It took seven more sessions with P to get to the point of consistently orgasming via nipple play. Delightful and exhausting but it eventually happened with some level of consistency. Terrible and wonderful to just be coaxed into it. J was always sitting on his chair. The first time it happened was specifically humiliating and good.
I liked being suckled– and by P in particular. For a variety of reasons. Of course because he was good at it. Because he seemed to know precisely when I just wanted gentleness and when I needed teeth. Because I liked how his facial hair felt on my skin. But perhaps mostly because I could feel how much he liked to do it. I believed him when he said he could go for hours.
He was sitting in his armchair, with me in his lap, just sucking me and stroking me. It felt oddly out of the stream of time. I watched J reach over to the little table he had on the right side of his desk. Take a sip of his coffee. And then pull out a book.
I wouldn’t have thought that his comfortable near-boredom would do it for me, but it did. And that P didn’t stop. He’d just tap me to lift me higher every once in a while. Because nearly sitting on his lap like I was I could feel his erection straining his zipper, throbbing against me every once in a while. He knew I’d try to rub myself off on him and would just lightly tap my thigh or buttocks to raise me off his hips.
P must have felt some change in my body, some coiled tension in my spine. Locking one hand at the thin part of my waist, keeping me held to his mouth and unable to drop onto him or back away.
I gasped, pressing myself into him, nearly filling his mouth. While his head rocked back he accepted me. Just thinking wildly I’m going to come in his mouth! And then I did, roughly, trying to snap my legs closed but unable to because of his thighs between them.
Like before it was a powerful but oddly empty orgasm. And they always remained distinctly different from clitoral orgasms. Once again, neither better than the other, simply different.
“Oh, good girl, good work, what a good job you did,” he said gently, rolling me so I was just laying in his lap.
I tried wriggling away, trying to make him let me go so I could go down on him or something. I listened to J putting a bookmark in his book, shifting to look at me better.
“She wants your cock,” J said in a scholarly kind of tone.
I squealed, partially in embarrassment, partially in frustration.
“Well, she’s not going to get it,” P said gently, nuzzling his face into the top of my head.
After that first time of coming on my chest and letting him clean me up he hadn’t given me any since. He didn’t want me trained to respond to cock so much as straight stimulation. He wanted to be able to set me going with just vibrators taped to my chest, he said.
Personally, I didn’t think I’d ever get there with toys alone. I wanted hands and mouths but I wasn’t going to disabuse him of his goals. Besides, I’d just get pinched for contradicting him so I didn’t bother.
After I caught my breath he set me gently down on the floor.
“Go on,” he said, waving at me dismissively. “Go ahead and beg him for what you need.” Indicating J with another little wave.
I crawled over to his chair, assuming the position. Kneeling, hands folded on his right knee, head bowed.
It was easy to remember the different ways to beg them. P wanted me looking right into his face, making eye contact. Holding out my hands and unable to make contact. J wanted it like this. And I found myself oddly soothed as soon as I got into this position.
I begged him to come, and to take me. And usually after a training session P simply made a graceful exit. But I didn’t hear him leaving the room. After a few seconds I heard P settling down behind me. Sitting on the floor. Reaching around my torso and starting to stroke my breasts again from behind. I shook on the floor and looked up at J.
“You can continue,” he said, smiling at me.
But I knew this wouldn’t end until I came again by P’s hand. I started that tearless sobbing that sometimes happened. I remembered the academic way J brushed it off to P on the second training day.
“She cries like that when she gets overwhelmed,” J said. “Usually she’s just getting to the edge. Or getting physically tired.”
“A good time for a check-in, then,” P returned sagely. While still twisting my nipples up and away from my chest.
And he did so now, as he often did. Hooking his chin over my shoulder, his mouth against my ear again.
“You’ll be okay,” he said, quietly. Maybe even J wouldn’t be able to make it out. “You’re doing just fine. You’re with us. You have all the time in the world and we’re going to take care of you. Tell me all is well.”
