Undone Page 4

  ‘Yeah?’ Misha worked his cock with barely repressed eagerness. He gazed down. Without the assistance of spectacles or contacts, his eyes appeared to focus somewhere beyond us.

  ‘Let’s make her wetter, shall we?’ Sol hooked his hands either side of my knickers. I lifted my butt to allow him to remove the scrap of fabric. My legs were loose and floppy with lust. I let my knees drop wide, baring my neatly trimmed split. I ached for someone to touch me there, to introduce shape and solidity where my body had swollen to nebulous sensation.

  ‘You like to suffer?’ asked Sol.

  I cleared my throat. ‘A little.’

  ‘I do,’ asserted Misha. His fist quickened on his cock. ‘A lot.’

  Sol chuckled. ‘I can see I’ve got my work cut out for me tonight.’ He gave my thigh a chivvying tap. ‘Stand up.’

  I did as told, enjoying his bossy confidence. My dress fell back into place, juices smearing on my thighs. Sol stood with me, the two of us on the opposite side of the bed to Misha. Sol glanced around the room and then swung the stiff-backed chair from the dressing table to where I stood.

  ‘Sit down. What else you got?’ he asked. ‘Rope? Gags?’

  I sat on the chair, facing the bed. ‘Blindfold, vibrator, paddle,’ I said. ‘Nipple suckers, lube, a flogger. No rope, sorry. Oh, I have a scarf if you want. Top drawer on the right. In with my underwear. Everything else on the left. No gag, I’m afraid.’

  Sol tugged open the underwear drawer, rummaged briefly and retrieved my polka-dot scarf. After a quick inspection, he dropped the scarf on the dresser, clearly dissatisfied. He stalked into the bathroom, a man on a mission. Misha watched him, hand still pumping; then he looked to me with that slack, vacant gaze.

  ‘Come here, Misha,’ I said. ‘Let me feel your—’

  ‘Hey!’ Sol emerged from the bathroom carrying a thin ribbon of pistachio-green silk, the belt to my dressing gown. ‘You stay there,’ he barked at Misha. ‘She doesn’t get what she wants that easily. And nor do you. Hands behind your back, Lana. Behind the chair. That’s right.’

  He draped the strip of silk over his shoulder and unlocked the hefty steel handcuffs on the dressing table. The cuffs clanked as he lifted them and he edged behind me, ducking to avoid the sloping wall. He clicked the manacles on to my wrists, and when he released his hold, their cool, hard weight settled around my hands, pulling on my arms and shoulders. I gave a faint moan of contentment, a pulse in my groin thumping with the pleasure of being anchored and bound. The Clejusos always make me feel that not only are my hands locked together but my body is pinned to its current location. A new centre of gravity holds me in place. I’m trapped as if in amber, enveloped by a gathering sense of submission.

  Sol crouched by my feet and wound one end of the dressing-gown belt around my ankle before securing it to the chair leg. He repeated the loop on my other leg, tying me to the chair so my knees were forced apart.

  I began to feel vague and malleable, aware I was slipping into a mild dissociative state where I could allow someone to take me over.

  ‘That OK?’ asked Sol.

  I nodded, the day’s alcohol making me heady and slow. Was this wise? Sol traced a hand along my jaw, observing me. His touch continued down my neck, past my collarbone, down to the low Peter Pan neckline of my dress. My cunt throbbed, aching for a heavy, deliberate touch.

  ‘I’m afraid, Lana,’ he said, ‘I’m about to do something horribly cruel to you.’

  ‘Be my guest,’ I breathed.

  He unfastened the top button of my dress. I swallowed, heat pulsing between my thighs. I glanced past him to Misha, who stood stock-still, eyeing us with his glazed expression, fist rising and falling on his big, solid shaft. His pink-white skin gleamed in the dimness, his muscularity glossy and taut. I half-fancied Sol and I were in the presence of a creepy, watchful statue.

  Sol continued unbuttoning me until my bra was bared. Carefully, he pushed my dress onto my shoulders, exposing me more fully, smiling solicitously all the while. He cupped me through the fabric of my black satin bra, his hand easily encompassing my smallness. I tipped my head back as he massaged each breast in turn, my breath becoming shallow. What wicked delights did he have in store for me?

