by Sansa Rayne
To our left, she sees the various restraints, sex toys and torture tools I’ve collected throughout the years. On the right, I’ve set up more recording equipment than an FBI sting; the monitors are all on, capturing the setup from every angle.
A smile breaks across my face, my heart pounding. I’m not sure who’s more excited. When I’ve strapped Sibel tightly to a black, composite slab, she checks herself out in each one, jaw hanging blissfully.
It’s then that I stop and think about Chase. I don’t know what I’m going to do about him. Even if I could convince Sibel to star in one of our videos, I wouldn’t want to — watching Sibel writhing in place, begging for my touch, I am certain that there is no way I will ever be able to share her.
A look passes over Pierce’s face that runs counter to his desire and anticipation; I don’t know what it is. Maybe he’s thinking what I’m thinking: Am I fucking crazy, or just sick?
Whatever it was, it ends, and then he’s back to grinning as I struggle against the tan leather straps binding me. Like something out of a mental hospital, they’re loose enough for me to strain a little, but too tight to escape. My limbs are spread out, exposing my body to his gaze and his cameras. Thankfully, the tilted table allows me to view all the monitors, and I can see myself clearly.
I’ve never been one to deny my instincts and needs, and I knew from Pierce’s photo collection what to expect, but this is something else.
Though the table is cold, it warms from the touch of my skin. I don’t want to say I’m growing comfortable — it’s rock-hard surface offers little padding — but I could see myself staying a while, helpless to stop Pierce from using me as he sees fit…
“What is it about watching yourself that gets you so wet, Sibel?” he asks.
“I’m not…” I lie, earning a swing of his flogger. He swats my breasts, a hard snap that burns savagely across my erect nipples.
“You’re soaked.”
“Yes, sir,” I mumble. It’s true — I shouldn’t deny it.
Pierce nods, swinging the flogger in the air. “Answer the question. Then, tell me why you would lie about it.”
I could be watching him, but instead my attention is still fixed on the monitor. I flinch when I see him rear back with the flogger, and yelp when he lets loose the swing, though it misses me.
“Are you listening, Sibel?” Pierce asks, cupping my breast in his hand. “Look at me.”
“Sorry,” I say, trying to collect my thoughts. “I lied because… because… I’m messed up. Right? Like, this isn’t normal.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “It’s pretty weird, that’s true. But since when do you care if it is?”
“I don’t.”
Pierce’s fingers tighten on my nipple, squeezing it until I cry out in pain.
“I don’t care, really!” I scream. “I said I’m messed up.”
Letting go, he nods, then kisses the punished nipple. I moan, closing my eyes to enjoy the feeling, but then open them again to watch the monitors.
“Why do you think you’re messed up?” he asks. “Because you’re kinky?”
“No,” I grunt. That’s not it.
“Then why?” Pierce asks.
“Hey, what’s that?” I asked that night’s customer as I pulled down my skirt.
Heavily overweight, but very polite, he offered me a grand for the whole night, and another grand to do whatever he wanted. Every instinct told me to run, to get out, that he could be a psycho — that whores get targeted by killers all the time. But I was past caring at that point. If I died, at least I’d never have to do this again.
“These?” he said, dangling handcuffs from his hooked index finger. “You know what they are.”
“Yeah, but what are you doing with them?”
He pounced faster than I expected for a fat man, hopping onto the bed and grabbing my wrist. He slapped a cuff around it, then fastened the other end to the metal bars of the bed’s frame.
I struggled at first, remembering my earlier fears, but the man was stronger than he looked, and used his weight to keep me pinned. He cuffed my other arm, then gagged me with his aquamarine necktie.
When he was done, I looked up, gasping, trying to stay calm. On the ceiling, instead of a plain wall like I was used to, hung a mirror. A wave of excitement passed through me when I saw myself, and all my terror and despair evaporated.
It was the first time I ever truly wanted one of my customers to fuck me.
Glaring at Pierce, I try to twist out of his grasp. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I snap. “That’s not what I’m here for.”
