He bent down, seemed to fiddle with something on the floor. There was a buzzing and a purple light.
“This is a violet wand. So called because it’s a glass wand, and it glows violet. It’s pretty, isn’t it? What it is, actually, is a Tesla coil. It throws out several hundred thousand volts, which I’m going to pass through your body. It will give you sensations that you’ll react to, and I shall find those reactions very stimulating… By the way, did I mention I’m going to fuck you hard later on? No? Well, it’s what happens when I get stimulated by screaming tied-up women.”
Women, plural, Hannah noticed. There was no reason not to take that at face value. Were they a couple, Erik and Rapture? If so, what did that mean exactly in their world?
He looked into her eyes.
“Am I scaring you yet?”
“Nngk.” With the gag, it was the best she could do. Was she supposed to be scared?
“Nnnnnngk!” Sparks flew from wand to nipple. There was a concentrated, powerful feeling of many tiny superheated biting insects crawling over her skin. Crawling inside her skin. Seeing the sparks, associating them with electrical equipment gone wrong, did freaky things to Hannah’s head.
“NNNGK!” Erik played the role of grinning psychopathic sadist to perfection. The biting, burning sensation flowed slowly from nipple to ribs, to Hannah’s spine, and it moved down the vertebrae one by one.
The electricity was... Hannah started laughing through the gag because the word that came to her mind was “shocking.” It was unnerving and excruciating, but it wasn’t painful in the same way as, say, she imagined a whip might be. It was more like someone tickling her with the points of hot needles. Tickling to a point of intensity that became impossible to bear. She bounced and twisted in the ropes, trying to escape the sparks. Of course it was impossible. Erik wanted her to suffer. She suffered. Perspiration trickled down her ribs. She wasn’t aware of making noise; the primary sounds she heard were the buzz of the wand, the crackle of sparks bouncing off her skin, and Erik’s chuckles. But somewhere in the background were muffled shrieks and she could be the only person making them.
The air smelled of sweat, sex and ozone.
She knew where this would end. It was obvious, and she didn’t know how she’d cope, just that somehow she’d have to rely on her body to do so.
When he applied the wand directly to her clit, it wouldn’t have felt more menacing if he’d used a lit cigarette lighter. The flash-and-crackle sparkiness of it was acutely agonising. Nerve-endings became fuse-wires, fizzing all the way up her body. What happened next was incomprehensible to Hannah. Somehow the agony became exquisite, became a rapid vibration that cleared her mind of every thought except one: the need to cum and the anticipation that it would happen in a matter of seconds.
Three seconds, apparently. So Erik told her, later. She was so lost in the cumming itself, saturating and overpowering her, that it felt like it went on for hours. Days, for all she knew. Wave after wave of intense, visceral pleasure, in slow-motion.
She woke with a start. The world somehow wasn’t the right way up, but it turned out that was because she was lying in a foetal position on a thin mattress on the floor. The gag had gone, but when she tried to move, she discovered the ropes were still on her wrists, securing them now to the base of the scaffolding. It crossed her mind that he might have decided to keep her here as his sex slave. For a couple of days, a week, a month, forever?
She coughed, and the noise was enough to bring Erik into the room. He didn’t even speak; just used his foot against her hip to roll her onto her back, and then to push against her knee to spread her legs.
“Where…? What…? How long…?” Hannah felt detached, disconnected from her body. Muscles ached in unfamiliar ways and didn’t work the way they normally did.
“Well, you’re evidently capable of multiple orgasms. You were cumming for a good long time, maybe fifteen minutes. In the end you collapsed, so I took you down. You’ve been sleeping peacefully for about half an hour. And the reason I left you tied is because I did promise you a good hard fuck, which is what I’m going to do now.”
Hannah wondered if her body would co-operate. Hadn’t she already been stimulated to exhaustion? Overstimulated, in fact, to the point of repeated orgasm? And by bondage and pain, at that?
Erik’s unforgiving fingers, moving warm and snakelike around and then into her pussy, caused a reaction little short of nuclear. Hannah knew her body was betraying her. She felt wet. Creamy. Sleazy. Despite everything, her body wanted this, and if her mind was running in slow-motion, jazzed and disordered from the violet wand, that wasn’t her body’s problem.
She gave her body permission to do what it liked, but it was already doing that anyway. Her cunt was drooling in anticipation. All she could do consciously was relax and trust in the moment. She felt the brief, feather-light touch of the bulb at the end of a condom across her clit. Opened up to accommodate his girth, length and vitality. Felt his weight behind it, forcing the end of his cock against her cervix while his public bone mashed her clit. Erik’s thighs and hips smacked repeatedly into hers, and the thin mattress did nothing to protect her ass from the floorboards. She’d be bruised to hell but it didn’t matter. And the sparks and flickers in front of her eyes didn’t come from the violet wand, but from her own violent, sexual euphoria.
Chapter 3
♦♦♦♦
Reason and rationality had deserted her. Hannah felt drunk, in danger of losing her balance. Sudden pangs of sexual need sliced through her body with the intensity of a sword. A sword like the one she’d seen at Erik’s house. The needs of her body were strong and couldn’t be ignored.
