Going Too Far (6 page)

He walked round me as though I was a live gallery exhibit, his eyes moving up and down, assessing me. I liked it. Just occasionally I enjoy being treated like a sex object.

‘I can do better,’ he pronounced finally. ‘Red and black; a bit tacky, don’t you think?’

‘Your red basque,’ I pointed out. ‘Shall I take it off – or will you?’

He smiled, his lips not quite meeting, giving me just a tantalising flash of those white teeth.

‘You. There’s something slightly unappealing about pulling elasticated garments off flesh.’

That told me. As appealingly as I could I rolled the basque down and off after making the most of undoing the suspenders.

‘What about the rest?’

He nodded. ‘Not bad. I like the socks. And your legs; long legs, longer in those heels. Don’t you feel sexy?’

‘Yeah, but is this it?’

I felt decidedly disappointed. He was supposed to like dressing up and I wanted to comply but quite frankly black pants and holdups, even when propped up by massively high heels, didn’t seem too outrageous.

‘Bliss, I’ve let you down.’ He circled me again then put his hand down the waistband of my knickers. ‘Of course not. But these must come off first, then I’ll show you what you ought to look like.’

I wriggled as suggestively as I could out of my knickers but he wasn’t watching, instead pulling a box from the back of the wardrobe. I hoped it wasn’t going to be whips and crops; I’m not into pain. Inflicting it on Kip is one thing but, as I said before, as far as I’m concerned being whacked is for fantasy purposes only.

But first the black corset came out of the wardrobe. It was a real old-fashioned type, satin with bones at the front and a tangle of laces at the back. He pushed me round with my back to him and got me to hold it at the front.

‘The romance of the lace, pulled tight, is a million times more exciting than the synthetic appeal of lycra, don’t you think?’

‘I think, Carlos, that the fact that these bra cups fall just short of my nipples is rather nice. As for the back view, I’ll let you know.’

I smiled at him over my shoulder. The view I’d just had in the full-length mirror was pretty good. Apart from the obvious appeal of the minimal cups, one of my arms was holding the corset just under my breasts, pushing them upwards, while the other smoothed down the tummy panel and disappeared between my thighs. Narcissism is, I’m afraid, one of my weaknesses. And as Carlos pulled the first of the laces tight, I wondered if bondage might be one too.

By the time he had silently and methodically pulled and squeezed my body into the corset I was breathless. The constriction was a turn-on I hadn’t anticipated and the way my hips swelled out after he had pulled in the waist of the corset made me look like a 50s film star. My short breaths meant my breasts rose and fell quickly and the slope of the boning under them made my cleavage absolutely astonishing. The corset came down almost to my pubes, and I wished it could be longer; I tried to imagine the effect of tight lacing over my pubic mound.

‘Pretty good.’ I wanted to break his silence, but he only smiled and pulled up my holdups further so they were almost at the top of my legs. My blonde curls were emphasised by the stark black satin above them and the black stockings below them, and I guessed I wasn’t going to get any knickers.

Out of the box came something else in black satin and gold. Expecting knickers after all I drew in my breath, but it turned out to be a wide choker decorated with gold chains. He fastened it round my neck – it wasn’t tight, thank God – and then pulled out long black satin gloves also adorned with chains. Raising his eyebrows he offered them to me.

‘What do you think, Bliss? Do you like yourself like this? How about the gloves? I’m not going to do anything against your will.’

‘I love myself like this, and I love long gloves. I’ll tell you if you’re going too far, Carlos.’

It was the first time anyone had put a pair of gloves on me since I was four years old and I was unprepared for the electricity that shot through me as Carlos slid each finger into the satin. I’ve always found men entranced by the sight of me fitting gloves over my fingers, and having a man do it for me hinted tantalisingly at role reversal. He took his time over it, smoothing down each finger and fitting the gloves over my hands then pulling them up right above the elbow, to midway up my upper arm. The gold chains brushed against my tits as he manoeuvred the gloves. I couldn’t see why they were there until both gloves were on.

