by Tracy Wolff
“I was afraid of the sadism part of the whole bondage thing. But the way you made it sound at the restaurant...it doesn’t sound like you want to hurt me.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I assure her immediately. “Different people get different things from shibari. Causing pain has never been my thing.”
“And receiving pain has never been mine,” she answers. “As long as you remember that—”
“I will.”
“Then I’m willing to try it once. Except...”
“Except?” I prompt.
“No pictures.”
She might as well have suggested I cut off my right hand. “None?” Just the idea hurts. I have so many ideas I want to try out with her, so many photographs I want to take of her. Tied up, not tied up. Naked, clothed. Awake, asleep. “At all?”
“None,” she reiterates. “I have to work in this business. There’s no way my colleagues will take me seriously if sexy pictures of me are plastered on museum and gallery walls all over the world.”
I beg to differ—no one looking at her now could do anything but take her seriously. Grace in red lingerie could bring the world to its knees.
“Okay. I won’t take any photos of you,” I tell her, though it kills me to say it. So much so that I have to quantify it. “Unless you want me to.”
“I won’t,” she assures me.
We’ll see about that. But I don’t say that. Instead, I press soft kisses to her forehead, her cheeks, her mouth. “Are you sure about this?” I ask.
“No,” she tells me with a laugh. “But I want to try it anyway.”
“Okay. If you want me to stop, all you have to do is say so and it’s over. Okay?”
“Do I need a safe word? I mean, that’s what they do in books and movies, right? Something like cantaloupe or elephant?”
“I don’t use safe words, Grace. If you want me to stop, you say stop or you say no. That’s all you’ll ever have to say with me, luv. The second you do, it’s over. Okay?”
I must sound as serious as I feel, because her eyes go wide even as she nods. “Okay.”
“Stand up,” I tell her as I reach for my bag and pull out a few different lengths of rope. I want this so bad that my hands are shaking, and that’s not okay. I need to calm down because I need this to be all about Grace. The last thing I want to do is scare or hurt her, especially now that she’s trusting me with this.
“Before we get started, I want you to know that, for me—with you—this is about lovemaking. It’s about bringing you pleasure. If at any time you don’t like the way I touch you or the way I tie you, you tell me. Understand?”
“Are you going to do something I don’t like?” she asks, wary for the first time.
“I don’t plan on it. But we won’t know until we try. I promise I’ll take care of you, Grace, but you’ve got to help me do it. Okay?”
She licks her lips, nods. “I understand.”
“Good.”
“Okay, then.” I stand there watching her for several long seconds, sliding the rope through my hands and just taking in the sight of her. The proud, gorgeous, sexy as fuck sight of her. Fuck. My Grace is so beautiful.
Everything about her appeals to me. Everything about her turns me on, and as I fold the rope in my hands in half, I can’t help thinking about how one exhibit—one long ago email asking me to speak at the retrospective—set things in motion to bring us here.
To change my life, and Grace’s. Fate is a funny, funny thing.
I find the center point of the rope without looking and then I approach her. Normally, when I do this, I have to wait for an idea to crystallize before I start. But I’ve been fantasizing about tying Grace up from the second I first saw her picture. Finding a vision isn’t my problem here. Narrowing down all my ideas to one is.
Still, I know where I want to start with her, this woman I fall harder for each minute that I spend with her. I want to showcase her, want to worship her, even as I make her a part of my art.
Even as I make her a part of my soul.
I step closer, absorbing the spicy cinnamon scent of her. I want her to feel completely safe this first time, want her to feel in control even as she yields it, so I slide my hands from her shoulders to her fingertips, letting her feel the rope slide against her skin. Letting her familiarize herself with the feel of it, both against her skin and in my hands.
She’s tight, tense, so I massage her a little as I go, easing the tension in her muscles so it will be easier for her to be bound. And easier for me to know, with a touch, if my ropes are too tight.
