anchises | Neverwas. Mezzanine. Mature.

Neverwas

by Anchises

Mezzanine universe. Mature themes and content. A transformative work.

JD Nielson glares up at her with a sullen look in his eyes. She grins, the grin that her cousin Christian always called "your damned shit-eating grin, Cam E", before he went and got his damn fool ass gay married to a San Francisco banker and got all respectable.

"Oh, baby, I'm sorry, you got something you need to say?" He blinks at her, a considered, quiet, if you didn't have me tied down and gagged then I would kill you blink. She smiles. "Andrew, babydoll, give him six."

Andrew, tall, dark, handsome, German, arms coiled in muscle, torso wrapped in a leather and steel harness, brings the crop down on Nielson's ass six times in quick succession. The sound echoes around the playroom, adding percussion to the Wynton Marsalis that's trumpeting quietly out of the music system.

Cameron Mitchell walks slowly around the massage table -- the very, very pervertible massage table -- on which Nielson is trussed like a hog in his own goddamned ropes. There are six reddening stripes walking down Nielson's ass, the first starting right at the top, just below where the dimples of his lower back meet his ass, and proceeding at half-inch intervals down.

Andrew smiles over at her and offers her the crop. "Ma'am."

"Thank you, but no, you keep hold of that for just now," she says, her shit-eating grin back on her face. Nielson's eyes are slightly lidded now, his head on its side, looking up at her. She strokes the fuzz on the back of his neck, glad that the massage table is raised so she doesn't need to lean down to see into his eyes.

"Nnnng," he says, through the leather of the gag, squirming slightly.

"More?" she asks, stroking a finger down the knobs of his spine.

He nods.

"Six more, please and thank you," she tosses over her shoulder to Andrew. This time, she watches Nielson's eyes unfocus with the first stroke, and he starts to flinch in response to the strokes.

It's difficult, she knows, for somebody as used to pain as Nielson is, to get into the headspace he needs to get into right now. Pain's both a weapon and something to be endured; he's been on the receiving end of both often enough, she knows that much.

"And again, if you please." His breathing is starting to slow. Good, she thinks. She looks over at Andrew and nods at the flogger. It's an expensive one -- like everything in their playroom, they can afford it and they revel in it -- handmade from soft suede, and it falls like snowflakes or thunderstorm hail, depending on who's wielding it and how.

Andrew leans over, slides a foot under one of the legs of the table, and lifts -- and just like that, the table is on its end, stable, with Nielson tied to it just as tightly vertically as he was horizontally. Cammie leans in and kisses him. "Shhh," is all she says, low and quiet. "Let go."

She knows she wants to watch Nielson go under -- needs to watch it, even -- but Andrew just looks so goddamn pretty with the flogger, so fluid, and she remembers having that fluidity, being able to crack her wrist around like Andrew does, one lithe motion. Someday, she hopes, she'll stop resenting its loss, but she shoves that thought out of her mind and brushes her hand inside the leather ankle-length kilt she's wearing and traces a circle around her cunt, feeling the again familiar rush of pleasure. Marsalis -- it's the London concert album -- rolls around her, and she watches the flogger start to flow down harder onto Nielson. She holds up a finger to Andrew, and he gives Nielson a good hard blow between the shoulderblades and then stops suddenly.

"Oh baby," she purrs into Nielson's ear, "you look so pretty down there, so fucking pretty," and she plays with her clit as she stands back to let Andrew work his magic. Nielson is giving these pretty little murmurs now as Andrew gives him a hard one, and it's the prettiest thing she's seen in a long while.

An idea floats gently into her mind with Marsalis, and she heads around the table to a box in one of the shelves. Pulling out a clamp, she tests the spring on it, then pulls out another with a slightly gentler grip to it. With a grin, she holds up a finger and points at Nielson's ass, then holds up six fingers and mouths six at Andrew, who kindly obliges.

Nielson gasps at the sixth, and she blinks slightly, because that was a loud one, and his ass is starting to get red, and she reaches between his legs, edges his thighs apart, and clips the clamp straight to the magic JD Nielson spot that he will keep insisting is called a perineum, except she thinks that's a kind of flower, so she calls it the taint -- t'ain't your balls and t'ain't your ass, and shut your damn fool mouth, Nielson -- and he gives a sudden groan, tenses, and relaxes with a low moan.

She walks up to the side of him and runs a finger round the outside of one ear. He cracks an eye and says, "Mmmff," which she just knows really means "bitch," and so she picks up the cane from its stand -- not her cane, the one she gets around with, but a half-inch-thick piece of rattan with a lathed wood end to hold onto -- and lands six strokes across his ass. It feels good, almost like it used to in the clubs of her youth on leave, except that the three inch heels and red-as-sin bodice wrapped around her spine are gone from danger now, passed into history with dancing and Miss Mam'zelle and being tied up like this herself...but for a moment, just for a moment, she luxuriates in the sensations, a hot young thing twitching at the end of her cane, tensing himself for the next blow, and she waits until he relaxes slightly before she brings the cane thwipping down on his ass.

She places it back down on its stand and runs her hand over his ass, murmuring sweet nothings into his ear, as she traces the hot red welts from side to side, occasionally sliding the side of a fingernail down them to watch him squirm with the sensation, his pretty face in a mixture of agony/ecstasy, his pretty fucking mouth split by the leather of the gag, and she rubs her hand over her clit, and suddenly Andrew is behind her, asking, quietly, "May I?", and she nods, briefly, and Andrew's sliding his hands under her kilt, and Jesus Lord, she's wet and his fingers are warm and just the right balance of soft and callused to get her off.

She feels her orgasm way off, like a winter sky that's brassy with the promise of a blizzard just over the mountain, and it builds and builds and builds, and then she's crying out, leaning forwards against Nielson, with Andrew pressing her onto him at just the right level of pressure that she can let go for a moment, and she feels like she's just floating in space, like she's done before, and she rests her head right on Nielson's, their heads pointing the same direction.

And from his comfortable chair in the corner of the room, with his assless chap-clad legs on the riveted leather ottoman, Daniel catches her eye, nods at them, and breaks into a smile.