Thumper Ch. 03

* * *

I don't want to lose her," said George. He was seated on the couch in the office where the four had met weeks ago. The lights in the office were dim. The artwork on the walls looked even more suggestive in the half-light. If it weren't a session with a counsellor, George would have thought the lighting to be intimate.

There was slight tremor in his voice as he spoke the words. It wasn't so much the prospect of failure that weakened him, but rather his discomfiture at Britt's presence. He wasn't one to be unnerved by attractive women -- God knew many of his students could distract a man -- but there was something about Britt that both frightened and aroused him. It wasn't so much her suggestive attire, but the way she held herself and the way in which his barriers fell before her gaze.

Britt smiled sympathetically. "Sorry to break it to you, but you already have."

Britt's bluntness left George momentarily speechless. This certainly wasn't the style he was used to from other counsellors.

"What I mean to say is that you've lost her once. You have to ask yourself what you're willing to do to win her back."

Britt moved to the front of the desk and perched a hip on the corner, her short skirt riding up, revealing garters and the top of her stockings. The woman certainly loved her garters, George thought. Then again, so did he.

George tried hard to keep his eyes averted from the exquisite expanse of leg swinging seductively inches away. "I used to think that I could win her back. Now I'm not so sure. For all of the counselling we've been through, nothing much has changed. Or rather, our positions are more entrenched. So I don't know."

"Okay, let's say you could reconstruct the marriage, but better than before, would you be willing to make the effort?"

"Absolutely."

"Good. Let's take it as a given that the old model didn't work, or you wouldn't be here," Britt continued. "After all, the old model chased her into the arms of another man. You have to come up with another model. That's what I'm going to help you with."

A new model? George was confused.

Britt smiled and leaned forward, revealing a disconcerting amount of cleavage. A veritable and dangerous chasm of cleavage, in fact. "Right. Out with the old George, in with the new. When we're finished, you won't recognize yourself."

Britt moved from the desk and settled next to him on the couch. She tucked one leg under the other and leaned toward him. He caught the scent of her perfume.

"If you were to characterize the last years of your marriage, what words would you use?"

George thought for a moment. "Ennui, indifference, frustration."

"Alright. Let's start with ennui. What do you think caused it?"

"Perhaps a decrease in the level of intimacy over time."

"Right. Do you remember the days you used to play as a kid? Spin the bottle? Truth or dare? Do you remember how, over time, the games became increasingly more creative, increasingly intimate, always testing the line before retreating?"

Damian nodded. "Okay."

"And then comes the lucky day when the angels smile on you and you get to fuck someone. The holy grail. You've made it. You're a man now and you've reached your goal. If you're lucky enough to have a steady partner, you try all of the variations in short order. Tab A into slot A, B, or C. And pretty soon, that's the end of it. You spend the rest of your life repeating the same themes, or spelunking the same caves, if you prefer, and pretty soon everyone involved gets bored."

"I'm still with you."

"So why is it that creativity so often stops when you reach the big goal? We have these beautiful bodies and intelligence and imagination, and we spend much of it doing exactly the same thing time after time. Have you noticed how creativity often has an inverse relationship with availability? Before you know it, we've lost our imagination and willingness to play. Ennui sets in, and as a result, a lack of intimacy."

"There's some truth to what you say," George conceded.

"I'm glad you agree. I had a feeling you would. It's remarkable, really, how many people think the same thing, but fail to do anything about it."

"Remarkable," parroted George dumbly, for at that moment, Britt had placed a finely manicured hand on his forearm.

"Why would that be?"

"Laziness?"

"I've always thought it was fear."

"Yes. Quite possibly."

"So play is the key. Play with ever changing dynamics and complexity. Always testing the line. Keeping things interesting." Britt leaned towards him and her bosom threatened to spill out of her tight blouse.

"I see your point."

"I'm so glad to hear you say that."

"Really? Why?"

"Because now, I want you to play with me."