  If Sol was a newcomer to kink, he was either a fast learner or strong on instinct. Already, I felt I could trust him to be neither too much nor too little; neither too aggressive nor too cautious. I’ve learned that getting the balance right is contingent on a tacit, ongoing negotiation; a game of guesswork and risk; of giving and reading signals; of checking in without destroying the flow. I respect those who respect me enough to trust that I want this. Sol’s stated intention of being ‘horribly cruel’ made me deliciously nervous.

  He nudged my bra straps down onto my arms and scooped a hand into one cup. He was warm and strong on my skin, and my tight nipple pressed into his palm as he freed my small mound. He repeated the action on the other side so my breasts were strategically exhibited, a display of objectification that humiliated as much as it thrilled. He stepped back to cast an eye over his arrangement and then gently adjusted one rucked-down bra cup.

  His cool, scrutinising eyes made my blood race. Was this his way of appealing to my fantasy of being watched? If so, it was working. Having said that, Misha’s dull-eyed observation from the far side of the bed unnerved rather than aroused me. He seemed removed from the scene, waiting rather than wanting, wanking patiently while biding his time.

  Satisfied by the exposure of my breasts, Sol bent to unfasten the button by the hem of my dress. A shiver tickled along my spine as I mentally predicted his fingers’ destination.

  ‘Let’s take a look at that sweet little pussy,’ he said, working open a higher button.

  ‘Pussy’ made me wince but he was American so I forgave him. Besides, the thumping between my legs proved that my lust had no truck with semantics. With steady fingers, Sol unbuttoned my dress to my waist and tucked the parted fabric back. His eyes examined me where I was spread-legged and split. He nodded in approval, taking his time. Under his inspection, heat crawled over my face. My lower lips swelled, dense with sensation and thumping like a thousand heartbeats. Shyness made me draw my knees together but Sol pushed them wide again.

  ‘Hold yourself like that,’ he said. ‘So we can see how wet you’re getting.’

  He stood, smiling. He shucked off his checked shirt; then, in a single movement, he whipped his T-shirt over his head, baring his muscular torso and the delicate botanical tattoo etched down one side. I almost sobbed with the need to be touched within, my longing exacerbated by the sight of him undressing while I was rendered immobile. His skin was flexed with shadows, his shoulders burnished by a patina of ruddy bronze where he’d caught the sun. His nipples were dusky brown discs just visible under the fur of dark hair across his pecs. He tossed his tee aside, unbuttoned his jeans while heeling off his trainers, then stepped out of his remaining clothes, kicking them aside.

  Dear God, but he was beautiful: tall and powerful with long, hefty thighs meeting the taut globes of a lightly haired ass. His erection jutted from a thatch of rich brown pubes, a hard, handsome length topped by a smooth tip of deeply flushed flesh. Dents hollowed in his buttocks as he walked around the bed to join Misha.

  Misha eyed Sol with greedy impatience, his hand frantic on his cock, his mouth parted. My arousal ran riot at the sight of the two of them standing naked together. Sol, darker and more heavily muscled than Misha, stood close to him but not close enough to touch. The bedside lamp washed their contours in a pale peach glow, and flecked their body hair with filaments of rose-gold. They seemed like a couple of prize specimens, two sleek, supple stallions. I wanted them both so desperately I found myself wiggling involuntarily in my chair.

  Smirking, Sol clawed his fingers into the short sandy curls of Misha’s hair. He gripped a handful and jerked back Misha’s head. Misha groaned, his Adam’s apple bobbing once in his stretched neck. With his other hand, Sol pinched a nipple ri
ng between thumb and forefinger, and then slowly pulled.

  I flinched to see Misha’s nipple stretching, his pectoral flesh triangulating to a point. He uttered a low snarl of pain, hand shuffling faster on his beast of a cock.

  ‘You wanna play nasty?’ asked Sol.

  The question made my groin clench.

  ‘Yes,’ panted Misha.

  ‘You sure about that, bro?’ Sol released the nipple ring and yanked at Misha’s hair again. Misha grunted, neck arched, eyes pinned on the ceiling.

  ‘Yes! Yes, master!’

  The words hung in the ensuing silence, unexpected words that felt imported from elsewhere. No one had mentioned any kind of formalised role-playing. Was this Misha’s way of doing things? Was Sol into that?

  Sol shoved Misha forwards so he stumbled onto the bed. ‘You fucking piece of shit,’ he spat.

  I gulped, afraid. Misha crawled on the quilted coverlet, big dick swinging below his belly as he turned to Sol, presenting me with his pale ass and the low pouch of his bollocks.

