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“I think they’re okay. What is this thing I’m on?”
“It’s called a Saint Andrew’s Cross. It allows … access. We can stop anytime you want. Just say the word. I suggest simply ‘Stop.’ Say it.”
“Stop.”
“Say it louder.”
I yelled it out.
“Good.”
I felt his hand under my chin and then his fist blossom open as his thumb trailed along my bottom lip. I opened my mouth slightly, loosening, releasing. His other hand traveled over my breasts, caressing my nipples through the thin fabric. Both hands traveled down my sides, over the restraint. Instinctively, I brought my legs together as his hands drifted closer and closer to my most vulnerable parts. But I couldn’t budge. This was both very frustrating and very, very arousing. I tried to use my arms, to no avail. This feeling of being completely restrained yet totally free, and blind to what was happening or what was going to happen, was crazy. My body didn’t know what to do with the sensations, except bit by bit to give in to them, to all of them.
As he lifted the hem of the nightie, I writhed against the restraints. My breathing quickened. I felt his hair tickle my shoulder, his lips barely touching me as he made his way softly, achingly, lower and lower, his thumbs pressing my skin. I felt his tongue now circling my belly button, the tip dipping in, traveling lower still, his mouth following his firm fingers, which were now pressing back my folds, testing my wetness, at first tentatively, and then driving into me. He began the delicious task of firmly thrusting into me with his thick finger, while kissing along my inner thigh seam, blowing cool air against the incredible wetness he was creating. My knees bowed in, pushing against the restraints, my full weight on the one around my waist, my wrists pulling in.
This was crazy. I couldn’t help him, I couldn’t guide him, I couldn’t press against him or wriggle away. I could only take it in, accept it, the sensation of his mouth on my clitoris. It was all I could do not to explode on contact. But
I wanted to hold something back. His mouth was humming and moaning, while his fingers continued their exploration of my tender insides, finding the perfect friction, the perfect rhythm, the perfect combination of pain and pleasure, all the action focused on that one damn spot, while the rest of my body was pinned and spread.
“Oh!” I felt a shot of pleasure. Arching, I pressed against the restraints, seeking more, and he gave it, his tongue dipping into me, while his fingers worked their magic.
“Solange,” he murmured, purring my name, his finger fucking me, his tongue working me into a frenzy, and I couldn’t hold back anymore. With every thrust and lash of his tongue, he brought me closer and closer. He pulled the orgasm out of my very core, my cries beginning as whimpers, building to moans, until I was pressing against all the restraints yelling, “Oh yes, yesss!” And I came with full explosive release—so fast I felt like a teenager.
I came so intensely into the dark, black room that pleasure seemed to pour out of my very bones. He had turned me into a wall of wet ecstasy, taking away all my knowledge of where he began and I ended. While I was barely coming down off that blind precipice, a small motor whirred alive and I had the lovely sensation of falling gently backwards.
“Relax, Solange, I’m reclining you.”
Inch by inch, the blood flooded back into my fists as the momentum of the cross brought me from standing to lying back. I was not fully prone but it relieved my wrists nonetheless.
“Are your hands okay?”
I whispered, “Yes.”
“Good, because I’m going to fuck you now—is that all right with you?”
I muttered another “yes,” my head lolling against my upper arm for support. He split my legs open wider and maneuvered his body between them. He released my ankles, bending my knees and spreading them wide. I felt the restraints weighing them open, this time secured around my bent knees, as though I was now trussed open for his pleasure. I heard a belt, a buckle, the thud of shoes, the swish of discarded pants, the crinkle of foil, the sweet prodding and then the luscious fullness as he entered me, tentatively at first, until he sensed how wet I was, how well he had prepared me for this. His thrusts were agonizing at first, long and slow, in and out, and then he set about fucking me faster, hard and steady, his fingers clutching the restraints. This was intense, the angle of the table, the way he pulled my thighs wide, how he thrust so deep he was hitting me in places that I had thought unreachable. I was all sensation, from the center of myself out. I felt another orgasm spiraling, coming from god knows where, but it felt deep and visceral and I cried out again, screaming, “Oh, oh, it’s happening, oh god, yes …” and I came again, feeling him shudder too, his fingers digging into the flesh of my thighs as he released into me, the intensity of his thrusts softening as his own orgasm ebbed.
Then, with a few deft clicks he released my wrists, my thighs and me, leaving me panting in the dark, my arms and legs still starfished out, barely able to believe the sensations cascading through my limbs. That rush of relief when the restraints were loosened—it made me laugh, laugh, the way you laugh when you see mountains or the ocean for the first time. The way you can laugh at something you were once afraid of when you realize it can’t hurt you, when you realize it never could.
The first thing I did, after securing my Step Five charm—Fearlessness—to my increasingly crowded little bracelet, was to take a bottle of water from the little fridge in the limo. I was parched, sore, spent and glowing. Checking my phone was the second thing I did.
That was progress.
A text from Julius popped up on the screen, and during the seconds before I read it, a cascade of awful scenarios crossed my mind. This time I stopped them and just read the damn text. And guess what? Nothing horrible had happened! Nobody was at the hospital. Nobody was hurt. Quite the opposite! Julius had actually scheduled Gus’s yearly checkup with the pediatrician, something I usually did. The appointment was for the following Thursday afternoon. Julius wanted to know if I could make it.
For sure. And thanks for organizing that, I replied.
The second text was from Denise at the news desk.
Pierre Castille’s office called. He declined the request for an interview. Sry.
Damn.
Thanks for letting me know, Denise, I wrote back.
I wanted to add: Would it kill you to type out sorry instead of sry? Seriously. Or as Denise would write: srsly. Then I laughed out loud. No sooner had the restraints come off than I reverted to my strident self. Damn.
Seconds later, my phone dinged.
