Only in Cap d'Agde

She pulled me nearer, just with the grip she had on that steel clamp. I stepped closer. I had no choice. Which brought me close enough for her to reach for my slit with her free hand and feel my wetness there.

She turned to my husband.

"You have a good slave here."

English now, not German.

"Sehr Gut," she added, as she removed her fingers from my slit and let go of the nipple clamp to free the stub and let my breast regain its natural shape.

At least I seemed to have passed her test, whatever made her think she had the right to do that to me. A woman, testing out another woman. I wondered what would have happened if Steel had done that to the man the German had on the chain leash. Maybe he would have enjoyed it. It took a moment, but once the pain in my nipple stub had eased back to a more gentle throb, I felt a kind of satisfaction that I had handled what she had done to me. It had been pretty painful, but I had coped with it.

Even at the BDSM club, there was a bar. Steel asked for drinks for both of us, and we moved between other submissives and their partners, while pausing to watch the scenes that were being enacted in the different dungeon spaces that the club provided. My nipples still throbbed from the clamps, especially the right, but I was determined to handle it, to master it, to let Steel decide when those clamps would be removed, without my asking him to take them off. Then we reached the final room. The leather swing was free.

I wanted it, but the butterflies were there, fluttering in my stomach. Other fluttering was happening as well. My clit was wanting to be touched, even more because that woman's fingers had already touched me there. It wanted more. Fingers, lips or tongue, or even cock shaft grazing it as I was being fucked. I knew that my husband would fuck me on that swing. He knew about my fascination with it. I had told him that I hoped to get the chance to try it out. And it was empty.

Steel helped me lie on it, the leather smooth against my back and butt. He raised my legs. There were ankle straps fixed to the ropes that held those two corners of the square swing seat. Steel secured them. Simple velcro, but effective, if the victim cannot reach them for herself. He walked behind my head. There were wrist straps on the other ropes, a little lower. More velcro. Neither of my hands could reach the other. Until I was released, I was now helpless to get free. Yet instead of feeling vulnerable, instead I felt empowered. I could do this. I could ride the swing.

The fluttering in my stomach settled. I still felt nervous. I knew that Steel had bought a crop, a multi fronded, short whipping tool, which he would use on me. I was fearful it might hurt, but I would not be gagged, and I could tell him if at any time if it became too much to bear. I wanted to experience some pain, but not so much that it became more than I could enjoy. But the fact of being helpless, strapped and secured, left me no longer able to resist. The stomach churns had been about whether I would dare to let this happen. Now I had no choice. The churning ended. The straps had somehow set me free.

The blindfold was a simple mask of fabric, satin on the inside, suede outer, in black, with an elasticated head strap. I closed my eyes as Steel put it in place. Now I was in my world, with the dark imaginings that I had only dreamt about before. I sensed him moved back to stand between my legs. I sensed, or heard, others in the space, watching the dark skinned woman, now strapped in, her cunt slit slightly parted, as I knew it would be. Waiting to watch her being punished for her sins, the sin of sexuality. Some of the people murmuring. Then soft, teasing pain.

Not my slit. Not then. My inner thigh. Close to my slit, but not directly on its tenderness. Soft pain only. Gentle. Nothing that I could not bear. Then the other leg, still close to my slit, my cunt, the source of all things dark and tempting. Still gentle. I could take that kind of stroke directed at my mons. I wanted it. My cunt deserved it. I deserved it too.

He made me wait for that. He alternated, my right leg, then my left, then right again. Back and forth. I could not see him, or the crop, or know for certain when I would feel it smack against my skin, but the pause between each stroke was regular, the left thigh, right thigh, rhythm making it predictable, and so, even in the darkness of the mask across my eyes, I knew what to expect.

Soft and gentle becoming harsher, starting to sting. For whatever reason, the thought occurred to me that if I were caucasian, my inner thighs would now be reddening. With my own dark skin, perhaps it would not show. It was hurting now, but if I held my breath then I could deal with it. But if he used the crop as hard as that directly on my cunt, it could be painful.

And then he did. Without my being ready. After a longer pause. A single stroke, dead centre. Stinging. Enough to make me wince with pain, and to release a whimper. He paused again. Long enough for me not to know when, and I also did not know where, the next stinging pain would come. No rhythm. Just a wait, staring into the blackness of my mask. People still murmuring so close to me. Watching this.

