Chapter 5 #2
Maybe even the cliff on the drive up here that looks down over my ranch.
I’m above myself. Outside myself. Waiting to see what will happen next, with fear and anticipation, and also balancing on the knife’s edge of arousal.
Every movement of his hands on my body, the rope on my skin, digs the blade in deeper.
My clit feels swollen, and he hasn’t even touched me intimately.
He's fully dressed, his hands almost deliberately not touching my breasts, my pussy, my ass as he works. And yet I’m hotter than I’ve ever been, caught in this space of surreal discomfort and desire.
I want him to touch me. I’m getting wetter and wetter between my legs, anticipation building so intensely I can hardly breathe.
I squeeze my thighs together, as tight as I can, to try and get some relief—to feel something.
“Stop,” he says, his voice hard. “You don’t get to pleasure yourself.”
“I-I’m not.”
He reaches around and grips my face, turning my head to the side and leaning in so he can look me in the eye. “Don’t lie to me.”
“But I…”
“Sit. Still. This takes time. And I aim to take my time.” I whimper, the feeling between my legs almost painful now. “It hurts, doesn’t it?” he asks.
I nod.
“Answer me,” he says.
I want to argue, and tell him he said he didn’t like talking while he did this, but my mouth and my stubbornness have already gotten me in trouble and I have a feeling I actually won’t like what he’ll do if I keep pushing him.
Not because I think he’ll hurt me, because I think he’ll deny me what I really want.
The more I push, the longer he’s going to take, I can already feel that.
It’s a terrible, wonderful, horrible thing for someone with my level of impatience.
But for some reason this was what I wanted. To see what it would be like to surrender to another person.
“Yes,” I say. “It hurts.”
“Why?”
“Because I…I want you.”
“Where do you want me?” he asks, the deep, gruff satisfaction in his voice setting off a chain reaction in my body.
“Inside me,” I say.
“That’s going to take a long time,” he says. “If I let you have it at all.”
I want to cry. The idea that I might have to go through all this and still not have him? I realize then how successfully he’s fucked my mind without coming close to fucking my body. An hour ago, I would have said I hated him. Now I’m ready to beg for him to take me.
“I don’t want this,” I said, whispering. “I didn’t want to want it.”
Somehow, I know that that’s the right thing to say. It rings a bell inside me, and I swear I can feel it echo inside him.
“That’s too damn bad, isn’t it?”
“You did this to me,” I say.
He did. He did it that night all those years ago, whether he knows it or not. He made me into this. Made me want it. Made me want him. Awakened this kink inside me and led me here to this moment, to his bed, to his ropes.
“Little sub, I haven’t even begun to do things to you.”
He tightens the ropes, and I suck in a sharp breath, which lets him make them tighter. It isn’t painful yet. Do I want it to be?
He draws the ropes around my back, pressing his large palm between my shoulder blades.
I feel another length of rope cross beneath the upper part of my arms, as he holds them at the wrist, hard against my lower back.
I feel him press the end of the rope beneath the ropes that are already binding around my rib cage, lacing it through before wrapping my arms. It’s like meditation, or at least, I think it’s like what meditation could be. I’ve never done it, personally.
I never sit still like this.
But the way that he’s touching me, holding me, balancing me in a way that’s both calming and invigorating, is putting me in such a strange space. One that I’ve never been to before.
I don’t know what he’s doing, but it isn’t fast. There are a lot of passes of rope that don’t appear to do anything, and then he’ll loop another length around my arms, tightening them together even further and holding them in place.
I lose track of the time. I lose track of everything.
My body is suspended in a hyper aroused state, my pussy throbbing, still begging for his touch.
And yet again, those deft fingers move nowhere near any intimate place on my body, and yet the entire experience is more intimate than anything I’ve ever experienced before.
Time ticks by. It could be minutes. It could quite literally be hours. The only thing that gives me any indicator is the change of the sun outside the window. The light shifting so that it’s coming from another direction. Deepening into a more golden color.
The wind blows through the trees and the shadows on the bed weave new shapes in time with it.
