Friday, 23 November 2012
SOLOMON'S SECRET by billierosie FREE READ!
Only mid-afternoon and already it was dusk outside. And it was snowing again. Solomon watched the flakes falling faintly against the window pane. Faintly falling and falling faintly. A few flickering flakes were blown onto the glass in the freezing, gusting wind and stuck to the leaded criss crosses.
They were snowed in. Solomon’s heart sank. His stomach churned. He was trapped. There would be no getting away from it this time.
Amber was naked and moving gracefully around his large bedroom. She had disrobed playfully, like a burlesque dancer performing a naughty striptease. She was comfortable in her nudity, throwing him mischievous glances, tossing her hair. She was lighting candles, their flickering light casting shadows across the soft swell of her belly, her heavy, swaying breasts. Her skin glowed golden in the candlelight. Her long curly auburn hair glimmered with golden highlights, one hand gracefully behind her neck holding her hair back. She was a Pre-Raphaelite dream. Rossetti would have killed to have painted her.
The falling snow outside was mesmerising and Solomon stilled his fear and allowed his mind to drift.
He barely noticed Amber as she moved seductively around his bedroom. Any other guy would be turned on by the view. Solomon was not.
In a short while she would come to him and expect to have wonderful sex.
The snowy window, Amber; his gaze meandered around his bedroom settling on a large blue china bowl on a small wooden table. He used it as a place to keep keys, credit cards, replacement batteries, a cigarette lighter from his days as a smoker, a cork screw; all the random stuff that had no home, but you might need to put your hands on quickly. He watched as she scattered the contents of the bowl out onto the polished table and sprinkled in what looked like a heap of pot pourri. She struck a match and set fire to it, wafting out the flames with a fanning hand. She looked like a witch casting a spell.
A curl of lilac coloured smoke drifted up to the ceiling twisting like a magic chant. The room was slowly infused with the heady scent of roses and sweet herbs. The fragrance reminded Solomon of a church he’d once gone into, in Italy. A Catholic mass had just finishing and perfumed incense hung in the air. He remember soft chants and a mesmerising hymn. It had been cool in the church and hot outside. He had thought about the sacred and the profane; he thought about them again and he thought about prayer and sanctity.
He lay naked beneath the feather duvet, his cock persistently flaccid. He closed his eyes. She put on some music; Bolero, by Ravel.
Solomon knew that he was weird. He’d read about guys like him on the Web, and they repelled him. The images, that exploded his fantasies into a very real world, terrified him.
There were times when he felt the weight of destiny crushing him and he wondered that he continued to live. There was something broken in him and he didn’t know how to fix it.
Why couldn’t he be like other men? Normal men? For what must have been the billionth time in his life, Solomon pondered the question. He closed his eyes and thought himself into the place where his cock would start to harden.
He was well practiced at conjuring up the Deity. The Woman, the Mistress, who knew exactly what Solomon needed. His cock stirred. The Mistress always wielded a whip, she’d tie him up, bind him so that the coarse ropes bit into his wrists and ankles. He’d never seen the Mistress’ face. She always wore a jewelled mask. But Solomon knew her eyes. Dark eyes, burning with lust and indignation. Solomon didn’t know her name. He did not dare ask.
God knew how many candles she had lit. She padded around on the polished wooden floor of his bedroom, then stopped to rummage in a drawer in the base of his wardrobe. Oh, that was where she’d found the candles; the pot pourri too. He remembered Justine, his ex-wife raiding the shelves of the local hardware shop, buying all sorts of junk when it had closed down.
Amber placed some candles on the shelf of the wooden window seat. When she lit them he could see their flames reflected back in the dark glass.
He’d been seeing Amber for just over three weeks and so far he’d managed to avoid sex. He hated the effort, the mess, the disappointment. Oh, he always managed to perform, even to complete the process to seeming satisfaction, but it always left him feeling empty and bitter. Knowing that it should be better, it could be better. There should be something more.
But Solomon had a secret.
He had to strive to be normal, not to let his terrible needs overwhelm him. Besides, how would any decent woman react if he asked her to spank him, whip him until he was bruised and bloody? Fuck him with a giant dildo?
