Fantaisie Inquiétante

He woke slowly, pulled from sleep by the tug on his wrists, arms stretched out unnaturally, lashes catching against something as he tried to open his eyes. The material on his face was stretchy, following the contour of nose and brow. Darkness was all he could make out.

Something held his wrists, soft yet strong. And his ankles, he realised a second later, his body twisting restlessly against the bindings. A flush of heat rose through him as he felt the faintest of airs, warm and barely moving, slip across his skin, tremble against the fine hairs on his legs, over his chest and around his cock.

Naked.

Bound.

Blindfolded.

Breathe, he told himself, closing his eyes and forcing himself to calm, stretching out his other senses. Under his back, under his shoulders and ass and legs, a silky fabric hissed very softly with his movements, warm with his body heat where he lay. The image that popped into his head was clear ... disturbing, but clear ... and he turned his hands slightly, feeling for the edges of the bed, edges he should be able to reach. Against the tips of outstretched fingers, there was just the smooth plain of silken fabric.

No edges.

Not his bed.

The thought held him captive for a few moments, because he was sure, pretty damned sure, that he'd gone to sleep on the mushroom-coloured Egyptian cotton sheets of his queen-sized bed a few hours ago, alone, as usual, listening to the distant and vaguely hostile sounds of his wife getting ready for bed in the guest room along the hall.

He pulled in another deep breath. The air was not, he recognised belatedly, the cool, edging-on-crisp, beginning-of-fall air that should've filled his bedroom, the window on the eastern side of the room left half-open all night long. Warm and caressing, it smelled primarily of some sweet blossom, underlaid by other scents that he couldn't identify readily. It felt thick in his throat and heavy over his bare skin.

It took a little longer to register that he wasn't alone.

The soft sighs and rustles, not close, but not all that far, that he'd thought were some kind of fabric, maybe a curtain somewhere, were a little louder, resolving into inhales and exhales, slurring whispers of cloth sliding free of fastenings, slipping over skin and puddling in gentle, final sighs on a harder surface. He strained against the blindfold, turning his head from side to side as he realised he could hear those sounds, those evocative, delicate sounds, from all sides. Surrounding him. Not alone, and there were more than one ... or two ... or three, he thought.

A frisson of panic snaked down his spine, lifting the hairs on the back of his neck, over his thighs. Not panic, he told himself, not yet.

The first touch, when it came, made him jump, muscles contracting over abdomen and chest, up his back and down his legs. Light as a cobweb, something slid along the side of his neck, ignoring the snap of his head in its direction, trailing over his left collarbone. On the other side, he felt a warm exhale, and another touch, equally light, tantalising, on the point of his shoulder, his skin twitching as it slipped over his chest, tangling momentarily in the hair, brushing feather light over his nipple. Then there were more, many more ... on his toes, along the sides of his knees, barely there, bringing his skin up in gooseflesh as his nervous system registered them, tried to keep track of them all. He couldn't see, couldn't anticipate them and he jerked a little with each fresh touch, his muscles fluttering and stammering, a vague pain in the bones of his wrists and ankles as he pulled against the soft bonds holding him in place.

The music made him start again, horns in deep chords, ominous and martial, filling the room from every corner, his perceptions too acute to do anything other than tremble at them. By the time the violins repeated the phrase, less than a second later, he was inundated by another sensation, as grazing fingertips were followed by the soft press of lips and the silky moist touch of tongue. When the flutes began, and some part of his mind finally recognised the piece, it's importance had receded, lost under the feel of a tongue, curling around the lobe of his ear, sending deep shivers down his neck and into his chest; under another, lapping along the inside of his thigh, stroking him in soft heat, the warm suction of a mouth over the inside of his elbow, of nibbling strokes moving downward against his sides, teeth grazing over his skin, cascading waves of pleasure becoming more and more concentrated, his cock throbbing with the blood that was filling it, stretching it ... touches everywhere, over his chest, along his arms, around his ankles, and the unmistakable glide of soft skin over him, a heated curve, the brittle scrape of nails following the pathways of his nerves.

He was being eaten, he thought blurrily, slowly, delicately eaten, lips too easily recognisable now, consuming every part of his body, except for one.

