by M. A. Ellis
The woman—Victoria—stilled and Becca’s heart began to pound. She could see the woman’s shiver.
“Y-yes,” she replied, her voice edged with fear.
“Yes…”
“Sir,” she quickly added. “Yes Sir.”
“Very good. We’re going to try, once again, to work on control.” He set the book on the center of her stomach and patted it twice.
“Are you comfortable, dear?”
The woman hesitated, as if she were pondering how to answer.
“Yes. Sir.”
He took a step backward and the floor began to move, the barrel and the rug beneath it rotating until the woman’s completely hairless pussy was fully exposed to Becca and Chad. Rope Becca hadn’t been able to see ran upward from below the woman’s ass to where it was attached at her waist. The cord was drawn tight and Becca thought it was a single length until she saw how it separated around the woman’s clit, biting into the swollen redness of the woman’s labia.
“Really?” the man questioned. He bent down in front of the woman, staring at the juncture of her thighs as if something were wrong. “I think you’re lying, Victoria. You know what dishonesty gets you.”
They should leave. Becca knew they should, but the man’s lilting voice made her wonder what was in store. What the punishment would be.
“Your poor little clit doesn’t look comfy. Not in the least.” He reached a hand toward her crotch, his fingers forming an “okay” sign. “In fact, it looks as if it’s ready to burst.”
He flicked the captured nub with a force that made the woman squeal and Becca sucked in a breath. An unexpected heaviness settling over her own pussy.
“Is it ready to explode?” The man moved as if to touch her again and the girl answered. Quick and succinct.
“Yes Sir! It is.”
He took a sip of the wine and then carefully perched the glass on top of the book. It wobbled precariously at first but the woman stared at the ceiling, taking a few shallow breaths to help the glass settle. “But we can’t allow that. Not if we’re working on you holding back, can we, Victoria?”
“No Sir,” The girl’s voice teetered between an answer and a plea.
The man reached down and picked up a wand-like vibrator from the floor. A loud buzzing noise filled the room and the captive’s thighs began to shake.
Becca’s gaze shot to the glass. It rocked a little faster.
He held the vibrator by the cord, moving his wrist just enough that the toy began swinging like a pendulum. With each pass he brought it closer to her exposed pussy and a surge of arousal shot through Becca. She wasn’t different from most women. She’d fantasized about being tied up. But this? It took torment to an entirely different level. One her body was automatically responding to.
The large, bulb-like head grazed the woman’s flesh and her short, high-pitched cry filled the room. The glass lurched to one side and the man grabbed it before it toppled to the floor, but not before the contents had splashed over the book, the captive’s belly and the floor. He brought the wineglass to his lips and emptied its contents before setting it safely aside.
“We’ll begin, Victoria, with you asking permission to come.” He tossed the vibrator upward and caught it around the shaft, holding it like a torch. High enough that the woman could see it. With his other hand he moved the rope outward from between her labia, one braided length at a time, until it framed her engorged flesh, forcing the pillowy flesh upward until it was plumped and trapped. Wetness marked her desire, evident to all who watched.
With a firm motion he pressed the bulbous head low against her core, to the patch of skin between her vagina and her anus. Becca imagined the vibrations would offer intensity to the woman’s labia while only teasing her clit. The woman’s head fell slowly back against the barrel as she moaned, then quickly snapped her mouth shut, silencing the sound.
“You can make all the noise you want, Victoria. It won’t bother me in the least. As long as you hold your orgasm at bay.”
He held the vibrator stationary and stared at the woman’s lower body. He never once looked up, just watched for something, but Becca had no idea what it was. To her eyes, the woman was barely moving. What motion there was seemed to be the vibrations that were radiating from the toy and rippling through the woman’s splayed thighs.
Becca shifted as dampness slicked her own folds. Her hearing became distorted with the sound of her heart pounding out a thunderous rhythm and heat permeated the back of her body from her shoulders down to the tops of her thighs. Had Chad moved closer or was she imagining that? Was he focused on her and not the erotic display behind the glass?
The man slid his fingers down the shaft of the vibrator and cupped his hand around the head of the toy. Its humming became muted. The heavier breathing that surrounded Becca wasn’t entirely her own.
The man moved the toy higher and pressed it firmly against the woman’s clit. She screamed and Becca jumped, hitting a wall of solid warmth as the woman offered her torturer a panting, “Oh, thank you Sir. Thank you.”
Chad’s fingers encased her upper arms, harder than when he’d held her elbows. He set Becca away from him with a speed that was frightening. Had he felt the way her body was trembling? Had it given her away?
Embarrassment shot through her and the ringing in her ears intensified. Becca needed to leave. She turned toward Troy, only to find his body was in the middle of the corridor blocking her way.
She didn’t wait for Chad. She took two determined steps toward the man and said, “Get the hell out of my way, fuckhead.”
His laughter, along with a less-than-sincere “Yes Mistress” followed her down the corridor.
Becca managed to keep the shaking at bay until they reached the car. She pulled her keys out of her pocket and they clattered as she tried to put the car key into the door lock.