Solomon could already see the sneer of disgust, or worse, the ridicule, the spiteful laughter when she told her friends. He imagined the scorn in Amber’s green eyes if he asked her to tie him up.
He remembered the revulsion in his wife’s face when he’d begged her to push a finger in his anus when they made love; was it so much to ask? Apparently it was.
The weather had conspired against him and they were snow bound at least until the morning. Sex with Amber was inevitable; he could prevaricate no longer.
Amber had made no secret of the fact that she intended to have sex with him, right from their first date. In the restaurant, where they had dined, she’d slipped off her killer heel shoe and laughingly reached her stockinged foot out beneath the small table. She’d trailed her foot between his legs, rubbing his crotch as she wiggled her toes. She’d picked up his hand and sucked hot and sweet sauce from his fingers. On the drive home, she’d placed her hand on his cock and stroked him into an impressive erection. Outside her home she’d unzipped him, marvelling and exclaiming at the size of his cock, rubbing her thumb over the weeping slit. She’d lowered her head and lapped at the fat head, playfully bouncing him from side to side with her cheek. She’d even got a little rough and burrowed beneath his cock, nipping at the delicate skin of his scrotum with sharp, white teeth. The evening had ended with her taking his cock into her mouth, lovingly nuzzling and licking the moist head. She wiggled her tongue into the little slit. She had showed no squeamishness at sliding him into her throat. She had a trick of contracting her throat muscles, massaging the underside of his cock. When he exploded, and pumped his seed into her, she took it into her mouth, gulping and swallowing. Spunk drooled from her lips; her small, pointed tongue licking up the drips as if she didn’t intend to waste a drop. It was an intensely erotic image for Solomon to hold in his mind. Her kiss afterwards had ravenous; she fucked his mouth with her tongue and teeth, biting and plundering. Solomon tasted the heady cocktail of his seed mixed with her saliva.
Her sexual assertiveness had aroused him, but he knew that it was just a game; the next time she would want him to take the initiative. He’d been there before; he could write the script. It always ended with them wanting to know what he was thinking. He hated that.
The room glimmered in the flickering candlelight. He watched her through half closed eyes as she swayed to the rhythm of Ravel’s lovely music.
Solomon knew that her little display was intended to arouse him. But it wasn’t what he needed. He needed the Mistress. He needed the crack of her whip across his shoulders.
He closed his eyes and in the blackness he could see Her. Black, thigh high boots with killer heels. She stood astride, glaring down at him. She wore a soft red leather corset which laced up the front; her large breasts all but spilling out of the brassiere. Her pussy was shaved, framed by the edge of the corset and the tops of Her boots. She clasped Her whip in long red opera glove clad hands.
His cock hardened.
He shifted beneath the feather duvet, the fabric rubbing deliciously against the oozing head of his erection.
In a minute, Amber would join him in his big four poster bed. She would think his erection was for her; it wasn’t. Solomon’s arousal was for the Mistress in his fantasies. The Mistress who had been with him for as long as he could remember and it was to her that Solomon dedicated his erection. His Goddess; the Deity for whom he would submit to any amount of pain, any humiliation.
When Solomon flagellated himself with the braided leather bull whip, it was his Mistress who was delivering the lashes. When his cock exploded, after She’d finally whispered her permission into his ear, his seed was dedicated to Her. Even his tears were an act of devoted benediction.
And there were always tears.
He opened his eyes. Amber was walking slowly towards the bed, a sultry smile hovering on her lips. She paused, motionless, looking down at him.
When she spoke her voice was husky.
“Let’s get things straight.” she said.
If ever Amber had ever seen a submissive in need of taking in hand, it was now.
The state that these males got into, holding back on their orientation never ceased to amaze her.
She felt not sorry for them, but sad. All of their lives, expected to take the initiative, to seduce, romance, be sexually assertive, when they craved, needed a different, another sort of attention. So easy to confuse need with want. But what the hell? It made her raison d’etre easier. When a man of her choosing realised what, and who she was, he fell at her feet babbling his gratitude. And Amber had never been wrong.
