by Kyoko Church
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. W
ould 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 Made
line 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.’