Mask 3

The dress is flows lightly past her limbs. She is wearing, of course, nothing underneath. She dances, him watching her, watching over her, as if there were no one in the room. It is a strange mixture of ballet and modern dance, all of her own design, all of her own doing. Bach is playing in the background, and she dances softly, gracefully, lost in herself, wanting the moment to never end and knowing that it must, as all moments must come to an end. It is the thing about her that makes her special to him, the fact that she truly hates for the moment, the fact, the time that is, to end. She is a dancer, a dancer of life, and an artist in the human character, a subtle sorceress of the human mind.

And so she dances, weaving her web of kindness, her web of gentle deception that tells him that he is the one for her, although it is true. You see, she does not want to believe it, and therefore it cannot be true in her mind. And there the thing stays.

She finally notices she is not alone, having been lost in her dance, takes notice that he is in the room. She looks at him in a wondering and a questioning look. Does he wish her to kneel before him? Does he wish her in chains tonight? Or would he rather have the ropes upon which she sleeps in remembrance of him?

He simply hands her the Ben-Wa. She understands he wishes her to continue to dance for him, wishes to know she is feeling the rolling motion, the constant low-level stimulation that makes and keeps her wet, that makes her ready and willing for him. Not the only way she is made ready, but one way.

The room is lit only by fire, the lamps on the wall and the flickering lances of light from the fireplace dancing across her lush and curvaceous figure.

She changes the music to one of a Celtic rhythm, ancient beat, dancing to the rhythmic strains of the harp, feeling the motion within, and the glow begins, the stirrings begin.

She dances around the room in the lilting gait of the dances of the Beltane. The heat stirs more strongly within her. Her full hips move almost of their own accord, swinging gracefully back and forth to the music, to him.

He watches the swing of her hips and the swing of her breasts beneath the thin fabric. He motions her closer to him, and she comes forward, still swinging her hips in a slow motion, rocking her pelvis slowly, very slowly, drawing out the feeling, making the most of the time and the opportunity.

He takes hold of the thin material that is the front of her gown and slowly tears it, right down the middle. His hands grip and pull the material apart, slowly, deliberately, and the sound of the ripping cloth opens the sluice-gates of the wetness between her legs, at her center, in the depths of her belly. She feels her inner core grow hot, and melting, the flow begins between her legs. She feels the cool air on and between her breasts, and then on her nipples as he draws the thin fabric back. He draws the material directly over her nipples and they grow hard and full of blood.

He motions for her to touch herself, and she does so, gratefully. He allows her to continue just long enough for her fire to start burning on the surface and motions for her to stop. It is a difficult thing to do, to stop, but she does it, and trembles in front of him, nipples engorged, fingers wet with her own juices, sweet-smelling and glistening in the firelight.

He motions to the front of the silk dressing gown that he wears. She moves to him and opening the tie and folding the material back from him, she finds, as she expected and as she wanted, his erection, hard, smooth, and hot to the touch. The skin is blood-gorged, delicate, and pulled tight across the head, containing the hardness that her dancing and her response to him has caused. She smiles, because it is not only she that is slave to him and her own desires it is him that is also a slave to the magic that they have between them.

The first word of command, "Make love to me with your tongue, make it a true caress, let me feel your love in it, let there be magic in your touch and in the wetness of your mouth. Take me in your mouth, my sweet, as if your very life depended upon it."

She complies with pleasure and takes him deep, as far into her throat as she can manage. She licks him, caresses him, grasps him and twists her mouth upon his cock, hot and hard, now slick with the clear juices of her mouth.

"I have a gift for you, my sweet," he said. "No, don't stop, I'll tell you about it. Ahh, that's it. I have had made for you, a mask to wear in these little adventures of ours. It is similar to the masks of the Mardi Gras and serves somewhat the same purpose, to allow the wearer to assume any demeanor that they so choose without fear of discovery." He stroked her cheek and reached down to pinch her nipple. A small, muffled cry of painful pleasure escaped her as she caressed him with her mouth. "Anonymity is a wonderful thing, my dear. It allows the depravity of your soul to shine through. You can," he said as he rose from the chair, she following him with her mouth, "be and do anything, so long as you are wearing the mask of magic."

He gently drew her head from his cock and commanded her to stay just as she was. Her eyes were closed, her mouth slightly open, red and wet from loving him, his cock, hands slightly tensed, the fires glowing hot within her, building within.

He went away for a moment, but returned with a porcelain mask. It was black and white, with a tear painted upon one cheek, and silk ribbon to fasten it on. He commands her to tilt her head back a little, and places the mask upon her face.

She is aware of the weight, a reminder of its' presence, a reminder that she is wearing emotional armor, a shield behind which her body can act out anything that she chose. As he tied the ribbons in the back of her head, it was both secure and a little frightening, the possibilities.

He lifted her gown from behind and felt her lips below. She was wet and becoming wetter, the flow was there.

He grasped one wrist and put a leather bracelet around it and repeated with the other wrist. He then bound the two together and led her over to a bar mounted horizontally to the floor that was about hip height. He made her kneel in front of it and then tied her wrists to the bar. His hands very deliberately found the insides of her thighs and pushed her legs apart. She was now open for pleasure, open for exquisite torment. Her stomach was tense with anticipation. A small drop of the sweet slickness of her cunt slowly dripped down the inside of her thigh, a measure of the fact that by now she was very wet, the small droplets of her juice forming around the lips of her cunt, threatening to slowly trickle down her inner thighs.

