The strap was black, nylon strong, yet soft like a seat-belt. Half as wide and only a few inches long. Lined with Velcro and housing a d-shaped ring of chrome at one end.
I’d found it in the second bedroom. A milk crate with assorted exercise accessories had been left out on the floor.
I knew he’d been rehabilitating his shoulder. Dislocated and torn, it no longer sat where it should. He’d been patiently regaining range and strength, but it would never be the same.
He said it didn’t bother him, but I knew it did. Like me he was now past halfway, our sun was no longer rising, it was setting. His face carried lines that could look like scars, they cut so deep into his skin. A furrowed brow, baring the ploughed marks of a mind seldom fallow, constantly harvesting questions, else imagining, beyond the tree line and the horizon, finding new ways to escape.
As I handled the thin strap my own imagination began to seed, blossom and bloom, remembering how, in the center of his open kitchen and living area, there was a load baring pillar.
With the strap in my hand, I quietly wandered through to take a closer look and to reassure myself of this column’s existence, and I felt the corners of my mouth rising, as a cunning smile slowly began to curl, revealing a quietly hidden confidence.
Unusually I was awake, and he was asleep. He’d met me at the airport last night and I’d fallen asleep on his bed while he was still bringing my bags up from downstairs.
I’d slept until noon. He’d been up since 5:00am, not knowing what to do with himself and knowing better than to wake me.
He’d slept uncomfortably in the den, as he calls it, the snug little box room with pocket doors, set at the front of the house. He’d kept himself to himself, while I stretched out and dreamt of long woodland walks and swimming in lazy warm oceans.
When finally, I did wake, I showered and slipped into something I knew he’d like. One of the many beautiful silk chemises he’s lavished on me over the years, and the pair of tan leather Ralph Lauren Sandals he gave me in Cocoa Beach.
I stepped out of the bedroom and walked through to the open living area, with its high white walls and ceiling, and the gorgeous luster of those original, Victorian hardwood floors.
He smiled and nodded, his eyes bright with the sight of my choice of outfit, it wasn’t hard for him to read the invitation and with an air of mischief he disappeared into the bedroom from where I’d just come.
I waited at the window, imagining how prettily the sun would look setting through the branches of the lonely tree outside.
I was remembering his writing and all the wicked things he’d want to do with me.
The sex that followed was every bit as epic. We’d been so long apart since sharing our last little love nest, secluded and tucked away, sat over the open water, in Magnolia, a sleepy Seattle suburb, just when this cursed pandemic was beginning to break.
I thought we’d need more time to rediscover each other, but we didn’t, we were fearless and so thankful to be together, it was as if we’d just woken the very next day and never been apart.
And God knows, 2020 had been nothing like we’d hoped. I was meant to be in Europe for the summer, enjoying a trip of a lifetime, while he was planning to work remotely from various American cities, hoping to get a feel for one that might help him feel at home.
Finally, after so many months of self-isolation and social distancing the world was finding its way again. We were free to travel. Although travel was by no means free. It was as if time had gone backwards where once again only the wealthiest could hope to afford such luxury. To travel.
And thanks to time zones and jet lag and too much excitement, now it was me that was awake and he that was worn out. Roles were reversing, it seemed, and with that thought came a rush of new ideas; ideas that could likely make a working girl blush.
I returned to the second bedroom and lightly rummaged in the milk crate, knowing this strap must be one of a pair. I was bright with mischievous delight when I found the other one.
Stealthily, I crept into his room, careful to tiptoe on the creaking aged pine floorboards, making my way to his walk-in closet.
I tried not to hum too happily as I picked out a dress-shirt I liked. And I looked at the spaces in between the many hangers and smiled with the thought of leaving some of my lingerie hanging here, a little daily reminder for him that I belong here too.
Pushing some of the shirts aside I inadvertently uncovered a wooden box. It was set back and sat on top of the built-in cabinet drawers. I immediately remembered it, from Cocoa Beach. He’d left it on the side in the third bedroom, the one where he’d shamelessly shredded my clothes and ravaged me with wild hunger, then held the tip of his raging hard cock against the edge of me until I was begging.
I was more certain than curious when I unclipped the clasp and lifted the hinged lid. That naughty boy. A small but intimate collection of wicked things. Black rope and bandages. A padlock and a key. A small pair of screw-threaded cylinders, perfect for gorging nipples. A lifelike phallus, full and firm, sculpted from soft flesh latex, wrapped in a black silk pillowcase. And a plug of polished chrome, as large as a small egg, and staggeringly heavy.
