Chapter 62 Rae
RAE
TERMS & CONDITIONS
Participants: L. Lazarev (Administrator), R. Everett (Player)
RULES:
1. Player may not climax without Administrator's express permission.
2. Administrator will ask one (1) question at intervals of his choosing.
3. Game concludes when Player provides a truthful answer.
4. There is no time limit.
5. There is only one correct answer, and Player already knows what it is.
The rest of the day passes in a haze of forced normalcy that makes my skin crawl.
Lukas doesn’t speak unless spoken to. He does some cleaning around the house, then cooks dinner. He’s perfectly pleasant with his answers to anything I ask him. He smiles and nods in all the right places.
It’s horrifying.
What happened to the man who cried on the staircase this morning? Who is this bland, polite automaton piloting his body?! I’m very, very confused.
I pick at my food and try to match his energy, but the feeling of wrongness doesn’t go away. Even the wine tastes like spoiled vinegar on my tongue.
When the plates are cleared, Lukas folds his napkin and sets it beside his empty glass. He looks at me, and, for the first time all day, I see the light of life in his eyes.
“Go upstairs,” he says. “Lie on the bed.”
I set down my fork with a clatter. “Lukas, we should talk about what happened—”
“Go upstairs,” he repeats with endless patience. “Lie on the bed.”
“Lukas, I’m serious. This morning, when you said—”
“Rae.” He reaches across the table and takes my hand. Somehow, even this feels stilted and strange. “I want to show you something. That’s all.”
“Show me what?”
“You’ll understand soon enough.” He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses it. “I’m not angry with you, sweetheart. I promise. I just need you to trust me.”
I eye him suspiciously. “You’re scaring me.”
“I know.” He gives me another kiss, this time to the inside of my wrist. “But you’ve trusted me before. So trust me now.” His eyes are full of sorrow as he looks at me and says again, “Go upstairs. Lie on the bed. I’ll be there in a moment.”
I sigh. “Okay.”
Lukas doesn’t say a word as I rise and drop my napkin on the table. He just watches me go.
I climb the stairs slowly. When I step inside, the bedroom is exactly as we left it this morning—sheets tangled, pillows askew, the faint scent of sex and sleep lingering in the air. I stand in the doorway for a long moment and stare at the bed like it might bite me.
Eventually, though, I do as I’m told. I stretch out on my back, still fully clothed, and stare at the ceiling. Through the gaps in the woven roof of the four-poster, I can see that the plaster is cracking, tiny spiderwebbed slivers spreading from corner to corner.
I peek at the door, but I don’t hear motion yet. My anxiety doubles. What on earth is happening?
A few minutes later, the door finally swings open. Lukas enters with a tumbler of vodka in hand. He crosses to the nightstand and sets it down without looking at my face.
With his back to me, he reaches up and unfastens the knot of his tie. He pulls it loose and lets it dangle from his fist. The sound of the whispering silk raises goosebumps along my arms.
“Put your hands above your head,” he instructs in a quiet rasp.
I swallow. “Luk—”
“Put your hands above your head, Rae. And don’t speak again unless I tell you to.”
What are you doing? screams some distant, sensible part of my brain. This isn’t right. Something’s wrong here.
But I don’t say that out loud. I just put my hands over my head, like he asked.
As I watch, he reaches into the dresser drawer and removes three more ties. Then he turns and saunters over to me. My stomach squirms uncomfortably.
Lukas loops the first silk tie around my left wrist. The fabric is cool against my skin, and deceptively soft for something that holds so firmly. He threads the ends around one mahogany post and pulls tight.
I tug instinctively, but the knot doesn’t budge.
“Good,” he says with a satisfied nod.
He does it again with the right wrist. Then he steps down to my feet and fastens first one, then the other, to the other two posts of the bed.
When he’s finished, he straightens and looks down at me. I’m tied up, one limb per post, spread-eagled and confused.
Then he reaches out with one hand. A single, rough fingertip touches my throat.
I swallow hard. That fingertip traces a slow, winding path downward. Over the length of my throat. Between my collarbones. Down, down, down the center of my sternum. The thin cotton of my dress does nothing to dull the sensation.
When he reaches my navel, he stops. “We’re going to play a game,” he says.
I start to respond, then remember I’m not supposed to speak, so I let it go.
“Rule number one.” His finger circles my belly button, lazy and light. “You don’t cum until I give you permission.”