The music throbbed its sensuous rhythm.
She stood, silently, one hand on a slender hip, the other, caressing her left breast, teasing and squeezing the erect nipple. She leant over him, lifting and pulling back the duvet. He moved nervously, his eyes locked to hers; his erection sprang from its sturdy root and swayed like a tree in a breeze. He was certainly a magnificent specimen.
She returned her eyes to his.
“That,” she said softly, “is your first mistake.”
He frowned his puzzlement. He didn’t understand.
“You do not look me in the eye. You do not meet my gaze. Ever.”
Immediately, he averted his eyes. Amber breathed steadily. She had not been mistaken. A natural submissive. His mistake was understandable, giving the strange turn of events. But she had been correct to draw his attention to the error. The reprimand would sting and she would punish him later.
He had a strong face, with clear cut features and dark, intelligent eyes. His dark hair was cut short. Amber would order him to grow it longer. She liked to tangle her fingers in a guy’s hair and tug, sharply, yanking his head back, letting him know who was in control. His jaw line was dark with the need to shave. Amber liked the rugged stubbled look; she would cultivate it.
He lay back against the pillows, his hands above and behind his head. He was displayed for her eyes only. There was no sense of him preening at the attention, more that he was anxiously praying for her approval.
He looked wonderful in the dancing candlelight and Amber’s predatory eyes roved over the long, hunky body. The well formed pectorals covered in dark curly hair. The hard, tight abdomen muscles. She guessed that he worked out. A guy didn’t get a body like that from being a couch potato.
She could hear him breathing. She leant over him, her long hair brushing his chest; she pinched a nipple and saw a quiver ripple over him. She placed two fingers on the pulse in his neck. His heart was racing, pounding against her fingertips. Her lips twitched in a smile.
She returned her gaze to his torso. Dark hair formed an arrow across his belly, signposting the way down to his long, thick erection. She’d known his cock was big, when she’d slid him into her throat; her stretched jaw had ached for days afterwards. His seed had tasted delectable.
But it was a blow job that she had enjoyed. She knew that most women sucked their guys’ cocks because they felt they ought to, or as some sort of reward. Amber sucked a guy’s cock because she liked it.
She wondered if this was the first time a woman had paid him so much attention.
She guessed that he had an Ideal. That he had fantasised for years about being Dominated by a woman. The image of the Ideal would have been the inspiration for his magnificent erection. Amber knew that within minutes she would take the Ideal’s place.
Amber looked like a pornographer’s dream, and she knew it. From her curling red and gold hair, tumbling over her slender shoulders to her narrow waist, to her heavy, swaying breasts which were almost too large for her frame. She’d shaved her pubic mound putting her plump genitalia overtly on display. Her labia were swollen, her clitoris peeping through her folds. She was in a high state of arousal and she teased herself, sliding a forefinger between her labial lips, gasping as she touch the tip of her erect clitoris.
She licked her juices from her finger, watching his face. The air around them was heady with the mixed scent of female arousal and holy incense. She returned her fingers to her genitalia and closed her eyes as she slid into her cunt. She was very wet and when she withdrew, strands of stretchy juice clung to her fingers. She leaned over him and smeared her juices across his lower lip.
“Do not lick your mouth,” she ordered.
It would be unbearable for him, wanting to taste her. Amber guessed he’d always managed to avoid cunnilingus, yet female juices delivered in such a provocative manner would be almost impossible for him to resist.
“Stand up,” she snapped.”
Solomon left the bed and stood before her, his hands submissively behind his back, his eyes downcast.
She took hold of his cock, and using it as a leash, she tugged it and walked him to the centre of the room.
She stood him on a large, circular Chinese rug and walked slowly around him. Examining him; assessing him, as if he were a stallion, or a bull she was bringing to stud. She spent some minutes studying his broad shoulders, examining the old scars and welts that marked him as a masochist. There were recent wounds too. She guessed that he had flagellated himself, probably that same morning; it wouldn’t take a lot to open up the wounds and make them bleed again. He flinched and let out a small whimper as she dragged a sharp fingernail over a wound that was hardening into a crusty scab; she breathed a satisfied sigh when large speckles of blood appeared. She gripped his upper arms and leaning into him, traced her tongue over the bleeding wound, lapping and licking up his blood like a vampire.