His jeans were laying on the chaise in his room. I closed the box and clipped home the clasp. I lifted down a shirt and stepped back into the bedroom.
He was peaceful, dozing easily, oblivious to my creeping nearer. I pushed my fingertips into the palm of his hand and felt his warmth as he responded to my tender touch.
“Shhh” I soothed as he stirred. His eyes trying to peel open and find me. And then they blinked open, puzzled by the sound of my ripping the Velcro open.
I placed the first strap around his wrist and fastened the Velcro. “Shhh, my love” I soothed again, watching his brow crinkle with playful confusion.
I tore the second strap open and gently closed it around his other wrist. And sure, he could reach across with either hand and unfasten these simple bindings if he chose to, but like me, curiosity is often his undoing and curiosity had him choosing not to try undoing my handiwork, at least not for now.
“Get showered and get dressed” I told him, and the tone of my impatience surprised even me. I was not to be bargained with.
His eyes asked me for reassurance, and I gave him none. “Come on, get up!” I insisted, taking a step back to emphasize the space I expected him to fill, to sit up and climb out of bed.
While he showered, I resisted the temptation to join him, that could wait for another day. But the thought of his hands on me, supple and sure, moving under the steaming heat of the hot water, feeling him press me up against the cold hard tile and push his kiss into my mouth with his knuckled fingers breaking between my thighs and fucking their way inside me.
Wow. I clear my head. Gathering his jeans off the chaise and laying them out on his bed, along with the dress-shirt I’ve chosen. I’m confident he’ll know what’s expected.
Taking the wooden box from the closet I carry it through to the open apartment. I clear the low coffee table and the kitchen worktops. I see the incense and light a fresh stick. I want some music, but I’m not sure how his record player is set up.
I hear the shower stop running. He’ll be drying himself then dressing. I left his bedroom door closed and I already know the sound when it cracks open.
“So, what’s all this then fox?” he asks me cheerfully, flirting, his voice poised, looking for new ways to control me, holding out his wrists in mock submission, as he slowly approaches.
My eyes consider him, his bare feet and blue denim jeans, his slim, fitted shirt, buttoned and untucked, his damp towel-dried hair swept back. His eyes are bright with mischief, no sign of the fatigue that had kept them closed only a little while ago.
Around each wrist the straps are fastened, the chrome silver d-ring of each protruding from the side. His eyes glance down and back to mine, his gestures highlighting his unanswered question.
“Stop where you are.” I demand. My tone firm and dismissive. I see how his eyes crinkle, inquisitive, curious with wondering where and when on earth, did I learn to be so assertive? Sure, he knows I can be the bossy cow, but it’s not who I am, I’m soft, I’m supportive and I’m tender. I only insist when I’m provoked.
None the less, he stops, either playfully or respectfully, I’m not sure which, and it doesn’t altogether matter.
I move toward the low coffee table and he reads the direction of my eyes, he follows them to where the wooden box sits in the center. I can almost hear the cogs of logic whirring in his machine- like mind, plotting chess moves, wondering what’s she up to?
Opening the box, I lift out the black silk pillowcase and unravel it, dipping my hand inside to retrieve the replica of his full phallus.
“You fantasize about fucking me with this, don’t you?” I accuse him. And I’m careful with my tone. No judgement or shame. Just seeking honesty; testing for his truth, his confession and his trust.
I watch his expressions shift, squirming with embarrassment, his pride hurting under such close scrutiny. His mouth opening but his words don’t follow, he’s paralyzed by my assertion.
“Stay exactly where you are!” I insist, placing the phallus on the coffee table beside the opened box and stepping toward him.
I open the black pillowcase and slip it over his head. “Stand still” I command, and I rush with excitement realizing his obedience.
From the box I retrieve the black rope and thread a loop of it through the chrome metal d-ring strapped to one wrist. I tie off the loop and pass the rope around the pillar that stands behind him, on the corner of his open kitchen, and then I pass the rope through the other d-ring and tie this off too.
I realize if he wanted, he could still reach across to unfasten the Velcro that holds the straps. I adjust the rope so there’s not enough length for him to reach his hands in front of him, but he could still unfasten them from behind, if he really tried.
