Bound by Lust (23 page)

Oh, fuck this! I hate to be gagged, as he well knows, even when I have time for games, which I don't right now. I'm gagged, my hands are in these awful handcuffs, and I'm trying to work. I give a howl of protest, though of course it's muffled by the cloth. I aim a kick at his lower leg—it's all I can reach—but he sees it coming and steps to the side just in time. I try to drive my
heel down on his foot, but he dodges that as well. “My, aren't you angry,” he says, with just that curl of his upper lip. “This will never do.”

He lifts my glasses off my face and places them carefully on the desk. Oh, this does not bode well. From somewhere he picks up a pair of ankle cuffs and Velcros them deftly one to each foot; he crosses my feet at the ankles and clips one cuff to the other. I now can't stand, can't kick…could I lift my arms over the low back of the chair? And then what? I catch a yell in my throat before it can come out (or try to, through the gag) because I'm damned if I'm going to give him the satisfaction.

He pauses for a moment, looking at me, helpless and angry in the chair. If he weren't looking at me so intently, I'd try to slip my hands from the cuffs—I bet my wrists are slim enough to wriggle out, though of course I have no intention of alerting him to this. But his eyes are on me now, and I don't make a move. We are both waiting, considering, watching.

He comes around to the side and, a little awkwardly but with no hesitation, lifts me up off the chair and throws me unceremoniously over his shoulder. I kick and squirm a bit, but where can I go? I don't want him to drop me, because I can't stand up with my feet crossed like this. He carries me, wriggling, over to the bed and tosses me down onto it without any particular care. I lie there, half on my side, half on my back, glaring at him.

“You are my slut, Shar,” he says, quietly, deliberately. It isn't phrased as a question, yet he's looking at me as if he expects an answer. I consider for a moment. Pissed off as I am, I am still his. I know this. I nod, ever so slightly. I am not on his side at the moment, but yes, I acknowledge this.

“Well, for one of the world's leading linguists, you seem to have a very poor understanding of what the phrase ‘my slut'
means, and what it entails,” he says, almost patiently. “Allow me then to clarify a few things for you.”

Standing over me, he positions me on the bed so that I'm face down, legs stretched down, arms cuffed behind my back. I hear him pick something up and thwack it against his open palm. A solid sound. A paddle? Oh please, not the narrow one, not the one that hurts…but it is, I can tell. I know that sound. Last night I wanted so badly to be paddled, though it didn't happen; but right now, I am filled with dread. Is he angry with me? I've never really been punished by him, not really.

“Let's take it word by word, Shar,” he intones, evenly. “‘My.' What does ‘my' mean? What is ‘my'?” I can't answer, of course, gagged as I am, but my mind is racing anyway, as usual.
It's a pronoun, it's a possessive adjective, by function it's a determiner, it's…
As if he could hear my thoughts, here comes his disagreement.
Thwack.
“‘My' means that you belong to
me
.”
Thwack.
“James.”
Thwack.
“
I
decide what you are going to do.”
Thwack!
“Your actions are to please
me
.”
Thwack!
Normally when he hits me, the impacts are interspersed with sweet caresses, but now there is nothing to interrupt the beatings, and they hurt. My ass and thighs are stinging; there is no relief. It's hard to breathe through my nose, and I try to pant though my mouth, but the panties are blocking my breath.

He must have seen me struggling for air, for in one smooth gesture he unties the cloth belt around my head and mouth and pulls the panties out. I gulp a few breaths, sides heaving. I can feel the blood rushing to the surface of my skin; I know it must be flushed and red. “When I want you, what do you say, Shar?”
Thwack!
“Yes, James!” I gasp. “When I tell you to suck my cock, what do you say, Shar?”
Whack!
“Yes, James!” “When I tell you I'm going to fuck you in the ass, what do you say, Shar?”
Whack!
“
Yes,
James!” Rapid fire, he asks me more questions…
things I hadn't even known he was thinking about, shocking things, but I say yes without hesitation. I know it doesn't matter what he asks me, I will say yes. Almost as if he's realized this at the same instant, he stops. He's panting from the exertion too, and for a few moments we just breathe together, heavily. “Well, Shar,” he says, quietly and with no little satisfaction, “you seem to have grasped the concept of ‘my' at last.” Can a pat to the ass be smug? Oh, yes; yes it can. “Let's move on then to ‘slut.'”

