by Joey W. Hill
"What I do with rope, the energy I feel when I do it, when I get lost in it, that's all mine. The sub, she's this perfect part enhancing it, an angel giving me the center, the reason to tie, bind, shape, create. But she's never mine. I've never looked at Missive, or any of them, and felt that. Don't move."
He sat back on his heels and stroked her hair. "I want you to look down and to your left. Lifting your chin just a little...like that. Stay in that position."
When she did, he shifted out of her range of vision. She heard a click, like he'd taken a picture with his phone, but when he came back, he had rope in his hands. He let her relax her head and neck in a normal position and began to use her as that center he'd just described.
He was capable of intricate designs, but she intuitively understood the simple one he chose this time was intended to only subtly adorn what he felt was already detailed and intricate enough--herself.
He put rope over her shoulders near the juncture with her neck. He also wrapped it around the points of her shoulders, since the dress design left them bare. Further wraps held her boxed arms to her sides. The ropes passed vertically on the outside of her breasts, and horizontally over and under them. He took all the wraps around her boxed arms, securing them and knotting the ends in a line below her shoulder blades. As he did that, he pulled her boxed arms up, increasing the discomfort. Arousal swirled in her lower belly. It amazed her that he could summon that reaction, when she normally whined over the irritation of a hangnail.
"Enough?" he asked. "Or...here?"
Higher. She drew in a breath. Oh God, it hurt, but something about it felt so good...
He repositioned it at the lower level without waiting for her response. His fingertips passed over her shoulder muscles. "These gave me the answer," he said. "You like the pain, but you're going to be in this position a while. I don't want you experiencing the wrong kind of stress."
She had her head down, her breath shallow, heart doing that heavy, powerful thud it did when he was tying her, capturing her, taking over. It was a language. Someone standing on the outside would only see him doing knots and wraps, but every one of them spoke to her, said something. She was quivering, wet between her legs, soaking the white panties. She felt vulnerable to him, fragile as porcelain.
He shifted back again, and took another couple of pictures from behind her. When he returned, he wrapped his arm around her waist, fingers hooking in the rope wraps below her breasts.
"This is how I would marry you," he said. "We'd say our vows as I was tying you. The dress and the rope would say you're mine." He brought the phone around her so she could see herself on the screen. "This would be the wedding picture I'd carry on my phone."
A woman knelt in a froth of satin, her arms bound behind her, the ropes a tapestry between shoulder and bound arms that enhanced and displayed the beauty of her bare shoulders, her exposed nape, the curl of her fingers around her elbows. Her silken hair was pulled over one shoulder. A submissive, waiting for her Master, devoted and in love with him. Totally his. Pictures didn't lie. At least not that kind of picture.
"You are fucking beautiful, and I mean that literally. I'd mean it when you're eighty. I've never wanted a woman so much in my whole life."
"If you don't mean it...please don't."
He caught her face and drew it up, not gently, forcing her to meet his brown gaze. "Do you think I don't mean it, Julie? Do you think I've gone this long in my life without committing to a woman, only to do it casually now, just to jerk her around?"
She shook her head. "I'm afraid of how I feel. I never get what I want. Not in terms of love."
"Well, I may not be what you want, but I'm what you're getting. Deal with it."
It was an unexpected tease, delivered harshly and gently at once, and she couldn't help hiccupping over a surprised chuckle, though emotions were thick in her throat. His eyes sparked in response, but his touch went to a caress on her face, registering everything happening inside her. She was lost.
"Tell me you want me, Julie," he said. "Tell me you believe me. No matter what other shit I might bring into your life, God help you, promise me you'll never doubt that one thing."
Everything felt taut and too large inside her, no room for anything but the bright, sharp need she showed him. "Yes," she whispered. And though he didn't encourage her to call him that, or seem to believe in that formality, she heard it in her mind clearly enough.
Master.
He nodded, his jaw tight. "I'm going to have you, right now. I'll probably get unspeakable things on that dress. But that will be one more way I'll mark you."
