BOUND TO ENJOY
“Will Mr. Cullen be joining you, Miss Swan?”
“No, Domenic. It’s just me today.”
“No, Domenic. It’s just me today.”
Tucked into the warm car, I untie the heavy scarf, leaving it to dangle down the sides. My fingers play along the velvet collar and I close my eyes, replaying his commands.
“…The only hair I want to see on your body…freshen up…everything comes off… my collar and a smile.”
My fingers trail subconsciously into that hollow space at the base of my neck. Suddenly, I wake from this reverie and realize I’m violating my assignment. You’re forbidden from touching any body part beyond hygiene and getting dressed until the scene’s over tomorrow night. Surely, this wouldn’t count? He meant any body part, not the hollow of my neck, right?
Shit, shit, shit. What do I do now? Should I call him and confess? Tell him when he gets home? Maybe just ignore it and get on with the scene?
“Miss, we’re here,” Domenic says tactfully, holding my door wide open for me. When did the car stop moving? Crap, I am so out of it. I need to get a grip.
“Thank you. Good night, Domenic.”
My preparations are a blur. I’m completely preoccupied with my mistake and how to rectify the situation. I draw blood at my ankle with the razor and vow to be more careful in my sensitive regions. By 6:55 I’m in place as requested, but my nerves are jangled and raw.
His key rattles in the lock at 7 on the dot, and I attempt to compensate for my transgression by spreading my knees that much farther, sitting up that much taller, offering my breasts that much more generously. The door swings open in front of my knees—yes, I tested that—and in walks Edward with a bagful of food in his hand.
He smiles down at me. “What a delicious greeting, princess. I’ll be right back.” My heart is pounding out of control and I seriously consider safe wording while he puts the food down on the counter. His feet pad along the carpet and soon, he’s back in front of me. He crouches down to meet me at eye level.
“You look beautiful,” he says, cupping my cheek in his hand and kissing me tenderly. His hand drifts down to my breasts and he rubs and kneads and pulls. I hold my position but I can’t conceal my response to his attention. His eyes drop to my opening and I sense that he’s inspecting me. My suspicions are confirmed when he rubs his hand across my abdomen and into the junctures where thighs meet torso.
“Very nice,” he coos, brushing across my bare lips.
“Ungghhhhh,” I moan helplessly. It’s been a long day and I’m keyed up beyond belief.
He gives me the signal to kneel up. “Lock your hands behind your head.” I comply immediately, spreading my elbows as wide as I can.
He holds onto one elbow and sweeps a finger through my underarm. I flinch, but he holds me firmly. “Still,” he warns, catching my eyes sternly in his. He trails his nails back through my armpit torturously and I struggle to hold still. He switches to the other side, checking for stray hairs and tickling me mercilessly. My body folds toward him; I can’t help it.
“This is exactly why I need to tie you up. You won’t have a choice in the matter,” he both promises and threatens. I’m terrified and aroused and still nervous as hell that I’m holding onto a secret.
I knew Isabella was ticklish, but I didn’t fully appreciate the extent. We are going to have so much fun later. But right now, we need some fuel.
“Let’s have some sushi,” I say, pushing myself up to my feet.
“Wait…please…Sir?” Suddenly, her face falls and she looks completely miserable.
Shit, what have I done wrong? Too strong in my threats? Fuck, fuck, fuck. I wanted this to be so good for her. I drop to my knees and release her arms down to her sides. “What is it? Tell me.”
Crap. She cheated. She told me earlier in the office that she was good. So, she was either lying earlier or something happened while she was getting ready.
I do my best to rein in my disappointment. As evenly as I can, I say, “Look at me and tell me exactly what happened, Isabella.”
It pains her to raise her eyes to mine, but she finally does. “In the car…I forgot…I touched myself.”
“You touched yourself in the car?” She doesn’t even fucking speak in the car!
“I touched my neck,” she explains. “I was…fingering the collar and my hands sort of just forgot, and…”
“And what?” I ask, with all the restraint I can muster.
“And I remembered and stopped!”
“You stopped.” Wait, that’s it? She touched her neck? “Show me where.”
She touches near the top of her breast bone. I blow out a huge sigh of relief. “Okay, Isabella. Let’s take care of this right now. Up.”
