It started with a mint. That is to say, for him, it started with a mint. Perhaps for her it started earlier. Perhaps she saw him from across the room and was intrigued, moved closer, sat nearby, hoping to for him to notice her, to say something. Perhaps. But from his point of view, it all started with a mint. He tipped one into his hand and popped it into his mouth and this gave her an opportunity to ask him if she could have one. Of course she could. That sparked the conversation.
“Are you here for the rope workshop?” he asked. She hadn’t known there was a workshop. She had come here to this shady area of town, behind an anonymous metal door and down into a basement retrofitted like a Japanese dojo for the performances that evening. A night of shibari, of rope spiralling around flesh, of bodies strung from bamboo, limbs arched and twisted into pretty, painful sculptures.
She had spent the week at a conference, she told him, interspersing long work days teaching and networking in crisp, sensible suits with the occasional escape to an art gallery or browsing the local boutiques. Now her work was done, she had rid herself of business clothes and chosen instead a comfortable woollen dress that clung to her body. She needed to relax.
As they watched the performances, he stole sidelong glances at her. She was quite beautiful. But there were many beautiful people here. Some pierced, some ornately tattooed, jet black hair, straw blonde, smooth skin, piercings.
Yet her? Something about the way she held herself, the poise and elegance of her spirit, reverberated from her body out into the air. She almost quivered, like a deer startled and stilled. Later, he would come to understand why.
But right now, he wanted to lay one hand upon the nape of her neck and feel that tension, to squeeze it and make her melt.
Between performances, they spoke of their work and their travels. She was easy to talk with, warm and sweet. Their conversation hushed every time the lights dimmed and another performance began. The last, most traditional, most potent, accompanied by a perfect selection of music, beats throbbing as the rigger suspended his model in neatly presented ties. As he drew the cords and eased her between positions, her eyes fluttered closed and she breathed little gasps and moans, right on the edge of whimpering or perhaps weeping, until he drew her into a final, brave posture, supported only by her legs, thighs drawn widely apart, which drew from her a low, animal moan which became lost in the audience’s applause as the lights snapped off.
They sat for a moment in the darkness.
“Perhaps,” she said, with those lips, “you’d like to get a drink?”
They found themselves in the early hours at a sumptuous cocktail bar, ebony tables, rich red velvet seats and brass lighting fixtures set dim and warm. The place was devoid of custom this late, just one idle barman who barely noticed them enter but was happy enough to serve them and leave them alone. He brought them martini espressos. They joked it would get them merry but keep them alert.
But they were already alert. They had been since witnessing the expression on the model’s face during the final performance. Alert and aroused.
Their conversation became intimate. They discussed the mechanisms of subspace and how she had wandered the streets, the day after a scene, seeing the colours differently, finding strange affinity in abstract art which seemed to echo her mental state. They spoke of impact play, of open hands and canes, of hypnosis and orgasm control, of science and kink and sensory deprivation.
Her opennesses opened him. Demure yet assured, she was, and fiercely intelligent. He felt no taboos. They could speak of anything, consider erotic ideas like gallery visitors appreciating a sculpture. Or explorers pondering a map.
She told him she’d been experimenting with denial, edging herself for days, weeks, but avoiding release. Initially it had been difficult but as time went on she began to crave the constant arousal. It filled her mind throughout the day with visions of release, her dreams at night with tantalising narratives of further teasing. Then she found being in this eternal plateau sharpened her senses. Every brush of clothing upon her skin, every cross of her legs and, especially, the touch of another body, no matter how innocent, moistened her, slicked her thighs with arousal, filled her with a yearning to be filled. Something had begun to change in her demeanour, too. She found herself increasingly compliant, increasingly eager to please, ever more submissive.
He considered her pale, elegant throat and how perfectly it might fit into his hand.
He eyed her long, lithe arms and how they might best be bound, tight against her slim body, leaving the rest of her skin free for him to caress and punish.
He thought of teasing her, allowing his fingers to dance ever closer to her most sensitive, swelling nipples, ever closer but ever avoiding the absolute centre of sensation. It would be a terrible, calculated torture.
The apologetic bartender found a moment to approach. The bar was closing. They had to move on, somewhere.
She was looking at him, her eyelids half closed, cheeks flushed.
Back at her hotel, with her eyes bound by a blindfold, the wash of the sea filling her ears and drowning out all exterior noise, he got his wish and with one hand lightly around her neck, with the other he squeezed and pressed the tension from the muscles in her shoulders, causing her to moan.
They had outlined a menu of sorts. In additional to the sensory deprivation the ocean sounds provided, the audio contained a set of binaural beats that would lead her deep into a state of mental relaxation. Every touch would be magnified and this, combined with her weeks of denial and edging, would make things almost unbearably intense.
One thing above all, she had asked, was that she wanted to avoid release. She had pledged to save herself for at least another week. He promised to help keep her pledge.