He registered the exclusion at the same time as it drew close to being painful, his balls swollen and straining his sac and his cock agonisingly aching and twitching, untended, untouched, amidst the conflagration that filled all the nerve centres surrounding it. The sweet notes of Korsakov's violin mocked the desperate yearning ache he could feel, filling his groin and not one finger or tongue or mouth touched the place he needed to be touched, though he could feel their hair, long and fine, falling and sliding and swirling around him, the fleeting brush of each strand sucking the air from his lungs as he tried to hold onto it, tried to make it last longer, straining upwards as they slithered over his skin and away.

The music quickened and the mouths and hands on him plucked and lapped and explored him more hungrily, dragging responses from parts of his body he'd never thought of as erotic, or maybe it was the culmination of them, he didn't know, couldn't care. His legs were lifted, and he arched up, involuntarily, helplessly, as a tongue slid up the crack of his ass, a satiny fall of hair spilled over his balls, fingers following the tongue's path and stroking him lightly, spreading his cheeks, exhales heated against his skin, as tangible as touch.

It was minutes or hours or days before he realised there were less touches, less caresses along his body, and he tensed against the soft cords holding him down, head turning from one side to another.

"No ..."

Had that breathy whisper come from him? He cleared his throat, body straining as he felt the slight dip and rise of the mattress. Another leaving him, leaving him when he needed them ... needed.

"Fuck, no ... please," he said, uncaring that he was begging, pleading. "Don't - don't stop!"

There was a sigh beside his ear, then lips pressed over his, and the tip of a tongue, tickling teasingly over his lower lip, pushing into his mouth. A flood of heat at that intrusion made his hips jerk upwards again, and he moaned into the mouth covering his, kissing back desperately, feeling the lips curving into a smile, soft hands holding the sides of his face, then sliding away, the tongue withdrawn, teeth gently nibbling on his lip then gone.

"Shsshhhh ... this is a long way from being over."

The voice was female, very low, husky and unknown. He swallowed at the feel of breath over his ear, his nostrils filled with a perfume that was slightly spicy, foreign, conjuring an image of desert and dunes in his mind's eye, and gone. He sucked in another breath as the mattress under him dipped deeper.

The scent that came with the dip brought the image of a basketball inexplicably to his mind's eye, then memory and recognition kicked in together. The locker room at his local gym, the showers and the steam and the smells of fresh male sweat, tangy and salty and musky. He sucked in a deep breath as a hand, much larger than the others, closed around the base of his throbbing shaft, sending a high-voltage pulse straight to the head.

"Wait a min-"

"Shshhhh."

Fingers clamped around him, and he arched up, pushing into them, his eyes screwed shut beneath the fabric covering them, his mouth open and his breath rasping.

"Not yet," the voice, unquestioningly male, said. There was a small popping noise then something warm and liquid dripped over him, running down the length of his shaft, the hand at the base of his cock sliding up to meet it.

Dizziness swamped him at the feel of that hand, blood rushing down his body, pumped away from his brain to the centre of his being. He felt something cooler, harder, slip down his length and tighten around the base, and he pushed again against the fingers holding him. They let go, drawing a moan, his cock suddenly cool where they'd been. There was something still constricting him. Then a fingertip slid around the rim of the head and a shudder, bone deep, ran through him at the feel, sensation tightly concentrated there, painfully, tormentingly pleasurable.

"Breathe," the male voice advised him. "Gonna make this last a long time."

Another shudder rippled through muscle and sinew as the fingertip circled his head again, sliding over the tip and down the slit. His balls were going to explode, he thought incoherently, an image of them, full and stretching the skin out tautly, purpling under the enormous pressure, filling his mind's eye.

More liquid warmth and hands around his thighs, pulling his legs up and back, knees crooked and the muscles in the backs of his thighs stretched out. He was completely exposed, a fragile, faint zephyr of air cooling the heated skin as he was lifted from the sheet, making him gasp, the tail end a rumbling groan somewhere deep in his chest.

A finger trailed up and down between his cheeks, circling his hole lightly and moving away, each circle coming closer and the anticipation of being touched there, felt there, sending jittering, random catherine wheels of torturous sensation from his ass straight to his cock.

Senior year. Drunk. Stephen, his one openly gay friend, sprawled out across the floor.