But I haven’t forgotten those black surgical bandages. How he bound me like a mermaid; my ankles, calves, knees and thighs, then set about torturing me with slow and cruel pleasures. Eating my breasts and pushing his cock inside my mouth. Knowing full well I would want to spread and stretch my legs, and feel my thighs squeeze around him. But he denied me. Gripped and pulled my hair and punished me until I was wet with bruises.
I took out one of the spools and began to wrap the bandage around his hand, binding his thumb, making his hand into a flipper, reminding me of a lone Seattle sea lion.
One more spool for the other hand and now I’m feeling very pleased, knowing his thumbs are no longer opposable and the Velcro will not yield to the clawing of a flipper.
“Where’s your laptop?” I insist.
“In the den,” he offers, and as I walk away to retrieve it, only now do I believe it begins to dawn on him how effective these bandages are, disabling his thumbs and preventing his escape.
I set it on the coffee table and turn it on. “Password?”
“Capital Eye, capital Elle, lower case oh, vee, e, Capital Em, lowercase why, Capital Ef, lower case oh, ex, six, nine” he slowly recites.
“You’re such a dirty boy, aren’t you?” I protest. “Now, how do I run those videos you make?” I ask impatiently.
Blindfold, he talks me through the clicks, navigating a Russian doll of folders, one nesting inside another, and another, until finally we reach the heart of his treasured collection.
And there’s so many. Each one, only minutes to watch, but hours upon hours in the making. I see the earliest ones, the ones he first made for me and brought with him to Corinthia. They’re labeled Corinthia I, II, III, IV and so on. I remember how he had me wear VR goggles and he lay me across the bed, my head resting at the edge, vulnerable and anxious, for who knew what was to come.
Oh, Corinthia, that subterranean, opulent and luxurious escape. Him standing over me, my wrists bound above me, luring my hands to find him, to feel their way in the blackened-dark.
My fingers fondling the weight and feeling the girth of his ample cock, while the carefully curated imagery of sensual forests and oceans slowly lower me, descending me deeper into a voyeuristic hedonism, then celebrating the heavenly pleasures of the skin.
All the while, the music of our making love was inside me, his headphones cupped to my ears, playing Morcheeba, Zero 7 and Massive Attack. Sensual, sexual rhythms, epic, anthemic, ambient songs we have made love to since the very beginning. Since Bordeaux, Bayham and Brighton, and long before we claimed Ashdown as our own.
I highlight them all and click play…
The screen fills, flickering sepia, the sound stirs. The purr of an old movie real running through a projector. The show begins.
I pull off his black silk pillowcase hood so that he can now see the first of the films he’s toiled to create. His eyes search for mine, imploring me to let him go, and the thought of him knowing just a little of the tortures he has for so many years put me through, well, it just turns me on.
I step around beside him, my shoulder behind his, I’m looking over him, sharing the view. He tries to twist to follow me and I firmly tell him: “No!”
I run my hand over his chest, to soothe his pounding heart and settle him, to let him feel my love. His shirt feels soft to the touch as I draw my fingers down toward his belt.
I ignore the bulky buckle and its clumsy fastening, slipping my hand over his jeans and slowly coveting the contoured outline of his plump and heavy cock. He’s already murmuring with contentment, growing bold and getting greedy for more.
We watch the movie drifting gently along, a sensual storyline of woodland walks, interwoven with empty beaches and gentle ocean waves. But then the music changes, growing more intense, and the imagery shifts. A man’s mouth closes over a woman’s sex and she arches upwards like a bow, her body drawn tight, reaching for more.
Through the denim, I feel him flex against my fingers and give him a knowing squeeze, reminding him just how good my love is, and feeling his arousal stretching to my touch.
The scenes on the screen fold over one another, in a furious flurry of phallic fantasy. A woman’s eyes close in a trance of ecstasy as she stretches her lips over her lover’s cock. Another gasps as her hair is pulled tight, her body bucking as her lover fucks. Spunk spattering across firm breasts, a lover’s cream spilling as another woman grips her man and presses his love inside her soft mouth.
“Wait here” I tell him, mockingly as I break away and wander off into the bedroom where I think I have some ideas of my own.
I pick out the tight black dress he’d bought for me and slip on one of the many pairs of pretty silk and lace designer knickers he’s given. Then slipping into black heels, the ones with the lime green soles, I feel my confidence rising with my height.
