The Night of the Cicadas

A single flickering candle lights the room, its wan light forming tremulous shadows on the walls. You sit on your chair, your hands draped casually over the curved wooden armrests. With one finger you beckon me. And like a marionette I do. My bare feet almost slide across the polished floor as I come closer and closer until I stand not more than two feet away from you.

I stand there, unmoving, while you stare at me. Your dark brown eyes, turned black in the darkness, carefully inspect me. They slowly make their way down. My neck. My shoulders. My chest. My navel. My groin. And then back up again. You scrutinize my every feature, stripping me naked with nothing but your gaze.

After what seems like forever you stand. "This is your last chance," you say. I shake my head. I had long ago decided that I wanted this. Wanted you. From this distance I can feel your hunger like a coiled serpent ready to strike. Or is it an inferno? I am certain I will be consumed.

You point to a spot in the middle of the room. There is no need for words as I walk there, my heart pounding in my ears. Once, earlier today, you had told me that this was called the Room of Enlightenment. Tonight however it would hold a different meaning.

You carefully take out a box from the corner. It is a deep red color with brass tacks and a heavy-looking handle. It makes a low thud as you deposit it on the chair. Outside, the sound of cicadas punctuates the warmth of the summer night.

"Once I begin, there is no stopping. You will follow my every command. You are nothing more than what I tell you to be, what I say you are. Is that clear?"

I nod. "Yes."

You round on me. Slap me. "Yes master," you say. The hardness in your voice tells me that you want me to repeat your words.

And like the obedient doll I have now become I parrot you. "Yes master."

You nod. "Good," you say.

From inside your pocket you pull out a strip of black silk. You pull my face forward by my chin until it is level with yours. With practiced hands, you pass the cloth over my eyes and fasten it securely behind my back. And with it you extinguish what little light there is in my vision. All that is left is an all-encompassing darkness.

For long minutes neither of us move. I can, however, feel the warmth of your breath on my throat. Other than that, I would not have known where you stand. Outside, the sound of the cicadas seems louder than before.

I hear your feet move away. Two clicks. You must be opening the case. I do not know what you have stored there. I can only imagine. I shiver in anticipation. You must have seen it since you chuckle.

"There is much we will do tonight. Do not get too anxious, my pet."

You make your way back, your footsteps soft, hardly discernible. You pace around me. Once. Twice. Thrice. You are considering where to strike. When you do, the cold steel against my skin is a surprise. It makes me jump. A sharp pain blossoms on my shoulder.

You put a hand on my arm to still me. "Hush," you say. "Don't move or you will just injure yourself. And I cannot have you injuring yourself further before the fun begins."

One of your fingers touch my lips. It has the unmistakable taste and smell of blood. My blood. You part my lips, make me taste it, suck on it like a piece of candy.

And then it is back. By now I recognize that sharpness for what it is. A knife. Or a scalpel. Either which way, it is efficient in what it does. Slowly, deliberately, almost cruelly, you use it to tear away my clothes. First the flimsy shirt. Then with the ease of a maestro you do away with the rest of my garments. My skirt. My bra. My lily white panties. And with every twist and turn of the blade you draw a line of fire beneath my skin. I desperately suppress my desire to quiver like you had instructed me to. I cannot, however, suppress the heat and wetness pooling in my crotch.

It does not take long before you divest me of everything. A slight wind blows through from the open windows. My nipples grow hard, erect. With a nail you scrape them. First the left. Then the right. I moan.

You once more rummage through the box. This time, whatever you've pulled out, it is long. It scrapes the floor. When you reach me you touch my knees, forcing my legs apart inch by inch until it reaches your desired distance. With soft touches you caress my ankles before you snap them in place with cuffs made of leather. I attempt to move but your fingers still me. Either way, I cannot. It appears that a thin but sturdy pole is keeping my feet apart and my wet vulva in your full view.

I can feel your face inching closer. You are inspecting my most private of areas. I want you to touch it, feel it, taste it. I image your eyes appraising it, weighting it, devouring it. Instead I feel the unmistakable hardness of a rope passed through my wetness before snaking up towards my breasts.

