Shadow Girl (5 page)

‘Now Sandra, put your lips into that perfect ring shape.'

The hand continues its slow rotation, gliding, binding her more firmly with every loop. A finger brushes past her belly button, and back again, then begins a subtle probe of its slit, appeasing the fire inside her. Scattering ripples of exhilaration across her skin. This is so good, so good, and she hums softly, savouring her captive pleasure.

She imagines that finger delving deeper into her. Stroking, rousing. She imagines moaning in delight and opening out like a flower to this tease.

She feels the heat turning to need.

Feels herself swelling with the first surge of desire.

She wavers, confused by this new emotion. But the hands are spinning such a glorious waltz on her skin. They bring such relief — drowning all other thoughts. She cannot deny them. Does not want to. She watches herself responding to their call and hums again in acceptance.

‘Mm . . . Mm . . .'

A slap on her buttocks, cushioned by the skirt. Stronger this time. She shudders, with a gratified little gasp.

‘Not good,' reprimands the voice. ‘You closed your lips. This is very disappointing.'

Her spirits dip as they had before. Oh no, she has angered the voice. She has displeased the presence wrapped around her. She must try harder. She must make amends.

‘Your chest is too tight, too constricted. Your shoulders must be pulled back to improve your inner flow.'

Her arms are forced behind her back, then her hands tied together. The cloth bites into her wrists but she does not, she cannot, complain.

Rug against her cheek, tugging at her mouth.

Fingers in her hair, pulling out her pins.

Her blonde locks tumble upon her neck and shoulders.

‘You must let go of your cumbersome beliefs, cut loose everything you've learned. Delve below the surface, past the limits of thought. Find the voice within.'

The velvet words resonate so strongly in her mind that they seem to issue from deep within her. She is no longer sure where she ends and where the world begins.

A series of soft snipping sounds, followed by a faint rip. Her blouse is pushed roughly from her back, from her shoulders. More snips, and her breasts are released from the restraining cups of her bra. The bra is whisked away while the beguiling voice dances in her head, holding her in its thrall.

‘You are far too hot.
Tu as beaucoup trop chaud. Trop chaud
. You'll be much better off without your clothes. Look at this, you are drenched.'

A finger is run from her neck to her waistline. A slow, tantalising zigzag which grooves her flesh. Tests her readiness. The finger stops between her elbows, then drifts back up her spine.

‘That will not do. How can you possibly focus on the job while cocooned like this?'

A short silence.

‘Please stay right as you are. Do not move, as this would jeopardise the chakra connections we have activated.'

She can hardly nod. How could she move? She is incapable of getting up. She is floating, gliding, caught in a slow, relentless spin. She is only too painfully aware of her desire, of the heat melting her loins. Of that delicious yearn, taunting her as she lies there, wrist- and mind-bound. She thinks of the fingers playing on her back. She would like them to draw closer. Bring her some hard relief. Do something rash.

She starts thirsting for those fingers.

But they are taking their time, toying with her, skimming up and down her spine, caressing the nape of her neck, sweeping over the sensitive skin on her arms.

Without warning, fabric is ripped apart in one quick jerk. She wobbles on her knees and her skirt falls away.

‘Excellent, Sandra, you've kept the position.'

The compliment drowns her in a small wave of euphoria. She has kept still. She has pleased him.

More snips, and her panties are swiftly removed. Save for her boots and the strips of blouse clinging to her arms, she is now completely naked, with her backside on full display.

Something large and soft is tucked under her bust. A cushion, which squashes her breasts. Her nipples harden against its tight weave. Swell in anticipation.

Rather brusquely, her knees are forced apart.

Exposed. She is exposed to the four winds and finds the thought wickedly exciting. She begs for his voice to coil around her, for the fingers to do with her as they wish. To chain her to their caress.

His voice is back, washing over her like chilled champagne, and she laps it all up without a thought. Without a qualm. Just to get drunk on its bouquet.

‘I will repeat the circular pattern closer to your core. For the core, ultimately, is the source of the sounds produced by the mouth. Only when it is properly stimulated can you achieve the perfect vowel.'

The perfect vowel. The words vibrate like a luscious promise. Yes, she is willing to do anything for the perfect vowel. Anything to please him. She is dying to be stimulated. Roused to any heights.

The hands have claimed her arse and started unhurried circles on each cheek, kneading her flesh, pulling it also, stretching it.