Another quick rummage and I find a couple of my favorite toys along with some simple lube, then wander back into the open room.
He hears my heels clopping on the hardwood floor and turns to find me, his eyes race up and down the length of my slender body, from the thin straps at my toes and ankles to the hem of my tight black dress, and climbing up to find my eyes.
“No!” I tell him, waving at him to look away. “You watch your movies, you don’t get to watch me!” I insist, placing my toys on the coffee table alongside the phallus and the open wooden box.
I slowly step my way around behind him and continue to run my hands over his groin, squeezing the hardness I find there as if to ask: have you missed me?
And it’s clear that he has, his cock is raging, straining, trapped.
I work my hands around his buckle and let the belt fall open. Then unbutton the waist to help me reach my hand inside. And he’s so hot between the thighs, his throbbing cock, so full of blood. My hand must feel so cool and calming as I curl my fingers around him and feel his pleasure flex inside my easy grip.
With my thumbs, I help shift his jeans down off his hips, noticing how his bandaged hands snag against those nylon straps and tug against the rope, his reflexes wanting to take over and finding they’re unable.
“I need oil baby” he begs, “I get so hard it hurts” he appeals. And I believe him. “Hushhh” I soothe, stepping over to the coffee table to uncap the lube before coming back to where I was, to slip my slippery hands over his manhood.
He shudders and groans as my hands stroke and squeeze, milking his big fat swollen sausage of a cock. I give him a few brisk bursts of my tugging wrist and he flexes hard as iron in my loose grip, sucking air through his teeth until I’m wondering if he might cum.
I look around his shoulder and watch how his manhood slips in the grip of my hand, he’s so good and hard when I’m milking him.
On the screen a woman stretches low, her breasts pressing to the flagstone floor as her lover takes her from behind. “I’m a bad girl” I whisper in his ear, still stroking his cock and watching the woman on the screen begin to wail.
These rampant lovers fade, from one pair to another, and then another, and another. Seamlessly slipping from scene to scene. A woman lovingly closing her mouth around her lovers’ ample cock, slowly smearing her lips against him, his eyes cradling hers, his cock slowly sliding inside her tender mouth, her lips dragging as she draws him free then swallows him again and again and again.
“I’m going to have your cock whenever I want and wherever I want” I whisper in his ear, not threatening, just asserting my ownership and my place in his life.
I step around him and tug my tight dress up higher on my hips, watching his eyes brighten with approval, hungry for the meat of my thighs. Then, sinking down onto my haunches, I grip his cock and feel his whole body flex, stiffen and groan as I push him into my mouth, my lips stretching over him, the rub so good and real.
My eyes close with the sound of him groaning, his arousal filling my ears, his bound hands and wrists yanking at their restraints, the rope holding firm, denying him, despite his being desperate to grip my hair and take control.
I suck him hard, pumping his cock against my mouth with my hand, tugging him, willing him to come in my mouth, wanting him to, wanting the heat of him on my tongue and in my throat.
I snort for breath through my nostrils, feeling my sex wet with weeping, the silk of my glistening gusset slick with the sweet juices of my cunt, my knickers stretching tight as I rock on my haunches, growing greedy and eager to break him.
I can hear the music videos playing behind me, and I have no idea if he’s watching them or not, but I’m well aware that if he looks beyond the laptop he’ll see me in the reflection of his ornate mirror, the one he has propped against the far wall. The same one he had us both look into after he’d made me crawl across the floor, collared and leashed, and roughly taken from behind.
Breathless I break away from his raging erection, remembering the instant camera he brought to Ashdown and again to Cocoa Beach. “Where is it?” I demand, and he looks down at me, confused, “Where’s what?” he asks innocently. “Your camera!” I persist impatiently, oblivious to his inability to read my mind.
“In the walk-in closet…” He offers, bewildered, and I’m already up on my feet, my lips puffed and smudged with the rubbed red rouge of heavy work. “On the shelf… behind the door” he continues as I stride away toward the bedroom.
I return, fumbling to retrieve the camera from its pouch and utterly unsure how to operate it, but come on, it’s a camera, how hard can it be?
Again, his wrists pull against their bindings, his instinct to help, but he can’t, despite my actually wanting him too. Tough, I’ll figure it out. Ha! The lens opens, the power button engaged.
I click the shutter, the motor whirrs and the photopaper pushes out. I tear it off and watch it come to life. His cock, captured, and now mine to keep.
