The four lengths of rope are in her bedside drawer. She takes them out slowly, one at a time, making a show of the act. He watches intently as she places a single length in each corner of the bed’s brilliant white sheet.
“Lie down,” she tells him.
He’s already naked, having swiftly divulged himself of his clothing at her soft command. He stretches himself out along the centreline of the big bed and rolls on his back. His confident expression does nothing to mask the uncertain darting of his eyes.
She sits down on the edge of the mattress to his right, and picks up the rope nearest to her. She fastens it about the post, fashions a slipknot and eases the loop of hemp over his hand. She tightens it about his wrist until satisfied that his hand is securely restrained. She pivots fluidly and performs the same actions to his right ankle. Then she walks to the other side of the bed, and within a couple of minutes, her target is spread eagled and lashed down.
She smiles. “Now we can begin.”
She undresses at a leisurely pace. Her patent stilettos go first, and then she unzips her scarlet dress and allows it to slide down her slender form. Even the noise of the lining hissing over her skin is exciting. She reaches behind herself to unhook her bra and bends forward from the waist to let it slip from her arms. She pauses before she slips her thumbs inside the waistband of her gossamer panties, and then eases them down her long legs.
Nude, she studies his eyes, rapt at the sight of her narrow waist, her flat belly, her gently curving breasts. While she watches him watching her, she drifts her fingers over herself. Her skin feels so soft, her body tingling with life. Her sex is already wet.
Not wet, she corrects herself. Soaking. Sodden.
She slides her hands to her breasts, cups their softness, takes their weight, enjoys the marbled hardness of her nipples. Her hands traverse her belly, over the fronts of her thighs, her manicured nails grazing the softer inner flesh. She takes her time. No need to rush. He is hers. And she wants him to ache.
Now she traces the circumference of her sex. The feeling of plumpness, of succulence, grows. She craves hardness; cleaving her, merging with her. She breathes in the musk of her excitement, then fantasises about capturing it against her palm, smearing it across his nose and his lips. No. He’d enjoy it too much. It would be an escape from the torture. He can watch, and no more.
Her knowing fingers slide into her slickness. She gasps. He groans. His cock is a flagpole, desperate for her to affix her colours to it. She tortures him with her self-teasing, allowing herself to feel the pleasure, but keeping it low, under control. Her wrists tremble with the effort. She explores herself, wanting him to ache as he watches, as he listens to her liquidity.
The slow, intense throb at her core increases until she can bear it no longer.
She returns to the bedside drawer and takes out the glass phallus. The feel of the cold silicate in her grasp triggers a rush of remembrance, a kaleidoscope of orgasmic memories. She fell for it the very first time she used it. She knows this thing so well, and it knows her.
She sits down in the room’s solitary chair and spreads her thighs wide. She brings the glass to herself. So cold and hard. She closes her eyes as she feels its first touch against the outside of her sex, as she slowly, slowly slides its bulbous head inside.
The languid, erotic effortlessness of its entry leaves her panting all by itself.
“Fuck,” she whispers. “Fuck.”
She keeps her eyes closed. She doesn’t need to see to know that his gaze is adhered to her. He couldn’t look away now, not if someone ordered him to with a nine-millimetre muzzle pressed against his forehead.
In her darkness, she explores herself, fucks herself. She feels her body grasping at the phallus. Her cunt wants it so badly, so fucking badly; it resists the pull of her hands, refusing to relinquish its grip upon the trespasser, drawing it deeper, deeper, deeper.
The subtle battle within her flesh is utterly thrilling. It is the strongest drug she has ever tasted.
The phallus glides within the oiled velvet, slick and sure. Its coolness fades rapidly, obliterated by her heat. It becomes so hot, so fast. She loses herself in the absoluteness of its presence, of its smooth solidity. It is so unyielding … and yet it is so infinitely soothing, too. She wishes she could share the experience with him, and there is fleeting sadness at the knowledge that he will never know this exquisite bliss.
She concentrates fiercely on keeping the tempo slow. She chants it to herself, a lascivious mantra.
Slow. Slow. Slow.
Forming the words within her literary mind excites her further.
She is so close now. So close.
At the edge of orgasm, she eases the phallus from her flesh. A gossamer strand of silver clings to its glans, refusing to relinquish the contact between them. It glistens as it bows, then snaps. She is sad. She stands up and strides to him. His eyes are burning coals, his face drawn into a snarl of frustrated delight. She runs one hand the length of the glass shaft and then presses her palm against his mouth, smearing her juices. His tongue laps at her skin, and his nostrils flare against her hand as he snuffles desperately, so greedy to have her scent inside him.
Men *are* like dogs, she thinks.
And then she thinks of her need.
She climbs onto the bed, straddles him swiftly and mounts him. He doesn’t have time to thrust to meet her. She simply engulfs his length in one fluid descent.
Where the glass phallus was cool and unyielding, his tumescent flesh is warm, and even though it is rigid, there is softness, a readiness to yield to her secret curves in a way that no silicate will never possess.
There is nothing like cock.
She cries out as she rides him hard. One, two, three, four, five, and then she dismounts. She gasps as their flesh separates, but not as loudly as he does. She half-sits, half-drops onto the bed level with his head. Her cunt is on fire, and it is all she can do to stop herself from climbing back onto him. He looks at her bitterly.
“You bitch,” he hisses.
She doesn’t reply. She sits facing him, spreads her legs, brings her hands to her sex and opens herself so that he can see everything, see into her, as she comes. It doesn’t take her long. She knows her body too well, and her patience, her restraint, is in tatters. One of her hands becomes a blur as she shows him her hard, fast, urgent orgasm.
Her chin drops to her flushed, heaving chest. As the violence of her climax passes, a rivulet of sweat runs down between her breasts and across her belly, finally losing both mass and impetus in her navel. She lifts her gaze to meet his. She sees the lust caged within him, desperate to be freed, to be allowed to rush at her, rending her nerves, cleaving her flesh. She could ride him now, for as long and as hard and as fast and as soft and as slow as she likes. His flesh will not wilt in the face of her desire, and if it does – if she is careless enough to allow his seed to spurt across her or inside her – she knows she can quickly coax him back to tumid life.
But that’s not what she wants. Not what she craves.
She moves to the foot of the bed and releases his ankles. She does the same with his wrists, before walking to the chair. She bends forward, places her palms down on its arms and pushes her derriere out towards him. Then she looks back over her shoulder at him.
“Consider yourself unleashed,” she tells him.