5. Hailey
By the time I’m ushered into the playroom, my thoughts are scattered in a million different directions. Like I’m stuck in a snow globe in the hands of a toddler. The darkly limewashed walls, thick rug, and velvety bedding do nothing to soothe my nerves. Normally, the oil paintings decorating the walls center me.
I look at a black-haired woman sitting on a chair in the center of a bare room. She wears a regal ball gown. Her back is pin-straight, and her hands rest sweetly in her lap. A red blindfold covers her eyes, while a man loses his head between her spread thighs. Not even the puddle beneath her seat stirs me.
After years, the floggers, spreader bars, and even the St. Andrew’s cross inside the room have faded into the background.
It’s just the padded bondage bench, me, and a nameless, faceless man. Even the promise of those things hasn’t fully registered.
My headspace is shit.
I’m thinking of leaving when the concierge clears her throat.
My body jerks in her direction. I hadn’t realized she was still in the room. Usually, she leaves until I get undressed and need her to strap me into position.
“Yes?”
She stalls. Her pretty pink mouth kicks to one side. “He requests that you put on your blindfold?—”
“Of course.” It has been a minute since I’ve been here, but it could be a hundred years from now, and I’d still remember my blindfold.
“He also requests that you leave on all your clothes and remain standing in the center of the room.”
Every piece of artificial snow vanishes. Every emotion, every worry, every frayed nerve follows suit. My feet are on the ground, and I am instantly present in my body. “That’s…different.”
Usually, he, whoever he is for the night, comes in after I’m blindfolded and bound to the bench. After I’m completely vulnerable and, at the same time, completely safe from the possibility of connection.
“Yes, miss.” She acknowledges with a nod of her dainty head. “Do you approve this request? It is fully within your purview to decline.” Her hands remain clasped at her front. With her black hair pulled into a low sleek ponytail and her curvy frame in a prim black sheath, she is the picture of decorum.
I know the camouflage well. For I too can look the very picture of the Madonna. It takes discipline not to ask about her fetish. Then again, I have more pressing matters, like this unexpected change in protocol.
Instead of freaking me out or giving me the ick, which any major variation usually does, my interest is piqued. “Yes, of course. I approve.”
I love the anonymity. I love the freedom of my naked flesh. I love embracing the bench. I love taking what I’m given.
“Perfect.” She nods. “We’ll give you five minutes to get situated.”
“If I’m not stripping, I only need one.” I reach for the black velvet blindfold and slip it on before she’s out the door. The last thing I need is time to think.
“Very well.” The door whispers closed.
My eyes are taken away. Like flipping a switch, my other senses come to the forefront. The room smells like a night in a garden—too fresh and welcoming to be indoors or in a room people use for all manner of sexual perversions. The air is the perfect temperature, making me a little warm in my clothes. Not a noise penetrates the gloriously soundproofed room. Only the slightest rattle of the air filtering in through the vents ruffles the silence.
The velvet of the mask kisses my cheeks and forehead, like a familiar touch from an old lover. After all this time, it still sends a tingle through me. Positive association.
In front of me, the door clicks and opens. Already, this is different from before. I always face the back of the room. My bare ass usually greets him, my silent tormentor. Many of them speak. They tell me how they love my tight cunt or my greedy mouth. Some go on and on about how beautifully my skin shows their marks. Others praise my submission.
No matter what they say, I never speak.
Option one is my top pick for many reasons. His silence is only one of them.
The door closes, and the lock snicks. My lips part and my mouth waters at the simple sound.
He walks quietly into the room. The man isn’t close, yet his presence wraps itself around me. It commands my attention like nothing else. Eyes I can’t use focus solely on him. My ears are perked for his slightest grunt or hum. My skin sizzles with anticipation. My heartbeats dip and rev to his will.
In his presence, I am not just alive. In his presence, I live.
Seconds pass in complete silence.