She made no comment and walked around to face him.
The flickering candlelight hollowed out his face, showing the tension there.
“You may meet my eyes,” she said.
He did not falter.
She could see fear in his face, but hope was there too.
“You may speak.”
Solomon swallowed. The words would not come. He coughed and cleared his throat. At six and a half feet he towered above her, yet he was afraid of this diminutive woman. Their eyes locked. Solomon’s heart pounded against his rib cage. He gasped air into his lungs. He had forgotten to breathe. He was a tremor away from ejaculation, yet she hadn’t even touched his cock.
“Please…” he said at last.
She grinned wolfishly and licked her lips. “Please what?”
“I…I don’t know …are you for real?”
The words were stuttered; he was daunted by this small woman who barely came up to his shoulder.
Amber placed her left hand flat against his chest tangling her fingers in his dark, curly hair. With her right hand she trailed over his belly, beneath his cock, squeezing his testicles, hard.
He moaned, a long low moan.
“Does this feel real?” she murmured. “Or this?” digging her fingernails into his scrotum. She wrapped her fingers around his erection and again used it as a lever, this time to pull him towards her.
How wonderful it was to stop struggling. To become her thing, her creature; to be the work of her merciful lavishing hands.
Solomon quivered. That she was simply using his cock as a tool was just as it should be. He felt his cock pulsate with the need to ejaculate and he held his breath.
She was experienced, and recognised the signs. She gave the order that forbad his body to betray him.
“You do not ejaculate until I give permission.”
She teased him mercilessly, rubbing her thumb over his cock head, pushing and pulling, sliding his foreskin back and forth. He could feel her running her fingers over the pronounced veins and his body obeyed her edict; she masturbated him and he did not ejaculate. He couldn’t even if he had wanted to. And he didn’t want to.
Solomon would still not allow himself to hope, but he was content to go with the moment in the hands of this predatory woman. His heart was racing, pounding to the beating rhythm of the music; his breath was shallow and his mouth was dry.
There had been times when Solomon could remember his heart actually hurting with the need for Enslavement and Domination. It was if a giant fist had his heart in its hand, squeezing the very life from him. Harder and harder, until he thought his heart would surely be crushed.
Guilt, fear and shame, these things had always defined his life and he’d been beginning to think that they always would. He did not dare to hope. He was terrified of the consequences, if all that was happening right now was just a sick joke.
One anxiety chased out another, as he wondered if he would be enough for her, this beautiful, predatory woman.
She gave his cock a vicious tug and let go. She laughed; it seemed to amuse her to see it slapping and bouncing against his belly. She grabbed it again and tugged him close into her. Her hand and his cock were crushed between his belly and her rib cage. She was standing on tiptoe and she slid her free hand around his neck, pulling his head down to kiss.
Some inate power told him not thrust his tongue into Amber’s mouth. His instinct told him to follow only where she led. He parted his lips; letting her in, if she desired. She nibbled at his mouth with sharp teeth, biting and tugging at his lower lip. He gave a sharp intake of breath with her bite; it hurt and he tasted the sharp, bitter, brassy taste of his blood. With the pain an electric volt of pleasure tingled up his spine. She licked the stain of her juices from his lips, then she entered his mouth, claiming him with her pointed tongue. Solomon groaned his need; her tongue danced against his, slippery and wet. She tasted divine, there was a hint of the peppermint tea that she’d sipped after their dinner; Solomon tried to hold back, but his tongue slipped against hers and she thrust in harder, fucking his mouth.
He wanted to hold her, but knew that he must not and his hands remained submissively behind his back. She let go of his cock and squirmed her body against him, rubbing him up and down, masturbating him with her frame.
She released him and stepped back.
“Good,” she said. She slipped her arms around his waist and unclasped his hands, placing them at his sides. Solomon cast his eyes down, away from her gaze; she took hold of his cock again.
There was a large chest of drawers by Solomon’s bed and pulling him by his cock, she led him to it.
