4th Game - "Mirror Maze Exhibition"

By dusk the basement resembles a fun-house chapel: eight full-length mirrors form a staggered corridor, their angles trapping infinite reflections. Tea-lights glow in hurricane chimneys, multiplying warm sparks into constellations.

Outside the maze, a high bistro table offers chilled Crémant de Bourgogne and canapés. Three invited voyeurs—Marc, Li, and Rina—mingle in cocktail black, holding strict etiquette cards:

- No phone cameras.

- Hands clasped behind their backs at all times.

- Verbal reactions kept beneath a theatre whisper.

Zoe and I glide downstairs in evening-wear: she in a burgundy satin sheath with a thigh-high slit; I in a backless midnight gown with an onyx collar. Beneath, each of us wears a slender harness—cock-less tonight, because the focus rests on the gallery’s living art.

Eva and Noor descend naked except for jewelled leashes. We guide them to a prep dais:

Insert the purple egg #1 into Eva; the teal egg #2 into Noor.

High-gloss lube ensures a comfy slide; condoms for hygiene.

Both plugs are set to silent, awaiting remote command.

Black velvet collars are tightened, leashes clipped to wrist cuffs held at sternums—a self-embrace posture that declares, Look, don’t touch.

“Colour?”—two green whispers.

Marc’s breath audibly hitches; Li’s eyes flare, then dim respectfully.

We release the leashes and instruct the subs: “Hands stay on collars. Walk heel-ball-toe. Stop at any mirror marked with a gold dot. Pose for two beats, then move on.”

The metronome app, set to 60 BPM, streams low percussion; every four beats, Zoe or I may juice a plug.

Layout: Mirror A angles right, Mirror B angles left, Mirror C straight—eight in total, the last two forming a V that multiplies images endlessly.

Bare soles kiss vinyl, faint suction squeaks. Eva rounds Mirror A; reflections spawn—her body filmed from flank, rear, above. The purple remote is set to thirty percent. She flinches, seeing her own thigh tremor twenty times.

Noor pauses at Mirror B; the teal egg quick-pulses. Nipples pebble as echoes ripple down the endless corridor. Guests inhale quietly.

Halfway, Mirrors D and E face each other. We position the subs nose-to-nose; leashes click onto discreet D-rings so they cannot break distance. Reflections clone them into kaleidoscopic chessboards—faces, breasts, damp thighs repeated to the horizon.

I raise my voice for the guests: “Note posture—how shame colours the glass.” Remote buttons: high constant, five seconds, both plugs. Eva bites back a squeal; Noor’s knees soften—heard only by reflections, not by the polite hush of the audience.

Zoe orders, “Whisper your filthiest thought.” They obey in breath-thin Spanish and Arabic. Mirrors swallow confessions; guests hear only cadence, forced to imagine the dirt.

Pulse mode stops; their legs wobble, their clits throb behind silicone—but climax is forbidden.

Mirrors G and H form a tight vertex, leaving only sixty centimetres between edges. Sub order: kneel facing glass, foreheads nearly touching the surface, asses out to the audience. Camera-flash illusions echo down angles—endless kneels, endless parted lips.

We thicken ambience: a low cello drone; lights dim, leaving only tea-light shards in mirror facets. Remote pattern: build-build-pause—thirty percent, then fifty percent, then off three seconds before the orgasm edge. Both subs mewl softly; slick trails down inner knees. Gold-dot squares glisten under the candles.

I whisper to the guests, “Observe discipline of denial—wet spills yet orgasm is withheld.” Rina bites her lip; Marc’s fists clench behind his back.

At my nod, Zoe spools the teal egg to maximum—steady earthquake; I echo with the purple. Remote safeties are set to auto-off at seventy seconds. We count silent heartbeats. Eva’s toes curl; Noor’s shoulder blades pinch. A soft chorus of sobs and moans harmonises with the cello.

Sixty-second mark: Eva shudders, climax splashing glass—reflections fractalise her release. Noor peaks milliseconds later, a wave colliding with the infinity panel. Auto-off clicks; vibration ceases, leaving echoes throbbing in veins.

Guests are permitted a small clap. Subs lean against mirrors, panting, streaks fogging the glass. We unclip leashes, cradle each under an arm, guide them along the exit path—mirrors still chewing light.

The audience stands in silent ovation, then disperses upstairs for charcuterie while we manage after-care.

Plugs are out, condoms binned. Warm cloths wipe thighs; arnica kisses rope-red wrists. Plush robes envelope the subs; sugar cubes and water melt the tremor.

“Colour?”
Eva: “Mint-tea green.”
Noor: “Pistachio-cream green.”

I dim the mirrors; facets fade to black. The basement hum lulls four hearts into calm. Upstairs, the city sparkles across the windowpane—another reflection, kinder than those below. And tomorrow, new glass waits for fresh sins to write.

