Billy ended my punishment quickly. Pulling me to my feet, he took my ass with his stiff erection, as I lay draped over the back of a living room chair. With my tummy resting on the cushioned back, it wasn’t so bad. However, after he finished using me, he left me there.
When he returned, he adroitly slipped a ball gag in my mouth. “This should keep you quiet,” he shot off his retort. “You move an inch, Kirsten, I’ll tie you there all night.” He started to walk away, then turned back. “And keep your legs apart. If I want you again, I want you ready.”
There I lay for nearly an hour, gagged, naked, arms bound behind me. While Billy read through some business papers, finished his evening phone calls and strolled about the apartment fiddling with this and that, I wanted to scream, the discomfort of the position became almost unbearable. What had initially been a reasonably comfortable pose began to inspire revolt. My legs grew weak, my arms ached tied so tightly behind me, and my snatch crawled with such prickly sexual heat I could hardly keep from rubbing my groin into the back of the chair. He said not to move and I took him seriously.
When he finally pulled me up, he was far more kind, firm, but kind, becoming the gentle administrator of my dark sexual awakening again, and not just an aggravated lover.
“Seems I haven’t been attending to you enough,” he said, as he unfastened the ball gag.
Ah! That was exactly what I wanted to hear.
“And I imagine you’re having a problem with so little to do every day.”
There he was, reading my mind again.
“Sometimes I feel a little lost here,” I admitted, “I’m used to having you around all the time, and when you’re not …” I was faltering. I stopped just short of unburdening all my loneliness. I wanted him to know without my having to tell him. Didn’t it make sense that coming to a foreign city, knowing only one person—who was away from me over half my day—I’d be itchy for some company? He knew everything else about me, why not this? By then, I was sure he instinctively understood my message as much as I understood this most recent lesson in obedience. I just wanted the quiet in his arms, the gentle, commanding shroud of him blanketing me as we drifted off to sleep.
***
Two days ago, Billy announced that I was enrolled in a few art classes at the Louvre—what he was able to arrange for me on short notice. I’m convinced that he can arrange anything he wants in this city. There seems to be no one that he doesn’t know. He has the ear of every businessman, the gratitude of the art community for generous contributions, and the eye of most every beautiful woman speculating on his availability every time he walks in a room. Twice we’ve been at social functions where I immediately gleaned this information. Certainly he could arrange a few art classes. I might have been just the tiniest bit resentful that he didn’t let me choose them for myself, except he knew exactly what most interested me—the early expressionists, and the fact that I prefer painting with oils, to acrylics or watercolor. I’m sure I’ve never shared that fact with him.
My first day, I leave the apartment in a much happier mood than I’ve been in some time. Three days after my testy battle with Billy, the ache in my ass from the spanking has faded, and though the ache in my lonely heart remains, this class has promise. Surely there will be some intelligent conversation, and perhaps a friend to talk to.
Once in the studio, conversation is hardly the first thing on my mind. It seems I’m sexually moved by everything around me. It would be hard not to be, studying the two live models that pose for us on a dais before the backdrop of a golden drape. The man and woman recline nude on the divan, he behind her, his hand cupping her silky-haired pubic mound. She lays her head against a pillow, while he stares into her eyes. His muscled thighs appear dangerously powerful, and though I can’t see his penis, I’m sure it’s half erect the whole time, pressing against the woman’s ass. I wonder what they are thinking. Will they have sex afterwards? My mind skips quickly to the image of him, rising over her, her legs spreading wide and his erection slipping into that musty cavern between her thighs, balls slapping her ass.
There’s something disconcerting about their lack of movement. They should be making love, kissing, caressing, their hands tearing each other’s hair, the woman with her head flung back, her breasts swelling like waves against her chest. The mounds are all flattened against her now. It’s hard to tell how full those tits would be when she’s sitting. His hands should be working that smooth skin and muscle beneath, teeth teasing the nipples until he bites down and she shrieks.