She submits with relish to the cool fingers, to their persistent ballet. And prays for them to move faster. To get closer. To relieve her.

Please, oh please
.

Her heart is pounding. The pulsing in her flesh turns to ache as the hands continue to dance without haste, to toy with her, to squeeze her pulp like vicious beasts. Baiting her. Preying on her helplessness.

She is an offering; horribly, deliciously submissive.

Something stirs in her mind — a reflex from her decorous life. She stammers through her arousal.

‘Please . . . Please . . . I have a boyfriend . . .'

‘A boyfriend, Sandra? Do not worry, this is strictly business.
Purement professionnel
.'

‘Yes, strictly business,' she parrots, clutching at the words like a lifeline. ‘Strictly business.'

The fingers trace on their lascivious motifs. Twist and spread her like delicate pastry.

His velvet voice drapes over her again.

‘Your core is strong, Sandra, very strong. And so beautifully oiled. Can you feel it? Of course you can. Good girl. So keen to please. To gain approval. To exceed my expectations. I have rarely seen such eagerness to yield. I anticipate an outstanding response.'

Yield to him, yes, she so badly wants to. There is this terrible longing in her. But she doesn't know if she can take it. If she can take the tease. The torment.

A finger samples her. She bites her lip, praying for more. But the finger will not be hurried. It spins endless figures around her clit, careful to avoid it. It, too, has resolved to prolong her agony. To weave on its vexatious ballet.

She sucks in a few quick breaths, squirming under this taunt.

Christ
. She needs him to go all the way — give her a proper knead. She needs him inside her too, inside and deep, to put an end to this torture.

She wriggles her butt. But the fingers anticipate every motion, then resume their slow, pernicious exploration of her ground.

She whimpers in frustration.

‘All in good time, Sandra. All in good time,' coos the voice, tying her more hopelessly to her want. ‘We must not rush blindly into things and drink like gluttons from the cup of knowledge.'

There is a long silence, broken by Sandra's gasps as the finger continues its dogged tease.

‘You know what “labia” means, I suppose,' resumes the voice. ‘It is Latin for “lips”. This is no coincidence, for the labia hold the key to your linguistic prowess. They are the mouth of your inner self.'

The finger has begun to stray over her clit. Light, subtle touches, almost a hover. She purses her lips and the first moans spill from her throat.

‘Oooh . . . Oooh . . .'

She cannot help herself. She is bursting with pent-up need.

‘Oooh . . . Oooh . . . Oooooh . . .'

A sudden sting on her arse and she catches her breath in shock. The hand has chastised her again, though there is no more skirt to soften the bite.
No, not a hand
, she thinks as the smarting subsides. She's been whipped — by a pony's tail she could swear.

‘This is not the perfect O,' scolds the voice. ‘I expect the best from you. Isn't that also what you want to give me? The best?'

The finger keeps playing its tormenting games, fanning the flames in her pussy.

‘Yes, yes,' she breathes, swallowing hard, biting back another moan. ‘The best.'

‘Then you will taste of my tail till I get my wish. My spicy palomino whisk. Don't you agree this is a fitting punishment?'

‘Yes,' she says hoarsely, writhing on the finger. On the teasing, vicious finger. On the finger driving her nuts. She shakes her head, her lips ajar, her clit flushed and desperate.

‘Oaaah . . . Oaaah . . .' she begs again.

Another snap of the horsetail. Perversely, the twinge heightens her enjoyment. She waits for the next one, pleading without words. She does not understand this. Doesn't understand how she can derive such pleasure from her prostration. From this honeyed misery.

But she is past caring.

All she knows is she must please him, she must. Offer herself. Open herself to his demands. She must purse her lips, make a perfect circle, that's what he said. She repeats this like a mantra. Make a perfect circle. She must purse her lips. Oh God, oh God, she needs that finger to go harder. Why can't it go harder, why can't it?

Another sound escapes her lips. Warped. Less than ideal. She shudders in bitter delight when the flogger bites her.

The finger has drifted on and worms its way into her. She tilts her hips to the full, welcoming the probe. The intruder slides in slowly, then out slowly, with exasperating gentleness. It is so light, so soft. Like a shadow. Like a ghost, feeding her need drop by drop. Oh God, she is going insane. Two fingers now, then three. Mere phantoms. Spreading her, probing her. Priming her for the next throaty moan.