Blood races through my veins. The thud of my heart attacks my ribs. Every muscle is taut. The tingle has turned into a hot buzz, meandering through my body, grazing my nipples and teasing my clit, but never lingers in one place.
I don't know how I’ve stayed away this long.
His breath whispers over my cheek. I swallow. His scent is a heady mix of pheromones, a hint of luxury cologne, and clean man. I want to press my face into his neck and breathe deeply until the world falls away.
The barest indication of warmth ghosts over my lips. It’s not a kiss. He’s never kissed me. I’ve never wanted him to. But…right now, he could do almost anything, and I’d let him. He’s so close. If I lifted onto my tiptoes and leaned forward, I could press my lips to his. I won’t.
He is in control, and I fucking love it.
Suddenly, the front of my coat goes tight over the swell of my breasts. I’m pulled forward ever so slightly. My gasp is a roar inside the quiet room. I clamp my mouth closed and keep my arms loose at my sides, afraid I’ve overreacted. This is just so different.
Have they screwed up the database?
This interaction is so unlike all the others I’ve had with option one. Sure, I could refer to him as his fake profile name with its fake profile data. It’s no more real than I am Miss Calkins. I’ve never cared enough to look at any of them. If I want fiction, I’ll go to a bookstore or, more precisely, my digital books app.
Then I hear his familiar, “Mmm.”
The deep, whispering sound travels straight to my swelling cunt. I sigh. It’s a relief and a thrill all at once. This man knows how I like to be fucked. I’m not saying he’s some sex god with an unnatural ability to read a woman’s mind. No. Mostly, he just happens to like giving it how I like receiving it.
He plucks at the tie around my waist and then eases his grip on the front of my coat. The two sides open wide. So wide I know he’s holding them and looking at what’s underneath.
Warmth gathers over my chest, yet my nipples bead. I bank the urge to rub my thighs together, but I can’t stop the deep swallow from working my throat.
Velvet tickles my shoulders, and then the length of my arms. Then it’s gone. He moves away, setting my coat gently over the bed, I think. He returns like a hunter, prowling around me. His circle gets closer and closer. Then the fabric of his shirt brushes across my back. Soft and smooth.
I can’t stop the moan that leaks out.
He does the same to my front.
I’m about to gift him another throaty whine when he stops so close to my back that his breath condenses on my nape. My moan becomes a whimper.
He grabs the harness at my back and pulls it tight over my chest. My breasts aren’t big, but the pull exaggerates them. I know because I’ve put it on and done it myself without a blindfold on. His growl is low. It reverberates through my nerve endings, pouring gasoline on my desire. The metal clasps cry, and then the pressure vanishes, and the harness falls to the ground.
For several moments, we stand in the thick fog of our need. Finally, he fingers the zipper at the back of my dress and works it down at an excruciatingly slow pace. When he steps back, I find myself close to begging with actual words. I don’t know what I’d beg for. There’s suddenly so much I want, things I’ve never wanted. The press of his naked front to my back. The tease of his lips over my thighs. The feel of his bare hand on my hips as he pumps into me.
“Off,” he barks.
I’m saved from my rash and needy thoughts with total shock.
My brain whirrs for a moment.
Has someone else come inside the room? Is the soundproofing suddenly failing? Am I hallucinating?
In our fifteen or so encounters over the last year and a half, he, like me, has never uttered a word.
A clink sounds to my left, which is usually my right, and is the toy chest. It is enough to jar me from the utter surprise of his voice to comply with his command. I slip the thin straps off my shoulders, and the material slips down my body and onto the floor. I’m gloriously naked, not bothering with panties or a bra when skin is the goal.
Then I wait.
He doesn’t keep me guessing for long. Something cold and hard tweaks my nipples. It doesn’t hurt, not like when options three or four damn near pluck them from my body. No, the sensation slowly pools the blood under my skin. My breasts feel heavy and full. It is another first for my favorite tormentor.
