‘For the duration of the party and our drive back. Unless you’re bad, in which case I’ll let you wear it until bedtime.’
Until bedtime. It was a scary thought. Emma didn’t think she could wear the harness that long. At some point the hemp would start chafing, and possibly even rupture her skin.
‘For my information, what constitutes being bad?’
‘Anything that goes against my wishes. Listen to my instructions and you’ll be fine.’
So there would be instructions. Bad ones, most likely. The prospect intimidated her a little, but it also sent a thrill of excitement through her.
She remained quiet for the next ten minutes, aware of nothing so much as the knot between her labia. It was right on her clit, and every time she shifted, it pressed down on her like Connor’s fingers, except a little drier and itchier. The hemp felt harsh on her tender flesh, but not unpleasantly so.
Feeling experimental, she tilted her pelvis a little, trying to get the knot where she wanted it to be. A thrill shot through her as it hit the right spot. She tried it again, with the same result. Soon she was rotating her pelvis in a series of rhythmic movements, so small that they were barely visible to the human eye. Except to Connor’s, obviously.
‘Enjoying yourself?’ he asked, looking sideways at her. Judging from his smirk, he knew exactly what she was doing. He always did. Undoubtedly he’d been waiting for her to do this, for her to discover the self-pleasuring properties of the rope. No doubt he was hoping to have her randy as fuck by the time they reached her parents’. A little shamefully, she had to admit that it was a distinct possibility.
‘It’s … interesting,’ she said. She slumped in her seat, which made the rope grow a little tauter between her legs, then brought her pelvis upwards a little. She could barely suppress a moan as the hemp tightened over her clit.
Connor grinned. ‘I’m going to have fun watching you this afternoon. Seeing you get yourself off while chatting with your uncles … I’ll gladly suffer your mum’s food for the pleasure of that.’
‘That’s because you’re a horrible sadist,’ she answered, shifting ever so slightly against the rope.
He just laughed at her. ‘Too right, sister. Don’t you forget it.’
* * *
As she had expected, Emma was half mad with desire by the time they arrived at her childhood home. She felt a little embarrassed as she congratulated her brother and watched him unwrap the present she’d bought him, a set of Blu-rays of films he’d loved as a child and had said he’d love to watch with his own children. The paranoiac in her was certain that he could smell her arousal or, failing that, would notice she wasn’t wearing any underwear, or that there was a chain dangling between her nipples. Who knows, he might even hear some rustling as her thick sweater interacted with the hemp harness underneath. She couldn’t hear it herself, but his ears had always been sharper than hers.
However, if John noticed anything out of the ordinary, he didn’t let on. Nor did her father, who had an uncanny knack of spotting things that she felt self-conscious about, and a nasty habit of pointing them out in public. Nobody at the party said anything about her looking unusual or uncomfortable; if anything, they seemed to think she was looking healthy and rosy. But, although they didn’t seem to notice anything, she was very much aware of Connor’s amused glances, and that they made her every bit as wet as the rope and clamps she was wearing.
She soon learned to move as little as possible, so as to prevent the rope from chafing her skin and the chain between her nipples from visibly moving under her clothes. She spent at least half an hour rooted to the same spot, waiting for other people to come to her rather than the other way around. Eventually, though, she had to leave her spot and mingle. It would be rude not to.
As she flitted around the room, chatting now with a cousin, now with an aunt, she was aware of Connor’s eyes following her. He smiled every time she shifted her position ever so slightly in an effort to get the knot on her clit in the right spot. He shook his head almost imperceptibly as she scratched herself under a breast, surreptitiously trying to displace the itchy rope that was digging into her skin. He grinned sardonically whenever she glared at him, telling him with her eyes how hard she was finding his torment. And, judging from the bulge in his jeans, he found her predicament as arousing as she did.
Finally, when she found herself without a conversation partner for a moment, he sauntered over to her, turning his back to the other people in the room to hide his erection from view.
‘I bet you’re sopping fucking wet,’ he said under his breath as he handed her a glass of wine.
She coloured, hoping that no one would have heard the words.
‘Well? You’re dripping, aren’t you?’
She nodded, speechlessly.
‘Tell me,’ he instructed her.
‘I … I’m wet, Connor.’ She glanced around, checking whether any of her relatives were within earshot. Only Aunt Muriel and Uncle Fred seemed to be close enough to be able to hear them, but thankfully, they gave no indication of having overheard anything they shouldn’t have.
Her words weren’t good enough for Connor, though. He wanted details, as he always did. ‘Tell me how wet you are, Emma.’
Flames erupted in her cheeks. She didn’t want to be having this conversation in public. It was too embarrassing. And yet she couldn’t deny that it was turning her on immensely, as Connor would undoubtedly have known. ‘I’m … I’m very wet, Connor.’
‘I suspected as much,’ he answered smugly. ‘Tell me, my little slut. Are you so wet your juices are running down your thighs?’
Her mouth went as dry as her pussy was wet. She couldn’t believe he was doing this to her at a family get-together. She couldn’t believe that he had the audacity to be having this conversation in front of so many people, and that she was actually indulging him. ‘Yes.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I … I’m so wet it’s running down my thighs, Connor.’ She whispered the last few words in a voice so low that it was barely audible.
‘Show me.’
She stared at him, not believing her ears.
‘I said: show me. Find yourself a quiet spot, stick your hand between your thighs and show me how wet you are.’
She let out an involuntary groan. ‘Connor …’
‘No remonstrations. Go touch yourself, Emma, then show me your hand. Show me what a dirty girl you are.’
Just then, she felt a trickle run down her left thigh, agonisingly slowly but surely. It was ridiculous how wet Connor’s games made her.
‘Now, Emma.’
She sighed, then took a few sips of wine for extra courage. With her heart pounding in her chest, she put down her glass and made for the toilet, brushing off the two nieces who accosted her. Once inside the small cubicle, she lifted her skirt and put her right hand between her legs. She didn’t even have to push the rope aside to feel how extraordinarily wet she was; she could feel the cool moisture pooling on her inner thigh. She ran her hand through it, then pulled her skirt down with her other hand. When she emerged from the toilet, her cheeks were aflame, burning at the thought of what she was about to do.
She walked over to Connor, relieved that he had removed himself from the crowd. He was standing at the table, helping himself to some of the finger food her mother would have spent hours preparing.
She held up her hand for him to see. With a bit of luck, she hoped, it would look from a distance like she was showing him a ring.
He inspected her hand, then her face. ‘So fucking wet,’ he murmured appreciatively. ‘Go on, lick your fingers, you little tart. Clean those dirty fingers.’