Elicitation by William Vitelli

the floor. With shaking hands, she picked up the rubber straps. She wrapped each one around her upper thigh just as he had done, and jumped slightly as she pressed each tiny padlock closed with a click. Her heart pounded and her lips trembled; a part of her could not understand why she was willing to be an accomplice to his sexually deviant “training.”

Chapter 7
     
    When she returned to the living room, he was getting dressed; formal black suit, white shirt, tie. When he’d finished, he smiled warmly and held out his hand to her. “Shall we?”
    They left the hotel and headed out into the city’s streets. She walked awkwardly. The dress hampered her efforts to walk without the cruel metal spikes raking the smooth skin of her inner thighs. He hurried her along; she gasped each time metal scraped along skin. It was not until after they’d been walking for nearly ten minutes that she finally found the rhythm that kept the points away from her, swaying her hips with an even more exaggerated motion than she had before.
    The eyes of every passing stranger were a tangible weight on her as they walked. She lowered her head, feeling exposed and vulnerable, the wag of her ass an invitation to everyone who crossed her path. Anthony moved quickly, making her scurry to keep up.
    Eventually, as evening fell, they made their way to the Tower of London, the magnificent, palatial monument to conquest. He led her toward one of the tower’s many gates. “Amazing sense of history here,” he said conversationally. “There’s a ceremony they hold every night here I’ve always wanted to see. The Chief Yeoman Warder locks up the tower and presents the keys for safekeeping. They’ve been doing it for five hundred years now. And look!” He reached into a pocket. “As it just so happens, I have tickets!” He pointed excitedly over the gate. “Oh, look! Is that a trebuchet?”
    She remained silent as he ushered them through the gate. “True story,” he said. “Only once in modern times has this ceremony been interrupted, during World War II, when Nazi bombs fell right by the tower. What a big mess that caused! The warder was a few minutes late turning in the keys. Whole big stink about it. Letters to the king, you name it. They eventually decided not to punish the poor guy, on account of it being the Nazis’ fault and all.” He grinned boyishly. “Now that’s what I call tradition.”
    His voice faded to the background of her consciousness as he spoke. Her nipples had begun to itch, and a growing, insistent tingle was spreading between her legs. The sensation grew stronger by the minute, an irresistible, stinging irritation she could not ignore. She struggled to keep her hands at her sides; she felt desperate to touch herself, to ease the maddening itch, and mortified at the thought that someone might see her. Her nipples grew hard of their own accord, and between her legs, dampness spread as the tingle took hold. She folded her arms tightly in front of her and tried to rub her nipples surreptitiously through her dress. They were far more sensitive than she was prepared for, and the brush of her arm sent a jolt through her, making her moan. She tried to squeeze her legs together against the heat and the demanding, insistent itch; metal studs bit into her thighs, and she yelped and opened her legs.
    The ceremony was quite simple, and took only a few minutes. Eileen scarcely noticed; her attention was consumed by the sensory assault. Her nipples burned; her pussy and anus prickled from within. She could not stop thinking about the things she had done to herself in the hotel. A tiny part of her longed for the dildo inside her, the cool metal shaft in her ass—not for sexual pleasure, she hastened to tell herself, but just to relieve that maddening itch.
    People jostled around her. Anthony took her arm. “My, my, my. You can’t keep still, can you, little whore?”
    She jumped at his touch, only then becoming aware that she had