Naked Delirium Page 16

  Make yourself presentable. His words thrummed in her head, and her imagination told her what to do next. Remove shoes, jeans, panties. Her halter-neck top and front-clasp strapless bra came off without a need to remove the cuffs. Anyone watching might have thought she’d dressed for just such an event… She piled her clothes neatly on the small marble work surface next to the sink. Thought a little, and slipped back into her heels, black court heels with a couple of buckle straps. The shoes, in fact, she often wore to work.

  And sat on the toilet, nude, feeling nervous, flushed, just a little degraded, and a lot excited. It occurred to her that the guy had said nothing about what he’d do to her. In fact he hadn’t said he’d do anything at all. For all Hannah knew, he was just going to make her wait there, to be discovered by the next person who needed to use the room…

  And then the door opened and he was standing there with a wolf-like, predatory smile and those intense eyes boring into her.

  “I knew,” he said, “you had something on your mind when you walked through the door. Now I know what it was.”

  His right hand cupped her chin, thumb and forefinger hooking either side of her jawbones. When he pulled her firmly towards him she had no option but to follow the tug on her jaw, and it took her to her knees. It took her lips to within an inch of his cock, which now stood out firmly from the fly on his leather jeans. Her nostrils filled with the complex scents of man and leather. Scents that made her lick, and then open, her lips.

  He guy removed his hand. Didn’t touch her. There was no caress of her breasts, no fist in her hair. Whatever Hannah wanted to do now was entirely up to her. She could back off, call and end to it. Or she could…

  It slipped easily to the back of her mouth. Something metallic there as well, a piercing, a barbell style she didn’t know the name of. Not that names mattered. She brought her hands up, fingers searching for his balls, pulling at leather: he shrugged his jeans down far enough to give her access.

  Closed her eyes. Concentrated on the sensations, moving her tongue around, then pushing it out as far as possible to give him sensation on the underside of his cock while also enabling her to take more of its length. The tip of her tongue was just able to reach the folds of his scrotum.

  And all the time, Hannah was conscious that she’d put herself in this position. No one had forced her. This was an alternative personality coming out, one she’d repressed, one she’d felt guilty about, one that was bad-girl whorish, one where the pleasure came from being used and, perhaps, abused.

  Her ears filled with the guk-guk and nngh-nngh of saliva, of breathing around a filled mouth, of swallowing cock. Yes, it was her making the noises. The bare walls of the toilet seemed to amplify them. Surely the other customers could hear what was going on? And all the time the cock was flexing, veins bulging and pumping. It seemed to go on forever. He was taking his time and she didn’t know how much longer she could keep her jaw that wide open. Blood pounded in her ears. She felt three hard pulses running the length of the cock and then her mouth was even fuller, flooded with cum, salty and sweet, the taste of defilement and submission and erotic surrender.

  Only then did he grasp her hair, holding her head so she couldn’t release the cock from her mouth. There was no choice of spit-or-swallow; she could only let cum drool from between her lips and swallow the rest at the cost of being able to breathe.

  “You’re crying.”

  And yes, she was. Tears of…

  Tears of what? Of relief, in a way. A barrier broken, a boundary crossed, an emotional dam burst.

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s just…” She was lost for words. “A release of tension?”

  He nodded sagely. “You know you look really beautiful with tears on your cheeks?” And cum spilling down her chin, probably.

  Hannah recovered a little of her old, feisty self. “I bet you say that to all the girls when you make them cry.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, some of them.” Then: “You’d make a nice extra little feature for the café. Imagine yourself tied in here all day, available for anyone who wants to come in here and use you.”

  The thought caught her like a punch in the solar plexus, a slap on her naked cunt.

  “Do I take it from that reaction you’re excited by the thought? Turn round for a moment.” He released the padlock on the cuffs, but then secured them behind her back. “I’m going to take your clothes. And leave you here, ready for someone…anyone else.” As he talked, he used a clean tissue to wipe cum from around her mouth, solicitously, caringly. Then he twisted around, pulling a long length of cloth from a cupboard. “Don’t worry. I’m going to blindfold you, so you can always imagine it’s not really happening.”

