Drip.   Drip.   Drip.

 

One by one, seemingly in time with her pounding heart, the falling droplets joined their puddled brethren as cold, damp air bit at Sonja’s exposed flesh, leaving it covered with a flock of ivory goose bumps.  If one has a lot of goose bumps, shouldn’t they be called geese bumps, she wondered.   One’s mind did tend to wander when options were so limited.

 

Not exactly a penthouse at the Waldorf Astoria; Saturday night, spread-eagle atop a giant leather covered “X”, blindfolded and bound at neck, hand and foot – good restraints too mind you, the really expensive double locking steel gear usually reserved for the most dangerous of the dangerous.  She grinned.  Although it had been seven years since she wore a Stasi uniform, six years since The Wall came down, four years since she immigrated to Montreal and 19 months since a rainy night in Gay Village where an absurdly rich drunk in a McLaren F1 took her sight and separated her husband from the lower half of his body.  In a way it was high praise to still be treated so gingerly, lest she break loose and make use of all that DDR training to erase the lot of them from existence.

 

Silently, she chuckled to herself.  The situation reminded her of the cover of one of her husband’s X-Men comic books; Wolverine, crucified on a huge wooden “X” in the Australian Outback – near Uluru if she remembered right.  Here she was, held much like her fellow Canuck, except he was allowed the dignity of clothing.  Why do male prisoners in the movies always get to keep their clothes, even down to things like boots and leather jackets, while women are stripped of everything but their undergarments and frequently even of those?  She wiggled as much as the restraints would allow, trying to generate some warmth from movement, and then paused, imagining how she must look.  Ah, just answered my own question, she thought with a smile.  By smell, she knew no one else in the room, but she was almost certainly being watched via camera.  Inadvertently she had been putting on a show for her captors: writhing naked on the table, nipples painfully erect and back slightly arched to keep her tailbone above the cold metal exposed by a strategically placed hole in the leather covering the table.  The answer to the question was that women could look sexy tied up in a cold room; men would look laughable.

 

Then the torture began.  No, it didn’t consist of electrodes, leaches or bamboo shoots under her nails.  It was much more insidious and totally unplanned.  An itch.   She provided more entertainment twisting her hips and thrusting them upward in a futile attempt to scratch against the air the tortured spot between her navel and the triangle of wispy black curls.

 

Click-click . . . . clank!  The sound of a heavy lock’s tumblers falling into place alerted her to the arrival of visitors.  The sound would be imperceptible to most, but the darkness that was now her incessant companion had cast a magnifying glass over her picture of the world, amplifying every taste, scent, sound and sensation.  In contrast to the well lubricated lock, the heavy, iron door opened with a mournful metallic groan, ushering in a warm breeze that caressed her right side while the left shivered in the seemingly exaggerated cold.  The sensation was like a photographic negative of her 16^th birthday party; she was in heaven, neck deep in the steaming hot tub as Johannes Befruchten stood in the pool, leaning over the brick divider to deliver a breathtaking, hormone stirring kiss . . . until her little sister, aided plunged into the pool two feet away, delivering an icy wave across her overheated teenage body.  Damn that boy could kiss, she fondly recalled.

 

That damn, incessant itch, punctuated by the bespattering tap of high healed boots on water covered concrete, snapped her back to reality, where an alluring, exotic fragrance teased her nostrils.  She drew it in deeply, savoring an eclectic blend of natural aromas untainted by the stench of industrial imitators.  A sigh of appreciation escaped her lips.  “Ummmm.   I love your perfume, what’s it called?”

 

“Ruh Gulab,” responded a delicate, feminine voice in an unfamiliar, lyrical accent.  Kind of Aussie, kind of Kiwi, kind of Dutch, kind of Southern American, yet kind of none-of-the-above.  “It is the most precious of Indian ittar’s ,” the woman purred, “a blend of rose and sandalwood oils along with 60 other fruits, flowers and spices.”  The voice orbited Sonja in a slow sauntered.  “Did you know it took over a kilo of rose petals, harvested at dawn when their fragrance is strongest, just to make what I’m wearing right now?  And sandalwood oil . . . there are but a precious few liters harvested each year, no matter what the price.   It was discovered centuries ago by Noorjahan , the wife of the Mughal emperor Jahangir.  A fragrance truly fit for a queen.  Are you a queen Sonja?”