He watched her as she excitedly pulled opened the top drawer where Solomon kept his neck ties. She rifled through them and found a blue silk scarf that seemed to please her. She placed it on the bed.
The second drawer held little interest for her, just two neat piles of underwear and some folded pairs of socks. The deep drawer at the bottom was the largest of the three; it disappointed her, until she removed the carefully folded sweaters.
Amber exclaimed her delight. Solomon felt himself blushing; she’d found his toys. She took each toy from the drawer placing it carefully on the bed. A long coil of heavy rope; still knotted as he had bought it from the hardware store. It was strong; it needed to be, it was used for towing broken down vehicles. A pair of silver metal handcuffs, still in their box. A ball gag, nipple clamps with tiny sharp teeth, still in their cellophane packaging. A giant purple dildo. A bull whip with spiteful lashes was not wrapped. Amber turned to looked at him, a question in her eyes.
“You may look at me,” she said.
Solomon raised his eyes, his hands again submissively behind his back.
“These are unused?” She waved a slender arm over the packaged toys.
She picked up the bull whip, testing its weight in her small hand.
Solomon watched her. This wasn’t something he’d bought from a sex shop; this was the real thing, bought from a supplier of antique farming equipment.
“But this has been used. You flagellate yourself.” It was not a question, it was a statement; she’d seen the scars from the spiteful, knotted thongs.
“Yes Mistress,” he answered.
Acknowledging her title, sounded like an endearment to his ears. It didn’t matter that she had discovered his disgusting secret.
She seemed deep in thought. Still holding the whip, she absently wound and threaded the braids through her fingers.
Ravel’s music reached its resounding, dramatic climax. Ever after, the music held a numinous resonance for him, tipping him into a dark void of sensation.
She replaced the bull whip reverentially back on the bed and began unwrapping the toys, ripping through the cellophane wrappings using her teeth. Solomon smiled. She was like a kid in a sweet shop. He looked down at her genitals; she was highly aroused. Womb juices drooled, hanging from her cunt.
Ravel’s music began again; she’d put it on repeat.
She unpacked the purple dildo and fellated it, watching his face, assessing his reactions. She straddled her legs and closing her eyes, pushed the head of the dildo into her cunt. Solomon had never seen anything so erotic in his life. Her labial lips were stretched tight gripping the dildo as she pushed it deep inside her. Little moans came from her mouth. Then she withdrew it quickly.
“Fuck me! Now!”
She lay on the bed and Solomon climbed over her, covering her with his weight. The sex toys scattered. His cock was pressed between their two bodies and he raised his ass; he didn’t need to take hold of his cock and guide it to her cunt, his cock found its own way there. He thrust and slammed hard into her hole. Her screams and cries were music to his ears. Solomon had never had sex like this before; it was as if he didn’t matter, all she needed was his cock ravaging her hole. He felt on the threshold of ejaculation, but his body obeyed her order and he did not do so. She screamed and snarled her orgasm, sinking her teeth into his shoulder, biting a hole in his flesh. Solomon battered into her. As she orgasmed, the strong internal muscles of her cunt gripped his cock, devouring him imprisoning him inside her. He was feral, primal; so was she. He could sense another orgasm building in her; she wrapped her legs around him, trapping him, locking him inside her. As her orgasm burst, she grunted and growled a bestial, animalistic roar.
Then she was still, her eyes closed, breathing deeply. And Solomon’s cock was still hard. He gazed down at the woman who had used him. Her mouth was open and bloody. She must have swallowed the lump of flesh she’d torn from him. He could see remnants of bloody skin between her teeth. Blood stained the corners of her mouth. She looked like a primitive priestess after a Dionysian orgy of sex and wine.
He slipped out of her, still painfully erect.
He knelt above her and lifted his hand to the gaping hole in his shoulder, pushing his fingertip inside.
He watched her in repose. He put his finger in his mouth and sucked his blood.
She lay quietly, one hand resting on her belly, the other at her side Solomon wanted to pick up her hand and kiss the fingers, but he did not dare.
Her eyes fluttered open. “Fetch me some water, slut,” she demanded.
