The heel of her stiletto's dig into the musty carpet as she somewhat lead's Ric to the bedroom, his ministrations providing little distraction as her tight grip on his collar flings him viciously into the bed. Spluttering he takes his time to recover. "Now, Mr Griffin," her voice is a long silky purr, the edge of her whip drapes along the side of his back, stinging as it recoils, he turns over. Good boy. His face is in line with hers, each eye poker hot in the other, she reaches forward, all he can remember is the glancing look of her chest, he simpers, she kisses. It all ends too quick for him, like a fair ground ride, the adrenalin is just beginning to flow nicely and then boom, it's over and you queue again. Subconsciously he looks over at the door, making sure Mike, Zubin or even Mark isn't there, waiting. It sends a furiously wicked smile across her face. "Come on now Eric," the tone is arousing, lifting him like a solider. She slyly passes the end of the leather object along his thigh, crossing his crotch and moving up his torso, running along his pecks. He winces as it licks at his dark humid skin, icing it like a perverted cake.
"You can't have your cake and eat it Connie," he winces as the sharp repercussion of his actions makes itself known. She smirks and produces a key from down her top; he's beginning to wonder where the hell the cuffs to go with it are. Then he remembers, it's like the light of day dawning, Mike is currently attached to them. He shrivels in pain for his wanton friend. She stands up, misplacing her heel as he grabs his delicates; she struts from the room leaving him helpless on the bed.
He can barely keep his eyes open. He is exhausted. He has cried out her name until his voice his hoarse. His muscles ache; up until tonight he has never known true pain. Pain so excruciating that even breathing would double him up in agony if he could move. Pulling himself into as close to a sitting position as he can manage, a small action that causes spasms of agony to shoot through his shoulder blades, he sees his face in the mirror. His eyes are bloodshot and his skin is pallid. He looks barely alive. He needs a drink. Not of the alcoholic variety, although he has little doubt that a large measure of whiskey would do much to dull his pain, but at this moment he is so thirsty that he would settle for a glass of water. He calls her name again. She doesn't respond. Perhaps she can't hear him; surely she must be in the vicinity – there is no way she would miss hearing him plead for his release the way that he had made her beg so often for hers. He always had liked to hear her beg. Bitch. What the fuck is he going to do? He is certain that she has a plan and he is absolutely certain that he doesn't want to know what it is. He has to get out of here but his attempts are somewhat hampered by the fact that his arms and legs are chained to the wrought iron bedstead. If he is going anywhere he's going to have to take the bed with him and the bed is bloody heavy; he knows, he's already tried that. What other options are open to him? Looking around the room he realises that there aren't any; he can only lie here and wait to be released. But by whom? By her? Unlikely. By someone else – his boss, the police, the fire brigade – frighteningly plausible. Why just torture him when she can humiliate him as well? He cries out again. Nothing. Bitch. Then he sees it, lying just out of his reach. Clearly she wished to torture him further by leaving the key to his freedom just out of his reach. Not literally – even if she had left the key to the cuffs he hasn't the agility to contemplate using them while trussed up like a turkey – but in the form of his mobile.
He's about to stand up, having recovered from the trip he's been on, when she struts back into the room he's sure she's changed something, her lips are even more poisonous red in colour, her eyelashes are visible from meters away, her skin is smooth, he has no recollection of anyone looking so immensely gorgeous, not even her. She prowls over to him, sinking onto his lap with her hands draping around his neck, they fall to his lips, imparting their colour with ease, under normal circumstances he'd not be so party to this but he's loosing control; fast. Her hand sinks down his chest, teasing material off his back; his pecks berated by her tongue rolling over them in fits of lust. Tumbling towards his waist she regains her poise and forces him to move up the bed, his head now resting on the pillow, his modesty being fast revealed as she undid the drawstring of his joggers, they fall limply to his feet, he's not wearing underwear to her surprise. The whip is put to one side, she needs all her concentration as he inwardly groans in ecstasy, her grip on his manhood is tight, then weak, her tongue works it's way to the tip, swirling in teasing flicking motions, the look on his face is a picture but he can't hold it in any longer, a long sultry groan escaping his lips before he has time to stop it. Her mouth withdraws, it's like releasing the dam, her finger's grasping does little to quell the flow; it feels worryingly good though. Not that he's protesting as she lifts up his length, groping at in the right places, he's confident it's only been Zubin Khan who's experienced such favours from a leather clad vixen, it's the only way to describe it. It's when her thumb starts making odd movements that his ideas are caught up in some whirlwind of adrenaline, turn on, pleasure that he looses complete control.
She has underestimated him. It has been a long time since they have been together; weeks, maybe months since they had anything but lazy, bored, perfunctory sex. Clearly she has forgotten that he prides himself on particularly flexible legs and feet. He doubts that she has forgotten the foot jobs that he would give her during board meetings once upon a time when they were happy together. He doesn't know when they stopped finding one another remotely attractive. He doesn't much care. He shifts slightly, adrenaline coursing through his body, numbing the pain that shoots through his weary muscles like someone stabbing him repeatedly in the upper arms, legs and lower back. Not too much further… just a couple of inches… a quick swipe of his big toe and it slips towards him. It isn't close enough for him to be able to dial the numbers – with his hands tied above his head he is somewhat limited in that department – but it is close enough to leave the top row of buttons within his reach. He has the send buttons and three speed dial options. Number one, her mobile. It certainly has it's merits – if she answers, which he doubts, then he can verbally abuse her until she comes and lets him go. Or, more likely, she will hang up on him. Number two, his solicitor; an entertaining prospect perhaps but one better left for when he is fully dressed and planning to sue the bitch for everything, including the corset on her back. Number three. Who is number three? He suspects that it might be his mother but he is sure that he set her as 6; he saw it as perversely symbolic – one third of the devil (and two thirds cantankerous old bat). If not her then more than likely it's a recent conquest. His PA? No, she's number four. His sister-in-law? No, number seven. His therapist? No, he's a man and set to number eight. Chrissie? Yes, number three is Chrissie. Thank fuck for that. He moves stiffly, tapping the number and then the call button before twisting painfully and hitting the speakerphone button.
