One Hundred Ninety Two Hours

Author's note: This is the first in a 3 story arc. I think each story stands on its own as enjoyable. But if you want to know what happens next, please read "The First Five Hours" and then "Controlled Surrender".

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They had been planning this vacation for months. There were the discussions about where to go, when to go, how to coordinate their work schedules to get the time. She suggested the mountains; he lobbied for the beach. They both wanted someplace private; isolated even. Where they knew they wouldn't be disturbed by nosy neighbors or wandering kids.

They settled on a rental in the foothills, situated at the end of a spit of land that jutted into a lake. It was smaller than they'd planned on, and more expensive. So they had to compromise on the timing too, settling for that indeterminate part of September that wasn't quite summer, and wasn't yet fall. Whatever; the point was to get away. Get out of the city. Let loose. Play.

Two weeks to go and they were both stressed, trying to finish things up at their jobs so they could leave with clear consciences. They were both antsy, anticipating the pleasure of unstructured time, phones that were turned off, and inaccessible email. They were both tired and horny, having worked so many extra hours there was no time to spend together.

Add in the logistics of getting prepped to be away from home, and it became a volatile mixture. It exploded that Saturday afternoon in a marathon bout of violent lovemaking that included him leaving his full handprint on her breast. Which almost made her orgasm.

In the aftermath, they were lying on the bed she couldn't recall reaching, having collapsed side by side. She was riding that endorphin rush and listening as his breathing slowed. She was covered in sweat and utterly spent; in that wonderful twilight where she could just as easily roll over and kiss him, or curl up to sleep. Laying on her back, she stretched languidly, arms overhead reaching for the headboard, arching her back, rolling her head, and at the same time pointing her toes to touch the footboard.

As she settled back onto the comforter, he heaved onto his side, leaning up on his elbow. She opened her eyes as she felt him touch her breast, fitting his hand over its reddened twin. She watched him as he slid his hand slowly, gently down her ribs.

His touch was so light it might as well have been the movement of air. He glided over her abdomen, across her pelvis and down the inside of her thigh closest to him. Unthinkingly, she spread her legs slightly and he touched the opposite knee, gliding back up her thigh and then along her center line. As his fingertips grazed her pussy, it twitched. He cupped her breast and rolled his thumb over her nipple. Dipped his head and lightly licked up the sweat pooling at her sternum.

She ran her hand through his hair, and caressed his cheek. "You wanna go again?"

He laughed ruefully. "If I was seventeen still. Maybe."

Her gesture encompassed the detritus of the room, their discarded clothes, the whole afternoon. "I doubt you were capable of all that when you were seventeen."

He laughed again and brushed a hair away from her face. "I was not."

She smiled, touched his cheek and shoulder. "I'll take this version."

He bent and kissed her lightly. She settled her hands on his shoulders, now fully prepared to sleep in his embrace. But he was staring at her, and the look in his eyes told her he was searching for something. That he wanted to say something, or tell her something, but couldn't quite figure out how.

How long had she known him now? Is that why it sometimes felt like telepathy? She arched an eyebrow. "So. Vacation."

He smiled, because he'd known she'd read his intentions. "Yes.."

"Tell me. Anything."

He shifted his weight on his elbow. Stroked her side. "On vacation. I don't want to play."

"You DON'T want to play?"

"I don't want to PLAY."

She furrowed her brow and tilted her head. "I don't understand."

"I don't want to play. I don't want us to just pencil in some afternoon or day or two for kinky time, and then go back to watching Netflix or whatever. I don't want a game."

He paused, searching in her face to find understanding. Shook his head slightly and said the rest. "I want to own you. For the whole week, or eight days or whatever. Every hour. From the minute we leave this building to the minute we get back. I want to OWN you."

She started to make a joke that she was probably too expensive for him. But something in his face made her stop. Something in her brain made her quiet. Something about that declaration sent tingles in all the right spots. That was already unleashing possibilities, fantasies, confessions.

She breathed out slowly. "Ok, what are the rules?"

"I don't know. I hadn't gotten that far. I wasn't sure what you'd think."