He'd tied the horizontal wraps and her arms tightly. As he passed his fingers over them, she felt the way the rope dug into her skin. He bent and captured her mouth, parting her lips with the pressure of his, sweeping in to take over with tongue and teeth. The faint throbbing of her neck told her he'd already left a mark there with his bite.
He rose and moved to stand before her. He stripped his belt and opened his jeans. He had a practical, efficient way of undressing, as if he wasn't aware of the beauty of his body. At another time, she might ask him to peel each article off slowly, let her savor. But she needed him too much right now, and he seemed driven by the same urgency.
He did take off everything, though, which pleased her. She'd seen most of his lean, tan body the day at the lake, but now she saw his pale, tight buttocks, the thick and tempting erection she'd like to taste, rising above testicles she wanted to cup and stroke.
For the performance, he'd tucked his pump inside the dark trousers, and they'd figured out a way to make the injection site blend, the dressers and makeup students coming up with a flesh-toned gauze bandage that held the cannula against his abdomen and camouflaged it. He still wore it now as he disconnected the pump and set it aside.
When he knelt before her, she wanted to pass her fingers over that gauze and the thin line of the cannula beneath it, over his flesh and muscles. She wanted to feel the full heat of his body against her. Now, now, now. All of it was perfect to her. It was all Des.
He didn't free her to do that. Instead, he started to ease her back, slowly, for he didn't allow her to unfold her legs. He supported her head until she was in a full backbend, the point of her skull resting on the mat. She did yoga, she knew he knew that. A couple times during the long days of the last week, she'd done a short session off in the wings to stay limber. She remembered seeing him leaning against the wall, watching her do an asana very similar to this position.
She was like his orchids, she realized. He'd observed how she moved in her daily life and was using it here to decide how to shape her for his pleasure.
He nudged her knees farther apart as he lifted the long skirt, folding it up to her waist to expose her panties. He braced himself over her, studying her, a dark ruthless spirit whose hair fell forward to frame his chiseled features and sharp eyes. Those eyes shifted to her.
"If this position gets unbearable, you tell me."
"It's all unbearable. That's why I don't want you to stop." She could barely breathe. The ropes dug into her arms and constricted her breasts, and she lifted her chin, exposing her throat to him. She felt on the verge of a climax that went far beyond the physical.
He hooked the panties in one finger, pushing into her, and she moaned as he passed his thumb over her clit on the outside of the front panel. "Yeah, you're as wet as the ocean, love. Warm and salty and slippery. You want my cock here?"
"Yes. God, yes."
"You know I love the way your voice sounds when you beg. Throaty and female, so sweet and strong. Vulnerable, trusting me." He pulled the panties farther to the side and began to push a couple more fingers inside her. He kept his eyes locked on hers and, though she couldn't deny the power of his touch, it was his demanding gaze that sent her over.
She began to climax before she could stop herself and, once on that ride, she couldn't stop. The orgasm kept peaking and crashing down on her with every slight movement he
pushed forward, stretching and penetrating her so deep, fingers stroking and playing, finding sensations she'd never even discovered herself.
Her back and thigh muscles were clenching, her whole body pitted against his restraints. She screamed as the orgasm refused to leave that edge, goaded by the conflict between pleasure and pain. It was as if she was being cut open from stem to stern with excruciating pleasure.
It went on and on, as if she could never get enough, as if she could never climax enough. Then he withdrew his fingers, clasped her around the waist and cradled her head, bringing her back to a quivering, upright position. He'd done it with care, so her muscles and joints had time to accommodate the change in position, but once he had her vertical, he showed his own urgency. His cock was thick and hard, brushing his abdomen, the tip glistening with pre-come. He held her with one arm and reached for the jeans he'd left crumpled close by.
"Do you have to..." Her voice wasn't much more than a whisper but he stopped, tilting his head toward her. He'd told her he'd had sessions that resulted in sex, but if he'd always been safe... "Can you not wear it? If you have to, it's okay, I don't want us to risk anything bad. But...I'm safe."
