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There is a large house overlooking the ocean. It stands alone on a high dune covered with sea grass. There are many balconies and windows mounted in the dark wood of the outside walls. There is a large picture window in the front of the house, and through the glass, one can see a single figure, standing still and alone. It is a woman. Her name is Passion.

She stands by the large open window from her high vantage point, looking out over the shimmering moonlight illuminating the ocean.

She is dressed in the thinnest silken lace imaginable, it is unclear whether it is a nightgown or a dress, for it is too thin to be a dress, and it is cut rather unlike that of a nightgown. More likely that it is a dress for wearing inside in intimate situations. A glass of white wine is in her hand. Her arms are crossed in front of her chest and she is rubbing the wineglass slowly across her face and neck. She faces the ocean, she faces the sea, and she feels as if the sea is looking back at her, like she is under the gaze of all of the creatures of the ocean as one. It is as if all of the eyes of all of the sea birds, all of the fishes, all of the dolphins, all of the seals can see her at this moment in time.

She is an exhibitionist for this kind of gazing. Her nipples are visible through the thin material of her garment. Her breasts are ample and firm, well-shaped, and her nipples are just the least bit erect, as she thinks about her lover. Her hair is long and dark, flowing almost to her waist. There are two braids holding her hair back from her face. Her neck is long and graceful, it’s lines flow into a beautiful throat.

A long thin chain is around her neck, hanging almost to her waist with a finger ring on the end and thin leather straps are around her wrists. Leather straps are also around her ankles. She waits for her lover, her master.

There are no lights on in the room, it is lit only by the bright moon of the night sky and the reflection of that moon off the water.

It is time, she knows, for the duty that she must perform for her master for the day before he arrives. He has ordered her to do this to bring her into the proper mood. She must be in the proper mood for him when he arrives.

Not moving from the window, she opens the front of her dress and looks down at the sculpture he purchased for her. It is of a man, a most unusual man. Not only is the form of the man life-size, but the man has two penises, long and smooth and close together. There is a knowing smile on the statue’s face, and the face is that of a woodland fairy, like Puck from ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream.’

She has always trembled when aroused, but this is sweet torture for her. Her duty is the impale herself upon the statue at least once a hour for the day, but not to completion. She is to stop unsatisfied, always.

She takes lubricant in her hand and rubs it on one of the phalli, the lower one, only the lower one, for the other does not need it. She has enough wetness there. It is one of the things her master likes about her, he has mentioned it many times, the fact when she is excited, when her center swells and blooms with passion, she becomes wet, she becomes very wet. Very, very wet. If he makes her wait long enough, through the binding, through the application of chains and clamps to her erect nipples and through the rubbing of an erect phallus all over her face without letting her lick, suck, or even touch it, she will become so wet the sweet honey will drip out of her, flowing hot, wet and pungent, a sweet smell like honeysuckle in the night air.

She steps up to the phalli of the statue, looks into his eyes, and lowers herself onto the cool metal. The twins slide into her, and she closes her eyes at the feel of them filling her everywhere, sliding into her, the slick penetration, the depth, the hardness. One of the phalli is hinged at the bottom, so she can move and rock on it, making herself wet. And so she does, rocking back and forth, her passion rising within her, faster then slower, varying the pace, drawing it out. She sits down fully on the statue, her hands lightly resting on the smooth, cool metal shoulders. She feels the metal warming and rolls her hips forward and back, her passion rising strong and quickly. She slows down to let herself cool down just a little, letting some time pass, but it is too late, the strong muscles of her passion are gripping the twins down hard, gripping and clamping, knotting in the beginnings of orgasm she knows she is not allowed to happen. It is too late to slow, and she heaves herself off the metal figure and throws herself kneeling onto the padded leather window seat, her chest damp with perspiration, nipples erect, her breasts heaving and quivering with every breath. Her hands grasp the inside of her thighs, roughly, to try and control the gripping knot is within her, begging for release. The eyes and the knowing smile of the statue seem to know the torture she is going through, as if the smile were saying, “I can release you, I can stay in you until you are released a thousand times but I won’t, and neither will you, because you are your master’s slave.” She knows it is true. Her release will be meaningless without her master, without the touch of the man who has bound her mind, and through that, her body and soul. With him she has known the sweet torture of bondage and discipline, and the absolute ecstasy of the contrast of sweet release after.

