tagBDSMMine, All Mine Ch. 03

Mine, All Mine Ch. 03

byDeathAndTaxes©

Author's Note: Welcome to CH 3! If you haven't read the first two chapters, you might want to go do that first, so this one makes sense. I'm about to crank up the angst and we finally get some more hints at the actual BDSM goodness to come. Have fun!

Text copyright © 2016 Eris Adderly


*****

Part III: Fool's Gold

The shower lever gave a metallic shriek as Taylor cranked it back around to shut off the spray of hot water. With the washcloth hung up to dry, and her hair wrung out, she stepped into the steam of the tiny bathroom. Towel over body, brush through damp hair, moisturizer on face. Then the last of her post-shower ritual: getting through the finger and wrist contortions to put back on the bracelet with the gold pineapple charm her mother had given her for graduation. She wore it everywhere, but it was no small feat to get it fastened one-handed.

When she opened the door into the single room she rented, the phone laying on her bed drew her eye in the afternoon light. Taylor was probably going to have to amend what counted as the ending of her shower routines. Now, she could add checking her phone every time she came back into the room.

A blue light was flashing on the phone's face and she snatched it up, waking the screen.

Damn.

Just an email. Her mom again. She was set to help her pack in a couple weeks.

To be honest, it wasn't something she'd only started doing just after getting out of the shower. Taylor had been checking her phone like an addicted lab-rat.

It had been four days since The Incident, and she'd heard nothing from Ian. Or Amy.

She tossed the phone aside on the blankets again with a noise of disgust, moving a whole four steps across the room to root around in a drawer until she came out with some shorts.

The not knowing was the terrible thing. Even if someone called or texted just to be livid with her, that would have been better than the radio silence she was getting now.

Taylor tugged on a tank top, forgoing a bra since she had no intention of leaving her room again for the day. There was plenty of work on her project to do, and the bats weren't going to write about themselves.

If only she could think about the project, and not keep spiraling into worries over what nightmares might be festering elsewhere.

Four days was a long time for her not to have heard from Ian. They usually texted all the time. Until she'd been an idiot, anyway.

Had he broken up with Amy? How could he not after that picture she'd sent him? There's no way he would have told her what happened out there at the mine ... would he? Maybe to get some kind of revenge? But payback didn't seem like Ian's kind of game.

She sat at the beat-up square table she'd lined up under the window and cracked her laptop open, waiting for it to start.

Who the hell knew what was going on anymore? She could call him herself, but the longer she waited, the more awkward she felt. What would she say? Hi, uh ... no hard feelings right? I know your girlfriend of four years just betrayed you, and I made things super-confusing but, uh ... wanna grab lunch?

"Ugh. No," she said to the empty room. She'd just wait. He wouldn't freeze her out forever. Would he? Taylor sighed.

Fuck my life.



* * * *

A hi-res image of a Mexican free-tailed bat filled the frame of the current presentation slide on Taylor's laptop. She'd been staring at it, zoning out for some fifteen minutes, the brownish-gray fur and tiny wings and ears becoming one big blur in front of her unfocused eyes.

It was no use.

She slumped back in her chair and turned her absent gaze out the window of her room. At this time of night, the view consisted of not much. The weird pink-gold of a street light, the peak of the neighbors' roofline.

Ian.

It had been a whole week. There was no thinking about bats. No matter how she tried to throw herself into her project, it made her think of the mine. And at the mine was her friend. Moaning her name.

Dammit, come on.

But no. Again and again, like a compulsion in her brain, specific moments looped on replay.

Something as simple as her kneeling between his thighs, her mouth close to his ear as she waited for consent, was a picture she refreshed in her mind's eye time after time, drawing out the delicious tension to a heady, overripe point with each recollection. Even the nearly sub-audible way he'd said "OK" at last made her skin prickle. The way her palms had been on his thighs, her breasts nearly touching his chest.

Some of the moments took on a life of their own, morphing into new, more extravagant things.

That gentle hand of his resting on the back of her head became a fist in her hair. He stood instead of sat, pumping his dick into her face. Rather than Ian as the passive recipient of her attentions, she received him. Those pale green eyes looking down at her were so serious as the line between fantasy and memory blurred. In this embellished version of events, he slowed his movements down. He took control.

