Chapter 5: The Loser's Lace
The board sat between them on the worn kitchen table, and the air had gone still the way it does at the end of a close game. Diego's hand hovered over his king. He had thirty seconds left on the clock. Joan had twenty-eight, and she was ahead by a knight, and the mate was coming no matter which way he ran it.
He made the only move that didn't lose immediately. He slid the king one square over, off the rank, out of the line of fire. His fingertips came away and the clock ticked.
Joan didn't even look at the board. She moved her queen two squares, soft, almost bored, the piece whispering across the felt. Then she sat back and crossed her arms and looked at him with that little smile she got when the trap had already closed.
The clock ticked down.
Diego stared at the board. There was nothing. No capture, no block, no run. The queen sat two squares from his king with nothing in between, and the rook held the back rank, and the whole thing was over.
He reached out and tipped his king over. It fell with a hollow click against the wood.
Joan leaned across the board. Her finger found the edge of his jaw and traced it down to the point of his chin, and she let it sit there a second, light, almost tender.
"You know what this means, pet."
"Yeah."
She cocked her head. The sun came in low over her shoulder and caught the gold in her hair, and she looked like something out of a painting if the painting had seen everything her cunt had done to him last time he'd been on top.
"Strip," she said. "All of it."
He stood and pulled his shirt over his head. The gray cotton came away and the air hit his chest and he dropped it on the floor. She watched him unbuckle his belt with her chin in her hand, the way she always watched, like she was cataloging every inch for later.
He stepped out of his jeans and stood there in his boxers with the kitchen light warm on his skin.
"Those too."
He hooked his thumbs in the waistband and pushed them down. His cock came out half-hard already, filling in the morning light, and she let her eyes travel down his body and back up with no hurry at all.
"Good boy."
He stood naked in the middle of the kitchen with his hands at his sides. The coffee cups sat cold on the counter where they'd abandoned them to play, and the sunlight made a long shadow of him across the floor.
Joan pushed back her chair and went to the bedroom. He heard her open the drawer where she kept the good stuff. When she came back she had a scrap of black lace in her hand, no bigger than a handkerchief, and her fingers worked it open as she walked toward him.
She knelt. The kitchen floor creaked under her knees. She looked up at him and held the lace open with both hands, and the light went through it in little diamond shapes.
"Step."
He lifted one foot and she worked the lace up over his ankle, then the other, and then she was pulling it up his thighs, slow, letting the fabric drag over his skin. The lace clung to him as it rose. When it got to his hips she cinched it tight at the sides and the knot pulled snug against his hipbones.
The scrap of black lace did nothing. It sat low on his hips and rode up his ass and left almost nothing to the imagination, and the only thing it covered at all was the base of his cock where the fabric pressed against him. The rest of him stood out hard and red and already leaking against the lace.
Joan rose and brushed her hands off on her shorts.
"Sit on the sofa, pet."
He went. The sofa cushions sighed under him and the lace rode up his thighs and he sat there with his cock straining against the scrap so it lifted the fabric off his skin, a tent of black lace in the sun.
She stood in the kitchen doorway a moment, watching him. Then she turned and disappeared into the bedroom.
He heard the drawer open again. Then the click of the box where the cuffs lived. Then the clink of metal and the whisper of rope coming out of its coil.
She came back with her arms full. Rope, cuffs, the little leather paddle she'd used on him the first time, and something black and round he didn't recognize sitting on top of the pile. She set it all down on the coffee table in front of him and stood over him, hands on her hips, and looked down at him in his lace.
"Now then, pet," she said. "Let's talk about your weekend."
Joan picked up the rope first, black and soft as a snake, and ran a loop of it through her fingers while she looked down at him.
"You know the rules," she said. "You don't move unless I say so. You don't make a sound unless I tell you to. You've got the whole weekend to make up for last time, pet, and I intend to collect."
She knelt at his left wrist and wound the rope twice around the sofa arm, snug, then a third time and a knot that sat flat against the wood. She tested it with a tug. The rope held. She moved to the right arm and did the same, and by the time she finished he couldn't bring his hands together if he tried.
His legs went next. She lifted his left ankle off the floor and looped the rope around the sofa leg, twice, three times, not tight enough to hurt but tight enough that the bones ground when he strained. His right ankle joined it. He lay spread on the cushions, arms pinned out at his sides, legs anchored at the corners, the black lace riding up his thighs.
Joan stood back and looked at him.
"Comfortable?"
He nodded against the cushion.
She picked up the ball gag from the pile, black leather strap, red ball the size of a plum, and she worked the strap around his head and settled the ball between his teeth. The buckle tightened at the back of his skull. The leather groaned once and then went still.
He tested it. The ball pressed his tongue flat and pinned his jaw open, and when he tried to say something it came out as a vowel with no shape to it, damp and muffled.
"Shh." She touched his cheek. "I know. You'll get to talk when I say so."