My attention turns to the flogger, expecting a harsh punishment, but Pierce lets the toy drop to the ground.
“You’re right. This is about getting off,” he says, slipping out of his suit and carefully folding the jacket and shirt.
“Yeah,” I mutter, enjoying the sight of his sculpted chest, though I bristle at his tone.
He strips off his pants and sets his clothes down on a bench near his assorted sex toys; he looks at them, then selects a thick, black ball gag. I stare at it, my heart racing, until he’s holding it up to my lips.
“Open,” he orders.
I press my lips together, intimidated by the size of the gag. In response, Pierce pinches my nipple again; the rush of agony causes a shout that’s quickly squelched by the gag he forces between my teeth. I growl as he gets his hand behind my neck and pulls the belt cruelly tight before locking it.
“Try to spit it out,” he says.
My tongue pushes hard against the shiny rubber ball, but to no avail. I mumble a protest, but the gag mangles my words. Its chemical taste fills my senses, and a line of drool begins to escape my lip.
Pierce brushes the saliva away with a finger. “If you don’t want to talk, that’s fine. This is a good look for you.”
Asshole, I think, cheeks flushing in humiliation. Yet, when I look at the screens, the sight of myself bound and gagged stirs a fresh aching from deep inside my drenched pussy. Pierce slides his middle finger between my folds and hooks it. I clench down hard on the digit, hungry for more.
“Damn, Sibel,” he laughs, leaning his body into mine. The fabric of his dark underwear against my stomach, I can feel the steely bulge underneath. “You trying to break my finger?”
“Mmm,” I respond, shaking my head.
“I’d have to go to the hospital and leave you here until I’d get back. It could take hours.”
Moaning, I face the screens, imagining being left here by myself, able to do nothing but watch. I whine, my core hungering for release.
“Oh, I felt that,” Pierce taunts, pulling out his finger.
The sudden emptiness makes me buck against my bonds in protest. He chuckles, backing up to his table of sex toys. “How badly do you want my cock right now, Sibel?” he asks.
My face burns. I turn away, not wanting to answer, Very badly.
Pierce gives his options a short look, then picks out a pair of nipple clamps connected by a thin, metal chain. He saunters back to me, holding the clamps in his palms, making sure I can see.
“I’m going to make you come,” he says, turning my head to face him. “And I’m going to let you watch, but you’re going to earn it, okay?”
I nod, sucking on my gag. Pulses of need make my body tremble, and at this point I feel like I’d do anything for relief.
“Breathe,” he says softly, taking my breast in hand. I inhale, staring off into space. Then I feel the clamp bite down on my sensitive nipple; I wince and grunt as the pain arcs through my breast, but I don’t lose my composure.
“Good, Sibel,” Pierce whispers. He kisses my forehead, then slips the second clamp onto my other nipple. The pain throbs angrily, especially when he lets the chain go. “Beautiful.”
I look at it on the screens, though it’s hard to see at this distance. Pierce lifts the chain with his index finger and gives it a mild pull, sparking fresh pain. Before I can react, he also drives two
fingers into my pussy, feeling how soaked I’ve become.
“You like the pain, don’t you?” he asks, showing me his fingers. Covered in my juices, they gleam in the dim light.
I don’t know how to answer him; I’ve never put much thought into pain. Yet, it’s incredible, like an itch I’ve never known I could scratch. It’s fueling my arousal even more, like nothing I’ve ever felt.
And for it to be with a man like Pierce Williams, a man who has represented everything I hate in the world… Is that why I like it? No wonder I used to be so fucked up about sex. When something is so utterly wrong that nothing about it should feel right, my body usually disagrees.
“It’s okay, Sibel. Consider this an experiment,” he says. His fingers go missing again, but it’s to slip off his underwear. My eyes shoot to the monitors so I can see his cock, now fully exposed. My eyes go wide at its size, which looks enormous even on the far away screens.