His gaze was sharp with desire, but now it filled with another emotion. He left the jeans to put both hands on her again, fingers digging into her arms. "The very last thing you are, Julie Ramirez, is safe. But yes, you are safe with me. I've always been careful."
"Okay. Then please...let me feel you."
He lifted her to take her place on the mat, bringing her over his lap to straddle him, her skirt covering his bare legs. She was excruciatingly tight, thanks to the orgasm, but though he was relentless, he was caring, slowly bringing her down on him, watching her face constrict, lips part as he pushed in, inch by inch. She was still wet, and once he was fully seated, he cupped her face, eyes darkening as she turned her head and bit the heel of his hand, hard, conveying her emotional turmoil. He'd given her an orgasm, but she needed an emotional release. She needed that edge. He was finally inside her, and she wanted to feel it like a branding.
"So be it, love." He brought her down fully on him, her clit getting full contact as his cock rammed deep, stretching and invading her vibrating tissues.
"Oh..." She cried out, helpless since he had her arms still bound behind her back, her upper body caught in his rope. Her breasts quivered and bounced at the impact, and his gaze went from there to her throat, to her mouth, and back again. He thrust into her again with that same force and it snapped his own control. As he plunged her into a full bodied immersion of wet, heated joining, she was gasping, making noises of need and encouragement. Harder, deeper. Please, make it hurt in that way that takes away the pain.
He gave her that wish and, when he finally shot his release into her, she was caught by the amber fire of his brown eyes, the taut set of his mouth, his arms so tight around her again. She couldn't breathe, didn't ever want to breathe.
Not if the trade-off was that she could feel like this.
He'd told her his feelings. He'd made her say she believed him, because she wanted to believe him so much. But in these moments, she knew no doubts. After all this time, it had come. The relationship that made her pain over the other ones seem ridiculous. That hadn't been heartbreak. Heartbreak was losing someone you truly loved. Someone whose leaving would destroy her.
This was the answer he'd given to her reluctance about the wedding dresses. If she was wrong about him, it would be bad. If she was right, she'd be scared to the core. But when he was holding her now, his face pressed into her throat, her bound body in his arms, she gave her faith to what he'd promised and said it aloud, wondering at it.
"I'm yours, Des," she said.
"Yeah, you are," he said, in that mild way of his that she now knew wasn't mild at all. She dropped her head forward on top of his, inhaled that sunlight smell of him...and let herself be his.
Chapter Ten
After they settled some more, he removed the rope, took off her dress, bra and underwear, and put her in a thick robe. She hoped he hadn't used it for Missive, but all she smelled on it was Des, so she thought he'd brought it with him for her aftercare.
Leaving her curled up on the mat, he packed his ropes in his backpack. She was half-asleep when he bent over her. In addition to his pack, he was carrying a small zippered tote she kept in her room, so he'd packed her an overnight bag. He hadn't asked if it was okay to rummage in her clothes, but it didn't occur to her that he needed to do so. It was an unsettling thought, if she was allowing herself any of those. Which she wasn't. Not tonight.
"Did you pack me a bikini top and a mini-skirt to wear tomorrow?"
"Of course. I'm a practical packer."
"No underwear, I expect."
"Why would you want to burden yourself with so many extra clothes?" He kissed the tip of her nose and gathered her up, lifting her in his arms like a child.
"I'm too heavy. You should let me walk. Where are we going?"
"You're not too heavy, I'll tell you when you need to walk, and my place. Time to show you my hovel, princess. Hush and sleep."
He carried her to his truck and she watched him through the windshield, lost in a pleasant, completely energy-less, no-thinking state, as he locked up the theater and set the alarm. He noticed details like that. Despite his joking, she'd bet money she'd find everything she'd need in her tote in the morning, from toiletry items to a comfortable outfit of a favorite shirt and jeans--with underwear. He might choose a snugger fitting T-shirt, but she wouldn't hold that against him. He was male, after all.