George was flummoxed. "You want me to play with you?" he stammered.

"Absolutely."

"You don't mean chess, do you?"

Britt laughed.

His mind whirled. This can't be happening. Unlike some of his colleagues at the university, he'd thankfully never been hit upon by a student, not even to secure a pass or a better grade. Not that he wouldn't have welcomed the advance, the male ego being what it is, before gently declining the offer.

"When you say play, you mean..."

"I sense that you're a pretty creative guy, and it's only your choice of playmate, or rather her unwillingness to play with you, that has held you back."

George was about to protest when Britt asked, "Do you remember that Marvell poem?"

"To his Coy Mistress."

"Right!"

"Had we but world enough, and time/This coyness, lady, were no crime."

"Exactly. We have world enough and time, and I'm not at all coy."

Where is this going? thought George, heart pounding alarmingly in his chest. It had grown hot in the office. Had he and Abby landed themselves in some weird escort relationship? God knew the fee alone was more than enough to cover such an arrangement. Were these people who they claimed to be? Could they be trusted? Their methods, if George understood Britt's insinuation, were so off the map that George questioned the wisdom of retaining them.

"Play with you?"

Britt smiled demurely and nodded, a twinkle in her eye.

"I don't think that's a good idea. I don't know how that would help anything."

"But I know. I'm the expert, remember? You're a married man, albeit not happily. You've got carte blanche to do whatever you want, signed by both you and Abby. Perhaps you feel that playing with another woman threatens your sense of fidelity. I understand. I really do.

"But here`s the thing: I`m not asking you to do anything that`s not covered by consent. You've got permission and we`ve established that play is a crucial component to a marriage. I'm concerned that you're out of practice. You may think it's like riding a bike, but it's not.

"You could refuse, I suppose. Perhaps you're happier in the role of the long-suffering, cuckolded husband. It's a role you're used to playing, after all."

The smile died on George's face.

"Perhaps you don't care what Abby and Damian are up to at this moment."

Abby. George had forgotten about her. If he was being seduced, what was Abby doing? Was she willingly doing it, whatever it was, or was she being cajoled?

He imagined her with Damian. George took a deep breath. "You said something about play?"

"Yes. Doctor's orders."

"You're not a doctor."

"No, but I play doctor every day."

* * *

Britt held George's hand and led him to the elevator. She pressed the button for the basement.

"Where are we going?"

Britt smirked. "Damian and I have a workshop downstairs."

The elevator doors opened on a corridor constructed of painted cinderblocks. Steel doors appeared at regular intervals. Britt took George's hand and walked to the third door on the right.

George's hand tingled in Britt's.

Britt turned on the light and revealed a fully furnished bedroom. A four-poster bed complete with a billowy white canopy and red satin sheets occupied one wall. A dark credenza with impressive scrollwork occupied another. Erotic art covered the walls and oriental rugs lay on the floor. There were no windows.

Britt ushered George into the room and locked the door behind them. She turned to him and placed her hands on her hips. "Surprised?"

George nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"We have several rooms down here, but this is my favourite."

George's mouth was dry. He suppressed a strong desire to flee. He was clearly out of his element.

Britt approached him slowly, studying him, her green eyes boring into his. His knees grew weak and he silently berated himself. Be a man, he told himself.

Britt placed a hand on his shoulder. "I have a challenge for you."

"Okay." She was so close that he could feel the heat of her and smell her perfume.

She stepped forward and pressed her body against his. "Are you up for it?"

If he wasn't, he soon would be. "I... I think so."

Britt studied him. "Using anything above your waist and any tools in this room, I want you to make me come."

A paralysis descended over George. Had he understood correctly?

"And you have fifteen minutes to do it."

He was sure that he had misheard. He reviewed his situation. He was in a basement bedroom with an impossibly beautiful woman and she had asked him to make her come. And this clearly was no dream, otherwise he would be awake already with cold and sticky goo on the sheets.

