Edge Play X

by Wilson, M. Jarrett

  The last time she had asked Simeon about it he had been dismissive. The agent had tried to calm her, probably so she wouldn’t run, X knew. X thought that the man knew the truth about Compton but she herself didn’t know what to believe.

  If Compton was a murderer, it changed the whole formula around. It meant that he wasn’t really a masochist. It meant that he was a sadist. She knew that it was possible that he was a true sado-masochist. X believed that the two components couldn’t be separated anyway, that one didn’t exist without the other, but one disposition was always more dominant. She sensed that her interactions with him would be about figuring out which of the two Compton really was.

  This much she did know—Compton was a man of extremes. Nothing about him was ordinary. Were it not for the possibility that he was a murderer, she would have appreciated the eccentricity of it. Artists were the same way, always pushing toward the edge. Maybe that was why a Domme who was an artist had interested him. Maybe he respected that someone had the power to take him to the farthest boundaries and the courage to do it. He wanted someone to take him to the edge, someone to look over the precipice with him, a woman who could make the experience feel like an art.

  And on that Saturday, the private car came again.

  8.

  The private car arrived again as Simeon said it would, this time a white Bentley Mulliner. The driver, more careful this time, had not allowed his gaze to linger, barely looking at X at all. Still, she pulled her mink close to her, trying to conceal what was underneath: chaps, thong and bra made out of black pvc, a glassy material which clung to X’s every curve.

  Steinberg again led her to the dungeon and unlocked the heavy door. She entered. How was it that the room was already spotless and in order? Hired help, of course, employees who had also signed confidentiality agreements, assuring that Compton’s perversions never became public.

  When she entered, X did not immediately see Compton. He was in the back again sitting on his simple wooden chair. As she made her way back, she saw him there, waiting. The man was still, perfectly calm. No twiddling of thumbs, no thumping of the feet. The thinker.

  Along with the jock-strap covering over his penis, he again wore wrist and ankle cuffs, but this time he also wore a leather buckle harness. Its thick black leather went over his shoulders and under his arms where it met in the middle above his sternum, the material connected with a thick metal ring that held all the straps together.

  When Compton saw X, like Pavlov’s dog salivating at the bell, venous blood began engorging his penis, hardening his formerly limp organ into an erection, small but firm under his leather jock-strap.

  Compton looked up at X, a smirk on his face.

  “Don’t look me in the eyes without permission,” X commanded him.

  She knew that he would watch her, understood the inevitability that their eyes would meet from time to time. Compton was the kind of man who liked to observe. But why not remind the man of his place, that it was a privilege to even look at her?

  After dropping her bag onto the floor, X opened her coat and let it fall as well, revealing her shiny chaps, thong, and bra, garments that surreally and distortedly reflected both the equipment in the room and the man who sat magnetized watching her every move, a man who could not help to stare at her body because he had been told not to look her in the face.

  Simeon’s words came into her mind then, If you aren’t going to fuck him at least torture him with desire. And then she remembered the other thing Simeon had said about Compton. He is a complex man. Don’t underestimate him.

  X turned her back toward Compton. She bent over to reach into her bag, fully aware that he would be watching her, scoping out her ass, the curvature of her body, the sublime mysteries hidden by thin fabric. She knew he would probably be getting turned on.

  There was humiliation in this, degradation, from teasing a man whom she did not like and did not trust. It occurred to her that whores must feel the same way until they disconnected themselves effectively. Some people could do it for the money and others could not. Even the obscene amount of money that Simeon had given her was not enough to buy this part of her, to purchase her sexuality, her free will. If her brother weren’t in danger, X would have run. She resented Compton and Simeon for the shame she felt.

  Regardless of what she felt, she was right, Compton was aroused from watching her. As she was bent over, the man thought he noticed a small tattoo on the woman’s back but was unable to make out what the image was. He felt a sudden urge to study her body, to find its’ every marking.

  X picked out a short red rubber flogger, the pom-pom of the dominatrix, and a pair of clover nipple clamps that connected to one another with a slim silver chain. X went and stood in front of Compton, allowing the tips of her flogger to touch his belly and the top of his leather jock strap.

  By then, the man was diverting his eyes to the floor, trying his best to resist the urge to look at her face. From above, X examined Compton, his subtle expressions, the lines that time had left, the inscrutable presence of it, trying to read him, to measure him, but all she was certain about was that the man was a conundrum. He had a kind face and it frightened her that a man who might be a murderer could have a kind face.

  X lifted up her boot and put the ball of her heeled foot onto his thigh, dragging the flogger over his belly, running it and its undulating tentacles over his chest and up to his right shoulder.

  She leaned down to whisper in his ear, “Do you have a little hard-on under that silly thing you’re wearing?”

  Her breasts, right in front of his face as she whispered, garnered Compton’s complete attention, and then, in a quick contact that released a flood of pleasure that streamed through him before concentrating in his little penis, the soft flesh of her breasts and the slick pvc of her bra grazed his cheek.

  Compton shook his head yes. Yes, yes, yes.

  “Good for you,” she said, placing the clamps on his nipples and yanking the chain to tighten them. Compton moaned softly. “Do you like that?”