Her breathing finally returned to almost normal when she heard the door to the master’s suite down the open stairway. She heard voices, one low and melodic, her master’s and another, feminine, but low and smooth. She listened closely. They had apparently been there some time and were discussing her.

“I think you really will like her, she is so sweet and responds to the smallest caresses and suggestions very well.” Her master talking.

“I do hope so. It has been a long time since I’ve had a woman who excited me. They all seem so plain nowadays. Either that or they are so silly.” There was the clink of ice smoothed and swirled by liquid. “Thank you. Valley girls do not interest me in the least, no matter how nice their bodies are.” Her voice, though low, was well modulated and even. The tone spoke volumes of experience. This was a woman, a woman who was real.

“I’ll call her.” Her master.

“Yes, I think it may well be time.” The woman’s voice caused ripples in her stomach.

“I think that she may well have been listening.” Her master.

“I do hope so. It would be a perfect transgression to punish. For a start.” The woman gave a low laugh that climbed upwards and took Passion’s breath up with it, into the clouds of her soul and suddenly she felt the light leather of her everyday cuffs on her wrists very acutely.

Her master stepped over to the wall and pulled a bell cord. Not the red one for the butler, the black one, for her. It was for her alone.

Her breath caught in her throat. She slowly stepped down the stairs into the dim light of the lamps. She caught her master’s eyes and then looked down, as she had been trained never to look up unless instructed. As she walked forward, she could see a woman’s figure, full and voluptuous, dressed in a flowing black dress, black stockings and high heels. As she had been taught to do in the presence of her master, she stopped, crossed her arms behind her back, bowed her head, and waited for command.

As she watched the floor, she saw the swirling skirts of the woman walk over to her and a slender hand with thin band rings around the last two of long fingers touched her stomach. Her skin quivered at the touch.

“Mmmm. Is she always this ready?” The woman’s voice had a smile in it.

“Nearly always.” Her master’s voice was lilting, he was enjoying himself immensely. “You really should feel the rest of her, judging from the condition of her nipples. She should be quite wet.” Her master was right. Her nipples were full and hard, exposed to the air, feeling the lightest breeze as the woman moved past her.


She felt the woman’s lips against her ear. “And what is your name, my sweet?”

As she spoke, her voice felt small and hollow in the quiet air. “Passion.”

The woman stood to one side of her, and reaching around her with both arms, grasped Passion’s shoulder with one hand and her breast with the other, hard, squeezed Passion’s upper arm in between her breasts. The woman’s breasts were incredibly full, Passion could feel the firm softness pressing, sandwiching her arm. A quick, breathy “Oh.” escaped Passion’s lips. The woman backed away, leaving Passion tingling and cool where the woman’s heat had warmed her. She didn’t know how her ragged breath was making it’s way past her thumping heart, but kept her eyes upon the Persian carpet on the floor.

The woman walked back up to her and stood directly in front of Passion. “Look at me.” the woman’s smooth voice commanded. Passion did so, looking at the woman’s strong face framed with softly gleaming red hair, and into large blue eyes, deep and calm. There was a heavy leather collar around her throat, light chains draping from bronze rings on the collar down to heavy leather manacles about her wrists. Passion’s vision was thus filled with the woman’s body, and she watched entranced as the woman’s slender hand lifted up to her own breast and opened her blouse, slowly, button by button, showing Passion she wore a black corset underneath her black silk blouse. She opened Passion’s blouse, slowly drawing the thin material over her erect nipple and then cupped her breast so softly it was almost as if she caressed the skin with air. Passion’s breath was becoming very tense and shallow, the flow between her legs beginning. It was an effort holding herself still. The woman in black laughed, low and rippling, soft and warm.

