Why did I let this happen?
It wasn't the first time. It was the third, in fact. And of course she knew why. But why did she let him? He was forty-three, twenty years older than she was. Not as sprightly, as energetic, as effervescent, he said. As virile, even, he admitted.
She was tied to the bed.
He said that arousal was good for her. Kept her young. Which is why he did it.
But why did she let him?
Was it because she was his wife? Or was it because it suited her to let him? Suited her plans, say.
They had met through her acting. She'd played Sue Drabbs, in 'Escapade' - the lead. He produced.
She had tried hard. He had flattered. She succumbed.
Married in Paris.
Now they lived in Hampstead.
And she was sometimes tied to a bed.
'Shhh,' she heard from the door. She was blindfolded. Black silk. No pain. No strain.
Anonymity. Like a cat who couldn't see you. You therefore couldn't see it.
A hand closed over her breast.
That tingle. That shiver. That flutter, deep down in her innards. The sexual awakening. The fluttered eyelash of the sexual soul. The languid lids that gently open. Secretive. Private. Intimate. No-one could mine her this deeply to know what went on deep down like this. They could make it happen.
But couldn't tell what.
A touch to her breasts always did this.
Heat started drifting to the surface of her skin. The private places, secret glades. With it that extraordinary sensitivity that walked hand in hand with the heat, the arousal, the start of her sexual march.
The root march into the sun.
It was a large hand. The skin was rough, rougher than her husband's. It was a hand that belonged to a man, that wasn't her husband. It touched her with reverence. Carefully. With anticipation -- a certain longing, even.
As if flattered to be there.
She tried to guess, behind her mask, who's hand it was. The tall man at the end of the dinner table? The one in the pin-striped suit? The one with the polka-dot handkerchief in the pocket of his jacket? The one with the little moustache? (He was a lawyer she had guessed.) Her husband never let her meet them. She wasn't introduced. She served the food. Wore a short black dress and a white lace apron, black stockings, black shoes. Referred to, not at all. Inferred: she was the maid.
'Gorgeous fucking maid,' one suggested, sotto voce, as she left with a tray full of plates.
Part of the game, the strategy, the plan. Anonymity for her. Anonymity for them.
Another pair of hands joined the first and started stroking her legs and with the touch the bright awareness of this other human being, wanting her, to touch her, feel the softness of her skin, see the way his touch aroused her, this smooth young prime conditioned female on the bed, tied there, displayed like a steak -- or dessert -- all clean and primed and washed and dabbed with ... spices?
She and Richard had married because he had money and influence and power in the direction she wanted to go. She was a secretary but wanted to act. He could help. He said she had latent emotion he wanted to nurture, see grow, to blossom. Perhaps to be ignited and explode!
She had a latent sexuality, he said, of unrealised potential, and unbelievable power.
'I bet that's what you say to all the pretty girls,' she had suggested.
'Certainly not,' he had objected.
A third set of hands was upon her. Long-fingered hands. They were stroking the indent of her stomach, stretched out, stretched flat, pulled tight like the skin on a drum-head. She was fit and trim. In shape. And when her legs were spread, and tied, and her arms stretched out above her head, and similarly tied, then her breast were thrust up, and her chest thrust out, and the stomach pulled taught, like a drum. The fingers danced over it. Gently. Reveling, perhaps, in its taught ribbed hard tight feel.
Older women's stomachs were flabby. Hers was far from that.
The fingers tip-toad back across the fastness.
She liked to be stroked. Caressed. To be felt, explored.
She liked that they should want to do it to her.
She liked that just the look of her should make them ...want to touch her.
The power that she had to make them want to do that, was in itself an aphrodisiac. Heady in it's potency. She arched her back as the hands on her legs went between them and stirred her there. Some of the 'latent sexuality' of which Jim had high hopes, and so perceptively guessed might be there. They did it again. She arched her back, again, and opened her lips, and heard herself sigh.
Where did this creature live? This creature that tempted them to her. Drew them like moths to a lamp, then made them reach out, and touch, caress. Did it live in her thighs? In the folds and softness between her legs? In the gentle nipples, even now being stroked and tweaked -- Ngaar, I hear myself growl -- and which as quickly firm and stand erect and beg to be harassed some more. The hand at her breast left her nipple. Fingers wandered down each side. Palm against the nipple. Breast within outstretched fingers. Then ... all is brought together and the breast becomes encased in squeezing pressing digits sweating palm and lusting mind, wanting thoughts, craving senses.
Her pelvis did a roll atop the bed sheets, moving soft and powerful and with grace for she knew, They sought her, Wanted her, Needed her.
A stranger's lips came on her own. She let them come. Softened her own in response. Drifted into meditative state. Put all her focus on the lips: her lips, his lips, both sets of lips, together. She liked it like that.
She liked them to arouse themselves with her. Excite her in turn, in their own sweet way.
Richard would be out there. Somewhere. Making sure they weren't too rough.
They rarely were.
Is a python rough with a cheetah?
She groaned again, and squirmed.
She couldn't help it. She didn't need to.
'The more you use your feelings and senses the better you are able to express them,' Richard liked to say.
Especially the sexual ones, he meant
'Ngaaar,' she gasped, arching her back as fingers slipped into the ridges of softness that guarded the citadel deep within the cradle of her thighs. Looking for the sweetness that was there, under the coverlets of moist engorged ridges of skin. Like lips. Like touch. Liking the touches with which due homage was paid.