She stood and peeled her shorts down her hips, then her panties, plain white cotton gone gray from the day before with a dark patch at the crotch. She held them up to the light, looked at him over her shoulder, and walked the two steps back to the sofa.
"Breathe deep," she said, and tied the panties around his head, the crotch settled over his nose and mouth with the damp spot directly under his nostrils.
The smell hit him all at once. Her, sour and sweet, the sharp tang of yesterday's sweat and the deeper musk underneath. The way she smelled after a long day, after the gym, after everything his mouth had done to her the last time she'd won. He breathed in through his nose and his cock jumped against the lace and he made a sound into the gag.
She watched that with her head tilted.
"Good boy," she said. "Already leaking for me and I haven't even touched you yet."
The blindfold came next, a strip of black silk from the same drawer, and she folded it in half and tied it over his eyes. The world went dark. The kitchen light became a faint warmth against his closed lids.
He heard her move. The floorboards creaked once, twice. She was circling the sofa, slow, and he tracked her by the sound until she stopped somewhere behind his head.
Then her fingers landed on his chest.
Light, at first, just the tips, dragging a line down his sternum through the hair there. Down his stomach, over the ladder of his ribs, following the center line of his body the way a nail follows a seam. His skin prickled in her wake.
She reached the lace at his hips and hooked a finger under the waistband.
"This is coming off," she said. "Then I'm going to take my time with you."
The knot at his hip came loose and she drew the lace down the way she'd drawn it up, slow, letting it drag over the length of him. His cock sprang free and stood up hard, red and slick at the tip, and she let it sit there in the open air for a long moment before her fingers closed around its base.
The first stroke was slow, just the heel of her palm working up and down, a single slide from root to head. He bucked against the ropes.
"Uh uh," she said, and the flat of her hand came down on his thigh once, a slap that stung through the haze of the blindfold. "Hold still."
She took him in both hands and worked him the way she always did, slow at first, then faster, her thumbs circling the head, her nails catching the underside, and the lace of her own panties pressed against his nose on every breath so that all he could smell was her, her, her.
His hips worked against the rope at his ankles. His balls drew up tight and the heat built low in his gut and he knew he was going to come long before he was ready to, and she knew it too. She slowed down just enough to keep him on the edge and held him there, her thumb pressed against the head, his whole body a wire strung tight between the blindfold and her hand.
"That's it," she said, soft, almost gentle. "Stay like that for me."
She slipped off the sofa and he heard her footfalls cross the room. The pile on the coffee table shifted. Something leather creaked.
He couldn't see what she was holding, and she didn't move closer to let him find out. Just the sound of her hand running along it, once, twice, the way she'd test a toy before she used it.
She stood over him, and he heard her pull the leather something through her fingers one last time before she set it back on the pile.
The sofa creaked. Her warmth came down beside him, close enough that her thigh brushed his hip through the thin fabric of her gym shorts. He felt her hands at the lace again, working the waistband up his thighs, over his cock, settling it back into place. The scrap of black clung to him, already damp where he'd leaked.
"Comfortable, pet?"
He grunted into the gag.
She leaned in. Her breath ghosted over his stomach, lower, and then her mouth pressed against the head of his cock through the lace. A kiss, soft and deliberate, the fabric going wet under her lips. She held it there a second, then pulled back.
"Good."
She stood. The floor creaked as she shifted her weight. He heard her pick something up from the coffee table, set it down again, then the sound of her zipping a small bag.
"I'm going to the gym," she said.
His hips bucked against the ropes. The sound he made behind the ball gag came out flat and muffled.
"I know. I know." Her hand found his thigh, squeezed once. "I'll be back in a couple hours. You'll be here when I get back, won't you, pet?"
He nodded against the cushion.
She leaned down close to his ear. Her breath was warm and smelled like coffee, and her voice dropped low.
"While I'm gone, I want you to think about what I'm going to do to you when I get back. All sweaty. In my gym clothes."
He made a sound low in his throat. His cock strained against the lace, the fabric going dark with the slick leaking from the tip.
"Imagine it, pet." Her fingers traced down his chest, over his stomach, stopped just above the lace. "I'll be wearing these same shorts. The ones you can see through when the light's behind me. No bra. And no panties either."
He bucked, hard. The ropes held.
"I'll be thinking about you the whole time. Bent over a machine, thinking about this." She pressed her palm against the tent in the lace, and his hips shoved up into it. "What it's going to feel like when I come home and you're still tied up here, hard as you are now, just waiting for me."
She scraped a nail over the wet spot on the lace. Hot, quick, gone.
The gag caught his moan and turned it into something ragged.
"I'll tell you exactly what I'm going to do when I get back. You can't see me, pet. You can't hear anything but the door. Every sound could be me, coming home to you."
She stood. He heard her cross to the kitchen, pick up her keys, her water bottle. The bedroom door creaked once.
"Be good," she said from the doorway.
