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He takes an instrument and comes back to her. His extremely erect cock bounces up and down as he walks – a delectable rod of flesh in itself. She finds herself running her tongue over her lower lip at the sight of it. He stands in front of her, his cock at her eye level, literally pointing at her.
“Do you know what this is?” He shows her the instrument. It is a short and blunt conical structure which flares to a wide base.
She shakes her head fearfully.
He strokes her hair. Tenderly. “It’s not going to hurt. You might even like it.”
He moves behind her, tethered as she is, and fingers her butt. Her ass cheeks are already parted, and he easily slides in the narrow anal plug into her tight back passage. She gives a cry of surprise. She can feel her sphincter stretching, and it is not uncomfortable . . . merely strange. She puckers her rectal muscles, allowing the foreign presence to assimilate to her nerve endings. Like the clamps she had worn earlier at the office, she will have to get used to it.
“You know, I can look at you forever,” he says from behind her.
He moves the anal plug inside her so that it makes a sweep of her perimeter. Her pussy creams at the new sensations. He is right. She actually likes the new sensations the plug invokes.
He caresses her buttocks and her open pussy from behind, dipping into her hole and smearing her loins with her own juices. She hisses with pleasure, especially as he strokes the bottom half of her clit. Her vagina is tremulous again, starving for his cock. She wants him to take her with the anal plug in her other hole.
Oh, she wants him so badly!
She wonders if she can ask him to fuck her. They are after all still in a dom/submissive master-slave relationship at this juncture.
Please, please fuck me, Channing.
If he read her mind, he disappointingly chooses to ignore it. He moves away from her pussy and walks to her front. He drags a chair before her and seats himself. Then he creeps with the chair very, very close to her face. His thighs are splayed wide open and his cock is at the level of her mouth.
She knows what he wants her to do.
“Suck me,” he says simply.
He thrusts his penis into her willing, eager mouth. She pulls at it, her cheeks hollowing. His flesh tastes simultaneously of sweetness and saltiness, and she imbibes his manly scent as he shoves himself deeper into her mouth. His girth is so huge that she has difficulty licking his skin while her tongue is being compressed. There’s a dewdrop of pre-cum at his aperture, and it rubs off on her soft palate.
She takes him in deeper . . . and deeper, until his crown is at the opening of her throat. He begins to slide himself in and out of her mouth in a semblance of fucking. This time, he is rougher. She grazes his tender flesh with her teeth, but he doesn’t seem to mind. His breathing grows more ragged as his pumping ascends in speed.
His hands clasp the sides of her head. He whips his fingers in between the strands of her hair.
“Close your cheeks around me,” he says in a hoarse voice.
She tries her best. From his rhythm and increased panting, she can tell that he wants her to finish him . . . and do it quickly. He’s so hard that he feels like the iron rod her head is perched on. Immobilized as she is, she can only be his willing accomplice.
The half-circlet beneath her chin is warm from her body temperature and slick with her sweat. Her jaw aches from maintaining its position. From his jerking motions, she can tell he’s very close to coming. He is starting to grunt and moan – lovely sounds to her ears.
He comes – a long hot jet stream of cum. It bursts upon her throat like a shower of sparks. Rich and decadently frothy, like a boiling river of Guinness. She lets it seep into her throat, and every time it threatens to brim, she swallows it. There’s so much of it. An endless tide, it seems. On and on it flows, and just when she thinks there will be no more, out spurts another gush.
It’s bliss on tap. Drinking from the man she loves.
He immerses his flesh in the tepid pool as he softens bit by bit. His panting slows. He’s not pulling out yet. He appears to like it in there – a pool of another sort in the cavern of her mouth.
The anal plug intrudes upon her consciousness.
He reluctantly extracts his cock. It’s still semi-hard.
“Thank you,” he says softly.
This is the third time he has said thank you to her in the last twenty-four hours. Is their relationship shifting? Her heart expands, but she quells down the hope. Never never give yourself a goal too out of reach.
He rises from the chair and pushes it backward with a graceful shrug of his hips. He’s now technically out of reach.
