The Puppet's Threads

Author's note: My other projects, some of which I really care about, have stalled due to the stresses of work and the obligations of study, but this little idea occurred to me and didn't take too much time out of my day - in fact, it took an hour to write, edit and submit.

It's short but, I hope, sweet.

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There were two threads descending from the gloom of the ceiling. He wrapped one carefully around my nipple, drawing it snug but not tight, turning and turning until it was secure.

He bent down and took my other nipple in his mouth, suckling upon it until it was hard as I began to move and mewl underneath him, then straightening and wrapping it as well, around and around and around.

He moved to a small hand crank on the wall, turned it as the threads tightened and pulled, taking up the slack and then lifting, stretching my nipples gently, then taking my breasts behind them as I gasped with the growing sensations, stopping when I had just lifted my back slightly to relieve the sensations, leaving me the choice of sharper pain or slow, stealthy, muscular torment.

He moved back to my side, brushing his hands over my now lifted breasts, admiring their shape as I gasped under his gentle strokes, saying "Now, the clitoris."

My legs were only slightly parted, ankles tied with silken scarves to the metal columns of the foot-board, so he needed to spread my lips with the fingers of one hand as he delicately licked his other thumb and began, ever so gently, to caress my clitoris with small, soft circles.

His hands moved with me as I twisted beneath him, my hands writhing and clenching against each other, tied tight above me to the headboard. The softness of his touch was maddening, my body craving sensation and getting only a feather-light brushing. I tried to buck against him, but taking weight off my hips put it onto my shoulders and back, and I dropped back with a gasp as my nipples shot sparks.

I felt my clitoris engorge, reaching out pleadingly for his touch, when he withdrew with a satisfied grunt, cut the thread attached to the crank, measured it and began to wind it slowly, carefully but securely around my burning nub, connecting it to my nipples.

I was left in the agonisingly beautiful dilemma: nipples or clitoris? I could not lie flat, could not sustain an arch in my back for too long, could not get my feet flat on the bed to brace myself, yet the burn between my legs demanded that I move, and as I moved I drew more mingled pain and pleasure from my nipples.

He held up his hand, and the dim lighting glittered and refracted from it. The core of the glass dildo was a thin, long rod of pure lead crystal. Around it were woven a messy plait of red, yellow, green and blue rods, blobby and misshapen as they crossed each other, leaving a whole as thick as a good cock and glass smooth, but nowhere smooth of surface, everywhere uneven. He parted my lips once more with his hand, slipped two fingers effortlessly inside me as I gasped and shuddered and drew more sharp stings from my nipples and clitoris both, coated the head of the dildo carefully with my juices, then slowly and lovingly slid it inside me.

I mewled and barely restrained myself from thrashing, gasping and whispering and begging as it settled inside me, my legs not spread and my tunnel tight, every lump on the dildo's surface pressing into me, sliding along me, making me feel.

He pressed it into me and stepped away, walking slowly along my body as I felt the pressure build with in me, flushing my face and my breasts scarlet, pleasure driving the pain from my nipples, my clitoris like a little sun between my legs, and glass seeming to throb and grow within me. He bent down to kiss me, lovingly, tongue sliding like a benediction into my mouth as his fingertips lightly traced over the distended cone of my breast and I mewled helplessly, beggingly into his mouth.

He stepped back, leaving me bereft but even more tortured, and walked behind me. I heard his zipper, then felt hard warmth against my hands and seized upon it, clutching at his balls, wrapping my long fingers around his shaft, desperate to feel every millimetre, every vein and little texture of his flesh, as the pressure inside me slowly grew.

He did nothing more, merely stood there and let me play with him as I grew less controlled, clutching and clenching around him, squeezing his head as he stayed silent, rolling and cupping and squeezing his balls. I began to play with my clitoris, using my breasts to tug upon it, pulsing, only those little points of sensation over my entire body, the air laughing cruelly as I begged for a touch harder than its stillness.

My orgasm, when it came, swelled within me for a long time, growing like a tsunami witnessed from the beach, so big that it seems small and close until it keeps on coming, and keeps on coming, and keeps on coming, until you realise with horror its scale and know that you are doomed. It built for so long that it seemed to retreat from me like the waters from the sand, until it burst and my mouth opened and it poured out of me.

I screamed, I cried, I cursed, I prayed, I begged, I swore, I made sounds that no human could interpret as words. I sobbed, and wept, and felt searing pain as my uncontrolled movements tore at my sensitive flesh like knives, and it made me cum all the harder. I felt the dildo, so smooth, shoot from me and my juices soak the sheets.

And then it was over, my head spinning like a top. He had cut the thread and let me relax, and was kissing the sweat from my face. I moved weakly and knew pain in those three points of my body and self, but felt only dry on my fingers.

"Master," I whispered, as faint as a breath. "May I make you cum in my mouth?"

He smiled against my cheek, and breathed back, "I could not deny you that."