The door clicked shut.
The door clicked shut and Joan stood on the landing a second, keys in her hand. She pulled out her phone, scrolled to the contact, and pressed call. It rang twice.
"Hey," she said. "It's Joan. You free this morning?"
She listened a moment.
"Great. I need a favor. I left something tied up on my sofa. My boyfriend. He's gagged and blindfolded and he will be hard as a rock when you get here."
She smiled at the pause on the other end.
"I want you to have fun with him. Take him right to the edge, as close as you can get him, and then stop. Don't let him come. Not once. And don't tell him I asked."
She listened again.
"Pretend you found him like that. Do whatever you want with him, just no orgasm. I'll be back in two hours. You can do whatever else you want after that, I don't care. I just need him ruined and aching when I walk through that door."
She hung up and walked to her car, and the sun was bright and the coffee was still warm in her stomach.
An hour passed. The blindfold pressed against his eyes and the ball gag sat heavy in his mouth and the smell of Joan's panties filled every breath he took. He'd gone from hard to aching to a dull, desperate throb, and he'd lost count of how many times he'd strained against the ropes.
The lock turned.
He went still, heart hammering. Footsteps, lighter than Joan's. The click of the door, a pause. A woman's voice, surprised, almost amused.
"Oh," she said. "Well now. What do we have here?"
The maid. He knew her footsteps from a hundred visits, the soft pad of her sneakers on the boards. She came closer and the sofa creaked as she sat on the edge near his hip.
"Who tied you up like this, handsome?"
He grunted into the gag.
"Can't talk. That's a shame." Her hand landed on his bare thigh, warm, work-roughened. "I've always wondered what you looked like under these clothes."
Her fingers walked up his thigh, slow, and his cock jumped against the lace. The fabric was soaked through from his leaking and she found it immediately, her thumb pressing along the ridge of him through the wet cloth.
"You're hard," she said, like it was news to her. "Look at that. All tied up and nobody home."
She hooked a finger under the lace and drew it down. His cock sprang free, red and slick, and the air hit the wet head and he made a sound into the gag. She closed her hand around him and he thought he might come right there on the spot, just from the first touch of her palm.
She worked him slow. The calluses of her hand dragged against his shaft and she used her thumb to smear the slick over the head, round and round, and he bucked against the ropes with his whole body.
"That's it," she said. "Let it build."
She pumped him, steady, her other hand holding his hip down against the sofa. The heat rose in his gut like a tide and his balls drew up tight and he knew he was going to come, he was three strokes away, his hips were shoving up into her fist—
She let go.
The heat didn't crest. It sat there, burning, just under the surface, and his cock stood out purple and dripping and his whole body shook with the denial. He made a sound that wasn't a word, high and needy behind the ball.
"Oh, did I stop?" she said. "Sorry."
Her hand found him again. This time she worked him faster, both hands, and the sounds he made turned ragged and broken. She took him right back up, higher, and he was desperate now, grinding into her palms, and when he was one stroke away she stopped again.
He couldn't breathe. The panties smelled like Joan and his cock ached and the denial was so sharp it was almost pain.
"Not yet," she said.
She leaned in and her mouth closed over the head. Wet and hot and her tongue worked the slit, and he came unglued, shoving into her mouth, and she took him deep, and the heat built to a peak so sharp he saw white behind the blindfold—
She pulled off.
He lay gasping on the sofa, tears wetting the silk blindfold, his hips still jerking against nothing. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and watched him heave on the sofa. The blindfold was wet at the corners. His chest rose and fell in jagged bursts, and the lace at his hips had gone dark and clung to his skin.
She sat back down on the edge of the cushion. Her hand found his thigh, then slid lower, and her fingers closed around the soft weight of his balls, rolling them gently in her palm. He made a broken sound behind the gag.
She tugged the panties down off his face. They hung loose around his throat, and her smell lingered in the air between them.
"Do you want to come?" she said.
His voice came out cracked. "Yes."
She squeezed his balls once, a firm pressure that had his hips bucking off the sofa. "If you want to come, I need to come too. I will decide how much I want, and then I will give you one. Deal?"
He nodded hard, the word tumbling out. "Yes. Deal. Please."
She stood and pulled her shirt over her head in one motion. She was wearing nothing underneath, and she dropped the shirt on the floor and stood there in her work jeans with the sun across her shoulders. Then she unbuckled her belt, slow, and stepped out of her jeans.
She sat back down on the sofa, this time straddling his hips. The heat of her cunt pressed against the base of his cock, slick and open, and she was already wet. She looked down at him, blindfolded and bound, and she reached between them and took his cock in her hand and guided it against her.
"Do you feel that?" she said.
"Yes," he breathed.
She slid an inch of him inside her, just the head, and paused. Her hands flat on his chest. She rolled her hips once, slow, and the heat of her gripped him like a fist.
