by Ella Ford
I shook my head and tried to regain control of myself. This was not me! I liked sex, that much is true. But I’d never felt attracted to women, I’d never been tempted - as many friends had been - to experiment in college. I appreciated the female form on an aesthetic level, but not a sexual level. Yet here I was, dragged along by the powerful, commanding presence of The Artist, mind reeling with a daring curiosity about her works of erotic arts, desperate to see, to know.
We reached the side room, an old manager’s office by the look of the faded decor and battered filing cabinets along the far wall. The Artist pulled me in and closed the door behind us, obscuring our view of the wider warehouse with dirty sheets pinned over the wide window at the front of the room. It was dark in there, a strangely oppressive blackness that made me shudder with nervous trepidation. It occurred to me then, as I stood there shivering in the chill night air, that I may have made a terrible mistake coming here, that I had trusted myself to a woman I barely knew, a woman who was clearly deranged or sociopathic. I would never have put myself in this situation with a man, so why did I do so with The Artist? I didn’t know, couldn’t know, and that lack of self-awareness terrified and thrilled me.
After several seconds, The Artist brushed past me, trailing her hand across the base of my back casually. Then she flicked a switch on the right hand wall and an ancient light bulb flickered into life, filling the room with an electric buzz and the faint smell of hot metal.
I blinked in the new light and glanced around the room, my eyes instantly drawn to the old desk on the far wall. I gasped and backed away, stepping into the dirty embrace of the old sheet that covered the window.
“What the hell?” I breathed, somehow shocked in spite of all that I’d seen that evening.
“I call this one The Kiss,” said The Artist beside me. Her voice was high and triumphant, but still mocking and sarcastic.
On the desk before us, a pair of girls kneeled. They were strangely alike, from what I could see, not quite twins but made up to look that way, to give the suggestion of reflection, of symmetry. The pair were both brunette, with delicate features and heavy make up, hair pulled back in tight ponytails that trailed down each girl’s spine in a lazy braid. They were both almost naked, wearing only black, thigh-high stockings with a delicate and feminine band of lace at the top of their thighs. Another stark juxtaposition, I noted distantly.
Each girl was tied tightly in an elaborate harness of rope, arms crossed behind her back and tied at the wrist, breasts wrapped above and below by a double length of hemp, serving to accentuate their bosoms. They were kneeling, facing each other so that their breasts touched lightly together, blindfolded with identical lengths of soft silk material. But the detail that gave the piece its name was found in each girl’s mouth.
Like Sophie earlier, the girls were ball-gagged, but with a specially crafted mouthpiece that consisted of two red balls, joined with together a single link of chain. The balls were held between the teeth of the two, forcing them into an inescapable likeness of a kiss, lips a fraction of an inch apart, heads leaned to the side as though passionately embracing.
The bondage appeared uncomfortable yet sensual, a maddening suggestion of intimacy that was thwarted by the narrowest of margins, heightened by the endless friction of their enforced points of contact - nipple on nipple, soft thigh against soft thigh.
Then my attention fell to the desk and I realized that the piece was more than this frozen kiss. Between each girl’s stockinged thighs, mounted like a rodeo bull, was a strange saddle like object, a simple looking device of dark plastic on which the girls rested their bottoms and pussies. I squinted my eyes to see better as my pupils became accustomed to the dim light. Atop the dark saddles, barely visible, obscured by the rump of each girl, was a flesh colored attachment, clinging to the top curve of each device like a limpet. I wondered what the attachment was, what it did.
Suddenly, The Artist spoke, as if she could read my mind. “Up,” she said with an authoritative tone. At once, the dark pair raised up on their knees, lifting their pussies from the curved saddles, rising together in perfect unison thanks to the dripping linkage between their mouths. “Take a look,” said The Artist, placing her arm around my shoulder and pulling me to the side so I could see under the crotch of the left-hand girl.
