He cupped her face, eyes shining. “Maya, you are all a man could want. I must wait, don’t you see? I must suffer.”
“I don’t have to be fought for!”
He gave a shy grin, then shook his head and collected her in his arms. As he kissed her, pressing close, she fell against the shop window, and he raised her thigh, pushing himself onto her, but just as she started grinding her sex oh-so-gently against the hardness of his own, and their kisses had grown more desperate, he pulled away again. This time, he ran into the street, hailing a cab. When the car pulled up, he opened the door for her, saying, “I must be in control.”
As she climbed in, she told him, “Anything you say,” and the submission in her voice made her poor sex flood. Throughout the journey, Art played a hand up and down her stockings, turning her on so much that she arched, gripping the seat…and yet his expression was utterly calm, his dark skin shining.
Art’s apartment block had a gray stone exterior and was five floors high. When they arrived, she expected the building to be cold within; instead, they walked into a warm entrance hall, with long couches and a glass-topped table, laden with a vase of cream-colored tulips that were engorged, tumbling, heavy with life. They took an elevator to the top floor where he unlocked the door to his place; then, without speaking, he lifted her up in his arms and carried her quite easily across the threshold. She laughed, a stiletto dangling from the ball of her foot and the weighty belt pressing onto her stomach. When he set her down on a low, leather couch, he traced the line of her lips, saying, “I’ve never wanted a woman so much.”
She pressed his hand onto her sex, letting her knees fall apart. “Please,” she begged, smothered by the smell of his cologne. “That cab ride was too long.”
He glared into her eyes, breathing hard, and soon his hand was sliding up her stockings, and he was whispering her name, his lips jerking apart. “I won’t take you yet,” he said. “I won’t… I must suffer.” But even so, he lay across her and she felt his cock, large and hard, pushing onto her core. He kissed her neck and swept a hand inside her skirt, and before she knew it he was brushing aside her satiny briefs, then stroking along her sex. She gasped, “Oh, Art, you’re so good at this.” And her slit was so wet that it opened easily to the tips of his fingers like a flower that senses the tremor of an insect.
“You,” he moaned, licking her jaw, “are edible, Maya.” And he pressed in deeper, finding the perfect spot, which made her sink back into the cushions so her belt dug in, and buttons burst from her swelling breasts. His fingering grew more furious and he lowered his face to her bosom, kissing and gasping, licking beneath the lace of her bra.
“Take me,” she begged, running her hand up and down the shape of his cock.
He groaned, as if in wondrous pain, then rose, wiping his lips with the back of his hand; when he lowered his arm a trail of drool strung from his mouth to his knuckles. Pulling her to her feet, he led her across the room, the back of his neck smelling of cologne. She wished to lick his skin, but didn’t quite dare to. He longed to be in control, and she wanted—no, needed—to please him.
He told her to lie on a sheepskin rug over by the grate, which was filled with pillar candles he now lit from a taper. As he rose again, these glimmered in the chasm of the grate, some taller, some shorter, in shades of cream and white. They gave off the aromas of sandalwood and bay, heady, erogenous scents that filled her. He left and returned again with a piece of silky rope, the kind you might use to tie curtains or a robe. Making her lie on her side, he bound her wrists in front of her, and she shuddered as the cord bit her flesh.
“I will tell you what to do,” he said.
She answered, “Yes.”
He lit a long taper from the candles in the grate and wandered round the room, sleek in the dimness, lighting other candles, his shoulders slack and confident. In the low glow, Maya could see the many textures of the room: long futons were covered in ochre drapes and the floor itself was awash with rugs and skins. Some of these were pelts or fur, while others gleamed like satin. Art was clearly a man of textures. His bed was over by the wall—a mattress dressed with cushions and throws patterned with tiger stripes, suede and leather. Except for the mantelpiece and the vast prints—the sulking nudes of Mapplethorpe, the lunacies of Pollock—everything was low in that room, nothing rising higher than the waist. She could smell the scent of candles and skins—leathery, animal—a smell that knows itself.
