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“She’ll ask me if I had a good time. I’ll tell her every detail and she’ll get so hot, she’ll beg me to fuck her.”
“And will you?”
“Most likely. She’s difficult to turn down when she’s so aroused.”
“No jealousy?”
“None that I’ve ever experienced. We met long after my sexual inclinations were entrenched. She has no reason to think I’ll change and has showed no aspirations in that regard.”
The silence that descends is peaceful. I pray it won’t end. Though when it does, I watch him dress, memorizing the images I see, of Bernard naked, then half-clothed,
then fully dressed. He smiles at me as he finishes dressing, then his lips descend to kiss my mouth one last time. I know it won’t happen again.
“Thank you, Bernard.”
“You’re welcome, though I think I got as much as you.”
“I hope so.”
When he walks out the door, a steady stream of tears falls from my eyes, until the pink chenille beneath me is soaked where my cheek rests on the pillow.
Chapter Eight
I arrive at Bernard’s back door. It’s Friday, two minutes past seven—I had a hard time finding the alley, so I’m late. The wind whips about my legs, yellow leaves pouring from trees like rain. One catches my lip and I brush it aside with the back of my hand.
Makaila greets me in the entry as though she’s been waiting for me. She pulls away my coat, smiling as she does. Her hands are warm while I’m still trying to warm myself inside this house.
Moving through the dark backsides of Bernard’s home I catch the scent of incense like the season, like musk and secrets and the wind sweeping this autumn night. The floating vapors draw me into a room where Makaila and I are the only ones not wearing masks to disguise identities. She takes me into the center of the room where a dozen pairs of eyes behind those masks peer at me from behind murky shadows. The incense is stronger still and I begin to tremble as Makaila removes my clothes with her genteel fingers. I remain alert and watchful, trying to understand the scene, but these forms of men and women move around me like shadows and nothing is recognizable. She takes away my sweater, lets my skirt drop to the floor, but leaves my black bra and the matching, lacy garter belt. She cuts away my panties with a knife as though they’re offensive to this sexual crowd. Then I stand alone on a carpet of deep burgundy staring at my shoes—four and a half-inch spikes that will hurt like hell if I spend my night on my feet. I sense something lowered from overhead and look up to see a tangle of leather and chains descend. Makaila clamps a metal collar around my neck—one with a velvet interior to ease its fierce pressure. Metal cuffs encircle my wrists before they’re raised high above my head. It’s no surprise when Bernard’s little Venus kneels at my feet with a rigid bar to spread them apart, and clamps my ankles tightly so they won’t budge. I am immobilized.
A pink rubber ballgag opens my mouth wide, my teeth sinking into its soft texture. Then a blindfold settles in over my eyes taking away my ability to see. I rather like the fact that the decision to look has been taken from me. Once muted and sightless, the hands begin, Makaila’s and others, stroking, caressing, slapping, teasing hands. There are men and women at my side and kneeling on the floor—those who comb my flesh vigorously and those who give to me softly. My arousal increases as one lovely mouth captures my clit from in front, and another parts my ass cheeks, rimming the back hole with a practiced tongue.
This happens silently, in a strange vacuum where I can hear only the sound of rustling clothes, a cough, the occasional whisper, and my own voice groaning and sighing. My world feels and smells, but there is no sight and no taste but the rubber of the gag.
The sensations of climax quickly swell in me and my body responds to these, swerving, and swaying as it will, falling into the erotic pleasure as I hang here bound. When all this feeling is suddenly swept away and the hands are gone, I continue seeking satisfaction, bucking toward the empty air. Realizing that they will not touch me, my body calms.
I feel the first lash on my skin, and everything enlivens again. Reaching out to me from nowhere, snaps of searing heat scorch my skin. I struggle to cry and only a muffled groan comes from my gagged mouth. A lash, a whip, and a cane strike from every direction—on my ass, my shoulders, my calves, my thighs, belly, and breasts. Salty tears sting my face inside this mask. I twist to get away from a bite on my right side only to feel a buggy whip nip my left breast. A lash lands across my pubis and the warmth spreads. It centers in just one horrible place when another strike tears at my skin. When they pause, I wilt. When they begin again, I dance like a marionette on strings. I’m sure every inch of me is covered. And all that matters is that another strike will land, jolting me into that crude and lusty place of satisfaction. Whoever holds the cane is the most cruel—and yet, I dwell on every cut this phantom etches into my skin. In the back of my mind, I want another, and another, and another…
When the pain withdraws, I feel more hands, these at my crotch alone. A woman’s on her knees moving on my pubis. Her fingers dance over my groin as she kisses my enflamed pussy lips adoringly. She parts my labia and plants her mouth at my clitoris sucking. I feel my climax brew again, but when she presses her fingers inside my cunt, the feeling of my inner emptiness annoys me. I lunge at her as though I’m silently asking her to breach me. The more I beg with my body, the more those fingers move deep inside this wet portal. There are other hands coming from behind, toying with my anus—though it is the woman at my vagina that intrigues me most. The orifice expands as she urges it wider with her probing. She wants more, just as I do. She wants all of her hand slipping into the interior, while I beg for it prodding deeper and deeper. I widen more. I want her there. Then suddenly, there’s a deliciously painful burst in my vagina as her whole hand slides inside.
She fucks me senselessly with her fist, the fullness beyond what I know from men. I feel as though I’ll fall apart. The climax changes, the feeling of it altering from one centered in my clit, to an energy that goes beyond the boundaries of that inner sanctum. As it descends, there are fingers from behind joining the hand in my belly, as if two fists might fuck the orgasm from me. Though my mind might see that kind of finish, the end stops short of that extreme. I cum. Wrenching, crying and clenching. The jolts are bright and sharp and gone too soon. I fall exhausted in the bonds, drifting. With this lover’s hand withdrawn, I feel that much of what she gave is lost. I want it back, but know that this is all I’ll have.
When the ballgag disappears a miserable thirst replaces it. My body aches to be set free and I anticipate that anxiously. But when the blindfold vanishes, all my discomfort fades. The shock before me sends my conscious mind reeling—time’s confused, the past and present uncertain now. I stare dumbfounded at the man before me. It’s Heinrich’s eyes assaulting me and Heinrich’s face. The cane is in Heinrich’s hands and I know now who authored this scene. His gaze on me is expressionless and cold, stabbing me in the gut. He calls to the woman at his feet, a rapturously beautiful creature with mane of black hair and the look of love for Heinrich on her splendid face.
“Return to me, Delia,” I hear his voice. As she pads to his side on hands and knees, I realize that my former husband’s new submissive lover has fisted me.
***
“You are a contemptible, miserable, fucking ass!” I blare at Bernard, as I barge into his study the next morning.
“And why’s that?” he asks.
I’m hardly awake, having slept somewhere high in Bernard’s bright monolith, finding the warm sun prying the sleep from my eyes. I bolted from bed too quickly remembering my night, and now my heart pounds so hard, my fury so rich I can hardly spit out my words. I’m also a little dizzy.
“Why was he here?” I demand from him.
“Heinrich? Because I asked him.”
He speaks calmly while I do not.