Grace sighs at the unexpected massage, her eyes drifting shut. I take hold of her wrists and pull her hard and fast. Her eyes slam back open, exactly as I want. I need to see inside her, need to make sure that she’s okay with what I’m doing the entire time I’m doing it. Her eyes are the window I’m looking for.
I start by wrapping her wrists. The other day I did a single column tie because I wanted her to easily be able to slip out. Today, I want the opposite, so I take my time doing a double column tie, securing each wrist independently.
As I work, I pay attention to Grace and not the rope. The rope has been with me so long it’s like an extension of me, another part of me, wrapping around Grace. Holding her. Cradling her. Tying her to me.
I’ve done this hundreds of times before, to a dozen different women—mostly for art but sometimes also for pleasure—but never has it felt like this before. Never has it felt as if each wrap of the rope is pulling us closer together, making each of us a little less alone.
And yet, as I wind the rope around Grace’s forearms and around her biceps, I can’t help but feel exactly that. Can’t help but feel as if I’m becoming a part of her and she’s becoming a part of me.
The thought—combined with the uptick in her breathing and the sexy flush of her skin—has me growing harder, even before I slide the rope under, and then above, her breasts. Because she seemed to enjoy it so much last night, I brush a length of rope against her nipples, once, twice, before slowly, carefully, winding it beneath her underarms. If I’m not careful, this is where it can tighten up, where it can pinch, and I’m determined not to cause her an instant of pain tonight. Determined that everything about this tie brings Grace pleasure.
Because that’s the case, I take a moment to cup her face in my hands. To tilt her mouth up to mine for a kiss that leaves both of us shaking...and shaken.
“Jaxon,” she whispers, when I pull away, her bound hands clutching at the air between us.
“Okay?” I ask, looking deep into her liquid silver eyes for any hint of discomfort.
But there is none as she nods. “I’m okay.”
I don’t step away just yet, don’t get back to coiling the rope around her. Instead, I brush my knuckles over the back of her hands, over her arms, across the tops—and the soft undersides—of her breasts.
She gasps then, arches against me, and I reward her with a light pinch of her nipples that has her crying out. “I’ve got you, luv,” I promise her as I run my thumb—and a length of the rope—across her beautiful lips.
I move on, laying a line over each of her shoulders, making sure to keep the rope flush against her skin. Making sure it doesn’t twist and somehow pinch her or rub her raw. Pleasure. This is all about pleasure—for her and for me.
I go slowly, making sure the ropes aren’t too tight or too lose. Making sure my line—and my knots—are as perfect as Grace is herself.
I reach for another rope, loop it into my design. Then cross it with the other length of rope right between her breasts, before wrapping both ends around her waist.
I tighten it a little then, just enough to send heat flowing through her but not enough to cause pain. She gasps, her mouth falling open in an erotic little O that makes me want to slide her to her knees so I can fuck her mouth.
Next time, I promise myself as I continue sliding the rope along her skin, tying off her waist so I can slide the ropes between he
r legs. I slide her panties down her legs, then lay the ropes against her sex, one on each side so that she opens like a flower.
Grace gasps at the sensation, her skin flushing a gorgeous pink as her eyes grow wide.
“Okay?” I ask again. I know I’m not hurting her, but I also know that I’m asking a lot of her, piling sensation onto sensation in my quest to give her as much pleasure as possible.
“Yes,” she answers, but for the first time her voice is shaky, uncertain. And that’s not okay, not for me.
Dropping the two ends of the rope, I step closer to her, pull her into my arms as I rub soothing hands down her bare spine. “You sure?” I whisper, pressing kisses to her temple, her cheek, the soft, scented side of her throat.
She melts against me. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”
It’s the reassurance I need, so I step back and pick up another, shorter length of rope. I knot it into the rope around her waist at the small of her back, then slowly, carefully, slide it between her legs. This time, I make sure it runs directly along the line of her pussy so that it rests against her clit. It’s a lot, I know, the sensation intense, but it’s nothing Grace didn’t do yesterday on her own. And I want to give this to her.
