Chapter 28: The Client's Request
The morning sun through the kitchen blinds cut hard lines across the table, illuminating dust motes and the stark reality of a new email. Aidan sat with his coffee, the steam curling past his tired eyes as he read. Catriona moved behind him, topping up her tea from the pot. She saw the tension gather in his shoulders.
“Another one?” she asked, her voice carefully light.
“Yeah.” He didn’t look up. “The live client. Feedback and a new brief.”
She came around, leaning over his shoulder to read. The scent of his soap, clean and masculine, clashed with the clinical words on the screen.
The praise was explicit, transactional. Flawless authenticity. The auditory component was particularly effective. Then the request. It was longer, more detailed. A narrative blueprint. She was to be bound face-down, knees drawn up, presenting herself. A specific rope pattern was suggested, with diagrams attached. A blindfold, again. And a gag—her own panties, sourced at the start of the scene. The client wanted a graduated build: toys first, a vibrator, then a succession of increasingly large plugs, each step narrated. Then, finally, Aidan. The audio commentary was to be continuous, a filthy, educational monologue describing stretch, resistance, and degradation.
Catriona’s breath shallowed. Her teacup trembled slightly in its saucer. She saw it, felt it—the constriction of the fabric in her mouth, the impersonal cold of the silicone, the crushing vulnerability of that presented position. It was everything she’d fantasized about in the quiet stacks of the library, rendered in brutal, practical detail.
“It’s…” Aidan began, trailing off.
“Specific,” she finished.
“Yeah.” He finally looked at her. “It’s a bigger ask. The gag… that’s a psychological layer. Takes away your voice completely. Even your safe word.”
A quiet settled between them, filled only by the hum of the refrigerator. She had said that was her fear—dangerous strangers who wouldn’t respect a limit. Here was a stranger, at a remove, asking her to voluntarily surrender the very mechanism of limit.
“I’ll do it,” she said. The words were dry in her throat. “But I want a backup. A non-verbal safe signal. Something only I know. Something I can do even like that.”
He nodded, instantly. “Okay. Of course. What?”
She thought. It couldn’t be a tap-out. Her hands would be bound. It had to be something deliberate, something she’d never do by accident in the throes of it. “Three sharp exhales through my nose. Fast. Like a horse snorting.” She almost smiled at the absurdity.
A brief grin touched his lips. “Alright. Three snorts. Got it. That’s your wire to cut everything. Absolute.”
“Yes.”
He studied her face. “You’re sure? This one feels… colder.”
“That’s why I’m sure,” she whispered. She took her tea and walked to the window, looking out at the mundane street. “When do they want it?”
“Tonight.”
The day passed in a strange dichotomy. They went to the shops for groceries, arguing lightly over which brand of pasta sauce was superior. She tidied the living room, arranging throw pillows with precise, nervous movements. He assembled the requested toys from their growing collection, laying them out on a clean towel on the dresser like a surgeon’s instruments: the sleek vibrator, the three graduated steel plugs gleaming dully under the room lights.
As evening drew in, the casual facade began to crack. She chose the panties deliberately—plain white cotton, utterly innocent. She folded them and left them on the pillow.
At nine-thirty, she stood under the lights. The camera’s red eye was a cyclops watching. Aidan was in his headset, doing a final audio check. His voice, when he spoke to the empty lens, was calm, professional. “Testing levels. We are green for tonight’s programme.”
He turned to her. “Ready?”
Her nod was a tiny, brittle motion. He approached with the first length of rope. His hands were steady, his touch firm and impersonal as he followed the client’s diagram. The hemp bit into the soft skin of her ankles, then her thighs, as he secured her in the required position. It was profoundly exposing. Every knot felt like a period at the end of a sentence declaring her purpose. The blindfold came next, plunging her into black.
Then his fingers hooked into the waistband of her trousers, pulling them down. He removed the white cotton panties. She heard the rustle of fabric. He held them in front of her blindfolded face for a moment, a ghost of scent – laundry soap and her own skin – before folding them.
“Open,” he said, his voice already shifting into its narrative register.
She parted her lips. The cotton was pushed in, not gently, wadded and filling. He used a second pair of her own tights to tie it in place, the knot at the back of her head pulling her hair. The gag was effective, humiliating. Her sounds were immediately reduced to muffled, animal noises at the back of her throat. Her world was now only smell, taste of cotton, feel, and sound.
The microphone picked up his first clear breath. “Session two. As per specification. The subject is prepared. Vocal compliance has been physically ensured. We begin with tactile awakening.”