We get to our feet and I have her follow me to the kitchen counter. “Isn’t there something you need to ask me?”
Realization dawns and she starts, "Please, Sir, may I have...?"
"My punishment," I supply.
"My punishment," she repeats, her brown eyes growing wide with fear.
I roll up my sleeves deliberately, maintaining eye contact with her. "You're going to need to trust me, Isabella." I purposely don't phrase it as a question. I don't need her permission for this. She has her safe word.
“Sit on that stool, hands clasped behind your back. Legs open.”
I take a piece of salmon sushi and feed it to her. “Too plain, right? Needs something? Hmmm, how about soy sauce?” I don’t wait for her response and she is well aware I don’t want it.
I open the packet into the plastic lid and dip the other end into the sauce before offering it again. “Better? No? Still something missing? Ahhh…I know.”
I dip my forefinger into the wasabi and I dab it right on the spot she showed me. She bites her lip but doesn’t complain. I pull a spicy tuna from the box, dip it in the sauce, and rub it along her body where I placed the wasabi. Popping the whole piece in my mouth, I hum happily. “Mmmmm, that is delicious! You need to try one.”
I give her a bite of tuna slogged through the wasabi. Her eyes open wide but she eats without complaining.
“You know, it tastes a lot better when it’s served off your body. Let’s just…” I mix up some wasabi with the soy sauce in the lid, put a dollop on each nipple, and watch her squirm. I grab a salmon and run the warm rice around and around on her nipple. “That has to be a little uncomfortable, eh?”
“Yes, Sir.” Actually, it burns like a motherfucker, and my eyes tear up. Despite the physical discomfort he’s creating, he still manages to communicate with every touch that he is watching closely to make sure he’s not taking things too far.
My fantasies about discipline never prepared me for the emotional roller coaster I’ve ridden for the last hour. From that moment I realized I screwed up, and the awful feeling associated with failing myself and my master, through all the anxiety of waiting for him to come home, to the dread of anticipating the consequences, and now to this moment of actual physical discomfort, I’ve been on an intense odyssey. And though he brings with him the consequences, and his own disappointment in me, I feel so much relief that my master is at my side guiding me through it.
“Are you still hungry?” he asks.
“Do you like pickled ginger?”
Gulp. I check his eyes for clues. Is he meaning to put ginger on top of the wasabi? I’ve heard that can actually be really painful if left on too long. I seriously doubt my response will sway him from punishing me with the ginger, and since I do like the flavor, I nod yes.
He smirks and separates one thin piece of ginger from the pile and molds it to my nipple. “Count with me, Isabella. Ten…Nine…”
By eight, I’m tingling. At five, I’m uncomfortable. At two, it hurts. A lot.
Instant relief as he peels it away and fixes me a piece of tuna. “Here, have some crab roll for your extra trouble,” he offers graciously.
He reaches again for the ginger and I brace for it. Holding it out over the other nipple, he says, “This is the last of it. Count with me.”
Somehow knowing it’s going to be over soon allows me to bear the ginger torture on the other side. And when he closes his mouth down to lick me clean, I moan into the sensation of his tongue clearing off all the spicy remains.
“Your punishment is over now.”
“Thank you for my punishment, Sir.”
“You’re welcome. Now, before we move on, I want to praise you for a few things. First, thank you for telling me the truth, right up front like that. I would never have wanted you to hold onto your mistake. It totally would’ve poisoned the whole night. Now, we can put this behind us and move forward. Do you get that?”
“Yes, Sir.” And I do feel ready to move forward.
“Second, your sin was relatively minor. I’m glad you realized you were making a mistake and stopped before it got too serious. That’s the only reason you’re not sitting in a heap of wasabi right now. Understand?”
Ouch. Now, that could spoil a girl’s night! “Yes, Sir.”
“Last thing I want to say—you handled your punishment really well. Not too much squirming or complaining, and I’m really proud of you.”
“Thank you, Sir.” His compliment warms me.
“Is there anything you feel like you need to say?” he asks.
“Just…I’m sorry I forgot myself. I was so good all day and then, of all things, to get lost in thought and just forget like that? I’m really disappointed in myself.”
