Again, his words were brusque, and the tone didn’t allow for discussion, nor argument. She had a feeling that any “discussion” she would attempt would only be greeted with that rise of his eyebrow and the “really?” look. Yet, despite her inner struggle for independent thought, she found herself following him.
He’d said nothing about the blowjob she’d given the statue, hidden under the guise of “cleaning” it. That, frankly, rankled.
They wound through a statuary collection that would have most people swooning. Here the scenes were much more graphic. Some were tiny, able to fit in the palm of her hand, should he allow her to touch one. One, cut from fine jade, showed a woman entwined in an octopus’ embrace, tentacles clearly invading pussy, ass, mouth, twining around full and heavy breasts. She shivered, but could not look away from it, which is why she bumped into him.
“It’s fascinating. I imagine that many naughty girls fantasize about being so helpless before such an onslaught. Some postulate that the beast injects its victims with a sexual venom, allowing them to surrender with full abandon to such perverse intrusions.”
She stared at him, wide-eyed. She had read stories just of that ilk. They alway made her puddle-gooey.
“Come along, girl,” he said, turning back.
He paused before a closed door, turning to look at her before gracing her with an inexplicable smile, before entering. Stairs. Going up, not down as she had supposed. They were narrow, and likely at some time in the history of the house, had been used by servants, the better to keep hidden from view of the more illustrious guest who had purportedly come here over the decades.
Willow House, it had been called then, she remembered, so named for the giant weeping willows that had graced the front area, lining the long sweep of drive. A hurricane and its attendant tornado’s had decimated them in the 60’s and now the name “Willow House” had mostly been forgotten. Now it was just the Opheim Gallery-or at least part of it was. The rest was Leo’s personal space-those two rooms of eccentric exotic art they had just passed through, and now, whatever lay ahead.
At the top of the stairs another door opened to an open room. Or perhaps it was just a spacious hallway, she wasn’t certain. Several wide windows let light into the wood panelled area. She could see the city from this side, all tall spires and rushing hubbub, yet grand from this distance. Crossing to the other windows, she looked down upon the rich array of gardens. Patrons of the arts milled around out there, some holding glasses of champagne as they sat at small bistro tables. She could imagine the conversations going on down there now, all the titters and twitters of the things they had just been exposed to. Erotic art, or pornography, she wondered which headlines would be on tomorrow’s papers.
He watched her taking it all in, she could feel his gaze on her. She slanted him a look.
“Why? Why not?”
She rolled her eyes.
“I saw that. It’s such a teenage gesture, this eye thing. A form of flippancy. You’re well past such things, yes?”
“Obviously…not.” She felt a serious case of wise-ass coming on.
“Lucky for you I enjoy piquant women. Doormats bore the fuck out of me. You’re a good writer.”
“Three compliments in a row.” ‘yet,’ she thought to herself, ‘you say nothing about the blow job I just gave a statue. This is freaking surreal.’ She thought about pinching herself to see if she was awake or dreaming, but the tang of bronze still haunted her tongue.
She was definitely awake.
“Come into my parlor,” he drawled, the smile a challenge on his face. As she entered, brushing past him as he stood holding the door, she saw she was in a room that was definitely NOT a parlor.
With a flick, he popped a switch, and the room became illuminated with candle sconces on the walls. She turned a slow circle, openmouthed.
He watched her for a moment, as that proverbial spider watched a tasty fly, then crossed the room. Face to face, he hooked his hands into the open vee of her blouse, and ripped. Buttons flew, pinging off walls, twirling across the floor, but her gaze stayed on his face. At long last, she saw the hunger, the fire burning in his eyes.
His hands followed the shirt over her shoulders, down her arms, using the fabric to twist her arms behind her. His fist closed tight, holding her, tugging her backwards across the room. What looked like wall panel was actually a closet, she could see. Inside were many different kinds of rope. She watched as he selected one hank, then felt it slither across her wrists. Time seemed to stand still as she heard and felt the kiss of rope over her skin-being tied up was such a turn on, and her lust was instantly rekindled. The tug and pull sent her brain spinning starward, any clear thoughts flying free.
He made her feel.
She yelped when he grabbed her hair, pulling a rough ponytail and tying her folded arms into it. Any struggle of her arms tugged her hair painfully. No one had ever done that to her before. Standing behind her, his arm slid around to squeeze one large tit. She gasped, moaning, as he roughly tugged her bra up, letting her breasts fall free. His hand slid down her belly, behind the waistband of her slacks, digging into the soft cleft.
“So fucking wet. Who knew sucking off a statue would make a slut that horny?”
She arched into his hand as he fingered her clit, crying out her need to cum.
“Not yet. Oh, we’re well and far away from that, yet.” He doused her fire, pulling away his hand, wiping it on her belly. Pushing her to the center of the room, he reached up, and snagged a hook. Quickly he tethered her rope to it, fishing it through the back of her bra. There was a tug on her hair as well.
“On your knees slut. Show me what you reaaally can do with that talented mouth of yours.”
There was just enough slack in the rope to make it work, but it was very uncomfortable.
“My hair…my arms…” she stuttered.
“You already know…”
“That it hurts? But of course. This pleases me. And deep in your slut soul, it pleases you, too. This is where the fun begins.”