Then another, landing just as precisely on my cunt. It hurt. One of the fronds had hit inside and stung the inner surface of my slit, The rest had landed on either side and on my unprotected mons. I writhed with the intensity of the pain, pulling against the wrist and ankle straps. The gasp that I gave out was real, involuntary. At least he was not doing it the way he had my legs. Not each stroke following the other so relentlessly. Except I now was waiting, tense and apprehensive throughout each pause, not knowing when the next would come. I willed myself not to gasp again next time. Then the stinging pain. I could not help myself. The little shriek I gave released itself without permission.

Just three so far. I could tell him that it was too hard, but in fact although each time the pain was sharp and stinging, that intensity of pain had lasted only for a brief moment, then subsided to something duller, not so sharp, and I could deal with that. If I could tolerate the initial stinging shock each time, then I would not need to tell him he should stop.

Then tingling tickles on my breasts. That had to be the leather fronds, played across them. Soft. Teasing. Enjoyable. Gently stroked back and forth from nipple stub to nipple stub, reminding me that those stubs were still throbbing, still gripped by the metal clamps. You can forget pain if another part of your body is yet more painful still. The three strokes at my cunt had made me forget those clamps. Now I remembered them again.

My right breast. The one the German had tortured earlier. Fronds landing on it, not traced across it. As if he had flicked the crop, but gently. He could do it harder. He should do it harder. That would feel so good. Make my nipple sting instead of throb. He could do that. Not that I would tell him. But he could. It would be good to feel my nipples come even more alive with pain like that.

Instead he just play flicked my left breast. Gently. Softly. Then the right again. Then left. Then right, but harder now. Alternating. Harsher strokes. I winced when one got my nipple stub. And again, when my other breast felt the same stinging pain. Yet it was exactly what I wanted. Punish them for all their badness. They deserve it too, just like my cunt. I wanted it. Even more, I wanted my husband to be proud of me, for taking it without complaint, without asking him to ease off or stop.

Oh, fuck! That hurt! That one was on my slit again. Stinging even more. I had not been ready for him to do that to me again, not there, and not as hard as that. It had me writhing, flinching with the pain. The word I really did not want to say almost reached my lips. 'No!' But another 'no' stopped me in time. Kept my lips tight closed. No, I would not concede that anything he did to me, when I had asked for this, was more than I could bear. Do not say it! Do not let it escape my lips!

Except, following the stinging pain of that last stroke that landed on my slit, there then was nothing. Not just a pause. Nothing. My breasts and pubis softly throbbing, warmed by leather. More murmuring. Steel's voice, amongst some others.

People were still there. Still watching this. They had seen this being done to me. I was now a scene for the audience spectating from so close to me. They had watched me wince and flinch and writhe and pull against the straps that held me there. I was their entertainment, their show, but not a performance, for all of this was real. Tomorrow, on the beach, around the complex, some of them might see me walking hand in hand with Steel, a married woman with her loving husband, and they would know that he had used his crop on me, and I would never know who or which of them had seen it happening.

Someone was moving at my side. Going behind me, right by my head. Their body brushed against my hair. Then pressed against my head. Hands palmed my breasts. Caressed my nipple stubs. Then fingering the clamps. Steel, my husband, I am almost certain. It has to be. Perhaps he would remove them now. I sense his fingers pulling gently on the clamps, testing them.

His head is right beside mine, and he whispers in my ear.

"Is it too much?" he asks me. "If it is, you can say."

I resist the urge to answer. The truth is that I would love for him to release those clamps, but I will not ask him to. I want him to know that I can bear this pain. But I cannot risk telling him that I can bear the clamps screwed tightly as they are, in case he might decide to test my tolerance of pain with another turning of the screws. So I say nothing in reply..

"Then it's time," he says, in response to my decision not to answer him. "Someone is going to fuck you."

His body pressed against the top of my head as his finger went again to the nipple clamps that were still causing painful throbbing of my stubs. I feel the hardness of his cock. I want it, but not pressed against my head. I want it in my cunt.

Except, he had said 'someone'.