"Hello" a deep and sultry voice answers the phone and he finds himself whimpering with relief "Hello?" she sounds pissed off and for a horrible moment he thinks that she's going to hang up, thinking that he's joking around.
"Don't hang up" he screams at the phone and he hears her take a sharp breath inwards as her tones become clipped.
"Michael, is that you?" she asks, her voice weary; she already knows the answer and he knows that she is as pissed off as his wife about that bloody course, if not more so.
"You've got to help me"
He's had enough of being preyed on by someone with such a matrix domineering presence; he rolls over, curtailing the actions. With a minor pout she relinquishes, allowing his hands to explore her body, slinking over her midriff, she can barely feel a thing through the corset sucking her into nothing, she looks perfectly vivacious her chest somewhat pouting at him as he lifts the ties undone, it falls open like a Easter egg, cracking the tough exterior as he kissed her torso, her nipples standing proud as he tickled them first with his tongue swishing over them with the gentlessnes only he posses, then with his hands, the slight touch of a finger hardening them further still. He moves further down, laying butterfly kisses at strategic points on her belly, he struggles as she writhes in protest, slinking wistfully on the bed he wrestles her thong from it's position, casting it off like a used toy, the pram is kind of full already, he enters her, slowly snaking his way up, making her wait till he's good and ready, wincing as he caught her hands, leaving her devoid of a hold, leaning closer towards her she could feel him graze her G spot. Letting out a short cry of pleasure he drove deeper sending her control out of equilibrium, past the point of returning, gravity pinning her to the bed as his force grew more masculine. It felt like a beat was taking over her body, sending it to euphoria, and right back to earth again consuming her body in waves, peaking and falling like sea horse crests. Kinky. Their legs and hands entwine in something that can only be described as lustful, her legs are dewy to the touch now, an involuntary consequence of being so satanically turned on, she deserves it, looking like Satan's daughter does create a bit of a whir. He continues, feeling like tomorrow will too soon, it's like leaving someone behind before going to war, Lucifer's war is evil….
"She's done a good job on you" Chrissie laughs humourlessly, eyeing the bolt cutters in a manner which he finds frankly terrifying. If there's one thing worse than being left tied to a bed by a scorned wife it is having a scorned lover using bolt cutters anywhere near you. He is sure he's going to lose a toe: at best.
"Please, let me out" he whimpers, feeling another couple of ligaments in his shoulder being ripped from their moorings. It will take years of physio before he'll be able to play squash again. Bitch.
"Calm down" Chrissie laughs again, apparently enjoying his predicament. For a horrible moment he wonders if she's in on this whole thing. Perhaps the location of the phone wasn't an oversight on Connie's part; perhaps it was all part of the plan. She wanted him to call Chrissie so she could come and ridicule his position, threaten him with bolt cutters and then leave again. Fuck.
"Chrissie, please" he tries again, more assertively this time and to his relief she picks up the bolt cutters with less urgency than he would consider ideal and moves towards the shackle nearest to her.
It feels like the pride before a fall as they somehow levitate towards the shower, smaller than the one she shares at home which bares little effect on them, in fact it makes things far more sensual, wet skin on skin has a prerogative nature. It's like a vicious trickle of the antichrist's blood pouring on them, condoning their relationship. A blessing, she should be wearing a dark veil, hiding her innocence, he doesn't like that, but Ric's far from caring as his hands explore her body, shifting them up and down, her breasts are kissable as he obliges. Missing her lips soon causes him consequences as she makes her presence known, he reacts immediately finding her lips, warmed from the steam enveloping their bodies, harmonising them like a photograph creates a memory, it's childish to be doing this, but in some ways it feels ten thousand times more kinky than it did on the course, in the office, anywhere else. Probably the knowledge that her husband is currently tied up somewhere across town and he's currently, putting it bluntly, having it off with her in his shower, life's a bitch.
"Thank you" he mumbles as his limbs curl involuntarily into his body and he lies in a trembling ball on the bed "thank you"
"You're very stiff" she murmurs, casting the chains to one side and moving astride him, rubbing his shoulders in a manner so firm that he finds himself crying out in pleasure.
"What do you bloody expect?" he asks once he has regained the power of speech "I've been chained to the fucking bed for five hours"
"Five hours? Is that all? Lightweight" Chrissie teases him lightly as she continues her ministrations, her long hands moving in smooth circles around his back "only last week I was chained up like that all night. I mean admittedly I… we… were drunk but we didn't make this much fuss" another vicious laugh "never mind, I'll forgive you"
For a moment he is speechless. What on earth is he supposed to say to that? Even if he could work it out, he no longer possesses the power of speech as most of his faculties melt away beneath her almost hypnotic touch. Slowly he rolls over, watching her fall so she is lying beside him, her slender limbs entwined in his aching ones. He doesn't know what to do now and then it comes to him, as clear as day. He kisses her.