Fuck, I want to give everything to her.
I wiggle the rope against her clit just to watch her eyes widen in pleasure. Just to see the way her already hard nipples bead up and her breath hitches in her throat.
I lay a knot right above her clit—one right on it would be too much stimulation and run the risk of hurting her even as it aroused her—and that’s not what I want tonight. Not what I promised her.
Still, I can tell the knot is doing its job even though it’s a good inch above her clit, the pressure of it sending zings of awareness, of pleasure, through her with each breath she takes.
“Okay?” I ask again, as she cries out, her fingers once again clutching at air.
“I can’t—” She breaks off, takes a deep shuddering breath. “I can’t take much more, Jaxon.”
“I know, luv. I know.” There’s more I want to do to her, more ties I want to make, but this is Grace’s first time and as she trembles and shakes in front of me, I know that it’s enough.
So I do the one thing I know will bring her pleasure. I tug on the ends of the rope just hard enough to tighten it against her sex. She gasps, pitches forward, and I catch her with my body. I let her rest against me, let her get her breath back, and then I do it again. And again. And again.
Fifth time’s the charm because, suddenly, Grace is coming, exactly as I intended, her body spasming inside my ropes as pleasure rips through her.
She calls out my name as it happens, and I pull her closer, murmur sweet nothings against her skin even as I hold the rope taut, drawing out her climax as long as I possibly can.
When it’s finally over, she collapses against me. I pick her up, carry her to the bed. For a moment, I stand over her, transfixed by the gorgeous sight of Grace in my ropes, skin flushed and face slack from orgasm. My fingers itch for my camera, the absence of it a loss I feel so keenly that it hurts.
But then she opens her eyes, and smiles dreamily at me, and the camera doesn’t matter. Nothing does but Grace.
I untie her slowly, skimming my fingers over her skin wherever the ropes had been, kissing her wherever a knot left a pretty pink mark. She’s floating a little—I can see it in her eyes, hear it in her soft, barely there breathing, feel it in the way she winds herself around me.
I hold her for long minutes, stroking and kissing and petting her back to awareness. It takes a while, but I don’t mind. I love being able to cuddle Grace, love seeing this soft, less fierce side of her. I love her warrior side, love the way she goes after what she wants no holds barred. But I love this side of her, too, when her guard finally drops and I get to see all of her, not just the part she likes to show the world.
Eventually her gaze clears, but she still doesn’t let go of me. Instead, she goes from cuddling against my side to sprawling on top of me, arms crossed beneath her chin as she studies me.
“What?” I ask after a full minute of her silent contemplation. Her steady stare makes me antsy—side effect of being a photographer, I’d much rather be behind the camera, watching the world, than in front of it with the world, or even this one woman, watching me.
“You’ve got a good face,” she answers. “I like looking at it.”
That makes me smile. “I like looking at yours, too.” To prove it, I run a finger down her sharp blade of a nose and over her plush lips. “It’s a great face.”
“It really isn’t,” she tells me with a roll of her eyes. “Too sharp. Too many angles. When I was in junior high, the boys in school used to say I looked like a rat.”
“A rat?” I can’t stop the surprised laugh that erupts from deep within me. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. They used to bring me cheese and throw it at me in PE and art.”
“Jesus. Cruelty really is the mother of invention. I hope you scratched their eyes out.”
“I did not. I ignored them.”
“You ignored them?” I’m half fascinated, half horrified. “While they pelted you with Brie?”
“Brie? Please. It was string cheese. Maybe cheddar if someone’s mother was feeling particularly fancy that day. I preferred cheddar, to be honest. On hot days the string cheese would get stuck in my hair and melt a little.” She gives an exaggerated shudder.
“Those little assholes.” I pull her closer and kiss her forehead as I run my hands through her gorgeous, cheese-free hair. “If I was there I would have beat them up for you.”
