The Night Before, Part Two

In which Dr Grace meets colleagues, and audience…


In the quiet of the corridor, waiting, Grace could hear the rasping of her breath and the flutter of her pulse. It was exhilarating. Beyond the door were the sounds of the crowd, the audience. A ripple of conversation and light laughter, chink of crockery, glassware. The unmistakable gurgle of wine poured, and the subtle whispering of plates whisked away by skilled staff. She felt like she was in the tunnel before some important match. She thought of rugby players jostling and felt herself flood, even through Adler’s unguents.
And then the susurrus of plates was gone and Adler moved. Grace felt it in the tugs on her throat. The dip to the door handles, the showy fli g of the doors wide and the swooping steps forward, Grace following clumsily after.
It wasn’t silence but a single indrawn gasp, all those throats at once, gasping, holding their breath and letting it all go in a single, reverent sigh. A small smatter of applause began and then, catching like flames in dry grass, it spread, until she could hear the whole room were on their feet, for her and Adler, captive and celebrant. She thought her cunt might catch fire, that she might just come standing there, sink into a puddle of need and twitching limbs.
For a few turns around the room she was paraded and it wasn’t long before she could tell that it wasn’t any longer just her arousal that was flooding the room. Her slow march behi d her captor was accompanied by the rustle of loosened clothing and soft murmurs and growls of male and female appreciation.

Her first passage of display complete she was led to the front of the room and, with two short downward tugs on the leash commanded to kneel. Adler made firm adjustments to her posture. Pushing her backside out and her back down, her head up, until she was a contorted s, with her bound wrists resting in the scoop of her back. Adler fussed some more, deliciously more, with her arse. Tilting her hips and kicking apart her feet until the audience could see a perfect view of her dripping cunt. The audience were silent, full of rapt attention.

Adler fingered her.

Slowly, firmly, she hooked and spread her folds, opening her up, pushing twinned fingers into her, showing Grace’s public her eager hole. Grace was trembling a little with the pose and more than a little with arousal. Training had shown her she could keep this position for an hour.
There were noises off. Behind her. At a table. Something ringing against an ice bucket. A deep chuckle. Then Adler was close behind again. Suddenly there was a freezing touch to her arse. Adler’s finger, laden with cold cream, was circling her arse, gently but firmly making it slick. Another slick, eager hole.
The tip of the buttplug was like an icy kiss and it slid in, slid home with neat precision, filling her with a cold sun, making her ache to be filled again.

At that moment, another door opened and she heard the awestruck silence and the measured tread heralding the Bulls from the Sea.

Grace could smell them, smell them over the refined smells of faint cologne, hot wool and linen, the undertones of tobacco and leather, wine and the ghostly presence of the cleared away meal.
It was a clean, sharp smell, almost a barnyard smell. The smell of summer hayloft and sun baked wood, a little dry earth and a hint of rich decay in the damp shadows under eaves. A little rich, a little astringent, definitively male.

She listened to their steps, the whispers of awe that followed them. Soon, she could feel their steps, their tread, through the floor, through the carpet, her knees. Adler marshalled them to the front of the room, and she could feel their mass in front of her. Their heat on her upraised, seeking face. They were close and her nose was full of them, and then Adler had her by the throat. Tilting her head back and pushing her forward until her back sang and the leather straps bit into her thighs. She listened to their steps, the whispers of awe that followed them. Soon, she could feel their steps, their tread, through the floor, through the carpet, could feel it in the trembling of the icy steel in her arse.

Adler marshalled them to the front of the room, and she could feel their mass in front of her. Their heat on her upraised, seeking face. Grace reached with her mouth, lifting her chin and feeling his heat on her, smelling the deep salty scent of his secret places, the quick saltiness of his suppressed arousal. Adler guided the bull-man’s cock into Grace’s mouth. It was hot and fat. Grace had to open wide to take it, even in its flaccid state. It tasted warm and meaty and, as the skin peeled back as she drew it in, it left a streak of searing salt, a blaze of it along her tongue.

He filled her mouth easily, curled against the roof of her mouth and nudging the back of her tongue. Her now unleashed tongue. She swirled her mouth around him. Felt him grow hotter and thicker. Felt him fill her more and more. Soon he was almost fully hard, and hard to contain. Grace pushed herself up, bending her neck, drawing him, his growing cock into her throat, pressing her nose her lips, her teeth to the root of him, buried in the wild curls at the base. His cock was a live thing, hard, squirmy and slick with her spit and his juices, twitching. Trying to rise to its natural height, its above the horizontal tilt, yet born down by her weight, her imprisoning mouth.

His hands in her hair. Pulling her head onto him, their strangled animal grunts mingling, him sinking, squatting, thrusting. Fucking her face, filling her with cock.

The leash pulled her back and, with an audible pop he sprang free from her prison. In the same moment, blinding light. With the blindfold removed, she looked up through choke-teared eyes at the man before her. Tall and broad and muscled. Golden, shimmering with mica and metal in the oil on his skin. Shaved apart from his thick and springy bush, a series of sculpted ripples of muscle climbing up his flat, bladed stomach to his broad chest. Looking down at her the empty eyes of the bull mask. Between them the slick muscular scimitar of cock, connected to her spit-slack mouth by along glistening curve of thick drool. Next to this golden creature was as athletic, as impressive a specimen. Coal black, ebony black, the tip of his hanging prick partly peeled back and showing a cock head of brilliant pink, like some form of exotic fruit.

And as tasty. She found him sweet and liquid and hot. Immediately lively under her tongue. She licked him from balls to tip, glossing his lack skin, marvelling at the speed with which he grew. At last full, straining, his cock lay along the side of her nose, reaching from the corner of her fool grin fully to the roots of her hair. Lifting herself painfully, stretching against her restraints, she took him into her mouth. He, too, used his hands, used her. A hand against the back of her neck, another in her hair, wrenching her head back. Pushing, pumping, slow short thrusts each time a little deeper, finding it difficult, then impossible to breathe, but wanting all of it.

Gagging, mouth salty and bruised, breath coming in mad gasps from her bruised mouth, Grace was hauled to her feet by the leash. The next prop had arrived and she nearly lost her knees in looking at it. She was kept upright only by Adler’s firm grasp.


 

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