Relator VII
FMMM BDSM
I'm in the shower, tracing rapid circles over my exposed clit. Eyes shut, imagining I'm sucking off Isaiah.
Yep, in my mind's eye I can deep throat his schlong sword, no gag.
Fuck my phone. Fuck Margaret. But I answer.
Given my recent commissions, I'm nearly debt-free.
Fuck Uni Loans. They'll never be paid off.
The text: Visconti. Harbourside. Now.
I can't find close parking. I'm forced to walk three blocks.
The harbourside is different at night. The sandstone sidewalks that feel charming in daylight now seem treacherous, the gaps between pavers catching my heels.
I can smell the water before I see it—that brine-tang that clings to everything in this city.
Margaret is waiting near the ferry terminal, her small frame silhouetted against a bollard.
"You're late," she says, "The Visconti are at the sandstone terrace on the corner. Make sure you show them the cellars."
"Cellars?"
I'm still catching my breath.
"Margaret, that building has damp issues. The last inspection—"
"They know about the damp."
She starts walking, her heels clicking a precise rhythm on the stone.
"They want to see it anyway. Old European families, Beth. They have different priorities. Just get the sale."
And she thrusts the paperwork into my hands and is gone.
The Visconti are waiting in the courtyard of the converted terrace, three of them arranged like a Renaissance painting against the sandstone wall. There's a father—silver-haired, tailored coat that probably cost more than my car—and two sons who share his sharp cheekbones and lazy posture. The elder carries a briefcase. The younger one, I notice immediately, has a riding crop tucked under his arm like an afterthought.
"Signorina Jones." The father's accent is polished; each syllable is deliberate. "Your colleague explained that you are the expert on Sydney's harbour properties."
"Mr Visconti." I extend my hand.
"I'm happy to show you the terrace, though I should mention the cellar has some moisture issues—"
"Which is precisely why we're interested." The older son smiles, and it's not a nice smile. "In Milan, we maintain properties that are centuries old. Damp is not a problem. It is... character."
"The cellars," all three say, almost in unison.
The frickin light switch is on the blink at the top of the stairs.
The stairs descend into darkness that smells of earth and decay.
The father produces a flashlight —and the beam catches motes of dust suspended in the damp air.
My heels sink slightly into stone worn smooth by decades of footsteps.
We start the descent.
"The previous owners used this for storage," I say, my voice echoing against the low ceiling.
"But the potential for conversion is significant. Wine cellar, perhaps, or—"
"Or a playroom." The younger son, the one with the riding crop, runs his thumb along its length. The leather makes a soft sound in the silence. "We were very specific with your boss about our requirements."
The flashlight beam is fixed on a far corner where the damp has bloomed across the wall in small blots.
We enter the lower space. Thank Christ the light switch works here.
A single yellow, sickly, low-swinging globe.
"Stone walls for sound insulation. The damp can be managed with proper ventilation. And the isolation..." the elder son gestures to the heavy door at the top of the stairs, currently closed, "is absolute."
He sets his briefcase on a stone ledge. The brass hardware clicks as he unfastens it, and I realise with a slow, falling sensation that I know what's inside.
Not paperwork. Or the sales brochures. The weight of it, the way he carried it with such deliberate care.
He pulls out leather cuffs first. Heavy things, with buckles that would take time to fasten, to unfasten. Then rope, coiled neatly, the kind of natural fibre that would leave marks. A spreader bar that unfolds with a mechanical precision. A ball gag, the kind with breathing holes, the strap already adjusted to a medium setting.
"I thought," the elder says, "that we might test the acoustics. We, Visconti, are always concerned about discretion."
The younger son and father grip my forearms.
Visconti says, "Secure your commission."
The elder is arranging the equipment on the stone ledge like he's the one staging an open house.
My mother's voice in my head: You sell the dream, Beth.
You sell whatever they need to believe.
This is taking belief one step too far! Is it!
"Of course," I hear myself say. "Client satisfaction is my priority."
The father nods, as if this is exactly the answer he expected.
"Then perhaps we might begin with restraints. The stone walls—are there fixtures?"
His flashlight finds the iron rings set into the mortar, rusted but solid.
Someone planned for this, I think, my mind detaching slightly, floating above my body.
Someone always plans for this.
