‘Don’t draw attention, mate,’ he says. His voice is slow and syrupy, like somebody caught in a dream.
‘Are you really doing it?’ the friend contents himself with asking. ‘Really getting your fingers in there?’
‘I’ll show you the picture,’ says Sean from his low-down position. ‘Hang on.’
I put my hands under the table and spread my pussy lips wide, hoping that they will show up in shot along with Jayden’s knuckles and his big fat thumb on my big fat clit.
The flash of light is brief and a few heads turn towards us.
Nobody can see, I tell myself. Nobody. Except Sean, who has the ringside view.
‘Fucking hell, you’re really doing it. She’s not wearing panties either.’
‘Really?’ The friend compromises, leaning to the side to get a swift peek under the table. ‘Wow, she’s dripping, man. That’s one wet pussy.’
Jayden bends to speak in my ear. ‘Do you want to come?’
I hold back from screaming Of course I do! Retrieving some brain cells from somewhere, I consider the question.
Lloyd didn’t say I had to come. In a sense, it might be easier if I don’t. I’ll be on edge and horny as hell for the next task, whatever it might be. Something tells me it won’t be vanilla-sweet.
Oh, but can I really turn down an orgasm? One I’m so close to?
I make my decision. ‘I want to come,’ I tell him. ‘But not here.’
‘Your place?’
‘Wait. Take your fingers out. I’m going to go to the loo.’
‘You better not finish what I started in there!’
‘No, no, I won’t. Wait a moment.’
‘I’ll come in there with you, if you like. We can …’
But I’ve pulled down my skirt, snatched my phone off a still-crouching Sean and I’m on my way.
‘Photo for you,’ I text Lloyd from the stall.
Impressive! Where are you?
Mayfair. What shall I do now?
Buy a hotel?
Is that what this is? Monopoly but with sex?
Yes! Shall I send you down the Old Kent Road next?
I’d rather you didn’t.
OK, wait a moment and I’ll give you your orders.
I tap my feet impatiently. I’ve been in here long enough. I ought to get going.
I can hear taps running, hand dryers blowing, the capping of lipsticks. I shift a little on the toilet seat. Jayden’s fingers were sufficiently thick and undecorous to have left a mildly stinging sensation in my pussy.
The phone bleeps.
Right. Last mission. Get yourself to Soho. Go to Tied and Trussed. Jerome will give you your instructions there.
Tied and Trussed is a place Lloyd and I know well, and the staff know more than they would ever need to about our tastes and interests. We have bought a lot of their stock and the owner, Jerome, sometimes socialises with us. So I allow myself grounds for optimism as I stow the phone away and emerge from the Ladies’.
Jayden stands right outside the door, ready to catch me like a rugby ball. I duck away from his hopeful embrace and break into a speed walk along the bar.
‘Gotta go,’ I shout over my shoulder. ‘Urgent business.’
‘I’ve got urgent business myself!’ he shouts back, dismayed.
The last thing I hear as I barrel through the door is his enraged bellow of ‘Pricktease!’
I let the word melt into the evening air and hurry away, across the city again, leaving the strangely bland and antiseptic vibe of Mayfair behind.
I’m more at home in the fleshpots.
Soho is alive in the dark, all neon-lit, boozy and crowded. Tied and Trussed sits between an upmarket Italian restaurant and a clip joint – respectability and criminality on either side. It represents a place between these two extremes, and yet its depraved pleasures might be enjoyed by patrons of both establishments.
The window display is elegant – an elaborate flower fashioned from various lengths of leather and chain, its stem wrapped in ribbon. I admire this for a few moments, then head inside.
Jerome is at the counter. A huge blond Dutchman with a substantial moustache, he is chatting with a gay couple about Shibari rope bondage. He pauses when he sees me and waves me over.
‘Ah, Sophie, you are here.’ He turns to his customers. ‘I will have to put you in Margi’s hands – she is an expert and will be able to help you.’ They wander over to the assistant, Margi, who is putting the finishing touches to a wall display of manacles.
‘Well, Sophie, we have an interesting evening ahead.’
‘Have we?’
