The Instrument (Lesbian BDSM Erotica) Read online

  THE INSTRUMENT

  by Rynna Cress

  APC Publishing

  ©2011

  This is an adult story focused on themes of bondage, discipline, and sadomasochism. Subject matter includes explicit sexual activity and increasingly intense BDSM scenes. If you find such material to be offensive, or if you live in an area where it is illegal or prohibited to own such material, then you should stop reading now.

  Otherwise… enjoy.

  -RC

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PART ONE

  PART TWO

  PART THREE

  PART FOUR

  EPILOGUE

  part 1

  “Today is going to be different.”

  Zoe stared at her reflection in the dirty mirror, daring it to disagree. She turned on the water, wrinkling her nose as the faucet hissed and spit own rusty, brownish liquid before finally running clear. After a moment, she sighed and splashed some over her face and through her dark purple Mohawk. She liked to tell people that the Mohawk was just part of her look, and it was, but in reality, it really came down to practicality. If people were going to notice her hair, she wanted them to notice it because it was unique, not because it was filthy.

  She looked up into the mirror again, her reflection obscured by the cloudy, cracked glass. At 24 years old, she had a smallish, mousy build, which gave a certain defensive quality to her sense of style. The ring in her nose, the tiger tattoo on the back of her neck, the tattered leather jacket, the mangy purple hair – it was all a warning, a necessary adaptation for a vulnerable girl living in a too-tough world. Don’t fucking underestimate me, it all seemed to say.

  Her guitar strapped to her back, she cautiously stepped out into the alley through a thick wooden door, padlocking it behind her. She was careful not to let anybody see her coming or going. The warehouse basement was pretty grimy, but it definitely beat sleeping under a bridge. The last thing she needed was someone realizing she was squatting and kicking her back out onto the streets. What’s more, she had heard blood-chilling tales of homeless girls getting attacked and gang-raped, or worse. She might have been a lot of things, but Zoe was determined never to be a victim.

  It was early in the day, and the waves of tourists hadn’t yet filled the streets of the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica. Still, Zoe needed to be there to stake her claim on the corner she liked – this was prime real estate for desperate, struggling musicians. Luckily for her, she didn’t have any competition yet today, save for a homeless lump snoring loudly on a bench under heaps of ratty blankets.

  She leaned up against a building and pulled her guitar out of its case, a scarred, beat up old pinewood acoustic with an extra hole cracked in its body. Not the most attractive instrument to some, maybe, but to Zoe, it was perfect. Despite the scuffs, the slightly bent neck, the jagged hole, and all of its other imperfections, it still played. She liked to think it was hanging on just for her, as if she gave it meaning. That, in turn, kept her going. If the guitar could hang in there, then so could she.

  She strummed out a chord or two, tweaking the tuning and ignoring a sleepy grumble from the homeless bench-dweller. The morning rush would start soon, and she wanted to be ready to perform, but for now, she just wanted to enjoy the solitude and play for herself. She loved performing, but the pressure of literally singing for her supper day in and day out was beyond draining. During these quiet mornings, she liked to play without that pressure, not because she needed someone to drop a dollar into her guitar case, but simply because she loved to play. In a world where she had next to nothing, it was just about the only voice she had left.

  This was why, when the homeless man abruptly sat up on his bench and interrupted her song to tell her to shut the fuck up, she literally had to bite down on the inside of her cheeks to keep herself from screaming at him. She took a few deep breaths, realizing that she had bitten too hard, drawing blood on both sides. No matter, she thought, spitting pink in the man’s direction. She dug around her pockets, finding a few bucks in change left over from yesterday’s street performances. “Here,” she said, handing the money over to the homeless man, “is this enough to get you to find another bench?” He looked her over, sizing her up, then finally grumbled incoherently, grabbed the last of her cash, and began shuffling off. Fuck, she thought to herself. So much for breakfast.

