It’s probably been no more than a few minutes so far, although each has been drawn out tenfold. I don’t know whether to close my legs chastely or leave them open as they are, even though the seep from between them feels so rude. He won’t keep me waiting, surely? He will know the torture of every second. I have it in my head that maybe Patrick is still here, closing the door as a trick to make me think I am alone. If he wanted to ravish me then this is a golden opportunity – a chance before the game has officially started. The thought of taking him first sets my heart pounding. I am ready, but maybe not ready enough for him. I would prefer a gentler introduction, although every second he doesn’t push his way back through the drapes is a second that sparks greater wanting. It’s too late now. He would have to have reported to his master or raise suspicion.
I try to picture the room downstairs, try to conjure some of those masked faces. Are those in the know already on their way? Are silent signals going between them to suggest an order to be taken? Are they even aware that others know, or do they think me a treat just for them individually? If he is busy relaying the details to the chosen few, will others sneak out to claim me in the meantime? I can’t wait much more. The anticipation is beginning to agitate. I feel as anxious now as before the bath soothed my doubts away. How long are they going to keep me hanging on like this?
My stomach lurches. That was definitely a noise. I didn’t hear an approach, but that squeak could only be the door handle. Every cell of my body is tense. I’m waiting for a creak to tell me the door has been swung open, but it doesn’t come. I’m waiting for a breeze, to sense a change in the atmosphere that lets me know I’m not alone, but it’s all enclosed in here, and the air around me remains thick and still. The floorboards are so old and yet they make no sound. The ghosts are here though, of that I am sure. I can make out gentle sounds, those of clothes swishing together through body movement. My ears strain, my head turns toward the noise. So on edge, I almost expect a clashing impact, an explosion. However, when my guest finally does come, the approach is so soft I can barely make it out. The drapes part almost unnoticeably, and then suddenly I feel weight at the edge of this vast bed, someone climbing on near my feet.
I almost reach out with my foot to touch this new arrival, just to gain even the slightest clue to their identity. However, I can’t imagine it will be a great start to kick someone in the face, so I stay frozen, trying to deduce if the weight pressing at the mattress is enough for a male. It doesn’t seem so, but surely he would want to come to me first? The initial contact is at my ankle and although I’m dying for it I still jump and gasp. Fortunately, I don’t lash out. Fingers are travelling up the inside of my leg. The hand is warm and the touch light. Then it stops, just at the hem of my gown. The material tightens against my parted thighs and a grating sound cuts the quiet.
I recognise the sound instantly. It is that of scissors cutting cloth. The pull of the gown at my thighs eases at once as the material comes apart under the blades. The scissors continue their slow, remorseless journey and I just lie back and let it happen. I tense as the blades near my crotch, but care is being taken not to hurt me and only a couple of times does the metal touch my skin. I feel cool exhalations on my newly shaved mound; twin gusts from nostrils no more than six inches above me. My belly is exposed, but no hands go on me. The cutting continues, the material springing open where it is tight at my chest. The blades briefly falter at the point of the vee below my neck, but then extra pressure takes them through and the gown has been split from top to bottom.
I breathe in, knowing my visitor is right above me. I attempt to gain their scent and do; a fragrance I
I try to picture the room downstairs, try to conjure some of those masked faces. Are those in the know already on their way? Are silent signals going between them to suggest an order to be taken? Are they even aware that others know, or do they think me a treat just for them individually? If he is busy relaying the details to the chosen few, will others sneak out to claim me in the meantime? I can’t wait much more. The anticipation is beginning to agitate. I feel as anxious now as before the bath soothed my doubts away. How long are they going to keep me hanging on like this?
My stomach lurches. That was definitely a noise. I didn’t hear an approach, but that squeak could only be the door handle. Every cell of my body is tense. I’m waiting for a creak to tell me the door has been swung open, but it doesn’t come. I’m waiting for a breeze, to sense a change in the atmosphere that lets me know I’m not alone, but it’s all enclosed in here, and the air around me remains thick and still. The floorboards are so old and yet they make no sound. The ghosts are here though, of that I am sure. I can make out gentle sounds, those of clothes swishing together through body movement. My ears strain, my head turns toward the noise. So on edge, I almost expect a clashing impact, an explosion. However, when my guest finally does come, the approach is so soft I can barely make it out. The drapes part almost unnoticeably, and then suddenly I feel weight at the edge of this vast bed, someone climbing on near my feet.
I almost reach out with my foot to touch this new arrival, just to gain even the slightest clue to their identity. However, I can’t imagine it will be a great start to kick someone in the face, so I stay frozen, trying to deduce if the weight pressing at the mattress is enough for a male. It doesn’t seem so, but surely he would want to come to me first? The initial contact is at my ankle and although I’m dying for it I still jump and gasp. Fortunately, I don’t lash out. Fingers are travelling up the inside of my leg. The hand is warm and the touch light. Then it stops, just at the hem of my gown. The material tightens against my parted thighs and a grating sound cuts the quiet.
I recognise the sound instantly. It is that of scissors cutting cloth. The pull of the gown at my thighs eases at once as the material comes apart under the blades. The scissors continue their slow, remorseless journey and I just lie back and let it happen. I tense as the blades near my crotch, but care is being taken not to hurt me and only a couple of times does the metal touch my skin. I feel cool exhalations on my newly shaved mound; twin gusts from nostrils no more than six inches above me. My belly is exposed, but no hands go on me. The cutting continues, the material springing open where it is tight at my chest. The blades briefly falter at the point of the vee below my neck, but then extra pressure takes them through and the gown has been split from top to bottom.
I breathe in, knowing my visitor is right above me. I attempt to gain their scent and do; a fragrance I
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