He chuckles, seeing my expression. With a nod, he turns back to his supplies and dons a condom, then grabs a bottle of lube. He squirts it into his palm and onto his cock, then strokes until the oil is nicely spread.
I whine and gasp as he presses his tip against my sodden pussy, meeting no resistance. His impressive size spreads my flesh, pushing deeper steadily.
“God, you’re wet,” Pierce grunts, cock jerking in pleasure.
I moan happily, enraptured by the extraordinary sensations growing as he begins to thrust. Forcing my eyes to stay open, I fixate on the screens, watching Pierce’s every drive. He plays with the chain connecting my nipple clamps at times, but doesn’t order me not to look. However, he’s not being inattentive, either: each time I turn back to him, he’s staring at me. Maybe it’s my imagination, but he’s smiling with a satisfaction greater than just the sex.
When I don’t turn back to the monitors, it takes him a minute to register, but when he does, his energy suddenly soars. Our eyes locked, he hammers hard, pumping like a machine. I howl through the gag, driven to ecstasy as he tugs at my nipple clamps, fingers my clit and fucks at the same time. The wave of sensation overwhelms me, sweeping in like a tsunami.
I try to yell through the gag that I’m going to come, but it’s more an instinct than a conscious choice. Blitzed by the euphoria, I’m past the point of making decisions — I’m along for the ride. How long it lasts, I can’t even say: Pierce doesn’t stop after my first orgasm. He doesn’t even slow down; there’s plenty of gas in the tank.
After a while, the orgasms no longer stop and start, but coalesce into a single, sustained note of bliss. Pierce keeps caressing my clit and punishing my tormented nips; he squeezes my ass, feeling the welts from the flogging, and nibbles at my neck, kissing and sucking until groaning from his own release.
He holds me close upon finishing; I’m barely aware of what’s going on. I’m breathing heavily, awash in the afterglow. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I feel the restraints loosening and the nipple clamps coming off.
I don’t know how long it takes for me to come down from the high and regain my composure, and when my mind clears I’m lying on a bare mattress next to Pierce. He’s fast asleep, the same satisfied smile on his face. The room is dark, but he’s brought my purse, so I reach and get out my phone.
Shining the screen away from him, I get out of bed and use the device’s light to look around. The table where we’d had sex is only around the corner; the cameras are still rolling. One by one, I stop them and take out the memory cards, except for the camcorder Pierce first used when we arrived at the building. That one I stop and rewind so I can watch it again. I want to relive the night that’s left my body as sore and tingly as it’s ever felt.
God, if people knew I’d spent the night with Pierce Williams…
Watching the video, a melancholy sinks in, sorry that I can’t share the footage with anyone. Even as our sex begins, I don’t feel as though I’m watching porn. Despite his vocation, there’s an artistry to his work. He clearly put a great deal of thought into how to best capture his subject. If his goal was just to sleep with the notorious Sibel Isaacs, he succeeded — but that’s not how it feels.
We’re still not dating, I remind myself. Nothing has changed about my reality. I can’t be associated with a pornographer. Even if we only dated, and never collaborated in any other way, people would still leap to assumptions about us. Or me, at least. I would confirm what they already believe about who I am and what I do. As much as I enjoyed the night with Pierce, I can’t let that happen.
I’m still watching the playback when I hear heavy footsteps. My breath catches in my throat as I turn around, rearing back with the camcorder, holding it like it’s a rock.
“Hey, it’s me,” says Pierce. “What are you up to?”
Relieved, I grin, showing him the camcorder. After a second, I stop the video and eject the last memory card. “Just collecting what’s mine,” I reply.
I expect him to object when I hand him back the empty camcorder, but he doesn’t.
“By all means, keep them,” he says, closing my hand around the cards. “We’re going to make lots more.”
Despite how sore and spent I feel, the thought evokes a fresh rush of arousal. I bite my lip, eyes wandering to the blank screens, wanting to see more — but I can’t. Not if I want to have any hope of leaving.