He answers, “Give yourself a break. You’re new to this. Over time, you really will have the sense that your body belongs to me. It’s almost easier in a 24/7 relationship because it never changes. You’re moving back and forth between fantasy and real life, and that can be really difficult.”
“Okay,” I answer, quite stuck on his words “your body belongs to me…”
He moves closer and bends in to look into my eyes. “So you’re good?”
“No drama…Sir.” I’ve never been much for drama; maybe I’m just too practical. It’s a waste of emotional energy. I screwed up, he took care of it, done.
“Great,” he smiles. “Let’s finish the sushi.”
“I’m saving the noodles for later. I have a feeling we’ll both be starved after. Let’s get you cleaned up again. I need you by the sink.”
I effectively licked off the sauces, but she’s still a sticky mess. I soap up a warm, wet cloth and circle it over her breasts and in between until all the residue is washed away.
“Hands and knees,” I command, reinforcing with my hand signal. “Heel.” I walk her over to my bedroom door, which has been closed since I left it this morning. Knowing she’d beat me home, I made all my preparations this morning while she was getting dressed.
I crouch down to meet her eyes. “We’ve never used my room for a full scene before, and I hope this won’t be confusing for you. When we pass through this doorway, you’re doing so as my submissive, not my roommate or girlfriend. Can you separate that out? Because it’s important.”
This is the biggest drawback to not having a separate playroom. Well, that and not having a whipping bench or a St. Andrew’s Cross or a suspension system. But if we can get to the point in our relationship where she can flip between her different roles as easily as donning a dress, then we have achieved a pure D/s relationship.
“I understand, Sir.”
“Don’t forget to use your safe word if you need to,” I remind her firmly.
I open the door, and the light from the hallway casts an eerie glow onto the room.
“Climb up on the bed and lie on your back.”
“Climb up on the bed and lie on your back.”
She crawls over and pulls herself up onto the bed, sucking in a quick gasp as she sees the cuffs and silk ties extending from each of the four bedposts. I wait by the door, leaning against the wall, ankles and arms crossed. I watch her struggle with the concept of offering herself to be bound. In the end, she settles for arms at her sides and legs chastely closed.
“You’re not going to make this hard on me, now, are you, princess?” I challenge from my spot at the wall.
“No, Sir,” she says, tentatively sliding her limbs toward the corners of the bed.
“Good start,” I chuckle, pushing off with my back and stalking toward the bed. Starting with her ankles, I secure the Velcro cuffs, then do the same around her wrists. She breathes in a sigh of relief, but it’s premature.
I return to the foot of the bed and draw the first silk tie toward the post, towing her ankle closer. She’s starting to get the picture as I fasten the bow tightly around the post. That leg is taut. And now, for the fun part…ankle number two. Watching her intently, I gather the second silk tie toward me. Her hips slide downward and her legs open wider. The more I pull, the wider they spread. It’s a tug-of-war that I’ve already won, even before I yank on the final loops, sealing her fate.
On my way up the bed to her hands, I trail my hand up the inside of her calf and thigh, watching her squirm in her bonds. I tighten the ties at her wrists just enough that she can’t wiggle but not enough that she’ll be sore from a prolonged session. I intend to take my sweet time with her tonight.
“Comfortable?” I ask.
“Yes, Sir,” she answers, her voice gritty and raw.
“Great.” I light a few candles around the room and switch my iPod on to the Ab Ovo Empreintes album. The metallic symphony of the Deep track fills the room.
Raking my fingers through her long, loose hair, I arrange it away from her face and shoulders. One fingernail trails lightly down her arm, from the elbow, right into her underarm. Her reflexes kick in, but she can’t escape.
It’s awesome. The Dark Prince is roused, and he makes his presence known in my pants.
She lets out a pained whine when I repeat on the other side. Her eyes blink up at me, and I’m sure she can perceive utter joy on my face.
“I need to go get ready. I’ll be right here in my bathroom.”
She nods. I really think she’s too keyed up to speak. Living out a life-long fantasy can do that to a person. I have a huge responsibility to live up to her expectations, and I don’t intend to disappoint. Her transgression from earlier is firmly in the past. We’re here, now, and I will proceed according to plan.
I didn’t blindfold her for good reason; we don’t need the added sensory deprivation. Besides, I plan to capitalize on her anticipation of my every move. And selfishly, I want to see her eyes. But also, it’s the responsible thing to watch and monitor her carefully.