“Of sorts,” she remarked wryly.  Why not?  She was a third cousin, twice removed to Queen Margrethe II of Denmark ; or was it second cousin, three times removed?  She could never remember.

“Well, then by all means, we must tend to our Queen, ” her lady caller whispered seductively.

 

The soft rustle of cloth followed by the unmistakable opening of a glass-stoppered vial preceded a rush of the intoxicating scent.  The moistened glass applicator was traced delicately across Sonja’s neck and down between her breasts, eliciting a shiver as cold flesh reacted to the tickle of even colder glass.

 

“I’m sorry, is that cold?” she asked with seemingly genuine concern.

 

Sonja nodded while stifling a shiver.  “Freezing actually, but it does smell nice.”

 

”Aanskakelthe hitte jou dier,” her visitor stated in a demanding yet playful tone raised to address another.  “As doen ek warm binne bevrore dogter?”

 

An intercom crackled to life, high and to her left.  “Be creative my dear,” a digitally distorted baritone quipped in response.

 

Water, perhaps an inch, sloshed around the perfume owner’s feet as she continued to sashay around Sonja. “Hoe jou verlang,” she retorted mischievously to the unseen voice.

 

A silence, three or four breaths in length, was punctuated by the onset of a distant mechanical hum.  The hum led to a whoosh.  The whoosh to a cascade of warm air, forced into the room from multiple angles.  

 

Just as the flock of goose bumps had begun to fly south, they came back with a vengeance.  Enhancing the play of coal and warm air on her flesh, a long feather stroked up her cheek, along her ear, down her throat and between her breasts eliciting another shiver, this one unrelated to the quickly vanishing cold.

 

Drip, drip, drip.   The water’s pace seemingly accelerated, speeding to match her quickening heartbeat.  She swallowed and instinctively closed her eyes to focus on suppressing any further involuntary displays.  Her captors did not deserve the satisfaction.  The feather continued its exploration, spiraling up each firm, sensitive mound; teasing the thick and, for an entirely different reason, still erect nipple. 

 

“Hmmmm, perhaps you’re still chilled to the bone on the inside,” her visitor, turned tormentor, mused.

 

Sonja’s eyes flew open and a gasp leapt from her lips as a slick, latex clad finger slipped between the folds of her womanhood, the gloved palm firmly grinding against her mound as the finger teased the rapidly moistening opening.  Damn, she thought, its not difficult to find which buttons to push when they’re all lit up – nothing like making it easy for them.   She tried to clamp her thighs shut, but the task was impossible against restraints that could hold a dozen men.

 

“Ah, maybe there is a spark after all,” the teaser cooed.  The feather continued down Sonja’s belly, dallying at the recently pierced navel; a rather cute innie if Sonja did say so herself.  The feather and hand disappeared.  The boots sloshed through the water, taking the woman toward Sonja’s feet.  “The trick is to coax a raging fire from but an ember”. 

 

No!  No fire.  I’m in control of this body, not you lady,  Sonja thought defiantly.   Think of . . . umm . . . uhhh . . . differential calculus.  That should do it.

 

The finger returned to her mons, tracing the triangular boundary of the dark, gossamer fuzz.

 

Sonja let out a slow, calming exhale.   Ok.  If time-derivative notation is replaced instead by space-derivative notation . . . the Euler-Lagrange differential equation becomes. . . becomes . . .

 

A second finger joined the first as both explored her intimate jungle. 

 

. . . becomes . . . oh shit!

 

One began stroking her rebelliously stiffening clitoris while the other went straight for her opening, pausing at the disobediently blossoming petals before brazenly plunging in to the third knuckle and curling upward to stroke the washboard of her g-spot.

 

Sonja’s mind struggled to focus, causing her body to ask Why are you fighting this?

 

She forced herself to concentrate.  Find the stationary values by performing an indefinite integration . . .

 

The finger stroking her swollen love-button was replaced with a warm and skillful tongue that danced a sensuous tango through her puffy sweetness as the digit buried within her was joined by a second; twisting and plunging in unison. 

 

Drip-drip-drip-drip.   The falling water raced ever faster with her heart.  . . .  by expanding the differential of a product of . . . ungh . . . she gulped, searching for her thoughts a known . . . integral and find . . . fin . . . fi   . . . OH . . . ohhhh fuck it!