  As if that were likely. Leaving her in her own personal darkness, and presumably having picked up her clothes, he was gone.

  She could hear music, a soft buzz of conversation from the bar. Once, a siren from a passing police car. Alone with her thoughts, the thoughts began to dominate. How she’d come from one state of being to another, from corporate career girl to brazen fuckslut, in the space of, what, a couple of hours. How that unleashing of her subconscious might affect the rest of her life. How the two might, or might not, be able to co-exist.

  And then the door clicked open and shut. Already on her knees, Hannah opened her mouth. She expected it to be filled with an unknown cock, the cock of a complete stranger. The anticipation of it gave her nervous butterflies in her belly. Gave her a thrill that made her thighs tremble. She’d never known that quicksilver quiver of the inner thighs could be, literally, a physical manifestation of intense excitement.

  What she didn’t expect, as the head of the cock pushed past her lips, was this: a throaty female purr, a light contralto voice that said “And I thought he was joking!”

  The woman was behind Hannah, knees in the small of her back, supporting her as long fingers with sharp nails explored her breasts. Meanwhile she had no sense of what kind of man was behind the cock, the thrust and harsh breathing of the fuck. When hands crept up to hold Hannah’s head, forcing her forward to take more of the length, they were the woman’s.

  They left her lying on the hard, cold floor, coughing, spunk dribbling from her mouth and nose. The world receded to a vanishing point, or Hannah did. She had no idea how long she stayed there. Eventually, she moved enough to rub the makeshift rag blindfold off her head. The restroom seemed bright and clinical. The waiter had indeed removed all her clothes. She’d have to…

  Cautiously, awkwardly, Hannah pulled the door open, looked at the corridor. She wondered if she was being forced to emerge naked into a crowded room. But the café was empty, in semi-darkness, blinds down. The only light came from behind the counter where the waiter sat calmly reading his pad. He looked up.

  “I was wondering if you were still there,” he chuckled. “I was just thinking I should come and see how you were.”

  “I’m… I don’t know. How was I?”

  “When Carmen and Mitchell came back from fucking you, they said you were smoking hot.”

  He looked on in astonishment as the naked, cuffed woman stood in the middle of his café, laughing raucously.

  Chapter 2

  ♦♦♦♦

  The what, how and why of Hannah’s new mental state were quite clear to her. Quite how it was going to affect her life was not.

  On the other hand, a lot of things had affected her life in strange ways. She held a degree in anthropology and could hardly have imagined when she graduated that it would lead to a high-pressure job in the cut-throat world of finance, as advisor and ‘cultural risk assessor’ in a venture capital company. Nor would she have imagined when she started the job that the cultural risks she’d need to assess came predominantly from over-ambitious, backstabbing colleagues.

  Which went a long way towards explaining the 40-a-day habit she’d just extinguished.

 
Hannah couldn’t quite put her finger on the change. Work seemed clearer, less fogged. Other people commented: her eyes were brighter, her presence more commanding. They put it down to the smoking thing, if they knew about it. At least one woman in the office made up her own mind about it, insinuating that Hanna was probably fucking her boss. That might have been her colleague’s fantasy, but it certainly wasn’t Hannah’s.

  Was it really possible, she wondered, for the change in her to have come about as a side effect of the hypnosis? As her brain interpreting it as an opportunity to rearrange, slot things into position, like the final twist on a Rubik’s Cube that solved the puzzle and left each face a single colour? Because, like a solved cube, she seemed to have — and to privately revel in having — distinct and differently-shaded personalities. The work one, investigating and assessing the cultural context of different commercial opportunities. The sex one, in which she’d felt a strange sense of release in submitting to oral sex with two complete strangers in a café restroom. Were there others, yet to be discovered? And were they really so separate?

