A Wayward Game

Pandora Witzmann

Electric Blue
Publishing

Copyright © 2014
Pandora Witzmann

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This is a work of
fiction. All names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents
are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously.

This eBook contains
sexually explicit material and adult language. It may be considered
offensive to some readers, and should be purchased and read only by
adults.

This is a work of
fiction. It is not recommended that you try any new sexual
practices based on the contents of this eBook. Neither the author
nor the publisher assume any responsibility for any loss or injury
resulting from the practice of any of the activities described
herein. All the characters in this eBook are adults, and are
engaging in legal and consensual sexual activities.

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The road of
excess leads to the palace of wisdom.

—William Blake,
The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

Suffering has
been stronger than all other teaching.

—Charles
Dickens,
Great Expectations

Neil wriggles
and whimpers, like a child caught in a bad dream. This is an apt
comparison: a blindfold covers his eyes, and all the world is dark
to him. He alone knows what visions arise in that darkness, and in
meeting them he is more helpless even than a child. His wrists and
ankles are bound, and he can barely move. There is no escape, or so
it pleases him to think; his is a nightmare that must be endured to
the end.

I place my
mouth close to his ear, and breathe in his clean, warm scent. He
shivers and tenses, and I hear a slight catch in his breath.

“This,” I
murmur, “is going to hurt. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,
Mistress,” he says, and his voice trembles a little. Yes, he knows,
and he’s afraid. I pity him, but at the same time a little current
of pleasure pulses in the wet hollow between my legs.

“But,” I
continue, “it won’t ever be too much. I won’t let any harm come to
you. Do you trust me?”

He hesitates a
moment longer than I would like, and then, “Yes, Mistress,” he
whispers.

“What is the
Safeword?”

“Satis.”

“Good.”

I step away
from him, almost reluctantly – my body aches for his – and go to
stand behind him. I hear a slight quickening of his breath as I do
so, and again I feel a sharp kick of sympathy for him. The
anticipation, the fear, the mind aflame with imagined horrors – all
the darkness of the world thickening, closing in on you, and no
escape. I draw the moment out, deliberately. He has to confront the
darkness, to experience it and to know it in its entirety. Only
then can he be free of it.

His wrists are
bound behind his back with two soft leather cuffs. The leather band
that connects them narrows to a V, where it joins with another,
longer strap. I slip my finger between the cuffs and the delicate
flesh of his wrists, making sure that they are not too tight, and
gently tug on the long leather strap. Only then do I thread it
through the metal loop that protrudes from the wall, and pull
lightly on the end. Neil’s bound wrists move upwards, very
slightly, and he gives a little moan.

“Is it too
much?” I ask.

“No,
Mistress.”

I give the
strap another tug, and Neil’s arms rise another half-inch. He is
breathing hard, from excitement or nerves or both, and a thin sheen
of sweat glistens on his back. I tighten the strap very slightly,
so that his arms are raised a touch more, and then tie it firmly,
so that he is held in position. I step back and look at him. He is
standing with his head tipped slightly forward and his arms
extended behind his back. He is breathing hard and fast. His legs
are spread wide, held apart at the ankles by a spreader bar. He
looks prone, helpless – and beautiful. I admire the curve of his
buttocks, the thin line of hair that marks the point where they
separate, and the dusky, moist pucker of his anus. His balls hang
heavily between his legs, and I long to cup them in my hand.

I stare at him
a moment longer, feeling a familiar clench of desire. Then I step
up beside him, and slip my arm around his waist. He relaxes, very
slightly, at my touch, knowing that he is no longer alone, no
longer quite so vulnerable. I lean forward and let my right cheek
rest against his upper arm for a moment, and feel a tide of
excitement flow through my body as the short, fine hairs there
graze my skin. My groin brushes against his hip, and the teasing
tingle of desire between my legs strengthens. Neil breathes out
sharply, and his fingers flex above the cuffs that hold his arms in
place.

I walk over to
the nearby table and pick up a riding crop. Returning to his side,
I run it over his buttocks in a light caress. He makes a small,
helpless sound of pure need as the tip of the crop circles his left
buttock, teasing the skin there. I run it lightly, slyly, over the
other buttock, and then move it lower until it slides between his
legs and strokes his balls. I let it linger there, stimulating him,
tormenting him, and then bring it up so that the tip slides between
his buttocks and skims over his anus. He gives a little sob of
desire, and a droplet of sweat glides down the small of his back.
It is a sweltering evening outside, and not even the drawn curtains
and the fan that whirs quietly in the background can combat the
heat. I must be careful not to drive him too hard, I remind
myself.

“Do you like
that?” I murmur.

“Yes,
Mistress.”

“And do you
want more?”

“Yes,
Mistress.”

