For Daniella all was darkness. The sleep mask he had slipped over her eyes encased her in velvet black. Every other sense was heightened. She heard the soft whirr of the fan and the rustle of his clothing, as perhaps he crossed his legs or shifted in his seat. She smelled the honeysuckle through the open window and the sharp tang of cologne whenever he drew close. She felt the prickling of cooling sweat on her exposed skin every time the fanned air brushed her. And she felt the tautness of the knotted bonds around her wrists and ankles. Hell, she almost felt his eyes on her. They were patrolling her body for sure, calm and alert, enjoying her, consuming her.



But chiefly she felt the soft, insistent buzz between her legs, the sensation over which he had complete control. He had plucked her panty crotch aside to insert the slim vibrator lovingly inside her, and those panties, the only garment he had left her wearing, held it firmly in place as it burred and fizzed. Currents of delicious, maddening sensation emanated from her gently moving loins to all quarters of her body, pricking her nipples, electrifying her spine so she writhed, her sweat-soaked back and bottom slipping against the smooth varnish of the chair. The buzzing increased, sensation building, her pussy clutching the vibrating pencil within, drenching her panties and thighs with a steady flow of responsive juice. Her head tilted against the back of the chair, her breathing ragged, as the tension in her body curved upwards into an exponential spike.



And then it stopped. The buzzing within her ceased utterly. Her body stiffened for a moment, before she crumpled into torpor, her satisfaction cruelly denied her. How many times was that, four, five, he had brought her to the precipitous brink of screaming, flailing orgasm, only to flick the switch on his remote and cut off the throbbing supply? Her head drooped and she hung there panting, hands working fruitlessly against the tough, nylon bindings - not to effect an escape, just to liberate her fingers so she could finish off manually what the vibrator had failed to achieve. Her pussy spasmed gently, aching and unrelieved. How could he know? How could he read her that minutely, bring her that close and no more?



Please, please... The word was at her lips, but she dared not speak it. After frustration times two she had pleaded openly and he had calmly threatened to gag her and leave the room indefinitely, vibrator resolutely non-active. 'I'll leave you there till you pee yourself, darling,' he had told her gently, stroking her hair, 'and I really don't want to have to mop up after you.' Bastard. Bastard.



The only hope was to be silent and patient. To sit there sweating on the hottest damn day of the summer, cunt-juice and perspiration pooling about her thighs in the concave seat. Serving as his visual entertainment, as he sat across from her in his own chair. The fan next to him, while she stewed in the heat. 'I've got a few calls to make and some stuff to check on the laptop,' he had told her, having deftly secured her hands to the back of the chair. 'It's tedious stuff, you'll be something nice to look at.'



And calls he had made, sitting across the living-room from her, doing bloody business. Dressed to impress in the heat of an August day for God's sake, like it mattered - since he'd obviously wanted her blindfolded from the off. Occasionally he'd rise to strut about her chair, so close that the silk of his shirt brushed against her, then he'd return to his seat. Chatting to business contacts all the while and sipping audibly from a glass - his sophisticated choice of drink seemed now a galling affectation - while his other hand played her body with the pressure of one finger. Toying, sexy bastard. Right now he was making her hate how much she wanted him.



Eric set his glass of pinot grigio next to his laptop and observed his captive. She was an exquisite sight with her petite form hanging forward limply in the chair, more so when her body was a taut bow-string of sexual tension. Which it was, of course, each time he chose to move the vibrator up to its higher settings. The bangs of her dark hair hung in dampened fronds about her forehead. Her jaw was a touch slack; he liked it better when her even, white teeth gnawed at her lower lip as her arousal grew, but he could wait for that. The fresh, natural glow of her pale skin was enhanced by the moisture that had beaded at her every pore. There she sat, his pretty little puppet, whose strings he could pull by a single switch-flick, hoisting her up into a straining full-body rictus of erotic longing. How choice to play with her, to draw her closer, ever closer to her fulfilment and then each time to thwart her. Sweet baby. Sweet, hot little rich girl. Making her body yearn, forcing her to bite down her desire every time she went to plead for release. Making her need him, making her crave his touch. Pretty, helpless Daniella.