A piece of metal meets my fingers and pulls my hand up. Instinctively, I grab hold. It could be a spreader bar or a vibrator. I hope it’s the latter. He uses it as a guide to walk me carefully out of my dress and toward the back of the room. When he stops, he leads my hand to the bench and signals me onto it with a brush over my shoulders with a second metal device.
I fold my knees onto the low padded platforms. Something buzzes to life, answering my question. It presses sweetly to the base of my spine, and then slowly works up, pushing me forward. My belly rests on the soft leather riser and my forearms lower to their positions on the lower front pads.
Without warning, he presses a small lubed plug between my cheeks and inside my ass. The little metal contraption buzzes on a mercifully low setting. Yet it enflames the fire in my belly. I keep still, except for my mouth. It hangs open in quiet pants already.
One at a time, he binds me to the bench. It’s a new sensation. It infuses warmth into my limbs and cheeks, knowing he’s watching me become—hell, making me—completely vulnerable. My pussy flutters.
He binds my waist taut. It presses my clamped nipples into the padding. I trap a moan between my lips. It’s too soon to come.
A lone finger presses onto the top of the strap and follows the line from one side of my body slowly to the other. This boundary neatly separates the feathered crow inked onto my upper back with the skeleton crow he holds in his dark talons. The desiccated one drapes low on my back and upside down. Its bony wings fall over the swells of my cheeks.
A deep rumble comes from low in my tormentor’s chest.
My entire being warms at the approval. From the center of my body, it radiates out. I’m pretty sure if he turned off the lights, I’d beam like those on the fucking Rockefeller tree.
The other vibrator whirrs to life. Greedily, my cunt aches for it. I press my ass into the air. Already my legs are spread in invitation.
He drags the device across my lips, outlining my mouth before breaching it. A bulbous head slips inside me. It rumbles over my tongue. He uses the thing like a seesaw, prying my mouth wide. I show him my tongue, working the metal in slips and twirls, hoping he’ll replace it with his cock.
Just the thought, well, the thought, the bench, the zinging plug in my ass, the binding on my nipples, and him, his slow seduction of my body tips me quickly, wildly over the edge.
My hips jerk, wanting more. I moan, unfiltered over the apparatus in my mouth. Release clutches me tighter than the bonds, and then I’m set free. Only the bonds keep me from floating away.
“Hum.” His sound contains humor and a hint of awe.
Yes, I’ve never come quite so quickly before. I’m not embarrassed. I’m ready for more. I know he’ll give it to me. It’s his thing. His paraphilia. His kink. He gets off on getting others off. He collects orgasms like billionaires collect money. He is a pleasure Dom.
The vibrator slips from my mouth. I listen to its song as it moves farther away, and then the staccato joins the plug pressing at my ass. He presses the vibrator against the end of the plug. The discordant hymns duel inside me, grabbing the last of my orgasm and shaking it back to life. My fingers sink into the leather. My back bows. I keen and convulse, my cunt still wanting more.
As I come off the high, both sets of vibrations die. He leaves the plug alone but taps my belly with the large vibe, signaling me to lift. When I do, he wedges the metal piece between the platform and my clit. I sigh and settle atop it. The dead weight is quiet, but it’s contact all the same.
My ears strain, gathering any movement in the room. He is so quiet when he moves. Like a devious ghost. It enhances every sound and every touch.
Already, my head swims in oxytocin. I’m glad I’m tied down. If not, I’d be tempted to take this man home with me and keep him prisoner in one of the many closets in my apartment.
Something soft splays over the crook of my neck. Its falls are wide and thick. He drags the flogger across my nape and around the other side. The fur slips over my shoulder and down my right arm. I appreciate the soothing tickle over my knuckles. He works it down my back, hooks a gentle U at my tailbone, and then grazes my other side in turn.
Sweetly, he caresses my cheek, keeping the fuzz away from my mouth. I give in to the touch, which is new too. He usually stays away from my face. Typically, I appreciate it. But this is nice.
He works it over my shoulder and then slides it down to my ass. The sweetness turns devious as it enchants my most intimate flesh. A second flogger flops onto my back. This one is weighty but still smooth. Suede, I think.