The first time in bonds…it’s intense.
“Crop or hand, Edward?”
“Okay, it’s your ass!” Swish, thwack, sting. Fuck!
“They’re going to continue to get harder, Edward. Crop or hand?”
“Crop or hand, Edward?”
Marcus moves around to my front, shaking his head sadly. “Are you telling me you’d really rather continue to take a pounding from the crop than allow me to give you pleasure?”
He stands before me, fully dressed in a black button-down and black slacks held in place by a wide leather belt. Yet, through all his clothes, it’s easy to make out his well-developed muscles. I never considered it before, but I suppose whipping and hoisting bodies requires a great deal of physical exertion. It’s not that he’s a bad-looking guy, it’s just…well, he has a cock. And he’s waiting for me to give him permission to take mine in his hand. He’s giving me a “choice” but it’s a matter of the lesser of two evils, the crop or a manjob.
I know I can safe word, but that would defeat the whole purpose. I’m here to learn, and learn I do. This is my first time in restraints, and Marcus is purposely pushing one of my soft limits. I strain against the chains, but we both know I’m locked right here until I give in.
Marcus moves next to me and wraps his arm around my waist, dangling the crop down my leg. He places his free hand on my stomach and rubs light circles, being careful not to touch my cock. “Doesn’t that feel good, Edward?”
Compared to the sting of the crop, his palm feels like fucking heaven.
“Yes, Sir,” I admit.
His hand moves to my thigh, and he strokes gently, as one would a lover. “Isn’t this better than getting swatted?”
He stands in front of me and offers once more. “I’m asking you again, should I strike you with the crop or get you off with my hand? It’s entirely your choice.”
“Crop. Sir,” I bite out.
Marcus shrugs and moves behind me, crop poised and ready to strike my naked body. The pain this time is even more intense after his soft treatment moments earlier. He prepares to strike again. “Crop or hand?” he asks by rote, already knowing what to expect.
“Hand.” Jesus, was that broken-sounding wail my voice?
“Hand?” he repeats, from behind.
“Hand,” I push out, with great difficulty. I’m about to cross a bridge that cannot be uncrossed.
Marcus places a comforting hand on my lower back. “Good decision, Edward.”
Marcus spares me many humiliations he could’ve heaped on me in that moment. He could’ve made me beg for it; he could’ve moved in front of me and made me watch; he could’ve talked to me in his unmistakably masculine timbre. Hell, he could’ve pulled out his own cock and jerked off at the same time or rubbed off on me or any number of things I hadn’t ruled out.
But the beauty of Marcus is that he doesn’t do any of those things, because he appreciates this is monumental for me. He’s chained me to his ceiling and floor to teach me how being restrained can set a person free.
His hand closes around my cock in one swift motion, and without ceremony, he slides it up and down along my shaft. My eyes close in relief that my battle is over, and we’ve both won. There isn’t a sound in the room besides the slick friction of his palm working me over expertly and my own increasingly heavy breathing. His hand is rougher than any that’s ever been in its place before, which makes it impossible to forget what’s really happening, but my cock is fickle. Marcus knows his way around the male anatomy, and my penis couldn’t care less at this moment what’s attached to the other end of that fleshy hand.
I’m getting closer and closer and I’m putting off the question because he might say no and he might just stop and his deep voice giving me permission might send me into a tailspin. But this thing is happening, and my pride and inhibitions aren’t going to stop it.
“Please, Sir, may I come?” I beg him in a voice that scares me for its desperation.
“Come, Edward!” he answers, increasing the pressure while reaching through my legs with his other hand and grabbing my balls. Oddly, his voice and his harsh treatment spur me on and send me over the edge, thrusting as violently as my restraints will allow and spurting onto my chest and abdomen.
It’s the way he does everything that makes me drip with eagerness. That he dragged my ankles to the outer reaches of his bed, locking me into a position where I’m utterly exposed and completely unable to move. It’s the no-holds-barred, won’t-take-no-for-an-answer, I-am-in-control guy who boils my blood. And seconds later, one hand still trailing on the silk tie, he switches on the music that takes me to another place. And I feel myself sinking into this, whatever this might turn out to be.