Lesbian BDSM Mega Bundle

by Ella Ford

  And then her struggles ceased. For the fourth time that night, I felt her body relax against me. Her arms went limp and fell to my bottom, palms resting on the base of my spine. Her head slumped forward onto my shoulder, releasing the tension in the rope between our necks. She sobbed, a single, pathetic sniff and low moan.

  I wished, not for the first time that night, that I could see the girl. I wished I could add the dimension of visual detail to what I already knew about her. But the satin blindfold around my head was expertly placed and allowed no hint of the girl that I had been bound to. Instead, I concentrated on my other senses: the sense of her heartbeat, felt as a fast hammer in her chest; the smell of her hair, clean and alive, a mix of perfume and sweat; the soft warmth of her skin as it slid against me; the touch of my fingertips on her bottom; the feeling of her breath on my neck and her low sobs, warm wetness that occasionally spilled onto my back as it rolled off her cheeks.

  I wondered who she was, how she had found herself in this strange situation. Was she a student of The Artist, a naive devotee, desperate to be a part of the enigmatic woman’s latest creation? Was she a whore, plucked from the street with the promise of a warm bed and generous payment? Was she a curious house wife, lured into this world with the expectation of fantasies fulfilled, her long-held desire to be dominated and used crystallized into solidity in this intense entrapment?

  I suspected that The Artist found her models in all of these places and many more, probably never short of muses to inspire her sensual works. I knew this because I was such a muse, a voluntary captive with my own story of surrender and submission.

  “Kiss for me.”

  The sudden voice sprang out of nowhere, revealing detail about the room in which the girl and I knelt together through the empty echo of The Artist’s exotic accent.

  “No,” breathed the girl, a final act of defiance that I knew The Artist would find most agreeable. But there was no fire in the girl’s voice, no real resistance. I wondered if her implied acceptance was born of futility or capitulation. A voluntary or involuntary surrender. But most of all, I wondered how the girl tasted.

  “Kiss for me,” the voice repeated, more forceful this time, deep with a sultry command that was difficult to resist, heavy with an implied threat.

  I pulled my head back, urging the girl off my shoulder. With slow reluctance, she lifted herself up to meet me, pulling the short length of rope between us tight. We paused as though studying each other despite the blindfolds that prevented us from doing so. It was almost a muscle memory reaction, a gathering of sensual energy, a prolonging of the moment to an exquisite length. Then I leaned forward, cocking my head to the right and slowly probing outwards with the tip of my tongue. Our lips met and we both sighed as an electric sensation passed between us. For the briefest second, we both pulled back, a symmetric reaction that spoke of the shared energy that surprised us alike. But we quickly came together again, lips charged with hours of sensual build up sliding together in a frantic clash of wet flesh.

  I felt a flush of warmth in my chest and a corresponding radiation from the girl’s body. Her limp hands sprang to life behind my back and she instinctively griped the soft flesh of my bottom, kneading my ass as her mouth worked against my mouth. Our nipples brushed together with maddening friction, inciting hot flashes of desire throughout my body, urging me to explore her with renewed vigor. I pressed forward with my tongue, flicking it over her lips, tasting the sticky sweetness of her lip gloss and salty tang of her skin. She parted her mouth, unconsciously allowing me the access I demanded. Her own tongue darted out to meet me, and the wet pair danced together in the air between us. My naked pussy burned with sudden desire, attention drawn to the hours of cultivated tension in my body, hot tendrils of pleasure whipping out from my sex and igniting my body.

  I felt myself come alive, aching muscles springing into life with renewed purpose. Unconsciously, I began to slowly undulate my hips against the girl’s body, longing to grind my aching pussy against her, but afforded little movement by the ropes that bound us together. I felt a growing frustration, fueled by the kiss and the incessant throb between my legs, and began to tug at the ropes, pulling on the long rope around our waists and the shorter ties that held our thighs in perfect symmetry.

