Bondage
She couldn't move, tied as she was. Not enough to relieve the pressure the taut ropes placed on her arms, or the ache in her widely-spread thighs. Her arms were fixed behind her back with decorative knots, her ankles forced apart by a length of steel bar fixed to leather cuffs at her ankles. She knelt face down on the expensive rug, her ass in the air, waiting for him to return.
When he came in, she sensed something amiss right away. There was something in his step, the motion of his gait. He crossed before her and though she did not raise her eyes, had been trained not to raise her eyes; she saw that the shoes before her nose were not the shoes she lovingly polished each morning.
Her heart jumped and her belly went cold. This was not her master. This was another, one of his friends. Which one, she did not know. She tried to imagine which it could have been, and failed. He said nothing, only went behind her once more. A glove fell to the floor beside her, her master's. Sign of their arrangement. Well. So she would belong to this man now, as she had agreed.
Only twice before had he invoked this right. Only twice. The first time with a mistress of such cruelty and cunning it had made her cry for a week just remembering it, and the second with a man whose skill with teasing and tormenting was nearly equal to her own Master's.
She wriggled over painstakingly and kissed the glove, feeling the ropes bite deeper, her tender breasts rubbing against the carpet. Her nipples were already hard, despite the fear in her belly.
What would he ask of her? What service did he require?
He touched her upturned backside with a gentle hand, and still she tried to fit a face to that touch. Which of her husband's friends was it? Was it handsome William, with his mahogany skin and catlike eyes, or Raymond, older and sophisticated and always so forceful and commanding? But then it might be Alex, perhaps, who was always so raffish and barely-tame. She couldn't say.
His fingers described the curves of her buttocks, gently playing under the swell and across the tops of her thighs. She did not move, as she had been trained, though in her nervousness, her eagerness to please this unknown man, she yearned to let her body rise like a cat's to meet his hand. This was not her pleasure, though. It was his, and she remained open to it, passive. Whatever he would do to her.
He wasn't wearing gloves, it was his bare palm that cupped her backside, then his bare fingers that slipped between her thighs and spread the silken petals of her pussy. He stroked her, deft fingers finding her clit and forcing it out of hiding, or sliding into her with easy patience, seeking out all the most sensitive, deepest reaches so that in spite of herself she shivered, straining at the ropes that bound her. It seemed she had been kneeling thus for an age.
He stroked his fingers in her, put his other hand to her hip and pulled her gently back on them until she understood, and squirmed herself back, undignified, able to move only using the muscle of thigh and belly and back, like a snake or a mermaid or some crawling thing. But he wanted that visible sign of her pleasure. She could not see him. His tongue made itself known in the cleft of her ass, and the scratch of a stubbly cheek – ah, not William! Not unless he had shaved.
He explored her pussy and ass, toyed with her clit. She moved back on him insistently now, fingers clutching at nothing as the ropes creaked under growing tension. He had a hand on the bar, steadying it. When he unclipped it from her ankles, she gasped slightly, and heard a faint chuckle in reply.
Firm hands pressed her thighs together; a firm grip took hold of her collar at the nape of her neck. She was pressed to the floor by his weight, able to see nothing but the carpet, the leg of the desk beyond, the single glove lying in her sight.
He straddled her calves and plunged into her, his cock hard and hot, heavy inside her. The first three strokes were rough, until her natural wetness had covered him. The pleasure of it was intense, after an eternity of waiting here, bound. Her fingers flexed uselessly, and she bit down hard to avoid crying out when he reached around to torment her clit with slow, gentle strokes.
She could do nothing to assist or speed her pleasure. He controlled it, and in that moment he controlled her, too, for she would have done anything if only he would let her come. The words hovered on her lips, but she did not dare voice them. Even her body's pleas were mute – bound as she was, there was no body language.
She was left with the trembling of lust, her ragged breath, the squeezing of her pussy, to convince him of her need. He thrust into her, his savage grip pinioning her, one hand on her collar, one on her hip. He used her body mercilessly.
At last he sped up with his own urgency, and when he came, she felt it sudden and quick inside her, her pussy milking it from him as she clenched desperately on him. Then he had pulled out, leaving her slick and dripping, come trailing down her thigh. He fixed the spreader bar in place again, ready to leave her as he had found her. He gathered up the glove, giving her a tantalizing glimpse of his hand, and stepped away. She trembled.
A lifetime later, or it might only have been a few moments, he stepped near again, knelt beside her as one would kneel beside a beloved dog, and caressed her thighs. She could feel him dripping from her.
He thrust his fingers into her again, this time wringing pleasure out of her with a patient, gentle touch; something secret, something shared. She came explosively, very quickly, in a torrent of feeling that had her gasping against the rug's harsh nap, riding back on his fingers as well as she could.
The aftermath left her tingling. Trembling... He pulled his fingers from her and pressed them to her lips. "Shhh," he whispered, and she closed her eyes tight on the secret as he rose from her side and slipped silently away.