The fabric of the blindfold rests heavy on my cheeks and nose, the knot a small weight tugging at the back of my head. Behind me, soft loops of thick cord confine my wrists.
Martin's soft baritone rumbles in my ear. "Ready?"
"Ready as I'll ever be." My voice, usually half an octave deeper than his, emerges high and a bit reedy.
He tucks his hand into my elbow and leads me forward, his bootheels ringing softly against the floor.
"There's a slight threshold."
I grope ahead, and my bare toes find a slight bump in the flooring.
The stones of the corridor are cool under my feet. The air is cooler, too, and moving. It brushes my bare skin, and I feel my nipples tighten and crinkle. My cock can't decide whether to stand to attention, or head for the hills.
"Will anyone see us?"
"I've sent everyone away. There shouldn't be anyone here but us."
As we move, I notice small pockets of warm air on my shoulder every so often. A faint whiff of creosote tells me they're torches. I want to turn toward each one as if I'm a daisy and it a tiny sun.
Martin doesn't rush me, but he doesn't slow, either. Eventually, he stops.
"We're turning left. Another threshold."
The air is warmer, and there's a feeling of enclosed space. I can't tell how large the room is, or what might be in it. My fingers itch to reach for the blindfold, and I'm glad for the pressure of the cords against my wrists.
Martin guides me forward a few more steps, stops me, and turns me with his hands on my shoulders.
"There's a cushion in front of you. Ease forward until you feel it against your ankles, then sit. It will be easiest if you go to your knees first and bring your legs around."
I inch forward until fringe tickles the tops of my feet. "Martin?" Balancing on one foot, I curl my toes under and brush them clumsily over the cushion. It's soft and plush, velvet-like. "Should I really sit on this? I mean, I'm naked, and..."
"It washes." His tone is still soft, but there's a thread of steel in it that brooks no disobedience. "Sit, please."
Awkward, I lurch forward and rock back as instructed. By the time I'm seated tailor-fashion, lush fabric tickling my ass and balls, Martin has also sat, presumably on a cushion of his own. I'd like to reach out and see just where he is and what he's sitting on, but I can't, so I wait and listen and try to guess.
"Comfortable?" He's less than an arm's length away, corner-on to me. In fact ... I shift my leg a bit, and my knee nudges his. He chuckles. "Well?"
"Sorry. Yes, thank you."
"Have you eaten today?"
"You asked me not to."
"And?" he prompts.
"Sorry. No, nothing save a small cup of water. You said I could have that."
"I did, and that's fine." Fabric rustles as he reaches for something in front of him. "I'm going to feed you now, and I'd like you to take the time to savor each morsel. Tell me what it is, if you can. If you're right, there may be a reward."
Martin's thumb brushes my lower lip, pressing gently. I open, and he slips something into my mouth. "Bite carefully, if you please. It has a stone."
The thing in my mouth is rounded, with a dimple. It has taut, slick skin. I bite down gently, as instructed, and am rewarded with a gush of tart, sweet juice. After a long day of denial, the sensation is overwhelming. Tears spring to my eyes, and my belly clenches. I suck hard and swallow the mouthful of juice, careful not to swallow the solid bits.
"A cherry," I gasp, when I can speak.
"Very good." I feel his arm around my back, and I feel the warmth of his body as he leans toward me. I feel his lips brush my cheek, then press more firmly. "I'll take the stone when you're ready," he adds as he sits back.
When I've scraped the succulent flesh away, I spit the pit carefully into a napkin Martin holds to my lips.
"Let's try something a bit more difficult." This next thing involves the clatter of a utensil, and a couple of decisive clicks against a plate. What Martin slides into my mouth is a thin block, firm but yielding, the taste sharp against my tongue.
"Right again." Martin leans in again, and this time his lips trace a line from my cheek down my jaw to my throat. My cock thickens and pulses its approval.
"Wine?" I nod. There's a long pause. "Well?"
"Oh. sorry." When Martin's secretary wrote to arrange our tryst, one of his specific requests was that I always speak my answers aloud. "Yes, please."
A glass bottle clanks against a metal vessel. Moments later, Martin's hand cups the back of my neck and the rim of a goblet is pressed to my lip. I inhale deeply, savoring the pungent aroma, and take careful sips.