  Hannah kept the cuffs by her bedside, wore them — albeit not linked together — when she went to sleep at night. Began to experiment with her appearance, booking a session with her hairdresser to tame her natural walnut-coloured frizz into a more sculptured look with streaks of mahogany, hazel and gold. Wore hold-up stockings, enjoyed the sensation of her skirt moving against bare thighs.

  And returned to the scene of her encounter, because it was the only place she knew where she could satisfy her no-longer-subconscious desires.

  It had closed. Door locked, shutters down, and from what she could see through the gaps in the shutters the furniture and stock behind the counter had been cleared.

  Though the fact she could see through gaps in the shutters gave her a belly-flutter that might have been embarrassment or excitement or both. Because about ten days previously she’d been standing in there naked and, she realised, visible from the street if only to a curious and determined passer-by.

  It hadn’t taken her long to track down the café guy. Conversations in the adjacent shops, and information supplied by one of the customers there — once that customer had worked out that her work attire didn’t mean she was from the city council, the tax office or the police. The guy was Erik: her informant hadn’t spelled out the name but she heard it with a “k” and it seemed to fit. The directions weren’t precise, but they worked. Take this road, then bear right on that road, keep going and look out for the house with the monkey puzzle tree in the front. About three houses past that, on the right and opposite a convenience store, a big old place with three beaten-up and scarred cars in the front yard.

  Hanna pressed the doorbell and listed to noises behind it. Difficult to tell quite what was going on. A thump, a scrape, a squeal of metal, a soft pad of bare feet.

  When the door opened it revealed the purple-haired woman from the café. Rapture. She wore, despite it being five in the afternoon, a short dressing gown tied at the waist and emphasising her slim figure and long legs.

  “Is Erik in?”

  The woman looked her up and down, as if picturing her without her clothes. Without her black, tailored shift dress that hung and moved just right, and the bolero jacket Hannah wore over it. The corner of Rapture’s lip curled in a half-smile.

  “The woman from the café. Now that’s a surprise.” But she opened the door wider to allow Hannah inside.

  Hannah’s instincts told her she’d interrupted Erik and Rapture in the middle of steamy sex. But if so, why had she answered the door?

  “Come on through.”

  The house, what she could see of it, was furnished on a budget — second-hand furniture and recycled items like a speaker cabinet that had become a bookshelf. But it was comfortable, if cluttered — the bass guitar and drum in the hall, the open door to the front room revealing a box of tools, coiled cables like urban-industrial birds’ nests on the coffee table, the bullwhips hanging ominously from a hook on the wall, lengths of rope and female clothing left casually on a sofa. The broadsword propped in the corner next to the yucca plant as though it had just seeded itself and grown there.

  Rapture noted her interest in the gear. “Yes, we’re in a band. I sing and use a programmer, Erik plays bass. You want to know more, you’ll have to come to a gig. And maybe an after-party.” She indicated, with a casual flick of the wrist, that Hannah should enter the back room.

  “Your cocksucker’s here to see you,” Rapture announced.

  Hannah wondered how she should feel about that. The words shocked her because they reduced her to just one, sexual, dimension. And they gave her a jolt of excitement, as physical as a vibrator placed momentarily on her clit, for exactly the same reason.

  She paused at the door: the room was in semi-darkness and it wasn’t obvious what she might bump into.

  “Just kneel in the corner.”

  Erik’s voice came from above her, and it took a few moments to work out that this room, far from being a lounge, was some kind of photographic studio. There was scaffolding around the walls, supporting planks laid almost at ceiling height. Erik was on top of a plank, looking down, with a camera in his hand.

  Hannah did as she was told. Rapture reappeared, this time without the dressing gown. As she switched on a set of small spotlights, Hannah could see she was wearing a G-string and corset, the latter constraining a surprisingly petite bust.

  “Ready?” This was Erik, addressing Rapture.