‘Tell me if you don’t want me to do this,’ he repeated, standing behind me and showing me myself in the mirror. For a moment I expected him to get a camera out and photograph me, and I certainly wouldn’t have minded a souvenir of how I looked, not to mention enjoying posing for him however he wanted. But it was better than that. No camera, no more accessories, he just – if I had seen it coming I suppose my sex muscles wouldn’t have reacted the way they did – he just pulled my gloved arms behind me and started fastening the chains, and my arms, together.

‘Oh boy.’

Absorbed in his task of lacing the chains through each other he didn’t look up. ‘Oh boy good or oh boy bad?’ he asked quietly.

‘Oh boy fantastic,’ I breathed. He pulled tighter.

‘Still fantastic?’

It wasn’t what you’d call comfortable but my tits, which were already high and full from the corset, were gently but definitely expanding even further as he teased my arms back a little more, and my shoulders were pulled back and down. I suppose it was similar to being on the pec deck in the gym, though I had never felt like this while sweating in lycra. I nodded and then, while I was getting over the shock of looking like an advert for a bondage video, another megavolt ran through me as suddenly my head was pulled back sharply. The chains from the gloves had been fastened round the chain on the choker.

‘You’re beautiful.’ He turned me slowly, so I could see myself from the side. I was: he was right. I was beautiful and totally helpless, my hands tied, my head not able to move far, and practically hobbled in the high heels. Like most capable women I sometimes put on the little girl act – you do it for me; you choose; look after me, and so on – but this was taking the game on to a higher level. And I liked it.

‘Is Lima ready for this?’ I asked him with a self-satisfied smile.

‘I don’t think so. After your long flight, I thought tonight we could stay in and chill out – if that’s all right with you.’

Chilling was approximately the reverse of what I was feeling, feverish being a more appropriate description, but I nodded. Apart from anything else I liked the constriction of my head on the chain as I moved slightly.

‘Just one more thing.’ He bent down to my feet. ‘If you don’t mind?’

Did I mind? I should mind, I told myself. Although I felt as though I couldn’t walk in the heels anyway, he reinforced it by clipping a short chain, no more than nine inches long, on the loop at the back of each shoe. Oh yes, Bliss the feminist thought she ought to mind, but Bliss the sex goddess luxuriated in her rôle.

I tentatively put one foot forward. By taking short steps and putting one foot straight in front of the other I coped. And I have to admit it made my walk as sexy as hell.

‘But now what, Carlos?’

The smile that played round his mouth was broader now, happier than the enigmatic smile he had had on his face before. Had he been nervous?

‘Whatever we decide, Bliss.’

‘Well, while I like the outfit, it does occur to me that this chain on the shoes . . . it’s not very practical as far as access is concerned, is it?’

He laughed and reached out a hand towards my sex, brushing it over my pubes and downwards. Instinctively I opened my legs as far as they could go, and demonstrated that it wasn’t indeed very far. With his eyes on my face his fingers trailed along the length of my slit, putting the thousands of nerve endings in my clit on red alert and sending my muscles into overdrive as he slipped into the almost embarrassing wetness.

‘You mean for fucking? I don’t always think that’s necessary, do you? Seeing you like that, it’s almost its own reward, Bliss.’

His fingers were moving up and down in the musky heat of my cunt and I had to admit that fucking wasn’t necessary, thinking that it wouldn’t take long for me to come anyway, but then, disconcertingly, he moved his hand and turned me round again. Facing the mirror once more what I could see of him behind me seemed to be lost in contemplating the sight of the chains and laces that bound me. His hands caressed my shoulders and moved downwards, tracing the curve of my exaggeratedly small waist and the swell of my hips, until they were on the bare flesh of my arse. He circled my buns gently, then harder and more suggestively, his powerful free hands brushing against my bound immobile ones, and I felt suddenly disappointed, guessing that maybe, like Kip, he too had as much interest in the arse as the cunt. God knows I’ve tried but I don’t like anal sex. I gave it up for Lent last year and have kept off it ever since. Still I would have no choice but to submit if Carlos bent me over.

Instead he said, ‘How about dinner?’

