Page 18 of Bound By Brielle (Crave & Cure Productions)

TTW.

That time we.

We named it that at the time because we thought we’d hardly film ourselves, that we’d do it so infrequently that we’d refer to the few videos as… that time we… fill in the blank.

We had so much fucking chemistry it sheeted off of us, I swear to God. And just a few months into our relationship, we had a healthy folder full of home videos. Photos. Five second clips. Audio clips.

I stare at that folder. The one that contains the most erotic, most intense, most fulfilling moments of my private life. Claire thinks I should delete it, or at the very least, offload to a place I can’t access.

I never open it, though. Seeing it is punishment enough.

Usually.

Today, though, I’m just…not myself.The attraction to Brielle, and my fear that Lance will be attracted to her, missing him, dealing with the way he’s completely shut me out—I’m in a fucked up headspace.

With my dick still confused from the room of big energy earlier, I double click the folder, and, with guilt heavy in my chest, fish my other hand into my shorts.

After I just gave a speech about respecting Crave and what it stands for. I hate myself, but I grip myself anyway.

I’m not looking for any specific video—I miss him so much that I could probably fill my fist with cum just by smelling his shirt with his cologne on it. Any of these videos will work, and as much as I hate that I’m doing this, I need some fucking release. Or relief. Or, I don’t know, both.

I move my mouse to the center and click a random video, unsure of what I’m getting because we numbered them in random numbers and digits. 382583339MF loads as I curl my fist around my cock, groaning at how heated I already am.

Then it’s there, playing, volume merely a whisper. But I don’t really need to hear it. The words I have memorized, etched into the free floating pieces of my shattered heart. Every single one of these videos are like that. I remember all of our time together, every fucking moment.

382583339MF is a video at my house. It’s one of the last ones we ever made together, actually. As I look at the beardless, muscular version of myself on the screen, I get angry. Angry he was so close to the end and didn’t know, couldn’t change anything. I’m jealous of him, too. Jealous of the way he cups Lance’s chin in his hand, and holds him captive with one downturned look.

I pump my fist, unable to stop the rapid stream of groans spilling out of me.

Lance is on his haunches in front of me as I sit in a chair. A chair from my dining set, one we’d pulled out into the living room, to be in front of the fire. He always liked being in front of the fire completely naked together. Four months after he left me, I started using my fireplace as storage. Even had the flue permanently closed.

On screen, my chest tightens as Lance lowers his cheek to my knee, his eyes closing. I sift a hand through his hair, my voice rough and raw as I whisper, “You’ve done so well today, pup.”

Shivers wrack my spine and pour over my shoulders as I stop jerking off and sit up a little in my office chair, my eyes growing heated and fuzzy as I stare at the screen.

I remember these evenings, the ones that came after a very long and productive day on set. Ones where Lance would bust his ass even more than normal, all to allow me to edit with the editors or write up a secondary supporting scene to get the film just right. He’d take care of everything else—payroll glitches, making sure all the actors do their mandatory psychiatry meetings, ordering the catering, scheduling the scenes while being mindful of the weather—he did it all.

Those nights we’d get home, I’d get to the stove, cooking something I knew he loved. He’d strip and shower, and every moment after that, until he closed his eyes for the night, he wasmine.

Mine to direct and order, mine to instill servitude upon. But he always found respite in service; freedom of his mind and pleasure for his body.

As the man with a plan, the one who holds control—I found the most deep, sincere pleasure I’ve ever experienced. All from watching a beautiful man like Lance serve me, then let me use him for pleasure. And in return, I would give his body more pleasure than he could handle. Pleasure that made him shake and writhe, made his mind melt, and after, he’d sleep so deeply and wake so rested and happy.

I’d wake the same—pleased from all he gave me, but sated from the way I provided him the most intense and oftentimes endless pleasure his body could take. This movie is one of those nights. And instead of getting lost in what once was, I choose to pump my fist to the movie instead.

On screen, I lower a glass of whiskey to the ground and watch as Lance falls to his hands, off his calves and now on his knees, and dips his mouth to the glass. He pulls the alcohol in through pursed lips as I slowly slide my foot against the floor, pushing it toward him. He ducks, and I blink as if I don’t know what erotic thing is coming next, my fist pumping hard beneath my shorts. He drags his cheek up the inside of my calf, nuzzling his face into my thigh as I sift my fingers through his hair. “Have another drink,” I guide him, watching him repeat the slow slurp of whiskey before returning his cheek to my thigh. “Good,” I nearly growled, amazed at how much depth I had in my chest then, how endless it all felt.

“I’m going to please you, my pup,” I husk, tracing the slender curve of his jaw with the pad of my thumb, before pushing it into his mouth. My cock always got so hard when he sucked my thumb, the same slow and deep way he suckedme. “But first,” I snapped, jerking his head, tipping it up to face me, hovering over him in the chair. His guiding Sir, his owner, his dominant king. I was all of those things.

I was lucky enough to be those things to him for a while.

I push the sadness from my mind as I lean forward, itching to get to this part, pulling the waistband of my shorts back to drop spit into my palm and cock.

“I need you to empty me.” I dip my head, crashing my lips to his, doing things our way, the way we so beautifully did. He was my pet, my passive submissive, of that we were always sure. But we didn’t always embody any specific roles, aside from dom and sub. The rest came off the cuff, but we found our most sated and peaceful home within the loose confines of a pet and his Sir. “Empty me until there’s nothing left. Back to back.” A sinister smile stretches my face on screen. “With only your mouth. And don't touch yourself.”

“God,” I groan, moving my fist faster and faster, about to reach in with my other hand and give my balls a tug. But my phone, which is next to my laptop, illuminates. A text message hovers at the top of the screen.

Lance

---