  As The Artist had tied these lengths of rope around our bodies, locking us in this captive pose, the diorama she was creating had seemed sensual, exotic, the perfect rendering of the female form in frozen helplessness. It was thrilling to be a part of her work, to be an essential component of this hot pair. But now, as the waves of hungry longing energized my body, the ropes that locked us in frozen unfulfillment were hateful manacles, preventing me from achieving what I wanted so very badly.

  As my own frustration rose, I sensed the girl mirror my suffering. She paused in the kiss, lingering on my mouth, warm breath mingling with mine in short, sharp pants. Then she began to shake violently, tugging at the ropes with surprising force, sobbing quietly. I felt her hips grinding against mine, futile attempts to achieve release. I felt her hands grab my ass, sharp nails digging into my soft flesh. Her head fell to my neck and she began to kiss and bite me there, sucking and licking with animalistic energy. I threw my head back granting her the freedom of my neck, trying to summon the familiar feeling of climax with this mild provocation alone, but knowing that it was yet distant and vague.

  But most of all, I knew that this torture of unrealized satisfaction would continue for many hours yet. Because The Artist wanted it to, because that was her intent. She created moments in time, frozen with rope and tight bindings, hot bodies on a plateau of pleasure, unable to reach the summit they craved. Her work was sordid and cruel, but also haunting and beautiful, a sensual depiction of that which we long for the most. It was what drew me to her in the first place, what caused me to fall into her sinful web.

  The strange girl who writhed and squirmed against me perhaps didn’t yet realize what I knew only too well. There would be no release yet, no scratching of this most pleasurable itch. Climax would only arrive when The Artist deemed her work complete, when she issued that final command: “Come for me.”

  And so she struggled again, trying in vain to find purchase on my body, to thwart the bindings and find her way to that remote summit. I tried to ignore the slick friction of her perspiration-wet skin, the feeling of her breath on my neck, the insistent touch of her steel-hard nipples. Instead, I tried to remember, to relive the strange journey I’d taken in the last few days. How had I come to this place, how had I found myself a living sculpture for the woman I knew only as The Artist?

  Chapter 1: The Exhibition

  “I don’t like this Sam,” I said, peering out of the taxi window at the darkened streets beyond. The car crept along through the deserted back-alley, creeping around rough, rain-filled potholes and discarded cardboard boxes.

  “Oh, hush you,” said my best friend. She leaned forward in the seat, gripping the driver and passenger seat and straining to discern something that only she could see. “It’ll be totally worth it.”

  “I’m not even sure what ‘it’ is,” I said doubtfully. We were supposed to be grabbing dinner then going to a bar, a much needed night out for two friends who had seldom seen each other in the six months since we’d graduated from college. We’d both got caught up in our new lives in the city, finding new friends in our jobs, new activities to occupy the time we would have spent crawling around student bars, drinking and hunting for cute boys to lure back to our dorm rooms. “Can’t we just get something to eat?” I said imploringly.

  “Five more minutes, I promise,” she replied, tapping the driver on the shoulder and pointing out a right turn that looked somehow more sketchy than the already deeply worrying road we were currently following.

  “It’s your dime lady,” said the taxi driver with a nervous nonchalance that suggested driving two hot girls around the seedy parts of town without really knowing where they wanted to go wasn’t something that happened t
o him with surprising regularity. I glanced up and noticed the grizzled cabbie peering at me in the rearview mirror, eyes crawling over the exposed expanse of creamy flesh on my exposed chest. I sighed and cursed myself for not wearing a bigger coat.

  “There! There!” said Sam, pointing excitedly at a nondescript warehouse ahead of us. I followed her gaze, and was unsurprised to see that the building she was pointing at was utterly unremarkable, just another ramshackle structure that had seen better days and now seemed like the perfect starter home for a family of rats or an up-and-coming crack addict. I sighed.

  “You sure honey?” said the driver skeptically, glancing around at the deserted rain-washed street. “Looks kinda lonely out here? You want me to wait?”

  Sam shook her head and pulled her coat around herself. “That’s fine,” she said, grabbing her purse, “this is definitely it.”