"This is my payment," she said. "You're going to lie there and take whatever I ride out of you, and you're not going to come until I tell you. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
She sank down another inch. The lace was gone, forgotten on the floor. The sofa creaked under their combined weight and her thighs flexed as she worked her way down the length of him, taking him deep, settling with her weight heavy on his hips.
She began to ride him. Slow at first, grinding, a long roll of her hips that had him groaning into the damp air. His hands strained against the ropes at his wrists and his ankles pulled at their anchors and he couldn't touch her, couldn't do anything but lie there and take it as she used his cock like a machine.
"That's it," she said. "That's all I needed."
She went faster. The slap of her thighs against his hips filled the room, and the wet sounds of her riding him mixed with her breathing, which was already going ragged. She worked herself on him with her head thrown back and her hands braced on his chest, and he watched the blur of her shape above him, all he could see of her through the silk.
She came first. He felt it happen, the clench of her around him, the way her rhythm broke and stuttered and she ground down hard and stayed there, trembling, a long low sound pulled out of her throat. She stayed on him through it, grinding slow, and the sensation of her coming around his cock dragged him right up to the edge and held him there.
She shifted her weight off his cock and the loss of her heat made him groan. She moved up his body, knees either side of his chest, and the wet slick of her cunt dragged a line across his stomach. Then she kept going, up over his ribs, and she stopped with her thighs bracketing his head.
"Open your mouth," she said.
He opened it. She lowered herself onto his face, slow, and the weight of her settled on him. Her cunt pressed against his mouth, slick and warm from riding him, and she smelled like sex and her own sweat. She rocked once, grinding her clit against his lips, and he lapped at her with his tongue, flat and broad.
"That's it," she said. "Eat me like I ate you."
She braced her hands on the sofa back above his head. The blindfold pressed hard against his face and he couldn't see her, only feel her, the weight of her, the way she rolled her hips in a slow circle and pushed her cunt against his mouth. He found her clit with his tongue and worked it, fast, steady, the way Joan liked, and the maid made a sound above him that was half a laugh and half a groan.
"You know what you're doing," she said. "That's what I always figured."
She reached down and spread herself open with her fingers. The air hit his tongue and he dove in, licking up the length of her, then back down, then closed his lips around her clit and sucked. Her hips bucked. The sofa shook.
"God," she breathed. "Right there. Keep doing that."
He kept doing it. His tongue circled her clit and his jaw ached and the ropes bit into his wrists, and she rode his face harder, grinding down with her whole weight. Her thighs shook against his cheeks. Her breath came in gasps and she started to talk, low and broken, telling him he was good, that he knew how to use that mouth, that she was going to come all over his face if he kept it up.
He kept it up.
Her rhythm broke. She shoved down hard and held herself there, grinding against his mouth, and she came with a long drawn-out moan that turned into his name, and she shook through it on top of him, grinding slow until the last wave passed.
She stayed there a moment, breathing hard. Then she lifted off his face and slid down his body and took his cock in her hand, and his hips bucked off the sofa.
"Deal's a deal," she said.
She took his cock in her hand and pumped him twice, slow, and his hips came off the sofa. Then she let go.
"No," she said. "Wait. I said after my work."
He groaned. "Come on."
"You heard me." She stood up, stepped off the sofa, and worked the lace off his hips with her toe. He was fully naked now, tied and wet with her slick smeared across his stomach. She looked down at him and smiled. "I'm supposed to do the dishes. The dusting. And I am not doing them with a mouth full."
She reached down and pulled the blindfold off his head. The light hit him hard and he blinked, and she was standing there in the middle of the room, completely naked, with her hands on her hips. Sunlight caught the sweat on her collarbone and the dark hair between her legs.
"Watch me," she said. "That's part of the punishment."
She turned and walked to the kitchen sink. He watched her go, the sway of her hips, the flex of her ass as she bent to open the dishwasher. She pulled out a clean plate and set it on the rack and picked up the sponge.
He could see everything from the sofa. The way her breasts hung when she leaned over the counter. The way her thighs shifted. The way a strand of hair fell across her face as she scrubbed the same plate like she had all the time in the world.
She glanced over her shoulder at him.
"You're still hard."
It wasn't a question. His cock stood out rigid against his stomach, the head slick and dark, and it hadn't dropped a single inch since she'd pulled off him. He nodded.
"Good," she said, and went back to the dishes.
She worked for twenty minutes. She washed the cups, wiped the counter, moved to the table and wiped the rings their coffee cups had left. Every time she bent over, the light caught her. Every time she reached for the high shelf the muscles in her back flexed, and he watched her with his jaw slack and his balls drawn up tight and his cock throbbing in the open air.
She came back to the sofa once. She stood over him, casual, and picked up his ankle where it was tied to the leg. Then she dropped it, leaned forward, and pressed the wet sponge to the head of his cock. Just a press, cold and rough, and the rough scrubbing side dragged over the slick head once before she pulled away.