Round and round you tie the rope around me, circling my breasts, my waist, my back, my arms. You cinch it tightly but because the rope is smooth it does not bite. I feel a knot right above my clitoris. The pressure it exerts is directly stimulating it. I squirm. It only makes the knot dig deeper. I am fairly certain that by now I'm not only wet, I'm dripping. I try to shake my head in an effort to dissipate the pleasure.

Seeing my antics, you once more chuckle. "We still have a ways to go yet, my pet. Don't be too hasty and come before it is time."

You use a section of the rope to secure my wrists, then my arms, locking them in position at my back. It makes my chest puff out, my still-aroused breasts even better displayed for all the world to see.

Then you hoist me up.

I had not noticed anything earlier. But then you had been successful in capturing the entirety of my attention, diverting me from the trappings of your plans for me. Carefully, using hooks and a pulley, you lift my entire body until only the tips of my toes are touching the floor.

You move away to admire your handiwork. "Do you know you look absolutely beautiful like this?" You push aside some of my long black hair that had spilled in front of my face. "It is true you know," you continue. "You look even better now than when I first saw you at that museum. Oh yes, you looked gorgeous in that red dress you wore with your hair tied up in a messy bun and your smoky eyes. But now...now you look stunning. But we are not over yet. We need a few more decorations to make you the most delectable artwork in the gallery."

Something cold, hard, and round is pressed against my lips.

"Open wide," you tell me.

I do as you tell me to. It is only when the object is fully ensconced in my mouth that I realize that it is a ball.

"Here. The first of your accessories."

Almost like a reward for a job well done, you caress my breasts, fondling them, pinching my nipples. With my mouth gagged, my moans of pleasure are nothing more than muffled cries.

You pause your ministrations. I hear a pop. The cap of a bottle being turned round and up until it is open. You lift it in front of me until I can smell it. The deep aroma of musk fills the air before me. It is heavy, heady. The strong sweet earthy scent that runs through it could only be ambergris.

"This," you say, "is liquid desire." It might as well have been dynamite.

Your fingers that gently stroke the areolas of my breasts are slick, coated with the substance that you had graciously let me breathe in. Each circular trip of skin on skin contact it makes fills me with an unexplainable warmth. You do not stop. Your fingers massage the oil outwards in ever-increasing concentric circles. And the warmth builds and builds and builds until it is a raging storm of desperate need.

The moans that spill from my gagged mouth are more incessant, frenzied. Every scrap of flesh on my body burns with a fierce craving for more.

Once every inch of my skin is coated you kiss me, almost chastely, your lips slightly chapped. You move to my breasts and let your tongue lick my hard nipples, your teeth scraping and nibbling at them. I cannot get enough of it. But you have other plans.

The metal that touches them is just as hard, just as cold as the earlier knife. It clamps onto my elongated nipples, a perpetual set of teeth that alternately sends pain and pleasure shooting down from where it has been fastened. You do my right nipple then my left. With every move I make I can hear the jangle of the chain that passes through both.

"There," you say. "You are perfect." You pat my head just like you would a dog. "Now it is time for the main course, my

chouchou

."

From a distance, I hear another set of footsteps. Unlike yours they are heavy, the sound of wood on wood, heels clunking on the polished floor. The owner of those sounds stop before me. As you had before, I can feel the gaze that is levied on me. Raw. Animalistic. Dominant.

The new voice that speaks is a smooth cultured baritone. "She is just as you have described her, my friend. I cannot help but want to ravage her."

You laugh. "That she will indeed. But first, would you like to sample her?"

"That would be most agreeable."

You touch my face gently, making me turn my head towards your direction. Once you are certain that despite the fog of pleasure I am in you have my full attention, you make your introductions.

"My dear, I would like you to meet my friend Julian. He is one of the people I have invited for tonight's viewing. Of course, as you would have guessed,

you,

my love, are the main attraction."

My eyes widen behind my blindfold. You sense my trepidation.

"Do not be afraid. Everything that I have arranged is only for your enjoyment, for your pleasure." You caress the curves of my thighs. "Did I not promise you when we met that I would only ever give you that?"

I nod, incapable of any other sound.

You have the answer that you want. You withdraw and in your place a new set of hands touch me. Unlike yours they are smooth, no calluses. They are the hands of a pianist with long fingers and sensual movements.