“Wh—”
“Shh.” He quickly presses the fingertip to my lips. “Don’t forget, Rae: You are not to speak. Not even one word. Nod if you understand.”
I nod meekly.
Once it’s clear that I’m listening, his hand returns to my stomach. He slowly, slowly, slowly starts to tease my dress up. It rises from my kneecaps, up my thighs. He stops when it has settled just above my underwear.
His fingertip traces up the edge of my panties, following the elastic where it meets my thigh. He goes across the waistband until he’s level with my belly button, then straight down, grazing a line from north to south that passes over my center.
“Wet already,” he notes with a distant, almost sad expression. “That’s good. That will make this easier.”
I want to ask what exactly it will make easier, but I bite my tongue. The rules are clear: No speaking.
He repeats that same excruciating lap: tracing the outer seams of my underwear, pausing at dead center, then floating down over the growing damp spot. It’s the lightest possible touch, but as he does the fourth circuit, and the fifth, I feel a frustrated whine building behind my clamped lips.
Eventually, he sighs. His fingers hook into my waistband and tug the fabric down. He slips my panties off, folds them neatly, and sets them aside.
Then he returns to sit next to me.
His eyes remain locked on mine as his hand cups my calf and slides upward.
It rotates toward the inside of my thigh as he gets higher and higher.
The first brush of his fingertip around the very perimeter of the bare, slick flesh at my center makes me gasp.
But he’s careful to avoid where I want it most. It’s all close, almost there, but never exactly dead-on.
I’m starting to get the feeling that that’s very, very intentional.
We do it again and again. Up over my hip, across my waist, down the other side. The circle gets smaller and smaller, but only by a millimeter or two at a time. Maybe not even that.
My throat is starting to hurt from holding back whimpers, but I don’t dare make a noise. Not when he looks so… so…
What’s even the word for it? Solemn, maybe? Sad, kind of? I’m not sure, and he’s in no rush to explain himself.
It must be twenty more minutes of that route, light as a whisper, again and again. Lukas’s face doesn’t change whatsoever.
When he finally, finally passes over my clit, I very nearly sob. He taps it once, almost like the push of a button, and my hips buck upward.
He nods as if to say, Right on schedule. But then he just returns to that winding path.
I could cry. Why is he doing this? What’s the end goal here? He’s been so thirsty for me since we first holed up in the brownstone, so open and eager, full of life and love.
This man who’s torturing me looks almost grim as he does it.
We start from the beginning all over again. Big, wide laps, then smaller and smaller, until, thank God, he touches my clit once more. A bit more pressure than last time, and after, he glides that fingertip down to dip into the gushing wetness. I sigh and squirm.
Now, he charts a new course. He goes from my swollen, throbbing clit, into my wetness.
One, then the other. It’s still way too light to make me cum—he said I had to wait for permission for that, anyway—but it’s plenty sufficient to make me go insane.
If it weren’t for the ties around my wrists and ankles, I would’ve been clawing at him to hurry the fuck up already.
But he anticipated that.
That’s why I’m tied up, I suppose.
Lukas’s second hand comes up. He starts doing laps around my swollen bud with one fingertip while the other assumes the work of going up and down, up and down my entrance, though he never slides it inside me. Still, his face is made of stone.
I can feel the tendrils of an orgasm starting to gather low in my belly. That new but already-familiar tightening. My nipples perk up, my breathing intensifies, and I find myself straining at my bonds. I start to flutter my eyes unconsciously and rise up toward his teasing hands.
I’m close—I just need a little teensy bit more. More pressure, friction, anything.
He gives it to me… sort of. Two fingers slide inside while his other hand keeps working my sensitive spot.
Yes. Yes. Oh, yes, I’m so close, I’m going to cum, and this fun little game has all been worth it, I haven’t lost him, nothing is wrong, he just wanted to show me something new, and here it is, here it is, here it—
Wait.
What?
Lukas’s hands are gone suddenly, and he’s standing, and retreating. My pussy spasms around nothing. The orgasm-that-never-was recedes.
He rises from the bed without a word. He retreats to the dresser, picks up his tumbler of vodka, and takes a slow sip. He’s careful not to look at me.
I’m panting, straining at the ties, my body screaming for release. The ache between my legs is almost unbearable.
Lukas takes another sip of vodka. His face is still turned away, broad shoulders silhouetted against the dim light from the window, when he speaks.
“Do you love me, Rae?”