Out of Control

by Roberts, Teresa Noelle

  Jen couldn’t help herself. She snorted, as she was pretty sure he’d meant her to do. “There you go again, trying to help in not too useful ways.”

  “I’d share if I could,” he reiterated. “But I can’t imagine what you’d want with an advanced degree in mathematics.”

  She shrugged. “Better part-time job. With Cornell and Ithaca College in town, it’s gotten to the point that businesses expect you to have a BA to sweep their damn floor. I should move, but I like this town. I like you, for that matter.”

  Drake tightened his lips, and his eyes took on an almost calculating expression. “I have a few ideas.”

  “But are they good ideas or ones that will make me throw things at you?”

  “I’m guessing good ideas that still might provoke throwing things, if I don’t talk them through with you first. “

  “You have a learning curve. Always knew you were smart.”

  “I try not to make the same mistake over and over again.”

  She applauded. The action was teasing, maybe borderline mocking, but inside she wanted to paint the studio in rainbow hues. He got it! He actually got it!

  “The ideas are still pretty vague,” Drake said, “and I’m not even sure they’re workable. You have enough on your mind right now with the show, and I think we’re down to about one brain cell apiece anyway, so we should probably talk about the ideas later.” He followed up the comment with a yawn and added, “But now can we go home to sleep, as long as I promise we can get back on time for you to finish color coding?”

  “It’s a deal. But I’ll nag you incessantly about those ideas. You know that.”

  He smiled. “Not if I order you not to.”

  Jen stuck out her tongue. But she clenched a little at the words, knowing he was right.

  She’d obey him. Not because he was always right, or knew best (hell, she knew that wasn’t true) but because she wanted to obey him. She liked how it made her feel, liked how it made him feel. Liked what it did for sex, extending the rituals of dominance and submission outside the bedroom so they were constantly reminded of that dynamic.

  She’d never thought of herself as an obedient person before. She still didn’t, overall. Outside the confines of this relationship, rules as often as not seemed designed to frustrate her, playing on all her weaknesses without regard to her strengths. Within the relationship, she suspected Drake would describe her as a bratty sub, though hopefully he’d say it with a smile.

  But she still got a thrill when Drake ordered and she obeyed. Because it was Drake, and it made him happy.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “I’m still not sure how I got everything done,” Ryoko said, picking up one more box to carry to her waiting car.

  “I know how I did it,” Jen said. “Help. Lots of help.” She looked at Drake, who blushed.

  Sean, who looked even more underslept than the others did, gave Drake a high five. “You have superpowers, Professor. Usually Jen would rather work herself sick than accept help.”

  Drake put his arms around Jen. She felt the weight of his tiredness and thought, not for the first time, that he’d been a lifesaver and she owed him. But for once, the thought of “owing” someone didn’t bother her. Drake didn’t expect payback.

  And figuring out a way to repay him would just be fun.

  Jen was cradled in hemp ropes, a rich shade of green that she’d chosen and that even Drake, who didn’t have anything like her eye for color, had to admit was a great choice, flattering her pale skin, contrasting nicely with her red hair. Probably would highlight her green eyes too, but she’d closed her eyes a while ago, as if the weight of bliss was too much and she couldn’t possibly keep them open any longer. She was smiling a serene, Mona Lisa smile.

  Drake reflected that he’d never seen her looking serene unless she was asleep. Joyful, yes. Ecstatic, yes. Ordinarily happy, yes. And occasionally calm because she was too exhausted to be anything else. But never like this before. Never until the ropes forced her to slow down, to stop running, chasing whatever it was she sought. He tried not to judge her go-go-go ways. He wasn’t an artist, didn’t know what it took to do her kind of work. But he did know it wasn’t healthy never to slow down, never to stop. She went full tilt at everything, even sex. Shibari would be great for her if it let her relax.

  Which was definitely a win-win, because putting her in shibari, immobilizing her, ornamenting her, turning her into an object, but an object with a voice and a mind, an object who could give and receive pleasure, was good for him, both meditative and supremely erotic.