  “Yes, X.”

  “Get on your knees, Worm.”

  Compton obeyed, and X flogged him until the skin of his back was pink. That was how she usually began her interactions with her submissives, with a good whipping. Got the blood flowing. But it was more than that with him. Each time she struck Compton, X hit him as hard as she was able. There was anger behind every lash.

  X told him, “I have to say, Worm, that you look better without your mustache.”

  “Thank you, Domina.” Compton smiled.

  “Don’t get conceited.”

  The jock strap Compton was wearing exposed his butt cheeks, and X started to strike his bare ass, continuing until his rump was nicely red. Then the woman reached down and unsnapped the sides of the jock strap, letting it fall to the floor between his legs.

  “Don’t move,” she commanded.

  Compton, staying as still as he was able, became suddenly aware of the blood pulsing through his body nearly in step with the beat of his heart, with the movement of his chest as he breathed, with the blinks of his eyes, with the secretions of his salivary glands and then his swallows, with the shifts of his muscles as they supported his skeleton. Being in X’s presence enhanced every moment and sensation. Time neither slowed down nor sped up, but instead concentrated and condensed itself into the present, temporarily eliminating both the past and the future. He liked the hyper-reality of it; that was part of his addiction.

  “What a little penis you have—all head, no shaft,” X said, a comment which only caused Compton to grow harder. She clipped the bondage cuffs on his wrists together.

  From deep within her bag, X pulled out a black roll of electrical tape and a bottle of baby oil. Next, with the help of a penknife that made its home on X’s keychain, she cut off four short pieces of the black strip before telling Compton to close his eyes and then taping little ‘x’s’ over his eyelids. Terry Compton, blinded now by the x’s of electrical tape
, recalled the cartoons of his childhood, the ones that depicted the death of a character by replacing the eyes with x’s, hoping that this was not some kind of omen.

  For extra effect, X put a red ball-gag into his mouth, securing its straps behind his head. Then, on a sudden impulse, the woman decided to embellish the scene as much as possible. With red lipstick, she wrote 4-and-a-half-inches on his belly and drew an arrow pointing down to his penis.

  Now, as quietly as possible, X took the digital camera from her tote and removed it from the velvet bag in which she had concealed it. Simeon had given her a small camera that would turn on soundlessly and not emit a flash. As X turned it on, she wondered if the ambient light of the room would be sufficient to produce a clear image or if the shutter of the camera would have to stay open longer to compensate for the dimness, so before photographing Compton, she told him to stay still, don’t fidget.

  She fired off a few photographs of him on his knees in front of her, his eyes x’d over with tape, his hands attached in front of him in leather cuffs, his hard penis small and exposed, his mouth gagged, a humiliating measurement written on his belly, the harness wrapping around his chest. She fired off three shots in rapid succession, inspecting each image as they appeared on the lcd screen and judging that in all likelihood that they would be acceptable to Simeon. Then she turned off the camera and returned it to her bag.

  X went over to the bar and fixed herself a stiff whiskey sour and then took a seat on the wooden chair. She watched Compton there on his knees, watched him as she enjoyed her drink, watched until the man started to shake from the discomfort of the position.

  X finished her drink and put her glass on the floor, then went to stand in front of the man.

  “I am going to remove my clothing and get on the bed, and you are going to give me a massage.”

  Before removing her clothes, she stood as close to Compton as she was able without touching him. She was going to tease him—that would keep his interest. It had worked with every other man. How different could he really be? And keeping him interested might be the only thing keeping her from being disposed of.

  “Listen.”

  In succession, heels were kicked off, chaps unbuckled and pushed to the floor, panties removed, and bra undone and tossed aside. Compton listened to the distinct sound of each garment rubbing against itself in its journey off her body, and the noise bore its way into him, coupling along the way with his vision of her nipples and pubis, uncovered now but still a visual reality deprived to him.

  X pulled the raw silk bedspread to the foot of the bed, handed Compton the bottle of baby oil, and the woman proceeded to lay face down onto the smooth Egyptian sheets covering the mattress.

  Compton put his hands out in front of him and walked in little geisha steps until his knees touched the side of the mattress. Once there, he reached out his hands, touching the sheets, searching for her. Finally, he touched the smooth warmth of her outer thigh. Slowly and deliberately, Compton ran his hands slowly over her leg, gauging his location and still carrying the bottle that X had handed to him.

  Compton climbed onto the bed, kneeling next to her body. His hands followed the line of her leg up and over the smooth crescent of her buttocks before ending at her lower back. Once there, Compton fumbled clumsily with the cap of the bottle until he finally got it open and squirted some oil onto X’s back before replacing the cap. It was a difficult task to complete with his hands bound together and his eyes taped shut. The feel of the cool oil on her skin caused her to scold him.

  “Put the oil in your hands first and rub it around so it isn’t cold.”

  “Yes, X. Forgive me,” Compton said through his gag.

  Compton’s hands, splayed against the warmth of her lower back, spread the oil up to her shoulders, spreading it in a warm slick over muscles that he silently named as he touched them: the posterior trapezius, the deltoid, the teres major, the latissimus dorsi, and then down and over the gluteus maximus, the wonderful gluteus maximus, a muscle that she gratefully did not admonish him for running his hands over.

