Raven returned to the tack room early in the afternoon. She did a quick inspection of the leather belt that I had been shining, and grunted her approval. That same condescending smile flickered on her lips as she held the strap up to her nose and sniffed it; the lingering smell of my juices that I had used to add the final polish was obviously evident, but not unexpected.
Moments later, I found myself mounted on the saddle that was sitting on the trestle. My hands had been shackled again, and the chain was attached with a sturdy clasp to the pommel. Raven tugged the stirrup straps tight, and pulled them as short as they would go; once again I was in that most vulnerable of positions, with my bottom high and spread and my hands pulled forward.
“I think you are becoming quite accomplished at adopting this position!” she smirked, “I heard all about it from Emmette.” My thoughts flashed back to the my visit the previous weekend, when Emmette, to my intense embarrassment, had found me abusing myself on this same saddle and had strapped me as punishment. It was a shameful episode and one that I would have preferred to have been forgotten. Instead, it seemed she had spread the word amongst the staff; I would never be able to feel secure that my humiliating secret would be forgotten.
I had come to hate that position, even though I had only known it for a week. It represented all things I despised about myself: my proclivity for self abuse, my inclination to rub myself on unsuspecting surfaces, my yearning for shame, my sordid desires, my wish for submission and my achievement of sexual satisfaction through totally surrendering control.
The position was physically degrading as well, offering unfettered access to my sexual parts, exposing my cunt’s lips and even my most private part of all: my bottom hole. My tender surfaces were exposed, where the pain of a simple pinch or flick was magnified in measures; a light kiss from the tip of a strap in any of these spots would be an agony I couldn’t bear.
Raven languidly slapped my raised backside with the strap; half a dozen strokes in quick succession that burned like hell and caused me to yelp. I felt my bottom sway in a futile attempt to wish away the pain and to avoid further contact from the strap, but there was no relief possible and no where to go. Her hands felt cool as she rubbed my agitated flesh, but when her fingers dipped between my crack and touched my pussy lips, I knew that it was for more than sensual reasons that she was stroking my skin; she was testing my arousal, seeing whether I was turned on.
“A bit engorged, slightly damp, but not very turned on,” she pronounced, “we shall have to see what we can do about that!”
I wished she hadn’t announced it so loudly, it was something I felt should be kept between her and me; I was acutely aware of Emmette, out of sight, but chained to the low beam in the room next door. That situation for Emmette didn’t last very long; I felt Raven lay the polished strap down on my back, and then with a slap on my raised rump, she went behind the mirror door. I heard the low murmurings of an exchange between her and Emmette, and then the sound of shackles being shaken and flesh being smacked.
I watched enraptured as Emmette was lead out, her hands chained in front of her, her head bowed in submission. She was taken to a second trestle about ten feet from my own, and reinforced with a vicious cut across her backside from a crop that Raven now held, she was encouraged to lean lengthways along the bar. Her tummy rested on a thick saddle blanket that lay across the top and her face was towards me, an expression of submission in her eyes. I watched her spread her legs wide; Raven attach her ankles to the trestle legs with sets of leather straps.
Symphony of pain
Raven was the conductor, a role which she relished.
That now familiar, supercilious smile twisted at the sides of her bright red lips, and she leant forward across Emmette, as if mounting her from behind. She rubbed the crop lightly through Emmette’s cunt lips, angles gently changing as she sought to illicit a tune. She played Emmette like a violin, the black crop moving back and forward rhythmically, tweaking out notes of pleasure, the warm up to The Symphony of Pain.
Emmette’s gasps of pleasure excited me, and I found myself moving sliding along the saddle in concert, my movements timed by the bow in Raven’s hand, my breathing an accompaniment to Emmette’s moans. I was oblivious to the shame of my arousal, the juices of my passion lubricating the saddle; I was part of an orchestra playing a score, and my soul was at one with the other participants out there.
I was in awe of the harshness of the opening bars but it didn’t slow me down or dampen my play. Raven launched into vigorous set of three cuts across Emmette’s backside, followed by an ominous triplet of three soft taps. Emmette bore these stoically, but, perfectly timed to the luscious repeat of another bar, her sweet voice began to sing. Her cries of agony were marked on the score as fortissmo, and her solo performance didn’t disappoint; her eyes screwed tight in concentration, and her mouth opened wide in a erotic song of pain.
Raven turned to me next and played with my exposed flesh, as if it was a delicate instrument to be plucked; she pinched and released my pussy lips, flicked my engorged clit with her nails. I squirmed and struggled and tried to escape, but I knew from Emmette’s perfromance, that these were just the opening bars.
There was little burtality in the leathering I got, as she rather showed her mastery through the finesse she had developed. She carefully picked places for the strap to bite, and in a few short moments, I was howling in pain. An excruciating flick on my pussy lips was quickly followed by the strap’s tip biting into my bum crease. A kiss of the leather tongue on my bottom hole was enough to unleash howls of distress; a wickedly aimed slash across the crease where thighs meet bottom, created a welt that would ensure I would not sit comfortably for days.
The realisation struck me later, that while Emmette had dommed me into submission, Raven played a different game, getting off on her sadistic ways.
As a conductor of The Symphony of Pain, she delighted in the musical responses we offered. Our bodies swayed in rhythm to the tune, matching the beat of her baton; we were our own audience, turned on by the performance we gave.
And for Emmette and I, the other’s pain was piquant, delivering a pleasantly biting arousal, on which we would later get off.
The Final Movement
I had often wondered how it would be, if there were three in bed; who would lead and who would follow, what would the other’s role be?
While Emmette had been dominant with me, her manner in bed was always sensual. She delighted in her femininity, took pleasure in the gentle ways of the domme. Silken bonds, heady perfumes, a delicate touch to arouse, a smack to encourage compliance. When she had leathered me in the tack room that day, it had been as punishment for a transgression of mine rather than a draught to slake her sexual need.
Raven was very different, even though she was femme to the core. She got off on others’ pain; their cries were a powerful aphrodisiac, igniting a burning thirst that needed to be quenched.
The final movement of our symphony, picked up on themes from earlier that day. It was a beautiful piece that had touches of it all, as we all had fires that needed to be put out.
Emmette’s gentle kissing and stroking was accompanied by a more brutal pounding from Raven, her animal lust driving her need to be fulfilled. While Emmette took delight in my passionate response, Raven used us like human sex toys, her sadistic power being the key to our on/off switch.
She rode my tongue hard, as she crouched over my face, the juices of her lust flowing fast and free. She was uninhibited as she wiggled around on my mouth, making sure that I pleasured her bits and satisfied her needs. When my efforts flagged, and I felt that I needed to stop, Raven would ensure that I carried on; a twisted nipple or a slapped breast motivated me while re-kindling her fires.
And while this was all happening, sweet Emmette was between my spread legs. Her tongue was gently nibbling my cunt, her thumb urgently strumming my demanding clit. I could feel her mounting my lower leg, putting pressure on her own lubricated parts, sliding up and down in a frictionless hump, desperately trying to cum on her own.
We all lay together in Emmette’s bed after that, Raven getting up only to order us a meal.
Oh, the benefits of sleeping with the proprietor of an establishment, where room service consisted of champagne on ice and two hot bodies to slake any thirst.