There are no sounds to hint at the next item. "Careful this time," Martin cautions. "Don't bite down."
When I open to his touch, it's Martin's finger that slips inside, coated with something thick and sticky and sweet.
I slide back far enough to mumble, "Honey," around the invading digit before I lean forward again.
"Hmm, yess. Be sure to get it all."
I heed his advice and suck hard, licking and probing with my tongue. Martin presses deeper, nearly gagging me, and when I try to draw back, he cups the back of my head with his other hand. Bound, I'm helpless to do anything but swallow hard and try not to lose my balance. When he finally withdraws, my breath is more than a little ragged. So is his.
"Well done," he says after a moment, and I can't tell whether he means the guessing or the sucking.
The next thing he gives me is spongy and yeasty, with a slippery coating on one side. It's easy to identify as buttered bread. Martin kisses my lips, but only briefly. I whimper when he pulls away.
"Do you want more?"
I'm not sure whether he means more food, or more kissing, but the answer's the same. "Yes, please."
He chuckles and feeds me more cherries, cheese and honeyed bread. I can hear him chewing as well. When I ask for it, he presses the wine to my lips.
At length, Martin sighs and sits back. "I think we've had enough of this. Stay put for a moment, if you please."
He leans forward, and dishes clatter. They've been spread before us, I realize. Probably on a blanket, like an indoor picnic.
Martin rises. His heels tap the floor, and after a few stridesI hear the muffled thump of dishes being set on cloth-covered wood. A table, I guess, or perhaps a sideboard. When he returns, he sets something substantial on the stone floor, which is definitely covered with a blanket or rug.
There's a clang and a muffled clatter. A lid being lifted, perhaps, and then set down. A heady aroma of roast meat and spices washes over me. I moan low under my breath. Martin chuckles.
"Next one'es difficult," he cautions. "It's probably not what you think."
What's passed between my lips is a sliver of meat, mild but a little gamey, flavored with herbs. "Chicken?" I guess after a long pause. "No, wait. Surely it can't be ... rabbit?"
There is soft applause from the cushion next to mine. "Oh, well done! You definitely deserve a reward for that."
Martin leans close and puts a hand on my shoulder. Next thing I know, his lips are on mine, parting them, his tongue slipping between. My tongue rises to meet it, but he warns me off with the briefest of headshakes and a growl low in his throat. And so I sit there, helpless, and let him ravish my mouth, wishing the whole while that I could reach for him.
There are small meatballs in a rich gravy which I guess are veal but which turn out to be lamb. There are mushrooms, which I get, sauteed in butter, which I also guess correctly. Stewed barley nearly stumps me, but I get it at the last moment. And there's another bread, denser and heavier, that turns out to be rye.
Martin feeds both of us, interspersing bites of food with kisses and caresses. By the time he sits back again, my hunger is assuaged, but other appetites are raging.
Once more, Martin clears away some things and brings back others. When he sets the new things down, he doesn't sit himself. Instead, he crosses the room, and I hear him rummaging for something behind me.
When his boots click toward me again, there is a muffled thump of something large, heavy and soft dropping to the floor at my back. He nudges it forward until my fingertips brush soft cloth over firm padding.
"I've brought you a bolster. Lean back, please."
I try, but it proves difficult. The bolster is low enough that I can't recline on it without giving up my balance entirely. Twice I start to lean back, and twice I jerk upright before I quite commit. Martin crouches beside me and puts an arm like an iron bar around my shoulders.
"I'll help you, but you have to lean back. If you won't obey me, I'll have to stop."
This time, I make it all the way down.
"There, see? I knew you could do it."
"It's a little scary." It's more than a little scary, in fact. Sprawled on the cushions, I feel helpless as an overturned turtle.
"It is. But you're doing it. You're doing very well." Gently, he guides my legs apart and sits on my cushion between them. Now, I feel not only helpless but exposed.
Dessert is a creamy custard topped with brandied peaches. Once again, I lick and suck it from Martin's fingers while he cups the back of my head to support me. Martin amuses himself, dribbling bits of syrup on my chest and belly and licking them up. My cock bobs approval.
There's mulled wine to go along with the custard, redolent of cloves and cinnamon, so hot that the first sip nearly burns my mouth. "Careful," Martin warns, sounding amused.
.... There is more of this story ...