‘Yes. Come through to the back room.’
I’ve been in the back room before. Jerome sometimes lets me and Lloyd ‘try before we buy’ in there. Provided he’s allowed to watch.
Bondage furniture lines the walls and box after box of cuffs, chains, cords and straps are piled high in the corners. The overwhelming smell of leather is intoxicating, and Jerome adds to it, in his head-to-toe cowhide.
‘So what’s on the agenda then?’ I ask, remembering to be nervous. ‘Lloyd says you have instructions for me.’
‘Yes, I do.’ Jerome is busy scanning his stock for something. ‘You’ll need to take off your clothes.’
His matter-of-fact tone piques me. He isn’t even looking at me.
‘What for?’
‘No questions.’ He turns and wags a finger at me. ‘You don’t have to, of course. It’s just what Lloyd said.’
I shrug, a bit sulkily, and take my camera cord off. I turn my back to Jerome for the rest, shivering in the unheated air.
Once I am nude, I turn back to him, thrusting my bare breasts towards him as if in challenge. He has located what he was looking for – a set of fur-lined leather cuffs – and he shoots me a lascivious grin.
‘Well, Miss Martin,’ he says, holding them out. ‘You want to put yourself in these?’
‘I suppose.’ I can’t get out of this mindset that I ought to resist Lloyd’s plans for me, even if they are to my taste. Sometimes I hate that he knows me so well. The sense of having nowhere to hide, at least sexually speaking, can be overwhelming.
Jerome lumbers over and fits the cuffs to my wrists, pulling each one tightly into the soft yet demanding embrace of the fur. He buckles them then links them together at the metal loops.
‘Put up your arms,’ he says and I raise them over my head, my bound wrists creating a graceful pinnacle to my sloping arms. Beneath them, my body is naked and vulnerable. There isn’t much I can do to fight off any unwanted advance.
Jerome consults his boxes again, emerging with a long roll of shiny black tape.
‘Now then,’ he says, and begins unwinding it. He sticks one end to my shoulder and commences wrapping it round me. He doesn’t cover my breasts, leaving them exposed and continuing his bondage-bandaging at my ribcage.
‘Does this rip off like a plaster?’ I ask warily, watching as the ribbons of shiny black take over my waist and hips.
‘No, it is not painful,’ he assures me. He cuts the tape off when he reaches my bottom and recommences on my left leg. ‘It is a good seller, this stuff. Easy to apply, easy to take off. Looks really something.’
‘Nice and shiny,’ I comment. Looking down at myself, the gap that exposes my pussy is somehow far ruder than simple nudity. I am signposted for sex, all the major access routes clear. Anything lickable or fingerable is uncovered – the rest hidden from view by line after line of the tape. He arrives finally at my left foot and I’m done. Only my head, breasts, bottom and pubic triangle are left open to view. There can be no doubt as to what my purpose is. I am a collection of erogenous zones, with a face.
‘OK.’ He surveys me proudly for a moment then drags one of his fetish furnishings, a kind of padded stepstool affair, away from the wall and into the centre of the room. ‘Now put yourself over this, Sophie.’
‘Are you going to fuck me?’
I’ve never fucked Jerome, not bec
ause I dislike him or find him unattractive, just … haven’t. Somehow.
‘I can’t answer that,’ he says, prodding me onward with a finger in the small of my back. I let him arrange me over the stool, on my knees, with my stomach leaning on a nice fat cushion, locked wrists tied to a crossbar in front. He smacks the insides of my thighs so I part them hurriedly, then he straps my knees to the step. There’s no way out of this now.
‘Why not?’
‘Orders. Now, I may or may not fuck you, but I do get to warm you up. Just wait there one moment.’
To my considerable astonishment, he opens the shop door and calls, ‘Gentlemen? Are you ready?’
I’m facing the wrong way and I’m too firmly strapped down to turn my head, so I don’t see who comes in, or how many of them there are.
‘Sophie,’ says Jerome after shutting the door again, but he is introducing me rather than addressing me. Introducing the spread cunt and outthrust arse that must be pretty much all they can see of me anyway.