Warmth bloomed between Taylor's legs. Ian Killbourne in complete control. The familiar dull throb started again.

Fuck it.

She saved and closed her presentation. No more work was getting done tonight, she could tell. It was time to look at porn.

After blinking at the search bar on her smut aggregator site of choice, Taylor typed in "face fucking". Enough results came up that she could probably watch video of only this act every day until she died. The internet had not failed her. She scrolled for a moment, hovered, then clicked one. Stared, mesmerized. Clicked another. Another.

Some of them, she noticed, weren't simple blow jobs. Some were more elaborate; crossed over into other categories. There was one where the woman wore a ring gag, her mouth held open by the steel ring between her teeth to accept the thrusting cock in a way that was not optional. Another clip had some basic rope bondage lacing the woman's forearms together down her back while she worked in earnest to please a black-clad Dom.

Taylor was off to the races. She began to narrow down the keywords on her searches. BDSM. Restraints. Gag. Impact.

How would it be for Ian to claim her that way? She was so used to having to make the first move with guys, and it just seemed like the game she always had to play considering she tended to fall for shy types. But having to lead the sexual conversation every time was starting to get old.

What if he bound her? Spread her? Had her squealing to escape overwhelming pleasure while bucking against her tethers?

Why were her pants still on?

She was kicking off her shoes before the laptop was even fully shut down. There were jeans to wriggle out of, and a t-shirt and bra to toss on the floor before she remembered the need to yank the blinds down on her window.

Taylor stood by her bed on the opposite side of the room from the table, hands at her sides, vibrating with anticipation.

What can I do?

She needed an out, and a good one. Something a little extra tonight, or she was going to go nuts. Then she remembered and made an inadvertent little noise.

"Oooh!"

Her knees hit the carpet near the edge of the bed and her right hand slid into the dark space, fumbling. It found the box. Dragged it out into the light.

The previous October, Chelsea had cajoled her into attending her sister's bachelorette party all the way out in Fort Worth. And there, after a round of stupid party games, she'd won The Thing.

The package was still intact; she'd never bothered to try it on for size. Her ex, Derek, had made attempts to entice her into letting him use it on her, but she'd always countered with the logic that if she needed a dick, she could have his warm, live one whenever she wanted it. Other than that, she had a generic little vibrator which did the trick just fine, and so The Thing had slumbered away, mostly forgotten, under her bed.

For a dildo, it didn't look like anything a person would write home about. If, of course, anyone was filling their family in on noteworthy sex toy acquisitions. It was a tan color and moderately realistic in shape, sans balls, but with a wide base. The propaganda on the packaging promised the fancy silicone would feel ever so lifelike, but Taylor wasn't holding her breath.

Kneeling there beside her bed, she broke the seal and slid out the inner portion of the box.

There it was. Nestled in the clear, thermoformed plastic, inert and yet compelling a touch, a grip. Like a banana laid down on a glass table, it demanded, defying all reason, to be picked up and handled. So she did.

It might have been the size of any of the handful of dicks she'd seen in person. In, fact, the only reason she was giving its use serious consideration now was that it wasn't some monster appendage. She wanted to get off, not break her vagina.

Taylor gave it a squeeze.

Ohhhh. Well.

Was it just like the real thing? Maybe not, but it was damn close. The back of the box now on the floor boasted in bold pink text that the MACK-8—who names these things?—had a firm core surrounded by a squishier outer layer and tip. She pinched the faux cock head to see for herself.

So it does. OK then.

Taylor climbed up onto the bed, taking The Thing with her. The June weather meant there was no need to burrow under the covers. She eyed the toy for a moment and decided she wasn't ready for the big guns just yet, and so set it on her nightstand on its base to jut like a rude little tower at the ceiling.

Her eyes went closed and her hands went south. She didn't bother with breasts or nipples—for whatever reason touching her own was about as successful as trying to tickle herself. Her palms smoothed down over her lower belly, her bare mound and inner thighs, with no little pressure, getting her blood circulating. Taylor's thoughts drifted to the scenes that had sent her here, wet and humming.

And she thought of Ian.

