‘It’s a gorgeous piece.’ I twisted in my cuffs to run my fingers over the chair back, the chain clanking against varnished oak.
‘Isn’t it?’ he said. ‘It’s Victorian Gothic revival. I got it from Community Crafts in Saltbourne. As soon as I spotted it, I saw its potential to be used for nefarious purposes.’
Liam’s workshop was at Community Crafts. The thought of that made my head spin. Everything seemed wrong all of a sudden, too out of synch with reality. Weird to think that Den had visited Community Crafts but no reason why he shouldn’t or wouldn’t if he were in the area. The venture Liam was part of had a good reputation. But the reminder of everyday reality threw me. What was I doing here? Where was the rest of the world? Was it daylight outside? My phone was in my bag. I had no idea of the time.
‘We’ll sleep here tonight, OK?’ Den gestured towards the raised mattress.
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘You didn’t put little chocolates on the pillows, though.’
Den smiled, unclipping the chain from his belt loop. In silence, he unbuckled my cuffs, briskly checked my wrists for marks, then walked away to deposit the cuffs on the large table. I stood, small and uncertain in the midst of so much space. Den took a seat in the red-draped armchair and rested one ankle on his opposite knee, hands on the chair arms, grand yet casual. ‘Take off your clothes,’ he said. ‘Let me look at you.’
Oh Hell. These shifts of direction were unsettling.
‘Now?’ I said, stalling for time.
‘Now,’ he said.
My heart thumped. I wished I could ask the same of him then I could feast my eyes on that honed, muscular body I’d only so far seen in an arty photograph. Stupid D/S dynamic! I also wished he would undress me himself, hands instead of eyes on my body. Physical intimacy was much easier than being on display. Taking a deep breath, I kicked off my sandals and quickly unbuttoned my shirt. I placed my top on the birthing stool and unfastened my bra with my back turned him. Silly to feel awkward about being naked when he’d already shagged me stupid. But I did feel awkward.
‘Slower, slower,’ he said. ‘It’s not a race. Turn around. Show me your tits.’
I swallowed my nerves. Still in my skirt, I turned, shoulders back to give myself some oomph. He gaze dropped brazenly from my face to my breasts. Had he been expecting me to do a coquettish strip-tease? I hoped not. Cosmo would recommend a move like that, and everyone knows theirs are the daftest sex tips in the world. Besides, I was too shy to be coquettish, and my role in this was not the seductress.
‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Now touch yourself.’
I repressed a sigh and cupped my breasts. I massaged and thumbed my nipples, making them erect. I felt porny and false. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t touch myself this way to get off. Someone else touching my breasts, awesome. Me touching them myself, not much doing, I’m afraid.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Now keep undressing.’
All that remained was my skirt. My knickers were in his van. I unzipped, stepped out of the skirt and draped it on the stool. I faced him, half-raised my arms in a self-conscious flappy way then tapped my hands against my thighs.
‘Step forward,’ he said.
I did, feeling brutally naked.
‘Stop there.’ From a few feet away in his chair, he examined me, pale blue eyes moving with deliberate assessment. I swear, the tracks of his gaze practically had my skin colouring where they roamed.
He nodded as if satisfied then gave a bossy flick of one finger. ‘Turn around.’
I might have been up for sale in a cattle market. His cool evaluation appalled and aroused. I turned for him, cringing. The concrete floor was cold and scruffy underfoot. I stared at a panel of flock wallpaper several yards ahead while he, presumably, stared at my arse. Perhaps the absence of people in the theatre affected me, as did an awareness this place had once buzzed with excitement, the corridors thronging with men and women in furs and monocles. Eyes other than Den’s seemed to leer at my naked body, hundreds of hidden eyes running over breasts, thighs, buttocks and pubes, drinking me in. I felt humiliated, objectified and diminished. And I loved every awful minute of that.
The armchair creaked. Den’s trainers snagged on the floor’s crumbled surface. I kept perfectly still, focusing on the flock fleur-de-lys as he approached. My breath gave a hitch as his hand trailed across my buttocks, the flimsiest of touches. He circled me, his hand continuing to drift across my belly. His fingertips painted goosebumps, sending messages of arousal deeper into my flesh. I barely breathed, let alone groaned. A pulse fluttered in my neck, while in my groin a heavy beat boomed in fat, liquid throbs.
