She is chained with her leather-cuffed hands raised above her head, her upper body exposed. She is to be washed. Warm water is carried in a bowl onto the thick Persian carpet. Heavily scented soap and a fresh towel are placed on a tray. Her pale skin is most certainly already cleaned. She would never lower herself to knocking on my door unwashed. Our washing is ceremonial. A preparation for filth. A contrast befitting our practice. But she is not to be washed by me. I’m waiting on the sofa. Watching the ceremony unfold. In the shadows behind her is another girl waiting attentively. Her neck is held straight by a leather corset covering the mouth and sternum. The two barely know each other. They met before over a quick cup of coffee. But never touched. Never shared an intimate space. Never been watched together. There are so many stories about men dreaming about having it with two girls who are incredibly horny for each other and beyond bisexual. Just longing to ravish and be ravished under the male gaze. But these two are not. They are probably as straight as they come. And they are shy in the other’s presence. This only makes it better for me. As it makes them both more vulnerable and the whole situation more intimate.
The washing is slow. First, the shoulders. It’s innocent, almost like a friendly massage. Then, cheeks blossom as the warm soapy towel touches the armpits, the neck, and the breasts. I notice it makes me horny watching them share this awkward but intimate moment. For a second, I worry if it’s too slow. Too boring. If I should get a whip to spice things up. But I’m happy with it, just as it is. I’m pleased with them doing this for me. That is what matters the most for all of us. And I know this. There is a hopeful pause after the upper torso is done. Maybe the awkward moment is finally over. Disrupting these hopes is entertaining. I tell them to undress further. The washing continues. The soft skin of the thighs, the plump buttocks, and the rose-coloured anus. There is a wordless game of consent happening between my two girls. One asking blushingly with her eyes, and the other encouraging, nodding and smiling. I enjoy witnessing how their intimacy grows. It’s not a sexual one but rather one of shared vulnerability.
Next, for this evening, I have prepared a funnel gag. It separates the jaws quite gently but is connected to a glass container that will funnel whatever liquid into the throat of its wearer. It’s strapped around the neck of the chained girl. And the glass container is filled with water, roughly two litres. Enough to be more than one can possibly want to drink, but not enough to be dangerous. I instruct the neck-corseted girl to lift the container, and water starts to flow. At first, she drinks courageously. Then, I tell her to keep eye contact with me. Her eyes are both defiant and proud as she gulps the water down. Half a litre goes down before she gasps for air. She hyperventilates. And I can see her belly swelling up. The container is raised again, and I let my hand cover her nostrils. Panic in her eyes. There is no space left in her body for drinking more water. She coughs, drools and snorts as water pours out of her mouth. Forming a puddle underneath her on the Persian carpet. Her pale skin shimmers wet. And her eyes beg for forgiveness. I tell her that she is a very good girl and asks if she enjoys being tortured by me. She nods and smiles behind the gag. Reassuring consent a little now and then is healthy, especially when consciously almost drowning your play partner. The container is raised over and over again, a few deciliters at a time, but most end up in the pool of filth forming around her on the floor. The look in her eyes is that of shame. And her body shivers from the cold. I place my hand between her legs. It’s wet and warm, but from what I don’t know.
Later, her arms are released, and she rolls up in a little wet, shivering ball. Her new platonic girlfriend dries her lovingly and wraps her in a big warm blanket. Now that she knows her place, I think to myself, she is adequately prepared to serve. So I undress next to the two girls. I nuzzle in under the blanket. Smelling her hair, her armpits, kissing her. The neck-corseted girl is instructed to massage me. We have practised this before. She knows how to pleasure me, how to make me horny. I allow myself to drop deeply into myself. Surrendering to all the skin contact and body heat. My mouth searches for the softest, most tender skin as massaging hands tease me. My arousal grows, and I bite. Deep and long. And I hear her moan out of pleasure and pain. I bite harder, again and again. Licking the bite marks on her skin. And she hugs me closer. Encouraging me to let go deeper. To ravage her. She tries to touch me back for a second instead of just holding me. So I have to slap her hard. It annoys me that she doesn’t understand her place in this constellation. She is the receiver of pain. Her skin and her moans are all I want from her. Her newly acquainted girlfriend is the giver of pleasure. Clear? I ask her. Crystal clear, she replies.