“And what’s this?” I suddenly demand. My agile mind jumping wildly from one thought to another. Again, he looks at me bewildered and I put down the camera and fetch out the heavy weight of the metal plug.
“If you’re such a bad girl, why don’t you tell me?” he counters, daring me to defy him. His eyes smoldering with a giddy cocktail of love and abuse. He wants me like he’s never wanted anything. Stood, in the center of his home, wrists bound, and his jeans pulled down off his thighs, his cock soaked in my saliva and raging for more of my attention. His handmade videos running on a loop behind me.
“I am a bad girl, and I’m not going to tell you… I’m going to show you!” I tease him with a playful threat, then turn my back, finding his eyes reflected in the mirror leaning up against the wall and I hold his full attention as I kneel up on the coffee table.
Reaching forward, on all fours I pull my dress up onto my hips, until he can see the stain of my knickers, so wet from feeling the fuck of him in my mouth. I lavish the silver plug with lube and peel my knickers down off my behind, guiding the tip of the plug against the dark puckered star of my tight anus, rocking back, my wrist held firm, my anus slowly yielding to the weight.
Easy, gently, slowly, the tightness begins to give, and the smooth metal gradually glides inside. His eyes grow greedy with the sight of my secret being shared. I’m a bad, bad girl and I haven’t even started yet…
The weight inside me is incredible, it causes me to clench, to resist the sensation where it feels as if it’s falling out of me, but it can’t, it just weighs against my sphincter and drives the muscles in my anus to spasm, pulsing rudely with a reflex to grip and squeeze.
And the feeling of being so full in my behind exaggerates the hollow ache that’s craving deep inside my cunt. Where the tip of his cock could so easily rub and scuff, when he presses his pubis tight to mine and strokes his hardness so deep, he brushes against the limit of my insides.
Slowly I tease my knickers back onto my hips, carefully covering the smooth chrome hoop handle that nestles between my cheeks. I imagine his eyes, transfixed as the naughtiness disappears from view.
I find the hem and rub the soft material of my tight black dress, unruffling the folds, smoothing it down off my behind and over my thighs. I climb carefully off the coffee table, rising on my heels with the full weight of our not-so-little secret stashed good and deep inside me.
His cock has lost a little of its outrageous rigidity. Don’t get me wrong, he’s still raging hard and full of need, but not so iron stiff as to defy gravity. Not like when I was sucking him and tugging him and feeling him groan closer and closer to the edge.
God, no. He’s neglected, but not forgotten. Our eyes share a few moments, speaking a language all of their own. And it’s times like these we wonder if ours might be the only eyes that speak this way.
And I can’t know for certain if he’s thinking of the Swan, but his eyes tell me they’ve not forgotten the first time they laid sight on mine. After all these years, and he still looks at me as if I’m new, and when he touches me, the same, my insides dissolve, all butterflies and weakness.
Just the sound of his voice and my bones seem to soften, while in my hands his body grows firmer, harder, stronger. My love is water to his earth. My flame sucking the oxygen from his wood. Until his love is ash and carbon. Embers burnt and spent.
And when he’s inside me, fuck, to feel his pestle rubbing against the mortar of my soul. Fuck, I want him. And I want him to never stop wanting me. That’s my weakness. My addiction. My confession. I want him to never stop wanting me like he does.
My eyes say it all, I know they do. But my voice stays hidden. This moment stretches and I beg it never breaks.
“Untie me fox,” He asks, his voice full of command and demand, patient, loving, but utterly unforgiving.
“No,” I offer, weakly, well aware how fragile my voice now sounds.
His eyes defy me, I can almost feel the fabric of my dress shredding as he tears through its flimsy defenses to reach the firm flesh of my breasts.
My nipples grieve, rubbing their neglect against their tight concealment, hidden yet clearly visible, daring to dent through the black cloth. They’ve gorged hard and they tingle with the thought of his mouth closing around them, sucking roughly until the blood vessels break beneath my flesh and the bruises stay tender for days.
“Untie me fox… I’ll do anything you want me to, so long as you keep looking at me like that,” he reassures me, and I can feel my resolve melting. Although it’s never his words that undo me, but the sound in his voice and the look in his eyes, he’s like a key that just slips inside me and leaves me so open.
