by Blake, Laila
I don’t know if it was my flushed, excited face or the sudden squeaky pitch, but I thought she looked at me strangely. I didn’t care. I didn’t even care that the strap and the instructions could only mean that I was going to be punished for the night before. I deserved it, didn’t I? I welcomed it, even, if that would make me feel less awful, less like we were fighting a losing battle in a room that was slowly disintegrating around us.
***
The cold was bracing against my cheeks. It hadn’t snowed since that night of Thai food and fingers pushed deep into my ass for his viewing pleasure, but moving into April had brought nothing but cold winds and rain. I checked my watch, tried to concentrate. My favorite restaurant was a small curry place from which you could look out over the less interesting part of the Thames, where it was brown and muddy and not framed in verdant tree-lined paths and famous landmarks.
A bus would take me 15 minutes, at least, so I hailed a cab, shivering and holding onto my bag a little too tightly. I tipped the driver too much when we got there five minutes later and I stumbled onto the pavement. The wind blew up my hair, and I hugged my coat around myself as I sought shelter in the restaurant. The air smelled hot and spicy, and I asked for a corner table, somewhere a little bit hidden—just in case.
I texted Paul even before I ordered a drink, and the phone was still in my hand when it whirred to deliver his reply.
Paul: Go to the bathroom.
I stood, swayed on the spot and took a deep breath. The tapestry on the wall slid in and out of focus: golden thread weaved into colorful patterns. I touched the side of my head, then directed my steps towards the bathroom in the back. My hand slipped into my bag to wrap around the leather. It was cold, and it felt both reassuring and absolutely terrifying.
The bathroom was empty except for the middle stall, which looked occupied—or maybe out of order. I pulled out my phone again, started to type a message.
My thumb was hovering over the letter S for Sir, when the room went dark around me.
I jumped, clutched my phone harder, and just as I decided to use its light to guide me back out, I felt a hand sliding over the small of my back. I gasped. A second one clamped over the back of my neck and bent me bodily over the counter, gasping and stunned, as my phone clattered into the sink.
“P… Paul?” I squeaked, heart hammering in my chest.
“Were you expecting somebody else?”
I exhaled, and a modicum of relief flooded through my system, loosened painfully taut muscles. I watched the blue light of the phone screen as it reflected off the white ceramic sink, and let my body rest against the cool surface, fingers fanned out wide.
“You’re… here.” I breathed, and his grip on the back of my neck loosened a little. “You came.”
“I told you I’d come and fix you, pet,” he rasped gently, so close to my ear that I felt his breath stir my hair. “You sounded like you needed me.”
I’d thought, somehow, that his voice was the one thing that phoning allowed me to have, but it took him being so close again to realize how wrong I’d been. There was a world of difference, an ocean of depth and layers, sediments of rock and earth that no phone line managed to transport. Tears sprung to my eyes, and I sniffed pushing myself back against him.
“I do. I did. I do. Sir.”
He slid his hand over my back; I sucked a sharp breath through my teeth when he reached my ass. He clicked his tongue twice.
“Trousers,” he admonished, a smile in his voice. He reached around, plopped open the button and pushed his hand deep into my panties.
"That's how I find my girl..."
"Wet." I whispered and he hummed in reply, thrusting his groin against my behind. I shuddered, cunt contracting against his fingers.
He'd just taken a breath to continue, when someone pushed open the bathroom door. They made a noise of surprise, searched for the light switch, then left again.
“Come on, baby girl,” he whispered. His hands closed around mine, I could still feel the moisture. He waited long enough for me to close the button of my trousers and grab my phone, and then pulled me along and back into the bright colors of the restaurant. I stared at the back of his head, the spot where the tips of his hair brushed over his sweater, at the beautiful slope of his shoulder, and held my breath until he turned around. Paul.
VI
The brackish smell of the distant sea smacked against our faces as we jogged across the street and down to the river. His hair was flapping in the breeze.