"I missed a spot," she said, and walked back to the counter.
He made a sound that came out as a growl. She ignored him.
A minute later she was back. This time she straddled his thigh, facing him, and reached behind her to wrap her hand around his balls. She rolled them in her palm, gentle, while she looked at her phone with the other hand. Her lips moved as she read something.
"You work from home?" he rasped.
"Three days a week." She squeezed his balls, just enough pressure. His hips bucked. "When I'm not doing this."
She released him and stood. She went to the broom closet and came back with a dust rag in her hand, and she worked it along the shelves beside the sofa, and every third stroke of the rag she'd let her wrist drag across his cock, light, barely there. He thrust up toward her and she pulled the rag away.
"Uh uh. I'm not done."
She dusted the whole living room. She did it slowly, deliberately, bending at the waist to get the lower shelves, giving him a full view of her hanging tits and the long line of her spine. When she reached the top shelf she stood on her toes and he watched her cunt shift as her thighs spread, and he thought he might come just from looking.
She caught him watching. She smiled and touched herself once, two fingers sliding through her slick folds and pressing against her clit, and she held his eye while she did it.
"Like what you see?"
"Yes."
She pulled her fingers away and wiped them on his stomach. Then she walked back to the kitchen and surveyed the room with her hands on her hips.
"Done."
She turned to look at him. The afternoon sun had moved across the floor and now it caught her full in the face, and she was nude from head to toe with the work done and her hair coming loose from its tie.
She surveyed the room one last time, hands on her hips, then walked to the coffee table. The pile sat where Joan had left it, rope, cuffs, the paddle, and the black round thing she'd never seen before. She picked it up. It was a vibrator, smooth and heavy, with a soft silicone head and a little dial on the side.
She looked at it, then at Diego. He was still tied spread on the sofa, cock standing dark and slick against his stomach, his chest heaving.
"You don't mind if I borrow this, do you?" She turned the dial. The toy hummed low in her hand, a buzz that carried across the room. "No? Good."
She dragged a kitchen chair over and set it in front of the sofa, two feet from his hip. She sat down facing him and spread her legs wide, hooking her ankles over the chair's front rungs. The afternoon light caught the wet shine between her thighs, and she reached down and dragged two fingers through it, slow, showing him.
"Watch," she said.
She pressed the vibrator's head against her clit and rolled it in a circle. Her breath caught. She kept her eyes on his, on the way his cock jumped with every stroke of the toy. The buzz filled the room, and her hips began to roll against the silicone in a slow, idle rhythm.
"God," she breathed. "That's good."
She worked it slower, lifting it off, pressing it back, circling. Her other hand came up to pinch her nipple and roll it between her thumb and finger. Her thighs began to tremble and she watched him watch her, and the sight of his desperation, the hard line of his cock, the way his wrists strained against the rope, pushed her higher.
"You want to touch me, don't you." She wasn't asking. Her voice had gone low and rough. "You want to put your mouth there. Maybe your fingers. Maybe that cock of yours, right where I'm working this thing."
His hips bucked against the ropes. The sound he made was a raw groan.
She laughed, short and breathy. "Too bad."
She shifted the chair and pressed the vibrator deeper, flat against her, and her whole body tightened. Her toes curled on the rungs. She pumped the toy against her clit in a fast, steady rhythm and she watched him the whole time, the muscles of her stomach cording, her breath coming in open-mouthed gasps.
"Almost," she said. "Almost."
She slowed down. Just enough to hang on the edge, the buzz easing off, her hips still rolling. He made a strangled sound and she shook her head.
"I'll take my time. I've earned it."
She brought it back up. Faster now, harder, pressing the head of the vibrator against her clit with her whole hand. The chair creaked under her. Her thighs shook and she bit her lip and the orgasm coiled up through her, and she came with her eyes locked on his, her head falling back, a long shuddering moan pulled out of her throat.
She rode the toy through it, grinding down, until the last wave passed and she went slack in the chair. The vibrator buzzed on against her and she clicked it off, and the room went quiet except for her breathing.
She sat there a moment, eyes closed, chest heaving. Then she opened them and looked at him.
"Deal's a deal." She set the toy on the table. "You held up your end. You watched me, you didn't come, you didn't move. You did good."
The door opened behind them.
Joan leaned in the frame, gym bag slung over one shoulder, a sheen of sweat on her collarbone. Her eyes went from the maid, naked in the chair, to Diego, tied and leaking on the sofa, and the smile that spread across her face was slow and knowing.
"Busy morning," she said.
The maid didn't move. Her hand still rested on the toy where she'd set it, and she looked at Joan with a stillness Diego couldn't read. Then she smiled back.
"You found someone cute," the maid said.
"I knew you'd like him."
Joan dropped her bag by the door and crossed the room. She stopped in front of the maid's chair and looked down at her, and the maid looked up, and the air between them went thick and wrong in a way that made Diego's cock twitch against his stomach.
