Despite his being tied naked to the old vine trellis up against the house wall, his arms raised in the form of a crucifix, she saw no vulnerability in him. He stood resolute in the knowledge that he knew what she wanted to know and there was nothing she could do to make him reveal it until the time was right. Nothing. As to his current predicament, his first error had been to declare this to her as he knocked back the last of the port at the end of the meal. His second was to play along when Francesca had declared that he therefore left her with no option but to conduct a strip search. Being strapped to the vine had not so much been an error as an obligation, on the basis that she held the cheese knife to his balls and, when he had resisted, she cut just a little nick into them to assert her authority. But still he remained silent.
‘You will tell me, my darling,’ she maintained as she admired his equally resolute erection.
‘All in good time, my sweet.’
She took his shaft in one hand and stroked it. ‘Pretty please? It is Valentine’s Day after all. Tell me what it is you have planned for me?’
‘It would spoil the surprise.’
She lifted his shaft and slapped his balls hard. He yelped. She raised an eyebrow.
Francesca moved away and filled her glass with more champagne. The brimming of the bubbles over the top reminded her of his sperm surging into her fondling hand as he slept the night before, and she smiled as she remembered his dreamy groans.
Spotting the remains of the caviar, she put down her glass and used the little wooden spatula to spoon a little on to tip of Robert’s penis. She knelt before him and ran her tongue up and down the eye of the tip. He twitched, almost upsetting the precious cargo. Opening her mouth, he watched his cock disappear slowly into it, before she closed her lips around him and pulled off to take the caviar.
With the meaty cock in her mouth and the salty roe on her taste buds, Francesca felt exquisitely aroused. They had been seducing each other all evening. She didn’t know how much longer she could wait. She was wet. She wanted him. She wanted to be fucked by him. But she also knew that to give in to her desires now would mean she had let him win this game they had gotten themselves into. Never!
She stood. With her face a fraction from his, her lips almost upon his, she took his shaft in her hand once more and began to run it up and down its length. Gently, slowly at first.
‘If you tell me, you can have me. Right here, right now. On the table here on the veranda.’ She tightened her grip and pumped him faster.
‘Just imagine me lying naked on the table, my legs dangling over the edge, spread wide for you.’ Her hand damp with his warm pre-cum, she took his balls in her other hand and caressed them at the same time.
‘Remember what it feels like to slip your cock inside me. Feel me grip you. Imagine my body writhing with desire for you.’ Suddenly she froze. ‘What’s that?’
Drifting up from the gardens she could hear music.
‘Don’t stop,’ he begged. His cock was twitching incessantly now and she noticed his eyes start to flicker.
Music. Fragments of phrases, no more. The breeze stealing the occasional note. She could just make it out. A flute. ‘Is this my surprise? Robert?’
‘Please, Fran, please.’
‘Too bad.’ She pinched the base of his shaft, cutting off the flow before it even began. He gave out a groan of frustration from the very core of his soul. ‘Later. Maybe.’
‘Robert, tell me, is this my surprise?’
Resigned, he nodded and smiled.
‘So, what now?’
‘You have to follow the music.’
Kicking off her heels Francesca ran onto the grass. It was refreshingly cool on her feet.
Robert called after her. ‘Hey!’
‘Quickly then.’ She ran back up onto the veranda to untie him. ‘No, wait.’
She disappeared inside the house, emerging with a black leather cock cage. She strapped it onto him before attaching a leash to the end and untying his hands from the vine. ‘Behave,’ she ordered with a hard tug, passing him her glass and the bottle to carry.
She ran back onto the lawns in pursuit of this heavenly music, leading Robert by the cock. At the end of the lawn, she paused. She listened. She could make out the music clearly now. Telemann Sonata II, the first movement. Smooth, ebbing, flowing. The rose garden, of course. It was coming from the rose garden. A sip of champagne, and on she ran.
Moments later she stood by its entrance. She paused, allowing the music to seep into her very core, before stepping quietly through the arch. There in the centre of the sunken garden stood a young flautist, naked but for his flute.
‘You remembered,’ she whispered.
Some months earlier, dining at Langhams, Robert had caught her visually enjoying one of the waiters. She denied it, of course, but to no avail.
‘Would you?” he asked.
‘Would I what?’
‘Would you actually fuck him if you had the chance?”
Francesca paused and, with a mischievous look in her eyes, responded, ‘Maybe.’
‘French waiters make awful lovers, you know. Far too self-interested.’
So began a discussion on which professions were likely to be the most satisfying in bed. Robert had very quickly settled on a policewoman. It was the handcuffs and discipline. Francesca was a lot less clichéd in her decision and far more considered. Some significant time later, having dismissed pilots and solicitors and builders and firemen and actors and shop assistants and doctors and teachers and a raft of others besides for, in no particular order, having no passion or false passion or rough hands or arrogance or sharp fingernails or small cocks, she fell onto musicians and soon warmed to her theme. It seemed obvious to her that they are capable of both sensuality and passion, and have an innate rhythm. And from there she finally decided upon a flautist. All those years of practice would surely create firm lips, a supple tongue, and dexterous fingers. Flautist it was.
Dinner over, she thought nothing more of it. Not, that is, until now. Not, that is, until Robert looked into her eyes and told her, ‘Happy Valentine’s Day, my darling. He’s all yours. Enjoy him’.
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
Francesca paused.
‘Don’t leave. Promise me you’ll stay and watch.’
He promised, settling down on the grassy bank as Francesca dropped his leash and slowly descended into the centre of the garden.
Standing there, playing his instrument, the warm glow of the moon gave a soft radiance to the skin of her flautist. It was as if he were some Greek statue of marble brought magically to life. She walked around him, taking in every nuance of his perfection. He was young, so beautifully young and unblemished. He played on, not one note astray.