My mind begins to race. Someone else had not been mentioned. I cannot think who that someone else could be. Had my husband arranged for someone else to be there? Or had he asked someone who had just watched him using the crop on me? Or had someone asked him? Was it the German woman's husband? Her slave? Who could it be?

Or was Steel playing mind games with me? Had he said that someone was going to fuck me, to see how I would react? To make me think that it was happening, when in fact it would be him? Would I know? Without seeing him, would I know if it was my husband, or someone else, just from the feel of someone entering me? Could I recognise his cock, just from how it felt inside me?

The one thing that I did not even for a moment think of doing was to say to Steel I did not want another person fucking me. It would have been so easy. I was strapped to the swing seat, and could not see because of the blindfold over my eyes, but I was not gagged. All I had to do was say the words.

"No. Not someone else. Only you!"

Except, I never even thought of doing that. I had let Steel strap me to the swing because I wanted to be free of making decisions, of responsibility for my fate. I would accept whatever he would chose to do. If this was his choice, then I would submit to it. If there really was another man, and my husband had agreed to let him fuck me, then my cunt would welcome this new cock just as if it was my husband's own.

So, I said nothing. I knew my silence was consent. More than consent. If my husband wanted this, then so did I. And I needed cock. My cunt was longing for it. If, instead of telling me, Steel had asked if I would mind a stranger fucking me, right then I think I would have said the one word, 'Please'. My cunt was ready. It had endured its punishment. Now it wanted its reward.

To my relief Steel first unscrewed the nipple clamps, removing them completely. I could sense the blood returning to my teats. I felt the relief. They still were throbbing, but they no longer had the pressure of those screws, and the release was so empowering.

Then I felt someone's hands, on my calves, stroking them. Not Steel's. He was still at my head. Someone else. A stranger. Caressing both my legs at once. My inner thighs. Down to my cunt, but not quite touching, then back to my knees. I had been touched before, but not by someone that I could not see. It could be anyone. And there was nothing I could do. Or wanted to.

I lay there, acquiescent, my back against the leather of the seat, my ankles and my wrists secured above me. I was allowing it, just by saying nothing. Because my body wanted it, I let it happen. It was not just Steel deciding for me. I was just as much to blame, except I no longer think of it as blame. After all, nothing harmful came of what was about happen.

The hands stop moving, not caressing, but resting at my inner thighs, on either side of my mons, so close my slit that I am longing for them to touch it. Which they do. They use both thumbs at once. Opening my slit. My cunt. They delve within. I know they have to be their thumbs because their fingers are now splayed on my belly. I can feel them deep inside me, pressing outwards, stretching my entrance. Then they are withdrawn, and the tips move to my clit. It feels so good.

I do not care that this is a stranger doing this to me. It is not just that there is nothing that I can do to stop them. Steel is allowing this. I trust him. So I melt into what is being done to me. I bathe in the sensations running through me now. No pain now. Just pleasure. My cunt is theirs to play with.

Steel moves. I no longer feel his cock against my head, the hardness within his trousers no longer pressed against me. I feel his head instead, beside my own, hear his soft whisper.

"If you don't want this, just shake your head a little. Whatever you decide is fine."

Always considerate. Almost always. Not with the nipple clamps, nor with the crop. But I had asked for that. Now he is offering me the choice. I do not want to choose. I wanted him to decide. I would rather leave it up to him. My slit, my cunt, is his now, as my husband. To keep sacred for himself, or to give to someone else. His choice. Not mine. But by asking, he has given back that choice to me.

I do not shake my head. I do not speak. To give no answer is to acquiesce. Silence, when you are free to speak, is submission. I am permitting this. I sense Steel straighten, feel him pressed against my head again, his cock still firm. Hands on my breasts. Palms on my nipples, fingers at the undersides. Steel's hands. Then something at my cunt.

A mouth. Lips touching me right there. A tongue, probing inside. Licking me out as if melted ice cream were in my cunt and the tongue is greedy to consume each drop of molten, flavoured goodness. It Delves as deep as any tongue can reach, The tongue tip is exploring every crevice. Then licking the length of my slit from just beneath, right to my clit, and wetly grazing that sweet nub. That feels so good.