  Rope bound her breasts. Latticed her legs. Pinioned her arms to her sides. Harnessed her torso. Stretched between her legs to tug on her lips and torment her clit.

  Beautiful.

  And relaxed, in a very sexy way.

  Getting her this way had taken close to two hours. At first, when he began the slow, painstaking wrapping of her legs, she’d been restless, squirmy, focused on what he was doing, asking a lot of questions. That was normal with a sub new to shibari’s complex ties and slow pace, and definitely not a surprise coming from curious, highly active Jen. He’d soothed the physical restlessness with kisses and light caresses, tried to calm her mind with answers that explained the process. More importantly, answers that reassured her about the underlying questions, the ones she wasn’t actually asking: Will I be able to handle this? And is it all right if I can’t?

  Finally, he’d put his arms around her and, looking into her eyes, said flat-out, “Suspension is demanding. I know subs who can’t do it because it puts too much strain on their bodies. And that’s fine. I know you really want to try it, and I really want to do it to you. But if doesn’t work, if it’s painful or feels wrong for your body or your brain, it’s not like I’m going to run out of great things to do with rope when you have both feet on the ground, or your body on a bed.” He kissed her, thrilling in the rope that wrapped her skin and pressed into hers, but thrilling even more in the soft, sensual way she returned his kiss. No rushing, no urgency, no impatience, just pleasure in the moment. The ropes were working their magic.

  “I want to give this to you. Want to give this to me.” Her voice trembled slightly and her green eyes were wide and very bright with a combination of excitement and, he thought, unshed tears of the kind that sometimes flowed during intense scenes, tears of release. She wasn’t there yet, but he wouldn’t be surprised if she was by the end of the session.

  Hell, he might be there himself. He was surprised how much her willingness to give hours of her overcommitted, valuable time to try his slow, painstaking kink meant to him.

  “You’ve already given it to us both, Jen. Remember that. If something feels strained, or like it’s harming you, use your safeword. I might be able to fix whatever’s bothering you so we can go on. If I can’t, we’ll improvise.”

  She’d given one of her big, sunny grins then. “Oh God, Drake, that was exactly what I needed to hear. I’d hug you, but…” She shrugged as best she could with her arms bound to her sides, sheathed in rope. “Kind of tied up here.” The shrug moved the network of ropes against her skin, and her eyes widened even more, this time with surprised pleasure.

  So he hugged her instead. And while he did, he twisted the ropes of her torso harness just a bit, tugging on the ropes between her legs until she moaned softly into his mouth.

  After that, she relaxed, let the meditative effect of rope moving over her skin sink her into bliss.

  Finally, he was ready for the final touches, which he needed to do with Jen lying on a foam mat on the floor. He created slings of sorts and laid them on the mat. Once he’d helped her lie down, no easy trick bound as she was, he adjusted the slings, placing one under her ass, one supporting her shoulders, and one resting at the small of her back. He made sure all his knots were firm and wouldn’t slip under her weight.

  “Almost ready,” he whispered. “Just a few more touches.”

  He kissed her gently on each closed eye, the
n slipped on her blindfold. Jen started to mutter a protest, then stopped. “Will it make it better?” she asked instead. Her voice was dreamy.

  “Maybe. Easier, anyway. Some people open their eyes and get dizzy or disoriented, even motion sick. I know how much you like to see what’s going on around you, so I know you’d open your eyes if I gave you a chance.”

  Jen smiled lazily. “Makes sense. I’d hate to puke on you or something. And I can see the colors better this way.”

  With her safely blindfolded, Drake shook his head and grinned. He adored her, but that didn’t mean he understood her. Colors indeed. The inside of Jen Kessler’s head must be an interesting place. A bright, pretty place, without straight lines or linear organization. Yet it all worked for her. God help him if he had to find anything in her part of the house, yet it was obvious she’d organized it meticulously to meet her needs. A color-coded way, perfect for a woman who experienced the world more richly than he ever could.