The vibrator buzzed to life, a sinister drone. He touched it to the back of her knee, her inner thigh, everywhere but where she needed it. Her body jerked against the ropes. He described each reaction, each flinch, as a “neurological ping, a basic stimulus-response.” It was dehumanizing. It was electrifying.
When he finally pressed it against her, the sudden, shocking vibration tore a strangled cry into the gag. “Primary arousal zone engaged,” he narrated, his voice cool. “Note the immediate pelvic tilt. An involuntary search for greater pressure. The mind protests, the anatomy begs.”
He worked her with it until she was shaking, sweat tracing lines down her spine. Then it vanished.
“Preparation phase.” The click of the lube. The first plug, cool and insistent. The stretch was minor, a tease. He narrated the exact diameter in millimeters. He described her ring of muscle clasping it. The second plug was larger. The pressure built, a relentless, stretching fullness. Her muffled groans were rhythmic now.
The third plug made her see stars behind the blindfold. The burn was exquisite, a claiming. He left it there, a heavy, metallic weight inside her. “The channel is primed,” he said, his voice closer now, thick with something other than commentary. “But it is a placeholder. A imitation. The authentic article is required.”
She heard the tear of the foil packet, the slick sound of him preparing himself. Then his hands were on her hips, his weight shifting the bed. The blunt, familiar pressure replaced the cold metal. He didn’t remove the plug first.
He pressed himself alongside it.
The double stretch was impossible. It was a splitting, a rearrangement of her very atoms. A scream, huge and silent, locked behind the gag. Her body went rigid, a bowstring pulled past its limit.
“Dual occupancy,” he growled, the clinical pretense shattering into raw hunger. “She’s taking both. Feeling the difference. The inert tool and the living flesh.” He began to move, a shallow, punishing rhythm that made the plug shift inside her with every thrust. The degradation was anatomical, total. Her choked sobs were the soundtrack.
She was floating, dissociated, a thing being used according to a manual. The safe signal hovered in her mind—three sharp exhales. An escape hatch. She drew a breath through her flared nostrils, held it. The pain crested, then mutated, melting into a deep, resonant claiming that vibrated through her core. She let the breath out, slow and shaking. She didn’t signal.
She surrendered to the blueprint.
He fucked her like that until the plug grew warm, until her cries subsided into ragged, open-mouthed panting against the fabric. Then, with a grunt, he pulled out, removed the plug with a wet pop, and slammed back into the slick, overstretched space with a final, possessive fury. His climax was a silent, violent shudder against her bound form, followed by a low, shattered groan that the microphone captured perfectly.
For a long minute, there was only breathing. Then his director’s voice, ragged but returning. “Session complete. Awaiting confirmation.”
The payment alert sounded. He let out a breath. “Confirmed. Thank you.”
The red light died.
The silence that followed was deafening. He moved quickly, first untying the gag, pulling the sodden cotton from her mouth. She gasped, sucking in air, her jaw aching. Then the blindfold. The light was a blurry assault. Finally, his clever fingers worked at the complex knots. As the last rope fell away, she collapsed forward, her muscles useless.
He gathered her up, turned her over, cradled her against his chest. He didn’t speak, just rocked her slightly, his hand smoothing her tangled hair. The smell of sex and sweat and hemp filled the room.
“You didn’t signal,” he murmured into her hair, his voice his own again, raspy with emotion.
She shook her head, burrowing closer. Her voice was a wrecked whisper. “It was perfect.”
He held her tighter. “The client… he messaged immediately. ‘Transcendent. The gagged screams were a masterpiece.’” Aidan paused. “He’s already booked the next slot. A week from now.”
She pulled back, looking up at him. Her hazel eyes were clear, focused. “What does he want?”
Aidan’s gaze was steady, a mix of awe and dread. “Double penetration. Proper. He wants to see a strap-on alongside me. He wants to see you split in half.”
Catriona stared at him. She felt the ache in her body, a vivid, throbbing syllabus of what had just occurred. Then, slowly, she nodded. “Okay.”
“Cat—”
“We’ll need to order the equipment,” she said, her voice gaining a strange, practical strength. She untangled herself from his arms, standing on shaky legs. She walked naked to the dresser, picked up the largest steel plug, and looked at her reflection in its distorted surface. “Get the one with the harness. Good quality. I don’t want it to break.” She put the plug down with a soft clink and turned to him, a faint, ghost of her old, anxious smile on her lips. “And maybe some more rope. The last of his is still on the spreadsheet.”