Chapter 69: The First Guest
The leather creaked beneath him, a sound he could feel through his cheekbones rather than hear. Paul hung suspended in the frame, his wrists bound above his head, his ankles secured to the posts, his body stretched just enough that his muscles complained with a low, constant ache. The darkness was absolute. Not the soft darkness of a room at night, but a void so complete that he could not tell whether his eyes were open or closed. The contact lenses sat against his corneas like thin shells of nothing, and the foam in his ears had hardened into a seal that swallowed every sound before it could reach him.
He had been here for what felt like hours, though it might have been minutes. Time had lost all meaning. He measured it in the rise and fall of his own breath, in the slow drum of his heartbeat, in the occasional shift of his weight against the leather straps. There was nothing else. No voice, no footstep, no whisper of fabric. Just the silence and the dark, pressing against him like a physical weight.
He tried to remember the room. Suzette had led him here, one finger hooked inside his anus, guiding him like a dog on a lead. He had felt the change in the floor beneath his bare feet, the transition from cold stone to smooth wood. He had felt the frame itself, the polished wood of the uprights, the worn leather of the seat that waited above his face. He had been positioned carefully, his head tilted back, his mouth level with the hole in the seat. Tim had adjusted his chin with impersonal fingers, checking the angle, and then the foam had been injected into his ears, and the world had ended.
Now he waited.
The first sign of company came as a vibration through the frame. Not sound, not anything he could name, but a subtle tremor that ran through the wood beneath his bound wrists. Someone had entered the room. He felt it in the change of pressure in the air, the faint displacement that told him he was no longer alone. His heart quickened. His mouth, dry from a day of fear and submission, began to water despite himself.
Footsteps. He could not hear them, but he felt them, each one a barely perceptible thud through the floor and up through the frame's legs. They approached him, paused, circled. He imagined the stranger studying him, taking in the sight of his naked body stretched and helpless, his cock hanging soft between his thighs. The thought made his stomach clench with a mixture of shame and something else, something he had learned to recognise as arousal.
Then the seat above his face shifted. Leather groaned. A weight settled onto it, warm and heavy, and he felt the heat of a body through the material that separated his face from the open air. Thighs, he thought. The smooth, warm pressure of naked thighs on the leather. A woman had sat down above him.
He held his breath. The scent reached him a moment later, drifting down through the hole in the seat. It was unfamiliar. Not Odette's sharp, clean smell, not the subtle floral hint that clung to Camilla, not any of the other women he had served. This was muskier, earthier, the scent of a woman who had been aroused for some time before she arrived. There was a hint of soap beneath it, and something else, something faintly sweet that he could not place.
He waited for instruction. None came. He waited for a voice, for the tap of fingers on his elbow that Tim had described, for any signal that he understood. There was nothing. Just the weight above him, patient and expectant.
Then he felt her shift, and the heat of her cunt pressed against the hole in the seat. Wet lips parted against the rim, and her scent intensified, flooding his senses with the unmistakable proof of her arousal. She was soaked. He could feel the slickness of her through the air, could imagine the glisten of her folds as she lowered herself toward his face.
Her thighs brushed the edges of the opening, settling against his cheeks. He felt her pubic hair, coarse and dark, tickle his upper lip. Then her weight came down, and her cunt squashed over his mouth, and he understood.
No instructions. No rules. No careful negotiation of tongue and clitoris. She simply sat on his face and began to ride him, grinding her wet flesh against his mouth with a lazy, confident rhythm. Her clit dragged across his upper lip, and he felt it swell against him, firm and demanding.
He opened his mouth and went to work.
His tongue found her entrance first, sliding inside her with a slick, easy stroke. She tasted unfamiliar, but good, a rich and complex flavour that he had learned to appreciate in the weeks since Odette had claimed him. She was tight around him, her walls clenching as he pushed deeper, and he felt her shift her weight, adjusting the angle so that his tongue could reach further. Her taste coated his palate, and he swallowed, greedy for more.
She did not speak. No moans, no whispered encouragements, no commands. The only sound he could perceive was the wet, obscene noise of his own mouth working between her legs, muffled by the press of her flesh. She rode him in silence, her thighs clamped against the sides of his head, holding him in place as surely as any strap. Her rhythm was steady, unhurried, a woman who knew exactly what she wanted and intended to take it.