“Give me those,” Chad ordered softly, reaching out and taking the keys. She stood and watched as he unlocked the door and stowed her equipment, paying attention to how steady his hands were. Apparently, she was the only freak standing on the curb.
“How ‘bout I drive?” he suggested.
She thought about arguing and decided against it. “Sure. This isn’t what it seems, though. I’m not having some sort of meltdown.”
“Didn’t think you were.” He placed his palm low on her back but his touch seemed different. More urgent than comforting. It made her wish he’d move it lower. He steered her toward the passenger side, opened her door and before she could get a leg up, boosted her into the seat.
“You didn’t need to do that,” she blurted. It was better than her asking if he could read her mind.
“What? Help my favorite UV artist into the car?” He was trying for an innocent tone, she knew that. But his voice was a little too husky.
“Touch my ass,” she countered. “I’ve been getting into this thing for years.”
“Oh, I most definitely did need to touch you. Just to make sure we’re back in the land of reality.” He slammed her door shut and walked briskly around the front of the vehicle once more and opened the driver’s side door.
“Jesus, that was something. I don’t know about you but I need a freakin’ drink. I’d offer you a glass of wine when we get home but I wouldn’t want you to think I’d chain you to the kitchen island if you spill it!”
She just snorted and looked out the side window, trying to ignore how quickly she could see herself in that scenario.
You’re obviously a bigger freak than ever imagined.
“Wine couldn’t hurt,” she admitted. “My whole body aches from having Andres the Degenerate watching me work. My fingers were starting to cramp and that never happens on something small and quick.” She was changing the subject. Becca hoped he’d play along.
“My tattoo’s amazing, by the way.”
Damn. He’s good.
“Thanks. You’ve got good skin. That always makes it easier.”
Silence stretched and B
ecca’s mind raced to find a topic to fill the conversational void.
“Are we going to talk about that last little scene in there?”
“No, we are not,” she quickly replied. What the hell could she say? What did she want to say?
“Okay, ostrich girl, then let’s work on our SAT question of the day. Herr Herzog is to creepy as Troy, the boy toy, is to…”
Becca always appreciated his humor. That was pretty much the way to go now, she thought. “I’d rather think about one train leaving Boston and another leaving Chicago.”
“Locomotives? Really, Bec? That’s a little too phallic for my sanity right now but if you picked up on half the stuff I saw—”
“I picked up on plenty,” she interrupted. “Including the welt marks on two of those girls he wants inked. That’s fucked up.”
Chad reached over and tapped her leg, which was jiggling up and down in a purely nervous response that he’d pointed out on numerous occasions. She forced it to stop, shocked when he didn’t pull his hand away like usual. He relaxed his hand, his fingers resting against the sensitive skin on the inside of her knee
“You going to be able to ink them?” he asked.
He brushed his hand over her denim-clad leg. A featherlike stroke that should have seemed soothing. But it sent a tingling arrow of pleasure straight to Becca’s thighs. She cleared her throat and answered him. “Of course I’ll be able to ink them. But if they feel like talking, you know I’ll listen.”
“It’s one of your best qualities,” he said. His palm closed over the area just above her knee and he squeezed.
“And if they ask my opinion—”
“God help us all,” he replied, switching back to teasing little strokes.
Becca had the urge to pull her leg free. His touch was making her perspire. She could feel her brow growing damp. She took a second to remember what he’d just said. “And if I find out they’re being hurt, that there’s even weirder stuff going on, then we’re going to have to call someone.”
“Shit! I forgot to text Dave.” He let go of her knee as if he’d been scalded.
“Who’s Dave?” she asked, her palm covering the area of skin he’d just released. It was super warm.
He hesitated. “Dave is Jim. Jim Phelps. Intel guy.”
“Intel guy. Right. And you were supposed to text him. Let him know we made it out alive?”
“Yeah, something like that. I have the text all ready to go. Just need to send it.”
He leaned onto one hip, digging in the pocket of his pants for his phone. He swiped the screen, touched a few options and sent the text. He turned his head and arched one thick brow. “So, all this secret agent stuff I have going, is it a turn-on, Bec? Is it making you all tingly in an Ursula Andress kind of way? Seriously. You can tell me the truth.”
She laughed, mentally acknowledging he could change a subject with the best of them.
“Yes. It’s making me totally hot,” she said, staring straight ahead as they made their way down the street. “Or it could be the fact the air-conditioning doesn’t work.”
“Again with the words,” he muttered.
A second later both their power windows were being lowered. They drove in silence a few more blocks. It was clear the proverbial elephant was still in the room. And instead of balancing itself on a circus ball, it was bound over a wine barrel.
“So what’s your opinion on the X-rated oenophile?” Becca asked.
“What’s yours?” he countered.
She hated when he did that, but this was the pattern their more serious conversations took. One of them asking a question they were both mulling over, then the other evading the question so the one who started the conversation could basically offer their own opinion first.
“It was a little strange.” Becca thought was an understatement, but she wasn’t going to tell him a part of it had made her hot.
“How so?”
“That woman was in pain, but not the kind I’d expect from being tied and tortured. That was surprising.” Becca had a firm image of what bondage and discipline entailed and it didn’t include the throes of orgasm, let alone completion. Not at all.