"Signorina Jones." The older son steps forward, the riding crop now loose in his hand. "If you would demonstrate the cuffs?"
I move toward the wall. My heels are loud against the stone. The damp has seeped through my blouse, making the silk cling to my skin, and I realise with distant embarrassment that I'm not wearing underwear—too much of a rush from my apartment.
The younger hands me the cuffs. The leather is supple, worn soft by use, and I wonder whose wrists last filled them. I fasten one around my left wrist, the buckle clicking into place with a sound like a door closing. The iron ring is cold when I thread the cuff through it.
"Both wrists," the father says. "We want to see the full extension."
I reach up, stretching my arms above my head, and the elder helps with the second cuff, his fingers efficient and impersonal.
The position pulls my blouse open further, exposing the marks Isaiah left on my collarbone.
"Excellent," the younger son murmurs. He hasn't moved from his spot against the wall, but his hand has found the front of his trousers, adjusting himself with casual entitlement. "The height is perfect. She couldn't touch the ground if she tried."
I test this, rising onto my toes, then letting my heels drop. The cuffs bite into my wrists, transferring my weight to the iron ring, and I feel the vulnerability of it settle over me like a second skin.
My arms are stretched, my body exposed, my balance precarious.
Anyone could do anything to me.
"The spreader bar," Visconti says, and the younger son; he's already unfolding it, the metal segments clicking into place.
"Ms Jones, if you would spread your legs."
I do. I have to. The bar goes between my ankles, the cuffs fastening with the same efficient clicks, and now I can't close my thighs, can't protect myself, can't do anything but hang there and wait for whatever comes next.
The damp has made my skirt cling to my ass. I feel it, the way the fabric has ridden up, the way the air moves against my exposed cunt.
The Visconti can see everything.
"The acoustics," the father reminds his sons.
The elder produces a flogger, the falls made of soft leather that would make a specific sound against flesh.
He tests it against his palm, and the crack echoes off the stone walls.
"Count," he tells me, and his voice has changed, taken on an edge I haven't heard before.
"Or don't.
The Visconti Count says, " I want to hear you scream."
The first stroke lands across my shoulders, and I do scream, the sound carrying up the stairs and bouncing back down, doubled. The second is lower, across my ribs, and I feel my body arch against the restraints, the cuffs cutting into my wrists as I try instinctively to protect myself.
"Again," the younger son says, and his voice is thick now, distracted.
The elder finds a rhythm. Not brutal—he's too controlled for that—but relentless, each stroke placed with the precision of someone who knows exactly how much I can take. My skin heats, sensitises, and I start to feel the blows before they land, my body anticipating, preparing.
Between strokes, I become aware of other sounds. The rustle of expensive fabric as the Visconti re-position themselves.
The soft click of a zipper.
"Turn her," the father says, and the son obeys, releasing one wrist cuff to spin me, reattaching it so I face the wall, my cheek pressed against the damp stone.
"The posterior offers better resonance."
The flogger finds my ass, and I jerk against the restraints, my cry sharper now, more desperate.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
My rump tingles. My arse cheek smart. I feel the heated redness.
The stone is cold against my nipples, hardening them, and I feel the absurdity of arousal building despite everything, because of everything. My pussy is wet—has been wet since the cuffs, maybe the stairs—and I know they can see it, the way I glisten under the flashlight beam.
"She enjoys it," the older son observes. "Listen to her breathing."
I want to deny this, but my body betrays me, pushing back into the next stroke, seeking the heat and impact.
He pauses, and I hear the flogger being set aside, replaced by something else.
The riding crop, I realise, when the first strike lands—sharper, more focused, a line of fire across my ass that makes me sob.
"Ooff! Oohh! Ooff! Oohh!"
The delicious transfix of pleasure and ache.
"Please," I gasp, not knowing what I'm asking for.
Stop, or continue, or harder, or—
"Please what?" The younger son is closer now, close enough that I can smell his cologne, something woody and expensive.
"Please stop, or please more?"
I can't answer.
Thwack. Thwack! Thwack!
The crop lands again, across the back of my thighs, and my knees buckle, my weight hanging entirely from the wrist cuffs.
The spreader bar keeps my legs apart, keeps me open, and I feel tears mixing with the damp on my face, salt on salt.
