1. Other Colors -- Ch. 15 (part 2)


    Date: 5/15/2016, Categories: BDSM, Author: mascodagama, Rating: 1, Source: LushStories

    didn’t think I would die.” I glanced up, “the man who put me there—I thought if I was patient, and if I behaved myself,” my eyes glazed over, “well…he had to come back for me eventually.” “Urszene in utero,” he smirked, “Tomb, womb. Womb, tomb. What a lovely, twisted little mind you have.” “I knew you’d say something like that,” I blushed. “You probably think all dreams are about sex.” “Most,” he nodded blithely, and spun me around, “But not mine, Miss Foster.” I raised an incredulous brow, “Oh?” He shook his head, and stopped us cold in the middle of the song. “No. I dreamt that I was fucking you.” His eyes cut into me, and my heart went still. I could feel his hand gliding lower in the small of my back. “Yes. I had you on stage at the Théâtre du Palais-Royal, hanging from the rafters, like a marionette,” he spoke slowly, letting me feel the full weight of each word. “You wore nothing. Just a band of black silk to cover your eyes. But your wrists. Ankles. Thighs. Breasts—I had them all bound in coils of red rope.” He ran his fingertips across my temples, and I trembled. “And you,” his voice lowered, “You were my perfect, little puppet, Penny. We heard a piano playing somewhere in the distance. Debussy, it seemed. I made you dance this way, and that. I moved you in dizzying circles, all up and down the stage. Then at the climax, I pulled your legs wide apart. I fixed you in a permanent grand jeté for me.” He bent his head closer, eyes flashing and teeth bared. “I stood ...
    beneath you. Your hair was wild. Your chest heaving. Your tethers tight. I lowered you like a fallen angel, and let your lips part for me, Penny,” he brushed my lower lip with the tip of his thumb, “…and I split you open.” I didn’t move. I couldn’t. In part, it was because his gaze had all but pithed me; piercing clear through the core of my brain, where it left me not numb, but paralyzed. But also because I was afraid that if I tried to move, my body, by some autonomic reflex of the pelvis, might give itself up to him. It was degrading, really, realizing how much his dream aroused me. I bit my lip, straining to imagine how it might feel; to be blindfolded and floating, my legs spread to the feather-edge of their breaking point. “I, um…” I choked, “...I thought you said it wasn’t about sex.” “I’m not convinced that it was, Miss Foster,” his mouth split into a wry grin, and we kept dancing, “If our dreams were to taken so literally, I think Gala Dalí would have had her husband committed.” I sniffed, still burning up inside. I remembered the bayonet, poised and ready to pierce her through in his Dream Caused by the Flight of a Bee Around a Pomegranate a Second Before Awakening . Bizarrely enough, at that moment, a bayonet didn’t sound so bad to me. “Well,” I breathed tremulously, “what was it really about, then?” He shrugged, “Qui sait? Birds. Bees. Being buried alive…” He dipped me, “Perhaps someday I’ll let you explain it to me, darling.” I giggled. It eluded me entirely, how ...
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