“I need to go somewhere,” he says. “I’m going to leave you here for a while.”
She’s alarmed. Her mouth tastes of his juices. “Like this?”
“Yes. It’ll make you hornier for me when I come back to fuck you.”
Oh, so he’s going to fuck her. Her position is not discomfiting. Quite lewd, in fact. And there’s the promise fucking later for the second time that day. She is still a slave to his bondage whim. She has no choice, no say in the matter. The terms of her agreement involve doing whatever he wants, anytime he wants it.
An agreement she has come to relish.
Her face must register dismay, however, because he says, “Hey, I’m coming back. I won’t leave you here for more than two hours, tops.”
Two hours! She feels faint. In this position?
He leans towards her and strokes her head. His blue eyes are intense. “Bondage can be very fulfilling. Not to mention libido-enhancing.” His voice takes on a slight lilt as he says this, as though he is reminiscing about something.
She isn’t so sure she would like it. What she is sure of is that being Channing’s submissive is very fulfilling. Being Channing’s lover is very fulfilling. But being Channing’s equal would be the most fulfilling thing of all. Not that it’s going to ever happen.
She isn’t sure she would like being left here alone. The dungeon is cold and forbidding, and the instruments around her remind her too much of medieval torture.
She says, her eyes tearing a little, “Please, please come back soon.”
She wonders if she should add ‘sir’. But they have surely gone beyond that.
He relents a little. His beautiful features soften. “I will.”
He dresses slowly, his eyes roaming all over her body. And then he walks to the iron door and opens it.
“I’ll be back soon,” he tosses to her. “I have to go see someone with a lead on where Hugh is. Then I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
There’s a regretful look on his face.
“I can’t wait to fuck you,” he adds.
He abruptly walks out. The door clangs behind him like an unfulfilled promise.
6
Alone now, all her senses become more acute. The anal plug becomes more obtrusive, but in her bent position, she is unable to expel it. The drop of sweat tricking down the valley of her breasts feels like a wet ant nestling in between.
She doesn’t know how long she has been here, but she must have drifted off to a dreamless sleep. She wakes up to unnatural warmth. Her body is beaded with sweat. Sweat drips from her forehead into her eyes, stinging them. Her hair is plastered on her neck.
What is happening? Has someone suddenly turned up the thermostat?
The walls seem to have taken on a different texture and color. She isn’t quite sure what it is, but it’s there. Different. As though they are radiating with some sort of microwave.
Not microwave, she realizes, but heat.
Heat!
This is a panic room, she tells herself. It’s the safest place in the house to be in. Besides, the house is patrolled and guarded. Nothing can possibly happen to them in this fortress. Right?
Except –
Her premonition returns in a full frontal assault.
Desert Rose.
The heat intensifies. Oh my God, she thinks. This house in on fire. I’m surrounded by fire.
She goes into full panic mode now. How apt for a room named such. She struggles against her bonds, but she is tethered tightly and no amount of jerking will loosen them.
She screams. Her voice reverberates and ping pongs against the concrete walls. She screams again – an endless scream this time. One that starts in the middle of her voice box and encompasses her entire skull.
Part of her wonders if this is some sort of new psychological torture visited upon her by the man she loves. What if what she’s seeing is not real? What if everything is some sort of hallucination brought on by a drug he secretly slipped her? Or a substance coating the anal plug?
Is she in a nightmare?
No. The heat is too real. Too immense.
She is certain that outside the dungeon or panic room or whatever he wants to call it, the manor is burning. She doesn’t smell smoke. The door and walls are impregnable to that. But her very skin prickles with terror. She is about to be baked alive.
Is he trying to kill her?
No, no. He wouldn’t kill her. It’s the other one. The brother. More than likely, he’s trying to kill all of them.
Channing has mentioned that this entire room is fortified with insulated concrete. She isn’t sure what that means. Is it fire-resistant? Is she protected? The heat is very real, however. And there’s always the possibility of implosion or the flames seeping through.
The worst part is the uncertainty. Is or is not the house on fire? Protected or not, it is never good to be trapped inside a house on fire, or under siege, or under attack of any sort.