“If you were there, you probably would have thrown cheese in my hair, too,” she says with a laugh.
“I would not.” I don’t bother to hide the fact that I’m a little offended she would even think such a thing. “I am not the type to pick on the girl I like.”
“No, you’re the type who wants to tie up the girl you like,” she answers with a smirk.
“While that is, absolutely, true, I wouldn’t have tried it with you in junior high. And I sure as shit wouldn’t have tried to humiliate you.”
“That’s true. You wouldn’t even have noticed me.”
“Believe me, luv. I would have noticed you.” I bring her hand to my mouth, plant a kiss on each of her fingertips. I watch her as I do, enjoying the way her cheeks flush that soft pink that gave me so many ideas the first night we met.
“I looked like a rat. Definitely not the kind of girl a guy like you would notice.”
“Even when I was thirteen, I was the guy with the camera permanently attached to his face. I noticed everything. I definitely would have noticed you. I would have taken so many pictures of you that you’d have thought I was a total creep.”
She looks skeptical. “Even with my pointy nose?”
“Especially with your pointy nose.” I kiss the body part in question. “It’s one of my favorite things about you.”
She pushes up until she’s sitting instead of lying on me, with her knees on either side of my hips and her hands on my chest. “Wait a minute. My nose is your favorite part of me?”
“I said one of my favorites. Your face fascinates me. But I’m also partial to that incredible brain of yours. It attracted me long before I ever saw a picture of you.”
She laughs. “Now I know you’re messing with me.”
“I’m not.” I slide my hands up her sides to her breasts. “I mean, sure, I’m really fond of these.” I tweak her nipples and she half laughs, half gasps as she tries to swat my hands away. I ignore her. “Really, really fond.” I kiss first one, then the other, just to prove it.
“But I’m serious. You piqued my interest with that first email. You were obviously brilliant and you understood photography as an art form better than anyone I’ve ever met who wasn’t a photographer. And yet you were so proper. So...prim. Hell, yeah, you intrigued me. And then I saw your photo and you intrigued me more. I knew I wanted to photograph you.”
“Is that why you came up to me in the bar? To convince me to pose for you?”
“I came over to you in that bar because from the second you walked in, all I could think about was fucking you.”
“Really?” She looks even more skeptical and that won’t do. At all.
I buck my hips against her, sliding my dick—which has been hard from the second she straddled my hips—against her sex. “I thought it was fairly obvious.”
“I guess,” she says, sliding down my body until she’s lying between my legs, her mouth hovering barely an inch above my cock.
“You guess?” I force the words out as she presses a long, lingering kiss to my tip. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means I didn’t expect you.”
“Believe me, Grace, I didn’t expect you either.” She starts to lower her head, to take me in her mouth, but I stop her—even though it nearly kills me. But I want her to be looking at me when I say this, want her to know I mean it even when she’s not sucking my dick. “But I’m so grateful I found you. Everything about you blows me the fuck away.”
Her eyes go wide and swirly and for long seconds all she does is stare at me. Just when I’m beginning to think I blew it, that I pushed her too far too fast, she grins. And says, “Jaxon, luv, I’m just getting started.” Then she lowers her head, sucks me deep inside her mouth.
And just like that, I’m gone. Whether she knows it or not—whether she believes it or not—Grace owns me body and soul. And I’m not going to rest until I know she feels the same way about me.
Tuesday: Grace
“Let me buy you breakfast,” Jaxon says from his spot on the bed, where he’s watching me get ready for work.
“I don’t have time for breakfast,” I tell him as I slick my favorite red lipstick onto my lips. “Someone made sure of that by keeping me in bed half an hour after my alarm went off.”
“It should have been an hour, but I know how to work fast when the occasion calls for it.” A glance at his reflection in the mirror shows me he’s wearing a very self-satisfied grin. With any other guy, the smugness would turn me off, but apparently that’s where we are at this point—with me actually liking the cockiness. Which is a separate issue all together from the fact that I also really like his cock.