“Your master tells me your name is suitable to your enthusiasm. Is that true?”

Passion nodded slightly, her eyes closed tight. The woman spoke again.

“My name is Larraine, and when I’m finished tonight, you will call me Mistress.” Passion slowly opened her eyes and looked to her master. He was leaning back against the bookcase with a glass of wine in his hand, smiling at them both. Larraine was talking again. “You are not losing him, little one, for you will see, your master is mine as well.”

Larraine’s hand came up to Passion’s chin and lifted it up so Passion could look into her eyes. Larraine’s eyes were large and blue, limpid pools a strong man could get lost in. Passion’s mouth fell open, and Larraine covered it with her own, grasping her about the neck with one hand pulling her close, and grasped her breast with the other, digging her nails into Passions tender skin, both of them quickly inhaling breath. Larraine’s tongue searched and caressed, melting Passion from within and then released her abruptly.

Passion opened her eyes. She saw her master leaning against the fireplace mantle in his black silk dressing gown, watching every move she and Larraine made. Larraine stood directly in front of her, feet apart and hands on hips

“Where are your real bonds, little one?” Passion nodded toward the large oaken cabinet in the corner of the room. “Go and get the heavy leather bracelets the master has told me about, and return here.” Passion nodded and did as she was bid.

When she returned Larraine was kneeling before her master, his thick erect heat in her mouth. Larraine slowly turned to look at Passion directly in the eyes, never taking her mouth from the thick member, slowly stroking it into her mouth.

Passion’s hands gripped her bonds tightly, her mouth sagged open, tears almost coming to her eyes as she witnessed this. It was something she had never seen, her master being serviced by another, they had always been alone. The sight of it made her knees weak, and she was suddenly aware of a single drop of the wetness of her center slowly dripping down her inner thigh.

Larraine gestured to her to approach, and she did on trembling legs. She motioned for Passion to kneel beside her. When she did so, Larraine stood up, turned around, and right in front of Passion’s face, guided her master’s cock into her from behind. Passion could not take her eyes from it, the sight of the rigid cock sliding in and out of the woman’s center, slick with juice, quiet slurping sounds echoing in her ears. Larraine then stood up, then kneeling beside her master, and gripping her masters cock tightly at the base and grasping Passion’s hair, pulled her over toward it. It was purple, so swollen, so hard. Responding to the pressure of Larraine’s guiding hand, Passion opened her mouth and sucked it in, tasting Larraine’s fluids and her master’s juices at the same time. Larraine’s taste was heady and sweet, so sweet, her master’s juice so strong and familiar. It was intoxicating.

As Passion kneeled there with her masters cock in her mouth, Larraine slowly undressed her, peeling her blouse from her shoulders and, with surprising strength, ripped her skirt from around her, tearing the thin satin cloth in her bare hands. She then took Passion’s hands, bound them behind her back and to a wide leather belt she put around Passion’s waist. Larraine then reached into her bag and brought out a small plug dildo with chains attached. She squeezed lubricant on it and inserted it into Passion’s small hole, working it slowly in and out, until it was in her to the hilt. She then took the chains and fastened them to the belt around Passion’s waist. Passion felt a lighter than air touch across her shoulders and breasts. It was the familiar touch of silk streaming across her. The cool, light touch contrasted erotically with the heavy hot taste of her master’s cock, of Larraine, throbbing in her mouth to the back of her throat. The cool, light touch crossed her eyes and quickly became a blindfold. She could now only feel, taste, and hear.

Passion could now hardly breathe. Her master’s cock was huge in her mouth, and the dildo in her ass reminded her of earlier in the afternoon when she had performed her master’s bidding of working herself to the brink without coming. Then she felt the paddle.

It was small and light, just enough to make a sting without bruising. It hit her ass again and again with small cracks, warming her ass, she could feel the heat on her ass begin. As her eyes were closed and blindfolded, she assumed Larraine was doing it, but then she heard another crack and did not feel it on herself. She heard a low moan, and she knew Larraine had felt the sting of her master’s hand. Another crack, another moan, and Passion now felt Larraine’s hands on her, kneading her heavy breasts, stroking her cunt along the lips, and she felt Larraine’s hair across her shoulders, Larraine’s soft heavy breasts rubbing on her back, the nipples hard and dragging across her soft skin, sticking slightly with sweat just beginning to glow from their bodies.