 

The tongue eagerly lapped nectar from her dewy folds as the two fingers continued their snaking dance within her, straining to probe ever deeper, fluttering about her cervix.  A shudder of delight escaped her womb and careened through every muscle with the relaxing warmth whiskey in one’s belly on a cold night.  She surrendered.

 

The tongue was replaced with a silky mouth bounded by warm, full lips that drew-in her engorged clit.   Like a blooming rose, her opening yielded to a third finger, drawing the intruder in to join the party.  The dancing tongue withdrew momentarily as the fingers energetically assaulted her opening, pistoning vigorously into her delicate opening.

 

Ember no more, the flames of desire roared to an inferno in her belly.  Sonja thrust her hips desperately into the woman’s feverish ministrations in a frantic quest for satisfaction.  A fourth finger joined the assault on her womanhood, obscenely hammering Sonja’s entrance as the velvety mouth voraciously devoured her petite, cock-like nub.

 

Nerves twitched sporadically, the unmistakable herald of a wonderful, mind-searing, body wrenching orgasm.

 

“That will do Liselle,” the demon-like digital baritone boomed over the intercom.  “It appears you discovered how warm a frozen girl after all.”

 

Lips and fingers obediently withdrew.   The woman circled toward Sonja’s head and whispered in her lilting, but now breathless accent, “I know I’m not your ‘type’, but if the fire still burns when they’re done, I’d love to finish things”.  Moist, pouting lips brushed softly against Sonja’s for an instant, then departed, leaving Sonja a hint of her own passion induced ‘ittar’.

 

The woman’s footsteps faded into the distance, through the water and onto dry concrete, fading as soft, but heavy footfalls approached.  The new visitor splashed roughly into the room – a man this time; a large man . . . strangely without shoes.  Cutting through the scent of her arousal, she caught the aroma of Irish Spring soap.  At least he showered.  A massive hand gently cupped her entire right breast, gingerly kneading the pert flesh as if it might explode under his touch.

 

The hand withdrew as more footsteps, accompanied by murmurs and laughter drew loudly up the hallway.  She listened intently.  Four, maybe three; possibly five others paused at the doorway.  The echoing made it difficult tell how many for sure.  At least the room was quite warm by now, apparently the cold had been reserved for her.  Two of the figures entered the room

 

“Go on Dan,” coaxed a French-accented man from the doorway, “I believe Liselle has her quite ready”.  One of the new entrants drew up between Sonja’s legs, running strong, yet nervously trembling hands up each leg.  The pulsing mushroom of his manhood pressed tentatively against her still hungry opening.  So this is the game, she thought, then let the prey master the hunter.   She drew the steel-hard member inside her with a single thrust of her athletic hips.  Spurred by his inexperience and her aggressiveness he immediately buried the impressive length within her, and grasping her hips, frantically assailed her like a crazed rabbit out to service the entire hutch before breakfast.

 

“Slow down . . . Daniel, enjoy the ride,” she cooed reassuringly, mothering instinct blending with a single-minded drive for release.

 

He slowed to a still energetic rhythm, pairing two thrusts to each of her rapid heartbeats.  “Is . . . this,” he gulped in a mix of excitement and fear, “OK?”  The poor boy was already starting to twitch.

 

The prey closed in for the kill. “Yes baby, you’re doing great.”  She thrust back at him, driving him deeper, taking advantage of his length to ‘hit the spot’.  The twitching became trembling and his breathing verged on hyperventilating.  Her release was not so imminent.  “That’s it love . . .  just a little faster baby.”

 

He quickened his already lightening pace.  The jugular was exposed.  The prey struck.  “Oh Daniel . . . YES!   YES! Fuuuuck mmeeeee!!!” her voice quavered, as she thrust back at him with equal verve.

 

His trembling instantly tuned to spasms as he cried “Jeeessssuuusss!”  Sonja flinched as spurt after spurt of searing cream showered her insides.  He collapsed at the waist, laying his perspiring head at her bosom.  Though she could not see him, she tenderly stroked his hair with her cheek for a minute as his breathing slowed and he softened within her.

 

As a round of applause and cheering erupted from his colleagues, her lover sprang upright and withdrew.  The outburst helped her pin it down; definitely four other men; two in the room and two in the hall.  She heard a hand slap the young man’s back followed by “Congratulations.  You’re a man,” in a British accent.  “Now stand aside, it’s my turn.”