Britt ran the long red nail of her index finger down George's chest. "A man who can bring his woman to orgasm easily is a man who wields some power over her. She is your instrument. Play her. Enjoy your mastery." Britt's purr stroked him like a lover, low and seductive.

George's throat was dry. "I wouldn't know where to begin," he croaked.

"Then you're in more need of help than I thought."

Britt pulled him to the credenza and opened the doors. Arrayed in neat rows on the back wall were an assortment of instruments, from leather cuffs of various sizes, ropes and chains, floggers, paddles, and riding crops.

Absently, George opened one of the drawers and spied a rubber bag and hose.

"That's an enema bag," offered Britt.

"Oh, shit!" exclaimed George, quickly dropping his hand. George shook his head. "Listen, I can't. I'm a married guy. I appreciate the offer, though. More than you know. Believe me. Thank you. Really. Thanks. You've made my day."

"You are a married guy, I agree. An almost formerly-married guy who has agreed with his almost former-wife to throw caution to the wind, without possibility of recrimination, as a means to saving their marriage."

"Well yes, but..."

"You do want to save your marriage, don't you?"

"Sure. But this is so unorthodox."

"You agreed to unorthodox."

"But this...." George turned his back on Britt and studied the chrome, latex, and leather displayed in the credenza. His heart tripped and his mouth was dry. He felt trapped between these vibrating gizmos and what appeared to be a lunatic nymphomaniac.

When he turned to ask for a glass of water, his heart almost stopped. There was Britt, a goddess in lace. She had untied her hair, and now the tresses cascaded over her shoulders, lingering in an erotic chiaroscuro against the creamy skin of her breasts, displayed to advantage with a red shelf bra with black lace accents. Her nipples gleamed with a pair of thick golden rings. Ouch, he thought, and was momentarily overcome with a desire to kiss them better.

His eyes tore themselves away and stroked down her lean torso to a matching garter that crowned a nicely coiffed pussy, a neat exclamation mark of hair rising above a ring that pierced the base of the clitoral hood. Her muscular legs, encased in black stockings, ended in a pair of black stilettos better suited to pointing at the ceiling than walking.

"God," stammered George.

"Come." Britt gestured.

Like an automaton, George approached. Britt grasped his head and drew it to her breasts, burying his face in the enveloping warmth of her bosom. Her scent, the yielding softness of her flesh, almost overwhelmed him.

When Britt released him, his face was flushed.

"I'm starting the clock in one minute."

George shook his head. This was too unbelievable. "Wait." He sat next to her on the bed and snuck a peak to ensure that she was still real.

"What is it you want me to do?" he asked, stalling for time.

Britt grinned. "Make me come. Anything goes, anything in the credenza, anything above your waist. Thirty seconds."

* * *

George studied the contents of the credenza like a starving man at a buffet. Where to begin?

Finally, he selected a pair of handcuffs.

He returned to the bed where Britt sat. She regarded him quizzically and smiled when he grasped her wrists and fastened the handcuffs. Her arms neatly framed her breasts, pressing them together. The sight of her restrained like this made him dizzy, a fantasy come to life.

Now what? he thought.

George tentatively grazed her nipples with the tips of his fingers. Her nipples hardened instantly and Britt closed her eyes and a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

George knelt between her legs and pulled her chest to his mouth. He licked the soft circumference of each breast, spiralling in to each puckered nipple. Areola pressed between his teeth, he ran his tongue back and forth across the nipple. Britt's head tipped back as a faint moan escaped from between her lips.

Having heard few such moans in the last few years, he was grateful, even if Britt was faking.

He gently laid her back on the bed, arm under her back. He ran his fingertips, feather-light, from her bare throat to her chest, leaving a trail of goose pimples in their wake.

He admired the feminine geography before him. Britt's head was turned to the side, mahogany hair caressing her face and cascading over the bed. Her breasts sat full and proud on a rib cage over which lightly tanned skin stretched taut. The vulnerable well of her abdomen rose gently to the pubic bone. With the merest touch he spread her legs, displaying the delicate folds her labia that blossomed from the smooth, silken surrounding tissue.

