You might mistake it for an ordinary party, if not for the raised platform in the middle of the room. A carnal altar, around which onlookers stand and gaze, whisper and speculate, eyes bright with lust. On the dais, there’s a mattress, artfully draped with white gauze. Angela’s slave, Isla, is posed there on all fours, face pressed to the mattress, ass high in the air.
Isla is wearing nothing but a harness of leather straps and rings that serves to accentuate her nakedness. The straps curve around her firm ass cheeks, leaving her smooth, hairless pussy gloriously exposed. If you’re a man, you can look but you can’t touch. Angela is a lesbian, and she won’t let Isla experience the deep thrust of a hard cock that she sometimes suspects Isla craves. Women can touch freely, though; their long, sharp fingers and busy tongues keep Isla constantly on edge as she kneels there, on display.
The game is to get Isla as close to the edge as possible, without letting her come. Face buried in the mattress, Isla has no idea who is touching her, and so she just surrenders to the sensation. Some touches are delicate, gentle and teasing; others are rough, spanking her ass to bring a red glow to her cheeks, pressing her clit until she feels she must moan out her pleasure, and then abruptly pulling away, leaving her panting for more.
Isla wants to moan, wants to beg, but if Angela hears her lose control too quickly she will stop the game. So she bites her lip, swallows her moans and wills her shaking limbs to remain still. She’s barely aware of the chatter of the party swirling around her. The fingertips brushing her skin, spreading her folds, dipping inside her wetness, flood her consciousness until she feels reduced to nothing but a hot mass of arousal.
Isla feels fingernails rake across her ass cheeks, then cool breath being blown over the hot weals they leave. Her cheeks are gripped hard, spread apart, and she struggles to suppress a shudder of pleasure as she feels the gaze fixed on her tender flesh. Her unknown assailant leans in close and laps daintily at her clit, the sensation more teasing than satisfying. Isla holds her breath, not daring to hope for more.
The tongue flattens against her clit, hot and wet. It swipes a long stripe all the way up to her asshole, pausing there for a moment to feel the tight pucker clench and relax under the sudden pressure, then back down again. Firmer now, the tongue squirms into the deep groove between her lips, slippery and muscular, every atom of Isla’s being focused on the slow drag, the building tension, the rising heat. Imperceptibly, she rocks back, silently urging the tongue to push deeper inside her. She wants to let go, to thrust back, ride out the waves of pleasure; but desperate as she is to chase the source of her spiralling arousal, she’s still aware of the rules.
She’s close to the edge now, eyes closed, hearing nothing but the rush of blood through her veins; so when the tongue pulls away, leaving her alone and untouched, she wants to scream with frustration. She feels chilled. Her thighs shake, strained muscles stretched taut, and it takes every ounce of the self-control Angela has drilled into her to keep from moving, from plunging her own fingers into her pussy to finish the job. But she stays motionless, feeling more vulnerable and exposed than before; and she’s finally rewarded when a finger skates along her cream-drenched slit with a beckoning motion, as if demanding her attention. Hyper-aware, Isla feels the finger slide along her hot, slick channel, over and over. She’s not being touched at all except for this one finger entering her, like a pinpoint of dazzling light in a pitch-black sky.
The finger thrusts deeper, a second joining it, scissoring inside her. They press her G-spot and pull away, press and pull away, in a tormenting rhythm. The tops of her thighs are soaked with seeping wetness now. The need to come is all consuming, blotting out the universe.
When the fingers slide out of her and don’t return, Isla can’t contain her moan of rage and frustration. No doubt this is the signal Angela’s cronies have been waiting for. Like a swarm of hornets they’re on her, slapping and pinching, stroking and rubbing, more hands than she can count. Teeth sink into the soft flesh of her inner thigh. A wet knuckle rubs her asshole, teasing it open. Her pussy is crammed with wriggling fingers that twist and turn and tangle with each other as they explore every inch of her sensitive inner walls. Pressed down flat on the mattress, she sees stars.
This is what she lives for.
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More confessions from me here — if you think you can handle it! Maybe have a cold shower first…