“I think it’s more torment than it is torture, Bec. It’s the pleasure-and-pain thing they’ve got going. Did you notice how red her torso was?”
Becca shook her head. She’d been riveted to the woman’s nude body, the artistic way the rope had been tied and twisted. “No, I didn’t,” she admitted.
“There was a flogger on the floor by that vibrator. I think he probably had been using that on her for quite some time before he took a break to grab that glass of wine and a good book. I’m thinking if we’d have stayed any longer some well-placed strokes were going to follow that orgasm.”
It was Becca’s turn to stare at him. He kept his gaze forward but answered her unasked question of why.
“I think it intensifies both sensations. Unless it was all an act. Unless she was faking. They do whole movies now that look real but are totally staged. Someone could easily use that wine cellar as a movie set, if they’re not doing that already.”
“She wasn’t faking,” Becca said quickly, heat rushing to her face when he glanced away from the road and challenged her.
“What makes you so sure?”
She recalled how the woman had quivered. How she struggled to hold on at the fierceness that was being forced upon her. How her face had contorted in the final moments where she still had control.
Becca’s abdomen clenched and the tightness seeped lower, until an unwarranted wetness slicked her folds once more. Why had she brought this up?
You know damn well why.
“Why?” he asked, his voice dropping a level, as if they had a car full of passengers and he didn’t want them to hear.
“Because no woman can fake that type of full-body tremble.” No way. Maybe a little thigh shiver now and again, but not the tremors that rocked her when that vibrator was forced against her pussy.
“And you know this how?”
She was turning into some sort of fetish hound, that’s all there was to it. His voice was sounding sexier than it ever had and to make matters worse, her vulva was starting to throb in time to her heartbeat.
“I just do.”
“So you’ve come like that before. That’s how you’re an authority.”
Oh my god. This wasn’t where she’d wanted the conversation to go. Heat rose in her cheeks and she wished he’d drive faster to get a little more air. “I didn’t say that,” she finally replied. “This has nothing to do with—”
“Was it the barrel she was tied to? It reminded me of an ottoman. A little bit.”
Becca closed her eyes, trying to focus on slowing down her heartbeat. She had thought the exact same thing when she saw it. Thought of his ottoman, actually. The one in his living room with the unrestricted view of the water. No neighbors. No one to look in on them. She knew fantasies about restraint weren’t uncommon. There were in every other issue of Cosmo and Men’s Health, both of which were well-read at the shop. But they’d never crept into her fantasies about Chad. She dreamed about him making love to her but it was always in a more conventional manner.
She opened her eyes, an answer to her discomfort presenting itself with the next street sign. And they really didn’t have a steadfast rule on how many times in one day they could deflect a conversation.
“The turnoff for my street’s in another block,” Becca said. “Feel like dropping me off? I’m beat. Probably just need a long shower, a relaxing afternoon and a good night’s rest. I can run over in the morning and pick up the Blazer.” Why did her voice sound so high pitched to her ears? She needed to escape before she did something crazy. That pitiful kiss she’d offered up early came to the front of her mind and her leg started jiggling.
“Nope,” he replied, looking in the rearview mirror before changing lanes.
“Nope what? You don’t want to drive me home? Or I can’t come over in the morning?�
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“Both,” was all he said.
She watched her avenue of escape disappear on her right. “You could drop me here at the corner and—”
His hand landed on her knee, forcing her leg still once again. But when his palm slid upward she whipped her head around and stared at him.
“Did it make you hot?” he asked in a low, serious tone. “Seeing her tied down like that?”
Becca’s jaw slacked. One simple, out-of-the-ordinary caress and her body yearned for more. She wanted his fingers to move higher. To touch her pussy. To palm her as hard as the man had crammed the vibrator against the woman’s flesh.
His hand moved upward and his fingers brushed her inner thigh. She closed her mouth and bit her lip to force down an embarrassing noise. One that would undoubtedly sound like need. One that would remind them both of what had happened earlier.
“That’s not fair, Becca. I always answer your questions.” He drew imaginary lines on her jeans as he stroked upward to the top of her thigh. It was maddening, the way he didn’t move closer to her pussy, but she didn’t know how she’d respond if he did.
Liar!
She so wished the voice in her head would shut the hell up. She had enough to contend with at the moment. She should just ask him what he was doing. That would make him stop. Especially if she used the correct tone of voice. The issue was, she didn’t want him to stop.
“Did it make you hot?” His voice was turning all velvety, or maybe she was delusional. She’d never been happier to see his high-rise up ahead. He’d park, they’d switch places, she’d go home. Then masturbate herself into oblivion. Because risqué talk just wasn’t going to cut it.
“It jacked me up,” he admitted. “Of course your fanny right there in front of me didn’t help. Don’t you think there was something primal about him not letting her come until she asked permission?”
“I’d never ask permission,” she blurted. In her mind, that was undeniable.
“Really?” He jerked his hand upward, covered her mound fully and squeezed. Even in jeans her labia pressed together, forcing her clit upward. Mindlessly, she shifted her hips in an action older than time, pushing against him.