At the same time, it felt like someone had turned up the exposure, the contrast, the saturation, the temperature not just on her, but on her whole life. And that felt like she was sharper, more defined, more focused.
It was a strange mix, but one that Hannah found gave her a voracious taste for life.
Here’s how it had gone: Erik’s proposition to her had been nothing less than a rite of passage. Hannah knew about rites of passage. She was, after all, trained in anthropology. She could name cultural and ethnic groups where young men were expected to whip themselves on the back, to self-flagellate, to prove they were worthy of adulthood. She’d been to conferences, participated in discussions of Freud’s theories on sexual initiation rites, his description of marriage ceremonies in which the bridegroom’s friends and companions were all expected to fuck the bride after the wedding. She’d read about pagans, specifically Wiccans, engaging in the “Great Rite” of sex magick. She knew about the dark side of ritual, the gang cultures that echoed stories about Hell’s Angels and even quasi-religious cults where young women were “sexed in” to gang membership. And she even knew that the origin of the word “pornography” lay in the ancient Greek term for something (or somebody) purchased or owned. It amused her that she worked for a company that bought and sold other companies. She could say that her role was to advise her bosses on their porn.
Her anthropology told her rituals and rites of passage were hugely important. She knew they had sexual power. And now she seemed to be going through a rite of passage herself.
Her hand went to her throat, fingering the collar. It was a thin strip of stainless steel with no adornments apart from the thumbnail-sized padlock.
“I want you,” he’d said, “to wear this. The lock isn’t strong — any bolt-cutter will get it off instantly. But you won’t have a key. If you want me to remove it, you’ll meet me at a time and place of my choosing, in a week’s time. I’ll take it off you then, but before I do so I shall expect you to undergo… shall we call it an initiation ritual?”
He’d said this so casually that, alert to the hidden meanings of things, she was instantly attentive. Initiation into what, precisely, she’d enquired. He’d shrugged. “Let’s just say it’s an initiation into yo
ur newly discovered self.”
Who else had undergone such a rite, she wanted to know. Well, Rapture had, for one. She’d arrived back in the room, unseen by Hannah, in the last stages of her orgasm. She’d walked through to the kitchen, made herself a mug of tea and settled down to watch. “Erik’s good at what he does,” she observed, a smile playing across her lips. “It’ll be a blast.”
“And what does he do, exactly?”
Rapture shrugged. “You mean, apart from play bass, make videos and fail to run an arts café? He does a whole bunch of stuff. But one thing he does extremely well is create situations that put people in an altered state. That give them, perhaps, access to the creative, intuitive stuff inside them they normally repress.”
At work, the collar attracted glances but no comments. It was discreet enough to be a slightly eccentric form of costume jewellery. The men, when they stopped thinking about money, about their particular kind of porn, were more interested in the depth of her cleavage and shortness of her skirt than in what she wore around her neck.
Hannah found the collar changed her. She carried herself more like a model, walking from the hips. She didn’t censor the dark side of her humour so much, and found herself speaking more incisively, more directly, not wasting words. One of the other women, the one who’d started the rumour about her affair with her boss, saw it as proof of her claim. Her boss, she heard the following day, had begun to wonder if she’d started an affair with someone else, maybe someone waiting to take his job. No one asked her about it openly. She neither confirmed nor denied. Her work colleagues’ sexual fantasies were not her concern.
At night, at home, her own sexual fantasies dominated her. She stripped when she walked through the front door, walked around her apartment naked — apart from the collar and her leather cuffs. She played games with herself, seeing how long she could bear to kneel on the floor rather than sit on the sofa, practicing crawling panther-like on the floor and envisioning a lead attached to the collar. For the first time, she used her own e-reader to explore erotica. And read. And masturbate.
Also, she didn’t miss smoking — though sometimes it felt to her as if she might burst into flames at any moment.
In the evenings, Hannah’s mind increasingly focused on the “initiation rite” and what it might involve — despite the fact it was primarily an initiation into, as Rapture had said, her own newly creative self. Sensuous and yet brutal images passed through her mind, driving her into almost hypnotic bouts of vibrator use.
The ideas were amplified by a series of teasing texts and emails from Erik. Well, maybe not from Erik. She couldn’t really know, could she? He might be passing on suggestions from Rapture, or anyone really. The idea that she’d be following the orders of complete strangers, whether or not it was true or not, fired her up and made her thigh muscles tense with anticipation. And, interestingly, Erik probed Hannah’s own ideas. She had the feeling that what she was going to get would be a tailor-made experience based on the mental images that made her hot.
She told him about the flagellation, about Freud, about the “Great Rite”. And she understood that what she was about to undergo was, in a sense, her own private pornography, paid for not in money but with her body itself.
It started back at the old café. That was Hannah’s choice. Because, although her life-changing journey had begun at the hypnotherapist’s, and then buying the cuffs in the charity shop, it was only at the café the whole thing had come together in her head.
At five to nine in the evening, she arrived at the door. The place had a “to let” sign outside, and looked cold and unloved. There was an envelope taped next to the letter box. She ripped it open, examined the contents. A blindfold, and a note: “Put it on now”.
