Page 29 of Bound and Branded

I like repetition. But only to a point. I also need variety. And today I have a whole different art project in mind.

What I really want to do is pick her up, throw her down onto the couch, free myself, and fuck her without any preamble. I feel hot, like I’m losing my mind, and I know that denial is what’s best for us both.

I don’t need to give myself any kind of instant gratification.

The denial is… Oh, it’s almost sweeter than having her.

I deny myself so rarely. It’s part of that tricky lack of impulse control thing. But then, there’s a dichotomy to that and the way that I like to do BDSM. It’s not really different than what I do tomy subs, honestly. Pleasure, pain. Denial, satisfaction. In many ways, that’s what I’m giving to myself.

I’m giving it to myself now, in spades.

I let myself pounce on her. No warning. I take her down to the floor, pinning her there, fully clothed over the top of her soft, naked body. She wanted me to touch her. She can have it.

She whimpers, looking up at me wide-eyed, wiggling beneath me. I touch her face, let my hand drift down to cup her breast. I denied myself that yesterday. It feels heavy, perfect in my hand, her nipple tight and sensitive. I noticed how sensitive she was yesterday when I watched her rubbing herself against the bedspread while she was coming.

I pinch her hard. And she tries to wiggle away from me. But I don’t let her. I pick her up off the floor, holding her fast against my body. “Did you think there wouldn’t be consequences for this?” I asked.

“I… I didn’t mean…”

“You’re fucking with me. You’re trying to get a reaction out of me. Congratulations. You have it.”

The truth is, I’m thrilled with her. But the Dominant in me knows that what she wants is to be punished. What she wants is anger. What she wants is to feel like she’s being carried away, taken outside of herself.

I can give her that.

I can give us both that.

Maybe there’s something to the fact that I spend half my time role-playing supreme control when I don’t have a whole lot of it, in truth.

I carry her straight up the stairs, heading toward the bedroom, and I force the door open, laying her down at the center of the bed.

“Don’t you fucking move,” I say.

“I…”

“Shush,” I say. “I didn’t ask for you to talk. If you want to play games with me, then you’re going to get games.”

That’s exactly how I want her. On her back, looking up at me.

The first thing I have to do is tie her wrists and ankles. That will give me time to work on the rest.

There’s a wild look about her, and I relish it.

I go to the cabinet and open up a drawer. Taking out my ropes. I loop one through the hardware that’s bolted to the bed, make a loop, and tie it securely before wrapping the rope around her wrist.

“What are you…?”

“I’m not going to give you a guidebook every time we do this,” I say. “You have to wait and see.”

She’s looking up at me with doe eyed fear, and I can’t deny I like it. The predator in me likes it. And he’s always been there. Angry, tired of feeling powerless. Tired of feeling out of control. It was the greatest discovery of my life that there were women out there who wanted the predator. It gave me a place to put it. Gave me a place to turn it into a good thing. Here and now, it’s a really good thing.

I do the same knot on her wrist. And then move to her ankles. Her legs are spread wide, tethered to the footboards. Just enough give that her knees can bend.

I don’t want her stretched like the rack, I need her to be able to move just enough.

I know just what I want. I want her open, vulnerable. Unable to hide herself from me. If she wants to play with me, tease me with her body, then she can show it all off.

“You wanted to be touched. Let’s make sure I can touch all of you.”

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