  ‘Get off there,’ snapped Sol. ‘On the floor, on your fucking knees.’

  Misha scrambled to obey, dropping to the floor by the side of the bed, plaintive eyes looking up at Sol. For me, forced into the role of onlooker, the scene acquired an ugly, dangerous edge. I reminded myself this was simply a game of power exchange. If I’d been less physically distant, I probably wouldn’t feel quite so uneasy. I told myself they knew what they were doing.

  ‘You’re a louse,’ sneered Sol. ‘A despicable fucking louse.’

  I wondered if Sol really did know Misha from somewhere. Embarrassing if it later transpired he was Sol’s bank manager or similar. But no, Misha was a pharmacologist and Sol was an ex-techie now working in construction, so this was probably OK.

  ‘What are you?’ Sol raised a hand and brought it swooping down onto Misha’s face. I gasped as Misha’s head reeled from the blow. He recovered quickly and gazed up at Sol, eyes still beseeching, jaw sagging.

  ‘More,’ he whispered. ‘Please. I’m a louse, a despic—’

  Sol swiped at him again, harder this time, his face clouding, brows pulling together. ‘You motherfucking shit.’

  Misha swayed but then returned to his upright kneeling position, one side of his face turning pink. Immediately, Sol hit him again. This didn’t feel right. The expression on Sol’s face concerned me. Impossible to know if he were flushed with genuine rage or if he were deeply immersed in the role of nasty bastard, his skin hot with exhilaration. I caught sight of the deepening flare on Misha’s cheek as his upper body swung towards the bed. That was some heavy hitting.

  ‘Sol,’ I said, ‘take it easy. He’s been drinking, remember? We all have. You know, maybe this isn’t such a great idea.’

  Misha turned to me, his fine blond curls ghostly in the lamplight, his face haggard with shadows. ‘Leave me alone,’ he shouted, voice thin and angry. ‘You don’t know anything. I need this, I need it. So shut up! Don’t interfere when you don’t understand.’

  I huffed in outrage. ‘Well, excuse me! I was only trying—’

  ‘Hey, dickwad,’ said Sol, ‘you don’t talk to the lady like that.’

  ‘She’s no lady,’ muttered Misha.

  I swore, tugging against my bonds as Sol’s hand crashed across Misha’s face. His fist landed with a deep, resounding crack, brutal enough to knock the man sideways. Misha lurched and bumped against the mattress. He rested in that position, catching his breath, head on the coverlet. I was torn in two, half of me concerned for him, half of me thinking he damn well deserved it.

  After a few seconds, Misha pushed himself upright, his smile smug, eyes raised to Sol.

  ‘Oh, OK, I get it,’ said Sol, stalking angrily away. ‘You’re trying to rile me, aren’t you, you son of a bitch?’ He turned his back to Misha, glaring at the wall. He raked his fingers through his scruffy dark hair, his chest rising and falling, his erection dipping.

  ‘I need it, please,’ replied Misha. ‘I need to be hurt.’

  Sol swung around. ‘What am I? Your fucking prodomme? Your Miss Whiplash?’

  ‘I need to suffer, please, master! I need pain and abuse.’

  Sol returned to him, fingers curled around his own cock, his stance confrontational. ‘Well, what say this isn’t all about you, dude? What say it’s about my needs? What I want?’ Sol worked his erection with a slow, intimidating shuffle, looking down at Misha with evident disdain. ‘And what I want right now is to choke you with my dick, fuck it hard into your throat. Make you think twice before you go dishing out the insults, the demands. What about that, huh?’

  Sol sprang forwards. He clutched Misha’s head in both hands, fixing him at groin level. With his knees bent, he aimed his thick length at Misha’s mouth. Misha opened up willingly, spluttering in protest as Sol slammed into him.

  ‘I’ll shut you up,’ said Sol, lodging himself deep.

  Misha kept his lips wide as Sol began to pound, his muscular buttocks indenting. He kept his hands clamped by Misha’s ears, lunging to and fro, muttering and panting. Misha, eyes growing big, flailed for something to hold. He grasped the bed frame, tendons in his neck pulled tight as he fought, coughing and drooling.

  I stared, uneasy but wildly aroused, my hot moisture sliding from me. The scenario looked so brutal. I was expecting Misha to call time any moment. But the two men kept up a mutual pace of aggressor and victim, and, before long, lust trumped my anxieties. After all, they were grown adults able to make decisions and look after themselves, just as I was. And as a grown adult, half naked and tied to a chair, I longed for a taste of the action. For several minutes, Sol kept at it, occasionally pausing for respite. My hunger to be involved escalated, my wetness seeping, but I was too proud to reveal my needs.