  Once Jen was blindfolded, dreaming no doubt of the color of rope’s texture or the taste of orgasm, Drake secured all the ropes that would allow him to suspend her, running from various points of her body. Then he attached them to the rig that already hung from the suspension points on the ceiling by the one heavier rope he would use to raise her. Dungeons in permanent clubs sometimes had mechanized winches, but his own setup was simpler, relying more on his strength.

  He might invest in a different setup down the road. Assuming Jen enjoyed being suspended, he had hopes of doing it often.

  Before moving so he could raise her, Drake did something he couldn’t remember ever doing to any of the women he’d had in a similar position, ready to fly. He kissed his way down Jen’s body, around the ropes. He lingered at her nipples, suckling those pale pink gems until they swelled and deepened to a duskier rose, one of the few color subtleties he was sure to notice. When Jen squirmed against the ropes, gasping and arching and muttering soft words that were technically curses but were more like prayers to pleasure, he moved down her body, parted her rope-wrapped legs, teased at the soft auburn fuzz on her pubic mound.

  When her hips were rolling, causing the ropes on her vulva lips to pull them farther open, when the scent of her desire surrounded him, when she was mewling and begging, “Please, please,” he hovered over her clit, set off by green rope and swollen to plumpness by the rope’s pressure.

  “Don’t you dare come until I tell you to.” He had to remind himself to make his voice stern and demanding. She expected it by now, liked it, and he wanted to keep reinforcing the training in orgasm control. But sometimes it was as difficult for him as it was for her.

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “But please…please.”

  He licked her pussy, reveling in her flavor and the unique, delicious combination of woman and rope. Then he brought his mouth to her clit.

  Softly. Teasingly. Increasing her pleasure. Pushing her ever higher without letting her reach the pinnacle, pulling back when she pleaded for release. Part of him wanted to surrender to her need, to give her the orgasm she obviously craved.

  But he wanted her to come for the first time when she was above the ground, supported by his ropes and impaled on his cock. That was important. That would imprint pleasure connected with suspension. Pleasure connected with suspension and him.

  Again, it wasn’t something he’d done with other subs. A lot of the women he’d played with were rope junkies, getting off on the bondage and suspension alone, flying in a place he’d helped them to reach but wasn’t sharing, while he’d gotten off on the control, the beauty of the woman in the ropes and her reactions to them. With Jen, he wanted something more mutual. He didn’t know why, but his body insisted on the truth as it insisted on the right move in kendo at times when his brain didn’t consciously know what to do. He trusted that instinct.

  When Drake pulled away, his beard wet with her juices, his nostrils full of her fragrance, Jen was on the verge of losing her mind.

  He thought he might have already lost his. He didn’t care.

  For a few seconds, once he was on his feet, all he could do was breathe and find that still place inside that allowed him to be a safe, sane dominant. Not a ravaging beast who might break his sub as he sought his pleasure, not a distracted klutz who might send his sub crashing to the floor when he tried to suspend her because his brains were in his dick.

  Drake’s erection didn’t falter, but his breathing slowed and his thoughts cleared.

  And what he saw in that moment of clarity terrified and thrilled him at the same time.

  He loved Jen Kessler. He’d probably loved her from the moment she turned up on his porch, all bright colors and energy at eight in the morning, looking for an apartment.

  All these years he’d been convinced he couldn’t love, wouldn’t love, was content with fly-by-night games with friends and acquaintances. He’d always guarded himself against sneaky incursions of softer emotions that might wreck his control. Yet he’d been steamrollered by a cheeky, stubborn, overcommitted artist with crazy hair and even crazier habits who walked right in the front door of his house and heart, bold as brass while he’d been busy guarding all the windows and side entrances.

  Drake had no idea how you went about loving someone. Caring was frightening enough. Really loving? Terrifying. Relationships were equations with no clear solution, math with irrational numbers and fuzzy answers. Love added another variable.

  But he knew one thing. If Jen wanted his love, he’d do a better job as a partner than his father.

  And he’d get there one step at a time. First step: finish what he’d started. Raise her up, set her flying in the freedom of bondage, then quench their desire.