He runs his fingertips lightly over my buttocks and back, so lightly I can't even tell if he's touching skin or just the tips of my hairs, but my skin shivers. How I long for a firmer touch!

“What does ‘slut' mean, Shar?”

I have no idea if I'm supposed to answer this or not. It's hard for me to gather my thoughts, and putting them into coherent sentences seems an impossible task. But I don't want to be paddled anymore. I can't take more. Before I can sputter something out, he speaks for me.

“A slut isn't someone who just enjoys sex, Shar. A slut needs it. You need it. Your mind may be strong, but your body rules you, darling, your body
is
you, your most fundamental self, and your body craves my touch, and my control. I'm sure if I slipped my hand up between your legs, I'd find you wet.”

Oh, how I hope he doesn't test this, because I know he is right.…And all the while he's running his hand oh so lightly over my back, my ass, now down my legs…

“You couldn't say no to your desires even if you wanted to,” he says. “Allow me to prove it to you.”

His hand is heavier now on my body, firm, full contact. Heavenly. The increased blood flow from the paddling has every nerve in my skin singing, and it thirstily drinks up the sensations he provides.

“Look at you react when I touch you, Shar.” He squeezes
my inner thigh, just a hint of fingernail, and my body shudders. I can't help it. “Listen to yourself, Shar,” he says, dragging a finger down the crack of my ass, and involuntarily I groan with desire. “See how wet you are,” and he doesn't even have to touch me, I can feel my juices running down my thighs, but he traces two fingers over my sopping pussy, covers them, and smears the slickness on my ass cheeks.

“I think we understand what ‘slut' means now, don't we, Shar?”

“Yes, James,” I say, obediently.

“Now all we need to do is put them together. My. Slut. My slut.”

As he speaks, I can feel him unclip my ankles from each other and somehow disconnect the chain that holds the handcuffs together, though the metal still encircles each wrist. (
They come apart?
I think through my fog.
I must remember this
.) With one sure motion he turns me over; it's easy now, I'm not fighting anymore. For just a moment he lets me stretch my arms and legs, oh, the ache, then deliberately he takes each arm, pulls it down straight by my side, bends my knees and pushes my ankles up to my ass, and clips the wrist to the ankle, right to right, left to left. It's an open position, comfortable, yet helpless.

“‘My slut' means that your body is mine, your desires are controlled by me, you're here for my pleasure,” he says as he looks me in the eye. I'm embarrassed to meet his gaze, helpless and dripping like this, but I can't look away.

“You don't need to worry about ‘being in the mood,' Shar, because I will put you in the mood when I want you there. As I have.” He observes me for a few beats, not speaking; he reaches up and strokes my cheek, my neck, down between my breasts.

“You are mine, and you need me. Don't you, Shar?” he asks.

“Yes, James.”

“What do you need?”

I'm not sure how to answer this. “I need you.”

“How?” He's moved away from me just a little, not touching me any longer.

I pull at my restraints, trying to touch him, but I can't. “I need you to touch me.”

He presses a finger to the top of my knee.

“No, I need more.”

Two fingers on my knee. He's being deliberately obtuse, and I hate it.

“
No
, James, touch
me
, touch my thigh,” I begin, and he does, a slow, firm stroke down my thigh toward my pussy. Oh heaven. “Kiss me, kiss my thigh,” I gasp, and he does. “Bite me,” and I feel his teeth, biting every so slowly, inevitably, increasing the pressure till I shiver.

Oh…could it be? Is he really going to give me whatever I ask for? Or is this some further tease, is it a trick? I must try, though.…

“Put a finger inside me, James,” and yes, he does. “Kiss my pussy, not too hard!” and he does, oh, yes, he does, soft lips pressing down on me, a hint of tongue just below my clit, and I fear that I'll explode too soon.

