BUILDED ATTRACTION 3

‘No one must ever find out about this. No one.’ The second line was the same too. 

‘I know.’ 

‘Come over here, then.’ 

He took a step forward then stopped, anticipating, like a bad actor, what the next line of the script would be. 

'Stop. You know better than that, don’t you?’ 

He looked shamefaced. His cock hardened further, growing to its full stature. ‘Yes,’ he said. He dropped to his knees on the long—pile cream carpet.

'That’s better.’ 

Slowly he shuffled forward on his knees until he was right in front of her. 

She raised her left foot and wriggled her nylon covered big toe against his left nipple. It made his cock quiver. 

'You know what to do?’ she said. Again this part of the script was always the same. 

'Yes,’ he whispered. Even if she hadn’t been able to see the excited state of his cock, his expression would have betrayed how he felt. Sexual arousal blazed in his eyes, its tension etched in every line of his face. He took hold of her left foot with both hands and brought it up to his lips, kissing it lightly, little nibbling kisses all over the white nylon-covered flesh. He sucked gently on her toes, crowding them all into his mouth at the same time. A tear of fluid forced its way out of his glans. 

‘Now the other one,’ she demanded, snatching her foot away and making him pick the other off the floor. He followed the same procedure. 

Clare could not suppress a shudder of delight. She felt her excitement mounting. It was a physical thing, a direct connection between the nerves in her toes and those in her sex. There was a certain thrill attached to having a man kneeling at her feet, prepared to do her bidding. But, of course, it wasn’t really her bidding; it only appeared to be. What she was going to ask him to do was all the product of his imagination. 

‘All right, that’s enough,’ she said. 

‘It was lovely,’ he whispered. 

'You know what I want you to do now?’ She stood up. Taking the back ot his head in his hand, she pushed his face into her flat, pink silksheathed belly. She felt his hot breath against her flesh. Her sex throbbed. ‘Do you know?’ bod 

'Yes,’ he moaned, the word gagged by her body.

She released him. Very slowly he raised his hands to the white garter on her thigh and drew it down her leg. When he reached her ankle she raised her foot so he could pull it free. He immediately held the garter to his mouth, kissing the lace and inhaling the scent of her body. This was always the same too, an established part of the ritual. 

’Get on with it,’ she ordered. 

David looped the garter around his wrist then crawled over to a large, bow-fronted chest of drawers with brass handles. He opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a pair of white satin French knickers with lace-trimmed legs. There were other things in the bottom drawer too, other props for his little dramas, but none would be used tonight. 

‘Don’t make me,’ he said pathetically, though it was clear it was what he wanted more desperately than anything else. 

‘You know it’s what I want.’ Another line from the script. 

He got to his feet, stepped into the satin knickers and pulled them up over his legs. He had very slim, snake-like hips but even so the knickers were too tight. They stretched tautly over his navel, his phallus trapped inside them, every inch of it outlined under the satin. The tear of fluid it had produced immediately soaked into the material, darkening the white. 

‘Don’t you look pretty?’ Oddly enough it was true. There was something feminine about David’s body. His skin was soft and very white and, although he had no muscle tone, he was not fat either. His only obvious display of masculinity - pressed against the white satin. 

‘Please.'

‘Come back here, now.’ 

He got back on to his knees. As he crawled back towards her she picked the small gold box from the bedside table and tore off the wrapping paper. Inside, as she’d guessed, was a black silk sleeping mask. 

‘If I screamed the whole house would come running.’ That wasn’t exactly what he’d written but it was close enough. 

'Yes,' he said breathily, as he knelt with his hands on his knees in front of her once more. 

'They’d see you like this.’ 

'Please don’t scream.’ He said it with conviction, completely engrossed in the imaginary situation. 

‘I won’t. But only if you do exactly what I tell you to do.' Sometimes Clare wondered if the scenarios they acted out were based on fact. There had been many variations but the basic tenets were always the same: a man at the mercy of a woman. Had he smuggled himself into one of the maid’s rooms at the country estate, in his adolescence perhaps, and been punished for his trouble in exactly this way? Would that explain his obsession, his burgeoning sexuality becoming fixated on a particularly strong experience? 

The patch of wet on the front of the French knickers was getting larger and making the material transparent. She could actually see his glans and the eye of his penis from which the sticky fluid leaked. 

‘Well?’ she said with all the imperiousness she could muster. 

‘Please, I'll do anything you say.’ 

‘Put this on.’ She threw the sleeping mask on to the floor in front of him. ‘You don’t think I’m going to let you see me naked, do you?’ 

‘No.’ He picked the mask up and slipped it over his eyes, adjusting the elasticated straps so that it fitted snugly. 

Clare paused. She was very excited now. She found she had become wrapped up in his fantasy too. The sex she had had before meeting David had always been spontaneous, never knowing what would happen next. This was the other side of the coin, sex planned down to the last detail. She knew exactly what David was going to do to her next and she found that knowledge arousing. 

She saw David’s head moving very slightly, trying to pick up a sound as a clue to what she was doing. She found she was in the mood to tease him now, and kept perfectly still. Then, as quietly as she could, she extended her foot and pressed her toes against his cock. He started. That wasn’t in the script. 

'Is that nice?’ She rubbed her foot up and down. 

He didn’t reply. He didn’t say anything that he hadn’t rehearsed. 

‘All right.’ She reverted to her role. ‘If you do as I say, no one will know you’ve been here. Is that understood?’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘Good.’ You know what you have to do now.’ She stood up and held the back of his head again but this time maintained a distance from his face. His hands groped up between her legs, over the stocking tops to the top of her thighs. Pressing into the soft, hot flesh of her labia he struggied to locate the three poppers that held the gusset of the pink silk body in place. 