  “Not exactly your ideal audience.” Zoe turned to find an attractive, professional-looking woman of perhaps 40 standing in a coffee shop doorway, latte in hand, watching her. Her long, light brown hair, pale skin, and soft, graceful features gave her an almost animal-like beauty. Zoe was slightly struck – it wasn’t often that she appreciated another woman’s looks, let alone even noticed them.

  “Aren’t they typically supposed to pay you?” the woman asked.

  “Sometimes,” Zoe answered coldly. She didn’t like the thought of being watched and not knowing it. “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Long enough to see you play a bit,” the woman said. “Finish that song for me.”

  Zoe wasn’t used to such a commanding tone from her listeners, but she shrugged - might as well get an early start on winning the tourists over. She quickly launched back into the final verses of her song, skillfully picking up as if nothing had happened. Of course, it was different now with someone watching, but Zoe didn’t care. If there was one skill she had learned, it was how to shut the world out. All she had to do was close -

  “Open your eyes.”

  Zoe stopped playing, opening her eyes to look the woman over with a gaze that said, did you really just fucking interrupt me? “I’m sorry,” the woman said, reading Zoe’s look, “I just want to see your eyes when you’re playing.”

  “That’s weird.” Zoe flatly told her. The woman only smiled and shrugged, pulling a twenty-dollar bill out of her purse.

  “Humor me.”

  Eyes open, Zoe began playing again, finding herself looking anywhere except towards the woman. She could feel her piercing gaze, and it made Zoe intensely self-conscious, an unfamiliar feeling to her. When she finished the song, she finally stopped avoiding her. They met eyes, and though Zoe’s instincts told her to look elsewhere, an even stronger feeling told her not to dare look away. The woman smiled at Zoe, then walked over and handed her the bill.

  “You push people away, but your music begs them to come back,” she said. “I’m very intrigued.”

  “Thanks,” Zoe said in a weak, unsure voice, the voice of something naked, something exposed. The woman walked away, leaving Zoe feeling a strange mix of relief and disappointment. She looked down at the bill in her hand – it was folded around a business card. CLARE MADDOX, it read, PRODUCER, along with an address, circled. She flipped the card over – the back read, “tonight, 8:00 PM sharp.”

  She wasn’t sure why exactly, but Zoe’s throat suddenly went dry.

  **********

  Zoe looked at her watch – 8:06 PM – then back up at the home in front of her, a beautiful mountainside townhouse overlooking the Pacific. Damn, she thought to herself as she rang the bell, nervous and not sure why. A few moments passed before the door opened, revealing Clare in a long, white cotton dress.

  “You’re late,” she said softly.

  “Had to take the bus,” Zoe responded, trying not to sound defensive, “and it’s not exactly as if you live near a bus stop.”

  Clare smiled. “I didn’t think you would come, but I’m glad that you made it, and I’m glad you brought your guitar.”

  “I don’t go anywhere without it,” Zoe said, patting the shoulder strap. “So… what am I doing here?”

  “Please,” she answered, “come in.”
>
  Zoe followed Clare inside, gladly accepting the water that Clare offered. It was hot out, and lugging the guitar up into the hills on foot had been exhausting. She was more than happy to sit down at Clare’s bar when offered a seat.

  “I didn’t get your name this morning…” Clare began, sitting next to her.

  “It’s Zoe. Zoe Drake.”

  “Zoe. Hm...” She poured a glass of lemonade from a pitcher, took a sip, then finally added, “I’m Clare, and I thought that your music was quite impressive.”

  “Uh, thanks,” Zoe said, beginning to wonder where this was going. “Although you only heard one song.”

  “I’d like to hear more.”

  “Are you a music producer?”

  “Sometimes,” Clare answered. “I work on projects wherever they may turn up, so long as they interest me.”

  “And I… interest you?” Zoe asked, more quizzical than flirtatious.

  “So far,” Clare answered, adding, “I think you have a great deal of potential.”