There was the quiet click of chains behind her. She felt his hands grasp the remains of the top of her gown and pull it open just off her shoulders. Then she felt the chain go around her body just over her breasts and fasten in the back. Another length of chain went around her body just under her breasts and fastened with a quiet snap in the back. Then he began in earnest her sweet torture.

The Ben-Was were still in her, and the trembling she felt in her hips and the motion inside her reminded her of them. She felt his hands once again, this time on the sides and in the middle between her breasts he was tying soft ropes from chain to chain. This put her breasts in a sort of clamp, the chains above pinching in on the chains above, clamping her breasts in between. He drew the chains in tighter and tighter until he heard her quiet gasp, the sign that the exquisite pain he had intended was there, was doing its' work, and the feeling was finding its' way to her center.

He felt her again below. The flow was there, slick, heavy, dripping and hot. He commanded her to move against his hand, to press her cunt, her lips, her clit against his hand, against the fingers that he held just at the her entrance, her silky hot canal that was now ready to accept.

She tried to move, uncertainly at first, but as he whispered in her ear, she began to move a little better. "You can be anything, do anything behind the shield of the magic mask. You can be the most depraved courtesan of the Sultan, noted for your sensuality and your power to arouse." He was behind her now, she could feel his cock, hard and hot against her and his hands were caressing her tightly bound breasts and pinching the hardened nipples very hard, very slowly and with the intention of exciting. His breath came deep in her ear as he spoke. "Your name is legendary for your hot blood. The very mention of your name is enough to excite, for your name personifies the true lure of the forbidden, the entrancement of the most powerful men of the age by your heat, by your depravity, by your submission, by your passion."

She was moving a little easier now, rocking back and forth against his hard cock in the back and his hand which reached around to the front. He did not enter her; it was not yet time.

He left her for a moment, and then stood on the other side of the bar. The command was simple. "Again."

She did so. She did so with the will of a woman made for doing so, with passion, with heat, with the beginnings of a feeling of acting out her lust, with doing the things that heretofore had only been in her mind. He reached down and pinched her nipples again, this time a bit harder. He felt her moan, her lips tightening around the head of his cock and he moaned a little in return. Again he slowly drew back, leaving her mouth.

By this time, she was a vision of loveliness. On her knees, legs spread, wrists tied to the bar, her mouth open and wet and red from sucking him, her sweet thick juices flowing from her cunt, she was a vision of passion, a vision of what it means to feel the heat, the instinct of blinding hot heat to the depths of a soul. She was in torture for release.

He again returned, this time with clamps for her nipples. They were already red and hard, erect buttons of passion that led to the molten furnace of her lower belly. He put a clamp on one and slowly let it bite into the hot tender flesh. She gasped softly, an intake of breath and then an even softer "Ohhh!" the expression of a pleasurable pain that is so intense that the feeling of it cannot stay inside. He put another clamp on the other nipple and the same response escaped her lips, except this was "Ohh, God....Ohh..." She was almost there.

He slid a table with a thick pad at the end over to the bar. It was almost the same height as the bar. He unbound her wrists from the bar, turned her around and lay her back on the table, her lower legs hanging over the sides, her bottom on the pad lifting her hips upward. He bound her wrists to the top of the table and bound her legs apart to the bar. She was now completely exposed; her nipples clamped, her legs wide, her elevated cunt glistening, a wet flowing furnace that only remained to be stoked to the white-hot burning of completion. She could not move except to writhe and move her hips. That was the way he wanted it. For now.

He then leaned in and slowly licked her. The taste was nectar, the slick feel of it exquisite. Her stomach trembled in anticipation. He continued and moved back the hood over her clit, revealing the hard button at the center of her passions. He spread her cunt lips with his hands, wide, and began to assault her in earnest, his tongue alternately hard and soft, tender and rough, but never ceasing, never letting her go, never giving her pause on the ride to the crest of her passions.

She was building inside, and he knew it. Her hips were moving involuntarily and he reveled in watching her hips roll before his eyes and in the taste of her.

She was there, soaring, the muscles in her stomach contracting, no gyrating roll now, her hips just heaved upward to meet his tongue, her body contracting, straining against the bonds, quivering, straining, reaching the......

Her mind and body suddenly strained in one final contraction, her head threw itself back and her breath heaved out of her in one great moan and she was suddenly moaning, "No, no more, no more....." He slowly pulled the Ben-Wahs from her, she giving quiet gasps of pleasure that had become pain given to her from the pain that is pleasure.

He got up on the table and slid his rampant cock into her silken steaming cunt. It enveloped him, and as her hips moved against him, he freed her hands and her arms clasped around him and clasped him close. He pounded into her, pelvis on pelvis, her hips rising to meet him on every stroke, two bodies heaving and straining, pounding together again and again and again and again until he lunged into her one last time, every muscle straining, him grasping her hips pulling her to him, pulling himself into her deep and he exploded deep within her, into her core, into the center of her fire.

She cried softly, saying how she loved him. Soft whimpers as he removed the clamps from her nipples, but the chains on her breasts remained. They stayed close, he gently removed the mask, and they talked softly of thoughts, feelings, openness and vulnerability and soft caresses and slow enjoyment of tastes were.

At last they drifted off into a sleep. The chains remained. They would continue in the morning.