I still couldn't believe he was actually here.
I hung onto his hand and let him lead. It was easy once I'd heard his voice, looked into his eyes. That feeling, the one we'd tried to recreate in more ways than one over the last weeks—here it was, heady and immediate: my mind cleared, my stomach grew warm and hollow and my feet stopped touching the ground.
We reached the riverside, breathing hard and holding hands. He pressed me against the high-water wall. It reached just up to the small of my back, and I bent backwards when he kissed me, hard, his hands in my hair, on my face, holding me, finally, holding me.
The stubble of his beard brushed over my chin, his lips, his eyelashes. He still smelled of the sea, even though he'd carried it so much further than the wind here in the city. I touched his chest, pressed my palms against his sweater; wanted to make absolutely sure that he was really there.
"Paul..." I whispered when the kiss broke, breathless and staring at him. "You..."
I realized I had no idea what to say, that my head was empty. I just wanted to look at him, to soak him up inside of me: his smile that crinkled around his eyes, his cheekbones, his lips—redder now and slightly bee-stung after he'd kissed me. Almost of their own accord, my fingers reached up to run along his strong jaw, rubbing gently against the grain of his stubble. He'd been clean-shaven the last time I saw him, and I reveled in the new sensation, looking up into his storm-green colored eyes.
"How?"
He chuckled; there was a hint of mischievous pride in his eyes and something inside ached with longing. Wrapping his fingers hard around my wrist, he brought my palm to his lips, nuzzled into the smell of my hand and then kissed the ridge under my fingers. He pressed it against his lips, never breaking the blazing eye contact between us.
We didn't breathe; I think our heartbeats aligned, and then he let go of my wrist. He lifted me onto the high-water wall and pushed himself between my legs. I wrapped them around his waist, pulled him closer, and the last few inches between us disappeared. I felt his breath on my cheek, his warmth all the way through the layers of clothing, and the wind tossed my hair into his. Tendrils entangled, reaching, trying to bind us together.
"Easy," he whispered, brushing the pad of his thumb over my cheek, then my nose, my lips.
"But your work... the long drive..."
"I'm American," he said, with a crooked grin. "I'd drive three times as far to take care of a girl."
I laughed, scrunched up my nose and poked his stomach. He let me do it twice before he stopped me, wrapping his large hands around my wrists and pushing them both behind my back and sending me spiraling down into a different place in my head. My features went slack with surprise and desire, my lips opened, breathing shallow.
"You only made it difficult when you hailed a cab and I had to jog back to my car to follow it." He growled against my neck. His nose touched my skin, then his lips, and his teeth. I whimpered, tightened my legs around him. "I felt like James Bond."
When we laughed this time, I could feel the difference. It was softer, more held back, both of our thoughts already elsewhere.
"Did you bring it?" His teeth found a hold in my skin just as I tried to answer and he bit hard enough to make me moan. Shivering, I squeezed my eyes shut.
"Yes, Sir," I breathed. He pressed my wrists together behind my back, so that he could hold them both with one hand. Then he pushed my jacket down over my shoulder to nip at the base of my neck.
"In... in my ba
g."
He growled in assent, but didn't stop. He breathed me in, kept me upright and licked and bit his way up my jaw and over my chin until he reached my lips and we could look into each other's eyes again. A surge of longing washed over me at the strong, tender expression on his face. His hand tightened around my wrists and then he kissed me, hard and claiming, and I was his again.
Truly, really, actually his.
***
He tugged at my wrists, pushed them hard against the small of my back, and I knew without being told that I was to keep them there when he let go of them and reached for the bag that still hung off my elbow. A smile slid over his features. I held my breath, quivering, and he produced the strap. It looked even better in his hand than I'd imagined, like it was made for him, became a part of him the moment his fingers wrapped around the handle.
He brought it to my face, and I gasped, shivering. He ran the cool leather over my cheek and down to my lips. My gaze darted to the road behind him, the Thames-side path to his side, but we were alone in the chilly midday wind, and I relaxed a little.