Den kept his head low as if following the path of his hands. His head was beautifully shaped, a perfect dome shaded by stubble, curving inwards to meet a sun-kissed neck scattered with tiny hairs the razor blade had missed. I longed to lick him there. His hand scooted lower, fingers gliding into the neat fluff of my pubes. He stood before me, rubbing gently at my mound.
An exhalation left me, a soft whistle like that from a coffee bag being punctured. My legs almost buckled. I willed his fingers to move lower, but no. They kept on stroking through my hair, teasing the skin beneath. My mind grew dumb, fixed on nothing but the need for his fingers where I wanted them.
When he finally touched me, I groaned but it was a cheat’s touch. His fingers skimmed the frill of my labia, denying me the firm penetration I craved. He brought his sloping, scar-roughened face close to mine. ‘Are you ready for some pain?’ he asked.
My heart skipped a beat but I nodded, my horniness convincing me I was ready for anything he cared to dole out.
‘Good girl.’
I watched him hoik a holdall onto the table and unzip. The jaws of the bag gaped, revealing an assortment of kit, too jumbled for me to identify anything much. Jeez, did I want this? I glimpsed leather, metal, rope, cables, fabric and who knew what else; a pervert’s paradise, packed away in an innocuous travel bag.
My heart wouldn’t stop racing. I’d never done anything so hardcore before. Baxter would overpower me without all this rigmarole. Nonetheless, the dark secrets in Den’s bag fascinated, the allure of their mystery and taboo urging on my desire. I was keen to know if I might enjoy being hurt and disciplined but I was scared too in case I hated it or got injured. Jumping in at the deep end might not be the ideal way to experiment but then when had I ever been cautious in this? I hoped Den knew what he was doing.
He took the leather cuffs from the table. ‘Hands in front,’ he said.
I gave him my wrists, fists bunched together. ‘Don’t hurt me too much.’ My voice was throaty and frail.
Without a word, Den buckled the cuffs then joined them together with clips and a short length of chain. Again, the sensation of bonds being fixed around my wrists took me closer to the place I like to be; a place not simply of arousal but of submission.
‘I’m not used to heavy pain,’ I added.
‘This way,’ he replied, acting as if he hadn’t heard.
He led me towards the spot where the chain dangled from the balcony. He raised my coupled wrists, holding the chain above us with his other hand.
Despite my desire, I panicked. ‘No, wait!’
My body did its own thing, cowering, crunching, trying to withdraw. The edge of the cuffs dug into my hands as I retreated. Den held firm, refusing to let me go. His determination to hold on made me even more afraid. My arms kept trying to pull back from him. My feet did a stupid little dance as if I were standing on hot sand.
‘No, please! I can’t, I can’t.’ My voice echoed across the space.
Den released the hanging chain and gave a reprimanding tug on the links between my wrists. ‘You’re going to take it,’ he spat. ‘You’re going to shut the fuck up and take it.’
Beneath his hunched black brows, his eyes were slits of blue ice, the tendons in his neck as taut as wires. I looked down, ashamed of my fear, wanting to accept this despite my instinct to recoil. A hefty knot in the crot
ch of Den’s jeans did nothing to placate me. Supposing he got carried away on a crazy rush of lust? Supposing he didn’t know when to stop?
‘It’s too much,’ I whispered. ‘Please.’
He took a step closer and this time I didn’t draw back. The chain slackened and I tried to relax my arms. Resisting him hurt my shoulders.
‘What do you want, Natalie? What’s the problem?’ His voice was soft and charming, a parody of seduction. ‘Are you afraid of enjoying this too much? Of having to face yourself afterwards, knowing what you like?’
I shook my head. I didn’t know what I was afraid of.
Den took another step closer, drawing me to him, his hand warm on my naked buttocks. We stood like that, pressing lightly against each other. His erection bulged against the back of my chained hands. I rubbed then wriggled inside my cuffs to find him more fully with my fingers. Seeking cock was familiar territory. I stroked his shaft, my thumb and forefinger spanning the ridge behind the denim. His hardness thrilled, tempting me to go along with his plan so I could get a piece of that inside me.