I could take them easily into bondage in my mind—this fertile mind sends all my fantasies that way. But it’s strained now—seems this is an unbearable form of bondage all its own, having to maintain the position while fifteen students in the room paint every detail of their golden glowing bodies, catching every nuance, every breath they breathe, every muscle that tenses and relaxes.
First glances at their slightly shivering bodies, I am licking my lips, my thighs becoming sticky at the center in seconds. I should have worn panties—but I prefer painting pantiless. I feel more connected with the subject when my cunt is bare.
But this response is alarming. I’ve painted nude models before without such raw stimulation. Arousal, yes, that’s hardly a breath away, but this time their eroticism unhinges me. As I begin to sketch the basic outline on my canvas, I can’t stop the turbulent physical response. Makes me wonder if Billy had this planned. Is this another way to seduce me? Or am I, perhaps, being trained in some new direction? His influence doesn’t disappear for a second, it just becomes altered in new surroundings.
When the instructor, Monsieur Blanc, approaches me from behind, I feel his warm chest against my back as he leans in to point out something on the canvas. He speaks in French and I have to strain to understand him he talks so fast. His breath on my neck turns nerve endings alert. He has his hand on my shoulder and I feel pulled to turn and kiss him. These internal workings leave me baffled.
Maintaining decent behavior, I get through the class, just barely clinging to the flimsy edges of my sanity. Almost orgasmic by the time I leave the studio, I scoot out the door and rush down the hall head down, tucking my portfolio into my chest as though it will protect me. I just need a breath of fresh air. The open sky. The sound of birds. Perhaps a calming cup of chocolate—even if it is a hot day.
I’m almost at the door, when, staring down at my feet, a pair of dusty shoes enters my field of vision. I have to dart to the side to miss running into their owner, and when I look up to smile a perfunctory apology, I suddenly stop. My body seems to lunge in front of me, and I find myself practically falling into Tony Flynn, who’s walking into the building carrying his video equipment.
“Tony?” I almost shriek.
He smiles as he tries juggling me and the camera strapped over his shoulder. “I’ve been trying to stay away from you,” is the first thing he says.
“You have?”
“I’m not here to make trouble,” he continues. “I’m on an assignment.”
I’m so overjoyed to see a familiar face. There are dozens of questions I want to ask this enchanting man. His smile gets under my skin, even though he tries to refrain from the wildly charming one in deference to my odd relationship with Billy Fitzgerald. He seems determined not to encourage anything.
“I’m taking an art class,” I tell him. “I thought you were going to Rome after Amsterdam?”
“Funny thing. I thought so too, then I get a call and here I am.”
There doesn’t seem to be any way we’re going to escape the inevitable conversation, but then he tells me he’s late for an appointment and our encounter is cut short. My easy arousal with this man becomes dangerous. I’m here in Paris with Tony Flynn! How could that have happened? My brain fast forwards to pictures of us that I must strike from my mind. Dwelling on them could ruin me. I’m in love with Billy Fitzgerald. I don’t doubt that for a second. But this man, for the hundredth time in our short acquaintance, makes m
e want to strip naked and grovel like the two models from class are groveling in the rendition of them that I’m painting in oils.
***
“Tony Flynn is in Paris, working on a documentary at the Louvre,” I tell Billy when he comes home.
I jump on him almost as soon as he arrives. Maybe I’m too anxious to spill out this fact, but I know if I hold it in for even an hour, I’ll get in trouble. If I hide it from him longer, I’ll let my fantasies run away with me. Billy will find out, and my jealous fiancé will wreak some horrible havoc on me again.
“Yes, I know,” Billy replies absently as he’s taking off his clothes.
“You know? How could you?”
“Does it matter?” he turns to me, giving me his tie to put away.
He sees I’m still bewildered.
“I know the group that’s hired him. We spoke a few days ago and his name was mentioned.”
“And this doesn’t bother you?”
