Meeting Emma
Friday - After work
Mira's breath hitched in rhythmic gasps as we cycled along the Oudegracht, the diamond plug shifting inside her with each rotation of her pedals—tiny, torturous nudges that made her thighs tremble against the leather saddle. Her knuckles whitened around the handlebars, the veins in her wrists standing out like blue silk threads beneath her skin. Beautiful. I slowed just enough to watch her struggle—the way her skirt fluttered against her thighs as she wobbled, the way her teeth sank into her lower lip with every subtle undulation of the canal-side cobblestones.
The house loomed ahead, its gabled windows dark except for the kitchen—where he stood silhouetted against the fridge light, already changed into his black compression gear, his water bottle clutched too tightly in one hand. I leaned my Gazelle against the brickwork, deliberately ignoring Mira's choked whimper as she dismounted. My fingers traced his collarbones through the sweat-wicking fabric before claiming his mouth—slow, deep, tasting the fear beneath his toothpaste. Behind us, Mira's bike clattered to the pavement.
"Don't wait up," I murmured against his lips, feeling his pulse jump as my hand slid down to squeeze the unmistakable hardness beneath his leggings. He nodded—too fast, too eager—and scurried toward the bike path like a whipped dog, his neon running shoes flashing under the streetlamps.
The attic stairs creaked beneath our weight as I led Mira upward, the diamond's facets catching slivers of moonlight through the skylight. The box waited where Claire had left it last weekend—black lacquer with mother-of-pearl inlays, its hinges sighing open to reveal the new additions: a hitachi wand nestled beside the metal nipple clamps, a riding crop whip atop the silk-lined cuffs.
Mira's reflection in the full-length mirror showed everything—the sweat-damp tendrils at her temples, the way her nipples tented the blouse, the absence of her pearls where they'd been confiscated earlier. I selected the wand with deliberate slowness, watching her pupils swallow her irises whole.
"Strip," I commanded, flicking the switch.
The first spark danced between us like static.
Tick. Her fingers fumbled at the buttons.
Tock. The attic door clicked shut downstairs.
I smiled.
Right on time.
The Hitachi purred to life as I threaded it through the harness, its sleek black body snug against Mira’s trembling thighs. She gasped as I adjusted the straps, the wand’s head pressing flush against her clit through the thin barrier of silk. No mercy. My fingers traced lazy circles around her nipples—already peaked with anticipation—before tightening the clover clamps with a decisive click. The chain between them chimed as I locked her wrists behind her back, the sound harmonizing with her ragged breath.
The trench coat swallowed her whole—long, belted, its hem brushing the backs of her knees. Beneath it, nothing but the harness, the clamps, the relentless buzz already building between her legs. Her discarded blouse and skirt lay crumpled at her feet like shed skin. I stepped back, admiring my handiwork: the flush creeping up her throat, the way her toes curled in her stilettos, the subtle tremor in her calves. Perfect.
“Walk,” I ordered, palming the wand’s controls.
The Ledig Erf pulsed with Friday night energy—bikes stacked three-deep outside cafés, students spilling from the LHC Theater, laughter bouncing off the Singel like skipping stones. Mira’s heels clicked unevenly on the cobblestones, her pace faltering every time the wand’s intensity surged. Good. I upped the setting just as we passed a rowdy group outside Cafe Ledig Erf, their drunken chorus drowning out her whimper. The trench coat flapped open—revealing a flash of bare thigh, the harness straps cutting into her hips.
“Eyes forward,” I murmured, twisting the clamps’ chain until she arched into the pain. The wand’s vibrations blurred her steps; she stumbled against me, her gasp warm against my neck. Claire’s apartment lights glowed above the bicycle repair shop—third floor, curtains parted just enough to silhouette her waiting figure.
I thumbed the wand to maximum.
Mira’s knees buckled.
Right on time.
Mira's scream tore through the canal-side hush—half-strangled, wholly desperate—as her hips jerked against the harness. The orgasm hit like a tidal wave, her knees buckling as she clutched at my arm, her mouth forming a silent O against my shoulder. The trench coat gaped open, revealing the glint of the diamond plug beneath the harness straps, the way her thighs trembled in the lamplight.
A young couple paused mid-step, the woman's hand flying to her mouth. "Is she—?"
"Oh, she's fine," I purred, twisting the wand's dial back to high. The vibrations sent Mira into another violent shudder, her whimper ricocheting off the brick facades. "Just had a rather forceful orgasm." With a flick of my wrist, I parted the coat fully—exposing her sweat-slicked torso, the clamps tugging at her nipples, the wand pressed snug against her clit.
The boy's Adam's apple bobbed. His girlfriend gripped his arm, her gaze darting between Mira's bliss-dazed expression and the unmistakable outline of the plug. "I—we should—"
"Yes," I agreed pleasantly, nudging Mira forward with the toe of my boot. "You should."
Claire's silhouette darkened the doorway above us, her laughter drifting down like falling petals. Mira stumbled on the first step, her thighs glistening, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The couple hurried away, but not before the girl cast one last, lingering glance over her shoulder.