He nuzzled at my ear, his breath warm on my skin. ‘Greedy little whore,’ he said.
I whimpered because he made me feel that was true. I wanted him in my hand, wanted the naked weight of his cock in my fist, and most of all, I wanted that solidity driving inside me. He caressed my arse cheeks and we stayed like that a while. I grew calmer, hornier, more pliant.
Eventually, he said, ‘Now let’s try that again, shall we?’
I nodded, all meek and accepting. He led me back towards the dangling chain, and this time I followed without protest. My thighs were smeared with my wetness. I was so obvious. I stayed silent, allowing him to lift my arms above my head. He fiddled with the clips, connecting me, then stepped back. My limbs sagged, jerking on the resistance of the chain. I was strung up, exposed and vulnerable, completely at his mercy. At anyone’s mercy. I wished I could shield myself or at least lower my hands. The baring of my underarms was worse than that of my breasts.
Den walked towards the table. He tugged off his hoodie, slinging it onto the armchair as if he really meant business. My stomach fluttered at the revelation of more flesh. His T-shirt was a faded khaki green, hanging in a way that revealed, without clinging, his broad shoulders, toned, muscular chest and flat stomach. His forearms were hairy and his biceps hard, their veins snaking under a coffee-pale tan. High on his left arm, peeping below the sleeve of his tee, a faded black tattoo of a ring topped with three curly flames stretched over the bump of his muscle.
Finally, I had confirmation this man was the same as that in the photograph I’d received. In the flesh he was bigger, more pumped up. I wondered how old the photo was.
Den rummaged in his holdall then walked towards me, slipping something into his jeans pocket. Damn, he was beautiful, his wide, sloping face a haunting mix of composed and ferocious. He stood in front of me, lips curling in a smug smile. The vastness of the theatre seemed to shrink, becoming this one small space he and I occupied. Even though our bodies didn’t touch, my skin felt receptive to the fabric of his fully-clothed body. Placing his hands on my waist, Den ran them up and down, watching my expression. I bit back a groan, trying to conceal my lust. I wanted his hands to go both higher and lower but I asked for nothing, accepting his modest caress.
Eventually, his thumbs rose to nudge the underside of my breasts and I couldn’t help but moan. He traced lines to and fro along their uplifted swells then bobbed down to suck on one of my nipples. I moaned again, reeling at the intensity of his wetness and the flick of his tongue where he held me in the warm cavern of his mouth.
So gentle, not at all what I was braced for. Sensation shivered to my groin. He moved to tongue my other nipple, his hand massaging my other breast. I swayed, arousal making me unsteady. My raised arms were hot and crampy. The chain creaked above us. I hoped that thing was safe, hoped the balcony circle wouldn’t come crashing down on top of us.
KINKY COUPLE KILLED IN THEATRE GAME
Oh, what was I doing? Why these risks? Why did I like them so much? But why did anyone like or hate anything? Why did I like running or red wine or certain types of music? No answer to that, or no reason need underpin a preference for anything. The reason was the result, was in the negative or positive outcome created by the thing itself. May as well ask a person why they like pleasure. I shouldn’t doubt myself by wondering about my strange desires. Best instead to accept their validity and focus on enjoying them.
Den stood straight again, his lips shining with wetness. He tucked his hand in his front pocket and removed a small, silver object. He held it in front of my face, grinning. A nipple clamp. He pumped its jaws, making them go chomp-chomp-chomp. The clamp’s tips were covered in stippled, cream rubber, a dozen tiny teeth to latch on to me. Still smiling, Den took a nipple between thumb and forefinger, creating a sharper point for the clamp. His watchful eyes flicked from my tits to my face as he brought the pincers closer to the nub of flesh he was positioning.
‘I don’t know,’ I gasped. ‘Don’t know if I can take it.’
‘Don’t know till you try,’ he said smoothly.
Slowly, he closed the clamp on my nipple. The bite grew harder and I wailed as the pressure rose, my tip crushed between the rubber-toothed jaws. Finally, I was at my limit, unable to take more pain.
‘Enough,’ I breathed.
‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘Nearly there.’
‘No! No more.’
He allowed the clamp to take its final, deep bite. I howled as he withdrew his hand, the weight of the dangling clip adding to the pain, the chain clanking above me as I thrashed.