  “Give me a moment. I have an idea…”

  Rapture’s idea happened fluidly and with a speed that surprised Hannah. She suddenly found cold metal around her wrists, hands cuffed behind her back and around a scaffold pole. Something the size of a football, or at least it felt that way, thrust into her mouth; she couldn’t see what it was exactly because Rapture had reached around from behind her to press it between her teeth. There was a strap and buckle on it, and Rapture wasn’t gentle — she pulled it tight enough to be painful on the back of Hannah’s neck.

  “One final touch…” Rapture ran her fingers, her sharp nails, up Hannah’s thigh. Raised her eyebrows as she encountered stocking tops, pushed flimsy underwear aside, discovered a shaven pussy. She smiled. “That smart business dress is a disguise, isn’t it? You’re hiding your real personality under it!”

  The final touch was a small vibrator, lubed and cold, slid into Hannah’s pussy, switched to maximum and held in place by her thong.

  “This is what’s going to happen,” Rapture said. “We’re doing a short video blog. You’re going to provide sound effects, because my estimate is that you’ll be cumming about three minutes from now.” With that she moved to the centre of the room, splaying herself across a thin mattress on the floor. She shook out her hair, allowing it to spill in different directions.

  “Today’s topic,” she announced, looking up at Erik and the camera, “is the etiquette of corruption. Who should you corrupt, and why. What are the rules of doing it? Now, let’s get one thing out of the way: I’m not talking about bribery and shady financial deals. Being corrupt can also be a very personal act, a way to find yourself, to be on the side of freedom and creativity. Corrupting others can be liberating as well…”

  There was more, but Hannah only half-listened. The voice was hypnotic; the vibe even more so. And there was nothing she could do to stop either. The tightness of the gag felt like a pressure valve and, with the vibrator buzzing inside her, the pressure was building. It wouldn’t be long before it would blow. Hannah felt as though she were melting, as though there’d be steam coming through her pores any second. And those mewling, whining gasps? They were coming from behind the gag, apparently…

  When Hannah shifted position slightly, slumping back against the cold metal of the scaffolding, the vibrator moved inside her by a fraction of an inch. It was enough. The orgasm that had been hovering in a mist in front
of her eyes suddenly grabbed her, invaded her, overwhelmed her. It hammered its way through her body, fused every circuit in her brain, left her pathetically wasted.

  Had she really just walked into the house, been casually handcuffed and forced to orgasm without even a proper greeting — other than being recognised as “the cocksucker from the café”? Did Erik and Rapture even know her name?

  She felt like she’d been hypnotised all over again. Or drugged. At any rate, she wasn’t quite herself, or maybe was more authentically herself than she’d ever been.

  She was corrupted.

  After Rapture had finished her video, they’d released her wrists from the cuffs but left the gag in. Asked her if she wanted more, and she’d nodded. Told her to strip, and she’d done so. She’d meekly accepted the trussing of the most delicate and devious knots tied into the ropes that bound her body, her wrists and ankles. The position left her with hands secured behind her back, legs apart, balanced on tiptoe and unable to place all her weight on her feet. She’d been tied, upright and most securely, to the scaffolding framework. Ankles spread wide and arms restrained.

  Only the muscle-burn in her thighs and stomach told her this wasn’t a dream. At the same time there was a paradox, a confusion, she found strangely exciting. Her physical helplessness and restraint was psychologically and emotionally freeing. She couldn’t work it out. So she just accepted it and stayed in the moment.

  “I know what you’re looking for,” Erik murmured in her ear. He was standing in front of her, something in his hands, held low where she couldn’t see it. “You want something that makes you complete, that makes you feel alive. And I have just the thing – pain. Pain is what does that. You have to work at pleasure, suffer for it, to make it more intense. We had to do it with the band. Oh…and if you were wondering about the café, the answer is that it didn’t make money and I wasn’t going to subsidise it from the band income. Artists, writers, creatives, they all used the place but of course they’re all poor. They suffer for their art. Now it’s time for you to suffer. It’s a necessary step in learning the art of pleasure.”