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Tessa opened her eyes to see Miles staring down at her. It was morning, the sun streaming through the skylight. He’d pulled back the sheet, so he could see her with the dildos still tightly inside her.
Tessa said nothing, staring up at him with sleepy eyes.
Sketchpad in hand, he began to draw her. And once begun, she couldn’t move. What pain! Every muscle in her body seemed to ache: her arms, her chest, her wrists, her belly where the whip had cut her, and even her thighs, that were, as everything else, stretched to extremes the night before. To add to her woe, she had to pee, and found it almost impossible to hold back the call of nature while Miles worked. She spent twenty minutes in passive agony before he finally pushed the easel away.
“Come here, Tessa,” he said.
Negotiating the distance between them awkwardly, she waited anxiously as Miles undid the lock and she scampered to the bath where she alleviated the pressure bearing down on her. Unfortunately, the sweet relief of peeing did nothing to ease the pressure deep between her legs where an immense sexual longing begged for release.
When she returned to Miles, he made her wash the dildos in hot soapy water. Then she wiped the leather straps clean until the surface shone. Bringing them to her nose, she could smell the fragrance of cowhide and female cunt mingling in a strange aromatic blend. Miles took them from her and began the binding ritual again, replacing the straps and the dildos where they’d made their home. “Think of these as my cock,” he told her, his eyes were fired with the dark aspect that she loved so much, “and remember, there’s not a place I cannot penetrate you. You’ll feel my presence everywhere inside you. You don’t have to seek me, I’m here every moment. Trust me, the more you make these your lover, the more I will have conquered you.”
He made her sit primly on a high stool with her feet dangling, not touching the floor. The dildos pressed into her as tightly as they could go, and there was no relief from the intense sensations.
He sketched her again, creating another perfect rendering of her body, adding to the several dozen sketches that he’d already done in his collection of artistic pornography.
“What are you going to do with these?” she asked, as he helped her from the stool to a blanket lying on the floor.
“I’ve done several books of such sketches, though never just one subject. This will be a first for me—one of you alone.”
That pleased her. “And someone will actually buy it?”
“Connoisseurs of smut. Just think, your picture might end up on the private walls of some great decadent palace. You, my Tessa, my little slave.” His eyes twinkled. “Now lay down on your back.”
Following his instructions, Tessa waited for him as he gathered leather straps from the closet. Returning to her, he lifted her feet to her hands and tied them together, then attached the ropes to a hook hanging from a pulley above. He certainly could have strung her like so much raw meat, but being kind, he allowed her back to rest against the floor while her limbs remained tautly stretched. Standing back, he inspected his work. Satisfied, he took out his sketchpad and began to work.
In this position, the dildos shifted uncomfortably inside Tessa’s body; and when she squirmed, it only made the discomfort worse. Miles, unconcerned with her plight, remained completely fascinated by the beautiful line of her extended legs, and the curious rods that opened wide her holes and stretched the skin to its maximum degree.
When he finally completed the drawing, he undid the bonds and Tessa collapsed into an unattractive heap, wincing from the soreness in her legs and aching arms.
When Miles showed her the sketch she gasped with surprise. It looked as if she’d been suspended in the air—her head flung back, her mouth filled full with a gag, the look of her supreme submission in her passive expression.
“Your imagination? Why didn’t you just bind me this way?”
“Some things in our imaginations are more possible than others,” he mused. “I did consider the dildo in your mouth, except that you were so good at being quiet, I decided that I could easily imagine one there. What do you think?”
“It’s amazing, a little surreal. But it is me.”
“So, how are you feeling now?” he asked.
“Better, much better.”
“Good, then you can remain this way until I get back. Just remember, these are my cocks.” He pressed his hand between her legs, and shoved the double rods deeper.
Once Miles left, Tessa fell on the bed and slept a long while, unaware of how tired she’d become. Every muscle in her body ached, and yet, her submission had become a cocoon of joy that colored her life with satisfaction straight from her finest dreams. If only there were something to satisfy the aching deep in her cunt, she would have been content and rested well.
When Tessa woke from her nap, she was still alone. There was no clock in the garret, no radio, or TV, so she had to assume from the angle of the sunlight coming in through the skylights, that it was afternoon. The sexual ache inside her had become a vibrant pulsing, and the dildo in her cunt was now coated with sex juices. Unfortunately, there was no way to finger herself with the tight leather straps covering her cunt.
It was no use trying to push the straps aside; her fingers had no room to play, and her pussy little way to respond. She rubbed against the leather, but it was drawn too tightly into her crotch to move with any kind of pleasing sensation. Perhaps this was exactly as Miles wanted her—aroused but unable to find the satisfaction she sought.
Rather than torture herself more, Tessa rose from the bed and wandered the garret. Her curiosity piqued, she inspected several groups of paintings stacked against the walls, careful not to disturb their order. Each painting was erotic in some way; even those that looked like flowers or fruit mimicked the female sexual anatomy, or male genitalia. Miles was a clever even amusing painter, Tessa surmised.
Apparently, he was successful, too—his buyers being some of the most well known people in the city. Miles Bryce was known to be a raunchy bohemian with tastes so obscure and out of the ordinary as to shock people; though he’d developed such a reputation that his offbeat proclivities were considered eccentric, to the point he’d become a celebrity to be courted, not shunned.
To be his most recent trinket was a distinction not to be taken lightly.
Tessa could see from his work, and the numerous sketchpads filled with his visions of naked women, that no one had been sketched by him in quite the ways that she was being rendered. One particular painting of a bound woman did catch her eye. If the painting told the truth, the woman depicted was a voluptuous redhead with magnificent breasts, a bold hairy red cunt, and a willingness to have her portrait painted while her arms were bound above her. Her plump flesh was further tied with ropes about her thighs. Tessa wondered if the ropes were just Miles imagination, the way the gag in her mouth had been. She hoped otherwise; at least the redhead would have been a sister in bondage, curiously beautiful, graceful and content.
Tessa wondered if she looked so content when she was bound. Recalling the sketches that Miles had made of her, she remembered raw lust, not serenity. Did this make the redhead a better subject than she? Or was Tessa’s erotic chaos as worthy as the redhead’s peace?
