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Yet there was enough discomfort left over to make her feel...excited. At the orchid garden, he'd told her he liked contrasting stimuli, but he'd proven that was a two-way street.
"That a girl. You're a goddess, love. You feel it, you look it." He put both hands in her hair, fingers stroking again, combing deep, the sensation feathering over her scalp. Twisting her hair in a tight corkscrew, he bound the hair in a wrap of rope. He cupped her chin and loosened but didn't release the other ropes. Easing her head back, keeping tension in the binding on her hair, he knotted it in the back of the breast harness so she was looking at the ceiling lights, the two opposing tensions supporting her head and holding it in place, increasing her sense of helplessness. His hand slid from her jaw to stroke her windpipe.
She was suspended in the air, her head back, one arm lifted above her and knee bent as if she were a fairy who had suddenly decided to turn over and face the sky, fly that way.
Her pussy was wet and her limbs were shuddering, her stomach a mass of hopping frogs. She was spread open, vulnerable, and she realized she was no longer silent. Little sounds were caught in her throat, a pleading noise.
"Still with me, love?"
She nodded.
"I need to hear your voice."
"Yes.
" She was breathing hard. He stroked her torso, a soothing and stimulating gesture at once. She was suspended at waist height to him and he took advantage of it, curling his fingers around her breasts to knead them in their rope bindings. The pleasure of it had her writhing. Bending, he put his mouth over one, and indulged a long, slow suckle of her nipple. She gasped at the sensation, those pleading noises now unmistakably moans. His fingers slipped down between her open legs to probe, caress and find her slick.
He'd said no sex. At this tilted angle, he would have had to be a lot taller for sex to happen, but his touch was a vivid reminder there were plenty of over the top sexual experiences that didn't involve fucking.
Moving back to the table, he changed the music from Marianas Trench's now mournful "Porcelain" to "Henny and Gingerale" by Mayer Hawthorne. The twisting, provocative notes, the rocking tone of 'I can't get enough', slid through her like his fingers through her hair. If he kept her his prisoner like this forever, she thought he'd never use a brush, preferring to comb it with his own hands.
She was spinning in romantic imaginings. He'd put her in a fantasy world.
He returned and dropped to his heels, fingers templing on the floor to brace himself a few feet from her. In her peripheral vision, she could see him studying her. She could hear her heart pounding, feel her breath clogging in her throat. She was naked, and spread open. Her arms and hands bound, breasts framed in more rope, a snug but not too tight harness that displayed them. His stillness was a tranquil, arousing, living thing. Even if he'd told her it was okay to talk, she couldn't. She was in the center of his web, which made her think of what he'd said, that his sub was the center--was everything--during his sessions.
He stayed motionless and watching her until the song ended, replaced with Mandy Moore's compelling "Have A Little Faith in Me." How was it that every tune he played had that strong under beat that kept need pumping through her like an answering chorus? She felt alive, wild, tied up, at his mercy, but so vibrant, like the sun. When he rose, bending over her to put his mouth on her throat, she wanted to meet him with eager demand, tangle her tongue with his, bite his bottom lip. He denied her that, her heated, erratic breath a whisper of sound between them.
"Desmond." She felt so incredibly exposed, caught on an edge of euphoria, mixed with panic and unbelievably strong desire. She would come with only a whisper of contact, but she didn't want to leave this state. She wanted to ride the edge between euphoria and tranquility. Her heartbeat vibrated in her throat.
"You're a work of art, love. Let's put the finishing touch on this masterpiece."
Retrieving a clear folded tarp from under the table, he spread it out underneath her. When he brought the taper candles to her and stretched up to position one above her, she noticed he was also carrying small lengths of rope to anchor the tapers to the thicker lines. He positioned one candle over her breasts, one over her abdomen, one over her open legs. Once he had them seated, he lit them with a silver lighter.
"Now we watch, and wait, for each drop to fall..." He stood back as panic fluttered through her, wondering how much it would burn.
The one over her abdomen struck first, the drip a momentary intense heat that melted away into sensation near her navel. Then another fell. Drips from the one over her breasts hit the areola of her right nipple, making her buck in her bindings, just as several fell onto her pubic mound. He grasped one of the suspension lines and slowly began to rock her so he could direct where the drips fell, within an inch forward or back, side to side, the rhythm unexpected.
"Oh..." She couldn't move much, but she made the most of what she had, her body creating friction with the roughness of the rope. The psychological effect was the strongest stimulant of all. She was completely helpless, and yet she felt so safe, as if she could trust him to care for her. Was it the first time she'd ever believed that, with any man who'd interested her as a lover? She thought it was, and it terrified her, the enormity of it, how wonderful this all felt. This was supposed to be just a scene, a way for her to understand her performers. She'd known that for a lie, but she hadn't realized how big of a lie it would end up being.
The smoke from the candles, the smell of the wax, mixed with her own intimate scent. He was stroking her body with his free hand and he bent to press kisses to her upper thighs.
"I brought a vibrator, but that's too damn impersonal. I'm going to use my fingers, love." He doused the candles and dropped to his heels between her legs, his hand on her knee. When he rolled his fingertips lightly over her clit, she jerked, her tissues already engorged. He tapped, stroked back and forth. She began to gasp, then cry out, sounds that increased when he shifted around her to stroke her breasts, play with her nipples. He slid his hand back between her legs to torment her.
"You're dripping, love, you're so excited. I can't tell you what it does to me, seeing your cunt cream like that for me."
"Des..." The urgency was all powerful, too demanding.
"No," he said in a low voice. "I'm not here. This is all about you, love. You're floating on a cloud, about to explode like a star, scattering your light over the universe. I'll feel the beauty of it, but you are far above and beyond me. You're what I worship."
"Ah...God...help..." Her cries went to screams as he stroked her clit and an even stronger response surged through her core.
His words should have seemed ridiculous, fantastic. But with the way he'd tied her, the rolling waves of sensation he sent through her, she did feel disembodied, a celestial body set to go super nova. She was powerful, beautiful, detached and yet connected to all. Because she was helpless to him.
"Are you ready, love?"
She could barely speak, body straining, breath rasping, body on fire, pussy spasming. "Yes. Please, God, Des..."
He rubbed her pussy slow, torturously. "Work yourself against me. Show me how fucking hot you are. How you want to rock my world."