“I’m okay,” I cried. “But please make it easy for me.”
My begging became siren-like. Just, “please let me come, let me come, let me come, please, please, please.”
Until I did again.
P let me rest my back against his chest for all of the time it took me to catch my breath. Maybe a minute or two. Once he felt that I was solid on my backside he stood up. Bending forward to kiss the top of my head.
“Good night,” he said.
“‘Night,” J returned. “We’ll see you tomorrow or the next day?”
“Likely both, we ought to keep up the good momentum,” P said.
“Good point,” J agreed.
I started to settle back into a more normal begging position with him. Shifting closer, resting on my chin on my folded hands on his knee. Listening to P letting himself out. When we heard the lock snick shut on the front door J dove out of his chair, landing on me.
“Pretty thing,” he said, getting busily undressed on top of me. “Perfect darling.”
I finally started to feel satisfied once he was inside me, holding me close.
For a few days we didn’t see P. Busy with work– all of us. I was particularly tired. Being scolded by J for staying late, doing extra hours. But it seemed genuinely necessary– not just my tendency to overwork. Not that he was doing much better. Coming home very late from the theater. While he didn’t say so I got the distinct sensation he was doing more than his fair share.
Twice I begged not to come. And twice he allowed me to go back to sleep. I didn’t think much of it at the time. Because I was satisfied and happy and desperate to go back to sleep.
There was a long weekend coming up. I listened to J cleaning up the playroom late on Thursday night. He no longer asked if I wanted to play. The men simply made arrangements amongst themselves. When P showed up they always said I didn’t have to play if I didn’t want to. But I wanted to. And I assumed we would throughout the weekend.
But it was a weirdly mild day. We’d slid into an oddly cozy little arrangement of often having a meal together beforehand. Or having tea or something. Sometimes we discussed sex. But mostly we talked about movies, books and music. We avoided work on purpose– time between us was specifically de-stress time. We happened to be three bright, widely read and thoughtful people. So it was easy and pleasurable.
“Darling,” J said to me, pushing more of the fruit he had on the table toward me. “You still look tired.”
“I think we’re all a little tired,” I said. “It’s been a long week.”
“It has indeed,” P said.
“We’ll be able to relax this weekend,” J said.
When we adjourned into the playroom I started to get undressed but they took over. Moving deftly and oddly well together in order to get me naked in record time. I was further surprised that J led me over to the sawhorse. He still mostly kept his hands off me if it was the three of us together. The two of them worked together again to strap me spread-eagle to the horse. Not unhappy, but slightly confused I watched P go and sit in his chair today.
With a hand on my lower back J started stroking me, starting slow and moving from my inner thighs upwards. I gasped, hooking my hips upward. Loving that coaxing, slow-roll thing he’d do. The first through the third were easy. But I was attempting to escape my bonds as he worked on four.
P came over, attaching suction cups to my nipples, making me writhe and cry. As I fought he suddenly scooped up the handfuls of my loose hair that was brushing the floor of the playroom. Tossing it into a loose knot on my head and then going to sit back down.
When I startled forward away from his fingers after I lost count he paused. Soothing me down with both hands on my spine.
“Best relax and take it, darling,” he said. “You’ll regret it if you don’t get as many as you can survive.”
I held my breath for a second. Trying to reel in his words and make sense of them. I couldn’t detangle meaning. Feeling stupid– I was always brainless after a little while with him. This was the first time it frustrated me though.
I started begging him to stop after a while longer. That usual feeling of being knocked totally powerless. Of knowing if he continued, I’d be unable to stop. But I felt useless between the legs– shocked he could arouse any sensation in me any more. But he never failed to. All my muscles fluttering and shivering. Especially my thighs, abdominals and back. But nothing seemed in working order any more.
He came around the front of the horse and crouched so he could make eye contact with me.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“I’m sure, I’m sure,” I cried. “Thank you, I love you… But please I’m done… I’m done.”