He lapped at her clit as it passed over his lips, teasing it with the tip of his tongue. She responded with a subtle shift of her hips, pressing harder against him, and he took the hint. He flattened his tongue and licked her in long, slow strokes, from her entrance to her clit and back again, tasting every inch of her. Her juices coated his chin, dripped down his neck, and he drank her like a man dying of thirst.
Minutes passed. Or hours. He lost track. The world had shrunk to the taste of her, the weight of her, the pressure of her thighs. His cock had stirred to life despite his fear, hardening against his belly, and he was dimly aware of the absurdity of it. A man bound and blind, used as a piece of furniture, his cock betraying him with its eagerness. But he could not help it. There was something about the utter surrender of it, the way she used his mouth without a word, that set his blood on fire.
She quickened. Her rhythm became more urgent, her grind more frantic. He felt her clit swell against his tongue, felt the tremor run through her thighs, and he redoubled his efforts, licking her with wild abandon. Her legs clamped around his head, squeezing so tight that he thought his skull might crack. Her hips bucked against his face, driving her cunt onto his mouth, and he tasted the sudden flood of her arousal as she neared the edge.
She came without a sound. No scream, no cry, just a violent shudder that ran through her entire body, a convulsion that pressed her down onto his face so hard that he could barely breathe. Her thighs locked around his head, and for a long moment she was rigid, her cunt spasming against his tongue as waves of her release flooded his mouth. He swallowed, and swallowed again, lapping at her greedily as she rode out her orgasm on his face. Her clit pulsed against his lips, and he sucked on it gently, drawing out the last tremors of her pleasure.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. She relaxed, her weight settling onto him more heavily, and he felt her breath slow. A hand touched his hair, a brief, almost tender stroke, and then she rose from the seat, her thighs sliding away from his cheeks.
The leather creaked. Footsteps, felt through the frame, retreated across the room.
And he was alone again, gasping for air in the silence, her taste still coating his tongue.
He had barely caught his breath when the vibrations returned. This time they came differently, sharper, more purposeful. Boots on the wooden floor, he thought, the heavy stride of someone who owned the space she walked through. The frame shuddered as she approached, and he felt the air change around him, charged with something more aggressive than the quiet patience of the first woman.
A hand found his cock. Not gentle, not curious, but possessive, fingers wrapping around his semi-hard shaft with a grip that made him gasp. He felt her squeeze, testing him, and then her other hand cupped his balls, rolling them in her palm with a roughness that bordered on cruelty. His hips bucked involuntarily, straining against the straps that held his wrists, and he felt her grip tighten in response. A squeeze, hard enough to make him whimper. Then another, harder still. Pain bloomed through his groin, hot and sharp, and he writhed against the frame, his whole body twisting in a futile attempt to escape her grip.
She held on. Squeezed. He could almost hear her laughter, imagined it echoing through the silent room, a sound he would never know. Her fingers dug into his testicles, rolling them against each other, testing their weight, their give. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes beneath the black lenses. He whimpered, a pathetic sound swallowed by the foam in his ears.
Then, as suddenly as she had begun, she stopped. Her hands withdrew. He felt her movement through the frame as she climbed, and the seat above him shifted as she settled onto it. Her weight was different from the first woman. Heavier. The leather creaked beneath her, and he felt her adjust herself, thighs spreading.
Her scent reached him. Different again. Earthier than the first, with an edge of something metallic beneath the musk. She had been ready for him, wet and waiting, but there was no patience in her. No deliberation. She simply grabbed his hair, her fingers twisting into the strands, and yanked his head back. Then her cunt was on his face, smothering him, pressing down with an urgency that denied him breath.
She fucked his mouth. That was the only word for it. Not rode, not ground, but fucked, her hips driving her cunt against his face in hard, punishing strokes. Her clit battered against his lips, and he felt her pubic hair coarse and wiry against his skin. She held his hair in a fist, controlling his head, using him.
He licked her. It was all he could do. His tongue found her entrance and plunged inside, and she rewarded him with a shift of her hips that drove her deeper onto his face. Her taste flooded his palate, richer than the first woman's, with a deeper, muskier undertone. He lapped at her walls, desperate to please her, to avoid whatever punishment her rough hands might deliver next.
She came quickly. There was no build, no warning. One moment she was fucking his mouth with brutal efficiency, and the next she stiffened, her thighs clamping around his head, and she released. It was a thick, slow release, nothing like the violent flood of the first woman. A trickle, he thought, feeling it seep from her cunt onto his tongue, viscous and heavy. She pulsed against him, her clit pressing hard against his upper lip, and he felt her body shudder through what must have been a powerful orgasm despite the modest flow of her arousal.