What am I doing? he thought.

George lowered his head. Gently and patiently despite his time limit, he touched the tip of his tongue to her, eliciting a purr of pleasure. The taste of her intoxicated him and gave him courage. His tongue played on the ripples of her sex and he forgot the time limit, losing himself to her taste and aroma and the feeling of her yielding, warm smoothness on his tongue.

He drew her labia between his lips, pulling gently, running his tongue back and forth across the soft flesh. He thrust his tongue deeply into her, tasting her, and then drew it up to tease her clitoris out of the tissue that enveloped it.

He inserted his thumbs and spread her lips apart. He ran his tongue slowly from her opening up to her crown, lapping her juices and teasing her clitoris before retracing his path.

The increased cadence of her breathing and occasional whimper encouraged him.

He inserted his middle finger, gently hooking it and pressing upward within her. He ran the tip of his tongue in a circular motion over her clitoris while the finger within her mirrored the motion.

"Mmm."

His other hand fondled her ass and she drew up her legs to grant him better access. Her stilettos dug painfully into George's shoulders, but he continued his efforts unabated.

He pressed the thumb of his free hand on her perineum, noting the wetness there and tracing its path to her anus. He spread her lubrication over its surface and pressed, feeling the muscles yield.

His tongue worked her clitoris as one finger massaged her G-spot and his thumb slipped shallowly in and out of her anus. George could feel Britt's bound wrists on his head, pressing it into her.

"That's it," she gasped. "Faster."

George's tongue danced on and around her clitoris, alternately probing and then pausing to lap up her juices before returning. His finger and thumb were now firmly embedded in her. He drew her into his mouth as he would a nipple and sucked.

Britt's breathing quickened and the first tremors wracked her body. Her hips swivelled and rocked and a low, guttural purr escaped from parted lips, rising in volume.

Britt came suddenly in a back-arching orgasm in which she bore down and pressed hard on George's hand, pressing his fingers deep into her cunt and ass. She gave a strangled cry and spread her legs wide, affording George a better taste of that which he had worked hard to release.

She was not quickly spent. Her release intensified and crashed anew under George's ministrations, to the point where the subtlest flick of the tongue or pressure of his fingers would unleash another series of tremors.

When it appeared that Britt was spent, George pushed her legs to her chest, exposing her glistening folds. He lowered his head and thrust his tongue into its pungent warmth, savouring Britt's flavour.

"You're full of surprises," whispered Britt when George had had his fill.

"I've had some time to think about it."

* * *

George unlocked the cuffs and climbed into the bed and lay beside Britt.

"You weren't faking, were you?"

"I don't fake."

"No, I guess not."

Britt propped herself up on her elbow and regarded George, pausing briefly at the erection that tented his trousers.

"Is it my turn?" asked George hopefully, hungrily.

"You? Ah, I get it. I've had my fun, huh?"

George smiled. Britt placed a hand on the front of his trousers and gave a gentle squeeze.

"You'll have to negotiate that with Abby. Go home to your wife. Take her. She's yours."

George felt a moment of crushing disappointment.

"Just so you understand, I'm not doing this as a surrogate for your wife. I'll guide you, but all paths lead to her. Only her. Do you feel cheated?"

"A little," George admitted.

"If it's any consolation, I'm not easily pleased. You did amazingly well. You need to show Abby what a treasure she has."

George shook his head, but was pleased.

"If you want me to, I can tell her."

"God no!"

"Then you will have to show her."

Britt placed a hand on his chest. "You realize this isn't about turning Abby into some kind of obedient plaything to satisfy your selfish urges," said Britt.

"I wouldn't," George protested.

"I know, but it has to be said. At the same time, if you place her satisfaction above yours, as you did with me, she may well accede to becoming a willing partner in play. Your power comes from being uniquely able to satisfy her. Go home now. Take her."