"You're a religious guy, aren't you, Max?"

Stephen had asked one of the guys who was propped against an armchair. "Believe in God, sin, forgiveness ...?"

"Yeah," Max had slurred, hardly aware of what he was answering.

"Then why'd God put so many nerve centres in a guy's ass - and a woman's as well - if it wasn't meant to feel good to be fingered and fucked there?"

He'd blinked then. Biology had been his minor and he recalled vaguely the voice of his professor intoning the lecture. Nerves were positioned around the body for one purpose - to provide data for the brain. Stephen might've had something, he'd thought drowsily.

The memory came and went in an nanosecond as he sucked in a sharp breath, rills of pleasure at the feel of that finger, sliding up and down his crack, stretching his cheeks apart and promising ... something ... something he wanted.

Every sensation, every breath, was gathering in the head of his cock, unrelieved, building like a thunderstorm, until he was shaking uncontrollably, unable to hold himself still.

The broad fingertip was at his asshole, pushing a little at him and he moaned.

"Give it up for me, baby," the male voice crooned, pushing a little harder, slick and insistent against him. "I'm gonna make you feel so good, so very, very good, but you gotta let me in."

"I c-c-can't," he managed to get out, wanting that finger inside, unable to relax. "C-can't ..."

"Yes, you can," the voice dropped a little, moving closer. "Yeah, man, you can, take a deep breath."

He tried, feeling the muscles relax fractionally, the thunder inside of him calming for an instant.

"Oh, that's good," the man said approvingly and the tip of the finger slid into him, flexing a little. He clamped down around it involuntarily, hearing the man's faint chuckle.

"Too late now, baby."

Deeper it pushed, curving this way and that, lighting him up, no matter how hard he squeezed. He felt the brush of it against the small protrusion in his passage and arched up, his cock adding another, hithero unexperienced level of hardness to its existing stone-like state and the sensation hitting him exactly between head and balls like a freight train, shooting unbearably up to the head as the finger circled again.

"Uh - g-god - please - fuck - agh." Sounds came from him and he had no idea of what he meant.

"Oh, man, I know how much you need to come," the man torturing him said, his voice surreally compassionate. "I do, man, I feel it, but I can't. Orders are orders."

The words were as meaningless to him as the ones thrashing inside his throat and he arched up again, blood turning to molten steel, filling him with heat and a pleasure so acute and intense he couldn't tell if it wasn't pain.

Tears were forming at the corners of his eyes and he couldn't breathe, couldn't get his chest to rise and fall. Far in the distance, the music played, the symphony still going or looping again, he couldn't tell. Closer, inside, his blood was thundering against his ears, pounding against the base of his throat, throbbing excruciatingly in his cock and he shook his head wildly as he felt the finger withdraw, slipping out incrementally and leaving him in a limbo of unendurable need.

"Noooo..."

He froze a second later as the finger entered him again, with the additional pressure of a second fingertip pushing in beside it. It felt too much, and he tensed.

The feel of a mouth, mobile lips catching his and sucking the lower one in, wiped everything else from his mind and shattered the little control he had over his body. The mouth was firmer than a woman's, he noted in confusion, but the lips were just as soft, the sensations just as powerful.

The second finger slid in alongside the first and thrust into him hard, and his mouth opened, a tongue sliding in. Christ, I'm tongue-kissing a man. The thought was disorienting, hopelessly tangled in the sensations against his lips, a second deep thrust of fingers in his ass, his cock jumping on its own, jerking between the barrages of sensation at either end of his body.

"Oh, my god, look at him take it."

"That is so hot."

"Can't I just ride him, a little, now?" one voice, plaintively wistful, said. "I won't let him come."

The voices were soft, and so remote. It took him several minutes to realise that he and the man finger fucking him and ravaging his mouth weren't alone, that there was an audience, of unknown number, that the voices he could hear were all female; breathless, intoxicated, avid.

The fingers pulled out and he groaned in disappointment, hips rutting hard against nothing and his frustration crushing him.

"Put it in."

There was another moment of warmth, fingertips spreading some soft, heated liquid against his hole, then something smooth and cylindrical slid into him, pushed deeper, not flesh, artificial, and it nestled against the fiery silken skin inside him, invasive but welcomed, making him squirm.