I kicked against my own shin. ‘Get it off, no!’
‘Count to five,’ he said.
‘I can’t.’
‘You can!’
The pain was abating before I’d even reached three, and believe me, I was counting fast. I drew deep breaths. ‘It’s OK, it’s fine, I’m there.’
He pressed a hand to my cheek. ‘Well done. Brave girl.’
His approval made me determined not to be such a wuss for the second clamp. But what can I say? Mice and men. I squealed as Den slowly closed the clamp on my other nipple, bracing myself for the impending spike of pain. Again, the rubber teeth gripped until I was convinced I’d reached the limit of my tolerance. I couldn’t imagine a worse pain but I knew it was about to pounce; and I knew I could take it because I’d already done so.
Den knew that too. At the last moment, he released the spring with an open-handed flourish. I cried, cursed and writhed, the chain jangling above me like a dungeon’s rattle. I tried to roll with the pain, not fight it; tried to rise with the bruising heat. Bastard, bastard, bastard! Then again, the pain subsided and I settled into a woozy ease. Den watched me all the time, coolly observant, a trace of irony lifting his lip and glinting in his eyes.
I loved that knowing control and how it contrasted with my freak out. Motionless and silent, he waited. When I’d calmed, accommodating the pain as best I could, Den smiled. Then, blithely sadistic, he flicked one of the clamps.
‘Aieee!’ The pain exploded, tugging where I was tender, an internal burn fusing with the outer bite. When my gasps had quietened, Den did the same to my other nipple, making me howl again. Then he went back and forth, playing me like an instrument, smiling all the while and clearly relishing my pain.
‘That good, huh?’ he asked sweetly, as if he were spoon-feeding a baby.
It was and it wasn’t. The pain blazed. As an isolated, physical sensation, I wouldn’t have cared for it. But the pain was inseparable from the delirium it provoked, seducing me into a liberating madness.
‘Yes, good,’ I said, my voice cracked.
Den’s fingers stole a path through my pubes. He cupped my swollen vulva, his warm fingers paddling at my wetness. My nipples throbbed, their heightened sensitivity charging my cunt. With his other hand, Den pulled gently on one clamp, a reminder of my soreness and the power he
had over me.
His fingers slid along my slit and he reached around to wind his other fist in my hair. He held my head firm, stepping closer so his clothes brushed my skin. I looked up at those flat blue eyes, at the low, sweeping plane of his nose and his scar-speckled cheekbones. I became disconnected, dreamy.
‘You,’ he said kindly, ‘are a nasty little fuckslut. I can feel you dripping all over my fingers.’ He eased two fingers inside me, moving them up and down with leisurely control. My wetness clicked, a tiny sound in the surrounding silence.
I gave a low groan, aching for more. For a long time, he refused me. Cruel and steady, he fucked me with two fingers but it was the slowest fuck in the world. After a time, he released my hair and inserted a third finger, stretching me wide and tight. Again, I begged for it harder and faster. All he did was smile and continue with his unhurried fingerfuck, his knuckles bulky within my slippery, wet flesh.
When he pulled out of me, I was so crazed with need I could barely breathe, never mind speak. I tried some words but even I didn’t understand them.
I watched, dazed, as Den walked away to rummage in the kinky chaos of his holdall. He removed a thick, leather tube, flipped off its cap and tipped out an object I recognised as a flogger. It was a beast of a thing, its hefty, polished handle striped with a dark rainbow of colours, red leather fronds streaming like a flaccid fountain. Den twirled the baton in one hand, his wrist churning with a practised rotation so the streamers span in a quickening blur. He held out his other hand, then brought the lashes down onto his palm with a satisfying thwack. Then another and another.
Fear and hunger chased each other around my body, hunger taking the lead by a margin. Den returned to me, smirking. I tensed, ready for an onslaught, my senses sharpening, goosebumps of anticipation lifting on my skin. Still grinning, Den stood before me and raised the flogger high, allowing the tips of the dangling strands to rest above my breasts. He swished the implement left and right, its soft ends tickling my skin. Occasionally, the gentle movement caught one of the clamps, knocking an edge of pain into my nipple. But the sensation was slight compared to earlier, and the flogger as soft as a kiss.
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