 

As the Brit took his place between her legs, one of the men left in an odd gait accompanied by the rhythmic squeak of rubber wheels on cement, both fading as they departed down outer hallway.  Hmmm, and then there were three.  Where the hell did he go?” She pondered. 

 

Strong, sure hands brought her back to the moment, caressing smooth legs, strong hips and a taught belly.  As the spongy thickness of his tool popped into her now well lubricated tunnel, he embraced her petite form possessively as his mouth expertly tended to her prized, yet heretofore neglected assets. 

 

This hunter was craftier, more experienced, but the prey would not be dissuaded.  He would be hers, before she was his.  Pride was at stake.  While it would be tough with hands, feet and neck pinned to the table, her arsenal was not empty. 

 

Strong hips began a slow, deliberate rhythm with his shorter but much thicker organ.   “Oh God!”   She cried breathlessly.  Well, he did feel damn good, but this was war and she was NOT going to climax before he did.  “Kiss me . . . please,” she passively begged.  He shifted upward and found her parted lips.  She kissed the unknown man with surprising passion, discovering her lips to be yet another neglected asset.  Tongues fenced passionately, interrupted by his gasp as she squeezed his girth with her velvet glove, stroking him hands-free. 

 

His body twitched.  She grinned. 

 

Her tongue traced a line up his jaw, finding his ear.  She shuddered.  Damn.  Not yet . . . focus girl!   “You are SO big,” she whispered demurely, her tongue swirling in his ear.  He shivered and his pace quickened.  The thick intruder stirred her honey pot to boiling.  “Unnnngh, “ she grunted.  “I’m so close baby”.  She quickened her breathing and squeezed his manhood, hoping to stay one step ahead off her own impending climax.

 

He pulled away from her tongue, and grasping her hips for added leverage began pounding away at her gushing pussy.  Another shudder of delight escaped and caressed her body.  Her actual breathing caught-up with her act.   Time to pull out the secret weapon.   “Oh god . . .” the honey of feigned distress dripped from her cry.  “Please . . . please pull out!” she begged with convincing desperation.  “I’m unprotected . . . don’t . . .”  Tears worthy of an Academy Award streamed down her cheeks.  Then came the faux orgasm.  “Unnnnhhhh . . . mmmmmm . . .  please . . .ooohhhh . . . you can’t . . .” she whispered between breathy moans, “you can’t . . .” and then she screamed “ . . . PUT A BABY IN MY BELLY!”.

 

He slammed into her once and quivered; a second time and shuddered.  Her womb fluttered again.  Her body was threatening to betray her.  Thankfully, the hunter faltered, he’d missed his chance and the prey tasted victory.  With a third, convulsing thrust the Brit erupted, blasting her garden with jet after jet of thick, blistering cream.  A dozen diminishing twitches later, the slick, velvet glove of her womanhood triumphantly released him with an audible pop.  Two down, one to go, she thought, savoring her private laurels.

 

“Go on Karl, she all yours mate,” the Brit urged, exhausted.

 

“I muuhh . . . mmmm . . . might hurt her,” he stammered in a deep, booming, yet gentle and nervous voice.

 

The intercom boomed to life with the faux satanic voice, “I don’t think that will be a problem.  On the contrary, I think it is she that may break you!”

 

The man’s sides brushed against each of her wide-spread legs and he approached her treasure.  “If I hhhaaa . . .hurt you, let me know and I’ll stop.  I don’t want to huuurrr . . . huuurrr . . . hurt ya.”

 

That damn misplaced mothering instinct resurfaced.  “Don’t worry about me Karl.  I’m tougher than I look and when I finally get out of these restraints, I will walk just fine.  Are you a big boy Karl?”  She heard what sounded like nodding.  “Show me.  I’ve been saving everything up for you.”

 

Huge hands grasped her thighs and a massive erection pressed against the engorged fullness of her sheath.  He felt like a baseball bat.  “That’s my baby, I want to feel all of you.  Just bury yourself in me and do what feels good.  You won’t hurt me, I promise.”   Encouraged, he pressed in with all his weight, squeezing the monster past the enflamed petals of her flower, causing a shudder as the bulbous head popped into her.  Inch by inch he filled her tunnel, displacing the mixed load of her, the Brit’s and Daniel’s cum, causing the viscous mixture to ooze out and run down her legs.  Her head swam, it felt so good to be so full.  This time she wanted to the hunter to catch her, though it looked like she may have to place herself in his teeth.

