Control

The strap was black, nylon strong, yet soft like a seat-belt. Half as wide and only a few inches long. Lined with Velcro and housing a d-shaped ring of chrome at one end.

I'd found it in the second bedroom. A milk crate with assorted exercise accessories had been left out on the floor.

I knew he'd been rehabilitating his shoulder. Dislocated and torn, it no longer sat where it should. He'd been patiently regaining range and strength, but it would never be the same.

He said it didn't bother him, but I knew it did. Like me he was now past halfway, our sun was no longer rising, it was setting. His face carried lines that could look like scars, they cut so deep into his skin. A furrowed brow, baring the ploughed marks of a mind seldom fallow, constantly harvesting questions, else imagining, beyond the tree line and the horizon, finding new ways to escape.

As I handled the thin strap my own imagination began to seed, blossom and bloom, remembering how, in the center of his open kitchen and living area, there was a load baring pillar.

With the strap in my hand, I quietly wandered through to take a closer look and to reassure myself of this column's existence, and I felt the corners of my mouth rising, as a cunning smile slowly began to curl, revealing a quietly hidden confidence.

Unusually I was awake, and he was asleep. He'd met me at the airport last night and I'd fallen asleep on his bed while he was still bringing my bags up from downstairs.

I'd slept until noon. He'd been up since 5:00am, not knowing what to do with himself and knowing better than to wake me.

He'd slept uncomfortably in the den, as he calls it, the snug little box room with pocket doors, set at the front of the house. He'd kept himself to himself, while I stretched out and dreamt of long woodland walks and swimming in lazy warm oceans.

When finally, I did wake, I showered and slipped into something I knew he'd like. One of the many beautiful silk chemises he's lavished on me over the years, and the pair of tan leather Ralph Lauren Sandals he gave me in Cocoa Beach.

I stepped out of the bedroom and walked through to the open living area, with its high white walls and ceiling, and the gorgeous luster of those original, Victorian hardwood floors.

He smiled and nodded, his eyes bright with the sight of my choice of outfit, it wasn't hard for him to read the invitation and with an air of mischief he disappeared into the bedroom from where I'd just come.

I waited at the window, imagining how prettily the sun would look setting through the branches of the lonely tree outside.

I was remembering his writing and all the wicked things he'd want to do with me.

The sex that followed was every bit as epic. We'd been so long apart since sharing our last little love nest, secluded and tucked away, sat over the open water, in Magnolia, a sleepy Seattle suburb, just when this cursed pandemic was beginning to break.

I thought we'd need more time to rediscover each other, but we didn't, we were fearless and so thankful to be together, it was as if we'd just woken the very next day and never been apart.

And God knows, 2020 had been nothing like we'd hoped. I was meant to be in Europe for the summer, enjoying a trip of a lifetime, while he was planning to work remotely from various American cities, hoping to get a feel for one that might help him feel at home.

Finally, after so many months of self-isolation and social distancing the world was finding its way again. We were free to travel. Although travel was by no means free. It was as if time had gone backwards where once again only the wealthiest could hope to afford such luxury. To travel.

And thanks to time zones and jet lag and too much excitement, now it was me that was awake and he that was worn out. Roles were reversing, it seemed, and with that thought came a rush of new ideas; ideas that could likely make a working girl blush.

I returned to the second bedroom and lightly rummaged in the milk crate, knowing this strap must be one of a pair. I was bright with mischievous delight when I found the other one.

Stealthily, I crept into his room, careful to tiptoe on the creaking aged pine floorboards, making my way to his walk-in closet.

I tried not to hum too happily as I picked out a dress-shirt I liked. And I looked at the spaces in between the many hangers and smiled with the thought of leaving some of my lingerie hanging here, a little daily reminder for him that I belong here too.

Pushing some of the shirts aside I inadvertently uncovered a wooden box. It was set back and sat on top of the built-in cabinet drawers. I immediately remembered it, from Cocoa Beach. He'd left it on the side in the third bedroom, the one where he'd shamelessly shredded my clothes and ravaged me with wild hunger, then held the tip of his raging hard cock against the edge of me until I was begging.

