Aware of the time slipping away your expression begins to twist with mock pain, appealing for your lover to hurry. But cruelly he won’t give in, and interpreting your appeal he reasserts his demand: “I want you, fox”

“I know” is all you can manage to counter, your hands stroking slowly, cupped around his cock and milking him, feeling his girth throb against your fingers, the hard truth of his assertion.

Lowering his hands, he works to slip his belt from the loops of his jeans, then passes the leather noose around your wrists. “You’re mine now, fox” he tells you. And you sense the honesty of his claim, seeing the truth of it burning brightly within his eyes and hearing the sound so firmly sworn beneath the layers of his guiding voice, grounding you to the foundations of his form, as resilient as Bayham’s Abbey.

“But he’ll be home soon” you offer crestfallen.

“I told you. I don’t care.” He reaffirms, reaching his arm up into the air, clutching the noose of his leather belt in his fist and hoisting your wrists high above your head. He leans in, pressing his kiss to your mouth, your eyes closing with his, conceding to the relief and the pleasure.

His cock flexing, firm against your thighs, you take his weight against the counter-top, feeling his body pressing into the hollow of you. His free hand reaching around your hip, pulling you tighter to him.

In the frenzy of his kissing your imagination spirals anew, flooding with the thought of your wrists bound high above your head, his free hand ripping at your dress, pawing and clawing, finding a way to reach the firm meat of your breasts.

His mouth ravenous, his free hand reaching down, finding the split in your skirt and savaging the seam, his fingers dragging up inside your knickers, stretching them tight, finding you wet, your hips squirming to help him find more of you.

But he refuses to conform to your fantasy, breaking his kiss and reasserting his authority. His eyes flaring with unbridled passion and unspoken promises. His free hand rising, palm open, to stroke against your face, his fingers splaying as they reach behind your ear and grip a full fist of your hair.

You hiss as you inhale through your teeth, loving the bright burn of his firm grip, unapologetic and possessive. You read the need in his eyes and sense the covetous smile half curling in the corner of his mouth, remembering the long thick mane of his prime and how his hair would curl around his broad shoulders. The look in his eyes unchanged, the light as bright as you have ever known.

You hold each other with your gaze and share a Bayham moment, your thighs softening, your knees beginning to crumple, he feels the weight of you pulling down through the noose of his leather belt, the binding tightening around your wrists as your body begins to give in to gravity, with a slow, lowering surrender.

Easing down onto your haunches, thighs spreading wide, your eyes break away from his, called to consider the familiar form of his naked phallus, his cock, hung hard and heavy from your handling.