“Another finger in my pussy, then, and a finger on my ass.” I really can, I can have what I want, and it's hard to speak slowly, I'm so turned on.

“Squeeze my breast, too, my nipple, oh please,” and there is a hand at my chest.

“Lick me, oh god, lick my pussy,” I moan, and he does, as I rock back and forth, trying to rub myself against his face. I keep trying to touch him, any part of him, but my wrists are still clipped to my ankles and I can't. I still pull; I need the bite of the metal against my flesh to slow me down, to keep me from
coming too quickly, but I can feel my body gathering up anyway. I breathe through my mouth again, my body heaving. It's hard to speak now, but if he just keeps doing what he's doing I won't need any more words, I can get there like this.

And then he pulls back, removing his hand from my breast and fingers from inside and mouth from my clit and moves back.

“All right, then, it seems you understand—” and I scream, loudly I scream, because this can
not
be happening, he can
not
leave me like this, he couldn't be so cruel, I will die!

“James fuck me please fuck me oh god you have to I need you please James fuck me fuck me I need you inside me you have to please please fuck me—”

I know I'm babbling incoherently, but I can't help it, I'm so desperate, I can feel hot tears running down the sides of my face, he can't leave me, he just can't, and then I feel his strong hands on my hips, his cock just at my entrance, and I am so there that as he enters me my orgasm is already starting, and as he pushes in it takes me in waves. He doesn't stop but slowly moves in and out, slowly fucking me as I come on him, my whole body convulsing arhythmically. My ears are ringing, I can feel my extremities, fingers, toes, even teeth, humming with the surge, as if every cell of my body has been flooded, electrified. The waves finally subside, my body stops rocking. I'm sucking in air as if I'll never get enough.

When I can talk again, I say to him, urgently, because I'm so afraid he won't know, “Please James don't stop don't stop.”

He chuckles softly. “Don't worry, love, I have no intention of stopping now, I assure you.”

With one hand still gripping my hip, he unclips my wrists from my ankles with the other. Oh, sweet relief! I stretch my bent legs out, I move my arm in circles as if I were tracing a snow angel, and then, oh yes, I can reach him at last, I can touch
him. My hands and mouth are hungry for him, after being kept away so long, and I can't get enough. I kiss him urgently, face and mouth, and my hands go everywhere, his cheeks, his chest, along his back. I can't quite reach his ass, though I try—but I can cup his balls with one hand if I wrap my legs around him, angling myself and then pulling him so that he drives deeper inside me. I hang onto his back for support, digging my nails into his muscles. His breath is ragged, and then I feel his balls tighten and the vein underneath throb, and I know he is almost there. I sink my teeth into his neck so I can feel that moment from top to bottom, his shuddering into me. As he finishes, I squeeze him with my pussy muscles; I want every last drop inside me.

It's not hot, but we're coated with a sheen of sweat. He sticks to me slightly as he slides off to my side. I press against him, my head on his chest, listening to the thudding of his heart. His hand is on my head, possessively, protectively, his fingers playing in my hair.

“I'm your slut, James,” I murmur.

“Yes, I know, Shar. You surely are.” A pause. “You know, we wouldn't have to go through this if you trusted me, if you trusted us.”

I don't know what to say to this. Is he waiting for me to say I trust him? Or to promise that I will in time? Or to explain why I can't? As if I actually had said something of this nature, I'm almost tempted to add a comment about how enjoyable it was, however, being taught my lesson—for both of us. And why not? Isn't the reassuring and the being reassured at least as fulfilling as taking and being taken for granted? If he has to claim me again and again, why should we choose to label that as some kind of obstacle instead of celebrating the motivations it gives us? With my eyes closed, it's easier to see. What brought me
here, us here, isn't important, and there's no need to speculate about the future. I'm with him now. Here, in this moment, we are completely together.

Surely. With him. Now. Here. In this moment. Completely together.

Manner, purpose, place, and time. That's what adverbials are good for.