Elliot Mabeuse (26 page)

"Look at how you react," I said. "The whip is like a magic wand for you isn't it, Emma? It's like it's enchanted. Wherever I touch you, you just melt, baby."

"When you hold it, yes. I don’t know how you do this to me."

I used the end of the whip to flip the tails of her robe back, exposing her sex.

Emma pressed her knees together and balled her hands into fists which she twisted in the cuffs. The clips clanked against the metal screw eyes. Her wrists looked so frail.

"It's shameful how hot you get when I play with you like this, you know that? It's just shameful, Emma. You just came a few minutes ago and you're already set for more.

You're just primed and ready to go."

I pushed against her knee with the whip and she opened her legs, exposing herself for me. She closed her eyes in humiliation and bit her lip.

"Don't…" she begged.

"Don't what?"

She sighed deeply. "Oh God, I don’t know. I hate it when you stare at me like that."

I stroked her pussy with the crop, up and down. Her legs were apart now and it was easy to get to, the pussy lips set together.

"You hate it when I stare at you? But you're so nice to look at, baby. I like staring.

I love staring at you, Emma. I could stare and stare…"

She was still wet from her orgasm and her attitude as she sat cuffed in the chair was one of deep, crimson humiliation.

I calmly leaned past her and opened the drawer of the dresser, then I unclipped her right wrist. I placed the crop on her knee as a warning not to move.

"I want you to do something for me, Emma, so listen. You're going to take that chain from the warm water, and you're going to put it inside you. There's towels and lube in the dresser—"

"Oh God, Conner—"

"Don’t interrupt, baby, please. There's towels and lubricant in the dresser. It's only five links and you can do it. Put on some ankle cuffs first, then insert the chain and take off the robe and call me when you're done, okay? Can you do that?"

"Oh Conner, I don't know…"

"Try it for me, Emma. That's all. Just try it for me. This is something very special or I wouldn't ask it, baby. You know that."

I leaned over and kissed her, my mouth lingering over hers as if I might plunge back down and take her right then and there. That's what she wanted, I could tell. It's what I wanted too—instant gratification, and why not? Why not just take her then and there? The thought crossed my mind. Why wait and go through this nonsense?

Because—control. Because I wanted my sensations running through her body. I wanted her heart ticking to my time. I wanted my blood in her veins, the crazy love crossover that haunts us all where we want to be so close to our lover, so excruciatingly close it almost hurts to breathe.

I went in the kitchen and looked out the window at the night sleeping over the hot summer roofs. Strange how it felt cooler out here than it did in my "dungeon", as if the sexually charged air were itself hotter.

I thought of Emma putting the cuffs on her ankles. They wouldn't take long, a matter of seconds. It would be the chain,, putting the chain in her pussy, that would take time and care. I thought of how she'd have to lie down on the bed and open her legs, grease the thing up. The chain was heavy. She'd feel it immediately pressing inside her womb, like she was pregnant with metal, gravid with steel, giving birth to chain.

An El rumbled by outside, the wheels shooting sparks on the tracks as if the night were electric. What kind of mad sickness ran in my brain? What did I want from this woman? What did I want from life?

I knew what it was. I wanted to know how much she wanted me. I wanted to know how much she'd endure for me, that she was really mine, and there would be no room for dodging or evading things when she had this chain inside her.

I had heard of it somewhere—supposedly excruciatingly erotic, especially to those enamored of the symbology of chains and bondage in the first place. I had no idea what it would feel like for her but I wanted her to do it anyhow. Sometimes you just feel the need to impose your will, to make someone do what you want to show that they're yours. Sometimes just the sight of their face when the whip comes down is sufficient reason to use it—the act is sensation itself. I wanted this because it would be her ordeal, and because I just wanted to make her feel me like that, with that intensity, that closeness.

"Conner?"

She called me from the bedroom, a mild voice like she might use to ask me to bring her some water or a slice of cheese. Crazy is the moon over the rooftops of Chicago.

Walking into the dungeon was like walking into a darkroom, the red lights making everything look monochromatic and bleached out. Emma sat in the chair, naked and pale, a film of sweat on her forehead, her knees drawn up slightly. I was about to ask her if she'd done it when I saw how superfluous words would be.

"It's weird," she said. "It's so weird. Every time I move, every breath…"

I fell to my knees and kissed her, grabbed her hair and pulled her head back and kissed her, raped her mouth with my tongue. The proof of her love, her trial by ordeal—I put my arms around her and crushed her to me and that must have made the chain move because she moaned deeply and furrowed her brow.

"It's heavy," she said.

"Yes it's heavy. It’s heavy as love, isn't it? Heavy as what you carry for me, filling you, weighing you down…"

That's just what I'd wanted, the way I'd imagined it—a great weight inside her, her own love of bondage inside where she could feel it. I knew how she was shamed by her addiction to this kind of love, and now I wanted her to feel it acting on her inside, her own demon making sick love to her, and as if she suddenly realized this herself, she responded to my kiss now by kissing me back ferociously, opening her mouth and extending her tongue, opening her body, her entire self to me, admitting her whoredom, her shameful weakness and adoration for this steely lover within. Her nails dug into my back and she bit my lips in her fierce excitement.

"Take me! Oh God, Conner! Take me! Tell me what I am! Tell me!"

I knew what she wanted. It was a cue that meant I was supposed to say one certain thing and I said it: "You’re my whore," I breathed. "You’re my slut and all you want is to be fucked like the dirty bitch you are. That's what you are, Emma, you're just a filthy whore, my whore, that's your secret, Emma, and now I know it too!"

She uttered a strangled cry as she sucked my tongue into her mouth and slid sideways in the chair, instinctively trying to make herself horizontal and pull me down on top of her.