“Are you going to give me a reason to be bothered?” He removes his pants, leaving him in nothing but his skimpy cotton briefs.
“I wasn’t planning on it,” I reply.
“Then why worry?” He shrugs this off as though it’s not important. After Amsterdam this is surprising. He’d let the matter drop, but I don’t.
“Am I disobeying you to speak with him?” I ask.
He thinks a moment. “No,” he states flatly. “To sleep with him, yes. But if you want to talk, talk.”
I’m flustered now, actually wishing he’d forbidden me any contact with Tony.
“If he asks me to coffee?”
“Coffee?” he thinks as he hands me his trousers and I carefully hang them on the wooden hanger. I turn toward the closet. “Do what you want, Kirsten. I think I’d better trust you.”
This is a departure from the zealously protective man I’ve been traveling with since we left home. There is some mystery to this, perhaps a test, but I can’t bring myself to ask. I am still subdued by him, and in awe of what he does to my body.
Standing in front of me in just those small sexy briefs, I can see the outline of his penis as it pulses softly inside. He makes the first move, making up the space that separates us and untying the belt to my robe.
“I have surprises for you tonight,” he tells me as he kisses me.
My arms go around his neck as we move nearly nakedly together. I move one hand to that soft pouch of flesh, planning to strip away his underwear. Billy stops me. Peeling me off of his body, he holds my wrists in his and drags me toward the bed. Moments later he’s rummaging through his nightstand that holds a complete inventory of bondage equipment and tools of torture—clamps, needles, pinchers, dildos, feathers and assorted leather items, most notably a spanker and whip. I’m surprised when he pulls out a delicate blue scarf. The long twisted silk is tangled with a lean leather strap, and he has to tug it free. I’m amazed by the length of it, but not amazed to find that it’s plenty to bind my wrists together with enough left over to afix them to the headboard of the bed.
I writhe happily as his lips tease their way along my skin. He licks at my under arms and my belly bucks. I’m thinking of this whole frantically sexual day, and all the eroticism that I’ve felt comes blasting out like a furnace freshly stoked with coal. At my crotch, he plants his face on my pubis, using teeth and mouth to bite and suck. Drawing my clit into his mouth, he works his tongue around it. My body replies, frenzied, twisting, groin pushing into his face as though I command more. I’m so wet I see my froth sticking to his face. He backs away and I grimace unhappily.
“Don’t ask for too much, pet, or you’ll get nothing,” he says.
“Billy, no! Please come back.”
“Oh, I will,” he taunts me, “eventually.” He’s removes his briefs and throws them my way. They land on my steaming thighs like more fuel thrown on my sexual blaze. As I watch that tight ass move away, I’m tempted to beg—really beg, with tears and woeful whimpers he won’t be able to ignore. Though, I’m afraid the more I beg, the longer he’ll stay away. I’m miserable watching him leave the room feeling so much heat I rub my thighs together hoping the friction will get me off. I wouldn’t even care if Billy punished me for that.
When Billy returns, he carries a dish in his hand that I can’t see. I imagine whipped crème, or chocolate syrup, or honey. Because he hides the contents, he keeps me guessing.
“Close your eyes.”
“Oh, nooo! you brat,” I moan in desperation.
“Oh, yes, you will, my fair brat,” he rebukes me. “Eyes closed or there is no treat at all.”
As I obey my sweet-purring master, I imagine many things—feathers, grapes or cherries, even metal clamps. Hearing an odd noise, my ears perk up as I try to remember where I heard that last—but before my mind can compute the possibilities, I feel an incisive chilling sting as Billy presses something cold against one breast.
“Ah, ah no …” Ice.
“Shushhhhhh.”
“Ooo, ouch!” He teases it along my side, with my body jumping left and right, tickled. “Billy, nooo!” I squirm more, giggling. My eyes pop open.
“Close them!” he barks.
“But …”
His staring glance turns foul as he takes his ice and presses it hard against my clit.