Purse her lips, she must purse her lips. She must please him.

‘Oooaw . . . Oooaw . . .' she groans. And lets out a little cry as the whisk electrifies her.

The fingers reach deeper. Curving, stroking without haste.

Oh God, she must purse her lips, purse her lips.

The horsetail smacks again, and again.

‘Not good,' chides the voice. ‘I want no diphthong. I want a clear sound.'

She tries to fight back the tears but cannot.

A clear sound. She must give a clear sound. She must purse her lips. She must please him. But it is so hard to focus, so hard, for those ghosts keep working her like slow devils.

She is gasping, gagging.

Please him, please the voice.

The horsetail returns, spreading its flames. There is the taste of wet salt on her lips.

‘I hope you are grateful for this,' he says in deep, mellow tones. ‘Grateful I have your best interests at heart.'

‘Yes,' she rasps, her cheeks burning like her arse. ‘Grateful, I'm grateful.'

The fingers withdraw like satiated snakes and something hard and plump brushes against her. For a while, the cock taunts her on. Fuels her restlessness. Keeps her squirming on a bed of embers.

Then the vice of his thumbs opens her, unveiling secret folds of lushness.

He eases himself in. He is so large, implacable. Swells her to splitting point, almost fractures her. She groans, screws up her eyes under the blindfold then breaks into a long whimper.

She has to ride the pleasure-pain. She has to ride this massive fill.

She stretches out her neck.

No, no, she must not cry. She must purse her lips. She must please him. But this is too big. She is too tight. She will be ripped apart.

‘Do not fight this,' he says soothingly. ‘Do not tense up. Let go of your thoughts. Loosen up. Let the stiffness in your mind vanish, allow yourself to glide. To liquefy.'

The hips behind her begin to rock to a languid pace. His thick shaft almost pulls out with each slow pendulum, then moves in deep, wrenching more rasps from her lips.

‘Surrender to the surge, ride out the rawness.'

Yes, she must ride this out. She must ride on to find the voice. The voice within. Ride on, rock on, back and forth, back and forth.

The discomfort is fading, melting with surprising swiftness into a pool of delectable sensations.

Soon, her spine is shivering with uncontrolled tremors.

The rug under her seems to be quivering too and with an earth-shattering rumble, it rips apart. As the fissures spread and deepen, an ethereal call echoes from below. Something is rising from the depths, snorting and fuming. Determined to claim her. Through her blindfold, she can sense a dark shimmer. A horse. A giant black stallion, flickering in the mist-scape of her mind.

She is lifted up, borne high above the ground on the back of this creature. She can feel its might between her thighs; glimpse the flashes of its savage eyes; hear its tail lashing in the wind.

Within moments, the broken rug has sprouted into grassland and the horse fallen into a proud canter, its head held up high.

She is still gasping hard. All this is so hazy yet bizarrely real. She is buffeted by a thousand impressions. She is roused by the fragrant wind on her tongue. Intoxicated by the smell of leathery sweat on the horse's flanks. Inflamed by the rhythmic clap of hooves on her skin, by the breaths of fire on her belly.

There is all this turbulence inside her, this rankling delight. She is being ground to a pulp. She is so hot, so excited. So shamelessly thirsting for more. The heat is buckling her mind, fuzzing her grasp on her surroundings.

Back and forth, back and forth she rocks on.

She abandons herself to her ardent stallion and buries her face in its mane. She is swept over hills shaped like lustrous vulvas, rushed down rivers of desire. Faster, always faster. There is longing, there is craving deep within, feeding hungrily on the powers that crush her. She is a runaway bushfire.

She must purse her lips. She must purse her lips.

Sounds of gratitude gush out of her lips. ‘Ooew . . . Ooew . . . Ooooeww . . .'

Snap!
An angry tail scorches her and her mount snorts in displeasure, jerking its head up and down.

Slap!
Another punishing lash on her rump. She is gagging on her thrills, her overdose of feelings. More tears of elation burn down her cheeks.

‘Let go!' orders the presence in her head. ‘Abandon all thought!'

She senses she is not alone on the black stallion, but rocking on the lap of a faceless rider. Slumped against the horse's neck, her hair tangled in feral loops, her hands still bound behind her back. Gasping, crying. The pleasure is mounting, pushing, swelling.