Elliot Mabeuse (21 page)

Up ‘til her hands were extended like the hands of a diver and she was standing straight and reaching up, then on her toes, then reaching high. The chain to the spreader bar pulled taut and she started to fall back but the chain caught her and held her, suspending her from her arms. She cried out in alarm.

She stood there rocking slightly, feet apart, arms extended, looking straight ahead, helpless.

She was still dressed though, still wearing her clothes from the bar. I stood behind her and reached into my pocket. The knife was about three and a half inches long and opened with the smoothness of silk upon silk. I pulled out the hem of the white top she was wearing. It was too bad—it fit her so well,

"Don't move."

In the dim light of the loft it only took a few seconds to cut off the top, running the knife up from the hem to the collar, and then along the arms. Her skin beneath was flawless. I was very careful. As I cut her clothes off her, I talked to her.

"There's something I read that says that this is all a form of worship, Emma, that in a funny way, I'm worshipping you. I think that's kind of right. Because when we worship something, we're trying to get control of it, aren't we? We're trying to tell God or whatever, be nice to me, give me a break. We're trying to say, I adore you, you're fantastic, but take it easy on me too, aren't we? And yeah, I'd say that about sums up what I'm trying to do with you, Emma. That comes pretty close."

I'd cut through the skirt and yanked it off and she cried out. She was scared now, hanging in that chain, and I knew her arms wouldn't take much of this. I had to hurry.

I went up behind her. I whispered in her ear. "I have to take your bra off, baby.

Your pretty panties too."

She nodded nervously.

I slid my hands along her skin. She was warm and soft and so ready to be fucked just like this. And I was so on fire for her.

I slid the knife under the straps of the bra and sliced through them, then unhooked it and let it fall. I pulled the sides of her panties out and sliced through those as well, then pulled the garment through her legs.

"Are you ready, Emma?"

"Yes."

I took up the little bit of the slack in the hoist, pulling ‘til her body was bowstring tight and the heels of her shoes started to rise off the floor. She cried out and gasped.

Her rib cage lifted and her stomach sucked in and she started to pant like a dog.

"You all right, baby?"

"Yes. Yes!"

I stepped behind her. "I'm afraid I have to gag you."

"All right. Do it. Do I get a safe word? What's my safe word? Three times?"

I moved behind her and slid the ball between her teeth and buckled the gag into place behind her head. I finished and took a moment to just run my hands down her perfect body, over her breasts and her swollen nipples, her ribs, the dramatic in-tuck over her waist and flare of her hips.

I stepped back and tested the balance of the flogger in my hand,

"No, baby," I said. "I'm afraid I can't give you that. This time there is no safe word."

I raised the flogger and brought it down hard on her ass and then again and Emma yelled—a desperate, muffled sound in the loft—and I had to stop myself because

I didn't want to end up beating her. That's what I'd been afraid of and I didn't want that, so I backed off and walked in a circle a couple of times just to cool off. I was too hot, too on edge, still pissed about the whole David business.

I started in again, this time just brushing her ass with the flogger, aiming it so the fall just singed her buttocks and tickled them with pain and I saw her flex her ass and arch her back. That's what I wanted. To arouse her. To drive her crazy with it like she drove me crazy. That was how to use my anger. Emma threw her head back and bit into the gag. Her hands gripped at the chains, then she dropped her head again and closed her eyes as the whip fell. I knew she was concentrating on the sensation, that teasing, stinging, driving sensation. Conner's telling you you're a slut, honey. Conner's saying it.

Conner and his nasty whip. Is he right? Is he?

I began a steady, rhythmic series of figure eights, bringing her senses alive. The flogger came down in the darkened loft with a wicked scything sound, and soon I began to hear Emma's muffled moans.

“I am right, aren't I, Emma? Yes, I am. You like it, don't you? You love it. Nipples getting hard. Pussy starting to throb. You love it, Emma. You love being whipped.”

Her head went back, eyes closed. Starting to feel good now. The pain's starting to buy her something, a certain kind of freedom, a permission to own a part of her sexuality I can only admire. God, she's fucking beautiful when she gets whipped! Just incredible!

The flogger first stings, then burns, then numbs and raises a deep, throbbing, endorphic hunger. As I whipped her, I fixated for some reason on her foot in her shoe,

on the delicacy of her ankle and the way it moved as the whip came down—the little twitch and surrender, as if eager to get going, the pull against the anklet holding her bound to the spreader bar. Strange how we fix on such little trivial things and find such incredible heat in them.

After a time I stepped in front of her and grabbed her hair, pulled her head back and saw the fear and excitement in her eyes. If she was faking, I couldn't tell—fear and excitement, and she wanted more. I put my hand between her legs, pushed up, and my palm came away smeared with wetness. She stared at me and dared me to go on.

I started whipping her chest, her breasts, the same figure eight, upper left to lower right, upper right to lower left. Emma let her head fall back at first and then raised it again, tucking in her chin to look down at her chest as the flogger fell, watching the marks appear on her skin, watching her breasts as they shook and recoiled under the flogger's blows, watching what was happening as if it weren't happening to her, as if it were someone else, as if she could almost believe it until, every few strokes, I'd have to stop and reach out and caress her breasts and feel how hot they were, feel her nipples, how swollen.

I switched to her thighs, swinging the flogger back and forth as if I were scything weeds, feeling the leather slap against the firmness of her legs, the stick and drag over her sweat-slick skin. It was as if she had something of mine. She had something and I wanted it back. I didn't know what it was, or maybe that wasn't even it. There was just something, something she did to me I couldn't stand. She just tore me up, this girl, this woman. She tore me up and did things to me and I felt like I was fighting for my life

here, fighting for my sanity, pitting my pounds against her maybe , and me with my whips and hoists and chains and ropes— and I never had a chance.