He swallowed. The taste was different, thicker, more concentrated than her earlier slickness. It coated his throat as he drank, and he felt her relax above him, her grip on his hair loosening but not releasing.
Then her fingers moved. She slid them down between his face and her cunt, and he felt her press against her own entrance, dipping inside herself. When she withdrew, her fingers came to his lips, and he understood what she was offering even before they pressed past his teeth.
It was congealed. Thick and lumpy, the discharge that had gathered deep inside her, left over from a night of arousal or the remnants of her own release. She pushed it onto his tongue, and he tasted it, a concentrated essence of her that was almost too strong, musky and salty and unmistakably female. She fed him in small, deliberate portions, scooping more from inside herself with each pass of her fingers, pressing it into his mouth with an insistence that brooked no refusal.
He ate. He ate like it was nectar, lapping at her fingers, cleaning them with his tongue, swallowing every lump she fed him. She was thorough, reaching deep inside herself to gather every last trace, and he accepted it all, his throat working as he drank her essence. Her fingers lingered on his tongue when she finished, pressing down as if to make sure he had swallowed, and he suckled at them obligingly, tasting himself on her skin.
She withdrew. A single tap on the side of his head, almost affectionate, and then she was rising from the seat, her weight lifting from the leather. He felt her footsteps retreat through the frame, and then he was alone again, her taste coating his mouth like a second skin, thick and cloying and strangely precious.
Paul floated in a void without measure. The taste of the two women lingered on his tongue, slowly fading, and with it went any sense of time. He might have slept. He thought he did, drifting into a darkness that was indistinguishable from the one behind his lenses. There was no difference between waking and sleeping anymore. Both were just absence.
The weight on the seat above him announced itself without warning. One moment there was nothing, the next the leather groaned and shifted under a familiar mass. Not the light, seated pressure of the first woman. Not the heavier but still essentially feminine form of the second. This was different. A man's weight, a man's build, settled onto the frame with ease.
Paul's breath caught. His mouth opened before he could think, his tongue already working in anticipation. He recognised him before he even touched him, the scent of Tim reaching him through the hole in the seat. Not perfume, but clean skin and the particular musk of a body that had been aroused for some time.
Then the vulva pressed against the opening. Thick. Stubbly. The coarse hair that framed it scraped against his cheeks and chin, and there was no mistaking it. The texture was abrasive against his skin, and beneath that roughness, pressing between his lips without hesitation, was the unmistakable shape of a clitoris the size of his thumb.
Paul moaned against it, a sound swallowed by the foam in his ears. He had served Tim before, learned the geography of that body in the hour before his senses had been stripped away. The memory came back to him now, the weight of that organ on his tongue, the way Tim had bucked against his mouth, the sheer size of the thing.
He opened wider and took it.
The clit slid between his lips, thick and firm, filling his mouth like a small cock. He swirled his tongue around the shaft of it, feeling the ridges and textures that made it unique. Tim shuddered above him, the vibration travelling through the leather seat and into his skull. Paul lapped at the head of it, finding the sensitive spot just beneath the crown, and was rewarded with a gush of wetness that flooded his mouth.
Tim tasted different from the women. Cleaner, perhaps, with a sharper edge to the musk, and underneath it a flavour that was simply, unmistakably Tim. Paul drank it in, his tongue working the length of that enormous clitoris with practiced skill.
He had learned, in the hours before his blindness had been completed, exactly what Tim liked. The way to start slow, teasing the base. The way to build, applying pressure with the flat of his tongue. The way to finish, circling the head with relentless precision while Tim bucked against his face. He did all of it now, no longer needing to see, his memory guiding his mouth like a map.
Time lost meaning again. He existed only in the taste of Tim, the weight on his face, the rhythm of the hips that ground against him. Tim was not rough, not like the second woman. But Tim was not gentle either. There was an efficiency to it, a sense of a man taking what he needed with quiet confidence.
Paul felt the clit swell further in his mouth, felt the pulse beneath its skin quicken. He redoubled his efforts, his tongue moving faster, his lips sealing tight around the base so that he could take the entire length of it into his mouth. The stubble scratched his lips, his chin, his cheeks, but he did not care. He was lost in the act, in the worship of that extraordinary organ.