I was more certain than curious when I unclipped the clasp and lifted the hinged lid. That naughty boy. A small but intimate collection of wicked things. Black rope and bandages. A padlock and a key. A small pair of screw-threaded cylinders, perfect for gorging nipples. A lifelike phallus, full and firm, sculpted from soft flesh latex, wrapped in a black silk pillowcase. And a plug of polished chrome, as large as a small egg, and staggeringly heavy.

His jeans were laying on the chaise in his room. I closed the box and clipped home the clasp. I lifted down a shirt and stepped back into the bedroom.

He was peaceful, dozing easily, oblivious to my creeping nearer. I pushed my fingertips into the palm of his hand and felt his warmth as he responded to my tender touch.

"Shhh" I soothed as he stirred. His eyes trying to peel open and find me. And then they blinked open, puzzled by the sound of my ripping the Velcro open.

I placed the first strap around his wrist and fastened the Velcro. "Shhh, my love" I soothed again, watching his brow crinkle with playful confusion.

I tore the second strap open and gently closed it around his other wrist. And sure, he could reach across with either hand and unfasten these simple bindings if he chose to, but like me, curiosity is often his undoing and curiosity had him choosing not to try undoing my handiwork, at least not for now.

"Get showered and get dressed" I told him, and the tone of my impatience surprised even me. I was not to be bargained with.

His eyes asked me for reassurance, and I gave him none. "Come on, get up!" I insisted, taking a step back to emphasize the space I expected him to fill, to sit up and climb out of bed.

While he showered, I resisted the temptation to join him, that could wait for another day. But the thought of his hands on me, supple and sure, moving under the steaming heat of the hot water, feeling him press me up against the cold hard tile and push his kiss into my mouth with his knuckled fingers breaking between my thighs and fucking their way inside me.

Wow. I clear my head. Gathering his jeans off the chaise and laying them out on his bed, along with the dress-shirt I've chosen. I'm confident he'll know what's expected.

Taking the wooden box from the closet I carry it through to the open apartment. I clear the low coffee table and the kitchen worktops. I see the incense and light a fresh stick. I want some music, but I'm not sure how his record player is set up.

I hear the shower stop running. He'll be drying himself then dressing. I left his bedroom door closed and I already know the sound when it cracks open.

"So, what's all this then fox?" he asks me cheerfully, flirting, his voice poised, looking for new ways to control me, holding out his wrists in mock submission, as he slowly approaches.

My eyes consider him, his bare feet and blue denim jeans, his slim, fitted shirt, buttoned and untucked, his damp towel-dried hair swept back. His eyes are bright with mischief, no sign of the fatigue that had kept them closed only a little while ago.

Around each wrist the straps are fastened, the chrome silver d-ring of each protruding from the side. His eyes glance down and back to mine, his gestures highlighting his unanswered question.

"Stop where you are." I demand. My tone firm and dismissive. I see how his eyes crinkle, inquisitive, curious with wondering where and when on earth, did I learn to be so assertive? Sure, he knows I can be the bossy cow, but it's not who I am, I'm soft, I'm supportive and I'm tender. I only insist when I'm provoked.

None the less, he stops, either playfully or respectfully, I'm not sure which, and it doesn't altogether matter.

I move toward the low coffee table and he reads the direction of my eyes, he follows them to where the wooden box sits in the center. I can almost hear the cogs of logic whirring in his machine- like mind, plotting chess moves, wondering what's she up to?

Opening the box, I lift out the black silk pillowcase and unravel it, dipping my hand inside to retrieve the replica of his full phallus.

"You fantasize about fucking me with this, don't you?" I accuse him. And I'm careful with my tone. No judgement or shame. Just seeking honesty; testing for his truth, his confession and his trust.

I watch his expressions shift, squirming with embarrassment, his pride hurting under such close scrutiny. His mouth opening but his words don't follow, he's paralyzed by my assertion.

"Stay exactly where you are!" I insist, placing the phallus on the coffee table beside the opened box and stepping toward him.

I open the black pillowcase and slip it over his head. "Stand still" I command, and I rush with excitement realizing his obedience.

From the box I retrieve the black rope and thread a loop of it through the chrome metal d-ring strapped to one wrist. I tie off the loop and pass the rope around the pillar that stands behind him, on the corner of his open kitchen, and then I pass the rope through the other d-ring and tie this off too.

