Placing a slim dildo in her ass that was covered with a blissfully heated balm, he’d then slid a vibrator in her pussy with a clit attachment. Since that part of her had been achingly empty throughout their first session, it sucked on the vibrator greedily, earning a fervent expletive from him she treasured for the fascinated expression of male lust it was. As he changed the settings on that vibrator, he commanded her to clench her ass rhythmically over the dildo, working out those muscles, until she came again.
Next she was on her back. He strapped her to a table, buckled her calves in stirrups that kept her legs upright at a ninety-degree angle, increasing her sense of vulnerability. Her hands and waist were cuffed to the table, and then he positioned a thick dildo in her pussy. One that was connected to a fucking machine. She heard the muted whir of it as he started it. The dildo had a clit piece that hit her there with each slow thrust and retreat. That wasn’t enough, however.
He fitted electrode pads on her areolas, holes to allow room for her nipples, and then those pads unpredictably sent low-voltage stimulus to them as the fucking machine did its thing. “I have some email to check,” he’d said, as he teasingly brushed her lips stretched around the phallus gag. “I’m going to sit over there and answer it, rub my cock and enjoy watching my toy being fucked.”
He had a remote control for both electric devices, a convenient addition provided by Jon, she was sure, since he was their mechanical genius. The electrodes were activated at unpredictable moments, and the fucking machine increased or decreased its rate without any rhyme or reason. It didn’t matter. By the end, she was writhing and screaming at every level of stimulus. Then he let the machine pump into her like a jack hammer, and she came and came and came.
After that, he decided they both needed a late-night meal. He put her on all fours on his dining room table, with the mask still in place, but he removed the gag. He used a rope suspension system to bind her above and below her breasts, at the waist and curve of her hip.
“Not only for support,” he told her. “I want you displayed the way I’d do it if I was entertaining business associates and wanted you as the centerpiece. I’d put the serving dishes around your knees and hands, let them decorate you if they’d like. Eat the food off your body.”
As he told her that, he attached an additional hook to the crown of the hood mask. A tether attached to it tightened, forcing her head to be held up. She couldn’t stop making noises at all now, so the guttural moan as he inserted the steel bulb of an anal hook into her rectum was just par for the course. He fastened a line to the eye hole of the anal hook and to the two lines that crossed her shoulder blades from the breast bondage. When he drew all of it taut from a ceiling hook, her head, shoulders and ass were held up at pert angles from the diabolical joining point.
He fed her then, a creamy soup with lots of protein, had her drink more fluids. Then he worked his fingers into her cunt, telling her to squeeze down on the steel bulb, and turned her into a screaming, mindless slut once more.
She lost track of how many hours, days, millennia passed as he was catapulting her into an alternative universe. He’d messed with her reality, her sense of time, spatial relationships. The only fixed point, the only anchor, was him.
Since time had no meaning, she measured it by climaxes, and of course eventually her mind even stumbled over that—was it fifth, seventh…tenth? They became increasingly more intense, rigid like an implosion, because her body had no energy to handle a more externally demonstrative response. It didn’t matter. She was responding to his demands now, not her brain’s limitations.
Now he had her kneeling on the floor, her body curled, her head pressed to the carpet between his feet, like the Child’s Pose in yoga…or a position of utter subjugation before a Master. He’d kept her that way for a while. She smelled whiskey, knew he’d poured himself a glass and must be sitting in a comfortable chair before her, just watching her. She was shaking. She’d of course been shaking intermittently since the beginning, but somewhere during the past hour or so, it had become continuous. Her throat was hoarse, so screams were now weak gasps, making those hard climaxes even more potent, all the energy focused between her exhausted legs.
“All right then.” He’d taken out the ear plugs after dinner, so she heard the glass being set on the side table. “Up on your heels, arms out to your sides.”
She tried, and found her arms were noodles. She was losing motor control. Shouldn’t that alarm her?
“Permission to speak, sir.” She had to clear her voice, and it still came out a rough squeak.
“You have it.”
“I can’t lift them. I’m sorry. I’m trying.”
“All right.” Gripping her wrist, he drew her arm out to her side to cuff it to cool steel. The bar was laid over her shoulders, attached to her collar with a clip, and he lifted the other wrist, attached it to the other side of the spreader bar. He moved behind her then, and she heard a drawer opening and closing. She’d figured out that he kept a fairly well-stocked BDSM dungeon in this home, probably next to the room that held the massage cot.
She’d tried not to think why he had equipment here, because of