  Zoe didn’t really know what to say, and again, could feel Clare’s gaze piercing into her. Finally, she spat out, “Look, don’t take this the wrong way… but are you some kind of dyke or something?” Clare laughed softly and took another sip of her drink. “Because that’s fine,” Zoe clarified, “but I’m not really into that, so…”

  “I just want to help you,” Clare offered. “You’re living in the streets, right?”

  “I’ve got a place.”

  “Of course you do. And does it have a shower? A roof?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that you look dirty and worn down,” Clare said, bluntly. “You look like your music is all you have.”

  “So?” Zoe answered, denying nothing.

  “So I want to give you more,” Clare said. She paused for a moment, and Zoe wondered what all she meant. As if sensing this, Clare went on. “A friend of mine owns a studio not far from here. I’ve already called him, and he’s very interested to hear you play for him tomorrow morning. He’ll record you, give your sound a professional mix, and then help you get it to the right people. I can’t promise that the record labels will be knocking your door down, but…”

  Clare stopped. Zoe sat very still, her head bent. “Zoe?”

  Zoe finally looked up, meeting Clare’s gaze. She had been working the streets for over two years now, and no one had ever taken notice of her or tried to help her. She had become totally used to being on her own, an independent, guarded creature. Now, with this woman offering to help, she was in foreign territory, a feeling that put her into an unexpectedly vulnerable headspace. “Why are you doing this?” she asked.

  Clare thought it over before answering. “I told you this morning,” she said, “You intrigue me.”

  They looked each other over for a few moments, a brief, silent conversation. Zoe felt like her defenses – the purple hair, the leather jacket, the gruff attitude – were completely useless with this woman. She felt a nervous energy that she didn’t recognize, but for some reason enjoyed. It was a feeling of powerlessness, the feeling that without her walls, she would have nothing, but she would also have nothing to bear. It was an intoxicating thought.

  Finally, Clare broke the silence. “I want you to be able to trust me, Zoe,” she said. Zoe’s mouth went dry again, and she could only nod her head. She wondered if Clare was going to kiss her, and to her amazement, found herself wishing that she would. She swallowed hard, realizing that she had unconsciously turned on her stool to face her body towards Clare, her legs slightly spread, her body flexing its weight down onto her seat, enjoying the pressure between her legs. Holy shit, she thought to herself, I’m practically begging this woman to make a move.

  Suddenly self-conscious, Zoe turned back to her glass of water, crossing her legs. Clare smiled, enjoying watching this beautiful young creature crumbling before her. “I want you to stay here tonight,” she told Zoe. “I have a guest room prepared for you. But first, why don’t you take a shower?”

  Zoe could hardly believe the words that came inexplicably out of her own mouth. “As you wish.”

  **********

  Clare showed Zoe to the bathroom, a luxurious room decorated with black and grey tile and golden brass fixtures. Zoe couldn’t remember the last time she had showered in anything nicer than a truck stop restroom, and she had to make a conscious effort to contain her excitement in front of Clare.

  “Just leave your clothes on the counter there by the door,” Clare told her. “I’ll get them into the wash while you’re cleaning up. There’s a bathrobe you can wear hanging in the tall cupboard over there.”

  And with that, she stepped out of the room, leaving Zoe alone. As excited as she was for a hot shower in this beautiful bathroom, she couldn’t help but hesitate. In Zoe’s world, everything came with a price, and she wondered what the price was going to be for all of the luxury this woman was so generously offering her. She still wondered if Clare was looking for sex, and tried to imagine how she would react if the mysterious woman made a move. People had often assumed that Zoe was queer, what with the hair and the leather jacket, but in reality, she had never really been attracted to a woman. But at the bar just now, Zoe had been legitimately aroused. She unbuttoned her fly and reached down into her crotch – Zoe wasn’t wearing panties, and her wetness had definitely soaked into her jeans. Damn, she thought, did she really want this woman washing these?

