With the collar stiff about her neck and throat, held upright by the leash, Grace Whitley tottered on suddenly unsteady legs and stared, still a little cock-drunk, at the pommel horse. It stood between and behind the two priapic bull-men whose mighty cocks had so recently filled and bruised her mouth, and smeared her cheeks and chin with mingled pre-come and spit. Though the fantasia had sprung primarily from her own mind, her own needs, Grace had left a great deal of the detail to Irene Adler. She had asked for a certain set of scenes and acts and so, although the apparatus was not unexpected it still came as a shock to see it, waiting, waiting for her.
Having shown Grace her near future, Adler turned her to the audience. The room was full of people, many she knew, and many not. All had adopted some kind of fancy dress. There were many Theseuses and many Ariadnes. A minotaur or two. Minoan dress was popular and there were many breasts as bare as hers, as Adler’s. It was a beautiful sight, she thought; all those bosoms in all colours and sizes, all the different shapes and nipples, all the pretty dresses and the maned and combed helmets.
Adler next made Grace bow, bending her at the waist with a hand on her pubis and another on the back of her neck. The touch of rigid fingers on the slope above her muff made Grace growl and try to edge a little forward onto them, but Adler simply slapped her hard, bringing a stinging bloom to her untouched cunt, and a sudden weight to the half-forgotten plug. Bent down before the hungry eyes of the people, she could see that under many tables, hands were at work. Cocks stroked and lips, parted, fingered. It filled her with a fierce glee, a wild musical power. Then Adler drew her away and led her to the pommel horse.
It was, to the untrained eye just a large piece of gym equipment, a little lower perhaps, and narrower than normal, but recognisable. It differed in that the back was hollowed slightly and flared up at either end, and the legs bore rings and cleats that could have no sporting purpose. At one end was a set of low mounting steps and Grace was led to them and up, standing tall on the top tread like a diver about to plunge.
Adler helped her mount the thing and she was soon perched on the very end of it. Her legs spread to either side, hanging, and the raised and rolled lip of the leather was pressing hard against her crux, sending delicious trills of discomfort up her spine and down her thighs. The steel plug hung heavy in her arse.
Adler uncuffed her hands and allowed her to roll her shoulders to ease them. Doing so brought new movement to her perch and she felt her nether lips part and her inner places spread on the leather, wet and slick and grinding. Again Adler slapped her and roughly forced her down, belly down into the hollow, breasts spilling uncomfortably, pressed between her and the horse. Her neck and throat bent upwards, her face raised. Her back and stomach muscles groaned with delicious protest.
Straps, then. Through each ankle ring, each wrist. Straps at thigh and waist and neck, buckled down tight, imprisoned and displayed. A leather cage on the now slick back of a leather horse. Presented. Like a captive, like a meal. She marvelled at the precision of the fit. The slight hollows for her bosom, the shallow groove for throat and the location of the straps, just so. Best of all was the position of her cunt.
At the far end of the bench, it’s rolled hard lip pressed against the base of her mons, just above the apex of her slit. She could feel her clit throbbing with need, the hardness just out of reach, hung between the blunt weighty nose of the plug and the anvil of the horse.
Fixed so tightly to her prison Grace could hardly move at all, and could breathe only shallowly. She could hear her pulse beating against the leather and the breath rasping in her throat as she filled her blood with oxygen for the ordeal to come. In her confinement she could no longer see her audience or Adler, or her Bull-men. In this isolation she could feel herself relaxing, dissociating, drifting on the pulse in her blood and the swirls of deepwater arousal that swelled in her cunt and her tits, all other sensations diminishing like a beach covered by the tide.
Grace was somewhere adrift in her oceanic arousal when something pulled her back, a noise or a light? Something curious, just out of sight. As she came back into herself there was nothing but her pulse, and the hot wire of arousal that hummed in her centre like a tuning fork. It took a beat or two to fix it, the change that she’d felt. It was a wall of silence, a hush, a quiet that seemed to quiver just out of hearing. The anticipation of the audience, their rapt attention.
Then out of the corner of her eye came the bull-man, tall and gleaming and magnificent, mask impassive and musculature sculpted, rippling, each seeming to spiral inward to the great hooked muscle of his shining, spit-glossed cock.
She was both delighted and scared. Yes, she had done that, had made him that hard, that big. But could she take it again? In his walk was such pent-up strength, such power, would he stifle her with cock? Drown her with come? Then, as he came towards her and her world narrowed to his approaching loins, she felt sudden hands on her hips and cried out as she was suddenly entered from behind.