I realize if he wanted, he could still reach across to unfasten the Velcro that holds the straps. I adjust the rope so there's not enough length for him to reach his hands in front of him, but he could still unfasten them from behind, if he really tried.

But I haven't forgotten those black surgical bandages. How he bound me like a mermaid; my ankles, calves, knees and thighs, then set about torturing me with slow and cruel pleasures. Eating my breasts and pushing his cock inside my mouth. Knowing full well I would want to spread and stretch my legs, and feel my thighs squeeze around him. But he denied me. Gripped and pulled my hair and punished me until I was wet with bruises.

I took out one of the spools and began to wrap the bandage around his hand, binding his thumb, making his hand into a flipper, reminding me of a lone Seattle sea lion.

One more spool for the other hand and now I'm feeling very pleased, knowing his thumbs are no longer opposable and the Velcro will not yield to the clawing of a flipper.

"Where's your laptop?" I insist.

"In the den," he offers, and as I walk away to retrieve it, only now do I believe it begins to dawn on him how effective these bandages are, disabling his thumbs and preventing his escape.

I set it on the coffee table and turn it on. "Password?"

"Capital Eye, capital Elle, lower case oh, vee, e, Capital Em, lowercase why, Capital Ef, lower case oh, ex, six, nine" he slowly recites.

"You're such a dirty boy, aren't you?" I protest. "Now, how do I run those videos you make?" I ask impatiently.

Blindfold, he talks me through the clicks, navigating a Russian doll of folders, one nesting inside another, and another, until finally we reach the heart of his treasured collection.

And there's so many. Each one, only minutes to watch, but hours upon hours in the making. I see the earliest ones, the ones he first made for me and brought with him to Corinthia. They're labeled Corinthia I, II, III, IV and so on. I remember how he had me wear VR goggles and he lay me across the bed, my head resting at the edge, vulnerable and anxious, for who knew what was to come.

Oh, Corinthia, that subterranean, opulent and luxurious escape. Him standing over me, my wrists bound above me, luring my hands to find him, to feel their way in the blackened-dark.

My fingers fondling the weight and feeling the girth of his ample cock, while the carefully curated imagery of sensual forests and oceans slowly lower me, descending me deeper into a voyeuristic hedonism, then celebrating the heavenly pleasures of the skin.

All the while, the music of our making love was inside me, his headphones cupped to my ears, playing Morcheeba, Zero 7 and Massive Attack. Sensual, sexual rhythms, epic, anthemic, ambient songs we have made love to since the very beginning. Since Bordeaux, Bayham and Brighton, and long before we claimed Ashdown as our own.

I highlight them all and click play...

The screen fills, flickering sepia, the sound stirs. The purr of an old movie real running through a projector. The show begins.

I pull off his black silk pillowcase hood so that he can now see the first of the films he's toiled to create. His eyes search for mine, imploring me to let him go, and the thought of him knowing just a little of the tortures he has for so many years put me through, well, it just turns me on.

I step around beside him, my shoulder behind his, I'm looking over him, sharing the view. He tries to twist to follow me and I firmly tell him: "No!"

I run my hand over his chest, to soothe his pounding heart and settle him, to let him feel my love. His shirt feels soft to the touch as I draw my fingers down toward his belt.

I ignore the bulky buckle and its clumsy fastening, slipping my hand over his jeans and slowly coveting the contoured outline of his plump and heavy cock. He's already murmuring with contentment, growing bold and getting greedy for more.

We watch the movie drifting gently along, a sensual storyline of woodland walks, interwoven with empty beaches and gentle ocean waves. But then the music changes, growing more intense, and the imagery shifts. A man's mouth closes over a woman's sex and she arches upwards like a bow, her body drawn tight, reaching for more.

Through the denim, I feel him flex against my fingers and give him a knowing squeeze, reminding him just how good my love is, and feeling his arousal stretching to my touch.

The scenes on the screen fold over one another, in a furious flurry of phallic fantasy. A woman's eyes close in a trance of ecstasy as she stretches her lips over her lover's cock. Another gasps as her hair is pulled tight, her body bucking as her lover fucks. Spunk spattering across firm breasts, a lover's cream spilling as another woman grips her man and presses his love inside her soft mouth.

"Wait here" I tell him, mockingly as I break away and wander off into the bedroom where I think I have some ideas of my own.