He followed the flow of the faint ocean noises leaking from the earbuds he’d given her, his movements mimicking the wash of the surf as he rolled her and pressed her, squeezing the tension from her muscles, running nails across her skin, clasping her throat to make her stiffen and whimper, rolling her like water against itself.
As some point the audio faded into silence and he relieved her of the earbuds, leaving only the brush of their own bodies against each other.
“Look at that,” he murmured, as he stroked his long fingers down her neck and she gasped and her hips bucked. “I’m barely touching you and your body is trying to fuck something. Is that you doing that? Can you control it or does it just happen?” He pinched her flesh and her body jerked, thrusting her groin forward, seeking a touch yet absent. “Amazing. All that edging gives your body a mind of its own, directly connected to sensation.”
He began to play with this new instrument, to press and squeeze her, eliciting moans and gasps, as he growled and whispered into her ears about her reactions.
After a while, he took rope and bound her arms, allowing working end to traverse her body, binding and fixing her in place, even as she writhed against the cord.
Along the way, he paused to knead her flesh, press sensitive, previously unconsidered points around her body, sending pulses of pleasure through her, making her thrust and grind her leaking lips against the bed.
“Remember, don’t get too close,” he would murmur into her ear, “stay on the edge.”
He finished his ropework by laying a wicked knot between her legs, just below her clit, where it teased and stroked her labia but fell a hair’s width short of her sensitive centre. No matter how she writhed or strained against the bonds, it would press near but not quite directly upon that place she yearned it would.
He would circle her nipples, spiralling closer to but ever avoiding the swollen centres, which in its excruciating way only made them harder. This dance between fingers at her nipples and knot by her clit felt like an ever nearing, ever elusive peak building within her until somehow her body became confused and his kneading of her muscles felt like fingers on her clit or warm lips fastening around her nipples and she began to whisper “fuck, fuck, fuck” as she tipped precariously towards the long fall into orgasm.
“Be careful,” he whispered. “Be good.”
His fingers relaxed upon her skin, no longer kneading and pressing, merely cradling her. Sparks of electric pleasure glistened about her body, with the blindfold still on she almost thought she could see them. She felt herself tipping… tipping…
The first slap on her buttock didn’t hurt at all, it merely startled her, shook her attention away from her edge.
The second slap, a little firmer and more intentionally placed, elicited a little gasp followed by a faint groan. The next few made her moan and writhe as the colour flowed into her pale cheeks. And then it was rhythmic and hard and measured.
The begging heat within her groin became overshadowed by the burning in her buttocks. Far from taking her back from the edge, the entire edge dissolved into something else, a blend of pain and pleasure and heat radiating from her cheeks up her back and spine, down her legs, into her brain. It became everything. It became overwhelming. She found she was gasping deep breaths, almost sobs, and somehow she had become untied and somehow her blindfold was gone and she was simply staring up at his smile and then she curled herself around him and clasped at him.
He held her, squeezed her, rocked her gently, as she trembled and gasped and subsided.
At some point, they slipped under the bedcovers and into exhausted slumber.
In the early hours, half way between sleep and wakefulness, as if in a soft, sweet dream, he found her lips touching his and couldn’t help but respond. Their kisses and probing tongues were as gentle as clouds brushing past each other in the sky.
She moaned and arched and flexed her back, ground herself into his thigh. Her breathing quickened, her hips began to jerk. He laid one hand on the small of her back, slowing her movement.
“Careful,” he said. “We don’t want you to break any pledges.”
She breathed something between a sigh and a whimper, her whole body shivering with yearning.
“…you’ve been such a good girl all night,” he murmured. Beneath his hand, resting between her breasts and her throat, he felt a deep warm flush. “Maybe we can make an exception. Maybe you deserve a reward. It would be such a satisfying conclusion to all this intensity.” As if accidentally, he shifted his body in the bed, causing his thigh to rub across her aching, sopping lips. “Would you like that?”
She was so still, panting with desire, torn between the urge to give in and a duty to remain true to her promise. As if she were edging the very thought of giving in. Edging closer to the idea of breaking her chastity, then pulling away from that thought. Closer, and then-
He grasped the back of her neck, firmly, pulled her head towards his, her ear right beside his mouth, and demanded: “Do you want to come?”
Her eyelids half closed at the thought. She’d been withholding herself from release for so long. It had been an intense, frustrating night. He imagined she’d lain awake, feverish with arousal, ears straining for any faint movement that suggested he was awake, would touch her again.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, pressing the small of her back towards his thigh, squeezing her sensitive lips against the muscle there, tensing it to tease her. “You’ve earned it. You deserve it.”
Too much. Too tempting. She nodded her head.
“Is that a yes? Say it,” he said.
“Ask for it,” he said. “Properly.”
“Please,” she whispered. “Please let me come.”
He held still for a moment longer, a curious, unreadable expression on his face. Then he released her neck and…
–> CHOOSE YOUR CONCLUSION <–
But you may only choose one. You’ll have to wait three days to choose another conclusion. And then you should read the whole story again. Be good…
Hypnotic Mindfuck Conclusion