I can feel the butterflies beating against the emptiness inside me, their tiny wings all aching to feel him, knowing he has the body, the mind and the soul to fill the hollow of my existence. I’m close to tears, wrestling with my resistance.
“No,” I try again, still weak but determined, desperate to hold on to my only moment of control.
My mind begins to ransack my memories, turning everything over, looking for something, anything, that could help me stay in a position of power.
I want him to feel just a fraction of the frustration I feel when he ties me and tortures me with slow hands and soft kisses. He has the patience I crave, and I love him and hate him for it all at once.
“You hurt me!” I tell him, and I see his expression falling, his confidence dissolving, he wasn’t expecting me to find anything I could defend myself with.
“That story you wrote,” I persist, my jealousy beginning to run through my veins and warm my blood. His eyes stare at me blankly, unsure where this is coming from, and utterly unclear on where it’s going. He’s trying to read me, but he can’t, because I don’t know where I’m heading either. I’m losing it.
“Don’t look at me like you don’t know!” I challenge him, my voice rising, my anger growing more confident and finding its rightful place in my voice.
“The one where you tied me to that wooden chair!” I spit the words at him, disgusted, and I see the look on his face move to laughter but then quickly his eyes cower, thinking better of it.
“You know the one!” I defy him. “You had me watch these same videos,” I challenge him, nodding toward the laptop from where the music streams, and the imagery continues to loop; sexy, rude, decadent and delicious.
“I wondered what on earth you were doing,” I continue, “when you dialed a number on your phone, and all you said was: I’m ready… then hung up!”
“Where are you going? I begged you, only minutes later. But all you did was smile and nod, and left me here, my wrists and ankles tied to this chair. My heart beating so hard when I heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and not just yours. How could you even imagine it? You bastard.”
“You made me watch. Brought another couple into your home and had them slowly fuck, right here in front of us. And you picked them perfectly. You knew full well he was the kind of rough I like, and she was such a good lay, you knew it.”
“You even wrote I was furious; you knew full well I’d be upset. But you didn’t care, it didn’t stop you. And when I protested and cried how could you? You spurned me, you walked away from me. You fucking bastard, you left me and made me watch.”
“You described him, and you described my shamefully finding his buff body attractive, how I couldn’t help loving the lean look of him, his long hair, and his warm eyes, and his toned arms, and his big, fat, juicy cock. You described how he deferred to you, how he gently climbed off her as you approached, and how her eyes looked up at you. How she kneeled up and began to unbuckle your belt and unbutton your jeans, her hands dipping inside.”
“And you knew full well I’d be jealous and hurting. Seeing the way her hands carefully cradled you and how confidently she took you into her mouth, sucking you so gently, her loving every inch as you grew harder inside her, harder than I’d ever seen you.”
“But that wasn’t enough for you, was it?” I continue, bitterly, “No, you had to make it harder for me too, didn’t you? Describing my emotions, how they frayed and came undone. My eyes torn between the agony of seeing this woman fellate you, and the guileless pleasure, seeing this stud of a man, this stranger you’ve brought in to your home, standing to the side and stroking his own cock with loving approval, seemingly relishing the sight of his woman give her love to you”
“You wrote of my jealousy and my guilt, the conflict you were creating inside me.
Where on the one hand I’m hating you for this outrageous indiscretion, and yet on the other I’m unable to deny my carnal instincts, we are far more animal than we care to admit.”
“You dared to describe my eyes on this man, my pleasure in seeing his naked cock slathered in slick oil, his hand slipping over his ample shaft, his abdominals flexing. Adding how I become all too aware of his needs and his conflict, as he glances at me and smiles warmly, welcoming me to join in with him.”
“And that’s when I lost it. That’s what you wrote! How could you?” My voice waivers, I’m close to tears again.
“Untie me fox,” He pleads “Let me hold you and reassure you, it was just words in a story, that’s all.” He offers softly, and the bastard almost has me believing him, I want so much to be held.
“No,” I challenge him, determined and more certain. “I’m sexier than any dirty slut you could ever write about, I’m going to suck your cock until you’re so hard it’s gonna hurt! You’re going to beg me to let you cum and I’m not going to let you. I’m going to take my sweet time with you, and we’ll see how the fuck you like it!”
And without giving him the opportunity to utter another word I step in close and squat down low, gripping him in my hand and pushing his glans inside my mouth.
Loving the rush of emotions as my jealous rage breaks against the calm of my undying love.