"Do you know why I sent you this?" he asked, using it to sweep a few flyaway strands of hair out of my face.
"P... punishment?" I asked, both tremulous and excited, "because of how I... because of yesterday?"
My face fell when he let the strap sink. His hands smoothed over the cool paths the leather had traveled on my skin. He shook his head, then lowered it until his forehead rested against mine.
"No," he repeated quietly, into this small, intimate space between us. "No, baby girl, not to punish you."
He kissed me again, softer this time. I leaned into him, felt his tongue move against mine. Without the heated frenzy of him claiming my mouth, I appreciated other sensations. He tasted like coffee and chocolate, and I imagined him on his long drive into the city, a thermos and a pack of cookies on the passenger's seat. My fingers itched to touch him, to run through his hair and hold him close, but I kept them at my back, pressing them together harder. His nose brushed against mine and he wrapped his arms around me. I was enveloped, warm, felt small and held and perfect.
"Not to punish me?" I whispered, lips nipping at his chin, at his jaw, anywhere I could reach.
"No. Not to punish you," he echoed. He pulled me off the low wall and took my hand again. He looked at it and I raised my brows, until he drew something from his pocket.
It was more leather, and it brought on another twinge of need between my legs. This time, it was a broad, dark cuff and he fixed it wordlessly around my wrist. It was padded in a softer, warmer material on the inside. I smiled at the sensation, until I saw his hand disappearing into his pocket once more. There was a tinkling sound, like that of metal. Glinting when he pulled it out, smooth and snake-like, a chain curved around his hand. His eyes met mine; my knees went weak and I staggered back against the wall.
With a knowing smile, Paul brushed his fingers over my palm, along the curved line, and then clicked the chain into the metal ring on my cuff. That little click travelled through my entire body, forced me to rise to my toes to dispel the rush of excitement.
"There's my good girl," he whispered hoarsely as the length of the fine chain disappeared into his pocket again. A thin line of glittering metal stretched between us, and I stared at it, fascinated, scared, and utterly transfixed. I licked my lips, tried to breathe more deeply than the audible shallow gasps I'd been capable of for the last few minutes, but it was like I'd forgotten how.
He stared me down, until I felt a soft pulsing in my clit—a ghost orgasm, a promise, my body's only chance for release.
"Your eyes are dilating."
I didn't know what to say, and then his hand disappeared into his pocket for a third time.
"Do you trust me, Iris?"
"Of course I do," I whispered without a second's thought. He smiled crookedly and I looked at the ground between us. The chain glittered a little out of focus and I raised my eyes again. "I trust you, Sir."
I held his gaze until I felt a little tug at my cuffed wrist.
"Turn around, pet."
I did. The muddy, brackish water of the Thames passed before my eyes until I stood still again, facing the line of trees and the road behind it; the chain jingled as he gave me more leeway.
I felt him step closer behind me; it was the warmth of his body that radiated against my back. I took a deep breath and then he lowered something over my eyes, a piece of fabric that he tied in the back of my head. I sucked a sharp breath between my teeth when my vision went black, when stray hair caught in the knot; I swayed on the spot, then pressed myself against him.
"Hush," he breathed, smoothing his hand down my arm. "I'm here. Nothing can happen to you. Remember what you said?"
"I trust you."
"Yes, you do."
He turned me again, just a few degrees, then he stepped to my side and started to walk. The chain jingled again, pulled taut and tugged at my wrist—and so I followed. One tentative step before the next.
"What if..." I started. Silence stretched and so I went on, "What if someone sees?"
"Let them see." I listened to his strong steps on the concrete, to the gentle flow of the river and the caw of the birds. "There's nobody here. Trust me."
"I trust you, Sir."
With time, I found it easier to walk, to put one foot before the other without knowing where I placed them. His steady walk beside me helped, and so did the sound of his breath. He kept talking to me, describing exactly what he saw—the trees, still bare but bursting with the desire to show their spring splendor.