She was nodding slowly. "I think it's an intriguing idea. But until I know the rules..." Her question trailed off.

He nodded. "Of course. I'll think about it, and we'll talk."

"Of course." She smiled, pulled him to her and kissed him. "But now we sleep. Yes?"

She rolled over on her side to face him, put her hand against his chest, and his found her hip. They slept like that until late in the evening.

At some point she had rolled onto her back, and she awakened to the sensation of him rubbing himself against her thigh, and nibbling on her neck and ear. As soon as she opened her eyes he kissed her mouth, hard, urgent, insistent. She spread her legs and he settled between them.

As she raised her knees he reached out to grab an ankle in each of his hands, and pulled her legs up so that they were braced on his shoulders. He slid his erection into her and shifted his weight, leaning down to force her knees toward her chest. She had moved her hands over her head, and he now grabbed her forearms in each of his hands, just below her wrists.

She was well and truly pinned, and wouldn't be able to move. But in this mood, he didn't require activity from her. He started to pull his cock out of her pussy, and then thrust it back in, forcefully. She sighed and took a deep breath. He leaned down, pressing her legs closer, bending his arms, and tapped the outside of her legs with his elbows. It was her signal to slide her feet as close to his neck as she could make them go. When she was positioned as he liked, he started moving in her, pulling out slowly but pushing in fast and hard.

He set up the rhythm he wanted, pulling out more slowly, but shoving his cock back into her as hard and deep as he could. It was uncomfortable for her, but she knew her comfort was immaterial to him now. She knew that what he expected was her endurance, and that any pleasure she felt was ancillary. He leaned down close enough that her chest strained to rise; when she tilted her head back so she could breath he gave her more space. It was more important that she look at him. He wanted her eye contact, wanted to watch the expressions change and wash over her face as he banged himself into her, as his hips smacked into her pussy, and as she listened to him.

He spoke to her quietly, in a low tone that reverberated in the small space between their faces. He spoke casually, and let loose a stream of objectifying and degrading language that in any other circumstance, out of anyone else's mouth, would have infuriated her. A litany of derogatory comments and insults about her, about her worth as a woman, and as a human in general. He punctuated each statement with another long hard thrust. He calmly and contemptuously explained her uselessness, and used his cock as the exclamation point.

With other people, in other situations, being on the receiving end of any one of these comments would have unleashed her anger. Shorter and less personal tirades had roused her to aggression in the past. But here and now, pinned in their bed, trapped by his body, his commentary only aroused her. His statements ricocheted in her brain. She was first bewildered as to why he would associate with such a wretch. Then overcome with desire to prove herself worthy to him. Then proud that she must be doing something right, since he was using her, rather than some other cunt.

Now his pace quickened, and he was repeating a few phrases over and over again as he fucked her harder. She kept her gaze locked on his, allowing the insults to flow over her. Now he was repeating a single monosyllabic word, as fast as he could get it out; now he wasn't saying words at all, just making little moans or grunts. Fucking her faster still, and her orgasm came as a surprise, hard and short. The spasm in her pussy tipped him over the edge and he slammed into her one last time, jerking and shuddering to a stop.

He moved his arms so she could put her legs down, and let go of her arms. He laid his forearms on the bed to either side of her head and shifted his body so he was laying completely on top of her. His torso on hers, his legs on hers; she was holding all his weight. She loved it, he knew, though he never stopped being a little concerned that she wouldn't be able to breath.

She ran her hands along his ribs, and that was his signal to stretch his arms out completely over their heads, so that he was not supporting himself at all. He touched his forehead to hers and they lay like that, breathing each other's air, while she wrapped her arms around him and his cock slid out of her. She hugged him as tight as she could, for a long moment. When she let go, he rolled off of her and sat on the edge of the bed.

She got up too, and walked into the bathroom. He stood leaning against the door jamb while she peed. He filled one of the sinks with very hot tap water and dropped a washcloth in it. When she was done she stood in front of him and let him wash off her face, her torso, and legs. He rinsed out the washcloth, soaked it in more hot water and reached between her legs to roughly grab and scrub her crotch. He rinsed off the cloth again, soaked it again and handed it to her. It was her turn to wash him off, gently. He turned and walked out of the bathroom, and she squeezed out the cloth again, soaked it and washed off the parts of her that he had ignored.