‘Now this is a little quiz for you,’ he continues, talking to me this time. ‘I have three gentlemen here with me. All of them are friends of yours. What you have to do is play a game of Guess Who. First of all, though, I get to make your ass red, which is one of my favourite games.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’ I complain.
‘Nothing. Just the payment I demanded for my services. Come on. I’ll be nice.’
Nice isn’t really the word for the tingling teasing pain of the flogger as it lands, briskly and sharply, on my defenceless posterior. Jerome enjoys his work, though, and he flicks the strands all over my untaped rear until I gasp and squeak with humiliated outrage. At the same time I am working on riding out the sting, my brain is calculating the likely identities of the three witnesses. Is one of them Lloyd? Surely, it must be. So Lloyd and two of his friends. Which two? Ouch!
My mind abandons its machinations and I am given over entirely to the attention-grabbing heat in my backside.
‘She’s getting wet now,’ observes Jerome, pausing for a moment. ‘Your work will not be too hard.’
‘What work?’ I ask.
‘Do I have to gag you? Your input is not required.’ He gives me one more thwack of the flogger to make his point, then puts his big hands over my burning globes, absorbing their warmth. ‘OK, I think she’s ready for her first. Concentrate, Sophie. As soon as you know who this is, tell us.’
I hone my senses, putting myself on red alert. Footsteps approach, but their sound alone isn’t enough to give me any clues.
One hand lands on my hip. It’s medium sized, maybe? It glides up and holds one of my breasts. The touch is familiar, slightly tentative. Not Lloyd. This is a gentle caress, a considerate circling of my nipple.
I try to get his scent. It’s fresh, vaguely piny. A burst of this coupled with the distinctive tenderness of his touch gives me my answer.
‘It’s Jake,’ I state confidently.
‘Aww.’ I’m right. ‘I wanted to last a bit longer than that! Do I still get a shag?’
This appeal is presumably met with a shaken head. My hotel lifeguard pats my flank and retires, injured.
‘Well done. I don’t know if there’s a prize,’ says Jerome. ‘I guess that’s up to the governor. Now for number two.’
My second candidate’s technique could hardly be more different. He is almost rough in comparison. Before I realise he’s there, he has pushed two fingers inside me. I yelp and try to push them off, but I am held fast.
‘Take it easy!’ I snap.
He removes them with an apologetic rub of my clit. His hand, which is even bigger than Jerome’s, flattens against my pussy lips and he jigs it back and forth, giving my clitoris a quick spark every few moments. It’s the perfunctory going-through-the-motions of a man impatient to get to the main event. A man who thinks he doesn’t need to make an effort. A man who is arrogant and also built like Atlas on steroids.
‘Lincoln.’
‘What the fuck? You must have eyes in the back of your head.’
‘No, but I’ve got nerve endings, like all women. Remember that.’
‘This is fucking fixed, man.’ My personal trainer slinks off, muttering.
I’m so sure that number three will be Lloyd that I almost call it out before Jerome says anything.
But then I think about it. Here I am, all taped up, wet and horny as hell, strapped in position. Do I really want to leave here without a fuck? I smile to myself, deciding to pretend not to recognise Lloyd until the final thrust hits home.
‘Well, you are on a roll, as they say,’ chuckles Jerome. ‘You obviously know these gentlemen well. They didn’t even need to get their cocks out. Let’s see if you guess our third contender as quickly.’
I can almost smell him before he approaches, the Lloyd-ness of him. To me he smells of pure sex, but somebody else might identify subtle aftershave, extra-strong mints masking the faint evidence of cigarettes and something else, something I’ve never been able to put my finger on but which must be pheromonal.
But the third man, when he finally hovers behind me, smells of very strong and unfamiliar cologne – reeks of it, in fact. My senses rebel, disappointed in the extreme. I clench my pussy tight, unconsciously repelling the unwanted cock.
Hang on, though. I still have enough working brain cells to figure out that this could be a deliberate ploy. It could still be Lloyd, in olfactory disguise.
Working on this theory, I relax my pelvic floor and hold my breath, the better to recognise further clues.