I remember his name. Julian.

"As my friend said, there is nothing to fear. I may give you much pain but I will give you even more pleasure in return. All I ask is that you submit yourself fully to my ministrations."

Once more I nod. From the first moment that I stepped foot into this room I had already accepted to do anything, receive anything that would be given to me.

And as though to reinforce my conviction you remind me of the pact we had made at the start. "When we began I said that you would be whatever I said you would be. Right now I want you to be Julian's toy, to follow his every command, submit to his every desire."

Your fingers grasp the gag in my mouth and loosen in, pulling it free. You cup my chin with a hand. I know what you want. I give it to you.

"Y...yes master." My voice is slightly hoarse, my jaws still slack.

Your hands are replaced by Julian's. He chooses to tease my belly button, his graceful fingers tracing its outline. I shiver. I imagine him smiling, his mouth parted in a feral grin. He is a predator, a lion or a tiger surveying the hapless dear he has caught in his claws. His fingers dance downwards to caress the patch of skin above my vagina. And he stops there. I buck my hips in an effort to signal my need. I want him to plunge those long fingers into the core of my being over and over again until I come screaming.

Instead, he slaps me on my buttocks. Hard. I did not anticipate this and my body jerks forward causing the clamps on my nipples to pinch and the knot on my clit to scrape the sensitive flesh underneath. The moan that is torn from my throat is long and loud.

He laughs. "I see that you are unused to being spanked. Tonight we will fix that."

He reaffixes the ball gag into my mouth. I listen to him walk past where I assume you stand. I hear the unmistakable sound of a zipper being opened. It must be his bag. When he comes back he positions himself behind me, the coarse material of his jeans brushing against the back of my legs.

He touches my bound hands, pressing something hard against my palm. It feels like a thick board, rounded at all the edges. It is heavy.

"Go on. Feel it. That is a paddle. That is what we use to punish naughty slutty women. Women like you. Women who need to be taught their place. Women who must learn to submit."

With one hand he touches the buttock that he had earlier slapped. "We use the paddle here. Tonight I will let you taste it. Your ass cheeks will bloom a beautiful shade of red for me. I think ten strokes should be good."

Before I have a chance to catch my breath the first strike hits. It falls squarely between my buttocks. It hurts more than anything I have ever experienced. I howl into the gag, my tears soaked up by the black silk binding my eyes.

Again and again the paddle is laid on my buttocks. One. Two. Three. I can feel the ache on my backside like a rising heat. I can hear the whacking sound it makes as it strikes my flesh. Four. Five. My behind is starting to grow numb, becoming just one massive hurt. And as it starts to numb, my attention is drawn to the friction created by the ropes that bind me as they dig into my flesh. With every movement, they stimulate the most sensitive parts of my body. My howls are being replaced by needy moans.

Julian draws my attention to them even more. "Look at you. How wanton. Your nipples are hard and aching. The smell of your sex is overpowering. The amount of liquid flowing down your thighs is like a river. This turns you on, doesn't it? Drives you crazy."

I can only agree. But if this was what depravity feels like I could only beg for more.

Six. Seven. Eight. I hear something else mixed in between the sounds we are making. At first it is low, guttural, but as it increases in volume I begin to recognize it for what it is. Your voice. Your moans. You, who have been silent for a while now, are expressing that the sight of me begging for the intoxicating sensations brought about by your friend, delirious in the pain and the pleasure he is bringing, are aroused. Aroused and near orgasm.

But it is not just you. I am near the brink.

Nine. Ten. As the last stoke of the paddle hits my bottom I scream, my orgasm ripping through me. My body spasms as it rides the waves of pleasure that hit me one after another. And Julian will not let it stop. He places his fingers on my labia, pushes past it and into my hot and dripping wet vagina, teasing, titillating. I rut against his hand, not caring that I am a slave to the sensations he is inducing in me. It is difficult because my feet cannot find purchase on the ground, suspended in midair as I am. He, however, eagerly obliges. And even as I am still climaxing, his expert touches push me into another.

As I crest over my second orgasm, I feel a distinctly warm liquid splash onto my thighs. It is only once I start to calm down, the raucous beating of my heart slowing down to a tempo closer to normal, that I realize that it is your cum that is coating me.