He said he was hungry and declared that they were going out. When she went back into the bedroom, he handed her a bra and panties, and pulled out a pair of her jeans while she was putting those on. He gave her the jeans, then picked out a top as she was putting them on. He tossed her his t-shirt: thin, light gray, old, worn, and too big for her. She held it up and looked at it while he was putting on his own jeans, commando style.

She was still considering her options as he pulled on his shirt. She sighed and put on the t-shirt. Glanced down and confirmed what she'd suspected; the bright red bra was clearly visible through the fabric. Not just the color was discernable, but the fact that it was mostly lace. That it had cups designed to create as much cleavage as possible; cups that exposed as much of her breasts as they concealed. She adjusted the bra so that the band sat where it was supposed to and realized that it was also at least a cup size too small. The grin on his face verified that his choice had not been random, or coincidental. She met his smile with her own, but shook her head.

They strolled to their favorite hole-in-the-wall Chinese place, sat at their regular booth, and he ordered their usual meal to share. The waiter greeted them by name and did a passable job of pretending not to ogle her chest. The group of frat boys two tables over didn't even attempt subtlety and she saw one point her out to the other four, saw them all gawping, leaning in together, laughing while looking at her.

After their food arrived, he stretched out, tapping her knee with his foot so that she would spread her legs wide. He'd taken off his shoes, and he placed both his bare feet right against her crotch, pressing into her so that she'd slide back and give him enough room for them on her bench. His legs were long enough that this was an easy, comfortable position for him. But it crowded her against the back of the booth, and put steady pressure on her already tender vulva. When he was comfortable, he nodded, and she closed her legs as tightly as she could around his feet. It was his favorite form of public possessiveness, because he could play with her if he wanted and most of the time no one noticed.

The dynamic between them had evolved organically. She hadn't been looking for that kind of relationship and had never bothered to ask him if he'd sought it out. Each of them had recognized something latent and complementary in the other, and they had done a slow dance of pushing boundaries and gauging reactions. Of hints, double entendres, requests that might have been jokes, jokes that were answers.

One afternoon they were making out, and he'd twisted her shirt around and used it to bind her arms behind her back; had spanked her ass until it was burning and his arms were shaking; had demanded that she beg his permission to cum. Later she'd knelt front of him, arms still bound, scratches and welts raising on her skin, his jizz dripping from her chin and hair. She'd thanked him, and he'd called her his wanton hussy; she'd cried then, said "yes, please, thank you." Now she was an willing enabler of his authoritarian streak. He rewarded her submission with all consuming, body shaking orgasms that left her as high as any junky.

They had an unspoken agreement to keep their power exchange strictly private. They hadn't looked for like minded couples, gone to any clubs, or joined any scene. He kept her bruises and welts hidden. Their friends and families knew them as a modern, egalitarian couple whose relationship was founded on mutual respect and deep trust. Neither of them saw that dichotomy as contradictory. They were pieces of a puzzle that had to be fitted together to see the full picture.

That was why they needed this vacation so badly. Living in that apartment building severely limited their privacy. Their jobs and other responsibilities limited the time they had to explore. There was only so much they could try, with thin walls and downstairs neighbors. Only so far they could go, knowing that they'd have to be ready and presentable for work in a couple of days. But with eight days, complete privacy, and another week to make plans, they could explore options that had just been fantasy. At least that was the argument he was going to make to her.

"One hundred and ninety two hours."

"What?" She'd been absentmindedly chewing on an egg roll, acutely aware of his heels grinding into her crotch, and the frat boys still leering from the other table. They had talked about a dozen things other than the vacation, and his statement seemed nonsensical at first.

"One hundred and ninety two. That's how many hours in eight days. If we leave at five on Friday, and are back by five on the following Saturday, it's 192 hours."

"Ok."

"I'm just letting you know."

"I don't want to talk about it here."