There had been a video where this woman was strapped onto some ridiculous piece of bondage furniture. The scaffolding of steel tubing and padded leather shelves held the woman more or less on her hands and knees, while her partner had spent his time circling her, reddening various fleshy parts of her anatomy, testing her orifices for depth.

In her head, it was Ian pulling the straps into place. Taylor inhaled at the surge of feeling the idea brought, and shifted her focus to begin rolling her clit between thumb and forefinger.

Ian.

She didn't know if she'd make it to the part of the fantasy where he fucked her. Just the thought of the slow pull of the leather pinioning her limbs one by one. Of his hands skimming her body as he went, leaving gooseflesh in his wake. Of her ability to wriggle and jerk diminishing with each strap he tightened into place. That special little chin-rest he adjusted into position to keep her mouth in line to receive him.

A steady throb was at work now, her body producing more moisture than she knew what to do with.

Her eyes popped open. Head turned to the left.

Scratch that. She did know what to do with it.

It was in her hand again, heavy, and she brought it low to slide along the slippery line between her thighs. The cool temperature went away in seconds as it warmed to her body. She passed the tip through her folds, up and down. Slow, casual strokes, but with increasing pressure as she went. On one of the trips back up, she let the head nestle. With a shift of her wrist, she pushed and the first of it dipped inside her. There was just enough of a stretch.

Hmm. Not bad.

Taylor withdrew the toy and made another experimental push, deeper this time. The liquid of her own arousal let the shaft glide like a dream, and she tested sinking it in and drawing it out several times. She made a face. It had potential, but it was a weird angle.

For a moment she thought about putting it aside and just finishing off the old-fashioned way. An image flashed in her head, however, and in a fit of inspiration, Taylor flipped over to lie on her stomach.

She cocked her right leg up at the knee, halfway to her chest. Behind closed eyelids, Ian was there, pinning the thigh to the mattress with a palm, his weight settling over her lower back, her ass.

Taylor exhaled, squirming, and brought the toy—Ian's cock, in her head—around over her backside to her exposed pussy. Now the push had an association. It was his length working up into her. His girth parting her lips. Her motions became automatic. She fucked herself—no, Ian fucked her—with tortuously slow plunges and withdrawals of his perfect dick.

She was gone to the fantasy. His pubic bone thudded into the gap between her cheeks. He held a wrist behind her back, whispering decadent filth at her ear, biting marks into the meat of her shoulder.

Her left hand burrowed between her body and the mattress, seeking and finding her clit again, relighting the flame of sensation.

"Mmmf."

Her grunt of effort soaked into the pillow as she tilted her hips up for better access: an easier angle for the cock-working hand above and less pressure on the furious fingertips below.

He should work me like this. Ian. I should hand him the toy and let him.

It was building. She could feel it. The grip on the toy eased up, slowed the motion to give her that toe-curling drag back out against the madly sensitive flesh at her entrance. Muscles were tightening as she focused on that pinprick of light rushing toward her.

Oh god, Ian, take it.

In the other guilt-free world where she belonged to him, Ian pulled his hips back to nudge the slippery head of his cock at another opening.

The toy kept up its steady work in her pussy with the motions of her wrist, and Taylor had no intention of switching gears now just to imitate the new direction her thoughts took. Her mind, however, raced with the picture of him covering her, a hand hooked under her arm to grip her by the shoulder and fit her down, whimpering, onto the hot, hard pillar of flesh he offered.

She pictured the nudge becoming a real pressure as she pinched and tugged at her clit. The pressure then became the inevitable beginnings of penetration. Her tight ring strained not to give, then surrendered, opening for him. The head squeezed past and he had her, brushing back her hair to purr at her ear: "That's a good girl."

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck!


"Nnnghh!"

The mere suggestion of those words from him sent her flying. Her wet flesh pulsed and contracted under her fingers, suckled like an eager mouth on the surrogate cock she rode.

Taylor hit the top of the ramp and flew, the throttle on her orgasm wide open, landing on several hip jerking, teeth-grinding sub-climax plateaus on the way down. She plowed through it as far as it would take her, twitching her fingers over swollen flesh until the gas ran out and there wasn't an inch further she could go.