There was a second of silence, in the room, in his mind, in the world, and he heard a deep sigh from somewhere near, beyond that the soothing strains of violin and oboe, then he felt a tingle in his passage.

Oh god, no. Not a vibrator. Not there.

The tingle increased to a gentle buzz and the device moved a little, touching the gland.

He cried out, his cock giving a single pulse against the constriction, a coruscation that zipped up his shaft and supernovaed in the head of his cock. The buzz vanished, and he sucked in a breath, chest heaving, feeling the film of perspiration that sheened his body from head to foot as sensations bled slowly away, moving like waves on a beach, in a little, then out, then back in.

"You can't leave him like that for too long," the male voice said, very softly, somewhere to his left.

The deep female voice answered, a hint of laughter behind the words. "No, not too long. Don't worry."

The buzz returned, and he thrashed against the ties restraining him, his pelvis jerking hard until the stimulation ceased and all he could feel was what he thought dying might be like ... his entire body juiced and wired and everything feeding back in an unbroken loop to his cock.

"If you overload his nervous system, he's gonna pass out," the male voice said, just a hint of worry in it. "You know that, right? You'll have to let him sleep it off and start from scratch again."

The amusement in the woman's voice deepened. "I'm aware."

He could barely hear them. Could barely feel the soft silk cords at his wrists and looped now under his knees. The only thing that existed in his world was his cock, throbbing raggedly with the desperate need to come, phantom touches making him tremble every few seconds and the gentle oscillations of the bullet, inside of him, caressing and swamping him in waves of diffused pleasure that had no beginning and no ending, a warm and endless ocean of feeling, filling him to overflowing, leaking from his eyes and his fingertips and the soles of his feet.

Somewhere else, time might still have existed. His job. His wife. His house. Not here. Nothing existed here but the rush and sigh of pleasure. Urgency still lurked, somewhere on the edges, but it was gone from the centre, and he felt as if he could float here for days, lost and not wanting to be found.

It changed, from moment to moment, he thought dizzily, or hour to hour, who knew? Softness would surround the head, hot and moist, sucking hard on him and he'd feel the bed shake with the force of his reactions. It would disappear, only to be replaced but a smooth stroking, up the length of him, fingertips circling on his flesh, playing with him, his balls licked and sucked, a hot, wet tongue pushing into his ass. Then they would disappear too, leaving his nerves thrumming, his mouth dry, his hands clutching at nothing.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The light was very bright as the cloth was pulled his eyes and he blinked rapidly, unable to take in his surroundings. Gradually, focus returned and he saw the gentle sway of diaphanous curtains, sheer jewel-coloured fabrics billowing softly, surrounding the bed, draped artlessly from the ceiling.

Then he saw them ... women ... naked and lush, their skin lit and flushed with the coloured hues of the light coming through the curtains, with their own pleasure. Nipples were hard and mutely begging him to taste them as they rubbed their hands over them, pulling and twisting, and licked and sucked at one another's. Breasts full and swollen with arousal, small and large, pendulous and firm, pert and shaking, bouncing, quivering.

He turned his head, and looked between his legs, trying to ignore the swollen and dark-red centre of his universe, to watch a delicately-boned black woman at the end of the bed licking the deeply pink vulva of the redhead lying under her, seeing her fingers slip inside, thrusting harder as the woman thrust back and moaned her pleasure.

To his left, a big-breasted blonde was crouched on a chair, her head thrown back, exposing the long curve of her throat. Her fingers, slick and gleaming with her own juices, pulled and circled her clit, her breasts swaying from side to side as her hips ground against her hand. Turning his head to the right, he felt a deep-seated jolt arc from ass to cock at the two women beside him, a slender brunette bent over the nightstand, her face, half-hidden behind long, glossy mahogany strands of hair, screwed up in pleasure, one hand jerking between her legs, as behind her, a tall, lean woman with almost no breasts and a taut, sweat-sheened ass pumped herself and the brunette with a double-headed dildo, the black latex sliding in and out of the brunette's ass with an increasing urgency.

He couldn't take much more of this, he thought with a rasping, trembling moan that made his lips hum. The mattress dipped and cool liquid splashed on his face, dragging his attention away from the women, his cracked lips softening as he licked the water droplets off them.