"That's what I'm asking for: 192 hours."

"Noted."

He abruptly pulled his feet away from her, and the alleviation of the pressure felt almost painful. She thought for a second that he was angry. He shifted in his seat and reached out to touch her hand.

"You up for some ice cream when we're done here?"

"Mmm. I'm pretty full, but you go ahead."

He gave her his best lascivious grin. "How about this. I get a popsicle, and you help me lick it."

She laughed so loud everyone in the restaurant stared, and she didn't even care.

On the walk back to their apartment, she'd started feeling exposed again, and he had intentionally dawdled. As soon as they made it inside she went to the bathroom and shut the door. She needed a minute away from his presence, needed to clear her head. Even with the unknowns hidden in his request, she could feel something shifting in their dynamic. Even though she hadn't agreed, it felt like a new puzzle piece had appeared, like the picture of their relationship was changing. She collected herself and decided on attempting normalcy, at least for the rest of the night.

In the bedroom she saw that he'd changed clothes and she could hear him moving around in the kitchen. She took off everything she was wearing, including that ridiculous bra, and pulled a favorite pair of yoga pants. She took a second look at his worn out t-shirt and decided to put it back on. Decided to give him a little more of what he'd been craving all day.

He was sitting on the couch, in his usual spot, looking at the news on his phone. There were two bottles of beer on the coffee table. He turned to her as she came in, putting down the phone and reaching for the beers. Handed her one as she sat down, and they both took long drinks.

He was staring at her, smiling at her choice of shirt, pleased with himself and with her. "So. There's just one rule."

"Ok."

"You obey me."

"That's not a..."

He interrupted her. "You do everything I tell you, as soon as I tell you. No arguments. No questions. No hesitation."

"But..."

"But nothing. That's the rule. From the time we leave here to the time we get back. You obey me."

"What if I don't understand something you want me to do?"

He shrugged. "Make your best attempt. If I decide you're wrong, I'll correct you." The word 'correct' hung between them, a threat and a promise.

She was having trouble keeping his eye contact, and took another long pull on the beer. "What do you want to do?"

"Everything."

"Oh, come on." She was exasperated.

He leaned in. "Every. Thing."

Now she felt compelled to look at him. He continued, "Bondage. Watersports. Tit torture." Her nervousness was rising.

He drank from his beer, and gestured with the bottle. "Objects. Exhibition. Every orifice. Pain. Videos. Role playing. Restriction."

She raised an eyebrow, unsure what that was supposed to mean. "Restriction?"

"You wear what I say. Eat what I say, when I say. Sleep when I say. You piss when I say, where I say."

"You want absolute control."

"Yes."

"And you want me to..."

"Absolutely surrender."

The look in his eyes consumed her. Her stomach fluttered and her pussy twitched. He leaned against the back of the couch, casually, as though he'd just told her about the weather forecast. She finished her beer, feeling the weight of his stare, and feeling herself compacted by it.

She remembered a picture he'd taken some afternoon before they'd moved in together. She was sprawled across a chaise lounge in her old apartment. Indentations from the ropes still clear on her breasts and arms. Several long welts visible on them and on her stomach. Her eyes half lidded and reddened. Her lips were swollen and parted; a line of drool and his cum was leaking out of her mouth. But the look on her face was serene, blissful, sated; she had felt a kind of happiness she hadn't realized she was capable of, that was addictive, that only he induced. Could there be more? Was it worth the price she might have to pay to find out?

They sat quietly together, and soon enough he was back to looking at his phone. She turned on the TV, leaned against him and they watched a few episodes of something. But she wasn't really paying attention.

Suddenly she realized how late it was, and how tired she was despite sleeping earlier. She shifted on the couch, to get up and go to bed. He stopped her by gently putting his hand on her arm. "I haven't planned it all. But I keep picturing you naked, on the floor, bound, bruised, bloodied, and covered in my piss and cum."

She nodded slowly, let out a shaky breath. "Ok. I understand. I'm not saying yes now. I'm saying I'll think about it."

"One hundred and ninety two hours. I need your answer."