Returning from the Dead: His Secret Lover novel Chapter 703

In the dungeon room, Michael places me centrally, under an overhanging brass ring. He cuffs my wrists: wide leather restraints that fit snugly, containing my arms almost to the elbow.

As he clicks the cuffs closed, he leans in, kissing me softly. “I’ve been looking forward to this. It gave me a few ideas, playing with you by the pool the other day….”

“What are we doing tonight?”

He smiles again. “Spoilers,” he whispers.

Simply having Michael speak to me like this, already, is loosening me inside, warming me, and in the close air of the Club, I am beginning to perspire.

My Master arrives, carrying a tray: a bottle of wine, chilling in a bucket, with glasses, and a cup, steaming slightly. He sips from it, then offers me some.

“Coffee?”

“Mmm, no thanks.”

“Wine?”

“No, thanks. I’ve had enough to drink.”

He pours a glass of wine, passing it to Michael. Michael seems to enjoy it, taking a large mouthful, swishing it around his mouth, then taking another mouthful.

The two seem in no hurry. My Master fishes candles from Michael’s bag, placing them around the room, lighting them, to cast a golden glow over the room. Then, turning off the main lights, he leans back against the padded horse, sipping his coffee. Michael loops a rope through the brass ring, and then around my cuffs.

“Time to play Charlotte.” And he draws on the rope, pulling my arms firmly upwards, over my head. “Can you stand comfortably?” he murmurs.

“Yes, I’m fine.”

He glances out towards the viewing windows, where faces are gathering, looking in. Some are clearly visible; others, simple pairs of eyes, reflect whitely, in the fade-to-dark at the back of the room.

“Warm in here isn’t it?” says Michael. Standing in front of me, he strips off his shirt, then his shoes, locking eyes with me as he does so, my beautiful man, my Lover; bare-chested, broad-shouldered, with a scattering of golden hair that traces a fine line down to his belt. I see the eyes of the women looking in and know that they envy me.

And the eyes of the men are on me.

Michael goes to the rack of ‘tools’, making a show of choosing. Picking one out, a flogger, he tosses it across the room to my Master who, still sipping at his drink, catches it mid-air, one-handedly, then dangles it, the tails trailing suggestively, watching me as I follow his movements.

This ‘show’ is giving me tingles. Are they deliberately making me wait?

Of course they are….

Michael, pausing for another mouthful of the wine, pulls something from the pocket of his black jeans: a silk scarf, in a fine filmy fabric. Brilliantly red, matching the bright lipstick I am wearing, it shimmers and glimmers in the candlelight. He tugs at it a couple of times, snapping it tight as though testing its strength, then, with a glance at my Master, eye-points him over to me.

Putting down the cup, my Master also removes his shirt and shoes, then strolls over, snapping the flogger a couple of times as he does so.

Watching all this, hand-bound, I am trembling, and fully dressed though I am, a warm trickle escapes my heating core, soaking my panties.

They haven’t even touched me yet….

Standing very close to me, holding me tight at waist and shoulder, the flogger in his hand trailing tails down the naked skin of my back, my Master inhales. “Ah, there’s my girl. Wet already. You smell wonderful.”

My hips, pressed tight against his, feeling his erection hard against me, quiver at his words. He backs away from me, with that non-smiling smile of his, allowing the leather tresses to trail over my shoulder as he moves.

The faces beyond, pale against the darkness, seem mesmerised by the performance. There is not a sound, only the gaze of a hundred eyes on me.

Michael, stepping behind, curves his arms around me, running hands over the flatness of my stomach, up through the curve of hip and waist, over the roundness of my heavy breasts. The eyes follow his every movement, as he displays me to them.

How do I look to them? The Watchers? My pale skin, golden in the glimmer-light, my nipples, rosy buds, my long red hair, a waterfall of flame, cascading to my waist.

Cool fingers glide inside the lace, sliding it away…. the red at my loins turned to glistening ruby, in the shimmer of the candles, moistening in the heat of my core.

Quivering, tensed…. I wait…….

The smoothness of soft velvet over my skin: my breasts, my belly, my thighs…. the tails of the flogger? Then a sharp pang as the tails lick past my nipples. I cry out, as pleasure-pain stabs down through me. The tails kiss by my nipples again, touching only the nipple, not my breast: wielded by a maestro; my Master surely?

Again…. nothing….

I drift in a glowing crimson-gold limbo.

Heat on my thighs, warm breath washing over my skin. I shiver, hot juices trickling from my warm pussy.

Fingers ease my ankles apart, the air now close and hot, over the vee of my legs.

My clit pulses as ice glances over it and I scream.

Icy fingers draw slowly between my legs, parting folds, circling my clit and then….

Gone.

To be replaced by lips, hot over my bud, a scarlet heat that mouths, burning over me, and is gone.

Shaking and shuddering now, weak-kneed, my pussy is pulsing. Hanging with most of my weight on my wrists as I pant, my lungs heave, and I whimper uncontrollably.

There is the briefest of glancing touches over my nipples again, ice swiping across breast and areola, the cold freezing my skin, but oh, so fleetingly. The searing heat of the mouth replaces it, sucking briefly, before it too, is gone.