The flesh colored attachment on the saddle was a thick, rubber patch, square in shape, draped over the top curve of the device. Its flat edges rose in the middle to low peak, an asymmetric lump that was higher towards the front of the device. With detached certainty, I realized that the pinkish protuberance was positioned in such a way that when its rider sat on it, the lump would push into her pussy, applying pressure against her clitoris. The glistening wetness of the slick rubber seemed to confirm my suspicion.
I remained quiet and impassive, trying to control the raging emotions inside me. The feeling of trespass and intrusion in this convoluted moment of intimacy. The strange compulsion I had to see more, to know more, to do more.
The Artist reached past me and picked up an object from the desk. She held it out to me and awaited my reaction. I glanced down at the thing, then took it in my hands, turning it over with distant interest. It was a small, grey box, around the same size as a cigarette packet. From one end, a coiled wire emerged, a long length of insulated cable that split into two and joined the box to each girl’s saddle. On the top side of the box was a single rotary dial, the kind you’d find on an old transistor radio. The dial was ringed by a simple scale - zero at one end, ten on the other. It was currently set on zero.
Numbly, I wondered what it was for and glanced at The Artist for guidance. She smiled and turned to the pair of girls. “Down,” she said, making a downward gesture with her hands. The girls lowered themselves back onto the saddles, their breathing quickening with every passing second in the company of The Artist. Was it anticipation? Fear?
“Take a seat,” the older woman said, gesturing behind me to a straight backed chair with a strangely new looking cushion on its flat surface. Without a single word, I stepped back and sat, still holding the box in my hand, unable to take my eyes off the pair before me. “Pull up your dress and take off your panties,” The Artist said with the same insistent tone she always used.
I blinked, replaying her words over in my mind, unsure if I’d heard her correctly. “I-I… what?” I asked.
“I said, pull up your dress and take off your panties,” she replied, “I won’t ask you again.”
There was a strong confidence in her tone, a sure knowledge that I would do exactly as she said. I blinked again, trying to summon the courage to resist, glancing at the pair of bound girls on the desk before me and wondering if they had each had a moment like this, a knife’s edge separation between disobedience and capitulation.
To my surprise, I found myself setting the control box down beside me and shuffling my tight dress up around my thighs and over my hips. Then I hooked my fingers into the waistband of my silk panties and lifted my bottom, pulling the delicate underwear down my legs and over my high heels. Unsure what to do with them, I reached up and handed them to The Artist, shocked by the timid way in which I had surrendered, appalled by how easy it was.
The older woman smiled warmly, as though accepting an apple from a diligent student, then took the bunched panties from me and slipped them into her pants pocket. I pulled my legs together and dropped my hands to my crotch, desperately trying to hide my naked pussy. The Artist smirked as I squirmed, eyes crawling over my body without attempting to hide her interest. She seemed to relish my embarrassment, my vulnerability, and I felt myself shrugging off the feeling of shame, casting aside the futile protection of my privacy. It was beyond that now.
She glanced to my right, at the grey control box. I remembered the strange contraption and picked it up without hesitation.
“Do you remember that I said this was an interactive exhibit?” she asked, smiling.
I nodded meekly.
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��I’d like you to take the control and turn the dial,” she said. I glanced down at the box numbly, somehow unsure what she meant. “Just a little to begin with,” she added, “we have all night.”
I lifted the box before my face, blinking away the warm tears in my eyes. Beyond the box, I caught sight of the two girls, they seemed to have tensed together, shoulders hunched and breathing quickly, as though anticipating what was to come. With trembling fingertips, I gripped the dial and turned it clockwise, approximately one tenth of the way around the marked scale.
Immediately, the devices between the legs of the two girls sprang into life, the low whir of an electric motor buzzing beneath the pair. The girls reacted instantly, pulling at the gag between their mouths, straining against the rope harness around their chests. They both began to breathe through their noses, harsh, urgent snorts in perfect harmony. I glanced over at the writhing pair and realized that the fleshy bulge on the top surface must be vibrating against each girl’s pussy, provoking an inescapable rush of sensation in their bodies.