Good. Let them remember this.
Claire met us at the landing, her burgundy nails already working the coat's belt loose. "Naughty girl," she murmured, pressing a kiss to Mira's flushed cheek. "Making a scene."
The wand buzzed louder.
Mira's answering sob was music.
Claire’s fingers twisted in the girl’s hair as the kiss deepened—one sharp tug to make her moan against those painted lips while my riding crop traced slow circles up the back of Mira’s thigh. The girl shuddered, her knees wobbling, her hips jerking forward into empty air as the wand’s vibrations never ceased. I watched their tongues meet—wet and desperate—before turning away to shrug off my coat, letting it slither to Claire’s polished hardwood floor in a pool of dark wool.
The lounge chair sighed beneath my weight as I stretched out, rolling my shoulders with deliberate exhaustion. My heels came off next—one, then the other—dropped carelessly near Mira’s trembling knees where she still knelt between Claire’s thighs. “Massage,” I commanded, nodding toward the tension coiled between my shoulder blades. Claire’s answering grin was all teeth as she abandoned Mira’s swollen mouth to straddle the chair behind me.
Her thumbs dug into the knots along my spine, pressing just shy of painful. I arched into it with a groan, my eyes sliding shut as her nails scraped down to the waistband of my skirt. Beneath us, Mira whimpered—half-forgotten, her body still vibrating with untouched need, her forehead pressed to the floorboards where my discarded heels formed a taunting mockery of worship.
Claire’s lips found the nape of my neck as her fingers worked deeper. “Look at her,” she murmured against my skin, her teeth grazing my pulse point. Mira’s reflection in the floor-length mirror told the whole story—her nipples reddened beneath the clamps, her thighs slick with arousal, her pupils blown so wide her irises were nearly gone. The wand hummed on, relentless.
I crooked a finger. “Come.”
She crawled.
Claire’s laughter warmed the space between my shoulder blades as her hands slid lower, kneading the tension from my hips. Mira reached my feet first, her trembling lips brushing the arch of my stockinged foot before daring to glance up. The crop tapped her chin—once, twice—until her mouth fell open in silent supplication.
“Good girl,” I sighed, sinking deeper into Claire’s touch as my toes grazed Mira’s parted lips.
The wand’s buzz hitched.
Claire’s nails bit into my waist.
Somewhere below, a church bell tolled ten.
Right on time.
The honeyed whiskey warmed my throat as I leaned against the window frame, watching Mira’s silhouette tremble against the moonlit canal below. Claire had rigged the hook perfectly—the nipple clamp chain stretched taut just enough to force Mira’s spine into a graceful arch, her wrists cuffed to the wrought-iron rings flanking the stained-glass panels. The wand’s intermittent pulses made her twitch like a marionette with tangled strings. Beautiful.
A passing tour boat’s spotlight swept across the attic skylight, illuminating the sweat beading along Mira’s collarbones for one glorious second before plunging her back into silhouette. The diamond plug caught the light with each shuddering breath, its base pressing snug against the wand’s head where Claire had secured it with silk scarves. I bit into a strawberry, letting the juice drip onto my fingers before tracing Mira’s parted lips. “Count the cycles.”
Her whimper harmonized with the wand’s sudden surge. “F-four, ma’am.”
Claire’s laughter curled from the shadows near the armoire, where she was selecting our next toys with the precision of a sommelier pairing wine. The riding crop tapped against her thigh in time with the wand’s vibrations—five seconds on, three off—a rhythm Mira’s body had begun to mirror unconsciously. Her hips jerked forward during each pulse, the plug shifting obscenely inside her.
I licked strawberry residue from my fingertips and pressed them against her clit, matching the wand’s rhythm. “Incorrect.” My thumbnail grazed her swollen flesh just as the next cycle began. She screamed into the empty canal, her thighs shaking violently enough to rattle the cuffs.
Claire materialized behind her, the crop’s tip gliding up the back of Mira’s knee. “Such a noisy little thing.” Her free hand twisted the clamp chain tighter, forcing Mira’s breasts higher. “Let’s see if the neighbors notice.”
The wand’s next pulse coincided with Claire’s sharp slap to her inner thigh. The sound—skin on skin, metal clinking against glass—echoed across the water. Somewhere below, a curtain twitched.
I sipped my whiskey.
Showtime.
Claire’s nipples hardened instantly beneath my fingertips as I peeled away her blouse—first the pearl buttons, one by agonizing one, then the silk sliding off her shoulders like water. She didn’t turn around, didn’t break rhythm with the crop tracing lazy figure-eights over Mira’s shuddering thighs. Perfect. My nails scraped down Claire’s spine as I unbuckled her jeans, the denim pooling at her ankles to reveal the damp patch at the apex of her lace thong.
Mira’s breath hitched—half-terror, half-recognition—as Claire suddenly yanked the chain between her clamps, forcing her onto tiptoes just as the wand surged again. Her climax ripped through her with a strangled scream, her body convulsing against the restraints. I pressed my lips to the hollow behind Claire’s ear, breathing in Chanel and salt as my thumbs hooked into her bra straps.
