Chapter 2: The Next Game
The only sounds were Leo’s ragged breathing and the slow drip of water from the tap in the corner sink. The cold, damp wood of the drafting table seeped into his back, a stark contrast to the burning flush on his skin. He stared at the ceiling, the water stain now a familiar galaxy, his body humming with a residual static. Shame had calcified into a hollow ache in his chest.He’d pissed himself. He’d come from being tickled. He was tied to a table in a pool of his own release, and the person who had orchestrated it all was quietly rummaging through her armoire.
Roz moved with a methodical calm.She didn’t look at him, not yet. Her focus was internal, a practitioner preparing her tools. The air, already thick with the scent of old perfume, lavender, and the sharper, more intimate smells of their play, grew heavier.
He heard the soft rustle of fabric, a different sound than the silks and velvets of before.Denim. He managed to tilt his head. She was at the foot of the table, her back to him, undoing the button of her faded jeans. She pushed them down over her hips, the sound a rough whisper. She stepped out of them, one foot then the other, folding the denim with a casual neatness and placing it on the chaise. Her underwear followed—simple, black cotton briefs, stretched taut over the immense, soft curve of her hips. Those, too, were discarded without ceremony.
She stood there for a moment, her back to him, a monumental silhouette against the flickering light. The generous swell of her lower back, the powerful lines of her shoulders under the caftan, the sheer, breathtaking scale of her.Leo’s breath caught. This wasn’t the playful, commanding woman from before.This was something more elemental.She turned.
Her expression was serene, contemplative. Her gaze swept over him, trussed and stained on the table, and there was no pity in it, only a deep, absorbing curiosity. She approached, the floorboards accepting her weight with a series of soft complaints. She placed a hand on his shin, just above the velvet rope.Her skin was warm, almost feverish.
“You’re a mess,” she stated, her voice low and even.He had no words. He just watched her, his heart beginning a slow, hard thump against his ribs.
She walked alongside the table, her hand trailing up his leg, over his knee, his trembling thigh. She stopped by his hip, looking down at the sticky, cooling evidence of his last shattering climax on his stomach. She dipped two fingers into it, lifted them, examined the fluid with a detached air, then wiped them clean on his thigh. He flinched.“You see this?” she asked, not really expecting an answer. “This is what happens when you stop thinking.When you just… feel.” Her eyes finally met his. “We’re going to feel some more.”
She went to the head of the table. She leaned over him, her caftan falling open, and he was enveloped in her warmth, her scent—spice, salt, her. She kissed him, hard, her tongue pushing past his lips, claiming his mouth until he was breathless.When she pulled back, his head swam.
“My turn,” she whispered.
She moved down his body, her hands braced on the table on either side of his hips. Then, with a graceful, deliberate shift of her weight, she swung one leg over the table, straddling his chest. He was staring up at the deep valley between her thighs, at the dark, neat triangle of hair, at the heavy, soft press of her stomach folding over itself. The sheer, overwhelming reality of her closeness made his lungs constrict.“Roz…” he gasped.
“Shhh.” She lowered herself, not onto him, but over him. She shifted back, the soft, massive expanse of her ass descending towards his face. It blocked the light, a great, pale moon eclipsing his world.The warmth of her radiated down onto him, a palpable heat. He felt the dampness of her skin, the faint, musky scent of her now intimate and all-consuming.She settled.It wasn't a violent smothering. It was a gradual, inescapable envelopment. The full, immense softness of her buttocks pressed against his face, covering it completely.His nose was buried in the deep, warm cleft. His mouth, open in a gasp, was sealed against her skin. He could taste salt, feel the fine, downy hair.He could not breathe.Panic shot through him, immediate and primal. He tried to turn his head, a futile jerk against the unyielding softness. He tried to suck in air and got nothing—just the close, heated press of her flesh. A muffled, frantic sound vibrated in his throat.His bound legs thrashed against their velvet tethers.
Above him, she sighed, a contented, heavy sound. She shifted slightly, adjusting her weight, settling more fully.The pressure increased. The world narrowed to heat, to darkness, to the desperate, screaming need for oxygen.Spots danced behind his clenched eyelids.His chest burned.
