by Unknown
‘Oh boy.’
Absorbed in his task of lacing the chains through each other he didn’t look up. ‘Oh boy good or oh boy bad?’ he asked quietly.
‘Oh boy fantastic,’ I breathed. He pulled tighter.
‘Still fantastic?’
It wasn’t what you’d call comfortable but my tits, which were already high and full from the corset, were gently but definitely expanding even further as he teased my arms back a little more, and my shoulders were pulled back and down. I suppose it was similar to being on the pec deck in the gym, though I had never felt like this while sweating in lycra. I nodded and then, while I was getting over the shock of looking like an advert for a bondage video, another megavolt ran through me as suddenly my head was pulled back sharply. The chains from the gloves had been fastened round the chain on the choker.
‘You’re beautiful.’ He turned me slowly, so I could see myself from the side. I was: he was right. I was beautiful and totally helpless, my hands tied, my head not able to move far, and practically hobbled in the high heels. Like most capable women I sometimes put on the little girl act – you do it for me; you choose; look after me, and so on – but this was taking the game on to a higher level. And I liked it.
‘Is Lima ready for this?’ I asked him with a self-satisfied smile.
‘I don’t think so. After your long flight, I thought tonight we could stay in and chill out – if that’s all right with you.’
Chilling was approximately the reverse of what I was feeling, feverish being a more appropriate description, but I nodded. Apart from anything else I liked the constriction of my head on the chain as I moved slightly.
‘Just one more thing.’ He bent down to my feet. ‘If you don’t mind?’
Did I mind? I should mind, I told myself. Although I felt as though I couldn’t walk in the heels anyway, he reinforced it by clipping a short chain, no more than nine inches long, on the loop at the back of each shoe. Oh yes, Bliss the feminist thought she ought to mind, but Bliss the sex goddess luxuriated in her rôle.
I tentatively put one foot forward. By taking short steps and putting one foot straight in front of the other I coped. And I have to admit it made my walk as sexy as hell.
‘But now what, Carlos?’
The smile that played round his mouth was broader now, happier than the enigmatic smile he had had on his face before. Had he been nervous?
‘Whatever we decide, Bliss.’
‘Well, while I like the outfit, it does occur to me that this chain on the shoes . . . it’s not very practical as far as access is concerned, is it?’
He laughed and reached out a hand towards my sex, brushing it over my pubes and downwards. Instinctively I opened my legs as far as they could go, and demonstrated that it wasn’t indeed very far. With his eyes on my face his fingers trailed along the length of my slit, putting the thousands of nerve endings in my clit on red alert and sending my muscles into overdrive as he slipped into the almost embarrassing wetness.
‘You mean for fucking? I don’t always think that’s necessary, do you? Seeing you like that, it’s almost its own reward, Bliss.’
His fingers were moving up and down in the musky heat of my cunt and I had to admit that fucking wasn’t necessary, thinking that it wouldn’t take long for me to come anyway, but then, disconcertingly, he moved his hand and turned me round again. Facing the mirror once more what I could see of him behind me seemed to be lost in contemplating the sight of the chains and laces that bound me. His hands caressed my shoulders and moved downwards, tracing the curve of my exaggeratedly small waist and the swell of my hips, until they were on the bare flesh of my arse. He circled my buns gently, then harder and more suggestively, his powerful free hands brushing against my bound immobile ones, and I felt suddenly disappointed, guessing that maybe, like Kip, he too had as much interest in the arse as the cunt. God knows I’ve tried but I don’t like anal sex. I gave it up for Lent last year and have kept off it ever since. Still I would have no choice but to submit if Carlos bent me over.
Instead he said, ‘How about dinner?’