He pulls tight on the ropes, drawing my shoulders back, wrenching my breasts forward, my hands now bound entirely to my waist behind my back, with me completely unable to move.
And then, he introduces another rope. This one goes through my braid, weaving in with my hair, until it joins the rope moving down the center of my back, my head now tilted back just slightly, my scalp tingling with the painful sensation.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You look beautiful. I want to take your picture.”
We haven’t discussed that, which I have a feeling is the only reason why he’s telling me now, rather than just doing it.
“You can do whatever you want,” I say.
Not permission, but not my safe word. I want to keep the resistance in play.
I’m not sure how I feel about him taking my picture, but I also don’t want to pull back now.
I don’t want to stop any of this. I’m on display for him, and the feeling of being trapped that way while he decides to document it whatever way he wants to is thrilling and terrifying all at once.
He takes my picture, the phone makes that camera sound, and I have a feeling it’s deliberate. So that I know. So that I’m aware that he’s taking photographs of my naked, bound back.
He comes around to the front, and our eyes meet for the first time in a while.
I feel so vulnerable, I can’t cover myself.
I can’t do anything to shield my body from his gaze.
My breasts are on full display, and he takes my picture there too.
Then he moves forward, grabbing hold of my knees, forcing them apart so that he gets a clear view of my bare pussy. “Look down,” he says.
I obey, and I hear him taking more photos. “I like to document my work,” he says.
Heat pours through me, a strange, thrilling sort of shame.
I’m just his work. He’s interested in the ropes, much more so than he is me.
And I don’t know why that is both a turn on as well as humiliating.
“Now I’m going to put you to work,” he says.
“Because that got me hard. And you need to take care of it.”
My breathing starts to come in short, sharp bursts.
I need him. Need to touch him, and that’s something I’ve been denied up until now.
But of course my hands are bound. There’s nothing that I can do.
I watch as he strips his shirt off with one hand, revealing his body to me for the first time.
God damn. He’s the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen.
His muscles are sculpted, his abs like something off of an online thirst trap account.
He’s not waxed. He’s got hair over those muscles, a reminder that he’s a man in a way my ex wasn’t.
As if my current situation wasn’t a reminder of that.
He moves his hands to his belt buckle. And I watch as he works it free with one hand, drawing the belt through the loops and then undoing the button on his jeans, lowering the zipper.
He reaches into his underwear and pulls out his thick, heavy cock. It’s the biggest I’ve ever seen, including my online pornography research, and that really is saying something.
He reaches behind me and grabs the ropes, drawing me forward, his large hand wrapped around the base of his dick as he presses it against my lips and then moves his hand to the back of my head, forcing it down onto him.
The thick tip touches the back of my throat and I gag, a surge of need driving through the center of my body like a spike.
He arches his hips upward, and I worked to take him. There’s no way for me to set the tempo. No way for me to slow things down or make them more gentle. I don’t want to. “That’s it,” he says. “Take it.”
I have to take it. I don’t have another choice. He’s so big, I feel like my jaw is about to become unhinged, or maybe that’s just me. Maybe I’m losing my grip on everything. But I take him as best I can. Completely helpless to do anything else.
There’s a rhythm to this too. And I feel like I’m finding it. Feel like I’m losing myself and finding myself all at once. Feel like I’m being battered and also cared for.
This is the medicine I need. He tastes incredible, salty skin and like every fantasy I’ve ever had.
I’m his display. His art piece. A tool for him to take his pleasure from. I’m not important.
I’m not important.
Somehow, that finds its way to the center of my chest and roots itself there. I’m not important.
I don’t need to do anything. I don’t need to do anything but let him use me in the exact way he wants to.
It’s not heavy. It’s not something I have to work for.
He’s done all the work. He’s made me into the thing he needs me to be.
It’s nothing like the rest of my life. The rest of my life where I have to carry it all.
Where I have to show up every day and give my best because if I don’t everything will fall apart.
No. Caleb – my Wolf – made this the exact scene he wanted it to be.
And he made me perfect for it. All I had to do was sit there and be his clay.
Moldable to become the exact thing that he needed.
I shiver with that realization. With anticipation for what comes next.