The toy fell from her hand and her aching wrist dropped to the mattress. She had her neck cranked over to one side and the sheets reflected her own exhausted breath back at her. It was the kind of orgasm where she could feel her heartbeat in her teeth after, as she lay there helpless while her body tried to smooth itself down again and act like everything was normal.

Sweet fuck, that was good.

And also bad, in a way.

She returned The Thing to the nightstand before rolling to flop on her back and stare at the ceiling.

This was going to become a problem. They hadn't spoken in a week, her and Ian. There was no telling what he thought about her at this point. And here she was, elevating him, one fantasy at a time, to some godlike status in her Book of Impossible Yearnings. Erecting with every distracted thought a bigger and better pedestal for her friend, while at the same time inflating with every day that passed all the terrible things that would happen if she dared to contact him.

Christ, what's the worst that can happen? Just call him.

But then, she'd asked that question in her head right before The Incident, and now look where they were. How had she managed to ignore it so well, and for so many years, but then in the space of one afternoon, like the proverbial match and gasoline, her attraction to Ian Killbourne had flared from inconspicuous pilot light to out-of-control brush fire? She clenched her jaw in frustration.

Something was going to have to give at some point. She just didn't know what.

Taylor reached over and yanked on the chain on her little bedside lamp. The room went dark. There was one place, at least, this whole mess couldn't follow: sleep.

* * * *

This time, her phone wasn't on vibrate, and the polite little ding was enough for her to set down the roll of packing tape on top of a box and retrieve the device from her pocket.

HEY. BUSY ON THE 4TH. MAYBE NEXT WEEK, K?

Taylor frowned at the screen. At least they'd gotten back to texting again, but the responses she'd been getting from Ian left nothing really resolved.

"You want to toss me that marker?"

Her mom's head popped in from the kitchen and Taylor looked up, scanning the room in front of her. She located the black marker on the edge of the dresser and underhanded it toward the door.

"Are you about done in there?" Taylor said.

"Yeah, now I just need to clean everything. Bring that spray bottle when you come out?"

"OK."

In the sunlit bare kitchen, her mother was writing "POTS/PANS" on the top flap of a box that sat on the floor. Taylor set the spray bottle down grabbed up the sponge behind the faucet, wet it, and started wiping down the countertops. She could hear her dad swearing at some stubborn piece of furniture or who knew what from the living room.

"So," her mom said, standing back up with a grunt, "why's your face so angry?"

"This is just how my face looks," said Taylor, attacking a dirty section of grout.

"I know your face, Kid. What's wrong with you?"

Taylor exhaled through her nose.

"Ah." Her mom picked up the spray bottle and went to work on the stove top. "So how bad is it? We need to send Vinnie and The Hammer over to break both his legs?"

She allowed a halfhearted snort of air at this. "No, Mom. It's not ... any of that."

"Well then?" The burners clunked back into place as the cleaning continued. "Do we know this young man?"

She sighed, wiping a strand of hair out of her face with the back of a forearm. "Remember Ian?"

Her mom turned to face her and rested her knuckles on a hip. "Tall guy? Black hair? Or something?"

"That's the one."

"Didn't he have some blonde girl hanging all over him?" It was probably graduation her mom was remembering.

"Yup."

"Are her and him ...?" Her mom leaned against the countertop behind her, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I don't know," Taylor said, chewing at her lip, pausing in her own scrubbing. "I don't know what their deal is right now."

"I see." Hazel eyes that looked a lot like her own assessed her. "And does he know you're over here pining?"

Pining. Yeah. That was just what she was doing. Ugh. She'd promised herself she'd never be that girl.

"I don't think so," she replied after a time.

"Hey," her dad said, rounding the corner in a sweaty jumble from the other room, "either of you two seen that container of zip ties floating around here anywhere?" They blinked at him.

"I think it's in the little bathroom," her mom said.

"What's going on here?" he asked, glancing from one serious face to another.

"Taya's about to start writing sonnets."

Taylor rolled her eyes at the childhood nickname. "Don't worry about it, Dad."

"Seriously, Rich," her mom said, ignoring her, "as a guy, if some girl is pining over you—shush"—she stopped Taylor's interruption with a hand—"if she's running around writing your name all over her notebooks, do you want to know about it?"

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