The tradition of cooking meat impaled on skewers has got to have its roots in sexual symbolism. Holding a kebab and tearing the meat from it with the teeth has always seemed to me the perfect way of demonstrating that you’re willing to get down and dirty and back to the primitive. Having a strong dark man holding a kebab slightly above your supplicatingly raised breasts while your arms are bound behind you so you have to reach your constrained head up as far as you can to tease the meat with your teeth is the perfect way of trying to have a hands-free orgasm. Not that I did – do they exist outside the pages of bestsellers? – but I came as near as I ever have to the female equivalent of the waking wet dream.
The meat was savoury, with an oddly smooth texture, spiced and a little tart. The juice dripped on to my tits and Carlos licked it off.
‘Not guinea pig, I hope?’ I asked suspiciously. You may be disgusted but Peruvians do eat the poor little pets.
‘God, no. They’re far too small and bony. It’s heart.’
‘Heart. Human?’
‘Ox. It’s a traditional speciality. They cook it at the takeaway alongside the chicken. Don’t you like it?’
‘It’s great.’
Of course I remembered it from the guidebooks, anticuchos, skewered ox heart, and I have to say it was one item I wouldn’t have ordered for myself. But I’m not a squeamish sort of girl and when he held the skewer up again I bit down hard on a particularly succulent-looking chunk and chewed with enjoyment. After I had a couple more mouthfuls of meat he held up a piece of sweetcorn.
‘I read a story once about a woman who was fucked in some ritual ceremony with corn on the cob. Or was it up the arse? The texture would be interesting, better than a ridged johnny.’
‘It’s a shame they only come in pieces at the takeaway, but thanks for the hint.’ Carlos forked up half a dozen chips and offered them to me, but I was happy with my meat and veg. The corset was tight enough to suppress my appetite as well as my waist. His dark eyes were glowing with, I hoped, desire.
‘You’re very horny, Bliss. Are you always like this? Or is it a while since you had sex?’
That was a good chance to tell him about the newly inaugurated on the ground in Aruba club. Well, I’ve done the mile high thing before. He nodded slowly.
‘So you’re not desperate for sex.’
‘You’re the one who’s setting the agenda here – you mean you don’t fuck?’
He poured some wine into a glass and held it to my lips. I tilted my head even further backwards than the chain held it and swallowed, feeling some trickle down my throat on to my exposed breasts. Despite spilling it he gave me more until I shook my head and made a noise in my throat. As he put down the glass he once again licked the spillage from my breast, but this time took each nipple in his mouth in turn, sucking gently, then harder. If he wasn’t going to let me come I was going to explode.
I didn’t explode, of course. But it wasn’t easy to believe that, after the dressing up, the fondling, the nipple sucking, etc. Carlos simply undressed me and put me to bed. Though for simply undressing me, read slowly, sensually and regretfully. The last thing he took off was the gloves but as he moved my arms forward to a more usual position in their sockets he asked me if I always slept on my back.
‘Yeah, I think so . . . why?’
‘Why? Because I want to give you the most forceful climax you’ve ever had in your life. But not tonight and, I’m afraid, Bliss, that as you’ve already lived up to Kip’s description of headstrong, I don’t trust you not to do it for yourself.’
He propelled me to the sofa bed and laid me down. As he tied each wrist to the top of the opposite arm I felt almost like a corpse.
‘I won’t be able to sleep like this.’
The last thing I remembered was his disbelieving smile then the jet lag kicked in again and I fell asleep.
Chapter Three
�
�Your tour guide’s ready and waiting.’
I came to. Carlos was back in casual gear and holding a huge cup of coffee. I sat up and wriggled back to prop myself against the wall. It was hard to believe I’d slept with my hands tied but he assured me I’d had a good ten hours.
He untied me so I could hold the cup, rather than risk scalding me.
‘I need a shower.’
‘Sure. Breakfast? Bread, toast?’
‘How can you trust me while you’re getting my toast?’
In black again, and with his hair loose and brushing his shoulders, Carlos looked more like a man who preferred his women in chains than the persona he’d presented in his work suit.
‘In my experience it’s men who wake up raring to go with one thought on their minds. You’d rather warm up slowly . . . wouldn’t you?’