“Tell me you’re sure, darling,” he said, holding up a one moment finger at me. “And be absolutely sure. I don’t want to hear about any whining later.”
Again, stupid. Like I’d been presented with an impossible puzzle.
“I’m done, please, please, please darling… We’re done,” I said.
“All right,” he sighed, standing back up.
I was surprised when he didn’t immediately begin unbinding me though. I hoped he wasn’t going to let P loose on me now. Unless I was going to get penetrated– that would be fine, I thought. The suction cups were still on my breasts and I worried about him doing that dreadful, tearing, rocking he’d do with them balanced in his palms.
“In the past two weeks you’ve begged to not have your one-a-day five times,” J suddenly said.
Reaching forward to start massaging my lower back. Knowing I held my tension there and that it often ached, especially after long sessions.
“Um,” I panted, easing into his warm hands. Still too dumb to react.
“Which leads me to believe you’re perhaps a little overwhelmed with the rule. Or perhaps you really think you feel sated. You’re obviously not. You’re my hungry little thing and I know you’ll never be satisfied. But you might think you are,” he said.
I tried to turn my head but couldn’t see him– not really. Just his leg, his boots, the shadow he cast. Sighing and in love with his hands on me. That sudden cracking relief he could bring to my body.
“I like your rules,” I said hesitantly. Unsure if that was what he wanted to hear, but he’d expect a response at some point.
“I know you like my rules,” he said. “And I know my rules are good for you. But perhaps you’ve become tender, or bored, or overstimulated.”
“No,” I said.
Meaning mostly the bored and overstimulated. I felt tender most of the time these days. Sometimes my clitoris or nipples would feel so swelled up and nearly-painful under my clothes I’d get distracted while driving or working. I mostly worked out in the nude now because it was more comfortable than wearing tight-fitting athletic wear.
“Hush,” he said. “I think it’s best that we take a little bit of a… I’m not quite sure what you’d call it… A tolerance break, I suppose.”
“What?” I asked.
I was starting to get back to rights now. Or something approximating it and able to better listen to what he said.
“Just to get us both recalibrated, sweetheart,” he said. “Just to remind you of how hungry you are and how badly you need me.”
“Oh, I know I need you,” I said.
And I said it simply without tone because that’s what it was. A fact, a known quantity, something unavoidable and true.
“You’re going to come home crawling to me,” he said. Voice dropping precipitously into a growl.
“Home?” I squeaked, trying to buck in the restraints again.
“I hope that was enough orgasms for you,” he said. “Because those will have to last you for a while. Once you leave my hands there are no promises you’ll orgasm again until you return to them.”
“Where am I going?” I asked. Sounding calmer than I felt. But then, I was quite still.
“With me, little girl,” P said, from back in his chair. It wasn’t that I’d forgotten he was there, but was reminded suddenly.
“Oh,” I squeaked.
“And do you think I’m going to treat you like he does?” P asked. “He spoils you. Do you think you’ll just get what you want and come until you’re crying?”
“Not with you, sir,” I said.
“That’s right,” he said.
They both went to work at getting me undone. But when P came over he brought the hood with him. Before undoing my arms he tucked my head carefully into it. Once I was free they helped lift me up and off of it. Setting me on my feet. I stayed in one place though. I felt J’s hands on me, getting me wrapped in the robe he’d bought me. Gold and blue silk. He said he thought I’d like the feel of that after long sessions. And he’d been right. At this point, feeling him draping it on me and tying the sash was my cue that aftercare was beginning. P was swapping out the padded cuffs they tied me to the horse with the metal cuffs instead. Hands chained together. I knew it was P doing it, even through the hood.
I was obsessed with learning the differences between them. How P’s palms were broader, his fingers shorter. I knew the variety of J’s scents better– pre and post shower, the difference between hiking and sex and work sweat. The shampoo he used in my shower, his cologne on my night-stand. P I knew less. But I knew the difference between what they used on their bodies anyway– J’s cologne honey and tobacco. P’s tonka and lavender, his beard oil tonka and pine. P’s hair was coarser and shorter, J’s almost silky. Their tones. Even how their breath was different, their teeth felt different when they bit me, they pinched differently. When I was sitting in the middle of the room I could tell who was joining me just by how they opened the door.