Hers was an alter which would always reward due homage.
By swelling, engorging, inviting.
More hands were on her body now. Her warmth had turn to sweat. The sweat encouraged caresses. Oily lascivious caresses. Skin that slides across skin like a snake might curl around a carcass, feeling as it goes, being felt as it squirms, bringing reaction -- soft and gentle yet alert and aware -- and aroused as it moves, wanting more.
A hand on a breast rolled it round in fingers longing, yet needy. Fingers on her other breast had a nipple under study, then under attack, and under pressure to explode in an upward thrust at the tempting, toying, fingertips. But for arousal elsewhere. The brains tight circuits flash, then blush, then bloom, as fingers deep within the lips of her labia, tight against the clitoris hood, pulled back, the clitoris proud, little but bold and determined, peering out at the world of searching hands. And minds. And senses. Extensions of this need that they display.
A finger tentatively touches her tight proud bastion of womanhood. Her clitoris springs alert. Erect. Engorged. Engaging in its links to the core of her soul. She feels it, bottoming out in the depth of her intestines. Just as the work on her nipples tugs at a string that is deep within her heart. Pleasant stirrings. Rousing music. Sexually arousing lines, linked to the points where she buzzes and purrs when hot.
Her pelvis lifts off the bed as the hand between her legs plays some more.
A deep unfulfilled yearning groan -- a call to the mate, a supplication, acquiescence.
Make me whole.
It set them off.
It always does.
It made them hot, and gave them purpose, made them whole as well. They had a duty to perform, a noble function to fill, a maiden's cry to answer. They were man! (Between them, one must be?) She felt the bonds round her ankles being loosed as the lips that were on hers gently parted, reverently, cautiously, as if something within her mouth might come out and prove to be too strong, too potent, to quick and fast and poisonous for him.
It came out like the head of a serpent. Sharp and pointed and fast. Plunged its length as firmly and fatly and fully as it could into his tentative mouth. Tentative, momentarily only. For then his own was there, joining the fray, the dance. The wrestling match. As the howl of both their breaths, and the eddies of both their mouths, and the thrusting, seeking, stroking, rolling, roiling of the tongues that were involved, quickstepped between the two mouths.
'Mmmgrrah,' she purred in his mouth as her tongued broadsided his. 'Mgggrra" she gasped, as his invaded hers and backed her tongue to her throat. 'Ngggah,' she gagged as her tongue chased his, and tasted his, and coiled around and beneath what was his, in his mouth as his lips pressed hard and her own fought back as she sought to make both mouths one. They broke the kiss. Her mouth opened wide. The cry came deep from her throat, as her legs were spread and a penis tiptoed into the star of things, thrust home, and her legs coiled round the man's back.
'Aaagrh,' she groaned, cry drowned, prick deep, pussy tingling and stretching. Alive to its visitor just as a tongue is alive to the presence of chili.
Nothing else there.
Nowhere else exists.
Just this great invasive presence. All the sense endings involved. Bringing something close to arousal's peak as the mountain starts to be climbed. As the slope takes on excitement. As the ridge ahead becomes a siren's call. And the urge to ascend, hypnotic. How can arousal so hard and deep and alluring go on in the midst of all this arousal. The effect of the hand on her breast, the finger on her nipples, the lips on her lips, the mouth on her mouth, the tongue with hers, and the thighs within hers, and the crushing, bruising, battling, blending, of rampant prick and grasping pussy -- gaping, craving, crying, clutching. A fight for more in, but a need for more out, and a sense of the whole being the movement. 'Argh!' she cried once. Then twice. 'Aaaaargh!' she cried out, once more, as the rhythm of the thrusts and the madness of the grasping, groping, squeezing of the hands all over her, drove her cries higher, and quicker, and faster, and louder. Like a malformed kettle leaking steam.
Her cries took on a rhythm of their own. Vagina kept pace. So did her assailant, moving fast, then faster still as she rose up off the bed, all the weight on the muscles, lower back, lifted him higher, and higher, as higher and higher went her cries, then ...'Ngraaaaah!' came the peak of the mountain, top of the world, height of all heights that exist. And she pumped him and pumped him and pumped him and pumped him ... Until the heavenly vision turned red, then coral, then blended into softness like the down of a lamb, silk of a web, softness of moss. She let the hulk within her thighs back down to earth. Lowering him slowly, as she did herself. 'Mmmmmh,' she thought, contented, knowing that more was to come, but enjoying that one for herself.
They went on, with her, for another hour, but none was as good as the first.
And then it began to be the same.
One prick not too different from another. One kiss, much like the last, one tongue ...
She began to get sore.
Which is when she held up three fingers. That was the signal, three fingers, telling Richard she'd had enough.
And Richard was a gentleman that way. Once he saw that his wife had her three fingers raised, he'd call them off.
'Needs her rest, poor dear,' he would say as he lead them quietly from the room.
'Got to cook breakfast tomorrow,' he would joke, good-naturedly, as he put the light out, and closed the door.
Where I would stay, for some moments, before leaving the maid's room. Which is where all these activities took place, and going for a shower. And sleep. And I always had a lie in in the morning.
Let him get his own breakfast.