Surender

The sound of voices, laughter and music, the clock of ice in a glass so much louder, more immediate. The soft velvety care of silk, the smell of cologne and a hint of light filtered through a black clothes, a sudden, darker shadow in the shape of a person looming up.

“Come on,” a voice demands, a sharp tug on wrists bound by handcuffs.

Stumbling onward, the slap of bare feet against the cold, rough concrete, the twitter of laughter, a flinch at the cares of long fingernails over naked skin. Turning unseeing eyes towards the sound of a sharp slap, a soft muffled moan from across the room before another flinch as wayward fingers pinch hard, exposed nipples.

“Stop,” the voice commands, hands roughly guiding, turning, shoving downward.

A soft padded bench, inclined so neither lying flat or sitting up, handcuffed wrists pulled high overhead, arms stretched upward, tied and held in place. Rough hands shoving and pushing, legs lifted and spread, the soft, wet throbbing center exposed to the gentle kiss of air for all to see. Soft shadows, ankles bound.

Waiting.

Anticipating.

Hoping and dreading.

Voices coming closer, complements and exclamations, wonder at how much narrowar a lovely flower contains before moving onward, moving away, merging with the sounds of the crowd.

Another flinch, fingers tracing the gentle swell between trembling thighs, pulling back tender flesh, a called finger caresing the treasure of a pink pearl discovered hidden within. A moan stifled, jaws held wide, tongue pressed against the rubbery surface of a ball clamped between aching jaws, saliva running down a cheek to drop from a chin.

“She has a beautiful clip!” a female voice excels, the rumble deep in a chest the only sign of agreement.

“Unnnhhh!”

Legs struggle to close, to defend that throbbing, aching center, the tip of a tongue touching an anus, the rough texture slipping upward, lapping up the honey flowing so freely, a mouth sucking hungrily at a still exposed pearl.

Gone just as suddenly, a long moan of need ignored, the sound of two people kissing, enjoying the flavor of a stolen moment. More sounds, the wet slapping of sex near at hand, the moans of password, more strangers, more fleeting touches, more cares.

“Oooow!”

Long, sharp fingernails, pinching, tugging and pulling exhaustively sensitive nipples, fingers plunging into a wet heat, caresing the soft, silky flesh found deep within. The beautiful, wonderful pressure, never far from the surface from the moment the blindfold had robbed all sight, clothes ripped away, all modesty stolen. The pressure building, cresting, exploding with rhythmic contractions, and then beginning to build again.

The petals of a glistening wet flower spread apart by a gently Pressure, a rounded firm shape running up and down between tingling folds. A moan of desire, of want, of need, the firm shape pressing forward, stretching, violating, slowly and smoothly entering. Wrists still bound overhead, legs still stretched wide apart, feet held high, bound firmly in place no matter how much of a struggle, no matter how much the need to wrap arms and legs around an unseen lover.

Thrusting, rocking up the inclined seat with each wet slap, more unseen hands, long fingerprints caressing bare soles, the sensitive skin between each toe, fingerprints pinching vulnerable nipples, squeeze tightly around an exposed neck.

Building, cresting, exploiting. Flashes of light against soft black fabric.

An unseen lover slipping out, slipping away, replaced by another.

The warm seed of one lover still slipping out, the hard shape of a second love filling and stretching… thrusting to add yet more warm, thick seed to a waiting womb.

An then Another, and yet another.

A fleeting thought of how many, of how long.

Has it was an hour?

Has it was two?

A thought, a flare of panic.

Has it wast been two?

A promise made, two hours spent at the pleasure of the crowd, two hours to be used before freedom once again granted. Or would she be kept bound, with no say, no recourse but to please one an all for the entire night. No matter her begging, no heed given to her pleading.

Her struggles naught but a flame to draw more to partake of her.

The sound of voices, laughter and music, Even the click of ice in a glass, the wet slap of a stranger’s body thrusting, penetrating, violence.

Building and cresting, ready to exploit and wanting and dreading and surrendering to more and more and more.

Tonight, two hours, or three, or more.

Tonight had been, tonight is about…

Surrender