He made me stop after a while, so that he could pull down a branch. He brought my fingers to touch the hard little nubs that would turn into bright blossoms within a few weeks. They were cold and smooth against the rougher bark.
"Can you hear the river?" he asked. I nodded, but held my breath anyway, just for a few steps.
"Describe what you hear."
I licked my lips, hesitating as I groped for words in the darkness under my blindfold.
"I hear... a rushing sound, like white noise," I whispered. My feet stilled when he stopped moving; his hand in the small of my back sent a violent shiver through my body. "I think I can hear little waves lap up against the embankment. Really softly."
"Good. Good, what else?"
"There's the wind. And... and the street over there. I hear birds and... the city. Like a thrumming, like drums, like..." He pulled me closer, threaded his fingers through my hair, and I leaned my cheek against his chest. "Your heartbeat. Air in your lungs."
He tightened his fingers in my hair, pulled my face back. I moaned against the sting, and he stifled the sound when his lips descended on mine. He walked me backwards, I don't know how far. We were kissing, floating, and I let him lead.
Every sensation felt intensified, magnified under my blindfold. I forgot where we were, forgot to be conscious of my body, how to position it, how to act, rubbed against him without fear. Then he pushed something hard between my legs and I cried out in surprise. I thought it had to be the leather strap, when he pushed harder and I ground against it, back and forth through the fabric of my trousers.
"Paul..." I whimpered. The quality of sound was a little different here, but I noticed it more when he spoke again.
"Do you trust me?"
"Yes, Sir. I trust you."
"Kneel for me."
I hesitated, moved my head as though I could have looked around, but he'd tied the blindfold well. My heart rate rocketed; still I nodded. A shiver went through me and I bent my knees, then swayed and stood straight again. I held my breath.
"Kneel, baby girl," he repeated; the chain jangled between us. "Right here."
I opened my mouth, then closed it again. I was scared, but just as I was about to say it, I knew I could conquer it. I had to—because Paul had come for me, all the way, just for me.
Blindly, I reached my arms out for balance and sank to my knees. The moist concrete dug against my skin.
I was breathing hard with nerves, and clutched at his trousers.
"There you go. That's my girl." He smoothed his hand over my hair, and I sighed as he sent a wave of calm down through my spine. "What do you hear now?"
I held my breath; the river was quieter, and I was just about to say that when I heard the sound of his zipper. I felt faint, hopelessly, deliriously dizzy. A sound of longing crossed my lips; he made a fist in my hair.
"Your... your trousers, Sir."
I caught a whiff of his scent—sweat and salt—and then his cock was on my face, rubbing over my cheeks and lips, over the blindfold and down to my chin.
"Open your mouth now. Stick out your tongue."
I managed to breathe once, and then he filled my mouth so completely, I just clung to his legs, gasping, taking him, trying to open myself wide, to be a vessel, an opening, just for him.
He determined the pace and the speed, pushed into my mouth fast and bold. His fingers curled against the back of my neck, pulled me off him by my hair, only to plunge back into me. The head of his cock ran along the roof of my mouth, over my soft palate and to the entrance of my throat. I choked and he pushed harder.
I couldn't feel the concrete anymore, nor hear the river lap against the embankment.
VII
His cock squirmed in my mouth, wriggling in anticipation of release, when he suddenly pulled the blindfold off my face. Light streamed against my retinas, and I blinked, pressed my eyes shut in surprise.
"Look at me." His voice was deep now, hoarse and strained like distant thunder.
He clamped his fingers around my ears just as I opened my eyes again. My field of vision was filled with his sweater, but just at the edge, all the way up, high above me, there was his face. His eyes connected with mine, I blinked for a sharper image and then it was over: he groaned and I tasted the first drop of his come in the back of my throat. I could feel it pumping through the length of his cock, coating my soft palate, and then my tongue as he started to pull out, patting my cheek.