When he climbed into the truck, she was turned on her hip, looking at him. He lifted his arm, and she scooted underneath it to be held in its shelter. She helped him put the vehicle in gear, so he wouldn't have to reach across himself with his driving hand. She stayed where she was as he left the parking lot and drove through the night. She had no clue what time it was, or how far away he lived. It didn't matter. They could drive all night like this for all she cared.
She dozed a bit more, waking when he was making short turns that told her they'd entered a neighborhood. She opened her eyes as he turned onto a gravel driveway. It wound through woods, a peculiar transition since the road they'd been on had been lined with the neat, attractive models of a planned development.
When the trees cleared, she saw a large cottage like the gingerbread house in a fairy tale, with blue-grey wood siding. A small guest house with the same architecture was about a hundred yards to the left. Beyond the house and guest house was a barn. She saw the silhouettes of two horses in the open door and the flash of a curious large eye when his headlights passed over the stalls.
"The bigger house is Betty's, my landlady," Des said. He'd realized she was awake, but his low tone let her stay in her dreamlike state. "The horses are hers. You'll like them. One's a big flashy guy, and she used to show him. The other is a little palomino mare with some attitude. I take care of them when she has long shifts. She's a nurse at the hospital."
After helping her shift back toward the passenger seat, he left the truck and came around to open her door.
"I feel like Hansel or Gretel," she observed. "What a magical house to find in the middle of a suburb."
"This place predated the development, and fortunately the previous owners never sold it for subdivision." He stroked her cheek, and she felt absurdly pleased at his obvious enchantment with her sleepy and disheveled state. "Betty may have a touch of witch in her, but she prefers to bake cookies instead of children. She makes some great oatmeal raisin ones. Come on."
Des helped her slide out, and put an arm around her, holding her tote and his pack in the other hand. "Do you want to say hi to the horses before we go in?"
"I'm wearing a robe and no shoes. Yes."
Smiling at the conflicting messages, he put their things on the hood and picked her up, carrying her down the path to the barn. No man had ever carried her this much, and she'd dated a couple men much more physically intimidatin
g than him. Yet she felt secure in his hold and liked the sensation more than she'd expected.
Though the path wasn't well lit, his stride was sure, familiar with the terrain. "Miss Thing," he called out softly. "Come talk to us. We won't wake up Mr. All That," he told Julie. "He likes his beauty sleep and can get a bit nippy when woken up before morning, but Miss Thing is a night owl like me."
He let her feet down outside the open stall door. Julie heard a whicker from the shadows and drew back, startled, as a gold and white head emerged in front of her. However, the liquid brown eyes blinked at her so compellingly she overcame her initial trepidation and petted the horse's forelock and muscled neck. "Oh, she's wonderful."
"Have you ever petted a horse before?" Des had noted her hesitation.
"Rarely," she admitted. "Cop horses in New York, the occasional carriage horse at Christmas. That kind of thing. Never ridden one."
"We'll have to fix that. Miss Thing is a gentle lady."
Julie liked the idea. Still muzzy, she closed her eyes, using Des as a prop as she scratched Miss Thing's forehead and caressed her velvety soft nose. He chuckled indulgently and lifted her again.
"Gotta go to bed, Miss Thing. I wore my baby out." If I plan to take advantage of her again, I have to get her some sleep." He brushed his lips across Julie's forehead. "And I sure as hell plan to do that."
"Don't I get any say in it?"
"Sure. As long as it's an unqualified 'Yes, Des, that's exactly what I want.'"
He took them back up the path, reclaimed the tote and pack from the truck hood and ascended his small porch. He let her stand on her feet again as he fished out his key. She had a brief impression of a potted vegetable garden, tomatoes and some herbs to the left of the door, along with a folding chair and small table. A rusted set of chimes with a faded painted metal butterfly at the top offered a pleasant music.
Des opened his door and gestured her over the threshold. "It's basically a one-room apartment, but I'm fond of it, so be kind."
"I'm living in the back room of a theater. I'm hardly going to judge."