"You did good." Your voice has taken on a deep, husky note. "Now it is time I reward you."

Your hands trace the outline of my body until they find my bottom. Softly, gently, they cup the sensitive flesh. I feel your breath on it before your tongue begins to lave across the welts. You intersperse it with kisses and caresses.

I cannot express the relief that it brings. In the meanwhile, Julian pulls the gag free and kisses me, his tongue dancing with mine. He tastes like cinnamon. And for long minutes we are like that, your tongue on my back and Julian's in my mouth.

When we finally break for air you replace Julian's mouth with your own. I taste myself on you. It is addictive.

"In a few more minutes the rest of our guests for tonight will arrive," you say. "They are like Julian, connoisseurs with the finest taste. They, like him, will touch you, taste you, sample you. You are to be a living object of art. My art."

You trace the outline of my left ear. "But before that, I will deprive you of one more of your senses." You push an earplug into one ear and then into the other.

Where once I heard your voice, Julian's, the cicadas, now I hear nothing. Only the beating of my own heart, louder in my ears than ever before.

And then, only silence.

It stretches. It is as though I am in a cocoon, inside a womb, where no light and no sound reach. You are gone. Julian is gone.

I can feel the movement of the air, the warm breeze blowing in. I can feel it drying the sweat that is beading down, flowing in tiny rivulets in the valley between my breasts and my thighs, dripping down from the tip of my nose. I can feel the strands of my hair matted on my neck, the ends curled around my armpits. The pinching of my skin where the ropes have tightened, the softness of the silk binding my eyes.

My world is reduced to these sensations. To the

feel

of things.

And the first touch bestowed on me, on my lower lip, is like lightning. Like a jolt of electricity, all my senses are focused on that one point on my body that is connected to something that is not me. I gasp.

A hand, not the same as the one on my lips, not yours, and not Julian's, is making patterns on the soles of my feet. My toes are engulfed in the warm wetness of a mouth, slowly sucking each digit like a popsicle. Another one is touching my back, all feminine, long nails scratching a path down my spine.

I begin to lose count. Someone is fondling my breasts, alternating pulling the clamps on them even tighter and mashing my mounds together. A pair are spreading my buttocks apart, a finger tracing my anus before plunging in. A thumb is pressing the knot over my clitoris even harder. A tongue is slurping up the liquid spilling from my once more very wet, very aroused, pussy.

I am gasping. I am moaning. I am praying.

Oh god. OH god. Oh GOD.

The mantra is repeating over and over again. I do not know if I am saying it aloud or it is all in my head. I do not care. All I care is that it does not stop. Whatever and whoever it or they are.

And then they stop.

Please. Please. Please. Please.

I am begging. Begging for more. Begging for release. I am so near. I would do anything for one touch, one hand, one tongue. I am ashamed of my lascivious desires but I do not care. My body is quivering in desire.

But you do not hear. Or you choose to ignore it. All I can feel is the wind on my body.

I do not know how long it is. It could have been a few minutes or a few hours. The frantic beating of my heart is mostly stilled. The fire in my aching womanhood has subsided. Only the last embers of it remain, unquenched.

Then it happens. A tongue encircles my fingertip. A finger strokes my knee. Someone, I do not know who, is pressing something hard and long against my labia. Only once it is inside me do I recognize it, the vibrations it is making very quickly rekindling the fire inside me. It is followed by another vibrator up my ass.

A pair of lips capture my own. These ones taste like wine. Our tongues battle for dominance. I smell Chanel no. 5.

It does not take long but once again I am at the edge. My toes are curling. My breaths coming in short gasps. My hips are unconsciously gyrating in the hopes of eking out that last bit of pleasure that will tip me over the brink.

This time, you give it me. I recognize your fingers. The callous on your right thumb is yours alone. No other hand this long evening has the same. You take my engorged clitoris and you pinch it.

I scream.

Pain. Pleasure. I can no longer distinguish. I come.

As my body begins to slacken, sated from this, my third release of the night, I feel you lower me, remove the pole keeping my legs apart. My feet touch the floor. But I have lost all power in my extremities. Without the ropes keeping me upright, I begin to crumple. A pair of strong arms encircle me, keep me from falling.