---o0o---

5th Game - "The Librarian's Silence"

We transform the loft above the workshop into a midnight reading room. Half the bookcases roll on casters; we arrange them into four aisles, spines outward: leather-bound aeronautics tomes, Zoe’s French poetry, Noor’s quantum texts, and Eva’s battered sci-fi. Low sconces cast amber cones; every squeak echoes like a librarian’s rebuke.

Implements on the mahogany table:

- Two silicone bit-gags, for enforced silence, drool humiliation (horse-bit style, leather cheek-straps).

- Birch cane (75 cm), for sharp correction, sanded smooth.

- Sable dusting brush (30 cm), for feathery contrast, painter grade.

- Remote eggs #1 (purple) and #2 (teal), for silent teasing, fresh condoms fitted.

The cane rests on a heavy cloth titled Early Modern Libraries—symbolism that pleases me.

The subs arrive in knee-length grey shift dresses—school-girl modest. Narrow leather bands circle their wrists but remain unbuckled.

Zoe and I wear high-waist pencil skirts and blouses buttoned to the throat, plus librarian glasses without lenses: discipline chic.

Whispered rules (never above conversational level):

- Once gags are in, any sound louder than a muffled hum earns one cane stroke.

- Each “shhh” gesture from us means hold absolutely still.

- Eggs vibrate whenever a book is returned to the wrong shelf; order is sacred.

- Orgasms are forbidden until the hand-chime rings.

Eva clasps her hands behind her back, eyes glittering. Noor inhales the musk of paper, dust, and beeswax polish.
Colour check—both answer green.

Bits slide between lips; straps buckle behind tight buns. Drool pools at bite corners. We slip the purple egg into Eva, the teal egg into Noor—dresses hide the plugs for now.

We start with the first task: Each sub must re-shelve ten books drawn from a cart stacked deliberately wrong, matching spine stickers to shelf labels via index cards we provide.

They pad down aisles, skirts swishing. Every misplaced book triggers our remote at twenty percent for five seconds. Noor slips a Neruda next to Nietzsche—bzzzt. She squeaks—too loud. Crack! The cane lands on her upper thigh. She freezes, eyes wide. Eva bites her bit harder to stifle a sympathy sound.

Row finished, we grant a sable-brush reward: I lift Eva’s hem, sweeping bristles across damp cotton knickers. Her hips shiver; a silent gush warms fabric. The brush flutters between her thighs—tickle-torment; her muffled moan almost breaks the rule, but she swallows it.

Next error: Noor files Hugo under Hawking. Two cane taps—sharp but not welt-deep. Her gasp topples books—noise again. Another stroke: a caramel streak blooms on bronze skin.

Lights dim to desk-lamp glow. We strip dresses, fold them onto silent reading chairs. Bits stay; collars catch new drool strings. Eggs now hum on pulse pattern 1. Book spines reflect pink skin and faint cane lines.

Now, we continue with the second task: each sub must crawl to the poetry alcove and alphabetise slim chapbooks. Motion sensors in eggs deliver random zaps. Each gasp must be swallowed. Two hums rise too high; each earns the cane at the butt-crease, leaving latte-coloured bars.

I notice Noor dripping onto the Persian runner; every droplet stains wool. Zoe brushes the sable tip along the wet mark, lifting a salt-sweet scent.

Chapbooks complete, the subs crawl to the central mahogany desk. Silk ribbon binds hands palm-to-palm behind. The eggs shift to continuous thirty percent.

They kneel face-to-face; the bits almost touch. “Three minutes absolutely still,” I whisper. “Any movement, any sound—cane.”

Minute one: trembling thighs, silent.

Minute two: Eva’s egg escalates; her eyes plead. A knee twitches—crack! Underside stripe.

Minute three: Noor hovers on climax; shoulders quake. The bell finishes the three-minute mark; relief is still denied.

The bits are removed; tongues stretch, drool snaps.

A final task: each sub must recite one favourite line from any shelved book, quietly, in original language.

Eva whispers Bradbury: “Stuff your eyes with wonder.”

Noor answers in Arabic with Darwish: “On this earth, what makes life worth living.”

The reward comes: eggs ramp to sixty percent for fifteen seconds, the sable brush flicks clits, the cane taps rhythm on trembling thighs. Near-mute orgasms ripple; tears glisten.

The bell chimes a finale; remotes switch off. The story ends.

Bits are unbuckled, ribbons snipped, eggs removed. Warm water and honey-vanilla cookies appear. Arnica soothes cane stripes; cool cloths wipe drool-sticky chins. The subs curl on a velvet chaise, with a crocheted throw over their shoulders.

Zoe reads Baudelaire, I choose Lorca—library energy sealed with poetry.

“Colour?”
Eva: “Olive-leaf green.”
Noor: “Bamboo-shoot green.”

The lights dim. Books stand perfectly ordered—except one Neruda, purposefully misplaced: my omen for the next visit.

---o0o---