Her mouth gaped in shock as the other bull-man pushed himself in, her cunt twitching around him, her soft tender skin stretching, surely about to tear. It was a riot of texture and sensation, a thing of such richness that colours spilled across her vision and her mind filled with one long musical note, deep, but rising. And as her clit was suddenly pressing hard on the horse and her cunt filled with cock and the plug moved and slid behind the thin wall between her holes, as she gaped wider with pleasure, her long drawn out moan silenced, as her mouth too filled with cock.
He pushed himself into her, using the pressure of the thrusting inside her to ram her onto him. Soon he was everywhere. Hot cock filling her mouth and her throat, his scent filling her nose and her palate, eyes full of choke tears. Through the spilling tears and the spots if light streaking across her vision, she could see him, ridged and powerful, implacable, thrusting and grunting, under the rim of the mask she could see his mouth curled and his teeth biting with effort and lust.
Both men had their hands on her now. Her hips and her buttocks were bruising under strong urgent fingers, her face clamped between palms raspy with callus. She was full, so full. She was a thing of sensation only, almost endless, unable to tell, really, where she ended and her lovers began. Or indeed the horse, or the people. The very air. From a tiny particle of dust circling the chandelier she saw:
A room full of people, many half naked, and some of them completely. Some of them wanking themselves or each other, others fucking, but all pointing inwards like eager hounds at the tableau in front of them. The creature Grace Whitley strapped to a leather bench being brutally fucked by huge, beautiful men in the masks of bulls. Their beautiful cocks slid in and out as she was pinned and pinned again to the bench, her cunt hammered into it by cock and by plug, her mouth spilling, gagging, moaning around the muscle that filled it.
Her body paint had rubbed and she was lying in a froth of rubbed paint and sweat mingled here and their with tears and with spit, with the loops of mucus and liquid that hung from her cunt and her wide open mouth.
The soundtrack was agricultural. Her stifled gurgles and gasps, the grunting and snarling of the two men, the slaps and sucks as they fucked.
Adler, her face a mask as satisfied as a cat, walked among the audience dispensing sweet nothings and whacks as she found appropriate. A few strokes here, a fingering there, a mouthful of bosom, cock, cunt, slowly building them all to their animal pulse, to their imminent release. She was a conductor, a priestess of ecstasy.
But such frantic assault could not be sustained and soon Grace noticed erratic stutters in both her men, a deepening of flavour in her mouth, a thickening, a tightening, and behind he grew suddenly huge and his thrusts became jagged, arhythmic, and faster still.
Then the hands on her face were at the back of her head and her face pressed into the musky hair his cock all the way in and his voice a long painful snarling. She felt the hot jets in her throat and his cock twitched and spasmed as he pulled back. Another jet filled her mouth, salty and hot and then he was out and covering her, face tits and shoulders, hair, covering her with hot come.
With this, the rhythm of cock sliding against buttplug and clit hammering against horse grew more frantic and Grace relaxed into it, let her come splattered head fall and as far as she could pressed herself up onto her remaining lover, letting the wash of arousal take her as it was taking him.
Grace in the end simply exploded. The rise was sudden and overwhelming, her clit ground down on the leather one last time and she was twitching and thrashing and bucking against her straps, head whipping from side to side until she became one rigid curve, straining, and throat pointing at the ceiling, she screamed her orgasm at the stars. She sobbed and she howled as the waves rushed over her, as her lover filled her with come, so much come that it spilled out of her, frothing, and ran down her legs.
For an age Grace no longer knew anything, was just an animal thing, dazed and lying in the mingled filth of the pommel horse, with come drying on her skin and in her hair. Slowly she became aware. Of gentle fingers unstrapping, of soft touches everywhere. Of Adler undoing her bonds and ever so gently getting her to her feet and leading her out of the room. She stopped for a moment, looking back at the bacchanal.
The centre of the room was a heaving mass of people, their backs and limbs and faces all melded together and moving with a rippling harmony and producing an orchestra of notices, from the high lonely notes of a gull to the guttural grunts of a jungle cat.
Adler took Grace by the hand.
‘Come now, pretty. They’ve no need of you anymore. Let’s get you out of those wet things’
And clad in the sordid, stained and sticky armour, and smeared in a mixture of white body paint, rouge, come, and spit, Grace followed her leader into the summoning dark.