Forever Bound. Elizabeth Coldwell
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her a little further into bliss with each stroke, she found herself moaning despite her fear of being heard. She couldn’t help it; he always had that effect on her.
This time, though, he didn’t seem to want to be heard. ‘Quiet,’ he groaned as he ground his pelvis against her arse.
His next thrust was so hard she actually let out a small shriek, provoking Connor to give her another warning. ‘Be quiet, or I’ll let you wear this for the rest of the day, until we go to bed,’ he hissed. ‘I warned you about that, didn’t I?’
She didn’t answer. Instead, she rode back against him, shifting her buttocks towards him in anticipation of his delicious thrusts.
‘I asked you a question, Em. Did I or did I not warn you about wearing this all day if you disobeyed me?’ He punctuated the word ‘disobeyed’ with a ferocious thrust that had her thighs banging against the desk. She could feel the wood digging into her flesh, another indentation to add to the ones created by the rope.
‘Yes, Connor,’ she managed. ‘You did warn me. I’ll try to be … quieter.’
‘Good. Now finger yourself, slut. Go on, show me how hard you need to come.’
Her fingers flew to her clit, eager to finish the job started by the rope. As he gripped her hips and shoved into her again, she worked her cunt feverishly, in time with his raw thrusts. Gradually, her orgasm built, coming closer with each stroke of his thick cock, each single flick of her fingers. Just then, he twisted his fingers into her hair, pulling her head backwards to him. The pressure on her scalp was enough to bring her to the edge.
‘Oh, God,’ she moaned. ‘God, Connor …’
He pulled harder, as if to punish her. ‘That’s it, you noisy slut. You’ll be wearing this for the rest of the day. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
She didn’t care. All she wanted was to come, right there and then. ‘Please … Please, Connor …’
‘Come,’ he commanded. ‘Come all over my cock.’ He shoved into her again, and the next moment her release exploded through her, all the more intense for having been so long in the making. The muscles in her cunt tightened around him, squeezing his erection. Her whole body went weak, and she was wrenched by the contractions of one of the most powerful orgasms she’d ever experienced. She just managed to swallow the shriek which had been building inside her throat, fearful of what might happen if she let it out.
No sooner had she come than Connor eased his cock from her body. ‘On your knees,’ he commanded, his voice hoarse with urgency.
She dropped to her knees, ignoring the rope that dug violently into her groin as she did so, and opened her mouth for him. As he jerked himself off in front of her, she couldn’t wait to see him explode onto her tongue. She wanted to see the tremor in his thighs just before his semen spurted out of him, just before …
He shot his load into her. She could feel it pool on her tongue and lips, all soft and runny, and only just managed to resist the urge to swallow it before he was fully done. Eventually, though, she did swallow, feeling the semen go down her throat like a spoonful of salty jelly. His hands tightened in her hair as she sucked his cock dry of its final oozings, cleaning him as she’d like to be cleaned herself. Not for the first time, she realised that she loved his hand in her hair, loved the possessiveness of his claiming her like that. Even more than this ropes, her hair was her leash, the one with which he enforced her absolute obedience.
When she’d got to her feet, he placed the rope between her labia again and helped make her look presentable, pulling down her skirt and smoothing her hair as best he could. ‘That was sensational,’ he whispered as he put his lips to her forehead. ‘I look forward to seeing what the evening will bring.’
The evening. With a pang, Emma realised she’d be wearing the harness for the remainder of the day. Six more hours until bedtime. Six more hours of this itchy, uncomfortable torment, which was leaving marks on her body that would take hours to fade. Oddly, the thought didn’t bother her. As they descended the stairs, ready to mingle with her relatives again, she felt the excitement of anticipation settle over her like a fever. The evening wasn’t over yet. It was only just beginning, and it was going to be fun. She knew it in the itchy spots beneath the rope, where wisdom lay.
Madeline and More
Giselle Renarde
Madeline chain-smoked two packs a day. Used to be three, but she cut down because she didn’t want her skin to start looking like a catcher’s mitt.
She reminded me of a white witch. Her hair was long and straggly, and she always had on wispy skirts that brushed her ankles. She usually wore white or grey, or shades of blue and green. Never black, except on stage, which struck me as strange because she was famous for writing requiems.
To look at her, you’d never guess Madeline was a world-famous composer. But I guess people have outdated ideas of what composers look like. The first year our choir collaborated with Madeline, I remember the other sopranos asking, ‘How does such beautiful music come out of such a hag?’ That hurt me, right to my core, because I thought Madeline was gorgeous.
For four years she’d been writing original choral music for us to premiere at our annual Christmas concert. Having the words ‘World Premiere’ on the programme certainly helped to put bums in the seats, but I knew she only helped us along because she was sleeping with our choirmaster Diana. Their relationship was brutally obvious.
But something was different this year. When Madeline arrived to hear how we were faring with the new piece, she seemed even more aloof than usual. She swept down the centre aisle of the creepy old church where we rehearsed and threw her purse and her bags on the front pew. She didn’t give Diana the usual big hug and kiss. In fact, she didn’t so much as glance in our choirmaster’s direction.
Something was very, very different. Had they broken up? Oh, the thought made my belly flip. Right away, my mind shot to the possibility of being Madeline’s next conquest.
My hands were shaking as I took Madeline’s original setting of ‘Balulalow’ from my music folder. The piece hadn’t yet been published, and the vocal score was handwritten. So were the words:
Oh my dere hert, young Jesu sweit,
Prepare thy creddil in thy spreit,
And I sall rock thee to my hert,
To my hert …
And never mair from thee depart.
Oh, Madeline’s handwriting! Madeline’s fingers had penned this music, written out those words. Everything that came from her was special and exciting, even a song that had been set famously by Britten and God knows how many other composers.
She sat like a bag lady in the front pew as we sang her work back to her. It was magic. I felt that way about most Christmas songs, but Madeline’s new creations brought me to a higher plane of existence. I’d never been a super-religious person, but I’d always loved the focus on music that came about this time of year. The old songs were my favourites, and Madeline’s always sounded old even though they were new.
My heart raced as we closed off that final melancholy chord. This wasn’t a happy song. Moving, yes, but not celebratory. There was a sense of devotion, of submission. We singers gave ourselves over to the piece as it became a part of us. It was truly an experience of giving in, handing ourselves to Madeline and letting ourselves belong to her.
But what did she think of our performance?
For a moment, she said nothing, did nothing. And then she brought her hands together. She stood and bowed to us, saying, ‘Thank you all.’
Her voice was deep and husky from all the years of smoking. She was a choral composer who couldn’t sing her own music.
She gave us a few corrections.