He woke slowly, pulled from sleep by the tug on his wrists, arms stretched out unnaturally, lashes catching against something as he tried to open his eyes. The material on his face was stretchy, following the contour of nose and brow. Darkness was all he could make out.
Something held his wrists, soft yet strong. And his ankles, he realised a second later, his body twisting restlessly against the bindings. A flush of heat rose through him as he felt the faintest of airs, warm and barely moving, slip across his skin, tremble against the fine hairs on his legs, over his chest and around his cock.
Naked.
Bound.
Blindfolded.
Breathe, he told himself, closing his eyes and forcing himself to calm, stretching out his other senses. Under his back, under his shoulders and ass and legs, a silky fabric hissed very softly with his movements, warm with his body heat where he lay. The image that popped into his head was clear ... disturbing, but clear ... and he turned his hands slightly, feeling for the edges of the bed, edges he should be able to reach. Against the tips of outstretched fingers, there was just the smooth plain of silken fabric.
No edges.
Not his bed.
The thought held him captive for a few moments, because he was sure, pretty damned sure, that he'd gone to sleep on the mushroom-coloured Egyptian cotton sheets of his queen-sized bed a few hours ago, alone, as usual, listening to the distant and vaguely hostile sounds of his wife getting ready for bed in the guest room along the hall.
He pulled in another deep breath. The air was not, he recognised belatedly, the cool, edging-on-crisp, beginning-of-fall air that should've filled his bedroom, the window on the eastern side of the room left half-open all night long. Warm and caressing, it smelled primarily of some sweet blossom, underlaid by other scents that he couldn't identify readily. It felt thick in his throat and heavy over his bare skin.
It took a little longer to register that he wasn't alone.
The soft sighs and rustles, not close, but not all that far, that he'd thought were some kind of fabric, maybe a curtain somewhere, were a little louder, resolving into inhales and exhales, slurring whispers of cloth sliding free of fastenings, slipping over skin and puddling in gentle, final sighs on a harder surface. He strained against the blindfold, turning his head from side to side as he realised he could hear those sounds, those evocative, delicate sounds, from all sides. Surrounding him. Not alone, and there were more than one ... or two ... or three, he thought.
A frisson of panic snaked down his spine, lifting the hairs on the back of his neck, over his thighs. Not panic, he told himself, not yet.
The first touch, when it came, made him jump, muscles contracting over abdomen and chest, up his back and down his legs. Light as a cobweb, something slid along the side of his neck, ignoring the snap of his head in its direction, trailing over his left collarbone. On the other side, he felt a warm exhale, and another touch, equally light, tantalising, on the point of his shoulder, his skin twitching as it slipped over his chest, tangling momentarily in the hair, brushing feather light over his nipple. Then there were more, many more ... on his toes, along the sides of his knees, barely there, bringing his skin up in gooseflesh as his nervous system registered them, tried to keep track of them all. He couldn't see, couldn't anticipate them and he jerked a little with each fresh touch, his muscles fluttering and stammering, a vague pain in the bones of his wrists and ankles as he pulled against the soft bonds holding him in place.
The music made him start again, horns in deep chords, ominous and martial, filling the room from every corner, his perceptions too acute to do anything other than tremble at them. By the time the violins repeated the phrase, less than a second later, he was inundated by another sensation, as grazing fingertips were followed by the soft press of lips and the silky moist touch of tongue. When the flutes began, and some part of his mind finally recognised the piece, it's importance had receded, lost under the feel of a tongue, curling around the lobe of his ear, sending deep shivers down his neck and into his chest; under another, lapping along the inside of his thigh, stroking him in soft heat, the warm suction of a mouth over the inside of his elbow, of nibbling strokes moving downward against his sides, teeth grazing over his skin, cascading waves of pleasure becoming more and more concentrated, his cock throbbing with the blood that was filling it, stretching it ... touches everywhere, over his chest, along his arms, around his ankles, and the unmistakable glide of soft skin over him, a heated curve, the brittle scrape of nails following the pathways of his nerves.
He was being eaten, he thought blurrily, slowly, delicately eaten, lips too easily recognisable now, consuming every part of his body, except for one.
He registered the exclusion at the same time as it drew close to being painful, his balls swollen and straining his sac and his cock agonisingly aching and twitching, untended, untouched, amidst the conflagration that filled all the nerve centres surrounding it. The sweet notes of Korsakov's violin mocked the desperate yearning ache he could feel, filling his groin and not one finger or tongue or mouth touched the place he needed to be touched, though he could feel their hair, long and fine, falling and sliding and swirling around him, the fleeting brush of each strand sucking the air from his lungs as he tried to hold onto it, tried to make it last longer, straining upwards as they slithered over his skin and away.
The music quickened and the mouths and hands on him plucked and lapped and explored him more hungrily, dragging responses from parts of his body he'd never thought of as erotic, or maybe it was the culmination of them, he didn't know, couldn't care. His legs were lifted, and he arched up, involuntarily, helplessly, as a tongue slid up the crack of his ass, a satiny fall of hair spilled over his balls, fingers following the tongue's path and stroking him lightly, spreading his cheeks, exhales heated against his skin, as tangible as touch.
It was minutes or hours or days before he realised there were less touches, less caresses along his body, and he tensed against the soft cords holding him down, head turning from one side to another.
"No ..."
Had that breathy whisper come from him? He cleared his throat, body straining as he felt the slight dip and rise of the mattress. Another leaving him, leaving him when he needed them ... needed.
"Fuck, no ... please," he said, uncaring that he was begging, pleading. "Don't - don't stop!"
There was a sigh beside his ear, then lips pressed over his, and the tip of a tongue, tickling teasingly over his lower lip, pushing into his mouth. A flood of heat at that intrusion made his hips jerk upwards again, and he moaned into the mouth covering his, kissing back desperately, feeling the lips curving into a smile, soft hands holding the sides of his face, then sliding away, the tongue withdrawn, teeth gently nibbling on his lip then gone.
"Shsshhhh ... this is a long way from being over."
The voice was female, very low, husky and unknown. He swallowed at the feel of breath over his ear, his nostrils filled with a perfume that was slightly spicy, foreign, conjuring an image of desert and dunes in his mind's eye, and gone. He sucked in another breath as the mattress under him dipped deeper.
The scent that came with the dip brought the image of a basketball inexplicably to his mind's eye, then memory and recognition kicked in together. The locker room at his local gym, the showers and the steam and the smells of fresh male sweat, tangy and salty and musky. He sucked in a deep breath as a hand, much larger than the others, closed around the base of his throbbing shaft, sending a high-voltage pulse straight to the head.
"Wait a min-"
"Shshhhh."