Outside in the street a car had stopped, subs cranked, bass booming through the deck, you could feel it in your chest, the muffled rattling, impotent boom.

"Damn it, Emma! Damn it!"

The whip sizzled and hissed as I flogged her tits, her nipples. She gasped and wailed but there was nothing she could do to escape or avoid the blows, stretched as tight as she was, crucified almost, caught in mid air and suspended between the spreader bar and the hoist, rigid, gagged, exposed. Despite her shuddering and her protests, the sheen of her own obscene juices smeared on her thighs by the blows of the whip showed how excited she was. She was driving me mad, and her own quivering excitement was making me hit her harder, whip her faster, going for the essence of her, reaching for the bone. Emma was shaking. Saliva began to ooze from the corners of her mouth.

Slapp! Whapp! Smackk! Whackk!

"What the fuck have you done to me, Emma?" I snarled. "I want to know what you've done to me!"

I aimed the flogger at her cunt, bringing it up between her legs so the fall slapped against the flesh of her pussy, the strands slapping against her buttocks from below.

She howled behind the gag, her eyes clenched tight.

Whapp! Whackk! Slapp! Smackk!

"You've taken something from me, bitch! You've fucking taken something from me and I want it back! Understand me? I want it back!"

She's flying now, her body rigid like a diver's—arms stretched overhead and wrists together, legs flexed and taut and held apart by the spreader bar, long hair flowing over her tits, her eyes clenched tight in painful endurance as the flogger slaps up against her pussy again and again. Emma's muffled cries of rising excitement get higher and higher and more and more urgent and hysterical, out of control…

Whackk! Flackkk! Smasshh! Slasshh!

"Come on, Emma ! Come on bitch! Get it, Emma! Get it for me, baby! Give it to me! Get it for me, Emma, damn it! Get it! Get it!"

I could see she was starting to come, see she was starting to lose it. I saw it in the way she trembled, her stomach heaving, jerking, her breath rushing in and out of her dilated nostrils like the snorting of a bull, her fingers spreading wide as if they'd break off and then clenching tight into trembling, agonized fists. The muscles on the insides of her thighs quaked with the strain of fighting it off and her eyes closed tight, clenched in the pain of overwhelming ecstasy…

I dropped the flogger and rushed to her, terrified she'd pass out, yanked the gag from her mouth and tore slack from the hoist to lower her. She started to crumple, falling into my arms like a sack of wheat. She gasped for breath, sucked in a piteous lungful of air and turned to me, eyes still closed—"Conner! Conner—!"

"Emma! Yes, baby, yes! I've got you! I've got you now! I've got you."

"Connerrrrr!"

I held her as she jerked and spasmed in convulsive orgasm as if a thousand volts of electricity were ripping through her in total sensory overload and I crushed her to me as if only I could keep her from exploding into pieces out of sheer ecstasy. She hung half in my arms and half in the hoist and jerked and twitched and came and came and came. It was like heaven, it was glorious, it was like it was me myself who was doing it, who was coming like that, and I actually felt the thrills rip through my own body in waves of concentric bliss, as if there were parts of her I had somehow internalized or ingested that now responded to the pleasure in her like the ocean responds to the pull of the moon and they rushed to her, feeling what she felt.

But no, it was better than me myself doing it because it was her, and I'd taken her there. It was the place I'd taken her, the story I'd told her, the heart I'd given her. I stood there and held her and squeezed her and took everything back from her—anything she'd taken from me and anything I'd given her, anything she'd stolen and anything she'd borrowed. I got it all back from her right then, it all came flooding back in overflowing.

I unhooked her from the chains and sank to the floor with her in my arms and sat there holding her and rocking with her and thinking this was only sex, this was only sex and that's all this was, only sex.

And I thought: if I take her back tomorrow, we’re even.

* * * * "Conner, please—"

"Quiet, Emma"

"Conner—"

She was standing under the hoist, completely naked. The cuffs were gone, the spreader bar and anklets were gone. The gag was lying on the floor. Her wrists were lashed behind her, and I was fastening my collar around her neck.

"It doesn't mean anything, okay? It's just a piece of decoration, a piece of jewelry I happen to like. Can you think of it that way? Does it have to be some big fucking deal?

It looks good on you, that's all. It turns me on, Emma. Isn't that enough?"

She looked like she was going to cry. It had been a long fucking night.

"Come here."

I pulled her towards me, took her in my arms and kissed her neck, inhaling her scent and the smell of the leather, burying my face in her hair. I couldn't help it, the thing did turn me on. It's a shameful secret of mine—the sight of a collar on a woman is a powerful aphrodisiac to me. It's ridiculous but true, and Emma was still mine for the night.

I took her ass in one hand and massaged her breast carefully in the other. I was cautious in the way I touched her. She was red and hot from whipping and I'd already salved her down, but Emma was Emma—upset or not, she melted against me and flowered beneath my touch and my kisses, pressed herself into my hands and began to purr.

"That's better," I said. "That's better, better..."

In all this time I hadn't come, I hadn't had any relief. I'd been up and I'd been down and I was aware of the ache in my groin and the wetness in my shorts but I hadn't even allowed myself to think of relief. But now it was time. Now it was time.

I went to the trunk and pulled out a bunch of things wrapped in a towel. I was already prepared for this. The last thing I took out was a big blanket which I folded in half and spread over the trunk for a bed.

"Come here, Emma. Come here."

There in the darkness in the middle of the big empty floor, I had her sit on the edge of the trunk as I kneeled between her legs. It was late now and there wasn't much noise off the street as I leaned forward and closed my eyes and lost myself in the softness of her tits again, that shy and generous sweetness.