Then, a touch.Her hand, reaching between her own legs, finding him. He was soft, spent, but her fingers closed around him anyway. She began to stroke, slowly at first, a idle, persistent rhythm.The sensation was distant, muted by the roaring panic in his head. He was drowning in her.His struggles grew weaker. The burning in his lungs was becoming a cold, spreading numbness.A strange, dark calm began to seep through the panic.This was it. This was how it ended.Smothered by Roz, in a back room that smelled of lavender and come. A part of him, a deep, surrendered part, found it obscenely fitting.
Just as the edges of his consciousness began to fray, she lifted.Just an inch. A sliver of cool, lavender-tinged air hit his lips. He gulped it in with a desperate, sobbing gasp.The air was the sweetest thing he had ever tasted.
Before he could take another, she settled back down, sealing him in again.The soft darkness returned.The heat. The slow, sure stroking of her hand on his cock. He was hardening again, a traitorous response wired directly to his lizard brain, to the primal mix of asphyxiation and her absolute control.
She repeated the cycle. A long, terrifying interval of utter breathlessness, where his world was the pounding of his own heart and the rhythmic pull of her hand. Then, the merciful, agonizing lift for a single gulp of air before she submerged him again. Each time, the breath felt more precious.Each time, the smothering felt more like an embrace.His struggles ceased. His body went limp against the restraints, accepting its fate. The only movement was the involuntary buck of his hips into her fist, and the frantic rise and fall of his chest when she allowed him that fleeting sip of life.Her breathing above him was deep, regular, unchanged.She was in no distress. She was comfortable, settled upon him as if on a favorite pillow, her other hand probably braced on the table behind her. The sheer normality of her posture, contrasted with his absolute vulnerability, broke something else inside him.
On what felt like the tenth cycle, as she lifted for that crucial half-second, she spoke, her voice a muffled vibration through her own flesh. “You like this.” It wasn’t a question.“You need this.”
She sealed him again. This time, her other hand joined the first.Not both on his cock. One continued its relentless stroking, now fast and demanding.The other, her fingers, found the very tip of him. He felt the rough pad of her index finger locate the sensitive slit.And she tickled it.
That same, maddening, unbearable scritch-scritch-scritch right on the hyper-sensitive nerve-rich head.The sensation was an electric current. It shot through the haze of oxygen deprivation, through the numbness, straight to the core of him. He screamed, the sound absorbed utterly by the muffling prison of her ass. His body arched off the table, straining against the ropes, every muscle locked in a rictus of overstimulation.He couldn’t breathe. He was being tickled to orgasm while suffocating. The paradox was absolute, the pleasure excruciating, tied inextricably to the panic.The coil snapped.His climax ripped through him silently, violently. It was a dry, wrenching upheaval, muscles seizing with no release but the painful, convulsive pulsing of his already-spent cock in her relentless hands. Tears streamed from the corners of his eyes, mixing with the sweat and moisture on her skin.His vision whited out in the dark.
When the last tremor passed, she lifted.Completely. Cool air flooded over his wet, ravaged face. He lay gasping, choking, drawing in huge, shuddering breaths that tasted of her and of dust. He was sobbing openly, helplessly, the sounds raw and ugly in the quiet room.
She swung her leg off the table with a grunt of effort and stood beside him, looking down.Her caftan was still open.Her expression was soft, almost wondrous. She reached down and wiped the mess from his stomach with a clean corner of the fabric, then used another damp corner to gently clean his face.She didn’t speak. She simply untied the leather from his right wrist, then his left, massaging the feeling back into his blood-starved hands. She moved to his ankles, unlooping the velvet ropes. Once he was free, she helped him sit up.He swayed, dizzy, nauseous. She put her arm around him, steadying him, letting him lean his forehead against her shoulder. He cried into the silk of her caftan, his body shaking with deep, wracking shudders.
After a long time, his breathing slowed.The shop bell chimed faintly from the front. The real world still existed.Roz cupped the back of his head, her fingers tangling in his damp hair. “Okay,” she murmured, her lips against his temple.“Okay. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
It was the most mundane sentence imaginable. It sounded like salvation.