I drag the crop
along the length of the hollow between his buttocks, and then let
it rest against his right buttock again. I keep it there for a long
moment, touching the sensitive skin; and then I lift it, and bring
it sharply down on his flesh.

Neil twitches
instinctively, and pulls against the cuffs that hold his arms in
place. I gently wrap my free arm around his waist, steadying and
reassuring him.

“It’s all
right,” I tell him; and then, when he doesn’t reply, I ask, “Do you
want to carry on?”

He hesitates
for a second, and then whispers, “Yes, Mistress.”

“Don’t be
afraid,” I say. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

He stands still
then, his breath sounding harsh in the hushed room.

I allow the
crop to slide back along his hip, and then stroke it against his
buttock again. Then I lift and flick it against his skin, and feel
another throb of desire at the sharp slapping sound the leather
makes as it meets his flesh. He makes a small sound of desire and
discomfort combined, and I let the tip of the crop linger against
his skin again. I repeat the pattern – stroke, flick, stroke, flick
– building up the speed and strength, varying my rhythm so that he
never knows when or where the next blow will fall. I listen to him
sighing and gasping, and sense that he is moving into a zone where
fear slips away, past and future fade, and thoughts flicker and die
in an instant – a zone of pure experience, of absolute feeling. I
will him to feel every sensation and impression, to live entirely
in his body, and to know the pleasure and the peace that this can
bring.

Eventually my
rhythm slows, and I let the crop drag slowly over his flesh one
last time. Then I throw it aside, desperate to feel his body
against mine. I run my hand over his back, and move my lips close
to his ear.

“You dealt with
that so beautifully,” I say, “and I think you deserve a reward. I’m
going to untie your arms now, and when I do I want you to lower
them slowly behind your back. Is that understood?”

“Yes,
Mistress,” he says, and his tongue darts out between his lips.

I step back to
where the leather strap is held in place, and untie the knot that
keeps it there. The strap slackens, and Neil slowly lowers his arms
until they are safely behind his back once more. He stands up
straight, gasping and sweating, and I let the strap slither through
the metal loop and fall to the floor. I move closer to him, facing
him, and place my hands on his hips, stroking him there. Bound and
blindfolded, he looks vulnerable and lost, but his erection is
strong and insistent. I kiss him lightly on the lips, and let my
fingers brush against his cock.

“You appear to
be somewhat agitated,” I breathe against his ear. “Is there
anything I can do to make you feel better?”

“Yes,
Mistress,” he murmurs.

“And what’s
that?”

He hesitates,
and I give his left nipple a little tweak. He moans.

“Say it,” I
command.

“Fuck me,” he
mutters.

I twist his
nipple again.

“Fuck me,
Mistress,” he says, wincing again.

“That’s
better.” I kiss him. “Perhaps I shall. But not just yet.”

I turn away and
collect a chair from the other side of the room – a light wooden
chair, very simple, without armrests. I put it down just behind
him, so that the edge of the seat presses against the backs of his
knees. Then I crouch down and remove the spreader bar from his
ankles.

“There,” I say,
“that should make you more comfortable. I want you to relax a bit
now. Sit down.”

He sits, and I
lean over him and kiss him lightly on the lips.

“But,” I
continue, “I don’t want you to relax
too
much. There are
still some things I want you to do for me.”

I slip behind
the chair, and take hold of the leather strap that runs from his
wrists. I tie it around the slats at the back of the chair, so that
he is tethered to it – but lightly now, so that he can move his
arms a little. I collect a towel that is hanging from a hook on the
back of the door, and gently wipe away the sweat that now streams
down his face and body.

“Do you want
some water?” I ask him.

“Yes,
Mistress.”

I take a glass
of water from the table and lift it to his lips. He tips his head
back, and I watch his throat constrict as he drinks. He drains the
glass to its last drop, and I place it back down on the floor. Then
I slip down onto my knees between his splayed legs, and put my
hands on his upper thighs.

“You’ve been so
good,” I say, “and I think you deserve to feel a little pleasure
now. But don’t come. If you do, I’ll punish you. Understood?”

“Yes,
Mistress,” he says, and sighs. He lets his head roll back slightly,
and a look of yearning ecstasy crosses his face.

I lean towards
him, and begin to drop light kisses along the length of his cock,
enjoying the feel of it beneath my lips. When I reach the tip, my
tongue flits out and licks it lightly, and then runs around it in
soft wet circles. He moans, and I slip my hand around his balls,
holding them gently. I love the taste of him, the feel of him – the
softness of his skin, and the contrast with the hardness
underneath. I slip my lips over him, and begin to slide back and
forth, gently sucking. His breath grows sharper and swifter, and my
hands stray up over his hips, fondling him there.