"She's ready," the old man says, and I don't know what I might be ready for until I hear the sound of a belt unbuckling, the whisper of fabric falling.
"The Visconti would like to test the final element. The... completion of the room's purpose."
Hands on my hips, positioning me. Fingers probing, finding me wet and open, and I hear the younger son laugh softly, a sound of satisfaction.
Then he's pushing into me, insistent, urgent, his hands gripping my welted ass for leverage.
"Aahh! Aahh!"
My body betrays.
My core satisfied as my centre is shaped, filled and drilled.
The stone scrapes my cheek as he fucks me.
Each thrust drives me against the wall, my tits flattened, my breath coming in gasps that echo in the cellar's darkness. The spreader bar keeps me from closing my legs, from adjusting the angle, and I feel every inch of him, the ridge of his cockhead dragging against my walls, the slap of his hips against my abused skin.
"Good," the father says, somewhere behind us.
"Very good acoustics. The stone carries the sound beautifully."
The flashlight catches the scene in fragments: my spread legs, his dark trousers pooled around his ankles, the way his hand has found my hair, pulling my head back to arch my spine.
I see myself reflected in a dark puddle on the floor, a distorted image of a woman being used, and I recognise the expression even in the distortion—need, desperation, the same look my mother had in the photographs from her glory days.
I revel in every thrust. My arching butt chases every retreating stroke. I join his pecker, pushing forward. I grind against each thrust.
He comes with a grunt, spilling into me, and I feel the pulse of it, the warmth spreading.
He pulls out immediately, leaving me gaping, dripping, and I hear the older son moving forward, already hard.
"Ms Jones," his voice cutting through the haze of my arousal and pain. "The Visconti require full demonstration. All... entrances."
I understand. I understood before he said it, before the older son's finger, slick with lube, pressed inside my asshole.
I relax into it because I have to, because there's no other option, and he pushes in with a groan that vibrates against my back.
I take the stretch and the rawness of the gape, of being opened where I shouldn't be opened, but I've learned to ride the ache.
He moves slowly, deliberately, showing off for his father, and I feel every millimetre of his progress, the way my body yields and resists.
The first finger. The delicate expansion. The second finger, the wiggle, the jiggle to pass the discomfort. The third finger, absa-fuckin-luxury. In my gawped state, I moan. I moan.
"Oohh! Oohh!"
His pecker follows fast.
A ram raid on my tush.
A blistering blitzkrieg of thrusts.
A deep, dirty pummelling of my cute balloon knot.
"Hnggh! Hnggh!"
"Excellent tightness," he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear.
He finishes inside me, adding to his brother's spend, and I'm trembling now, my arms numb from the cuffs, my legs shaking in the spreader bar.
They release me eventually, the younger son working the buckles with the same casual efficiency he'd use for his horse, and I collapse to the stone floor, my body a map of welts and bruises and strangers' cum.
The father crouches beside me. His hand tilts my chin up, and his eyes are kind in a way that terrifies me more than the sons' cruelty.
"You will secure the properties," he says. Not a question. "Three units, as discussed. When you recover, we can sign the paperwork."
I nod, or try to. My throat is raw from screaming.
"We will ensure you get the commission you deserve."
Later, outside, the harbour air hits me like a slap, cold and clean and full of salt.
The Visconti are already gone, disappeared into the night with the same efficiency they arrived.
I walk beyond the ferry terminal, each step sending fresh pain through my bruised body.
My phone buzzes— I hope Isaiah.
Christ, it's Marcus!
My boyfriend? Still thinks he is? Is he?
He doesn't leave a message.
God, I haven't contacted him since when?
I've too many experiences to process, to respond to the dude.
The harbour stretches before me, dark and indifferent.
I think of my mother, her dreams, her advice.
How I've sold and been sold in turn.
Relator's dreams.
My phone buzzes again.
I look—Margaret.
A single line: The Visconti want you for the closing dinner. Little black dress. Collar optional.
I laugh, and the sound carries across the water, swallowed by the dark.
I type my response with shaking thumbs: I'll wear the collar.
Send. Delivered. Read.
The ferry horn sounds in the distance, mournful and vast, and I keep walking toward the lights, toward the next deal, toward the slut embracing woman I am becoming, one gloriously filthy transaction at a time.