I love this stranger's tongue, lapping at my cunt, teasing my clit, sending shuddering sensations rippling through me. Bringing me closer and closer. I know that I will orgasm. Just from their tongue. An unknown stranger is licking me all the way to heaven. I wanted this. I needed it so much. Just please keep licking me and tonguing me and make it happen. Please, do not stop for anything.

I shudder as I approached the moment when the tension will release. I begin to strain against the straps that held my hands and feet. Steel fucking me would have been wonderful, but a stranger licking out my cunt is just incredible. I know that my impending orgasm will be explosive when it comes.

Except, it stops. The licking, probing, tongue teasing, stop completely. My cunt is suddenly abandoned. It is exposed, vulnerable, on that swing seat, no tongue, no lips, no finger there. Just my husband standing at my head, his hands still grazing my now so sensitive nipple stubs. But my cunt is desolate,. It was so close and now it seems so far. I hear more murmuring of people, telling me that we are not alone.

At last, I feel a hand back on my leg. Not my husband's hand. It could not be his, not from where I know he is still standing. My left leg. Cupping round the outside, as if to hold me, not caress me. Then I feel the presence at my open slit, pressing within, stretching it wide, opening me yet more. I sensed the strength of it, the firmness, as it pushed its way within. This was what I longed for. Not a finger or a tongue, but firm, unyielding cock head, and so I will my vaginal muscles to give way, and welcome it. The relief and joy of having just that inch or so inside me is so intense I gasp.

Even strapped to the swing seat, as I am, I can still move my back and butt, and clenching my stomach, I raise my butt enough to meet the cock and take the head a little further in, conscious that my husband would see the movement, would know I want this. I panick momentarily, my heart now beating wildly, thinking that he might see this as betrayal. Not of wedding vows, but of our love.

The reassurance of his hands, still resting on my breasts, and the strumming of his thumbs across my nipple stubs, calms my fears. He permitted this, and he wants it. The cock head penetrates me even deeper. I am so wet, there is no resistance to its incursion. It slides on inside me all so easily, my vagina slick and greased and needing that solidity of hard male cock shaft filling it. Right at this moment, I am no one's wife, but just a woman, with a woman's need for this.

He takes his time, this stranger, this person that I do not know, but who I know is not my husband, easing his cock so deep that soon I feel the head pressing gently at my womb, just as my husband's cock would do.

But this is not my husband's cock, it is a stranger's, now so beautifully deep inside me, this invasive, alien cock the most amazing gift from God, who gave us sexual longings, who designed us so that we can give each other joy. A gift, too, from the one I love, my husband, now watching from behind me, who had engineered this moment, somehow arranged, invited, this unknown stranger to invade my womb, and take his satisfaction from within my body.

Thinking afterwards about the explosion that ensued, I realise that it stemmed from something deeper and less tangible than mere hard cock. Finally being penetrated, experiencing the invasive solidity of rigid flesh within my own, was of course amazing, and of course, those physical sensations were what caused the detonation, but the material that comprised the real explosive had been stored up in my head.

Dark thoughts of stranger sex, inseminated in my mind by my now husband, nourished by things that he had so often said, whispered in my ear, and fortified by my own erotic fantasies, had generated such a degree of unacknowledged, unfulfilled craving, that when I felt that cock take ownership of me, it triggered not just an orgasm like those that I had had before, but something far more powerful, a nuclear explosion, my clitoris and cunt the epicentre, but the shockwaves ravaging my torso, stomach, breasts and limbs, through my strapped tight wrists and ankles, right to my finger tips and toes.

It was shattering. The most cataclysmic orgasm of my life. Far from the most meaningful, but by far the most awesome, reverberating through my body, making me gasp for breath, so overwhelming that I could not even hear my own cries and screams with its intensity. Every muscle, every sinew, tore at the cuffs that held me willing prisoner.

I know that I wailed, and moaned, and groaned, not because I was conscious when I did so, but because Steel told me after the event. I know that it lasted long, ecstatic minutes, exhausting me, leaving me a limp rag, wasted. The intensity was awe inspiring, fearsome, yet somehow humbling. In that moment I had yielded up myself, my individuality, all that made me, me, and I was no more than woman.