Joan reached down and hooked a finger under the maid's chin.
"How was he?"
"Good. Obedient. Barely lasted two minutes once I got my mouth on him."
"That's my pet."
Joan leaned in and kissed her. It was not a small kiss. It was open-mouthed and slow and Diego watched the maid's hand come up and bury in Joan's hair and pull her closer, and the two of them made out standing there by the chair with the afternoon sun falling across them.
Joan's free hand found the maid's breast. She cupped it and rolled the nipple between her thumb and finger and the maid made a sound into Joan's mouth. Joan pulled back just enough to breathe.
"I missed you," Joan said.
"Missed you too. It's been two weeks."
"Too long."
Joan stepped back and peeled off her gym shorts. Under them she was wearing black tights that went down to her calves, and the fabric was dark at the crotch. She stripped off her tank top and the sports bra went next, and she stood there in nothing but the tights with her breasts bare and the line of sweat glistening down her sternum.
The maid watched her, hungry.
"Come here," the maid said.
Joan stepped close. The maid reached out and pressed her palm flat against the front of the tights, against the wet heat of Joan's cunt, and Joan gasped and bucked into the touch.
"Fuck," Joan breathed. "That's it."
The maid's hand worked against the tights, slow, the fabric dragging over Joan's clit. The maid ran her fingers down the seam and pressed, two fingers, parting the damp cloth, and Joan's thighs shook and she grabbed the maid's shoulders to steady herself.
Diego watched from the sofa with his jaw slack. He couldn't see the maid's hand inside the tights, just the movement of it, the way Joan's hips rolled against her palm.
"Sit," the maid said.
Joan sat on the maid's lap, straddling her, facing Diego. The maid wrapped her arms around Joan's waist and her hands found Joan's breasts over her shoulders, squeezing, rolling the nipples between her fingers. Joan's head fell back against the maid's shoulder and she moaned low in her throat.
"Look at him," the maid whispered. "Look at that cock. Hard for you. Hard for both of us."
Joan looked. Diego's cock stood rigid, dark, slick at the tip, and he strained against the ropes with his whole body. His hips bucked off the cushion.
The maid's hand slipped down the front of Joan's tights. Two fingers pushed inside, and Joan gasped and grabbed the edge of the chair. The maid worked her slow, sliding in and out of Joan's wet cunt, watching Diego watch them.
"He wants to come so bad," the maid breathed in Joan's ear. "He's been climbing the walls all morning."
"Don't let him," Joan said. Her voice had gone rough. "Tie him down."
"He's already tied."
"Tighter."
The maid's fingers kept working Joan while she talked, a steady rhythm that had Joan's hips grinding down onto her hand. Joan reached up and pulled the maid's mouth back to hers and they kissed deep and wet over Joan's shoulder, and the sound of the maid's fingers inside her was loud in the quiet room.
Diego couldn't look away. The two of them, the maid's hand buried in Joan's tights, Joan's bare tits crushed against the maid's forearm, the way Joan's whole body shook when the maid hit the spot she was working. He pulled at the rope with everything he had and the rope bit into his wrists and gave him nothing.
The maid pulled her fingers out of Joan. She brought them to her mouth and sucked them clean, looking at Diego the whole time, and Joan watched him too, both of them turned toward him with the same lazy, amused hunger.
"Open your mouth, pet," Joan said.
He opened it. The gag strap was still around his head, the ball hanging loose below his chin. Joan rose from the maid's lap and walked to the sofa. She knelt, took his cock in her hand, and guided it between the maid's parted lips where the maid had leaned in close.
"Taste her," Joan said. "Both of us."
The maid's lips parted and took the head of him in, warm and slick, and Diego's whole body arched off the sofa. The rope bit into his wrists. The maid worked her tongue around the crown and slid down another inch, and Joan held his cock steady at the base, watching the maid's mouth stretch around him.
"That's it," Joan said. "Take him deep. He likes that."
The maid hummed around him. The vibration ran up his shaft and his hips bucked and Joan pressed a flat hand down on his stomach to hold him still.
"Uh uh," she said. "You don't move. You just lie there and let her work."
The maid pulled off with a wet sound and licked the length of him, slow, from base to tip. Then she looked up at Diego with the head of him resting against her lower lip.
"He's so hard," she said. "Look at it. Nearly purple."
"My pet gets like that when he's desperate." Joan stroked his thigh. "He's been like this all morning, haven't you, pet?"
"Yes," he rasped.
The maid took him back in. She slid down until her nose touched his belly and held there, swallowing around him, and Joan watched with her hand still flat on his stomach. When the maid pulled off she was grinning.
He tastes like you," the maid said.
"Good."
Joan leaned down and took his cock in her mouth. The heat of her was familiar and the wet slide of her lips pulled a sound out of him that came out high and ragged. She worked him slow, her tongue flat along the underside, and the maid pressed close beside her and watched.
