The Sound Revolution

Alexandra Rasputin, teeth dug into a ball gag as she breathed through her nose, was hung from the ceiling of the Rumpo Room. She was wearing a white lace bra and panties, hold up white stockings and killer heels. Her hands were bound, not too tightly, behind her back, and she was suspended from the ceiling by a rope, weighted to cause mild discomfort in her arms. A spreader bar was attached to her ankles, her idea. She enjoyed the strappado and found it stylistically pleasing, the sense of helplessness was both thrilling and frightening, but she derived a perverse comfort from Conan’s attentiveness. He checked with her all the time to make sure there was not too much pressure on her arms. Yet he grew distracted and just plain weird. He’d muttered cryptically when they’d walked in it was ‘a very special anniversary’ but wouldn’t elaborate. He paddled her arse now and again. She found the pain cleansing. Conan, naked save for bottomless chaps, circled her and took pictures on his phone. They did this often. She liked looking at the pictures later. Conan would tell her she looked beautiful on them and she believed it. They were aesthetically pleasing.

It was a wet and humid summer evening and the atmosphere in the Rumpo Room was stifling and oppressive. They were both dripping with sweat and outside of their breathing the only audible noise was the rain beating on the roof. Raising her head risked dislocating her shoulders so she stared at the floor, her long flowing locks just inches above the bare cement floor. She could not see what Conan was up to but could hear him in the background, rattling around as he arranged things. She heard the clink of a bottle catching a glass. Then rustling, the scrape of a table being pushed near her. Suddenly Conan dropped to the floor on his knees and pressed his face against her. Alexandra smelled the whisky on his breath and in short, she was afraid but she could not scream, all she could do was press her tongue helplessly against the ball gag. She raised her head and a sharp hot pain shot along her arms into her shoulder blades. Conan threw the glass he had been guzzling from against the wall and stepped onto the sharp fragments. He left a bloody trail as he shuffled aimlessly around for a few minutes, draining the bottle of scotch. When that was empty it too was flung against the wall. “Death day” slurred Conan, giving her two hefty whacks on the arse with a studded paddle. His phone flashed. Alexandra hit the floor after he untied the rope tethering her to the ceiling.

“You can watch me, cunt but I don’t want to hear you speak. Understand me, cunt?”

Furious but realising she was unable to repel his advances Alexandra assented with a nod. Conan had a cinerary urn in his hands.

“It’s her death day.”

Alexandra was trying to undo the leather strap binding her wrists but it was hopeless. Conan was irked by her attempt to cast off her restraints, “Don’t move a muscle bitch. See the evil in my eyes.”

His cruel eyes were black and fathomless and she ceased her struggle, hoping that the amount of booze he had sunk would render him senseless.

“When you’re all alone,” Conan spluttered, convulsed by sobs, his face streaked with tears, “Here’s what you’ll keep saying.”

He walked over to the table he had set up and cranked the ancient gramophone into life. The spectral echo of My Mammy filled the bunker. Hugging the ashes urn tight to her chest Conan mimed out of sync with the crackling 78.

“Mammy, mammy, the sun shines east, the sun shines west, I know where the sun shines best…”

Conan rolled Alexandra over so she was face down on the concrete and felt her arsehole and pussy roughly through her panties. Despite her fear and discomfort she found it a turn on and was soaking wet. The charade had to some extent humanised Conan. He was more flesh and blood and fucked in the head vivid for Alexandra. Conan stuck his thumb in her anus and two fingers up her pussy. Then something seemed to go in him again.

“Slut…”

Alexandra watched him stagger towards the exit clutching the urn. He didn’t even give a backward glance as he extinguished the light and slammed the door shut behind him. At first, Alexandra worried that he’d wrap his car around a lamp post and kill himself then she was worried about herself, when the fuck will he come back for her. She was alone in the darkness with only the sound of a crackling stylus for company. Head full of creepypasta, Alexandra had got the fear.