What would Lloyd do, confronted with me in this position?
Firstly, he would be riveted by my bum. He would grab handfuls of the reddened cheeks and squeeze them. Maybe he would kiss them – in fact, he certainly would. And he would give them an extra smack for luck while his tongue sought out the juices running below. Then he would take advantage of my helplessness to tease me, fingers almost hitting the spot but not quite, breathing over my clit but not allowing the all-important tongue tip to reach all the way. He would spread me wide and just look at me until I began to quiver and buck in my bonds.
I know he is trying to trick me now, because he does none of those things.
Instead, I feel knuckles graze the back of my thigh, the small exposed part at the top, very gently, tickling them. I try to wriggle away but he continues. I can’t gauge hand size or anything from this – it could still be someone else. He isn’t standing close enough for me to detect the underlying Lloyd-fragrance.
The knuckles move up and rest themselves in the crease between bottom and thigh. They sit there for a while, sinking in. I feel him shuffle forwards, closer.
I hear him take a breath.
It’s Lloyd. Definitely, beyond doubt. That’s the way he breathes.
He can’t see my face-splitting smile, which is good, because I don’t want him getting any ideas.
I think he deduces, maybe from the exhalation or the sudden relaxation of my shoulders, that I have figured out who he is, though, because from there on in he makes no attempt to hide his sexual identity.
His fingers uncurl and his Lloyd-sized hands flatten over the curve of my bum. There’s a squeeze and I picture his lustful expression in my mind’s eye. His thumbs reach between my cheeks and press into the tender inner flesh, making my sphincter jump in tense expectation.
Next I guess he has dropped to his haunches, because the sudden gusts of warmth on my clit suggest his breath in close proximity. I sigh with pleasure as his hands reach forwards to fondle my breasts. It’s the way he does it, that unerring knowledge of what it takes to make my nipples unbearably tight and send waves of buzzy desire from them to my crotch.
He keeps them in hand and then there is one broad lick between my pussy lips, scooping up the juices, then his tongue circles my vagina, round and round, moving further in with each rotation until he is fucking me with it, shallowly and tormentingly, while I strain against the straps.
I can’t take
too much of this, and it isn’t long before I start to protest, little whimpers that I hope convey the sentiment ‘get on with it and fuck me, soldier’.
He buries his face in me, releases my breasts and moves his tactile investigations to my cunt, concentrating on that area with intense focus.
If I come, if he makes me come, it seems important that he should know I know it’s him. But I don’t want to let that information slip before I get his cock in me.
I mustn’t come yet. I must get his cock in me.
‘Please,’ I mutter, hoping this will suffice.
But he doesn’t reply, just keeps the finger and tongue pressure right up.
‘Please,’ I shout this time. ‘Please. I need cock. Fuck me, please.’
He makes me wait a few seconds longer, but I know he won’t be able to resist this direct plea, and my gamble pays off.
Even then, he maintains the pretence by putting on a condom, even though we only use them for other partners now. For a split second, I panic that this is just someone who is very, very like Lloyd but not him. What if that’s the case? What if Lloyd is watching me now, watching me mistake another man for him?
In my confusion, I try to close up my vaginal muscles, but when I feel the tip of his cock and his firm grip of my hips, the momentary anxiety is dispelled. This is Lloyd’s cock. Even in its rubber sheath, I know its precise curve, weight, girth.
He knows I know.
He penetrates with exquisite slowness, as if making sure there is no room for error or doubt. If this doesn’t give it away, he seems to be saying, nothing will. How many times have I felt this hard length stretch me until it is deep inside?
Not enough times. It could never be enough.
Now I can tell him. Now I must tell him.
Once I’ve clamped my muscles around him so tightly he can’t escape, I whisper his name.
I hear his delighted intake of breath. ‘You knew?’
‘I knew. But you aren’t going to stop now, are you?’
‘You don’t want me to pull out?’ He makes a mock tug backwards and I moan.
‘Nooo. Do me. Now, you bastard.’
He pulls almost all of the way back.
There is a second of unbearable tension.
Game Page 8