Wetness slides down my side. He’s oiled the ends. My pussy clenches. I rub myself on the platform as much as the bonds will allow, ready for what’s to come.
The fur whispers over the backs of my thighs, silky and soft. It leaves, and then whap. My skin crackles back to life. Currents flow through me. Sparking and arching. I moan and purr like a creature possessed. He repeats the soft and hard from the crest of my thighs to the bend of my knee on both legs. When he performs the ritual on my ass and low back, an orgasm explodes behind my closed lids. I’m feral and pumping almost uselessly on the dead vibrator, still needing more.
I barely hear the thuds of the floggers hitting the floor. I’m writhing and desperate. The sing of a zipper and the crinkle of foil snag my soul.
He usually won’t give me what I need until I’m a sagging, sobbing mess, nearly wrung out of orgasms. My chest is warm with excitement. Anticipation nearly chokes me.
The scrape of his pants meets my calves as he steps into position. I hold perfectly still, but my breaths saw in and out of my lungs. His hot, blunt head meets my entrance.
“Mm-hmm,” he snarls.
I nod and bank a sob, threatening to escape. My insides are a frenzy of want. I’m ready to beg. It’s too much to keep contained. Tears slip down my cheek.
Guess he reads me better than I thought.
Breath leaves my lungs as he impales me. It’s pushed out in a vicious sob, but I nod, so he knows I’m okay. A growl rips up his throat.
Normally, he eases in so slowly I almost die. Typically, he’s quiet. Usually, he is exquisite. Now, he’s unleashed.
I can’t get enough.
Hair slips out from my neat low bun. I don’t care. All I care about is him moving.
His hips piston, pulling all the way out, and then ramming deep. My head cranes to the sky. Moans bleed from my lips, while his every vein and ridge thrum my wet cunt. He plays me like a fucking instrument.
The head of his cock presses against the front wall of my vagina. Suddenly both vibrators roar to life. Only three more thrusts and I scream my release like a woman unhinged.
He slows his pace, letting me crest and then fall. The vibrators go quiet once more. With a shift, he reaches around and removes the one at my clit. When he leans forward again, a thick leather strap is looped around the front of my hips. He grabs each end hard and then rides me like a stallion in rut. His hips slam forward while his hold on the strap pulls me back to meet them.
I’m so full of him. He hits so deep and hard that my brain buzzes. I’m sobbing and moaning and loving every savage second. My boobs press into the leather platform, and my nipples and the clamps scrape against it, tweaking. I feel like I’m being cracked open and pulled apart from the inside.
It’s terrifying and feels so fucking freeing at the same time.
His breathing becomes loud and reckless.
Yes. Yes. Yes. Fuck me.
My words don’t form, but my heady moans, pants, and screams communicate my pleasure for me. I squeeze his heavy cock tight and flutter around him, coming hard and demanding his release in turn. He gives it with a short stroke. His strain plumps my ass, and I feel the heat of his cum as it fills the condom inside me.
He presses the end of the butt plug, jerking it wickedly deep inside me. I scream as my orgasm reignites. It leaks down my thigh as he pumps his last.
He sags over me. The front of his shirt tickles my back. It feels like soft cotton. Like a T-shirt grazing the dimples just above my butt. His hand brackets my body, holding tight to the platform on either side of me.
I cherish this moment. I hate that we got here so soon because I know what comes next. I despise it as much as I need it.
When I told Astor that it might not hit like it used to, I was right. It hit harder, better, deeper. Normally, I miss this, the theater of it, the disconnect from the rest of the world. With a start, I realize I’ve missed his touch, his command over my body.
That is reason enough never to return. I know I will, though. He gives me the release I need. I give him my submission and the orgasms he craves.
His breaths dance over my shoulders a few more inhales than usual, but too soon, he straightens and pulls from my body. He discards the condom, straightens his clothes, and leaves without a word.