La Regle du Jeu

Alexandra was sat bolt upright on the sofa in Conan’s living room in his dressing-gown, a glass of brandy cradled in her hands, numbed and staring into space. She had showered and was without makeup with her hair scraped back. Conan had never seen her looking so beautiful. There had been a tangible shift in their relationship. Alexandra regarded him with cold fury, barely able to conceal her revulsion while he was repentant to the point of abjection. After he had abandoned her in the Rumpo Room she had listened for the sound of his car pulling away but it had never come. Initially, she had been relieved but then she realised he could have passed out drunk at the wheel and she could be there hours.

Alexandra had been correct on both counts, left in the darkness for three hours till he awoke from his stupor and stumbled into the Rumpo Room to free her. She had kicked and punched him in a frenzy and dragged her long scarlet nails down his face. Alexandra drove them back to his flat in silence, pausing only to let him puke on the side on the road. During those lonely hours in the blackness bad memories crowded in on her and attendant neuroses multiplied like metastasizing tumour cells and she had a nightmare vision of being thrown bound and gagged into a deep grave and the rotting corpses of her parents piled on top of her. Then light invaded the room and in staggered Conan still clutching his mother’s ashes as he clumsily undid her bindings. If the mild pain she experienced during the light bondage sessions had a perverse cleansing affect her on, the fear had liberated her, she no longer saw him as handsome, cruel and aloof, a rich and cultivated man too good for her, but as a drunken, bullying oddball tethered to the past.

Fuck him and his cheap gifts and his big cock which she had grown bored of. Alexandra had snatched the urn off Conan, and, after spitting in his face, threatened to scatter the ashes into the rainy summer night. Despite his inebriation, the sight of Alexandra shrieking obscenities and swinging the urn around over her head seemed to trigger some instinct in Conan and he became apologetic and beseeching, pleading for forgiveness. Back at the flat, he had continued in this vein. He told her seemingly every detail of his youth, about his emotionally remote father and warm and loving mother, how her death at a tragically young age from cancer had left him emotionally stunted and abandoned in early adolescence. It was only within the rules of their game he could pretend to be a sexual being in a relationship. Alexandra had smiled sweetly and told him to get fucked. No, this shit was done and he was lucky she didn’t publicly embarrass him by going to the police. She couldn’t keep the anger up, not through exhaustion but because he’d laced her brandy with liquid diazepam. As she slipped into a dreamlike state, all she could hear was his gently purring voice assuring her they were meant to be together, this crisis marked a new and healthier stage in their relationship and that there would be a new set of rules for the game.

From his props basket, he showed a toy set of traffic lights. In future when they indulged in BDSM she could direct things by the flick of a switch. Red would call a halt to proceedings, amber a lessening in intensity, green that things could be stepped up a gear. Conan promised her that he would take turns with her being the submissive partner as a way of penance, and, typically left field, selected a wind instrument as his means of indicating if their play was getting too rough. Alexandra agreed to these new terms, on the condition he let her fuck him up his arse with a strap on.

Over the next few weeks in the Rumpo Room, they explored the outer limits of BDSM, with Conan on a booze ban and using the traffic lights and wind instrument to enforce the rules of the game. They took turns being the dominant and submissive, and at times their sex games took on the air of performance art. They are switches and they have an ironic catchphrase they deploy to signify pleasure, “I like your kink.”

At the end of a particularly strenuous hot wax session, Alexandra, looking sensational in thigh-length patent leather boots and nipple clamps, declared she was going to take his ass virginity. Conan allowed himself to be put in the bondage stocks, clutching an object tightly in his left hand. Alexandra rimmed him and sucked his balls from behind before anointing his anus with orgy butter. She tightened the strap on around her waist and felt her wetness before gliding it up his arse. It went up easily and she got into the rhythm. Conan was silent. Eager to get a response she thrust harder. The distinctive buzzing hum of the kazoo echoed within the Rumpo Room.

To be continued…