The Artist chuckled, gazing at the girls with a look of warm affection mixed with hungry desire. “A little more, don’t you think?” she purred reaching across and touching the stockinged sole of the left hand girl. The girl flinched under her touch, as though prodded by a red hot poker.
I felt myself sigh as a wave of warmth rushed through my body, rising up from my pelvis like a thermal gust. I didn’t know these girls, had no clue who they were, where they came from, how they found themselves in the sensual sphere of the enigmatic artist. But I had control over them, I had the power given to me by the box, the power to give them pleasure, or take it away. The thought thrilled me, causing new sensations to bubble up in my consciousness like baubles of pure lust. But underneath this sense of command and control, there was something else. For I was only a tool, used by another and the control was not really mine. And there lay the root of my arousal - that I was a puppet, moved on strings held by The Artist and directed to enact her sordid whims.
As this realization swept over me, I glanced down at the control box, remembering her directive. I gripped the dial again and turned it two notches to the right. The noise from the devices changed, becoming higher pitched and more urgent. The girls responded again, moaning together in a sensual chorus of pleasure. Rivers of drool dribbled out of each end of the ball-gag, dripping down onto their bare breasts, lubricating their motion together, making their skin glisten in the dim night.
I wonder what that must feel like, to have another woman’s breasts rubbing against mine, to have her hard nipples provoke my own to stony rigidity. I wondered what it would be like to be bound to someone, to feel her movements mirror my own, through sexual synchronization as much as through the ties that held us together. My pussy began to throb, responding to each of these new considerations and bold thoughts in a way that I couldn’t possibly have imagined myself capable of.
I wasn’t a lesbian! I was sure of that. Or was I? I’d never been attracted to another girl before, I’d never even experimented in the way that many of my friends had. It always seemed so unnecessary to me, so complicated. Yet here I was, naked from the waist down, peering at two writhing girls in the throes of sexual abandon, unmistakably wet with lust.
Without thinking, I dropped my hand between my legs, shifting the box onto my thigh and holding it with the fingers of one hand. I flicked the dial another notch to the right, increasing the speed of the saddle devices. As the girls screamed out their surprise, I plunged two fingers into my pussy and slid them through my dripping labia. I sighed in relief as my fingers began to work, slipping back and forth, gripping aching lips between slender fingers. I glanced away from the bound pair at The Artist, and found her eyes locked on my parted legs, following the motion of my hand with rapt attention.
Her scrutiny should have shocked me, should have provoked feelings of embarrassed shame, but it didn’t. It thrilled me. I wanted her to see this, I wanted her to see the effect her sensual artwork had provoked. The hot fire in my pussy lurched upwards, sending white hot tendrils of pure pleasure into my stomach, down my legs. I cried out, moving my fingers to my clit, swirling around that throbbing nub in quickening circles. I began to pant, unable to control the sensations that were washing through me.
My gaze returned to the captive girls, studying their bodies with intense focus. I began to notice tiny details, hot elements of this thrilling diorama - the gentle twitch of their muscles; the way they seemed to be seeking an orientation that would allow the kiss they each craved, but were thwarted endlessly by the double ball-gag; the glistening sheen of perspiration on their skin, making them appear plastic and doll-like. I thought about their tender pussies, pressed against the vibrating patch atop the curious devices, tortured by the endless motion, just enough to provoke overwhelming sensation, but not enough to push them over the edge of climax. Unless, I realized with a thrilling certainty, I gave them what they desired.
With my free hand, I flicked the dial three notches to the left and the devices screamed beneath the pair. The quickening sound was joined in no time by moans from the girls, muffled cries of relief and agony, the realization that the increase had brought heightened sensation but was not yet enough. As one, the girls began to grind their hips, pushing down on the saddles with rhythmic motion, desperately trying to coax more provocation from the pulsating lump. Their bodies seemed to move in perfect synchronization, a hot mirror of sensual longing.