This was so different from her own home, which smelt of the beeswax she used on the furniture and washing powder and mothballs. Her husband liked crisp sheets and plain, ironed tablecloths, shoes arranged by the door, mirrors that gleamed… even in the height of their passion, he’d only ever made love on superclean sheets. She was a neat person, but not as neat as he was, and his need for organization oppressed her. When they were first dating, they’d been carnal, devouring each other, but as soon as Maya had felt that something wasn’t right he’d become too soft, treating her like she was precious. Feeling like a child, she’d been unable to come with him inside her. Recently, she’d realized that theirs was a marriage of servitude, in which they’d each become unchallenged, and nothing real burned.
Now here she was in the silver belt that both kept her and frustrated her. The cord around her wrists dug blissfully deep and as she rolled onto her back, the silver belt groaned, its weight like a metal collar, its links gripping her through the open dress. She raised a leg, which burst more buttons, and flexed her foot inside the stiletto. Candlelight danced across her body as Art returned to her side, half-undressed, his chest now dark and bare. Kneeling, he circled her ankle with the whole of his hand and drew it away, opening her thighs. He knelt between her knees, his eyes flicking across her body, and, in a soft growl, explained that he would fuck her until she could take no more: “…until you’ve had your fill.”
Then, in sudden frenzy and without touching the belt, he began to tear the dress from her, his swelling biceps tightening as he worked, his skin gleaming as the candlelight swept across him. Soon she was half-bare in black silk lingerie edged with lace, and stockings teamed with garter belt and stilettos. He raised her bound wrists high above her head and, rubbing her nipple beneath the black silk so it pressed against the pad of his thumb, he fell on her, biting her shoulder, her neck and the cleavage that swelled from the delicate lace. He unzipped himself and fell on her wildly, entering her so swiftly that she cried out, pleading for his frenzy. Suddenly he was rutting with the power of a lion, telling her through shuddery breath that he’d often seen her in the store and had dreamed of possessing her many times but he’d held back because of the ring on her finger, glinting there, like a trap. “What changed your mind?” she asked.
“I couldn’t bear how sad you looked.”
The silver belt leapt on her waist as his body lunged against it, again and again, and with her bound wrists raised above her head, he pulled out of her, groaning and fell on her breasts, peeling back the lacy cups of her bra. “You’re exquisite,” he whispered, licking her nipple with the flat of his tongue. She glanced down at his dark, muscular back, where the skin was glossed with perspiration, then at her saliva-streaked breast, and she felt a wonderful burn in her pussy.
“Take me,” she pleaded. She strained at her ropes, longing to touch her clit, but this only caused them to dig more deeply. “Art, I need you inside me!” Instead, he made her raise her head so he could unknot her ponytail; then, when her blonde hair fell about her shoulders, the lines of his face grew soft.
“Maya, you move me,” he murmured, parting her thighs and moaning as he filled her again. Now, he burst into a frenzy of fucking that made the whole floor creak. He grasped the belt against her waist, restricting the silver plates, and with his free hand splayed on her breast he leaned his weight right onto her, slamming his cock into her slit over and over, staring down at her pussy, which was slick beneath the lace of her briefs. “You’re mine,” he told her, saliva glossing his lips and
teeth, and the beautiful buildup began to take her over, creeping through her sex, making her arch. She caught sight of the darkness of his cock as it thrust into her, and, arching her spine so the back of her head thumped against the sheepskin rug, she felt the flood of her climax and wailed with pleasure, half laughing, half sobbing, as the burn took her. He cried out himself, lunging like crazy, snarling, “Maya, oh, god…” And when he suddenly splayed a hand on her breast and leaned right onto her nipple, hips lunging ferociously, she knew he was coming inside her. He cried like a man in agony, his teeth gleaming against the roof of his mouth, and knowing he was coming in a long, hard stream, she came again, rolling her head, the smell of sex and sheepskin rising from beneath her.