His fingers fumbled around ineffectively, enjoying the liberty they had been allowed. 

‘Concentrate,’ she scolded. 

He pulled two of the poppers free but couldn’t find the third. She stepped back, tutting loudly. ‘Not very good.’ 

The third popper made a loud metallic click as she freed it. The two halves of the gusset parted, hanging down front and back. ‘I hope you can do better than that.’ The longer the game went on the easier she found it to play her role. What was more, the easier it came to her the more wrapped up in it she became. It was exciting. She could feel the impression his fingers had made on her sex. 

Clare sat on the bed. She put her foot up on to his chest for the second time. ‘Kiss it,’ she said almost in a whisper. she wondered if, years ago, David had tried to take advantage of one of the maids and she, seeing an opportunity to blackmail the young master, threatening to go to his father, had used him as shamelessly as this. If she were an actress she’d certainly use that scenario to provide her motivation. 

David brought her foot up to his mouth and kissed it again. This time he kissed the inside of her ankle and immediately began to work his mouth up her calf. When he got to her knee she ordered him to stop. Resting her heel on his shoulder she raised her other foot, this time pushing her toes against his lips. ‘Now the other one,’ she said. 

He repeated the process, kissing and nibbling his way up along the white nylon. She rested this heel against his other shoulder, spreading her knees apart and allowing his mouth to venture up to her thigh. She flicked the gusset of the body up. Had he not been blindfold he would have had a perfect view of her sex. 

His tongue licked at her stocking top. As he leant forward she rocked back until she was laying on the bed. She hooked her legs around his neck and crossed her ankles, splaying her thighs further apart, her sex open for him. 

She could feel her body pulsing rhythmically, playing its own sensual music. Her hips were undulating almost unconsciously, as David's mouth worked its way over the nylon welt and on to the creamy soft flesh above it. She was naturally olive skinned and the contrast between the very white welt of the stocking and her skin was marked. After the coarseness of the nylon against his tongue and lips it would also seem impossibly soft. 

He licked his way right up to her labia, moaning with pleasure as his mouth made its first contact with her sex. 

‘You naughty boy.’ There wasn’t much left of the script now. ‘You are very naughty, aren’t you?'

‘Oh yes.’ He formed the word without taking his mouth away from her. She could feel his lips moving. 

‘I shouldn’t allow you to do this, should I?' 

She found herself imagining she was in some dingy below-stairs room in the Allstons’ country estate, forcing the young master to give her pleasure. The maid would have been a first-class bitch requiring his attentions night after night, constantly reminding him that refusal would mean reporting him to his tyrannical father. 

Clare could feel her sex was wet. With her labia spread open by the position of her legs, her clitoris was exposed and she could feel it throbbing. 

‘No, no, you shouldn’t,’ he said. 

‘But I'm going to.’ 

As she said this his tongue pressed against her clitoris. He was good at this. Very good. No man had ever been better in her experience. His mouth seemed able to mould itself to her sex. He had a way of stretching her labia with his lips, pulling her clitoris taut while, at the same time, his tongue worked on it with the most perfect of touches, alternating between stroking it up and down, pushing it back against the pubic bone, or tapping it at its most sensitive spot. 

It all made her writhe with pleasure. She dug her heels into his back, levering her sex still harder against his mouth, and snapping her head over to one side as this produced a new jolt of intense feeling. His chin was jutting against the opening of her vagina. The wetness of her sex was seeping all over it. 

She knew what he would do next. For her, at least, the fantasy was slipping away, as waves of physical pleasure unleashed their hold on her. The way his tongue seemed to be able to create piercing shards of intense pleasure astonished her. Now she didn’t need anything else; mind games were simply surplus to requirements. The only thing she needed was what he was alread supplying, altering the position of his mout slightly, angling it up to make the opening of her vagina accessible so he could slip one, then two, then three fingers into it. He did not penetrate her with them. He held them there, waiting for the right moment, the blindfold concentrating all his attention on his sense of touch. He would feel when she was ready, when the provocation of his tongue on her clitoris took her right to the edge. 

She was rigid now, the muscles of her legs looped around his neck corded and hard, her fingers clutching at the sheet as if for extra support. ‘Yes,’ she moaned. 

At that second she came. The flood of her orgasm drowned her in sensation, but not before he’d driven his fingers up into her sex, as deep as they would possibly go, the impact of one chasing the impact of the other. Feeling was layered upon feeling. The wave of orgasm was extended, deepened, honed to a new intensity. Clare gasped, still able to feel, in the middle of this maelstrom of sensation, the relentless movement of his tongue against her clitoris, each tiny stroke magnified and amplified into a whole new panoply of pleasure. 

It must have eventually ended. He sensed her crisis pass and pulled his fingers gently out of her body, moving back on his haunches as she raised her legs from his shoulders. 

It always ended the same way, at least it had since she’d agreed to co-operate with the ritual. He remained where he was kneeling in front of her, still blindfolded, his back straight, his hands at his sides. She would roll off the bed and walk over to the bedside table, her stockings rasping against each other as she moved. There was a bottle of perfume in the top drawer of the bedside table - cheap, flowery perfume. She’d take it out of the drawer and carry it back to where he knelt. Sitting on the bed again, she’d take the stopper out of the bottle and rub it under his nose. He would inhale deeply and moan. 

Lifting her foot, she’d rub her sole against his distended phallus. Instantly she’d feel it jerk. Equally quickly the white satin would darken and the already wet patch enlarge to cover most of the front of the knickers, his body shuddering profoundly as it did so, like a ship holed below the waterline. He’d drop forward, his head against her knee, clutching her leg in his arms. 

It was always the same. It was almost five months since Clare had had penetrative sex.