My lips drag as they rub over him and my ass clenches tight against the weight of the chrome bulb stowed deep inside me.
But I confess to my wanting to feel his hands gripping in my hair. To feel myself at the very center of his obsession, and to feel the strength of his confidence, his domination and possession.
Breathless I take a gasping break from the fury of my sucking. My lips tingling with the wet rub of his heft.
“Untie me fox,” he offers softly, pleading and persuasive: “I’ll do anything you want me to, so long as you keep looking at me like you were,”
I try to find another way to say no, but the words won’t come, and before I can make sense of any thoughts I might be thinking, I’m already climbing to my feet and unfastening the bandage that binds one of his wrists.
Released, his hand rises, reaching inside the wave of my hair, reaching around behind my head and gripping. My knees give a little, shocked by his strength as he pulls me to face him and pushes our mouths together for a full and restless kiss.
With my eyes closed, I fumble with my hands to unbandage his other hand and when finally he’s free, his actions are swift and unforgiving.
His hands reach into the neckline of my tight dress and he rips until the seam splits, the material shrieks as it slices open, and he grabs another handful of the now loose cloth and rips again. Plunging his hand down inside the now wide-open window’ of my torn open dress, his fingers snag inside my knickers and press easily into my sodden cunt.
He pulls me close and I gasp inside his mouth, his kiss unrelenting as his fingers curl and stretch to fuck their way inside me.
Then, by the grip of his free hand, wrapped tight around my hair, he pulls my head backward, breaking our kiss, arching my spine, my body concertinas under his control, as he plunges his hot mouth over my breast, and murders the unprotected nipple he finds swollen, stiff, and desperately waiting.
Clumsily my hands grope to find his cock and I tug at him furiously, letting him know I want his cum inside me and I want it now.
Furious, with rough and spontaneous intention, he spins me around, pushes me down to the floor and draws me by my hair, leading me toward the ornate mirror.
Our eyes connect in the reflection and I know he sees me, the fox he found inside a Swan. He kneels in close behind me and shreds the remainder of my dress, it hangs off me like ribbons. And then he pulls at my knickers, threading them off my thighs, under my knees and away over one of my sandals. He leaves them, soaked and spent, hooked around my other ankle, the one with the inked smudge of a long ago rose.
I look into the mirror and see his eyes considering me. Fuck, I’m a bad girl. And he wants me. He presses the tip of his cock against me and there is no resistance, I’m too wet, too far gone. I melt for him like butter as he slips inside the tightness, and I groan with a whimpering weakness as he fills me with his strength.
He teases at the chrome plug, his eyes are easy to read, they tell me how much he enjoys the snug and tight feel, how good it fits and looks inside me, he’s glad he bought it for me. And he wonders if we might like to feel his cock inside me here another day?
I begin to rock slowly back against him, wanting him deep and feeling him slip away. But he pushes his hips, and I gasp for air as he begins to fuck me, growing hard and getting harder. He grips my hip and grabs my hair and strokes my body over his cock.
Each stroke grows firmer, shorter, deeper, tighter, harder, our knees bruising against the hardwood as he grips and groans and I feel the raw, hard fuck of him pound against me.
He’s growing impatient, and I fucking love it, I look for his eyes in the mirror and he’s locked on me, all of me, wanting me, needing me. His breathing groans and labors with mine, our hearts beating furious and alive.
He cries for me, telling me desperately: “fuck, fuck… baby… I’m… going… to… fuck… cum!” and I know it, I can feel his cock harden like iron, railing inside me, so deep and full, splitting me to my core, and there, in his final cry, his body buckles and flexes, his cum flooding inside me, starving, hot, after so much hunger.
I collapse onto the floor; my eyesight giddy, senses spinning, lost between sparks of intimacy, combined energies and ignition, a tidal, moonlit glow, flooding through me from the inside out.
He retrieves one of my toys from the coffee table and coils down beside me. We catch our breath and he helps me find my own relief. It only takes a few moments, with my toy skillfully sucking at my clit, and his fingers firmly worked inside me.
My heals scuff against the floor as I kick out with my legs, and the waves of my orgasm come crashing through me, his fingers snug, knuckles deep, his mouth, hot, pressed and sucking at my breast.
Exhausted, we lay on the floor, looking up into the ceiling, relieved, thankful and connected.
“God, I’ve missed you” I offer truthfully.
“I know” he agrees, solemnly.