This is the third part of my darkly erotic short story, Audience for the Marionette’, which is included in my forthcoming book on voyeurism. We left the increasingly sentient Marionette beginning her show for the special client, who is currently bound by shackles to an ancient torture chair, a trapdoor beneath him, for the Master creator’s recompense — just in case the client’s credit card doesn’t work. The client is, despite his position, becoming very aroused; Marionette wants more…
More. I know that’s what the client expects. How can I give myself more, feed that exquisite ache inside me as I watch him watching me? How about I lift my skirt over my head, giving him a full view of my smooth, round behind, curving beneath my palm? Oh yes. That works, too. His bulge is pushing towards me, seeking all I can offer. I want to see his cock. Is it wet at the tip? The Master’s gets wet just there.
His mouth is falling open, his breath blows and his hands are fighting the bonds, his wrists twisting, the restriction driving his need. His need igniting my own. This is a bond, isn’t it? The watcher and the watched. Which is which, I wonder?
Is he desperate to take out his cock? Desperate to be released from his bindings to give himself all he desires while he watches me? My Master says they must all be desperate for that before I can make the bathtub rise through the floor. It’s his rise I’m interested in, this fascinating man, trying to animate himself in the chair, as I grind round and round before him, the feathers around me trailing further down until they reach my exposed panties and I give him that high-pitched moan. The Master made sure I had that to give.
Oh, look, his fingers are twitching. His tongue peeks out and traces his bottom lips, over and over. His cock is ready; I know I can slide off my dress with the upward thrust of the suds-filled tub. My fingertips touch the switch, roll over it. I’m supposed to press it hard and throw myself into the performance until he finds his release. They’re always told to bring a change of clothing.
But I don’t press the switch for the bath.
Look at his face. Those eyes. They’re not the same as I’ve seen in that chair before. And there’s no applause. Usually, they bang with their fingers on the arms of the chair. Patronising, clapping as best they can. Smirking at the smutty little private show they could have seen in any tuppence ha’penny bar centuries ago, so Master says. But this isn’t in his face at all. There’s no distance, no barrier, between his eyes and my body. His stare burns into me, and it… it affects me. I can’t describe it properly. I don’t have the words. It fills all of me, spreading its intensity through me, warming every secret place. It flows through my limbs, clawing my chest and grasping my pussy with hot, invisible fingers. I don’t want to look away.
This one — this client — there’s something more special about him than my creator realises. I know it. How can I know, just by the way his gaze falls on my face, fixes itself to my eyes? Maybe the Master shouldn’t have brought him to me. How can eyes do that to a creature such as me? A watcher, from a chair in a theatre made for one, so still now, yet so transfixed? It’s like I imagine looking into my soul must be. Do I have a soul? Do I?
A flip. In my middle. It rolls like a wave, coming to lap between my thighs. Oh. I want that again. I want his eyes to make it happen again. What can I do? I have the curves the old man gave me. I have a perfect pussy, he says. What will my watcher make of a secret show, one I’ve never performed before? One that flows from me and not my maker? I need to see how this man reacts. I’ve never needed anything like this before.
He presses his lips together as my dress falls from my shoulders, his gaze fixed to the polished façade that is my skin as I give him the first peek at my breasts. All the special clients see them, covered in soapy bath suds. But not him; they are right before his eyes. My chest heaves, becomes erratic: no-one but the Master has been this close to me before. With obvious and slow deliberate motion, my hands trace upwards from my waist to the rounded manifestations of men’s lust. The Master’s lust. I cup them for him, give the illusion of pushing them up, and roll my thumbs over the permanent hardness of my nipples. This close, he can see how mulberry they are, how the right one has a tiny crinkle in the top and is full on its underside, how the left has its own indent in the shape of a five-pointed star at its centre.
My breasts feel full, soft against my palms. The nipples harden more with every pinch. How can this happen? Is it happening? It’s how it feels to me.
Like a feeding bird the old man has described to me, his mouth opens. I’m to make the special clients open their mouths, to want my breasts in between their lips amid the bubbles. They need to flush with desire, want to flick their tongue over my peaks and suck them to burgundy, leaving their cocks sticky, dripping, desperate to bury themselves between my breasts. But there are no bubbles; only me. His mouth opens, a helpless creature needing sustenance, but his eyes find mine once more, and I feel that flip within me again, and a release, fluid pooling, dampening the crease of my thighs.
My dress falls to the floor. He gasps. My fingers slip into the top of my panties, teasing the smooth fabric down my thighs until they pool on the stage. I kick them away. Now I stand there, only stockings clinging to my body.
“Move for me. Will you? Please.”
No-one has ever spoken to me like I’m a person. No-one speaks; no-one says ‘please’. It leaves me immobile, stunned, for minutes. Maybe only seconds. Almost without awareness, displaying an instinct to move I have never experienced before, my body sways under the spotlight in time to inaudible music. His eyes encourage my fingers to do his bidding, exploring, as if he wants to see every part of me through my fingertips. He strokes my carved flesh through his irises, probes deeper with the blackness emanating from his pupils. Finding soft flesh where wood always is. I am sure that’s what I feel. My flesh.
His eyes drop; my fingers follow.
“Please, touch there. Touch your pussy.”
Is he my Master now? Please. Such a beautiful word. Please let him be my Master.
And, to end, I want to give a shout out to the wonderful Lurv Spanking (aka Byron Cane) and his latest release, a historical vampire spanking novella, The Case of the Disciplined Valentine, featuring my favourite vampire ever. It’s very naughty of me to be in love with a vampire, but I think I am…just a weeny bit! 😉
I took great pleasure in editing this new and updated version, and in publishing it with its beautiful cover by Victoria Cooper, because I completely loved the story the very first time I read it. And it just happens to be FREE until the end of Saturday 10 February! If you didn’t read it when the original version was published in Lust in Lace, then grab yourself a copy now.