The tradition of cooking meat impaled on skewers has got to have its roots in sexual symbolism. Holding a kebab and tearing the meat from it with the teeth has always seemed to me the perfect way of demonstrating that you’re willing to get down and dirty and back to the primitive. Having a strong dark man holding a kebab slightly above your supplicatingly raised breasts while your arms are bound behind you so you have to reach your constrained head up as far as you can to tease the meat with your teeth is the perfect way of trying to have a hands-free orgasm. Not that I did – do they exist outside the pages of bestsellers? – but I came as near as I ever have to the female equivalent of the waking wet dream.

The meat was savoury, with an oddly smooth texture, spiced and a little tart. The juice dripped on to my tits and Carlos licked it off.

‘Not guinea pig, I hope?’ I asked suspiciously. You may be disgusted but Peruvians do eat the poor little pets.

‘God, no. They’re far too small and bony. It’s heart.’

‘Heart. Human?’

‘Ox. It’s a traditional speciality. They cook it at the takeaway alongside the chicken. Don’t you like it?’

‘It’s great.’

Of course I remembered it from the guidebooks,
anticuchos
, skewered ox heart, and I have to say it was one item I wouldn’t have ordered for myself. But I’m not a squeamish sort of girl and when he held the skewer up again I bit down hard on a particularly succulent-looking chunk and chewed with enjoyment. After I had a couple more mouthfuls of meat he held up a piece of sweetcorn.

‘I read a story once about a woman who was fucked in some ritual ceremony with corn on the cob. Or was it up the arse? The texture would be interesting, better than a ridged johnny.’

‘It’s a shame they only come in pieces at the takeaway, but thanks for the hint.’ Carlos forked up half a dozen chips and offered them to me, but I was happy with my meat and veg. The corset was tight enough to suppress my appetite as well as my waist. His dark eyes were glowing with, I hoped, desire.

‘You’re very horny, Bliss. Are you always like this? Or is it a while since you had sex?’

That was a good chance to tell him about the newly inaugurated on the ground in Aruba club. Well, I’ve done the mile high thing before. He nodded slowly.

‘So you’re not desperate for sex.’

‘You’re the one who’s setting the agenda here – you mean you don’t fuck?’

He poured some wine into a glass and held it to my lips. I tilted my head even further backwards than the chain held it and swallowed, feeling some trickle down my throat on to my exposed breasts. Despite spilling it he gave me more until I shook my head and made a noise in my throat. As he put down the glass he once again licked the spillage from my breast, but this time took each nipple in his mouth in turn, sucking gently, then harder. If he wasn’t going to let me come I was going to explode.

I didn’t explode, of course. But it wasn’t easy to believe that, after the dressing up, the fondling, the nipple sucking, etc. Carlos simply undressed me and put me to bed. Though for simply undressing me, read slowly, sensually and regretfully. The last thing he took off was the gloves but as he moved my arms forward to a more usual position in their sockets he asked me if I always slept on my back.

‘Yeah, I think so . . . why?’

‘Why? Because I want to give you the most forceful climax you’ve ever had in your life. But not tonight and, I’m afraid, Bliss, that as you’ve already lived up to Kip’s description of headstrong, I don’t trust you not to do it for yourself.’

He propelled me to the sofa bed and laid me down. As he tied each wrist to the top of the opposite arm I felt almost like a corpse.

‘I won’t be able to sleep like this.’

The last thing I remembered was his disbelieving smile then the jet lag kicked in again and I fell asleep.

‘
Y
our tour guide’s ready and waiting.’

I came to. Carlos was back in casual gear and holding a huge cup of coffee. I sat up and wriggled back to prop myself against the wall. It was hard to believe I’d slept with my hands tied but he assured me I’d had a good ten hours.

He untied me so I could hold the cup, rather than risk scalding me.

‘I need a shower.’

‘Sure. Breakfast? Bread, toast?’

‘How can you trust me while you’re getting my toast?’

In black again, and with his hair loose and brushing his shoulders, Carlos looked more like a man who preferred his women in chains than the persona he’d presented in his work suit.

‘In my experience it’s men who wake up raring to go with one thought on their minds. You’d rather warm up slowly . . . wouldn’t you?’

‘If I get as warm as I was last night I’ll self-combust.’