A surge of anger fuelled his quiet lust and he picked up the remote, flicked it idly, watched as she jolted back into life. A stifled moan escaped her throat, before her teeth bit into that plump lower lip. Her smooth drumlin breasts thrust outwards, large, dark-pink nipples poking provocatively into space. And her hips began to shunt in little rotations on her seat, striving to supplement the work of her teasing, battery-powered tormentor, to push her to that yearned-for conclusion. Eric's enlarging cock slid pleasingly against the silk of his boxers, as he enjoyed the show.



His Bluetooth buzzed in his ear - the expected return call, he thought - and he answered without breaking his gaze. But it wasn't who he'd been hoping for. 'Quentin - glad you called. Been wondering if you'd finished proofing the Gaunt novel. Deadline's tomorrow, you hadn't forgotten... Yes, well if you can email confirmation to me by the end of the day that would be good.'



Daniella emitted a yelp, loud enough to be heard down a phone-line, as Eric upped the setting. 'Ah, you've caught me enjoying some adult entertainment,' he explained to his business associate. 'Classy, but highly pornographic. I'm sure you'd like it.' He smiled, as Daniella's sweat-slick young ass continued to slither about the polished surface of the chair. 'Very stimulating. What? No, I'm not. I'm using my laptop and it needs both hands. Merely a background distraction. How're things going with you?' He small-talked a while, spinning the remote idly in his fingers as he chatted.



'Okay, I'll look out for that proofed copy,' he said eventually. 'What's that? Oh trust me, I'm enjoying. Later.'



The call terminated and Eric focused all his attention on bringing his toy to the verge of an ass-juddering crescendo, before cruelly pulling her back. 'Ah, Daniella,' he said softly, as she lolled defeated in her chair, 'my afternoon delight.' How I'm going to make you pay, he added internally, and as he set down the control and picked up the glass, as he rose from his seat and strolled towards her, it almost felt to him that the crime were hers. Spoilt, pampered daddy's girl, however smart, what a pleasure to render her his plaything. Trussed there, so forlorn, so helplessly aroused. He almost took pity on her.



Bastard, stop doing this to me. And don't make your - your calls like I'm not bloody here! Daniella felt exhausted, wrung out by the successive, huge waves of sensation Eric had caused to build then ebb within her. None allowed to break, as though he were a King Canute, more worthy of the flattery. She heard his casual tread on the carpet approaching her, then her head swam with his male aroma - perspiration and aftershave together with the wine on his breath. 'Patience, sweetheart,' he said in a near-whisper. 'Think how much sweeter it'll be when it actually happens.' She felt his perfectly manicured nails drawn backwards across her cheek, before he cupped his palm and cradled her jaw.



Daniella bridled under his touch. The whole hyper-sensitive landscape of her body goose-bumped and tremored. She leant her face into his hand, rubbed against him like an attention-craving cat, her nipples hardening just that little bit more. He was acting like he owned her and she could not help but respond, now, as though it were true. Such a far cry from the man she had met two years prior in the family home that day, respectful, polite, gently humorous - inquiring about her imminent departure for university. The same man she had bumped into on the high street on her summer recess some two weeks before, who had so casually suggested they go for coffee, then drawn her out over the lattes on her chosen field of study.



Now he was up close, stroking her hair, gently but with a disconcertingly propriatorial air. He moved his finger to her lips, strummed them tenderly apart and inserted not one or two but three fingers into her mouth. She sucked on the tips, eager to please him, hoping he would reciprocate by somehow getting her off. Fingers withdrew and she heard it, the slow, deliberate rasp of a descending zipper in front of her face, followed by the rustle of linen, and then it was not his fingertips at her lips.



'Go on, open up.' One strong hand rested on the back of her head, drawing her forward. Her lips parted once more and she took the bulged, velvet cock-head into her mouth. He kept pressing, guiding, compelling her down on to its thick stalk, sliding their two forms together, filling her startled throat till she was orally impaled on him, face nestling into the rich, Italian fabric of his clothes. She choked on his thickness as he held her there, the immaculately clipped nails of his other hand delicately tracing her cheekbone. 'Good girl, good girl, that's it,' he breathed, 'stay there, just a little more...' Then he drew her smoothly all the way off him, exiting her mouth with a small, succulent pop, allowing her to gulp in air. 'Very good, baby,' he commended softly. 'Take a moment, then we'll try again.'