She slipped it over her eyes and was instantly more aware of — well, of everything. Of the fact she’d shaved her legs and pussy; of the scent of the bath salts she’d used earlier that evening. Of the way the silk lining of her knee-length coat fell across her ass and thighs, caressing them, because she’d decided a skirt would be an impediment to what she imagined, in fact hoped, would happen to her. Instead she wore a thong and a corset she’d acquired months previously, on impulse, but never worn because there’d never been an occasion to wear it.
She was acutely aware that bright red, strappy open-toed stilettos with five-inch heels were not the best shoes for walking on an uneven surface if she couldn’t see where she was going.
Most of all, she was intensely aware of being blindfolded and vulnerable in a public place. It wasn’t a busy pedestrian street at this time of night, though a steady steam of vehicles passed by, wheels hissing on damp tarmac. But if a stranger did come across her, he — Hannah imagined it would be male — could take advantage of her with impunity.
Someone must be watching over her, she thought. Erik knew what time she’d be outside the café. He wouldn’t risk leaving her in this state, in public. Would he? Time stretched out, crawled, coalesced into a single eternity. She could have been there ten minutes or ten hours. Her breaths had become shallow and rapid. She became disorientated, felt for the reassurance of the doorframe and leaned against it in order to stay upright. As she moved Hannah became conscious of tiny spasms low in her belly, of blood pumping in her clit in time with her heartbeat. The situation was turning, had turned, her erotic anticipation level up to max.
She didn’t hear them approach. There must have been two of them, at least. Suddenly her arms were pinned behind her back while someone else began to unbutton her coat. They didn’t say a word. Night air spilled inside her coat, tendrils of cool air against her hips and thighs. Fingers trailed up her body, nails giving just the hint of a scratch, the kind of pressure that left a delicious tingle when applied between her legs through the thin material of her thong. They reached her shoulders and pushed gently, lifting the coat away from her flesh. Hannah gulped a breath, understanding what was happening only as the coat slid away from her.
She imagined them stripping her naked. In the street. Caught in the headlights of passing cars. The rush of danger, of exposure, drilled through her. Every square inch of Hannah’s skin suddenly became unbearably sensitive. Her legs trembled uncontrollably. She yelped, a reflex to the shock, and it came out like the mewling of a kitten.
They didn’t strip her. She felt cold metal secure her wrists behind her back, felt the pressure and click at her throat as a leash attached to her collar. The pull on the leash indicated she should walk while a hand gripping her right arm steadied her.
She didn’t know how far they went. It was probably no more that twenty yards, just into a side street. It felt like twenty miles. When they stopped, a hand gripped Hannah’s hair and pulled down, bending her forward at the waist. She opened her mouth reflexively, assuming a cock would be waiting; but a sideways thrust on her hip sent her sprawling. She landed half-sitting on…. She worked it out: it was the back seat of a car. Someone pulled her legs in and carefully slotted the safety belt into place as the car door thunked closed. She heard activity around her, felt someone else climb in on the other side of her. Was forced back into the seat as the car accelerated. Thrown side-to-side as the car turned or changed lanes, back and forth as it accelerated or braked, she had no idea where they were and even less where they were headed. Every time she’d asked where the “initiation” was to take place, Erik had changed the subject.
She’d assumed she’d be manhandled, mistreated and probably forced to fellate the men during the journey. Not so. Instead, apart from a ballgag thrust roughly into her mouth and buckled with a now-familiar tightness behind her neck, she was left to stew in her own juices. Literally. Her cunt was drenched and she was sure the moisture would turn to steam at any moment.
The car had stopped a number of times, presumably at junctions and traffic lights. So it was a surprise when someone opened the door and reached in for her, pulling her from the seat. The others in the car
hadn’t moved. She stood uncertainly, semi-nude, still blindfolded, cuffed and gagged, somewhere that seemed to have a lot of noise in the background. A bar? A party? From what she was hearing, it just wasn’t possible to work out what was going on.
The leash again. She followed hesitantly, sensing rather than feeling the gaze of others. Wrinkled her nose at the smell of cigarette smoke, and felt a pang of regret she’d given up. Then remembered that was the trigger for this whole experience.
She must have been brought inside a building. It was warmer, the acoustics told her there were walls to either side, the floor was carpet rather than stone or concrete. Music played.
The whole experience of being dragged into some public space in this condition, reinforcing her captivity, was surreal. Exotic. Intimidating. And strangely thrilling.
Then she was blinking in what was to her, after the blindfold, the fierce spotlighting of…what, exactly? What was this place?
“Welcome to your initiation,” Erik purred in her ear. Hannah relaxed immediately at the voice.
“This place is normally a swingers’ club, but a couple of times a month it becomes a fetish event. Normally they require a membership fee but I told them you were the entertainment. I thought it would be a suitable baptism of fire.”
Hannah couldn’t respond vocally due to the gag. She could only respond with raised eyebrows and wide eyes. What the hell had he planned?
Actually, she figured she knew. That was why a bullwhip lay coiled on the table beside her.
Rapture was here. “You’re going to love this. You’ll be a star,” she said.
She looked over at Erik.
Naked Delirium Page 17
