Immobilized, she could only look around the room wide-eyed. Though she might have longed to touch some of what was here, strange objects hanging on the wall that she had read descriptions on in the previous week, she couldn’t get free and go exploring.
She lay in his bed, spread-eagled. The how of it was astonishing. One moment she was filled with temper, wanting to bite, kick, scream at him. The next they were here, in his loft and she was naked. It was a blur, a fantasy, a longing so intense she wondered if she’d had a breakdown and slipped without a sound, into a fantasy world.
But she remembered the burning fire of his eyes as he’d bound her wrists, her ankles, to the sturdy bedposts. And the single touch of his fingertip, tracing her from the hollow at the base of her throat, between her breasts, stopping just shy of where she most craved his touch.
And then he had left.
“Part of submission is learning to wait. Waiting for my desires, will heighten yours.” The door had closed with a soft snick. The only illumination in the room came from the soft glow of candles. The scent of cinnamon and fir filled the space, the shadows tantalized with all the instruments of torture on the walls around the bed.
There was no clock, no glow from around any windows to inform her of the passage of time. Time just flowed around and through her, the numbers on a dial immaterial to what she was doing.
Breathing, to be sure.
Craving. She had an intense craving for him to touch her. That single burning touch had been so gentle. She’d been prepared, if she was totally honest with herself, for brutality. Yet through the time he bound her to his bed, he’d been gentle.
Fierce, but still gentle.
His eyes had burnt with a fierceness that might have freaked her out, if she hadn’t been looking at him with a longing that was just as intense. He’d been in her dreams all week, playing out the scenes of depravity that she’d watched on her computer screen. Yet, for all that his fingers had been strong and sure, they had been careful against her flesh.
Though the rope ran round and round her wrists and ankles, there was a bit of wiggle room. Not enough to pull free, but certainly not enough to leave marks.
She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. All the research she’d done had suggested that “submissives” enjoyed their bruises, wearing them like badges of honor, rather than “wounds”.
The door opened, interrupting her musing. He came to the side of the bed, and looked at her. His gaze lingered a moment on her tits, and her nipples rose to tight buds.
“Eager, are we?” He spoke softly, but did not touch her. For some reason, she didn’t feel compelled to speak, complacent enough for the moment to watch him watching her. Her breath caught, held a moment as his hand hovered over her lower belly, certain that now he’d touch her. But his hand just hovered there, as if feeling the heat from a campfire. He smiled softly to himself, then glanced at her mouth.
“What are your expectations, I wonder, little one?” But as she opened her lips to answer, he laid a finger across them, and shook his head. With one last glance at her, he crossed the room to a chair, and sat. As he settled in, he was lost in the shadows cast by the wings; all she could see were his legs, one leg crossing the opposite knee.
She wanted to squirm. To speak. To break the unexpectedly uncomfortable feeling of being looked at like…an object. She also felt a growing warmth between her thighs, and an answering wetness. Good God! If he moved her, he’d see the wet spot she was creating. The embarrassment flushed her skin, rising her nipples to pertness again. Gooseflesh rose, then faded, and still he watched her. After a time, embarrassment turned to indignation. The bastard!
“I…” she began but his soft “shhhhh” silenced her.
A myriad of emotions swelled, then ebbed. At long last, he rose from the shadows. He spoke not a word, just pressed his fingers into the cleft between her splayed legs, running them up and down the slippery wetness there. How she wanted him to invade her, to take.
Every fantasy she read was all about the Dominant and their selfish taking! Why the fuck was he not following the script? Yet those fingers merely continued to slip up and down her slit, always carefully missing her clit, never entering her pussy. She tried lifting her buttocks a bit, rising into his hand, but he kept the pressure steady, just a tickle of a touch.
When his hand slipped away, she was desperate to fuck. She, new though she was, knew better than to speak. He’d shushed her twice, and she didn’t want to have their first time be about punishment. She’d read about that very carefully. She’d be good, quiet, obedient. But she needed to be fucked!
His lips traced the curve of her breast, tenderly caressing the plump mounds, again bypassing the center of her sex need. She wanted, craved his lips on her nipple, but always, through licks and kisses and gentle sucking, he missed it.
She began to realize the subtlety of his torture. He was turning her on, and denying her the touch she craved. Why, the devious bastard! She smiled, fast, but he saw it. Rising, he straddled her, and kissed her.
His body was heavy, the feeling of his jeans against her sides, her belly was an unexpected turn on. They were new, rough and scratchy as he settled the weight of his body on her.
The kiss was soft, gentle. His lips teasing hers, nudging her open, his mouth a caress on hers. Tongues twined, tasting one another as she gave into the moment. She was falling hard, falling fast, needing, craving, wanting.
At this moment, in this time, she was desire, incarnate.