Unmasqued

"Spread your legs," Erik said, and she complied. Now she was juxtaposed over the front of the harp, her hands positioned at the top, her nipples imprisoned by the wires, and her feet positioned on the floor with the base of the harp between them.

Behind her, she heard the soft swish of movement, but when she would have turned to look, he snapped, "Don't move." And suddenly, something dark went over her eyes. A blindfold.

"Erik!" She started to remove her hands from the harp, started to tell him he didn't need that anymore… but strong hands grabbed her wrists and held them in place.

"Don't move." He tied the blindfold, and a lock of her hair got caught up in the knot, pulling tightly. "And don't speak. Except… to beg."

Those last two syllables, hissed deep and low into her ear, sent a sharp pang of pleasure laced with trepidation jolting through her. Christine drew in her breath and her nipples slid up between the harp strings along with her rising chest. They tightened and grew harder at the strange sensation of the narrow openings lined with metal… and when she released her breath, letting her forehead rest against the smooth wood of the harp, her clamped nipples slid back down. And grew stiffer still.

Then she felt him… behind her. Warm and solid, pressing up against her again, tall and jutting… his hot, bare cock pushing into the curve of her bottom. His hands on her hips, his mouth-oh, please! — on her shoulder. She moved her forehead against the harp, and the blindfold jacked up enough so that she could see down to his legs lining hers, his feet, bare, long, brown, on either side of her narrow white ones partly obscured by the cuffs of his dark trousers.

But his cock… he grasped her hips, holding her, and slid his burning cock beneath the vee of her buttocks and through the juices of her sex, and she saw the red purple of its head just poking from beneath her bush. She felt him trembling behind her, holding her steady; his thighs pressed at an angle against her bare ones, his knees and ankles bumping against the outsides of her same joints. They were locked together… yet they were not.

He slid one hand across her belly to finger her sex, dip into her juices, and smooth them around her swollen labia… stroking, petting, teasing. Christine moaned and pressed back against him, then up and into his hand, trying to grind herself into an orgasm. But he moved his hand from her greedy pip, taking her wetness to rub it on the underside of his cock while he pushed the top of it through her pool. Its head peeked again beneath her dark curls, and Christine tried to jimmy her hips, to make it hit her nib just right…or-mon Dieu! — to slip inside her where she needed him.

But he was grasping her waist again, breathing hot and hard into the top of her head, rubbing his cock back and forth in the cradle of her quim, and then finally, he cried out… one long, low, agonized groan, and jammed his body against her so hard she slammed into the harp with a twang.

She saw the thick white spurt of his seed as it shot from beneath her lower lips, between the strings of the harp, and onto the wooden floor. Christine sagged against the instrument, aware of the lines marking her flesh, but unable to push away with his solid weight behind her.

Her pip throbbed, her quim burned, and her nipples ached, and she wanted her turn. Her arms were tired of holding onto the harp…

His hands were on her again. He'd recovered, pulled away, and removed the warmth of his clothed body from her back. The sudden rush of cool air… and anticipation… made the fine hair on her back lift, and when he traced the sides of her body from breast to hip again, she shivered. Smiled into the wires with anticipation.

And then… nothing.

"Erik?" Her voice came out breathless and pleading.

"Are you begging? So soon?" he asked, his voice mild and mocking. "If you are not, then remain silent. And… let me fix this."

And the blindfold came back down over her eyes, then tightened at the back of her head. The pain of her hair caught in the knot distracted her momentarily from the pulsing between her legs.

She realized she could move her arms; why did she hold them up there?

But again he seemed to anticipate her. No sooner had she thought to move than something powerful gripped her left wrist. "Allow me."

He lowered her hand, smoothing it along the straight column of wood carved with some ornate design her fingers did not recognize, and positioned it at the level of her hips. Tied it there. Then he did the same with her right hand, attaching it to the harp on the other side.

"Why can I not touch you?" she cried, turning her face and grinding it into the wires, trying to loosen the blindfold. "Or see you? Why, Erik, why?"

"You really must be taught how to plead more prettily," he said, and she could hear that he had moved and was no longer behind her. "You must not want it badly enough. Perhaps I can be of some assistance."