As she sat panting, she marvelled in some part of her confused mind at the contrast between those recent dates and - this. How he had taken her out for drinks, then dinner and theatre, allowed her to collude in her own seduction, plied her with his physical attentions gradually and respectfully. She had revelled in the sly sexual interplay, the way he drew out her confidence, opened her up to him physically and psychologically. So that on the evening of their third official date, back here in his apartment, her clothes had seemed to drop from her at his touch.



He had cupped and caressed her, lavished his tongue and his lips and his sensual fingers on her body, bringing her to climax three times before he even introduced his cock into the scenario. Then he had gathered her to him and entered her, riding the ecstatic movement of her body strongly and slowly, building to a hard, urgent but still strangely tender crescendo, where they both exploded together. They had lain together spent and entwined in the sweet aftermath. Over two more dates he had taken gentle charge of her body - undressed, guided and positioned her, gripped her with iron-clad restraint and made strong, intense, slow-fucking love to her - drawing out her hot, fresh juice and her trust.



So now to this afternoon's developments - just where the fuck had they come from? Although maybe - maybe - yes, hadn't she just occasionally sensed something else lurking there in their earlier encounters? Something indefinably dark lying beneath his restraint, when his grip tightened just a little, when his glittering eyes seemed to betray more than arousal and affection. And hadn't her stomach buzzed at the thought of discovering what that something was?



He drew himself close now and fitted her fully down on to him once more, pulling her tight, his thick engorgement squelching into the recesses of her throat. 'Ye-s-s-s, that's it, that's what we want, good girl.' When he dragged her spluttering and gulping off him this time, he flipped the sleep-mask deftly from her eyes, providing an accompanying visual. From the civilised trappings of his Borrelli garments sprouted that great, thick trunk, essential and primeval and still glistening with her relish. 'See what that talented little throat just swallowed?' he said approvingly. 'Now let's do it again.' And while some feisty part of her wanted to apply her teeth just enough to make him wary, she submitted and let him slot her all the way back down on to him.



Eric tilted Daniella's head slightly, so he had a good view of his shaft, as it probed past her lips all the way to the back of her throat. She was tight around him, her convulsing vocal tract squeezing his bulging head, firing chemical messages of sheer fucking joy all round his body. 'Look at me,' he told her. 'Look at me, baby.' She turned her dark-hazel eyes on him, her stuffed face full of panic, rage and excitement. He brushed fronds of hair back behind her ear and gazed on her in a type of wonder. 'Keep it there, darling, keep it there, that's my good girl...'



It was that serendipitous meeting three weeks back, which had led to the current agreeable positioning of his cock. There she'd been, window shopping on the high street in a pale-blue halter top and tomato-red shorter-than-shorts, the latter of which looked meticulously tailored to showcase her exquisite bubble-ass. She'd clutched an ostentatious Sara Berman bag and had been almost unrecognisable under massive, insect-eye sunglasses. But he'd been sufficiently smitten by this sexy little vision to keep looking and make the connection with two summers ago. Disappointment had still burned within him, the fatal email having arrived only the previous day, and on spotting her, his decision had been instantaneous.



'Daniella?' A swing-about to face him, ponytail bouncing, swift removal of sunglasses followed by a radiant smile of recognition. 'From a couple of summers back... We met at your dad's, right?'



'I remember! You're...'



'Eric. It's okay...' - on seeing her apologetic frown - '...I'm sure you can be a good Psychology student and not remember names.'



'I'm damn good with names,' she'd protested, laughing. 'And a damn good Psychologist. I was going to say Errol...'



'Errol? Because I remind you of Errol Flynn?'



More laughter. 'Don't flatter yourself, mister! You just look like a generic Errol, is all. Not a specific one. You shouldn't go fishing for compliments from girls you hardly know. That's a bit reckless.'



'I feel crushed. And a little bit psychoanalysed. The course is going well, then?'



Segue into afternoon coffee, drinks a few nights later, followed by a night out on the town. Carry her away with chat and laughter and romance and goodnight kisses full of restrained passion and a mere hint of roguish intent. Be polite, respectful, keep just the right side of cocky. Take on Miss Psychologist at her own game. Lingering eye-contact across the restaurant table, even in the silences. Fingers weaving together while awaiting the cheque. Invite her back almost as a throwaway and once she's on your sofa, draw out her confidences while gently flirting. Play idly with her hair and share laughter up close. Kiss her, soft, slow and searching. Charm her free of clothing, then tongue her free of inhibition. Penetrate her deep till her body quakes and her eyes roll back in her head. Warm her up so the debauching-proper can begin.