Afterward, with her wrists still bound, he led her through to the bathroom where he washed her body with a natural sponge, removing her lingerie piece by piece, then bathing the slickness from her thighs and sex, but he left the belt in place, only lifting it a little to clean the perspiration from her hips. He dried her gently with a towel, then he guided her back through to the room of textures, where he asked her to kneel on his bed surrounded by candles; there, he sketched her in the silver belt, her bound wrists raised. While she basked in his attention and posed for him, proud, he quietly asked who gave her the belt, and when she replied he stared at her, pencil poised. “He gave it to you to entrap you, perhaps.”
“It hurts that I must leave him.”
As he sat sideways on his bed, sketching naked, the candlelight falling softly on his face, he told her the contraption was sacred. Like arousal itself, he explained, the belt was a burden, but when she yielded to true passion, it released her. “Your husband’s gift was complicated, Maya. You can always be grateful for that. Finally, you’ve obeyed your instincts, becoming faithful to the woman you are.”
“I never thought sex was important,” she said.
He gave her an instant look of surprise, which grew to a smile. “How strange, after what we just shared.”
She laughed, afraid of how free she felt, so daring and real. The room around her glimmered and she felt strong within it, as if she was choosing this moment and everything beyond.
Because no one who’s been bound can fail to learn true liberty. And no one who yields to shackles will pass faith by.
FIVE SENSES
Rachel Kramer Bussel
When you’re together long enough, sometimes even the hottest sex starts to seem rote. Your body might respond, get wet, hard, perk up, but your mind starts to drift and once it does, it’s a goner. To be honest, I never thought that would happen to me, or rather, us. We were a model couple, or at least, that’s what my friends told me, especially when their marriages dissolved. We were seen sneaking kisses at parties, when we weren’t sneaking out to get it on in the car or rush home.
But sometimes monotony sneaks up on you; you don’t know what you’re missing until it’s gone, to paraphrase Joni Mitchell. That’s the state that I’m in when Lawrence calls me in my studio to tell me to get ready, because that night we’re going to celebrate his latest booking. He’s a comedian, which means that not only is he the life of every party we go to, but that sometimes we’re flush and sometimes we’re eating leftover pizza and pasta. I work, too, but I’m hardly any better; I sell my homemade jewelry at flea markets and online. Each piece is handcrafted, and I spend a lot of time seeking out just the right parts. Both of us are dedicated to our crafts—and each other. It’s what’s bonded us in even the leanest times. When either of us does particularly well, we treat the other to dinner. That’s been our ritual for years, but every ritual needs a bit of updating once in a while.
“Where are we going?” I ask him, already mentally panning my wardrobe for a dress that maybe he—or I—have forgotten about.
“We’re staying in tonight, baby,” he says, his husky, crooner’s voice making me shiver, as it always does.
Sight
I don’t really believe him, so before he gets home, I’m admiring myself in the mirror, noting the way my blood red wrap dress makes the reddish highlights in my hair stand out and the way the plunging neckline dips between my breasts, further emphasizing them. It’s the same dress I was wearing when he asked me to marry him, though I’m not sure even a man as attentive as Lawrence would remember that.
The truth is, I’m so caught up in what I see in the mirror that I barely murmur a hello when I hear my man walk in the door. When Lawrence comes up behind me and puts his hands over my eyes, I grin. The room feels electrified just by having him in it, next to me. He greets me with a kiss to the back of my neck, then lets his hands drop down to my shoulders. He kneads them deeply, and though I’m tempted to drop my head forward to give him better access, I watch us in the mirror.