  Eventually, Sol turned to me, his cock still stuffed in Misha’s mouth, his hair wild and damp, his face red. ‘You want some of this dick, Lana?’ he gasped.

  Oh God, did I ever. But I feared he was trying to catch me out. I tried playing it cool, not easy when you’re held captive, burning up with need and lewdly exposed. ‘When you’re ready,’ I replied.

  ‘Well, tough,’ said Sol. ‘You ain’t getting any. Because tonight it’s boys’ night.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ I said, refusing to believe him. If someone didn’t offer me some action soon, I fancied I might pass out from desperation. I wanted to be between them both, wanted their bone-hard cocks to shore up my hazy, horny, vanishing self.

  Sol held his cock deep, looking down at Misha’s imprisoned head as if testing the man’s resilience. When Misha was at the limit of his breath, his face bright pink, he clawed and punched at Sol’s thigh. Sol didn’t relent so Misha thumped harder, his other hand pawing at the air, noises gurgling in his throat. Seconds later, Sol snatched himself free, leaving Misha doubled over, gasping and coughing.

  ‘You Yankee bastard,’ Misha rasped.

  ‘C’mere,’ said Sol. ‘Crawl this way.’ Sol clicked his fingers and moved around the foot of the bed, checking back on Misha’s response. Misha followed on all fours until they were both beside me, both hard. ‘How you doing, Lana?’ asked Sol. ‘Suffering yet?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You going to put me out of my misery?’

  Sol laughed softly and bent low, his hand swooping between my open thighs. ‘You wet for us, baby?’ he asked. His fingers nudged at my folds then rubbed along my slippery groove.

  I writhed and whimpered. ‘I think I’m starting to hate you,’ I said.

  Sol laughed. ‘So soon?’

  ‘Do I get to join the party?’ I asked. ‘Or is it still a guys-only event?’

  ‘One step at a time,’ Sol replied smoothly. ‘I want to see you come first. To be specific, I want to see our Russian friend make you come. With his tongue.’

  ‘No, please!’ I found the idea of a man being ordered to lick me abhorrent, the instruction making the act seem like a distasteful chore.

  ‘Yes. And within the next three min
utes.’ Sol stepped away to rummage in the pockets of his discarded jeans. He retrieved his phone and thumbed the buttons. ‘You think you can do that, Mish? Gonna put you on stopwatch.’

  ‘I’m more than happy to try,’ replied Misha, shuffling into the gap of my open, bound legs.

  I threw back my head, squirming in discomfort but wanting relief. ‘No, please,’ I said, less vehemently this time because the humiliation was twisting into a sultry, secret warmth. Being forced to come was very different to being forced to accept another’s reluctant ministrations.

  ‘Good man,’ said Sol. ‘You make her come in three, I’ll buy us all a coke.’ He addressed me. ‘And don’t even think about faking it.’

  ‘No worries. I hate coke.’

  Sol laughed. ‘Pepsi?’

  ‘How do you prefer your cunnilingus?’ asked Misha, hands on my spread knees. ‘Do you like direct clitoral stimulation or around the hood? And would you like me to use my fingers on you as well?’

  I released a breath of exasperation. ‘I prefer it when it’s not like science class.’

  ‘Two minutes forty-five,’ said Sol, checking his phone.

  Misha grinned, sly and confident. ‘I cannot wait to fuck you,’ he said. ‘Is that something you’d like?’ As he spoke, he eased two fingers inside me, curling them onto the fleshy pad of my G.

  ‘Yeah, maybe,’ I whispered, thinking of the prodigious cock rather than the nerdy man attached to it.

  His skilful fingers moved. Sensation burst inside me, quivering from my centre towards my head and toes. I gasped at the intensity of feeling and slid deeper in the chair, tilting my hips towards him. The chair back dug into my arms, the cuffs inhibiting my movement, but in the midst of such heady pleasure, the discomfort barely registered. Misha kept pressing on my sweet spot while his thumb roamed over and around my clit, exploring and frigging.

  ‘You have a good cunt,’ he said. ‘Your clitoris is swollen and clear to locate, as is your Grafenburg spot.’

  ‘Yeah?’ I breathed. ‘That’s because I’m horny as hell.’