I scream. “No, no no … I can’t, stop, pleeeeease!!!!.”
He draws his hand away as my eyes close and I lie back relaxed.
“Don’t open them, Kirsten, or I’ll melt the ice on your clit till the little bud is frostbit.”
I’m sure he’s not serious, but I’m not going to press my luck. He’ll have to pry my lids with a crowbar before I’ll open them again.
Billy returns to this meticulous torture, inventing new uses for his nasty hot/wet tools. Sharp ends press into my nipples until the water begins to run down the side. He leaves a ticklish pool at my navel, and tongues the liquid with his warm mouth. He abuses my clit, repeatedly—though it’s not as horrifying as that first stinging blast. I have no idea where or when he’ll make his next move—I’m afraid of them all, and afraid of him stopping, and afraid he’ll go on forever.
My body’s crying to cum as my inner need passionately rises each time another shard of ice slides along my side, or down my belly, or over my pubis and between my thighs. When the first small chip slides into my pussy, I scream again, but as it melts away inside the pulsing hole, a cloudburst of sensation breaks through the aperture like a warm spring rain.
“Oh, Billy, more …” my voice speaks in a mindless daze.
I’m dripping wet, a puddle of water between my legs.
The starling jolt of ice entering my ass lifts my groin from the bed.
“Ah, noooo, yesssssss, pleeeassse …”
Another pressed into my cunt, another in my ass, the warmth exchanges places with the cold and back again, one more time, and again, until I feel the stiff jab of Billy’s erection gliding into my vagina. I lift again from the wet sheets and cum on his shaft, as Billy holds himself above me, and strokes that member deep to the ends of my earthbound body.
I fight against the silken bondage and faint away as my spasming ends, as the master of my body eases limply into my flesh. We lie in the moon’s luminous glow—a three-quarter moon that shines through the window making Billy’s body gleam warmly while mine still shivers with the remembrance of ice tickling heat-soaked skin.
Chapter Eight
Tony
I see her three days straight before my lust and curiosity get the better of me. If I were to describe Kirsten’s mind-set, I’d say she was lonely—makes me wonder if her glorious relationship is turning out as well as she hoped it would. Considering my own natural desire for her, I’d have no problem presenting myself as a catalyst to their undoing. The schemes inside my daydreams are ruthless—kindly ruthless, though in the end, I win. Frankly, I don’t hold out any real hope of taking her from Fitzgerald. He has her mind so beaten into submission, I don’t think there’s much space
for a free thought.
Seeing her again after class, the way her eyes glance toward me, the way she offers me a winsome smile and shakes her lustrous gold/brown curls, my crotch begins to itch and I initiate my assault.
“You think we could share coffee?” I ask
She questions herself, runs the offer through the computer network in her brain and comes out with a positive reply. “Why not?”
I think I actually jump back hearing her answer.
“You didn’t think I’d say yes, did you?” She smiles warmly.
“No, I didn’t. Billy’s not going to paddle your ass if he finds out.”
“I told him you were here, a fact he already knew, and he told me he trusted me.”
“Trust? My, you’ve grown by leaps and bounds since I saw you in Amsterdam.”
I can see her processing that thought, remembering the cruel humiliation she took from her fiancé before a gawking crowd. Though it doesn’t seem to cause her much embarrassment now.
“I remind myself, as I should you, that what Billy decides for me enhances my life. It doesn’t detract from it.”
“I can’t believe that,” I say. We’re walking side by side toward a favorite café of mine. My hand is on her back and she doesn’t shake it away.
“Then you don’t think like me,” she replies.
Feeling the soft muscles of her back expand and contract against my palm as she moves, the lust in me rises. I can’t describe the feeling I have with her—it’s not something I’ve felt with many women, perhaps none other than Kirsten. I know I’m loathe to take my hand from her as we sit down at a table. But sitting appropriately opposite each other, I can’t make physical contact now.
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