“Did you bring them,” he asks, his voice a low whisper, his warm breath falls from my ear cooling enough when it alights on my neck to make me shiver. Or perhaps it’s not his breath at all that makes me quiver but rather the torturous anticipation of just what I imagine he’ll be doing to me in a few short moments.
“Yes, baby,” I say, hoping he can’t detect the slight falter between the two words that conveys my anxiety. His smirk tells me he’s missed nothing. Anyway, he’s certainly more than aware of the immense ambivalence I feel at the thought of being restrained by him. I crave it intensely and fear it in equal measure.
I rise, clad in a layer of diaphanous black fabric that pushes my breasts up and out and flows softly to the rounded bottom of my ass. I bend as I remove the Doorjam Cuffs from Babeland from my bag, giving him a view of my moistening cunt from his perch on the hotel bed with its rough sheets and ugly generic comforter. The Pinwheel, also sent by Babeland, is safe for the moment, nestled in the leather pouch that protects it and me from inadvertent damage. I turn back towards him, see that his eyes have turned from warm and sparkling to cool and determined as he contemplates having me at his mercy with a spiky steel instrument in his grip. I’ve tested the Pinwheel on myself, pressing as hard as I dared, making it hurt as the sharp unyielding spokes rolled over the soft skin of my arms and thighs, but never hard enough to come close to breaking my skin. I’m not sure if it can’t or if I simply don’t have the desire, the will to hurt myself in that way even simply as a test.
He rises from the bed and meets me. When his hands close over my thin wrists, the fine hairs on my arms bristle, alive with the electricity that flows between us; the air seems to hum with static. The restraints dangle from my tightly closed fingers making slight metallic sounds as the rings that hold the Velcro cuffs to the nylon webbing bang into each other. My heart seems to stop for a moment as he holds me immobile, staring into my eyes and conveying the delight he takes in his sadism and my somewhat reluctant acceptance of it. Turning toward the bathroom door, he surveys it briefly, then slides the webbing over the door and closes it.
“Do you think they’ll hold me,” I ask.
“Let’s just see about that,” he answers, as he grasps the cuffs and pulls hard. The restraints remain in place even when he lifts his bare feet from the industrial grey carpet they bear his entire weight.
“Your turn, bitch” he says.
Bitch. The way he says that. Slowly. Deliberately. Never rushing; his breath remaining on those last consonants so that they reverberate or perhaps it’s merely that they linger, echoing over and over only in my head.
Goosebumps rise on my skin as my back presses against the cold door.
“Lift your arms,” he commands, and he secures my wrists inside the Velcro bindings.
The bindings are tighter than I’d imagined; I’d been sure I could get myself free of these but even as I wiggle my hands inside the cuffs trying to get some slack, they remain firm. I try sliding them closer together so that maybe I can use one hand to free the other. He looks on, his smile widening as he too realizes I am really not going to get free of these. The plastic tubing that hangs over the inside of the door keeping the restraints in place is also preventing them from sliding too far, making it impossible without a lot more time and effort to get my hands close enough together to be of use.
“Enough, you bitch. Stay the fuck still. Now.” The chill in his voice settles me and suddenly his arm snakes out, palm open and for a moment the room is black and star filled as the impact against my cheek registers, synapses firing rapidly in my brain. It’s as if a direct line to my cunt has been tapped into. I get wetter, slicker, wanting this, wanting him and knowing he’s going to make me wait before he fills me in the way I desire makes me even more desperate.
I watch helplessly as he unsheathes the Pinwheel from its leather pouch and rolls it along his arm. I find myself fixated on the whiteness of his teeth as his lips slide smoothly over the bright enamel and his features settle in a wide smile at the thought of the sharp points of the wheel in the most delicate places he can find on my body.
It’s a sweet torture. Delicate. At least at first. He starts by letting the wheel slide gently along the hard line of jaw bone, from under my ear to my chin and back up to the other ear. I shudder with the sensation, the slight edge of fear at the possibility that he could simply press harder and mark my face makes my sex spasm and leaves me dripping. My thighs press tightly together to enhance the sensation in my pulsing clit and I squeeze so tightly that I think I can climax before he lets the wheel touch even my breasts.
“Open your mouth. Stick out your tongue,” he orders.
I shake my head. No. But I know I will. And after he slaps me again and again, I do. I open my mouth, my tongue warming and wetting my lower lip, and he places the wheel there, rolling it over and over, pressing harder each time as the taste of steel suddenly on my tongue. I swallow hard when he takes it away, the metallic tang settling against the back of my throat.
Rough fingers push the top of my lingerie down and my breasts spill out. Gentle, long strokes along their sinuous curves leave me sighing. Harsh, short slashes over my nipples make me gasp as my nipples tighten and pucker in response. He forces my thighs apart running the pointed spokes up the inside of my thighs and I tremble, increasing his sadistic glee, as he nears the swollen lips of my sex. I hear a sharp inhalation and realize it’s me, and I hold that breath, afraid to exhale as the wheel connects briefly with my rigid clit.
He keeps it there, pressing harder, then easing up, then gently again until I am screaming, bucking, coming. My back arching away from the bathroom door so that only ass and shoulder blades are in contact with the smooth, cool surface. Finally, my body goes slack. Were it not for the restraints straining against my wrists, supporting my sagging body, I’d have fallen to the ground.
He stands back, his erection raging as he takes it in his hand and slides his fist back and forth along the throbbing, purple surface. It doesn’t take long before long white ropey strands of fluid spurt forth, covering my neck, my bare breasts and soiling the sheer fabric that floats over my torso. He stands still for long moments, panting as he takes in the sight of me covered in the corporeal evidence of his lust. Then he picks up the pinwheel from the tiny kitchenette’s counter top where it was hastily discarded and begins to walk towards the bed.
“Where are you going, baby? What are you doing? Let me loose,” I say.
He stops and looks back at me over his shoulder, his smile widening, “I think I’d like to have you tied up just like that for a little longer, bitch.”
The metallic sound of the pinwheel hitting the bedside table seems louder than it should be and I wonder how long it will be before its sharp bite makes me quiver again.