Tim came with a shudder that shook the frame. Paul felt it through every point of contact, the thighs that pressed against his head, the seat beneath his back, the straps that held him. A hot flood of release washed over his tongue, thick and plentiful, and he swallowed greedily, working his throat to take it all. Tim's hips bucked, driving the clit deeper into his mouth, and Paul accepted it, his tongue massaging the length of it as the orgasm rolled through.
For a long moment they remained like that, Tim's weight heavy on his face, his release coating Paul's throat. Then Tim relaxed, the tension draining from the thighs that had clamped around Paul's skull. The clit softened slightly in his mouth, but did not withdraw. Tim remained seated, breathing in slow, measured rhythms that Paul could feel through the frame.
Paul kept his tongue moving, gentle now, lapping at the sensitive flesh with soft strokes. He was not trying to build another orgasm. He was simply expressing gratitude, or perhaps submission, or perhaps some need of his own that he could not name. The taste of Tim lingered on his palate, and he wanted more of it, wanted to drink until he drowned.
Then he felt fingers on his right elbow.
He stiffened, his tongue pausing. The signal, the one Tim had explained before sealing his ears. A squeeze on the skin, a simple gesture that meant water. Paul's mouth opened immediately, his tongue retracting as he tilted his head back as far as the frame would allow.
Something warm splashed against his lips. Water but tainted with Tim's essence, the remnants of his release, trickling the stream of drinking water down over his own vulva and into Paul's waiting mouth. Paul swallowed, tasting the flavour of Tim.
It poured over Tim's flesh, washing down through the folds and the coarse hair, carrying the last traces of arousal with it. Paul drank it all, his mouth open wide, his throat working as the lukewarm liquid flowed down. It tasted of Tim, of sex and sweat and that clean, sharp musk, and Paul drank it like a man dying of thirst, which in a way he was.
The flow stopped. The water was gone, and with it the last of Tim's release, all of it swallowed, consumed, a part of him now. He closed his mouth and lapped at the still-wet flesh above him, cleaning the last drops from Tim's skin, tasting himself in the mixture, or Tim tasting of Paul, he could not tell anymore.
Tim remained seated for another long moment. Then he shifted, and Paul felt the weight lift from the frame. A hand touched his hair, brief and impersonal, and then footsteps vibrated through the floor and away.
Paul was alone again. But not empty. Tim's essence sat warm in his belly, and his tongue still remembered the shape and taste of that extraordinary clitoris. He licked his lips, savouring the residue, and waited for the next visitor in the endless dark.
The silence returned, but it was not the same silence. Something had changed in the air around him, a subtle shift in pressure that spoke of bodies filling the room. He felt it through the frame, the faint vibrations of movement, the way the floor transmitted the scuff of feet and the shift of weight. Not one set of footsteps. Two, perhaps three, maybe more. He could not count them, could not isolate them, but the sense of presence was unmistakable.
The vibrations resolved into something like rhythm. Pulse and pause, pulse and pause. He thought, although he could not be certain, that he was feeling voices. Women talking, laughing perhaps, their words carried through the wood and up through the frame's legs into his bound wrists. He strained against the straps, trying to feel more, to understand what was being said about him, but the sensation was too diffuse. Just the ghost of conversation, the shape of sound without the substance.
Then he felt them approach. Not one set of footsteps but several, circling the frame, pausing at its foot. The air moved around his naked body, and he felt the ghost of breath on his thighs, his belly, his cock. They were studying him. All of them. He could feel the weight of their gaze even though he could not see it, and his skin prickled with the awareness of being watched.
A hand touched his balls. Not the rough, possessive grip of the second woman, but something lighter, almost curious. Fingers explored the sac, rolling it gently, testing the weight of it in a palm. Then a fingertip traced up the shaft of his cock, feather-light, and he felt himself twitch in response.
The pain came without warning.
A sharp, bright sting on his scrotum, a sensation like a needle prick or the snap of a rubber band against sensitive skin. Paul gasped, his hips jerking against the straps. The pain faded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a strange, tingling after-sensation.
Silence. Stillness. He waited, heart pounding.
Another sting. Higher up, nearer the base of his cock, a pinpoint of fire that made him flinch. He felt a hair give way, felt the tiny root release from its follicle, and understanding bloomed in his mind even as a third sting landed on the underside of his shaft.
They were plucking him.
He lay rigid, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps as another hair was pulled, this one from the left side of his scrotum. The pain was exquisite in its precision, each pluck a separate, distinct agony that bloomed and faded before the next began.
A soft vibration ran through the frame. Laughter. They were laughing at him.