‘If I get as warm as I was last night I’ll self-combust.’
He did have a nice laugh. I wondered whether to stay a few extra days in Lima.
‘You shower and I’ll do the toast.’ He moved towards the kitchenette. ‘Bliss, you looked wonderful last night. Can I dress you for sightseeing?’
Immediately the warm-up started, and not that slowly either.
After my shower I put on the towelling robe he’d given me and ate my toast and had another cup of coffee while Carlos made a few calls in rapid Spanish. I realised that my language lessons were going to be of limited use in the real Spanish-speaking world.
‘Which charity do you work for?’ I asked as he put the phone away.
He looked puzzled. ‘Charity?’
‘Kip said you worked for a development agency.’
His brow cleared and he nodded, a smile at the corners of his mouth. ‘Oh yes, but it’s not charity funded. It’s more along the lines of encouraging industry to set up here, you know, bringing in more work and so on. I’ve got a couple of projects on the go at the moment, but I think the big one’s going to be on Chiloe, an island off the coast of Chile, so I’m probably moving down there soon. It’s crying out for development.’
‘Oh, right. I’m planning to go over there too.’ I nodded with polite interest though my mind was engaged with the prospect of dressing up. Despite trying to travel light I had put a small aromatherapy body lotion in my bag and had smoothed it on after my shower. My skin felt soft and supple and I guessed Carlos would like to handle it.
‘I hope you’re not expecting anything too different from last night,’ he said softly. ‘That corset is stunning on you. Your waist looks so much better in it . . . and I want you to be aware of wearing it with every breath.’
It was fine by me, despite his remark reminding me of a meditation class I took once where you had to be aware of each breath. Maybe bondage would do wonders for my spirituality. Once again I was laced up, though I could swear it was tighter than before. Carlos directed me to put on my black knickers and the skirt and top I’d been wearing when he came home, and then got the boots from the wardrobe.
‘I’m not going to be able to walk far in those,’ I complained.
‘We’ll go slowly.’ Carlos crouched down to ease my foot into the boots and then pulled the butter-soft leather up to mid-thigh, followed by the other. My skirt came just above the top of them. Having practised with the shoes I managed to walk quite well in the boots, adopting the same procedure as I had for the shoes chained together, a model-girl walk that made me look even more like a Parisian hooker than I already did, with my breasts swelling above the low-necked top and my nipples clearly outlined through the thin stretchy fabric.
‘More goth than hooker,’ he assured me, clasping a black velvet choker round my neck. It was only half as deep as the collar I had worn last night but the resemblance was enough to shift my sexual warming-up process into a higher gear. I was surprised that the goth revival had reached Peru but felt slightly better about going out as Countess Dracula and with Carlos’s approval did my eyes moody dark and my lips crimson, with a tinted sunscreen over the freckles. Finally he handed me a pair of black gloves.
‘If you think I’m going to walk through the streets of Lima with my hands tied behind my back –’
‘No. But I might just want to fasten them, if it’s appropriate. Trust me, Bliss. No one will know.’
Just a little longer than wrist-length, they had an innocent-looking trimming of braided loops and beads, but he demonstrated how the loops on one interlocked with the beads on the other.
‘I suppose I trust you. Anyway, you’re more likely to see someone you know than me. And this trip is supposed to be an adventure, after all.’
Churches and museums are usually way down on my list for sightseeing. I like hanging out in cafés, walking round city streets and watching the world go by in blossom-laden parks. For one day, though, I was happy to go along with Carlos’s idea of a sightseeing tour. Despite my protestations at home that textile design was not going to be my life career, I also had to see the collection of pre-Inca weavings in the private collection at Miraflores, so had got Carlos to make an appointment for that late in the afternoon, which meant that I had effectively limited the time for gazing at altars and glass cases.