  She fished around in her black clutch then handed the driver a folded note. Then she turned and opened the door, twisting her body to swing her feet out onto the wet street.

  “Sam, wait…” I started, hoping to talk her out of this madness, but it was too late. I sighed again, then opened my door and stepped out to join her.

  With a low growl, the taxi sprang forward, exuding a disquieting sense that it really didn’t want to be out there in the rain. I watched with slightly envious eyes as the rain-blurred taillights rounded the corner onto the main road and disappeared from view, then I sighed and turned to the warehouse building.

  “Remind me what it is we’re here for,” I said with a shiver. It was cold and the constant drizzle was messing my hair and making me regret my decision to wear a tight, black mini-dress and no pantyhose.

  “I told you Lisa, it’s an art exhibition,” she said. “Everyone at work is talking about it, but no-one really says what it is. Even my boss Rachel has seen it, and she hates everything. ‘You simply have to see it for yourself dear, it’s life-changing’ was how that fat sow put it.”

  Samantha worked at as a trainee journalist at an alternative lifestyle magazine, and in the months since she’d taken the job, she’d jumped on more bandwagons and fad diets than I’d had hot dinners. Paleo, reiki, acupuncture, ASMR. If it had a convincing YouTube advocate, Samantha was able to get behind it. So it didn’t surprise me one bit that she’d be lured out into the rough part of town with the promise of a life-changing art exhibition. I just wondered why I always got dragged along on her hair-brained schemes.

  I sighed. “Should we go in or are we going to stand out here all night?” I asked impatiently.

  “Uh, sure,” she replied, snapping out of the transfixed stupor that she appeared to be in.

  We both hurried across the alley to the warehouse, heading for a heavy metal door in the chipped and faded facade. Our high heeled shoes clicked on the cracked asphalt, echoing around the deserted alleyway menacingly. There seemed to be no life at all in the warehouse, no hint that it was occupied by anything other than rodents and cockroaches. We stopped beside the door and looked at each other, both looking for familiarity in this strange, empty place.

  “Oh, hell,” I said, shaking my head, “I’ll do it!”

  I stepped forward and bunched my fist, then pounded on the heavy green steel door three times. There was a sonorous clang that bounced off the imposing walls of the alleyway and the countless dilapidated fire escapes that clung to the rears of the ancient buildings. And then, silence.

  I looked at Samantha, studying her face. She was light blonde with a fair complexion and sparkling green eyes. With my raven dark features and high cheekbones, we made a pleasingly complementary pair, a super power that we’d used to devastating effect in the campus bar scene back at college. But tonight her usually intimidating presence seemed diminished and nervous, eyes wide with wonder and uncertainty. It was sometimes easy to forget that Sam’s usual confident self-assurance was born out of a childhood of gawky awkwardness. Chubby and shy, she’d stumbled through an adolescence that was plagued with low level bullying and abuse, only to emerge in her college years as a resplendent and sensual butterfly, full of confidence and presence. But sometimes, that scared little girl rose to the fore. Now was one of those times.

  I gave it a few more seconds, then raised my fist once more. “I’ll try again, and then we’re outta here,” I said, taking control of the situation in a way that I should have when Sam suggested this little detour back at my apartment.

  I was just about to strike the door again when there was a sudden clang, a mechanical clunk as an industrial lock was turned. Sam and I both gasped and stepped back, looking at each other as we processed our mutual “fight or flight” instincts. We held our nerve and stayed in place, reaching down and gripping our flimsy purses, a futile defence against whatever awaited us on the other side of the metal door.

  The mechanism clunked three more times, then the imposing entrance swung open, creaking with a rusty metallic groan.

  Standing inside the door, with head cocked to one side and hands on thin hips, stood a girl. Barely eighteen, the girl was gaunt and pale with dark, exaggerated makeup that accentuated the sockets of her eyes in a perplexing way. Her hair was dyed purple and held in two high bunches that sprayed frizzy fountains of color from the sides of her head. She wore a dull white t-shirt and leather suspenders, high denim shorts with ripped fishnet pantyhose and heavy combat boots.