I pick out the tight black dress he'd bought for me and slip on one of the many pairs of pretty silk and lace designer knickers he's given. Then slipping into black heels, the ones with the lime green soles, I feel my confidence rising with my height.

Another quick rummage and I find a couple of my favorite toys along with some simple lube, then wander back into the open room.

He hears my heels clopping on the hardwood floor and turns to find me, his eyes race up and down the length of my slender body, from the thin straps at my toes and ankles to the hem of my tight black dress, and climbing up to find my eyes.

"No!" I tell him, waving at him to look away. "You watch your movies, you don't get to watch me!" I insist, placing my toys on the coffee table alongside the phallus and the open wooden box.

I slowly step my way around behind him and continue to run my hands over his groin, squeezing the hardness I find there as if to ask: have you missed me?

And it's clear that he has, his cock is raging, straining, trapped.

I work my hands around his buckle and let the belt fall open. Then unbutton the waist to help me reach my hand inside. And he's so hot between the thighs, his throbbing cock, so full of blood. My hand must feel so cool and calming as I curl my fingers around him and feel his pleasure flex inside my easy grip.

With my thumbs, I help shift his jeans down off his hips, noticing how his bandaged hands snag against those nylon straps and tug against the rope, his reflexes wanting to take over and finding they're unable.

"I need oil baby" he begs, "I get so hard it hurts" he appeals. And I believe him. "Hushhh" I soothe, stepping over to the coffee table to uncap the lube before coming back to where I was, to slip my slippery hands over his manhood.

He shudders and groans as my hands stroke and squeeze, milking his big fat swollen sausage of a cock. I give him a few brisk bursts of my tugging wrist and he flexes hard as iron in my loose grip, sucking air through his teeth until I'm wondering if he might cum.

I look around his shoulder and watch how his manhood slips in the grip of my hand, he's so good and hard when I'm milking him.

On the screen a woman stretches low, her breasts pressing to the flagstone floor as her lover takes her from behind. "I'm a bad girl" I whisper in his ear, still stroking his cock and watching the woman on the screen begin to wail.

These rampant lovers fade, from one pair to another, and then another, and another. Seamlessly slipping from scene to scene. A woman lovingly closing her mouth around her lovers' ample cock, slowly smearing her lips against him, his eyes cradling hers, his cock slowly sliding inside her tender mouth, her lips dragging as she draws him free then swallows him again and again and again.

"I'm going to have your cock whenever I want and wherever I want" I whisper in his ear, not threatening, just asserting my ownership and my place in his life.

I step around him and tug my tight dress up higher on my hips, watching his eyes brighten with approval, hungry for the meat of my thighs. Then, sinking down onto my haunches, I grip his cock and feel his whole body flex, stiffen and groan as I push him into my mouth, my lips stretching over him, the rub so good and real.

My eyes close with the sound of him groaning, his arousal filling my ears, his bound hands and wrists yanking at their restraints, the rope holding firm, denying him, despite his being desperate to grip my hair and take control.

I suck him hard, pumping his cock against my mouth with my hand, tugging him, willing him to come in my mouth, wanting him to, wanting the heat of him on my tongue and in my throat.

I snort for breath through my nostrils, feeling my sex wet with weeping, the silk of my glistening gusset slick with the sweet juices of my cunt, my knickers stretching tight as I rock on my haunches, growing greedy and eager to break him.

I can hear the music videos playing behind me, and I have no idea if he's watching them or not, but I'm well aware that if he looks beyond the laptop he'll see me in the reflection of his ornate mirror, the one he has propped against the far wall. The same one he had us both look into after he'd made me crawl across the floor, collared and leashed, and roughly taken from behind.

Breathless I break away from his raging erection, remembering the instant camera he brought to Ashdown and again to Cocoa Beach. "Where is it?" I demand, and he looks down at me, confused, "Where's what?" he asks innocently. "Your camera!" I persist impatiently, oblivious to his inability to read my mind.

"In the walk-in closet..." He offers, bewildered, and I'm already up on my feet, my lips puffed and smudged with the rubbed red rouge of heavy work. "On the shelf... behind the door" he continues as I stride away toward the bedroom.

I return, fumbling to retrieve the camera from its pouch and utterly unsure how to operate it, but come on, it's a camera, how hard can it be?