His skin is darker than mine by a few shades, and I’ve always loved how we look together, his dark chocolate against my milkier tone. He watches me watching him before moving his grip, passing down over my shoulders, making goose bumps rise on my arms. I watch as his hands cup my breasts, holding them there, heavy in his hands, and I keep watching as he peels down the dress to expose the hot pink of my lacy bra, my nipples bursting against its constraints. He peels one layer of lace down, and his eyes meet mine in the mirror. “Can’t do this at a restaurant,” he says as he pinches my nub while we both look on. He exposes the other nipple, and there’s something so blatant about this, more so than being totally nude. My tits are hanging out from my bra, looking almost obscene, and even though it’s just the two of us watching, it feels like there are more eyes on me, a roomful. “Show off these pretty breasts. You should take them out more often. Flash me when we’re at one of those awful parties.” I have to shut my eyes then, because what he’s doing feels so good, I just can’t stand it. I don’t remember the last time he drew things out like this; and just like that, I realize I’ve been missing this, missing foreplay.
“I want to see you, too, baby,” I say, reaching back for what I know has to be a giant erection beneath his jeans. Sometimes I think I love feeling his hardness all wrapped up first, knowing that I will get to unveil it—if he lets me.
Smell
I’m busy inhaling the scent of him, the tangy, salty, musky, manly scent of not just his cock and balls but his skin, his essence. “Wait,” he commands. “First I want you to do something for me.” I glance at him and he looks nervous. I rise so I’m staring right into his dark brown eyes. “Take a bath with me,” he half asks, half tells. His eyes search mine, letting me know he doesn’t think I’m unclean, but he wants something else from me. “You wait here; touch yourself and look in the mirror while I run the bath.”
When was the last time he drew a bath for me? Something else I hadn’t realized was missing until I heard the water tumbling into the tub I’m used to soaking in alone. I try my best to follow Lawrence’s commands—I’ve never been able to resist orders issued in that special voice—and I watch the pinkness of my skin blossom against my touch. I stare at myself, trying to see the woman he sees, and instead of grabbing for my handy bedside vibrator, I use one hand to press my fingers inside me while the other tweaks my nipple as he had done. Just as I’m really getting into it, I hear him calling me. “Take off that dress and come in here.”
I slip off the dress and let it puddle on the floor. I stare at it for a moment before stepping toward the bathroom as I unhook my bra and toss that onto the bare, glossy wood. Just as I’m in the doorway, I step out of my panties. I pause, taking in the candles dotting the room, tiny floating ones. It smells like flowers and cotton candy. I sniff loudly as I walk toward him. “Slow, baby, slow,” he says as I step into the warm water. I’m not sure that’s possible, but I try. We are reversing our usual order of things, that’s for sure. Normally once I’m like this—ripe, juicy, ready—and he is, too, there’s no stopping us. We get down and dirty right away, sometimes so fast that we’re done before I’ve even gotten to appreciate him.
I sink into the water, surrounded by bubbles and th
at sweet scent. I scoop up a handful of fluff and blow it at Lawrence, laughing when he sneezes. At first I try to keep my head above water, but he insists that I sink lower, massaging my shoulders again so I have no resistance. My lips hover just above the water-line and I shut my eyes. Like that, we could be anywhere, anyone, really. I sense him shut off the lights and I hear rustling. He takes my hand and presses it against his heart, and we sit there like that, me deep in the water, inhaling the sweetness—“Vanilla,” he whispers at one point when he hears me sniffing—and letting the warmth penetrate my bones. This time, I don’t reach for his cock.
He kisses my forehead, long and tenderly, then down my nose and our lips meet. His tongue teases mine, coaxing it out only to shove it back in as his tongue claims my entire mouth. We both stand close to six feet tall—I’ve never been a shrinking violet—but when he kisses me, I do get smaller. Or maybe it’s just that his mouth is so much bigger than mine, it can capture mine in a moment. I can’t breathe with my mouth anymore, so I only use my nose, and now I smell him, pure Lawrence. He is kissing me and also not. His teeth are sinking into the area right around my lips, his saliva dripping onto me as I push back against the edge of the tub to press my head closer, give him more of myself. Just as I’m getting frantic, he pulls away again. “Don’t move.” I nod. His white shirt is drenched and he unbuttons it, giving me a view of his firm chest, the muscles not rippling but still so achingly clear, firm, just below the surface, that I clench down below.
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