The twelfth and final in an unrelated series of stories, inspired by the 12 days of Christmas; Day 12: Twelve drummers drumming
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, twelve drummers drumming
Twelve by Hannah Lockhardt
Drumsticks, brushes and mallets are available in different weights and sizes. Hickory, Maple and Oak are the most common types of wood used for drumsticks.
A player will often choose whichever stick size feels most comfortable and suits their playing style. Sticks can also be wooden-tipped or have a nylon tip.
On the choosing of drumsticks, Source: Gear4music.com
The table had been laid for over a week. Implements aligned with military precision.
He’d been around a bit. A different group every time the wind changed. Genre hopping like a pro.
The pre uni metal phase. Two stints in electronica. Seven tedious years in the school jazz band. And a trophy from every one.
My two favourites were the brushes – slender black bristles with a faint grey scuff from angry teenage playing – and the thicker, felt-cushioned mallet that dominated from its position on the wooden counter. The handle thick and imposing.
On a typically frosty day in January, he wakes me early, and takes me downstairs. The dining table which fills the tiny kitchen space is bathed in sunlight. At the opposite end to the parade of implements are two contrasting colours of rope coiled around one another.
He leads me to it, he bends me over it. So far, so normal. I hold out my arms expectantly. He unfastens my pyjama jacket but leaves it open so he can grope at my breasts and stomach, and pushes me backwards against the tabletop. Icy cold where my pyjama shirt rides up, it makes me gasp.
The wrists are bound together with a length of black rope and duly stretched across the surface until he can feel my body is taut; well, as taut as it can be with half my torso against the table and my breasts hanging against the edge. Then he loops the ends around the sturdy table legs, reaches under me and yanks off my pyjama bottoms, He slaps my cunt for good measure. My ankles he binds to their respective table legs too, ensuring my thighs remain spread.
In fifteen minutes, the muscles will begin to shake with tension and he will laugh. He always laughs. The laugh makes me shiver.
If I look up, I can see the line up, though the angle makes it difficult to focus. One drumstick looks much like another when you’re bound to a large, oak table.
Other than a brief, monotone “Get up” when he took me from the warmth and security of my bed, he hasn’t spoken. Once bound, I watch him walk to the CD player. A slow and steady beat begins to fill the room. Deep and measured.
And on it goes. And he watches me listen, as if waiting for the moment my heartbeat matches the even thud. Waiting for me to realise that there is no music coming, only the drum, keeping time.
He holds the mallet in his hand, his large fist curled around the tip with the handle facing towards me, perhaps half as thick as his own cock. He hasn’t fucked me in a week.
He’s been waiting for this moment, turns to the table again and I notice the bottle of lube for the first time, as he pumps a generous amount into his palm, slathering it all over the handle and advancing on me with purpose. But he catches the very slight way my thighs slacken at the sight of this makeshift dildo, and shakes his head.
“Needy little bitch. Open your mouth.”
He fucks my mouth with the smooth wooden shaft, gently enough that I don’t feel my mouth grow bruised and marked, but enough that my eyes water and my lips strain, on the brink of choking. And keeping time, the strokes are slow and meaningful. Only when sweat forms on my brow does he relent and withdraw it.
“Now spit on it like it’s my cock.”
He shakes his head as I hawk and splutter, dribbles of saliva running down my neck.
“You’re a pitiful thing.”
The handle slides in easily – through that triumvirate of cum, saliva and chemical assistance – and he starts up his rhythm again, never straying from the heavy thud. It’s maybe eight inches long; if he pushes it in right to the hilt, the soft felt beater at the tip brushes against my clit by mistake, or maybe by design. I know I’m not supposed to come, though. Always assume your orgasm is not his concern unless told otherwise.
I concentrate on drawing away from the pleasure. Tucking the memory away for future usage. Concentrate on his fingers splayed at the small of my back.
He draws it out and pushes it back in one more time.
“Don’t let it drop.”
Something new to concentrate on.
So this is the first drummer; the thick and eager one. Plugging my cunt as the second is brandished, the simple maple drumstick hits my backside with a sharp, echoey crack. My cry is ragged and soft. Eleven more. The pain is pure, delicious.
“That’s number two.”
And now he’s standing in front of me again. He uncurls his massive fist with a flourish, like a magician at a disturbing village fete. Four sticks bound at either end in two groups of two. He’s often commented on my nipples. Biting on them. He likes the flinch when the pain cuts through me. And here he has two heavy, makeshift clamps, perfect for this early morning degradation.
“That’s three and four, five and six.” He says, securing them. Now he reaches for one of the brushes, his arm catching the edge of one clamp, and I moan.
He slaps my cunt again.
“Open your mouth.”
I bite down on the flat, uneven surface of the brush.
With me secured, he returns to the line of stubby makeshift canes. Six more strokes against my arse, and then another brief respite. He runs the second flat brush along the curves, even down between my thighs, ever so briefly. The smack I know is coming still makes me jump. He pauses to fuck me with the mallet again, alternating this and numbers eight, nine, ten, and eleven.
He recites the numbers over and over as he uses each one, the excitement growing in his voice as he watches my arse redden, my cunt drip down onto the tile floor, until I wonder if he has forgotten twelve in all of this. Maybe twelve never existed. Most people don’t have twelve separate and different drumsticks at their disposal, after all.
He knows me so well. He knows I’m desperate to find out what the denouement will be. I am formed of desperation and wantonness and he knows all.
“And at last, time for twelve.” He murmurs, leaving the room. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him return, holding something, with something – a scarf? – around his neck.
He comes closer. I see he has the drum slung about his neck. He sets it down next to me on the table. He unclasps the strong leather strap, and doubles it over in his hands and I breathe deeply through my nose at the realisation, in delirious excitement at what I am about to experience.
He steps behind me and disappears.
And I wait.
And I wait.
And the beat goes on, until at last, silence. And I smile at the thought of what is to come.
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On the Twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, Twelve Drummers Drumming, Eleven Pipers Piping, Ten Lords A-Leaping, Nine Ladies Dancing, Eight Maids A-Milking, Seven Swans A-Swimming, Six Geese A-Laying, Five Gold Rings, Four Colly Birds, Three French Hens, Two Turtle Doves & A Partridge in a Pear Tree
And that’s it, with this final erotic story, Christmas is over. Happy new year everyone.