There was a low table in the room, narrow, the edges of which were padded leather. Passion and her master had used it many times for many different games. Larraine removed the blindfold, raised her to her feet, pulling her mouth from her master’s cock and led her over to the table. She made Passion kneel on one side of the table, made her spread her legs and lean against it, her hands pushing against the smooth wood, the padded rail pushing against her hips.

Her master pressed two sets of nipple clamps connected by chains into Larraine’s hands and led Larraine to kneel at the table opposite Passion. He spread Larraine’s legs wide. The two women were close enough across the table for their nipples to touch, but her master held Larraine back, pulling back on her luxurious red hair.

Passion watched Larraine’s slender hands reach out to her and take her breasts, nails dragging across the sensitive skin. Then Passion felt the bite of the clamps on her swollen nipples, one clamp from each of the sets biting into her skin. An involuntary gasp took her breath away for a moment, she was riding the edge of passion and pain, climbing both sides of the mountain at once.

Then she looked up and saw it. The look in Larraine’s blue eyes, the certain slackness in her jaw, and finally she looked down and saw Larraine’s nipples, large, swollen, and erect. She watched Larraine’s stomach. It was quivering, trembling as was the rest of her.

Larraine’s hands dropped the chains clamped to Passion’s nipples and pressed down against the table, her fingers splayed and gripping the leather surface. Her master came up behind Larraine, reached around her. Slowly, so slow as only her master could, he grasped Larraine’s nipples and squeezed them, first gently, then harder, then harder still until a small gasp ‘ohh’ escaped Larraine’s mouth. Passion’s gazed was riveted on Larraine, she had never seen so close a woman aroused. And Larraine was. Passion could hear her breath, quick and shallow. Her master’s hand reached out and grasped the chains clamped to Passion’s nipples, pulled on them, stretching Passion’s nipples, then grasping Larraine’s nipples, slowly screwed the clamps down onto her. Their nipples were now clamped, chained together, and Passion could see Larraine’s lips begin to tremble.

Larraine’s hands slowly, ever so, reached out and grasped the back of Passion’s neck. She first pushed Passion away from her, pulling the chain between their nipples tight, causing the smoldering embers between their legs to burst into flame, the cunt honey dripping down their legs. Larraine then pulled Passion’s lips close to hers and held there, not letting their lips touch. She could feel Larraine’s breath, coming quick, could smell her perfume. Her master came up behind Larraine grasping his cock in his hand. The head was huge and purple, throbbing. He put one hand on Larraine’s ass and guided himself to her gate. He paused there, gazing deeply into Passion’s eyes, holding the three of them in one frozen, magic, passionate, trembling moment. Then he ground his cock into Larraine’s sweetness.

As he pushed into her, he pushed Larraine’s mouth onto Passion’s and Passion felt the incredibly soft wetness of Larraine’s mouth and the low vibration of her moans through her mouth at the same time. It was almost too much.

And it quickly became so, too much. Larraine shoved the table out from between them, and grabbing Passion’s cunt in one hand and her ass the other, began stoking her now sopping slit and spanking her bottom. Passion could see just enough to see her master reaching around with one hand and stroking Larraine in just the same fashion.

Then suddenly Larraine’s body was against hers, the chains grinding in between as their breasts pushed together. Passion could feel her masters hand moving against Larraine and Larraine’s hand moving against her and her master’s arm around them both pressing them together and then Larraine’s body convulsed, sparking her own convulsion, catapulting her to the peak to float for a time amongst the clouds.

There was a long time of stillness after that. No words, no thoughts, they simply were. It was as if they were in a painting someone had commissioned for the event and had become part of it. A painting one would look at and wish they were part of the scene. They were the painting and the scene, and were glad to be there.

From then on, they were never to be apart.

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