Snap.
The silk gave way. Claire arched into my hands with a hiss as I captured her right nipple between thumb and forefinger, rolling it to a stiff peak. Beneath us, Mira sobbed through aftershocks, her reflection in the skylight glass a masterpiece of debauchery. Claire’s pulse thundered against my palm when I seized her left nipple—twist, pull—her entire body bowing backward into mine with a guttural moan. The riding crop clattered to the floor as her knees buckled, her cunt grinding against my thigh through soaked lace.
Almost.
I released her abruptly, letting her sway like a ship in a storm as I stepped around to face her. Claire’s lips parted—whether to curse or beg, I’d never know—because my fingers were already twisting her other nipple, harder this time, her gasp dissolving into a shuddering whine as her hips jerked against empty air. The scent of her arousal flooded the attic, mingling with Mira’s sweat and the beeswax candles flickering on the vanity.
Outside, the church bell tolled eleven.
Claire’s nails dug into my wrists, her pupils swallowing her irises whole. "Again," she rasped, pressing my hand tighter against her breast.
The handcuffs lay abandoned on the floorboards—still warm from Mira’s frantic squirming. I scooped them up with my free hand, letting the chain dangle between us like a pendulum. Claire’s breath hitched as the metal brushed her nipple.
"Face me," I murmured, twirling the cuffs around my index finger. Her smirk faltered when I hooked the chain onto the wrought-iron eyelet dangling from the ceiling beam—leftover from last winter’s hanging plants. The click of the lock echoed louder than the church bells.
Two women now. One still trembling from forced orgasms, the other arching onto tiptoes with a gasp as the cuffs’ short chain pulled her arms taut above her head. Mira crawled to my feet without prompting, her lips grazing my stockinged ankle as Claire’s hips swayed—an unconscious plea for friction.
I palmed Claire’s throat, feeling her swallow beneath my grip. "You look perfect like this." My thumb traced the flutter of her pulse. "Helpless."
Mira’s tongue ventured higher, worshiping the seam of my stockings as I reached behind Claire to twist a nipple clamp onto her left breast. Her strangled moan rattled the chain. The right clamp followed, its silver chain pooling in the hollow between her collarbones.
"No touching," I warned Mira, snapping my fingers near her ear when her hands twitched toward Claire’s thighs. She whimpered but obeyed, her palms flattening against her own trembling knees instead.
Claire’s breath came faster now, her ribs expanding against my chest as I stepped closer. The cuffs jingled with her slightest movement—a pretty counterpoint to Mira’s slick sounds between my legs. I bit Claire’s shoulder, tasting salt and Chanel, while my free hand found the riding crop discarded near the armoire.
The first strike landed diagonally across Claire’s thighs. She cried out, her body bowing toward me even as the cuffs yanked her back. Mira moaned against my skin, her breath hot through the silk.
"Again," Claire demanded, her voice raw.
The crop whistled through the air.
Claire’s thighs bloomed red beneath the strike, her gasp sharp enough to echo off the attic’s slanted ceiling. She arched against her restraints, her nipples straining against the clamps—each ragged breath making the chain shiver like wind chimes. My phone, abandoned earlier on the vanity, glinted in the candlelight. Document this.
Mira screamed into the gusset of my panties as the wand cycled again, her nose pressed flush against damp silk. Her tongue darted out instinctively—hot, desperate flickers against my clit—even as her wrists trembled where she gripped my hips. The taste of my arousal smeared across her lips when I shifted my weight forward, grinding down onto her mouth with deliberate slowness. Good girl.
Claire’s moan hitched when I glanced away to frame the shot—phone angled just so to capture the contrast: her suspended wrists, her flushed chest, the way her legs trembled with each aftershock. Mira’s whimper vibrated against me as I tapped the shutter button, the flash illuminating Claire’s parted lips, the sweat gleaming along her sternum.
“Fuck—” Claire’s curse dissolved into a whine when I pinched the chain between her clamps, tugging just hard enough to make her spine bow. The crop traced lazy circles over her inner thigh while my thumb scrolled through the gallery—fourteen perfect shots already, each more debauched than the last. Mira’s muffled sobs and the wand’s persistent buzz filled the pauses between shutter clicks.
Claire’s heel scraped the floorboards as she tried—and failed—to rub her thighs together. “Please,” she gasped, her voice wrecked. The crop landed with a thwack across her left ass cheek, the sound drowning out her yelp.
The phone clattered onto the vanity.
“Now you have my attention,” I murmured, stepping closer until my breath stirred the loose curls clinging to Claire’s forehead. Her pupils swallowed her irises whole.
Outside, Utrecht slept on—oblivious to the way the attic light burned like a beacon, to the symphony of whimpers and chains, to the shutter clicking one last time as I leaned in to bite Claire’s lower lip.
Click.
Her gasp tasted of whiskey and strawberries.