"Oh no," I said. "Oh no. Up. You're getting up. Get up!"

I stood and grabbed her wrist and pulled her to her feet, naked except for her sandals. Her breasts shook distractingly but all I could think of was that heavy steel

chain coiled in her vagina, pressing into her as I grabbed her forearm and pulled her over to the ladder.

"What—? Conner, I can't hold this thing inside me, it's too heavy! Conner?"

But I was on fire for her now, pushing the impossible like this, making her strain, exert herself. "Hold it, Emma!" I said. "Hold it!" And I meant that—hold it. Hold it like I was holding it, holding the urge to take her, the urge to fuck her and possess her, the urge to release myself in her body. Hold it, hold it.

For this was that control of sensations I'd been talking about. This was how I communicated to her what she felt like to me. This was what it felt like being in love with Emma—a pressure inside, a weight, constantly having to hold it, to keep it in as it fought for release, that excruciatingly delicious pain and longing, the desire to go into her and feel her around me, pressing my face in her hair and feeling her body against me arching towards me.

"Here, here!" I said, "Here!" I pressed her back against the ladder and snapped her wrists to the eyebolts in the frame at shoulder level, quickly getting down and attaching her ankles to the bolts set into the bar that spanned the feet. That forced her legs apart slightly and made it harder for her to hold the chain inside, I knew that, but that was okay. I didn't care whether she failed or succeeded. The important thing was that she struggle.

Slappp
!

I fetched her a sharp slap across the thigh with the crop and Emma groaned, tossing her head back. Her stomach quivered with the exertion of holding the chain

inside but she'd been expecting the blow and didn't make a sound. She already knew what the game was.

Smaackkk!

I hit her again and she twisted away, hissing like a cat. The fan droned in the window but the sweat was starting to gather between her breasts.

I leaned against her and put the whip in her teeth and Emma took it. She was standing with her hands up, clipped to the ladder, her feet spread, and I was leaning against her with one hand on her breast, the fingers of the other hand curled down to tease and tickle her cunt.

"Come on, Emma," I said into her face. "Are you holding that chain for me? You see how that feels? That's what you make me feel like, you know that? That's what I feel like when I'm around you, like I've always got to hold myself in, like I'm going to explode if I don't. That's how you make me feel, baby, and I wanted you to feel that. I wanted you to know what that's like. See? See? Turnabout's fair play, right? Now you see what it's like being me, right?"

She was so beautiful like that, suffering for me, straining for me, hurting for me, filled with my sensation, the sensation I'd put there for her.

I spread her labia and slid my middle finger inside, feeling the end of the chain. I felt those hard metal links warmed from the heat of her own body nestled inside her like a sleeping serpent, felt the tightness in her muscles as she strained to hold them in. I flicked the end link with my finger and she snarled like an animal, baring her teeth around the shaft of the crop in her mouth.

"Oh? What's this?" I asked. "I think this belongs to me, doesn't it? This is my hardware, slut! What have you done with it? Whore! Bitch! God! Look at you. Pussy stuffed full of chains! You are a whore, Emma. A regular bondage slut. Give it to me, slave! Give me my chain!"

I seized her hair in my other hand and was just able to grab the end of the chain between thumb and forefinger. It was all greasy and slick with her oils and lubricant but I got a grip on it and saw her nostrils flare in sudden indignation as I began to slowly pull.

One little tug and the thing began to move, began to slither out of her like a snake from a tree, uncoiling, dropping from its sheer weight from her pussy, link following link in invariable progress, one after the next. Emma cried out and slumped in the cuffs and I let go of her hair and wrapped my arm around her, grabbing her before she could fall, holding her up as the chain slid from her body and landed on the floor with a solid thunk like a monstrous afterbirth. I held her and pressed her against me and kissed her, wildly, passionately, her skin hot and sweaty beneath my lips.

"Oh baby! Oh Emma! Beautiful, baby, beautiful. God, how I love you, how I love you, to do what you've done for me."

She pressed herself against my chest, breathing fast and ragged and I barely gave her time to recover. I unclipped her ankles from the ladder and then her wrists and pushed her back to the bed, pushed her down on it, arranging her on her hands and knees.

I got out of my clothes without even touching them, or so it seemed to me. They just seemed to evaporate. I pushed her neck down, wanting that final sign of subjugation, and then I was in her, in her at last, on my knees behind her, one hand

holding her waist, the other with her hair wrapped around it, and I took her like that. I just took her with a ferocity and a selfishness that was gemlike in its brilliance, it was so pure. There was no thought on my part, nothing to interrupt the rich swill of sensation feeding directly into my core—her flesh rubbing against mine, her soul against my soul.

It hardly took me any time at all. I already owned her, already had her as securely as I had her hair wrapped around my hand and it was as if my body knew it.

She belonged to me, mine and for my use, and all that was left was the explosion of release that sealed my ownership and left me hanging over her back, my face contorted into a mask of pain—the ejaculation was that intense. It hurt. It hurt to give her myself like that, to break myself into pieces small enough to fit into her, to squeeze myself out through my own cock. It hurt, but it hurt with radiant joy, like it must hurt the sun to rise or a cloud to feel the spear of lightning—that one great shock and then the rains came. I poured everything I had into her, great gouts of deluge, hanging over her, gasping for breath, my hands holding her tight against me.

That's how it seemed to me—that's how it would be—connected to Emma through bonds going beyond mere love and sex—to these fearsome violations of spirit and body and eradications of boundaries. That's what I wanted, flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone, so we were nothing apart from each other but only existed in the furnace-like intimacy of outrageous love.

She was a female to me as no one else had ever been—my vaginal counterpart, my slut and my goddess. That's how it would be. I'd make it be that way. I didn’t want anything less anymore.