  Then she cried out, a sad, lonely, lost sound, and all Drake could think about was comforting her.

  Jen was lost, but it didn’t bother her. Drake was there to guide her back when the time came, and Drake’s ropes embraced her. She had no idea what time it was. She had little idea what had been done to her, how she was bound, what might come next. All she knew for sure was the texture of rope on her skin, scratchy and soft at the same time, the ache of arousal in her belly, the keen, pleasurable throbbing in her clit and pussy where the ropes tormented her most sensitive places, and the waves of passion, crimson and purple behind her blindfolded eyelids, murky and swirling and beautiful. All that mattered was the next touch, the next kiss, even the next word from Drake.

  And when he began kissing his way down her body, all that mattered was the warm, wet touch of his lips, the path of his tongue, the pressure of his hands on her sensitized skin. By the time he reached her pussy, the colors swirled madly in Jen’s head. She could barely speak, and her belly was rolling like a Middle Eastern dancer’s, making her hips undulate. She stammered out a plea for mercy, for release…

  And realized as soon as the words were spoken that she could wait. Her lips kept babbling, “Please,” as Drake licked her just to the edge but not over it, but she wasn’t begging for permission to come anymore. She wasn’t sure what she was pleading for, but it was something beyond orgasm. Maybe for the connection of this moment to continue, to deepen. Maybe for a resolution beyond orgasm, something she couldn’t identify because she’d never experienced it.

  Then she stopped trying to figure it out and just let herself babble as she rode the multicolored waves of sensation and enjoyed the safe, intimate confinement of the rope.

  When Drake stopped licking her, she could bear it. Almost welcomed the break from the overwhelming pleasure. But when he moved away from her, when she no longer felt his skin against hers, everything shifted to gray, and she couldn’t help letting out a desolate cry.

  “It’s all right, Jen. I’m here.” A hand touched her shoulder, and the touch soothed her.

  “I didn’t know… I couldn’t find…”

  She felt Drake’s breath on her face, felt his body close to hers, though touching only her shoulder, and her panic eased. A bright, clear rose joined the colors of lust, and
the darkness eased.

  “I know,” he said, his voice low and smoky and soothing. “It’s scary in the dark. But I’ll be right here. I have to step away for a minute or two, but just over to the wall to raise you up. I know you can picture how close I’ll be, with your visual mind.”

  As he predicted, the image filled her mind in precise detail. The wall. The pulley, usually hidden by that crazy hanging, the one she’d thought was a close-up of a flower but was actually a representation of fractals, whatever they were. Three or four steps for Drake’s long legs, maybe a few more for her. Farther away than she wanted him right now, but close enough he could reach out and touch her if she needed. It would be all right. And if she stayed quiet, she could hear his movements, keep track of where he was.

  Her body relaxed, letting her know how much tension she’d been holding in those few seconds of confusion. Drake brushed her hair gently off her forehead. “I’m moving now,” he said. She felt him pull away, felt the stirring of air as he moved, and once again she experienced that gray bereavement. But he said, well above her head, “I’m heading to the pulley,” and then, a few seconds later, “I’m beginning to lift you. Soon you’ll begin to feel pressure and pulling on the ropes. And then you’ll be flying.”

  He kept talking as he pulled, mostly saying things like, “There you go,” and “Do you feel that?” Knowing where he was, hearing the caress of his voice, helped center her. So did the ropes, an extension of Drake that held her tight. Even when they began to tug and strain in odd ways, it was Drake’s embrace she felt, not something inanimate.

  The floor melted away. She knew she must be rising, but it seemed she stayed in one place and the world around her vanished, leaving her alone with the ropes and Drake’s voice. Even following the sound of his voice, she couldn’t tell where he was. She could picture the room that used to be around her, and logic told her it hadn’t changed, but her spatial sense was saying something different. It was freaky, disorienting…and disarmingly hot, being anchored to reality only by Drake’s voice and the ropes in which Drake had wrapped her, like he had created a world in which there was only the two of them and rope.