None of which had been a chore. She had a sweet face and body and a sophistication that belied her youth; her wit, sass and wide-ranging knowledge meant she sparred easily with him, despite his fifteen years' seniority over her. She had challenged him, made him laugh, called him on the odd stray moment of careless male bullshit, the precocious little madam. And yet despite her chosen field of study, she had never seen through to his true motives, never realised that he was reeling her in, landing her...right here.



He pulled her face off his cock again, held her for one moment of recuperation, then briskly planted her all the gorge-stretching way back, her nose crushed into his silk shirt. Nice. She had acquiesced so easily that afternoon, as he unbuttoned her clothes and eased them from her body, bathing her face, neck and breasts in soft kisses. 'God, sweetheart, the things I want you to feel,' he had breathed into her ear. 'Things you've never felt before. Do you have any idea how sexy you are?' She had melted into him like ice-cream on that hot summer's day. 'Let me try something with you, darling.' His next gambit. Spoken as if on a sudden erotic impulse. 'Something I think you'll enjoy. I want you to trust me, okay?'



She had nodded with mute excitement, the naïve little darling, and offered herself up to his control. Whatever she had expected when he guided her into the chair, however, it had not been this - his every hard, pulsing inch jammed to the very balls past her lips. A bit different from the silver spoon you were born with, right my girl? 'That's right, sweetheart, swallow me, swallow it all.' And this time he cupped his sac and set about squeezing his inflated bollocks into her mouth as well, just for kicks.



Daniella felt herself wrenched off him once more and angrily spat herself free of viscous saliva, most of which ended up clinging to or dangling from the end of the abusing cock. Her panting mouth formed an insult, but he stopped it with a finger to her lips. 'Not a word, or you don't get yours,' he warned softly. 'Now do it again, without my help.' She stared at him askance. 'Go on. You want to get off, then deep-throat me. All by yourself.'



God, on arriving at his apartment that afternoon, she had found herself ready to go on whatever sexual adventure he suggested. Guided panty-clad into the chair he had fetched from the dining-table, she had awaited developments with a sudden, expectant shortness of breath. On seeing him return from the utility room with all that thick cord she had flinched inwardly, but he had dropped to one knee, brushed the back of his hand across her cheek and spoken so earnestly, with just a dash of that irresistibly sly humour: 'I want to tease you before I satisfy you, sweetness. But we don't have to use these, not if you don't want to. It's just I don't think patience is one of your virtues...' And he had pressed his lips like a whisper to hers.



Not a word of protest had she spoken, as he bound her nearly-nude body to the chair, applied the sleep mask, slotted the vibrator into her wet and ready channel. And he had done it all with such seeming affection - so he could start pressing his selfish attentions on her like this. Bastard. Bloody fucking bastard! But she met his deep-throat challenge nonetheless. Summoning her courage, she lunged on to his cock, gobbling up as many inches as she could, before she gagged and could push no further. She withdrew, dribbling spit, hoping she had done enough.



'That's good, now try again.'



Damn him! She attacked him this time like she was starved, leaning in hard, his head raking the hard roof of her mouth en route to the back of her throat, and she glared at him defiantly all the while. This what you're looking for? This make you fucking happy? She could hear the wet suction as she took him in and was sure he was loving sound along with sensation. 'One more time, baby,' he said as she came off him, in a voice hoarse but calm. Cursing him inwardly she went way, way down, straining against her bonds, sucking him in till she choked hard, holding it there till tears ran down her cheeks and she could bear no more. As she pulled away, her mouth spilled profusely over her neck, her breasts and him.



'Good girl,' he smiled, and along with the mockery in his eyes she saw an infuriating, patronising benevolence that made her want to scream. But not so much she would blow her chances of the orgasm he had so long denied her. He bent down, erection still thrusting lewdly out of his flies, and kissed her lips softly. 'Poor sweet Daniella, so longsuffering, so compliant.' She stared at him - those beautifully carved, slightly angular features, the sun-streaked fair hair, the subtly powerful Italian-wrapped frame - and didn't know whether she wanted to slap or fuck the shit out of him. Then he knelt, prised himself between her parted thighs, and she knew.