Solomon rose from the bed, glad to perform a simple task for the Mistress. He went down the iron spiral staircase, his still erect cock swaying, bouncing and slapping against his belly. He glanced at the clock. Seven pm exactly. He’d felt as if time had stood still, but it had raced into fast forward. She’d been torturing and teasing him for two hours. In the kitchen he prepared a jug of water. Iced water, not just tap water for Her. He set it on a tray with a crystal glass. He had no thought of setting out a glass for himself, even though he was very thirsty. His needs no longer mattered.
When he entered the bedroom she had tidied the toys into a row. She fingered the purple dildo again. Solomon’s heart thudded; she seemed strangely attracted to the monstrous toy. He wondered want her plans were for it.
He set down the tray on top of the chest of drawers and poured her a glass of water. She drank, draining it, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
She jangled the silver handcuffs.
Without being asked he held out his wrists. She snapped the cuffs on. Solomon felt a warm flush of pleasure. They were heavy; at last he was to be treated in the way that he deserved. He had transgressed and had to be treated appropriately. He was to be Disciplined and hopefully, punished with a beating.
He trembled, as he watched her, wondering what she was going to do next.
The key to the cuffs was in a small black leather drawstring pouch. She smiled as if she’d told herself a little joke. She straddled her legs.
The pose was crude, but very, very sexy and Solomon watched her as she moved her body in an erotic display.
She jerked her body in a pelvic thrust.
“My submissives always tell me that I am very creative,” she told him.
For the rest of his life Solomon would recall her next movements and replay them in his mind’s eye in a frame by frame series of images. She moved very slowly, taking her time, pausing every few seconds as if she knew that he needed to capture the moment. His eye was a view finder and a shutter, recording each movement with each blink of his eye.
She bowed her head, her curly, red and gold Pre Raphaelite hair hanging over her face.
She bent her knees slightly, and pushing her pelvis forward, inserted the pouch containing the key to the handcuffs, that marked him as her slave, slowly into her cunt.
She straightened up and with a graceful gesture of her hand, focussed his gaze onto the black drawstring hanging from between her wet, shining lips. It looked as if a small snake had entered her cunt in an act of bestiality.
His mouth was dry, his heart slamming. Had it not been for her edict that he must not ejaculate, he would have cum at that moment.
His cock bobbed and twitched. The need to ejaculate was physically painful and profound, but nothing spurted from his slit.
She picked up the bull whip from the bed and the pace changed.
He screamed his agony as she lashed the leather strands across his erection. Red welts appeared on his cock and she brought the lashes up on the underside. That one drew blood; her movements were quick, sudden and vicious. His balls bounced as the lash cut into them; he felt nausea rising from his belly and he had to clamped his muscles down in his bowel. He was a mess of yelping negation and pleadings as she moved around him, the knotted strands cutting into his sides, his belly his buttocks.
The handcuffs clinked and clanged, the music moved into another phrase.
He tottered in an effort to keep his balance. With his wrists cuffed together, he staggered from side to side. He would not fail her, he would not fall.
The beatings he’d given himself were never like this; with them he had a semblance of control. His Mistress was out of control and he was on the edge of fear.
She screamed profanities at him and insults; she spat into his face, hawking the phlegm up from her lungs. Tears streamed from his eyes and he gazed at her imploringly to stop. Yet he knew that if she did, his heart would break and still the lashes bit and stung, his body striped with red, criss cross weals. His cock bounced and slapped with each blow. For such a small woman, she was surprisingly strong and through the brutality of pain Solomon wondered how long she could keep this up for. His erection bounced, always the feeling of orgasm about to burst, but it did not.
And still she lashed him; he was a mess of blood, tears, sweat and snot; he ached with the desperate need to ejaculate; the orgasm hovered with a strange inevitability, but he didn’t cum.
His soul swooned slowly, as he teetered on the edge of a different dimension of reality and the lashes still fell, curling around his arms, torso, thighs, raining down on his erection.
The events of the evening had the strangeness of the transcendental. Endorphins flooded through him. His flesh tingled in a warm rush, beginning at his anus and creeping up his spine, over his shoulders and into his pectorals and down into his genitalia. Everything was profound and golden.