I felt tired when I heard P kneeling and putting on my ankle cuffs too. Unsure of what was happening next. Unworried but unwilling to do much activity. I was ready to be put quietly some place for a while and allowed to rest.
“Say goodbye,” P directed.
I turned in the direction J was in.
“‘Bye,” I whispered, a little shaky and tearful suddenly. We really hadn’t been apart much since the backstage interlude.
J leaned forward and kissed me through the hood. I threw out my hands and fisted them in his tee shirt over his diaphragm.
“I’ll miss you, babydoll,” he said.
“I’ll really miss you,” I said, clutching tighter.
P suddenly grabbed me from behind, cradling me into a gentle headlock.
“Say ‘thank you for making me come, it will have to last me a while’,” P directed.
“Thank you for making me come,” I stuttered. “It will have to last me a while.”
“Be a good girl, behave,” J said.
P’s headlock went tighter on me, pulling me away from J.
“Hey,” P said very gently, likely seeing my hands flexing in space, or feeling my spine stiffening. “You’re okay. But I’m going to pick you up now.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Good girl,” he answered, hearing by my stronger tone or that I remembered the right phrase that I was all right.
When they carried me they both tended to fall into lifting me newlywed style to get from place to place. Or perhaps they knew I liked it, or felt safer there. I tended to get nervous being taken off my feet, but I settled more readily into that position. I wondered occasionally if it was something they’d discussed amongst themselves. It seemed likely.
It felt good but strange to think of them talking about me. Coddled, dismissed and protected. Sort of like a film they were dissecting. At once unemotional and somehow deeply loving. I’d daydream about it sometimes. I knew they were on the phone nearly constantly with each other. They’d been in contact long before either of them knew me, of course. J said he’d known him for seven years and had considered him a close friend for the last five. They saw each other at two different film clubs. They’d get coffee sometimes. J would go to a bar P liked. P would get his silly expensive scotch, J would have soda water and chainsmoke. Apparently they’d chide each other for their vices– scotch, tobacco. And I’d think about those few hours they had together, and think about what they were saying about me.
Today he didn’t keep me cradled to his chest, shifting me higher and rougher. Until I was slung over his shoulder like a sack. I squealed but didn’t move. I knew I’d get scared if I felt how restrained I was and how high off the floor I was.
I felt his heavy footsteps going toward the playroom door. Down the hallway, clearly moving toward my backdoor that let out into my garage. I counted my breath in and out.
“Mine now,” P said.
Still using his quiet, soothe-down tone. But the threat seemed obvious. I listened to the echoing rattle of his keys as he drew them out of his pocket. That bigger clank sound of the car door in the enclosed space. And then I was unceremoniously dumped into a car seat. I could feel it was a bench seat– so the back seat of his car, not the passenger seat. Hooking a finger through the chain at my wrists he lifted my hands up and forward. Listening to a d-ring being screwed shut. I rattled my wrists experimentally. It seemed that I was chained to the headrest of the seat in front of me.
I shifted on the seat, feeling myself in space. Chained to the back of the passenger seat, apparently.
“Good, quiet girl,” P cooed. “Coming home with me.”
He slammed the backseat shut while I shook. I heard him going to the front of the car. Getting in. Starting the engine. I was unsurprised that my favorite album was playing once the car started.
And then we were leaving.
I sat and shivered silently for a long while. Seeing through the hood the strobe of street lights. Hearing other traffic and of course the car radio. But very little else. Trying to be calm eventually led me to being calm. It had been a long time since I’d last sat in the backseat of a car.
It wasn’t long to P’s home. Twenty minutes, probably less. But of course I didn’t know where it was nor had I ever been there.