"I want to share," the maid said.
Joan pulled off. She ran a finger along his shaft, slick with her spit, and looked at the maid. "You take the top. I'll get the bottom."
The maid's hand closed around the base and she took the head into her mouth. Joan moved lower and dragged her tongue up the shaft from the root, and they worked him together, mouth by mouth, trading the length of him between them like something sweet. He heard them talking around him, muffled and wet, and the sounds they made turned his brain to static.
"God, he's twitching," the maid said.
"He's close. I can feel it."
"Don't let him."
"I know."
Joan's hand wrapped around the base and squeezed firm, holding the orgasm back. He made a raw sound, almost a sob, and his hips shoved up against her grip.
"No," Joan said. "Not yet. Not until we say."
The maid took him in her mouth again and Joan watched, her thumb stroking along the vein that ran up his shaft. The maid worked him slow, deep, and Joan leaned in and pressed her mouth to the place where the maid's lips met his skin, her tongue tracing the seam of them together.
"Is that good?" Joan said against his skin.
"Yes. Fuck, yes."
The maid pulled off with a gasp. She looked at Joan with her lips wet.
"Your turn," she said.
Joan took him deep. She worked her throat around him, her nose in the dark hair at his base, and the maid moved up beside her and reached down and pressed two fingers flat against his perineum, behind his balls. He bucked hard and the rope creaked.
"You like that, pet?" the maid said.
"Yes. Please. I'm so close."
"I know you are." Joan pulled off and kissed the head of him, soft. "That's the point. You're going to lie here with your balls drawn up and your cock aching while we decide what to do with you."
The maid leaned in and took his balls into her mouth, warm and wet, rolling them gently with her tongue. Diego's head tipped back against the cushion and he pulled at the ropes with his whole body and the gag strap hung loose and forgotten below his jaw.
"I'm going to come," he said. "I can't hold it."
Joan wrapped her hand around him and squeezed at the base again, hard enough that the pulse of it stalled. He cried out, a broken sound.
"I said not yet." She worked her thumb in a slow circle over the head, dragging the slick around. "You come when I tell you. You open your mouth and you wait for the word. Do you understand?"
"Yes. Yes, I understand."
"Good pet."
She leaned down and took him in her mouth alongside the maid, their lips meeting on his shaft, their tongues working the length of him together. Diego watched them from the blindfold's edge, the two dark heads moving slow and shared over his cock, and he was so close he was shaking with it.
Joan pulled off. The maid pulled off. The air hit his wet cock and he moaned.
"Tomorrow," Joan said. "Maybe Monday. Or maybe I'll make you wait all week."
Joan let the words hang there, the threat warm and lazy. Diego's chest heaved, the blindfold damp at the edges, his cock still standing dark and untouched.
The maid sat back in the chair, watching them both. She dragged her knuckles along her own thigh, thoughtful.
"Wait all week." She said it like she was tasting it. "That's a waste."
Joan raised an eyebrow.
"I've got a better idea," the maid said. "We make a game of him."
Joan's interest sharpened. "What kind of game?"
"One I like." The maid stood and walked to the coffee table. She picked up the length of rope and ran it through her fingers. "We take turns with him. Same rules for both of us. Whoever makes him come first, loses. The winner gets to keep him for the rest of the weekend. And the loser has to sit in that chair, hands tied behind her back, and watch the entire thing."
Joan's smile spread slow. "And if neither of us breaks him?"
"Then we keep going until one of us does." The maid looked over at Diego, at the slick head of his cock, at the way he strained against the ropes. "Or he passes out. Either way, we've got all weekend."
Diego made a sound that wasn't a word. The gag strap swung loose below his jaw and his hands clenched against the rope at his wrists.
Joan crossed to the sofa and knelt beside him. She brushed his hair off his forehead, gentle.
"You hear that, pet? We're going to take turns using you. And you're going to hold back as long as you can." She leaned in close, her mouth at his ear. "Because the same rule goes for you. You come too early and the winner gets to decide what happens to you on Monday too."
"Joan." His voice cracked.
"Shh." She stroked his cheek. "You're going to be so good for us, aren't you? You're going to hold it. You're going to last."
The maid crossed the room and stopped in front of the chair, facing the sofa. She put her hands on her hips.
"First turn is mine. I earned it this morning." She looked back at Joan. "You can watch. Learn something."
Joan sat down in the kitchen chair the maid had dragged over. She leaned back, arms crossed, and the afternoon light fell across her bare breasts as she settled in to watch.
The maid turned to Diego. She looked at him a long moment, at the tight lines of his body, the rope biting his wrists, the desperate rise and fall of his chest. Then she climbed onto the sofa and straddled his thighs, facing him, her cunt hot and slick against his skin.