More hands joined the first. He felt them on his thighs, his belly, his groin, fingers searching out the coarse hair that grew there and pulling it free one strand at a time. The rhythm quickened. What had been a single point of pain became two, then three, then a constellation of them, blooming across his groin like a field of tiny fires.
Paul flinched at each one, his body jerking against the straps, his hips twisting in a futile attempt to escape the relentless fingers. But there was no escape. The frame held him fast, and the hands were everywhere, plucking, pulling, stripping him hair by hair.
He tried to count them, to brace himself for each new assault, but they came too fast, too many, too varied in their locations. His flinches became less pronounced, his body learning that there was no point in resisting, but the pain did not diminish. If anything, it intensified, each successive pluck seeming to find a more sensitive spot, a more tender fold of skin.
A grunt escaped him. Then another. The sounds were swallowed by the foam in his ears, but he felt them in his throat, felt the vibration of his own voice as it left him. He clenched his jaw, trying to hold them back, but the pain was relentless.
The seat above him shifted. Weight settled onto it, a woman's weight, light and poised. He felt her thighs brush the edges of the opening, felt the heat of her cunt as she lowered herself toward his face. The plucking continued, hands still working at his groin, but the rhythm had changed. Slower now, more deliberate. They were savouring it.
Her cunt pressed against his mouth. Wet, ready, smelling faintly of soap and arousal. She did not wait for him to begin. She ground against him, her clit dragging across his lips, and he opened his mouth and licked her because it was the only thing he could do. Because it was what he was for.
The first pluck landed as his tongue found her entrance. A sharp sting on his left testicle that made him flinch, his mouth momentarily losing its rhythm. She pressed down harder, demanding, and he resumed his work, licking her with desperate urgency while the fingers at his groin continued their slow, methodical harvest.
She came quickly. Her thighs clamped around his head, her cunt spasming against his tongue, and he drank her release while another hair was pulled from the sensitive skin where his thigh met his body. She rose, her weight lifting from the seat, and another woman took her place before the leather had finished settling.
This one was bushy. He felt the spring of coarse hair against his cheeks, the tickle of it in his nostrils as she settled onto his face. She ground against him with a lazy confidence, and he tasted her, musky and warm, while the plucking continued at his groin. His flinches had subsided now. His body had learned that there was no point in reacting, that each jerk of his hips only made the fingers more determined. He lay still, his mind retreating inward, focusing only on the taste of the woman above him and the mechanical rhythm of his tongue.
She took longer. She rode his face with a slow, circular motion, grinding her clit against his upper lip while his tongue worked inside her. He felt her build, felt the tension coil in her thighs, and he redoubled his efforts, lapping at her walls, seeking out the spots that made her pulse against him. When she came, it was with a long, shuddering sigh that he felt through every point of contact, her release flooding his mouth in a warm, welcoming gush.
She rose. A third woman descended. This one was small, compact, her cunt hair finely trimmed so that his tongue found bare skin almost immediately. She was already close, her arousal slick and hot, and she took him with a desperate urgency, her hips bucking against his face while her own fingers joined the assault on his groin.
He felt her nails scratch lightly at his scrotum, then her fingers found a hair and pulled. The pain was sharper than the others, more focused, and he grunted against her cunt. She shuddered, the vibration running through him, and came with a sudden, violent convulsion that pressed her down onto his face so hard he thought he might suffocate.
The hands withdrew from his groin. He felt the third woman rise, felt her weight lift from the seat, and then there was only one hand left, stroking him with a gentleness that was almost tender after the relentless plucking.
Fingers traced the length of his cock, then cupped his scrotum, rolling it in a palm. They explored the skin, probing, testing, and he felt the strange smoothness of it, the absence of the coarse hair that had covered it. The hand slid lower, between his thighs, and he felt the same naked smoothness there, the skin soft and vulnerable where it had been covered.
He was bald. All of it, every hair between his belly to his thighs, plucked clean. He could not see it, but he could feel it, the strange, alien smoothness of his own skin, and he understood that they had changed something about him that he couldn’t undo, at least not in the hours or days to come.
The hand squeezed his balls gently, almost reassuringly, and then withdrew. Footsteps vibrated through the frame, retreating, and the sense of presence faded from the room. He was alone again, his groin throbbing with a dull, persistent ache, his mouth still tasting of the three women he had served.
He lay in the darkness and the silence, smooth where he had been hairy, used where he had been whole, and waited for whatever would come next.