A Crimson Confession
“What do you say, Doctor?” he asked, flashing the most wicked of grins as he gestured for another shard of laced ice. “One more?”
“No, no, no,” she chanted with a giggle that gave away her enjoyment. Even blind, she could clearly see what came next.
“How about…” He pretended to ponder the options while his fingertips floated along her curves. “Right here.”
“You’re the boss,” I said, steadying the diamond inches from her skin and allowing the first drop to splash into the recess of her navel. Then came a second drop, and then a third, until only a very precarious surface tension held the pool in place.
“Oh my God.” Her lips wrapped around every word before revealing the most decadent smile. “I want a divorce!”
“Still!” Hunt ordered, pulling my hand away to allow her a momentary reprieve and a false sense of accomplishment as she calmed the contractions through her body. “Good girl.”
While Elise reined in her breathing and fought to remain still, he took the ice from my hand and squeezed it again over her abdomen. The tension built, perhaps as much for me as for her, until one final droplet formed at the tip of the diamond. Excruciatingly, it grew, hanging lower as critical mass approached before finally breaking free. Falling into the pool below, its impact broke the tension, releasing a river of super-cooled water down her stomach before vanishing between her thighs in an eruption of contortion and profanity.
“Oh, God,” she whimpered, on the verge of hyperventilating as her primal heat battled his incessant, frigid breath. “Please, Sir!”
“Yes?” he whispered, lowering his ear to her trembling lips.
“Please fuck me.”
As the wick burned down on the forgotten bedside candle, I learned Elise all over again with the help of a man we’d just met. While she lay beneath us, bound and defenseless, Hunt read her reaction to every touch and then offered his unique wisdom for placing the next drop. Knowing that she now had no idea which of us inflicted any particular torture, I felt free to indulge at will, pushing her body to the outermost limits of pleasure while strangely absolved of guilt. This had to be, without a doubt, the most deranged bonding session ever experienced.
The evening wore on, a cumulative exercise in torment. Everywhere her exhausted body once weathered the flow of these chilling streams remained susceptible to the softest breath for hours after. With me an eager understudy, Hunt laid down an intricate webbing of sensation, the full extent of which only became clear with the triggering of the ceiling fan overhead. The gentle draft hit her skin like an arctic storm. Despite her blissful exhaustion, her body came alive again as currents of electricity raced along invisible pathways to ignite a sensory frenzy over every inch of her body. Well, nearly every inch.