We started with the main museums, which were scattered all over the city. My perch on top of the precarious heels wasn’t tested too much, just in and out of the car and around the exhibits. Not surprisingly Carlos lingered a little too long over the relics from the Spanish Inquisition, and he seemed to find the riches in the gold museum almost as interesting. In the centre of town we did the cathedral and nearby I caught my first glimpse of street sellers in traditional dress, which delighted me, though Carlos assured me I’d see plenty of that in Cuzco. I also caught my first glimpse of McDonald’s, which was a bit disappointing.
‘What do you expect?’ Carlos asked, amused. ‘This is civilisation too, you know. OK, it’s not Europe, but it’s not the third world either.’
‘I suppose. It’s just that wherever you go you see the same things. Before long you’ll be walking down a street and you won’t be able to work out whether you’re in Bogota or Bognor.’
‘You obviously haven’t been to Bogota.’
‘Yeah, and I’ll put money on you not having been to Bognor either.’
Carlos decided we needed a light lunch as he was taking me to the best seafood restaurant in Lima that night. The little vegetarian café was half empty and he chose a corner table right at the back and tucked in next to me. We were half a dozen tables away from the cluster of customers who looked like lunching secretaries with the obligatory sprinkling of gringo backpackers. The darkly handsome waiter was obviously of Indian extraction and greeted Carlos with familiarity. Without even consulting me or the menu Carlos ordered.
‘Don’t I get to choose anything myself?’ I complained.
He smiled his closed-mouth enigmatic smile. ‘I enjoyed feeding you so much last night that I wanted to do it again.’
Before I could register what that statement might imply his left hand snaked round the back of my waist and grabbed my left hand while his right pulled my right to meet it. Without even having to look he fastened the gloves together.
‘Carlos, this is public. You said no one would see,’ I hissed. Still smiling but now with an edge of triumph to it he leaned over me, his left arm still around my waist and his right arm resting on the table top.
‘They won’t,’ he murmured. ‘As long as you stop trying to pull them apart.’
My vain efforts to loosen the seemingly simple fastenings meant that my tits were jiggling in the brief cups of the corset. His eyes were on them, and as I followed them I saw that my nipples had hardened in excitement.
Before I could tell myself to stop trying to get free and calm down, Carlos lifted his hand and rubbed my nearest nipple. My eyes closed with excitement and fear of being seen and I felt the colour rise in my cheeks. I sincerely hoped that the other customers were too far away and engrossed in their lunch or their conversation to take any notice, but part of me w
as melting with the embarrassment. Melting into a sticky pool in my knickers, that is.
He moved to the other nipple and teased it harder. My eyes were in constant movement, darting between the café customers, his face, the movements of the waiter and my now rapidly rising and falling breasts. Shamed and helpless I saw the waiter move towards us but Carlos’s hand was back on the table before two glasses of yellow juice were set before us. Did the waiter’s eyes linger on me with admiration or contempt? Or had I imagined his eyes registering anything other than just another punter?
The juice was delicious; papaya and mango, Carlos told me, as I sucked the nectar through the straw. His hand was, to my relief, around his glass and I relaxed, but not for long. The arm that was thrown caressingly around my waist was withdrawn to lie negligently in my lap and, as Carlos sucked nonchalantly on his juice, his hand snaked up between my silky body-lotioned thighs and rubbed at my knickers.
‘I suppose it’s all about power,’ I said defiantly, almost condescendingly, as his hand slipped easily up and down the wet satin.
He laughed in genuine amusement. ‘Sure it’s about power. But more than that, Bliss. I take part of my pleasure from giving it to you, as well as from seeing you unable to help responding to me.’
‘And why do you take pleasure from humiliating me in public?’
‘No, Bliss. You’re getting pleasure from that. Aren’t you?’
Of course I was. Don’t we all like that element of danger in misbehaving in public, even if it’s only as a teenager, snogging in your bedroom when your mum might burst in at any minute, or being felt up in the back row of the cinema.
‘If what I’m feeling now isn’t a sign that you’re getting pleasure, I can only assume you’ve wet yourself.’