Between my legs, I began to move faster and faster with unconscious motions, pressing down on my aching clit, sliding my fingers deep into my dripping folds, pushing into my tight hole with exploratory probes, meeting no resistance on the slick opening. I felt out of control now, possessing no more authority over my hand than the captive pair had over the saddles beneath them. I felt a familiar presence growing in my pussy and I began to chase it, working towards the inevitable climax that I craved so badly.
The presence began to grow, urgent and insistent, demanding my attention. I closed my eyes and found the silhouetted image of the writhing girls seared on my eyelids as it would be in my dreams for many weeks to come. I began to pant, sensing the inevitable looming above me, conscious and rational thoughts slipping away with every passing second. My finger were a wet blur now, a hot mechanism that had only one purpose - release. Then, seconds before I was swept away in the tidal wave of climax, I flicked my free hand on the control box’s dial, sending it all the way to the right until it hit the limits of its rotation.
The voice of the devices rose to a high-pitched scream, muffled periodically and increasingly by the motion of the girls’ wet pussies in their rhythmic dance. Then the girls joined its chorus, soft moans become hard demands and pleading, muffled screams.
We became a choir of lust and desire, three sensual voices rising in a crescendo of climax, backed by the ceaseless, constant whir of the saddle seats.
“Come for me,” said the familiar voice of The Artist, commanding, certain, irresistable.
It became too much for me, and a switched flipped inside me. I sensed a sudden descent, a plunge followed by an explosion of white light. The orgasm erupted up from my pussy and expanded in a sphere, lighting my nerves afire wherever it passed. I screamed, an uncontrolled cry of utter release, ecstasy given voice. My spine arched, my thighs pressed together, my head rolled back, mouth open and eyes squeezed tightly shut.
Then, like sensual dominoes, the girls followed my lead. The girl on the left surrendered first, then the girl on the right. Both girls screamed around the constricting gags in their mouths, both hot, slippery bodies began to quake, muscles twitching and tugging violently at the rope harnesses around them.
The three of us moaned as the erupting pleasure rocked our hot bodies, a chorus of climax, harmonious ecstasy echoing around the small, dilapidated office.
And then it stopped, like a departing storm moving through a windswept town, it released our bodies. The bound pair collapsed together, heads
turning to rest against each other’s shoulders, still joined by the double gag. I slumped down in the chair, my last conscious motion being to flick the control dial back to zero, causing moans of relief from the cooling girls.
The Artist began to clap. “Brava, brava!” she cried.
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A returning sense of awareness roused me back to full consciousness, a sudden motion attracting my attention from the inward stupor I’d fallen into. I blinked and lifted my head, body still buzzing from the aftershocks of the intense orgasm that had just left me.
The artist was unfastening the ball gag that held the pretty young girls together. The pair fell apart, mouths hanging open as they sighed with relief, lips and chins glistening with drool. They were both flushed and glowing, resplendent in their post-orgasmic glow. With a surprising tenderness, The Artist held out her hand and helped the first girl down from her saddle, steadying her as she swung her leg over the slick device, then taking her slender weight as she hopped off the desk to the floor. Then she turned her attention to the second girl, repeating the process and helping her dismount. As she was stepping down, the second girl stumbled, her long legs buckling as she lowered herself to the floor. The Artist moved quickly, sliding her hands under the girl’s arms and keeping her upright. As I watched, the girl glanced up at the older woman, a look of total devotion, gratitude and adoration on her pretty face. Then she nodded and joined her twin at the side of the room, blushing slightly.
“Thank you girls, that will be all,” said The Artist, dismissing the pair with a wave. The two girls joined hands and hurried towards the door, flashing me a knowing look as they brushed past me, eyes flicking down to my naked legs and exposed pussy.