"Here's how this works," she said. "I'm going to ride you slow. I'm going to talk to you. I'm going to tell you filth until you're climbing the walls. And you are going to lie there and take it and not come. Because if you come under me, I lose. And I don't lose."
She took him in her hand and guided him against her. The head of his cock pressed against her opening, slick, and she held him there a second without pushing down.
"Do you understand?"
"Yes." His voice was barely a breath.
"Good."
She sank down. Slow, inch by inch, taking the full length of him inside her until she sat deep with her weight heavy on his hips. She let out a long breath and rolled her hips once, a grinding circle that had his hands clawing at the rope.
"God," she breathed. "You feel good like this. Hard and desperate and all mine for the next hour."
She began to ride him. Slow, so slow it was almost torture, a long roll of her hips that dragged the full length of him through her. She leaned forward and her breasts brushed his chest, her mouth at his ear.
"I'm going to whisper in your ear the whole time," she said. "Tell you exactly what I'd do to you if I had you alone. Tie you to my bed. Keep you locked in a cage. Ride you three, four times a night and see how long you lasted before you broke."
His hips bucked. She pressed down harder and held him still.
"That's right. That's the part I want. I want you to lie there and take what I give you and know I can go as long as I want because I'm on top and you're tied down and you don't get a say."
Joan watched from the chair, silent, her fingers drumming on her knee. Her eyes were dark and fixed on the place where they joined.
The maid kept up her rhythm, slow, grinding, her hips rolling in a figure eight. She talked the whole time, low and filthy, her voice in his ear, telling him about the machines she rode at the gym, about how she thought about him the whole time, about what his cock would feel like deep in her cunt when she had all night with it.
Diego's jaw was slack. His eyes had gone glassy. The rope at his wrists creaked and the muscles in his arms stood out in cords and he was shaking with the effort of holding back.
"You're close," the maid said. "I can feel it. Every inch of you pulsing inside me." She rolled her hips slower, softer, dragging it out. "Hold it. For me. Just a little longer."
She felt his cock jump inside her, felt the hot rigidity of him, and she slowed to a near stop, grinding just the head of him against the deepest spot.
"There it is. Right there. You're one breath away."
She kept him there, balanced on the edge, for a long minute. His whole body was trembling and his hands had gone white around the rope and she watched his face, the way his throat worked, the way his eyes screwed shut.
Joan leaned forward in the chair.
"Hold it, pet," she said quietly. "Hold it for her."
His jaw clenched. A low sound came out of him, long and strangled, and he shook and shook but he didn't come.
The maid slowed to a stop. She sat there on him, breathing hard, watching him.
"Good boy," she said. "Good."
She lifted off him with a wet sound and sat back on his thighs. His cock stood out slick and purple and it hadn't dropped an inch.
She looked at Joan. "Your turn."
Joan stood. She crossed to the sofa and the maid swung off and handed her the space, and Joan stood over him with the afternoon light behind her. She looked down at him, at the mess of him, the tremor in his arms.
"Alright, pet," she said. "Let's see how much you have left for me."
Joan knelt on the sofa and took him by the jaw. He looked up at her, glassy, barely there. She ran her thumb along his lower lip and he opened his mouth and let her push it inside.
"You feel that, pet? That's mine." She worked her thumb against his tongue. "You're going to remember who taught you to hold it. Who knows exactly how long you can last."
She pulled her thumb free and climbed over him. She didn't ride him. She shifted up his body, knees either side of his chest, and lowered her cunt to his mouth. The maid watched from the chair, arms crossed.
"Eat me," Joan said. "Slow. And don't come."
He drank her with his tongue flat and broad, the way she liked, no rush. She worked herself against his mouth in a lazy grind and watched the maid watch them, and she kept him there for ten minutes, twenty, riding his face with her eyes closed and her hands braced on the sofa back. He worked her with his jaw aching and his cock twitching against his belly and he did not come.
She came on his mouth without a sound, a long silent shudder, and when she lifted off him he was still hard, still desperate, still holding.
She looked at the maid. A single bead of sweat ran down her temple.
"I didn't break him," Joan said. "Your turn."
The maid stood. She was already wet from watching and she climbed onto the sofa without a word and took him inside her in one slow sink. She rode him harder than before, chasing it, trying to make herself come before she pushed him over. She fucked herself on him with her head back and her thighs shaking and she talked low the whole time, telling him how close he was, how she could feel every pulse of him, how one more stroke and she'd have him.
Diego's hips bucked. His hands clawed the rope. He made a sound that was almost a sob.
"Don't you dare," the maid breathed. "Don't you fucking dare."
She ground down hard. His whole body went rigid and his eyes rolled and she felt it, the hot pulse of him deep inside her, and she cursed and shoved herself down harder to stop him and it was too late. He came with a raw cry, and she felt each hot spurt of him inside her, and the game was over.
She went still. The room was quiet except for his ragged breathing.
The maid lifted off him slowly, her face unreadable. Come ran down the inside of her thigh.