“This part is a bit tricky, little girl,” he said, turning in his seat. “I don’t have a nice attached garage like you. I have no desire to allow you to escape, however. So you’ll need to be quiet. Make a sound and it’s going to be worse for you.”
“I’ll be good,” I whispered.
“I know you will,” he said.
He went to the back of his car. Letting my arms drop from the headrest. He lifted me out of the car again. This time doing the more usual lift. Perhaps knowing that would look somewhat less suspicious if any of his neighbors happened to look out their windows and see us. He set me on my feet on his stoop, keeping my back to his chest. Blocking me from the street. Because a woman very clearly wearing a hood would raise questions for sure. He unlocked the door and pushed me through. It was dark inside, I stumbled with my ankles chained together.
I could tell when he flicked on lights but it was muted underneath the fabric. Now he was gentler. A hand around my waist, another on my hand he led me forward. Feeling cool wood floors under my bare feet.
I thought briefly about the fact that even if I were to leave his house I’d be doing it without shoes or any clothes besides the robe I was wearing. He stopped and commanded me to kneel. I did so. Listening to a sudden rush of water. It sounded like he was running a bath.
I gasped when he whipped the hood off. Cuffs and robe following after. Looking around and taking stock of my surroundings.
“Come on,” he said, nodding toward the bath.
I stepped in, smelling similar lavender, and already relaxing over the steaming heat. I slid in, leaning back against a pillow. As I did I sort of knocked my head against something. Padded cuffs hung from the tile wall above me, seemingly secured by suction-cups. I raised my hands over my head and he patted my cheek, chuckling.
Once I was secured he sat on the edge of the tub.
He had knotted my hair on the top of my head again, snapping an elastic tight just like he had earlier, keeping it off my neck and shoulders. With a spouted carafe he poured water over my shoulders and chest.
“Did you discuss this?” I asked him.
“This weekend?” P asked me.
“Well, actually,” I said, almost laughing. “I mean the bathing and how hot I liked my water and epsom salts instead of bubble bath?”
“We did,” he said mildly.
“Huh,” I said. Relaxing. Letting my hands hang limp in the cuffs. Feeling tension and stress ease out of me under the heat.
“Let’s keep talking,” P said.
“Quiet night?” I asked.
By which I meant: is it just you and me talking? Are we playing? Should I be addressing you as sir? Or is this like when we drink coffee and talk about articles together?
“Yes,” he said. “Tonight is to discuss rules. What I was planning is we’ll finish here. Adjourn. Go to bed eventually. Tomorrow unfortunately it starts for you.”
“When you discussed this weekend–?” I asked.
“He wasn’t joking about the tolerance break,” he said. “Ultimately he doesn’t want you to come this weekend. He does want you teased ferociously.”
I shook in the water. Suddenly the way it was lapping at the curve under my breasts was too sensational.
“And there’s play I’d like to try,” he said. “I want to keep you either in the hood or blindfolded. In cuffs the entire time. Obviously no masturbation. And absolutely no clothes.”
I nodded.
“Words,” he said gently.
“I like that,” I said. “Especially not being able to see but what– How will I–?”
“I lead you. You’re not out of my sight,” he said.
I nodded again, very turned on by that idea. Leaning forward he started soaping my right arm, further from him.
“Because let me tell you something that you may not like,” he said. “Do you know what I masturbate about, when I’m thinking of you?”
“No,” I said, hushed. Feeling my stupid hips lift toward the ceiling, setting the water sloshing against the side of the tub.
“I first saw you when he was leading you across the lawn for the film club. Do you remember?”
“Of course,” I said, still quietly.
“I loved how carefully and warily you were walking in the grass. But the hold you had on him– that was sure, that was relaxed. I’d like to see it again– unsure footing, sure grasp.”
I nodded stupidly.
After the bath he hooded and cuffed me again. We went into what I assumed was his living room. He read aloud to me for a while. He set me in a bed, likely his guest room. Cuffing me to the headboard.
“I’m four steps outside your door. You call me if you need me,” he said.
“I will,” I said.
And I fell asleep quickly.