As the final lashes were delivered to his bloody genitals, he finally lost his balance and he tipped over sideways, crashing onto the wooden floor. He lay on his back, then rolled to his side, his wrists cuffed, his knees drawn up in a foetal position of protection. He was a mess of bloodied flesh and gore. He closed his eyes and allowed the warmth of a profane perfection envelope him.
She kicked him in the back, catching his kidneys with her bare foot and lashed brutally with the whip at his back and shoulders, opening up the fresh weals that he’d made that morning and cutting new wounds into his flesh.
She was a furious blur of anger and vengeance, her red hair whirling about her face as she circled him raining down with brutal lashes. Solomon felt reality slipping away. She kicked him again and lashed at his erection, the knotted fronds of the bull whip curling and tangling around his cock, lashing and cutting into his testicles.
“Cum, you sick bastard, fucking masochist,” she screamed, as his cock slapped and bounced against his belly. And Solomon came, jism spurting from his cock and still she beat him. The cum seemed to last forever, draining his balls, pumping, pumping even when he was empty; his were two shrivelled empty sacs. He felt consciousness slipping away; sweet noises filled his head, strange colours, never before seen hung in his vision. He had the sensation of his spirit slipping out of his body. He saw them, very briefly as from above. A naked, whirling dervish lashing down on a bloody mess of flesh and gore.
At last she was sated and she poured herself water, drinking deeply. Solomon lay panting on the hard wooden floor sticky with spunk, blood and sweat. He could hear her moving about the room. He didn’t care what she was planning next; but oh, please, no more of the whip. He didn’t think he could take it.
Her voice took him by surprise; just one word.
His limbs ached. With his hands cuffed he struggled to remember the correct order to place his limbs to get into the position she demanded. He couldn’t stay upright; his torso folded over, his cuffed forearms flat to the floor. He kept his eyes closed; he could hear the rustling of paper. She manoeuvred him, raising his arse, his forearms still flat on the floor. He felt something cold and wet on his anus; she rubbed and circled with her fingers. A lubricant; her fingers slid inside him. Then Solomon knew what was happening. Something hard and thick pushed at the barrier to his dirt hole. She opened him up with the purple dildo. Slowly, slowly, she entered him. He felt a pressure that should not have been pleasing, but it was. He had never thought of anal penetration as a means of control, but in those moments, he would have done anything.
“Please don’t stop,” he groaned, as he savoured the tightness of his stretched rectal muscles gripping the huge dildo.
“I won’t,” she giggled.
His hole was stuffed full and violated. His cock began to harden again. She pulled the dildo out leaving him shockingly empty. He open his eyes, she was unwinding the rope. She reached beneath him and bound his cock and testicles tightly, painfully; then she wrapped the rope around his buttocks, threading it tightly along his arse crack, fixing the dildo firmly in place. She bound his ankles together, then trailed the rope to his wrists. She pushed him onto his side and pulled the end of the rope. She must have used a clever knotting technique, because as she pulled, his ankles were drawn up to his wrists, trussing him like a Christmas turkey ready for the oven.
She straddled him, one foot on either side of his bound body. He smelled the piss at the same time as it landed on his wounds. He screamed at the stinging pain as her warm acidic piss, splashed and covered his back seeping into his cuts, eating away at his flesh.
He sobbed as she emptied her bladder.
She left him on the hard floor next to the bed. She slipped beneath the feather duvet, her head on soft pillows. Within minutes Solomon heard her breathing deeply; she’d fallen asleep.
Solomon blinked away tears of gratitude. How did this woman, who until three weeks ago had been a stranger, how did she know him so completely and utterly? His dry lips cracked in a parody of a smile.
He was a bloodied heap of aching tortured pain and gory stinking sticky flesh.
His ruined genitals throbbed.
Humiliation and submission would thus forever be his ethos.
Thank God for what he had become in just a few short hours.
Tears, snot, semen and piss. These were the scents, flavours and textures that would define him now.
How had she known what he needed? Solomon didn’t care.
Solomon was content.