  The girl narrowed her eyes and blew a quick bubble with her chewing gum, making an intimidating snapping sound in the oppressive silence between us.

  “Yeah?” she said, the single word revealing far more about her rough-cut accent than any firm knowledge about her upbringing.

  I blinked, hoping that Sam would say something. After an eternity of seconds, my friend spoke. “I, uh, we’re here for the exhibition,” she breathed, her voice trembling.

  The girl looked us up and down, her eyes roaming up the length of our bare legs and lingering on the rise of our breasts, flicking between Sam and myself with barely concealed contempt. Then she fell back into the dim light beyond the door, stepping aside and making an exaggerated gesture with her hand. I wondered what kind of art gallery would hire this dishevelled waif as a member of staff, then cursed myself for my rustic naivete. This place was clearly no Louvre!

  “Down the corridor,” the girl said with a disinterested grunt as we stepped into the building, then she returned to a tall bar stool in the corner, seemingly oblivious to our continued presence.

  I flashed a glance at Sam and she returned my gaze, communicating in an unspoken language of mutual understanding.

  Not too late to back out babe, my look said.

  Five minutes, that’s all, she returned.

  We set off down the corridor that the girl had motioned towards, stepping gingerly into the dimly lit passageway, heading for a thick, purple velvet curtain at the far end.

  “Lisa, I’ve got a confession to make,” said Sam as we wandered through the building.

  Oh hell, I thought, here we go.

  She didn’t wait for me to say anything. “I do know something about the exhibition. I just didn’t tell you because I know how you feel about… well, stuff.”

  I stopped and grabbed her arm, spinning her around on the spot. “What do you mean Sam?” I asked sternly, suddenly mad at her for lying to me.

  She pursed her lips to the side and glanced beyond me. “Well, here’s the thing. The exhibition is a little, um, unconventional.”

  “Like avant garde or something?” I said, wishing she would get to the point.

  “Sure, kinda.” She paused and shuffled on the spot. “Here’s the thing… The artist, she… well, she uses unconventional materials.”

  I wondered what on earth she could possibly mean. I looked at her and raised my eyebrows expectantly.

  Sam glanced to the side, then down at the floor. She looked nervous and shamed. “Girls,” she said and the word hung between us. “She uses girls in her sculptures!”

  I blinked, unsure what
she could possibly mean. Did the artist make statues of female nudes? That didn’t seem so shocking.

  As I was contemplating Sam’s strange confession, the velvet curtain ahead of us swept aside and the brighter light of the room beyond spilled out into the corridor. A silhouetted figure stood in the doorway, holding the thick curtain back and peering at us with a slender arm posed on her hip expectantly.

  “Ah, more visitors,” she purred. Her accent was foreign, of that I was certain, but I couldn’t place the origin. Her voice was low and dusky, words stretched out with dramatic effect, a velvety drawl that sounded commanding and sensual.

  She stepped forward, allowing the velvet curtain to flap closed behind her before I could catch a glimpse of what was in the room beyond. She covered the distance between us with a kind of floating grace, sliding forward on high stiletto heels. As she emerged from the brightness ahead, her form coalesced in the dim light of the corridor. She was a middle aged woman, tall and lithe with a gaunt, heavily made-up face. Her hair was ice blonde and cropped close to her head in a stark fuzz, accentuating her hauntingly attractive features - her wide, blue eyes; her full, red lips; her strong nose and the high ridge of her cheekbones. She was dressed all in black - a dark, satin blouse, tight and short on her slender arms, buttoned over her modest chest; a short, leather mini-skirt, worn with the confidence of someone who was aware of how attractive her body was, finished with black nylon stockings, seamed at the back with immaculate precision.

  The woman breezed past Sam and stopped before me, fixing me with an intense and overpowering stare, a wry smile spreading over her glistening lips.