“I don’t think so,” I say, searching the room for my dress. “I should go.”
Pierce laughs. “Seriously? It’s the middle of the night. Come back to bed. I want to make you breakfast.”
How many times did customers ask me to stay, when all I wanted to do was leave? The idea still makes me uneasy; I smile at Pierce, but I’m already calling for a cab. He tries to hide the hurt from his face, and supplies our address when asked, but we wait in awkward silence for my ride to arrive.
“You know it’s nothing personal,” I say at last.
“I understand,” he replies. “The last thing I want is to ruin your career.”
“Thanks.”
From outside the warehouse, a car horn honks, so Pierce opens the door for me.
“See you soon,” he says.
I nod, and then go. The whole cab ride home, I wonder exactly how screwed I am. I want to file the night away as an incredible, one-time performance, but I think Pierce sensed that I’ll be back.
I haven’t gotten him out of my system.
Not even close.
She’ll be back, I think to myself before drifting off to sleep. I could lie awake, wallowing in disappointment that she felt the need to leave, but I’m not worried. Her tone didn’t carry the conviction of some of the women I’ve slept with who skated immediately after.
They think, What’s wrong with me? Why would you fuck a porn star? Are you crazy?
That always annoys me, considering I don’t call myself a porn “star” — I’m the producer, not the star. At least Sibel now knows I’m more than just what people see on my website. She can’t tell anyone, but she knows. It’s what I wanted and, for now, it’s enough.
I wake a few hours later and take a cab back home. The driver grins seeing me in last night’s suit, wrinkled despite my care in folding. Throughout the ride, I enjoy my memories of the night; Sibel can have the videos. I don’t need them; I can recall every detail.
Breakfast aromas hit me when I get home, but my appetite vanishes when I see Chase. Standing in front of the stove, flipping strips of bacon, he turns when he hears me.
“Welcome home, Picasso. You two have a nice time making art?”
I’d love to say, Yeah, I had the time of my fucking life. Instead, I shrug. “We tried a few things, laid down some ground rules.”
His brows narrow, and he folds his arms across his chest. “What did you try?”
This is the part I’ve been dreading since the moment I woke.
“Tied her up a little. Some flogging. Shot a bit of video. Nothing too exciting.”
I fucking hate lying, but I can’t tell Chase the truth. He’ll never
let it go if I’ve gotten to sleep with her, but not him. This was never supposed to be for me.
“There’s video?” he asks, turning back to the bacon, pulling it from the pan before it burns. “Fantastic. Hand it over.”
“I don’t have it. She took it. That was part of the arrangement,” I explain. “Nothing we do is going on the Internet. If that means she keeps the videos, then that’s how it’s gotta be.”
Chase nods, draining the bacon grease into an empty beer can. “You could have made me a copy. I wouldn’t have put it on the net.”
“Yeah, I know.” I believe him — he wants it for himself, not to share. “It doesn’t matter, though. I have to build trust with her. She’s not like the girls from The Gulag. I need to show her that nothing we do will get out to the public. She’s taking a big risk, even being seen with me.”
“Yeah, I get it,” says Chase. “But she wouldn’t have to know. Next time you got her tied up, blindfold her and send me what you’ve got. No one will know but you and me.”
I flatten my fingers against the counter top to keep them from balling into fists.
“And if she found out? That would be the end of it. No, I’m not going to take any chances by lying.”
At least, not to her.
While Chase stews on that, I squeeze the counter’s surface nearly hard enough to break it; I’m not sure if I’m angrier at myself, or him.
“Nothing is going to happen between you and Sibel unless she trusts us completely,” I continue, calming down. “And that starts with her trusting me. You’re not even in the picture yet.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, pushing the bacon onto our breakfast plates, where hefty piles of scrambled eggs already wait. “But could you hurry the fuck up?”
“If I thought there was an easier way…”
Chase carries our plates to the kitchen table and gestures for me to sit.
“Fine. Do whatever it takes,” he says. “Don’t want to fuck it up.”