 

The massive cockhead pressed against her cervix, ‘bottoming out’ and stretching her to accommodate his entirety.  His enormity mixed a measure of pain with the pleasure, surprisingly adding to the heady excitement felt by an already overwhelmed body crying out for release.

 

The mammoth tool began to withdraw, taking her velvety inner flesh with it.  This was going to be a ride unlike any since . . . since her husband had hammered her against the hotel room window as they’d watched the gay pride parade snake by; his seed had still been warm within her when they stepped out onto the rain soaked sidewalk.  It seemed so long ago; so long without a man filling her like he had.  They had been so passionate, so energetic making love.  Why did we wait to start a family?  It should have been him filling me tonight.   Her husband was like a giant and she but a tiny ragdoll, and all she should do when he sensed the end was near was to hold on for dear life as her stallion bolted for the stables; she adored it that way, and so she rode this runaway horse without reins or saddle.  All she could do was hold on and talk the steed down.

 

“Yes love, that’s it.  you’re doing great.”  She wanted so desperately to touch his face and wrap her legs around his waist.  However, the agony of restraint only added to the feverish angst of the night’s activity.  She imagined her womanhood splayed obscenely around his colossal meat, lips darting inside her on every thrust; each backstroke exposing dripping, pink walls to the cool, unfamiliar air outside her body.  She shuddered.  She was ready . . . so ready for release.  Her breasts ached for attention she knew would only come from her own hand tonight.

 

Her lover’s confidence grew with each stroke.  Tentative strokes became emboldened  thrusts which matured into a not so delicate fucking which carried her not over the falls, but across a stormy sea on a long, turbulent, exhilarating voyage.   Her body appreciatively gushed nectar about the hunter, quickening his assault and laying her throat bare for the kill.   The giant’s heavy breathing became grunts and his thrusts became more deliberate and  . . .  dare she hope, shaky?  Oh yes, land was near.  “Mmmhffmh . . . oh-oh-oh . . . oooooommmmyyyyyggggod!”  She was shocked byt the loudness of her own voice.  True tears cascaded down her cheeks.  Her muscles shook erratically, uncontrollably, and then all at once the universe was reborn before her sightless eyes.  All that she was at that instant lay between her legs, it drove every thought she could muster and delivered every sensation she could perceive.   Her heart beat in unison with each pulse of his manhood.  Pulse?

 

Heat flooded her.  Yes, the monster assailing her gates had spilled its life into her.  Hunter devoured prey; prey devoured hunter.  Her own cum streamed from her with equal vigor, mixing with his seed.  Though she felt every twitch, jerk and tremor of his spent manhood, she lost count of the number.  Much like first assailant, her younger pupil lay his head at her breast for many minutes, spent and seeking something more than just animalistic release – so she gave it to him.

 

Again, the moment was interrupted by the damn intercom, spewing its digitally distorted hellspawn voice.  “Game over gentlemen.   Thank you for your services, but it is time to go home.”

 

With obvious regret, Karl finally withdrew from her, depleted and softening.  The sum of the evening’s ecstasy followed, pouring from her, joining the pooled water droplets that had continually paced her now speeding heart.

 

She lay, covered in sweat and semen, panting to regain breath that usually returned immediately.

 

The door closed behind the conquered and retreating hunters, leaving her with the synchronized meter of calming heartbeat and dripping water.  She smiled, finally satiated.  “Not bad for a prisoner, eh?” she pridefully taunted aloud.

 

The intercom crackled to life, digital camouflage now gone.  “Bravo!  Yes love, indeed.  Now that was an incredible performance.”  He paused.  “So, same time next month?”

 

The restraints clicked in succession releasing the exhausted captive.  Sonja stretched her neck and limbs before slumping back on the table and laughing.  “Sure honey, it’s a date . . . but after that pounding, one of those swimmers HAD to make it home.  Maybe the first time will be the charm.”

 

“I sure hope so,” the speaker hummed.  The voice turned to address another, “Etienne, please wheel me down to my wife . . . and child to be.”