Bound

We've been going at each other for long minutes. Passionate minutes, in which nothing seems as necessary as being next to each other. Not breathing, not the constant pulses of our own hearts. None of it is as important as my lips on his, my hands on his nipples, my cock thrust against the fur of his stomach.

There's a mirror standing in the corner of his bedroom, one that stands as tall as I when I'm on my feet. It's angled in a way that I can't see myself, though. I can't look to see if my lips are as red and swollen as they feel, like cherries ripe to bursting. I can't tell if my face is flushed, if my chest is prickled with the red heat he arouses in me. My dick feels not only engorged, but enlarged, an enormous monster on the loose, needing to devour and be devoured in turn. This is the way it's been for nearly an hour by this point, and we're just coming down the gentle slope of need and urgency into a softer and more restful place. "Will you do something for me?" I feel emboldened to say.

"What do you want?" He's anxious to please. "Anything."

Franco's collection of leather goods is laid out on one side of his large bed. They're for my convenience, my whim. I feel the cold ring of his harness digging into my back, where I lay on my side. His dick is in my hand. "Would you. . . ." I take a deep breath, and will myself to say the words. They don't come. ". . . dress up in a French maid's uniform for me?"

His dick doubles in size in my hand. Then, confused, he asks, "What?"

"Wait a minute," I tell him, stopping the proceedings. "Why's your dick getting so much harder when I ask you to dress up in a French maid's uniform?"

He's a little mortified, and laughs. "I thought you were going to ask me to dress up in my leather. Why are you asking me to wear a French maid's uniform."

"Because I'm using cheap humor to deflect what I really want to ask," I explain. This time it's the truth. He waits patiently for me to continue. He's got beautiful eyes. I don't think he knows how attractive a feature they are. They study me in a way that I find a little embarrassing. I want to remain highly regarded, in that gaze. I take a deep breath and try again. "Would you. . . ?"

It's tough to make this request. He and I have talked about this fantasy before, when we've chatted back and forth online. He knows it's something I crave. He knows the issues I have with asking for it.

It's unfair to make him guess, though. I screw up my courage—and it takes a considerable amount—and say the words aloud. "Would you put your blindfold on me?" I ask. My words sound humbled and quiet, to my own ears. "And would you cuff me?" There's a slight smile playing around the corners of his mouth. Deep inside, those slightest of movements reignite the flames. "And then what?" he wants to know.

"And then make me feel good," I said, in a very small voice.

He fastens the hood around my face. The smell of leather fills my nostrils, sharp and familiar. When he fastens the velcro around the back of my head, it cuts out a portion of the sound I can hear. I feel him, though. The rub of his furry chest against my shoulder as he takes my hand, the reassuring pressure of his arm against mine as he raises my left wrist and wraps a cuff around it. I can't see when he lets it go; it drops like a stone as he reaches for the other hand. Once they're both wrapped, he lays me down gently against the pillows, and pushes up my arms so that they insert themselves through the slats of his head board. I feel a slight pressure, and the sound of a click.

I pull slightly at my restraints. I'm fixed there. I concentrate on breathing, on keeping my lungs inflating and deflating at a slow and regular rate. I'm trying quite hard not to think about the incident that's robbed me of this particular pleasure for the last twenty-five years. After my sexual assault, it's tough enough to admit that I crave this particular form of release. Tougher still to ask for it. Toughest of all to relax enough to enjoy it.

I trust Franco, though. I know he won't betray this exchange of trust. I know he'll use it, and use me.

I feel his hands traveling down the length of my legs. The hair on them riffles out from under his palms. There's warmth around my left ankle, then the scratchy enclosure of another cuff. My right foot trembles as he raises then caresses it, only to wrap it and set it down again. A cold chain traces a path across my thigh. When he tugs at it, it draws my ankles together.

He places the weight of a foot or a knee or some part of his leg on that chain, drawing my legs in as his mouth connects with my skin. He knows my knees are going to attempt to draw apart only to stop short, thanks to the cuffs, that I'm going to gasp with the surprise of it. His hands are on me, but his foot pushes at the chain connecting my ankles again. He's dragging it down toward the bottom of the bed, off the end, forcing my legs to be as close together and immobile as my arms.

I'm a long exclamation point of pleasure, quivering and trembling beneath his touch. I can't tell where his mouth will land next—my nipple, the underside of my rib cage, the softest part of my belly. His fingers rake against my skin. He pinches my nipple, hard, remorseless. He kisses me, making my back arch, my breath rasp.

My eyes are closed beneath the blindfold. I don't even try to cheat, to see beneath where the mask doesn't quite mold to my cheeks. My world is the darkness, the sensations, the touch of his hands, the bite of his teeth, the warmth of his breath and his tongue against my skin. His mouth engulfs my dick. I gasp, loudly and with abandon. I feel this hands on my balls, the nudge of his knuckles against my ass. My body wants to respond—to twist, to turn, to seize his head and point it in the directions I want it to go. When my hands instinctively move to do so, the short bond between them tugs against the headboard. I can't even bring my elbows below my ears.

He keeps his foot on the chain, too, restraining my legs from moving much. He feels me struggling against him, and increases the pressure. He lets me know he's in charge in a hundred ways. The pulls, the tugs, the little laughs to himself as he enjoys me wrestling futilely against him. I can't do anything more than remain hard and hope that he'll keep up that sloppy wet attention on my shaft, that he'll give me what I need.

I wanted this. He's giving it to me.

I can't control my breathing any longer. I'm gasping for air. My legs are shaking uncontrollably. There's a near-pain in my chest from the sharp intakes of air I'm having to take. And still I can't stop the burning where the corners of his pretty mouth meet the root of my cock. I can't control the wrack of the pleasure—almost too much of it—as it overtakes my body. I wanted this, but I didn't take into account how torturous it could be. How painful the pleasure could feel. It's the sweetest pain in the world, though. I want that kind of hurt.

But I realize I'm in trouble. I can't breathe any longer. The mask has slipped to an odd position beneath my nose. I'm recirculating too much air. It's making me dizzy, almost to the point of passing out. "I can't," I manage to wheeze out. "Do you need me to stop?" he asks, all concern. I feel his face near mine.

I need him to stop, yes. I don't want him to.

Still. I let him undo the mask. My face is wet as a newborn chick's, freed from the leather mask. I blink at the shock of the light and the rush of air over my face. My lungs expand and breathe in the fresh, cool oxygen. The dizzy sensation passes in a moment.

"Okay?" he asks, to check.

I look at him, at that handsome face, fuzzy and sweet and concerned. I stretch, my arms still over my head, and look at him lazily from the pillows where he's laid me.

"I'm okay," I tell him.

I am. I really am.

Then he smiles, and continues his attentions.