  But what choice did she have? Zoe stepped out of her boots and socks, then slid the jeans down over her hips, stepping out of them as she pulled off her jacket and hung it on the door. Then, she pulled off her tank top, revealing two perfectly round breasts, studs pierced through each nipple. She gathered the clothing by the door as instructed, and a strange thought hit her – when was the last time she had been totally naked? It had been months since she’d fucked anyone and weeks since her last shower, and she always slept in her clothes out of fear someone might try and break into the warehouse in the middle of the night. She honestly couldn’t remember, she realized, and now here she was, naked in a stranger’s house. Today was different indeed.

  After weeks of splashing cold, dirty water over her face every morning, the hot, steaming water from the shower felt amazing splashing across her hand, the temperature just perfect. She stepped in, giving an involuntary gasp as the water washed over her hair and body. She had given up on the luxury of comfort long ago, and forgotten how amazing a good shower could feel. As she began lathering soap onto her shoulders and breasts, she couldn’t help but smile.

  Then she thought about where she was, and about Clare, the woman who had made her intensely aroused with just a couple of words. Zoe replayed them in her head – I want you to be able to trust me. Zoe realized that she wanted to be able to trust her, too – desperately. It had been ages since she had been able to trust anyone, and she wasn’t sure if she knew how to do it anymore.

  She began spreading the suds over her body, scrubbing at her hands and arms, then down her stomach and legs, then back up her thighs. Delicately, she began washing her pussy, knowing full well how sensitive it currently was. Just touching it sent hopeful waves of pleasure through her body – she wanted more. She couldn’t help herself, and started gently rubbing at her clit, working to give herself the release she was so desperately craving. Part of her was angry at Clare for turning her on, for making her want this, and she wasn’t quite sure why. She was fighting it in her head, even as she continued touching herself, harder and faster. Something about the struggle turned her on even more.

  She closed her eyes and tilted her head back against the tile, moaning softly as she rubbed at her clit, squeezing her legs against her hand in rhythmic pulses. In her head, all she could think about was Clare. She wondered what her slender body looked like under that cotton dress, wondered if she was shaved. She had never thought about another woman like this – what was it about Clare that put these thoughts into her head? Zoe didn’t know,
and not knowing made her feel helpless. And feeling helpless made her feel…

  She didn’t want to finish the thought, but it was already there – feeling helpless felt good. It felt freeing. And it made her horny as fuck.

  Her fingers began teasing between her pussy’s lips, working down from her swollen clit. She whimpered, her breathing growing fast and labored – fuck, she was already close. In her head, she knew it was Clare’s hand between her legs, and she felt powerless to fantasize about anything else. She clamped her thighs down, squeezing and trapping her hand, her body tensing as she began a long, steady climax that felt like electricity coursing through her veins. She grunted, grabbing at one of her breasts and squeezing it violently, unconsciously enjoying the blend of pain and pleasure. She bent over, out of breath, then slowly pulled her hand out of her crotch. Goddamn, she thought.

  Then, a sound – at least she thought it was a sound. Her head shot up, her eyes opening. Was that a door closing? The room was empty… and her clothes were gone. Had Clare just been in here? Had she seen…?

  Zoe instinctively folded her arms over her chest, covering her breasts. Fuck…

  **********

  Zoe stepped out of the bathroom donned in Clare’s black silk bathrobe, and found Clare seated at her desk, typing away at a laptop, her back to Zoe.

  “Your clothes just went into the dryer,” she said without turning around. “They’ll be about an hour – I hope that’s all right.”

  “Sure, I guess.” Zoe said. Was this all part of Clare’s game, an excuse to have a nearly-naked Zoe at Clare’s fingertips? Zoe couldn’t tell, but if Clare was going to make a move, now was the time. She waited, unsure of what to expect.

  Clare finally turned from her computer, slamming it shut, looking stressed and irritated. “Look,” she said, “I have to leave and attend to a rather demanding client of mine. I would take you with me, but…”