  The man was javelined by lust. What blessed luck! What barbarous ecstasy might await? Her body was the providence of heaven, a verdant world, eternal as the stars.

  Why did X allow him to touch her so intimately when she despised him? She had hoped that through his touch that she could read him, somehow discern the magnitude of his cruelty. Instead of malice, X found herself yielding under his caress. Muscles formerly tense relaxed under his touch, softening, loosening, and slackening. Even with his hands bound together, Compton managed to stroke her with enough skill to cause her to relax under his touch, and then X closed her eyes, sinking deeper into the soft bed.

  There was no indication of any maliciousness. Simeon himself had admitted that perhaps Compton had not been the one to murder the CIA agent, that perhaps he had paid another person to complete the act. Then she reminded herself that it was a very good possibility that Compton had nothing to do with the woman’s murder. Who could say what other intrigue the woman was involved in under the scope of her work? He was a rich man, yes; a pervert, definitely. But a murderer? X wasn’t so sure. For all she knew, Simeon had lied and said he was a murderer so that she didn’t start to like the man and divulge to him that the government was on his tail.

  There was another motivation in X’s decision to let him touch her so. She wanted to drive him to the edge with his desire, have him long for her completely, burn the feel of her body into his psyche, enslave him under his lust. If she needed to allow him to touch her to accomplish this, if it would help her from joining the ranks of the disappeared, so be it.

  Compton ran his hands over her sides and up to her shoulders and the nape of her neck where he lingered. X shivered a little at having the man’s hands so close to her throat. She told herself again that the man didn’t have it in him. The government was probably interested in him because he donated money to charities that they didn’t like. A part of her understood that she was trying to write Compton off as a threat in order to quell her fear but the tactic was effective.

  She allowed her mind to wander. She remembered the other men she had sought to drive wild with their desire. X would torture Compton the same way she had done to all the others, interspersing pleasure and torment until he was in a full frenzy. All those other men, once they had yielded to X completely, given themselves to her utterly and entirely, she had always abandoned them, crushed them under the adoration that she had nurtured. X had sown adulation and then reaped it before leaving them fallow.

  That was the cruelest blow, the true end-strike. It was her nature to leave men only after their love for her had completely bloomed, and it gave X pleasure to do so, to control them with leashes tied not just to their loins but also to their hearts. X had found pleasure in their heartache, in having given them and then released them from the greatest bondage, one that they had desired, the slavery of love. She could barely admit the ashen truth of it to herself.

  That was her modus operandi. But in this case, X couldn’t just leave. There were repercussions to her actions. She was unsure exactly how she would be released from this predicament and knew that it was likely that she would have to free herself.

  Compton finished massaging her shoulders and then ran his hands down to her buttocks. There, he paused, picking up the bottle of oil, clumsily opening it again and pouring it into his palm before sweeping it over her backside. As he took his hands away from her body to return the cap to its bottle, X opened her eyes and looked back at him long enough to see him rubbing the oil briefly over his penis, making his organ shine nicely in the soft light of the room. In any other circumstance she would have been aroused.

  X allowed Compton to run his hands over her ass and then down and around the soft flesh of her inner thighs. The sound of his breathing could be heard now, a respiration interspersed with little moans. Her approach was proving effective.

  “Rub my feet,” X commanded, and he traced his ha
nds down her legs and the topography of her body until he found his destination. Once he had arrived, he pressed his nimble fingers over the soles of her feet, heels, and each toe, finding every crevice, rolling over every curve.

  The blindfold had a purpose. As he felt her flesh, X wanted him to see not the reality of her body but instead to idealize it in his mind’s eye. She wanted him to touch, but not see—to see, but not touch. It is one thing for a man to see what he cannot have, and, she knew, another thing to touch it.

  X told Compton to stop what he was doing and then she flipped onto her back. The woman sat up momentarily, unsnapping the straps of his gag, then removing it and tossing it to the floor. It sat there, a crumpled wad, a foul remnant, waiting for the maid who would later rinse it and hang it back onto the pegboard, a look of disgust on her face.

  Compton, still kneeling on the bed, his ass sitting on his heels, felt surprise as X’s feet ran along the tops of his thighs. He threw his head back in delight.

  “Kiss my feet,” X said, remembering how his list had included a foot fetish.

  Compton picked up her right foot and sucked on her petite toes, running his tongue in between and around each one. He licked the soles of each foot, he kissed the heels and Achilles tendons, his little penis jutting out in front of him as parts of her feet glanced his cheek ever so gently.

  Compton thought that perhaps X was going to let him fuck her, unaware that she had no intention of doing so. Instead, X told him to stop and then unclipped his hands. She took the man’s right hand and placed it between her thighs next to her vulva. Immediately, he ran his fingers over the moist warmth of her labia, but just as quickly X pulled his hand away from her.

  “Lick off your fingers.”

  The man eagerly obeyed. When Compton put his fingers into his mouth, X spit in his face. She suddenly regretted that she had allowed him to touch her at all.