A Wayward Game Read online

  A Wayward Game

  Title Page

  Start

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  About the Author

  A WAYWARD GAME

  Pandora Witzmann

  Electric Blue Publishing

  Copyright © 2014 Pandora Witzmann

  Smashwords Edition

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the copyright holder.

  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.

  Warning

  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.

  Cover: SelfPubBookCovers.com/houchi

  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

  CHAPTER ONE

  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 w
hen 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.

  I break off at last, and sit back on my heels, glancing up at him. He looks magnificent, shining with sweat and gasping with pleasure, with his arms bound and a blindfold covering his eyes. I need him; I need to feel him beside me and inside me.

  “Yes,” I say, and my voice sounds husky. “Yes, I think you’re ready now.”

  I slip out of my kimono, and it makes a soft rustling sound as it falls to the floor. Then I go over to the table, and take a condom. I rip open the packet, and roll the rubber sheath down over his cock. He sighs, and I straddle him, facing him, putting my hands on his shoulders as I lower my body onto his. Our faces are very close together; I can feel his breath on my skin, see beads of sweat prickling his forehead and upper lip. His cock presses against my inner thigh, hard and insistent. I want to draw this moment out to infinity, but at the same time I want release.

  I lift my hips and feel him pushing against the entrance to my body. I pause for a moment, and then bring my hips down, and he slides inside me, deep down, filling me. I draw back, and push down again, and again. The sensation of being filled and stretched is glorious, heartbreaking, and suddenly I am as much a slave to sensation as he is. I wrap my arms around his neck, rest my cheek against his temple, and inhale the scent of his body, his hair, his sweat. I drive harder, harder, against him, and feel his body strain to meet mine. He gasps and moans, and his lips brush against the delicate skin just below my ear. This tiny touch is all that is needed to drive me over the edge, and I thrust my body down onto his, so that he is deep inside me, up to the hilt. His entire body tenses and then jolts as he lets out a wild cry; and I hear a note of triumph in that cry, as the darkness that pressed in upon him earlier is dispersed, leaving only an endless and empty light.

  ~

  Tired, he sleeps. I leave him curled up on the bed, adrift on a sea of peaceful slumber, and wrap my kimono around my body. I creep out of the room, and make my way to the living room. Sliding doors lead out onto a small, enclosed roof terrace, and I open them and step outside. The sounds of cars, trains and raised voices drift up to meet me, and London opens up before my eyes, bleached and dusty beneath the glaring June sun. It’s nearly eight o’clock in the evening, but it’s almost as hot as midday. I stare out over the rooftops of Spitalfields and across into the City, where London’s monuments to commerce glimmer in the evening sun. I think of Neil, and what we have done, and are doing, in this place.

  I often think that Neil has no business being involved in this lifestyle. He is not an innocent, by any means – a career in law enforcement has left him with a deeper knowledge of the world’s evils than most – but he is no cynical hedonist or heartless adventurer. His appearance, in fact, betrays what he is. His features are rather rugged, and marked by the faint lines of time and worry. His intensely blue eyes look out over the world with a penetrating gaze that some people might find rather intimidating; it is as if they want to sound every secret and understand every nuance that the world and the human heart contain. His hair is brown, and cut in a short, conventional style. He is on the cusp of middle age, and his physical size and strength, combined with his sharp intelligence, once made a career in policing seem like an obvious choice.

  He joined the Metropolitan Police fresh out of university, on a fast-track graduate scheme. His motives, he has confessed to me, were simple: he had to do some kind of job, and policing seemed as promising a career path as any. It also had an aura of glamour and excitement that appealed to him; the TV schedules are, after all, packed full of police and detective dramas. This uninspired decision made, he surprised himself by finding that he not only enjoyed his work, but was rather good at it. He has never been an ambitious man, exactly, but he has worked hard, and has earned several promotions. He enjoys his job without allowing it to take over his life, and retains a simple, almost boyish, faith in the concept of justice. If he has any doubts about the police force, or the wider Establishment that it
serves, he does not give voice to them. He cultivates an air of brisk practicality in his daily life, and yet he is, in essence, a dreamer: an admirer of impossible ideals, a romantic who has never quite been able to reconcile himself to a world in which romance has died.

  Romanticism, of course, is rarely visible at first sight. If you walked past Neil in the street, you would probably take him for a middle-aged, middle-class, married man. In this instance, you would be correct.

  Neil’s wife is utterly different to him – or so I gather, at least, from what he has told me about her. A City financier, she has more than made up for his fundamental lack of drive. Fiercely ambitious and utterly focussed, her character is at odds with Neil’s gentler, less insistent personality. Little wonder, I suppose, that their marriage is on the rocks. Realists and idealists rarely make ideal partners, in my experience. Both being convinced of the rightness of their approach, they soon become impatient with what they perceive to be the other’s failings – a failure of resolve or reason, according to the realist, and a failure of the imagination, according to the idealist.

  It was not always so. At the outset, Neil once told me, their very differences made them irresistible to each other. She saw him, perhaps, as a representative of the romanticism she had never understood, yet still craved. He, attracted even then to powerful and dominant women, adored her vigour, drive and decisiveness. For a few years, that was enough. They revelled in the variations they discovered in each other, seeing there unimagined worlds and undreamt-of possibilities. Gradually, though, reality – heavy, grey and inescapable – began to slide into place. They rarely spoke. They seemed not to understand each other. The traits that had once enthralled began to irritate. But by then, of course, there was no turning back. By then, they had a young daughter, and another on the way, and a house in the suburbs, and the entire life that they had created and could not envisage being without.