ on the programme certainly helped to put bums in the seats, but I knew she only helped us along because she was sleeping with our choirmaster Diana. Their relationship was brutally obvious. But something was different this year. When Madeline arrived to hear how we were faring with the new piece, she seemed even more aloof than usual. She swept down the centre aisle of the creepy old church where we rehearsed and threw her purse and her bags on the front pew. She didn’t give Diana the usual big hug and kiss. In fact, she didn’t so much as glance in our choirmaster’s direction. Something was very, very different. Had they broken up? Oh, the thought made my belly flip. Right away, my mind shot to the possibility of being Madeline’s next conquest. My hands were shaking as I took Madeline’s original setting of ‘Balulalow’ from my music folder. The piece hadn’t yet been published, and the vocal score was handwritten. So were the words: Oh my dere hert, young Jesu sweit, Prepare thy creddil in thy spreit, And I sall rock thee to my hert, To my hert … And never mair from thee depart. Oh, Madeline’s handwriting! Madeline’s fingers had penned this music, written out those words. Everything that came from her was special and exciting, even a song that had been set famously by Britten and God knows how many other composers. She sat like a bag lady in the front pew as we sang her work back to her. It was magic. I felt that way about most Christmas songs, but Madeline’s new creations brought me to a higher plane of existence. I’d never been a super-religious person, but I’d always loved the focus on music that came about this time of year. The old songs were my favourites, and Madeline’s always sounded old even though they were new. My heart raced as we closed off that final melancholy chord. This wasn’t a happy song. Moving, yes, but not celebratory. There was a sense of devotion, of submission. We singers gave ourselves over to the piece as it became a part of us. It was truly an experience of giving in, handing ourselves to Madeline and letting ourselves belong to her. But what did she think of our performance? For a moment, she said nothing, did nothing. And then she brought her hands together. She stood and bowed to us, saying, ‘Thank you all.’ Her voice was deep and husky from all the years of smoking. She was a choral composer who couldn’t sing her own music. She gave us a few corrections. Some of our pronunciations were too modern but that wouldn’t be difficult to change. The main difference was that she wanted to make ‘And never mair from thee depart’ into a solo soprano line, underscored by the basses and tenors. ‘Eva can do it,’ Diana offered, and my spine stiffened when I heard my name. ‘OK,’ I said, feeling the other sopranos sneer. ‘I’d love to.’ We all changed our scores. I sang for Madeline and when my voice rang out over the rest of the choir, she smiled. I’d done it. She’d noticed me. We made a connection in that moment, eye to eye, mouth to ear. That moment changed everything. I stuck around after rehearsal, trying to work up the courage to congratulate Madeline on such a glorious piece. The thought of actually talking to her made me so nervous I had to run to the bathroom. When I returned, my fellow choristers were gone, but I heard two raised voices coming from the room where the church stored choir robes and old furniture, stuff like that. I knew those voices. Madeline was shouting, ‘Take it! I don’t want it any more!’ ‘I bought all that for us,’ Diana cried. ‘If there is no us, I don’t want it either.’ I couldn’t help wondering what they were fighting over. My curiosity got the best of me, I suppose, because I came so close to the door I wound up pressing it open with my chest. Madeline and Diana both looked up when the door squeaked. There was nowhere to hide. They’d seen me. Diana shook her head and stormed past me, yelling, ‘Keep it all or burn it. What do I care?’ I hoped Madeline wasn’t mad at me for breaking up their spat. Some people really got off on arguing. But she didn’t seem upset. She stared right through me, standing perfectly still except for her thumb, which rolled a silver ring in circles around her middle finger. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I just wanted to tell you how much I love your music.’ She looked up and jolted a bit, like she was surprised to see me there. ‘Oh. Thank you.’ ‘It’s an honour to be given a solo.’ ‘Good.’ Madeline looked frazzled and frail, and I wished I could do something about that. When she looked at me, I felt like she was staring at a painting, not a person. Finally, she shook her head and her hair exploded around her face. ‘I’m sorry. Where are my manners? It’s very nice to meet you.’ She extended her hand and I whispered, ‘Eva.’ There was more silver than flesh on her fingers, but her palm was smooth and cool. Mine was clammy, but she didn’t react. ‘I always look forward to our Christmas concert because I know I’ll get to see you again.’ At first, she didn’t react except to nod slowly. Even when she said thank you, I wasn’t sure if she’d heard me. ‘The Christmas songs you write for us are magnificent,’ I said, still hoping to get some reaction. Most women would have given up by now, but Madeline was worth the persistence. I thought she might say thank you again, but instead she dropped one hand into a bag and pulled out a length of thick black rope. ‘Have you ever been tied up?’ That question threw me for a loop, but I answered truthfully. ‘Well … yes.’ ‘In a church?’ she asked. ‘Oh. Well … no.’ ‘Come here,’ she said, wriggling one silver-ringed finger at me. ‘Take off your clothes and get up on this desk.’ I’d thought maybe I hadn’t communicated how much of a crush I had on her, but she obviously knew. She knew I’d do anything to make her happy, especially when she wore her melancholy like a veil. I stepped out of my frumpy corduroy pants. ‘Festive,’ Madeline said as I tore off my holly-patterned turtleneck. I felt a little silly, wearing cheery Christmas clothes while Madeline was draped in grey. I felt a lot less silly once I was naked. There’s something very serious about nudity, especially when you’re in a church. ‘Use “yellow light” for slow down, “red light” to stop,’ she instructed as I climbed up on the big wooden desk. ‘You know it’s not smart to give yourself to strangers, don’t you?’ ‘You don’t feel like a stranger,’ I told her. ‘Your music’s already inside me.’ She didn’t smile, not with her mouth, but a flash of light blazed across her eyes. She told me what to do: sit with both feet up on the desk. Bring my heels in nice and close to my butt cheeks. Place my wrists next to my ankles. I did everything she asked without question, and I waited patiently as she sorted through the lengths of silky black rope. When they met my skin, I shuddered internally. It felt so good, not only the sensation of rope on flesh, but the knowledge that Madeline was looking at my naked body and thinking about where to tie, where to create those bonds. She started by securing my wrists to my ankles, then wrapping that lovely rope around my calf, around my thigh, keeping my knees bent. But how to keep my legs apart? I’m sure that’s what she was thinking, because the next thing she did was tie another rope around my lower thigh and weave it behind my shoulder, then down my other arm to secure it just above the knee. Now my legs were open for her, and the more I leaned back, the wider they spread. ‘Can you move?’ she asked. ‘No.’ I really couldn’t. I could wriggle my fingers and my toes, but that was it. ‘Thank you.’ ‘Ahh,’ Madeline cooed, finally breaking a slight smile. ‘The pleasure is mine.’ I wished I could see myself from her perspective: bound on a desk, legs spread wide, naked pussy drooling and exposed. Did I look too hairy? It had certainly been a while since I’d trimmed down there. And what about my breasts? The right nipple always got much harder than the left one. Would Madeline care that I was so … imperfect? ‘I’m glad you enjoy my music,’ Madeline said. ‘I’m glad you create it.’ Stupid thing to say, but it was hard to think on my feet when they were tied to my wrists. ‘Can I sing it for you?’ She laughed and pulled a strip of black fabric from one of her break-up bags. ‘Why not?’ I sang her setting of ‘Balulalow’ while she blindfolded me. It didn’t have the same effect without the whole choir, but the soprano line carried the melody. Strangely, I felt more naked singing for Madeline than I felt being naked, or being tied up with ropes for that matter. Music was such a brutal art. Vocal music, especially. Even when it was desperately beautiful, it still tore through your body like lightning. ‘Do you trust me?’ she asked when I’d finished her song. ‘Yes.’ No hesitation. ‘God only knows why,’ she said. ‘But you truly do trust me?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Then drink this.’ She held a bottle to my lip, but didn’t tilt it right away. She gave me a chance to ask what it was, but I didn’t. In this game, if you trusted your partner you didn’t question their actions or requests. You did as you were told. I drank, and my throat flooded with fresh water. It soothed more than just my vocal cords. That simple action told me Madeline took her duty of care seriously. She would not hurt me, though I couldn’t move or see. I already trusted her. Now I knew that trust was not misplaced. ‘It’s important for a singer to keep hydrated,’ she told me. ‘And never, never smoke. Do you smoke?’ ‘No,’ I said. ‘That’s good. It probably costs me a thousand dollars in cigarettes to write one opus. And it’ll kill me one day. Never start, because once you start you can’t stop.’ ‘Just like this,’ I said, hoping she’d know I meant the power exchange, domination and submission. Of course she understood. She chuckled deeply and said, ‘This I wouldn’t give up for the world.’ ‘Me neither.’ The scent of smoked cigarettes on her skin struck me more deeply now that I couldn’t see. Blindfolds always augmented my sense of smell, not to mention my sense of anticipation. I could hear her rifling around in those bags, but I couldn’t see what she had in hand. Even as she pulled a chair in close and sat between my legs, I couldn’t guess what she was about to do. Would she lick me? Would she shove something in my pussy? What was she planning? ‘Your nipples,’ she asked. ‘Are they sensitive?’ I gulped. ‘Yes.’ ‘One is harder than the other.’ Of course she had to notice that. ‘I know.’ ‘Do they enjoy being clamped?’ ‘I don’t know if they do,’ I said. ‘But I certainly enjoy it.’ I laughed, but she didn’t. The clamps met my nipples at exactly the same time, squeezing my poor tits with dull metal teeth. Every sensation was sharper, crisper than when I could see. My temporary blindness brought out beauty in pain. ‘How’s that?’ she asked. ‘Not too much?’ ‘Not too much.’ Not yet, anyway. ‘How sensitive is your clit?’ she asked. Oh, God! I could already feel the pain from my nipples streaking down between my legs, glowing at the apex of my pussy. ‘It’s always more sensitive when I’ve got clamps on my nipples,’ I said. She chuckled, and it sounded like a deep feline purr. ‘Good.’ I heard the mechanical whirr of a vibrator and seconds later it was teasing my pussy lips. Oh, she was good. She knew not to start with my clit. It would have been too much of a shock. Instead she worked her way all around my pussy, stopping just short of my throbbing bud every time. The vibrator felt super-smooth, and it picked up pussy juice as it circled me, spreading that slick stuff all around. I couldn’t believe how wet I’d become, but bondage always did that for me. The second I felt a smooth, thick rope against my flesh, I was ready. My breasts tingled and my pussy throbbed. ‘You should see how red your clit looks right now.’ Madeline pressed the head of her fake cock just inside my hole, just enough that I could feel its vibrations riding up toward my apex. If I hadn’t been tied in knots, I would have thrashed about, maybe even knocked myself off the desk. There were so many reasons to love being bound. One of the best, aside from giving over personal power to another human being, was the sensation in my muscles when I fought my ties and lost. ‘Is your pussy tight?’ Madeline asked. She could obviously feel my resistance. ‘Yes.’ I hugged the vibe with my pussy muscles to show her just how tight I was. ‘And how does your pussy taste?’ she asked as she forced the fake cock deep inside my cunt. ‘Is your pussy sweet?’ Was Madeline going to try it? Oh, I’d give anything to be licked by that woman! ‘It’s sweet,’ I said. ‘Sweet like honey. Want a taste?’ Something smacked my breast – an open hand? – and my nipple clamps dug into my flesh. My body sizzled, inside and out. I shrieked. I couldn’t help it. ‘I’m sorry,’ I told her. ‘I shouldn’t have offered. I shouldn’t have assumed.’ She chuckled, and it put me at ease that Madeline hadn’t spanked my tits in anger. It was simply a punishment, and one I rightly deserved. ‘I’m not going to taste your pussy,’ she said. I couldn’t mask my disappointment, and I earned myself another tit-slap that way. The clamps bit down on my nipples, and that pain throbbed in my clit. It hurt so much I screamed, but not so much that I gave her the red light. Suddenly my pussy was empty and the vibrator was forcing its way between my lips. I’d never had a vibe in my mouth before. I’d sucked a strap-on dildo once, down on my knees, giving it the best blowjob I could manage, but this was different. The strong vibrations made my teeth rattle, but I sucked until my lips went numb. ‘Tell me how your pussy tastes,’ Madeline cooed. Her deep, sensual voice was one of her most attractive features. It tied my belly in knots. ‘Tastes good,’ I said around the thick vibe. She shoved the cock in a little deeper, coating my throat with the heavy musk of my pussy. I tried not to gag. I wanted her to know I could take just about anything. That’s when I heard the squeal of the door. On a gust of wind, I could smell Diana’s lilac perfume and without thinking I blurted her name. Of course, my voice was muffled by the vibrating cock lodged in my throat, but I could feel Madeline’s tension as she turned. Even blindfolded, I could see everything that passed between them. I felt every little moment, every drop of pain and desperation. Poor Diana! I felt just awful that she’d walked in on this scene. Even if their relationship was well and truly over, they obviously still loved each other. ‘I’m sorry!’ I cried around the buzzing cock, but the door closed and there was only quiet. When Madeline took the clamps off my nipples and the vibrator out of my mouth, I said it again. ‘I’m sorry.’ ‘There’s no need,’ Diana said, and I would have jumped if I hadn’t been bound at every angle. She’d closed the door, but stayed in the room. Of course – I could smell her perfume, even sweeter now. Madeline told her to sit, and I felt Diana’s energy move lower. Her knees cracked as she bent all the way down. ‘Stay silent,’ Madeline said. ‘Be good and I’ll give you a treat.’ It was strange, imagining my strict choirmaster under anyone’s thumb, but there she was on the floor, playing puppy to Madeline. I hadn’t felt weird about Madeline seeing me naked, but my tummy tossed when I pictured Diana staring up at my body bound in black ropes. Was she looking between my legs, or gawking at my tits? Or was she gazing adoringly at Madeline? That’s what I’d have been doing, if it were me. ‘Have you ever used a pussy pump, Eva?’ A pussy pump? ‘No, never.’ ‘Diana,’ she said. ‘Find it.’ While my choirmaster hunted through the bags, Madeline filled my throat with more soothing water. I loved this part of submission. I loved being able to count on someone to take care of my basic needs, physical and emotional. Diana pulled something from a bag and Madeline gasped. ‘Ooh, yes, put that on, Diana. Did you find the pump?’ ‘Right here.’ Madeline made a sound like ‘mmmm’ and I got so excited my muscles all started to twitch. She laughed, throaty and dark, as she cupped the pussy pump over my mound. ‘This usually works better on a shaved pussy, but we’ll try it out just to see.’ Diana chuckled in the background, and I felt so ashamed of my hair I wanted to run and hide. No luck. I was stuck there on that desk. I’d given myself over to Madeline and she could do whatever she wanted with me now. ‘What does it look like?’ I asked, because I knew so little about pussy pumps. ‘The cup looks quite like an anaesthetist’s mask, except the plastic is entirely clear and it covers your cunt, not your mouth.’ Madeline’s frigid lust filled me as she spoke. ‘Diana will hold it in place while I pump, and that will draw your flesh into the cup like a vacuum.’ I heard the pump wheeze in Madeline’s hand a few times before I felt any suction. My knees were beginning to ache from being locked in this awkward position, but I wouldn’t complain. I focused on the pressure my favourite composer was generating between my open legs. It seemed more like a dream than real life. Either my choirmaster was pressing the cup harder against my mound, or the suction from the pump was taking hold. Ooh, yes, I could feel it now. Every time Madeline squeezed the pump and it made that stifled wheezing sound, my pussy felt more pressurised. It was sort of like getting my clit sucked, except the pump acted on more than just my clit. The cup encompassed my entire mound, all the way around my fleshy pussy lips. I imagined this was how it felt to get sucked by an Amazon, one so huge she could stretch her lips all the way over my cunt. ‘Her pussy’s getting so red!’ Diana cried, even though Madeline had told her to stay silent. Madeline didn’t chastise her for speaking, but merely asked, ‘Can you feel it, Eva? Does it feel good?’ ‘Yes,’ I panted. The slow sucking was catching up with me, and I could feel an orgasm swirling at the base of my belly. The pump wasn’t familiar, but it was certainly effective. ‘Tell Eva how her pussy looks now,’ Madeline told Diana. The suction grew so strong my pussy lips felt huge inside the pump cup. ‘It’s swollen,’ Diana said. ‘Her pussy is almost purple. Her clit’s like a cherry.’ Those words made me writhe against my bindings, but there was no escape. I wanted to fuck something, grind on something. The pump made me hot and horny and super-sensitive, but it wouldn’t let me come. God, I wanted to come! ‘Take off her blindfold, Diana.’ When Diana removed the satin slip from my eyes, I gasped at what she was wearing: no frumpy choir conductor outfit, not any more. She’d changed into leather pants and a black bustier that scarcely concealed her striking breasts. Diana always wore vests to choir rehearsals. I’d never really thought of her as having breasts at all. Madeline was still pumping me, and every squeeze was now intolerably tight. My pussy lips felt huge enough to break the plastic cup, and when she removed it Diana held a mirror between my legs so I could see. ‘That’s me?’ I asked, as if it could be anyone else. ‘That’s you,’ Madeline answered. My pussy lips looked enormous, and they really were swollen and reddish-purple, just like Diana had said. They didn’t look real. In fact, the sight of my pussy like that, all distended and huge, made me feel a little squeamish. Madeline must have seen it in my face, because she asked if I’d like my blindfold back on. ‘Yes,’ I said without hesitation. I could handle the sensation, just maybe not the sight. Diana tied the blindfold over my eyes, looser than Madeline had, but it still did the job. Once I was back in my world of darkness, I felt much more comfortable. I was all sensation, all lust and desire, and Madeline knew just how to satisfy it. ‘Lick her,’ she instructed Diana. ‘Gently, gently. She’s going to be very sensitive.’ My heart raced when I felt my choirmaster’s breath on my hot, swollen cunt. I’d wanted Madeline to lick me, but I was so overwhelmingly horny I’d have let anyone get me off. The moment Diana’s tongue met my pussy lips, I arched back with a violence that surprised me. Every time Diana licked my huge clit, I jerked back even harder, and every time I jerked back my thighs spread farther apart. It was hard to imagine my choirmaster’s face between my legs. I’d fantasised about Madeline licking my clit, but there was something even more twisted and exciting about Diana doing it at her command. I fought my ties, screaming as my leather-clad choirmaster lapped my pussy. Her wet tongue sizzled against my skin. The pump had made my lips monstrous and so sensitive that I wanted to buck and writhe, but Madeline’s ties held fast. I couldn’t move and I couldn’t see, and that made me so claustrophobic I started struggling even harder. Diana’s tongue lashed my fat clit hard enough to transform me from a demure chorister to a wild beast. I gripped my ankles, pressing the ropes into my flesh, feeling them bite into my skin. My heart pounded in my ears. The explosions between my legs travelled through my core, and when Madeline placed those metal clamps back on my tits the fireworks were everywhere. Sheer pleasure-pain burst from my nipples to my clit, where Diana worked hard for my exultation. ‘Enough,’ Madeline instructed, drawing Diana away from my tender pumped-up pussy. I was panting and ecstatic when I felt Madeline’s water bottle against my lips. ‘Here, baby. Drink up. Drink some water.’ Her deep voice soothed me just like the tepid water soothed my throat. She was taking care of me, petting my hair, speaking kind words, giving me drink. The care was as good as the pain, but only in conjunction with the pain. For me, one without the other seemed sadly incomplete. Once Diana had removed my blindfold, both women untied my bonds. My knees ached, locked into the position they’d held far too long. Madeline rubbed her hands together and pressed her hands to my knees, relieving the ache. Her silver rings were hot on my skin, and I almost wished they were hot enough to burn me. I would love to be branded by her. They let me lie on the desk, creating a makeshift pillow out of my clothes. They kissed my blazing skin with their fingertips. For a while, I listened to them talking about music, performances, nothing in particular. Their voices were the white noise of a relationship in recovery. I didn’t know then that I would fit into their joint existence. I’d placed Madeline on a pedestal and barely noticed Diana, but together as a couple they gave me everything I needed … and so much more. The Billiard Room Tabitha Rayne ‘Thank you, don’t mind if I do.’ Zoe Lake slipped into the finely upholstered chair, making sure to keep her knees locked primly together. ‘Milk or lemon?’ Lady Tate-Fitzpatrick asked. In one hand she held a small jug, in the other a perfect slice of fruit, hovering over the teacup. ‘Oh.’ Zoe glanced at the other two women’s cups, hoping to get a hint about what would be best in this situation. She plumped for what she’d prefer. ‘Milk, please,’ she said, smiling as demurely as she could. I am a businesswoman, I have every right to be here, these people are my clients, they contacted me. She’d recited her mantra so many times since she got the call to measure up Lady Fitzpatrick’s windows for new curtains that she knew it now by its rhythm rather than the words. She’d gone around all four public rooms, each with two huge bay windows, and dutifully and very carefully measured the lot. Her notes were stowed away carefully in her leather briefcase on the Persian rug by her side. Lady Tate-Fitzpatrick’s friend had come along to oversee and advise. ‘I have appalling taste,’ Lady TP had stated by way of explaining the other woman’s presence. Four or five home-interior magazines lay fanned out on the coffee table before them. The Lady reached out with perfect poise and picked one up. ‘Well, I suppose we should really think about colour schemes and fabrics. Did you bring your sample book?’ she said in the brusque tone that Zoe was only just getting used to. Every time the Lady addressed her, it felt as if she was administering a sharp slap on the hand, and Zoe had to remind herself, every time, that this was just her way. ‘Yes, of course, it’s in my car, I won’t be a sec,’ she said, flustered that she’d forgot to bring it in. She rose from her seat and, as she was making her way across the rug, the door opened and a striking silver-haired man popped his head around and addressed the women. ‘Are you done yet? I can’t be doing with every Tom, Dick and Harry’s car cluttering up my driveway …’ Zoe’s breath caught at the back of her throat. She couldn’t believe how rude the man had been, and in any other circumstance she would have told him exactly what she thought of his behaviour, but something about the situation made her nervy as a schoolgirl. ‘Oh, I … I’m sorry, sir,’ she stammered as she came close to him, ‘I shan’t be long.’ His eyes dragged their way from her shoes to her legs, thighs and stomach and lingered lightly at her chest before settling at her lips, which she self-consciously licked. It could only have been a footstep but she felt like the exchange had taken forever. What would his wife say, having her husband eye up another woman so lasciviously? What was he thinking? Zoe ducked under his arm as he held the door open for her, never taking his gaze from her. Crunching her fists and shutting her eyes for a moment, she composed herself, then walked off down the hallway, knowing full well that he was watching her backside and legs. The skin at her throat and d?collet? flushed and prickled at being under such scrutiny. But there was something else. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/annabeth-leong/forever-bound/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.