Bind

Most of my day has been wasted, lost in daydreams and an unproductivity that weighs on me as I take in the glittering, dark velvet sky from the apartment several stories above the city. My hair, undone and unbrushed, falls across the shoulders of a borrowed white t-shirt in inky waves that disappear into the nest of blankets cocooning me from the waist down. After my shower, I didn’t manage to do more than slip on my t-shirt and a thin pair of panties that I grabbed on my way to this retreat hours ago. I’d gotten up to make coffee at some point at least, before trotting back to my nest. It tastes just as good in the dark as it does in morning light. I swirl the spoon in my mug and watch the steam dance across the metal as it rises.  

I’ll blame the rain, but really, this feeling is from all the dreaming I’ve been doing. 

Floor to ceiling windows frame city lights and set the perfect scene for my mental meanderings. The glow scatters and streaks in the rain, casting soft light across my bedroom, catching in the wetness painting the glass in thin rivulets. I’d planned to spend my time catching up on work, but there’s no way that’s happening. My notebook lies open, untouched, pen still capped and tapping against my full lips as I watch the weather’s art outside.  

I’ve been lost to my thoughts for who knows how long when a litany of chimes from my phone startles me back to a reality I’m content to ignore. With an annoyed sigh, I lift the insistent device. Its glow illuminates my face in a much less gentle and cathartic way than the misty window ... until I find that all the messages are from the same person. 

- Shit day. 

- I’m too distracted. 

- Fuck this, I’m coming over. 

- See you in 20. 

I smile, my brief annoyance giving way to a thrill of excitement more enticing than my daydreaming. My swirl of restless thoughts coil and tighten in my mind, becoming something else. They gather and liquify, both weightless and impossibly thick as they drop straight to my belly—heavy and hot. Wanting. Always wanting for him. 

Around ten minutes later the door to my bedroom opens and he steps in, sharp suit and scowl from work still intact. His tall, broad frame fills the doorway, sharply silhouetted in the light from the windows. He cuts an imposing figure when contrasted like that. A myriad of perfectly tailored planes, the mid-tone grey of his suit standing starkly out of the deeply shadowed rooms beyond his broad back. His jaw is taut with rigid tension, and his lush lips are set in a grim line, brows arched sharply in determination. His espresso eyes spark with something hot that will catch like kindling when he lets it. Even with the stress of his day written in the tension of his shoulders and the lines on his face, he falters when he catches sight of me. His expression softens as I reach my arms out, soft warm skin that beckons him toward my blankets concealing my supple curves and near-nakedness. 

He crosses the room slowly, every step melting that scowl of his and restoring the cocky smirk I love to see on his face. As he goes, he removes his jacket, thick fingers working in deft motion across the buttons before moving to work the knot on his tie. The first he drops to the floor haphazardly, but the second he coils around his hand and tucks it into the pocket of his slacks. 

“Hi, baby,” he says when he’s in front of me, the breath of his words caressing my cheek as he brackets me in his bulk and leans down to kiss the bridge of my nose softly. 

“Hi,” I return, eagerly reaching for his lips with mine—but he pulls back. He rolls up his shirt sleeves and kicks off his shoes before joining me on the bed so I can finally catch him. My hands encircle his shoulders immediately, tugging him until he’s prowling over me. I’m large for a woman, tall and curvy, but he is larger and I love the press of his body against mine as he pushes us both back into the bed. 

Finally, he’s kissing me. His mouth is soft and sweet against mine, tender at first until I yield to him with a soft whimper against his lips, opening for him. He takes what I offer, the moments-ago sweetness of his kiss burning up in the fire of his want as he claims my mouth with his. 

My hands find their way across his lightly stubbled cheeks, just above the temptation of his full and wickedly soft beard. I move my touch across his jaw, over his temples and caress the bridge of his nose. Stroking his face and then his smooth head before raking them down his cheeks once more and finally into that glorious beard. Undoing his careful, neat presentation with one drag of my long fingers pressed against the softer skin beneath. Piano fingers, I’ve been told. All the better to tease and touch him with. I tug his beard with one hand, dragging the nails of the other along his scalp until he growls something primal. 

My body responds in kind, welcoming his need and echoing it with my own. The full curve of my breasts meeting the arch of my spine and pressing my soft lines into his hard edges. His kiss is searing hot, possessive as it trails across my jaw to my neck. He marks me, nipping at my skin softly and murmuring praise as I writhe against him, aching for more of the pleasure he gives with seemingly no effort.

“Please-”

“You’re doing so well, darling.”

Across the room, rain taps the windowpane in a rhythm that perfectly matches my pulse tapping against my throat. The way he’s knowingly eyeing that tender spot tells me it’s racing. 

Oh, how my pulse races for him, especially as he moves away from me and leans back onto his knees. He kneels between my thighs, gesturing for me to remove the thin t-shirt that covers me. When it’s gone, I lay before him wearing just my panties and a shy smile. His eyes grow ever darker with desire as he takes in every curve of my body and every shadow on my skin. He drinks me in like I am something to be savored, and I can feel the rush of his desire almost as strongly as the anticipation that courses through me when he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the tie. 

I gasp, a desperate sound that has him grinning down at me as he backs off the bed and gets to his feet once more. 

He inclines his head toward the window, and his soft tone drops into something low and commanding, “Stand there.” 

I do as I’m told, slowing when I feel his eyes on me, on the sway of my hips and the curve of my ass, letting him enjoy the view, until I arrive to look out at the city lights. 

With anyone else, the shape of my full form painted in abstract and unforgiving light may fill me with dread. When I’m with him though, the flames between us extinguish any thought of insecurity and paint my form in possibility as he closes the distance between us with only a brief pause to reach for something from his coat pocket. Though I watched his approach in the glass ahead of me, the solidity of his body at my back still catches my breath in my chest. 

“Good girl,” he praises, warm palms resting on the curve of my waist as I lean into his chest. He traces patterns in my skin and trails kisses across my temple, easy and affectionate as we watch the lights and rain paint magic on the window panes.

Until I feel it. The teasing touch of his favorite rope, silky red bamboo he slides just so across the middle of my back. My hair is pushed away by gentle, wide fingers as his beard brushes my shoulder when he kisses my neck. He teases the length of the rope over each place that he kisses, the feel of it against my skin offers delicious contrast to the warmth of his lips and the bristle of his beard.

“Are you ready, baby?” He whispers, lips against my ear and his breath blazing awareness across my skin with every word. 

I whimper, and he retracts the rope and his touch except for his fingers beneath my chin, turning my face to his so he can look me in the eye. My gray eyes are liquid silver with my need and the power I give him so willingly, but that’s not enough. Nonverbal communication won’t do for this.

“I need to hear you say it,” he says.

“I’m ready,” I tell him on a broken gasp, pressing my ass back against him, rolling my hips into the already-hard length of his cock while he wastes no time looping the rope across my chest, brushing it briefly over my nipples and the tops of my breasts as he brings it into place. 

“Hold still,” he murmurs into my shoulder, voice low and focused as he watches his work, hands expertly manipulating the length of rope across my body—over, under, twisting. 

He’s holding me against him, my body bracketed between his arms as he works the fiber into intricate twists across my chest and arms. The crisp curls of silky red binding are in stark contrast to my too-pale skin in the city lights. He pulls one taut, straight across my ribs, coming up to knot between my breasts and then over them. The rope traverses up and over my collarbones in gentle twists, limiting the range of motion at the joint with a soft caress of tension as it winds across my bicep before meandering onto my shoulder blades. I feel the knots and binds I can’t see along the length of my spine. In some places they dip and ripple my soft skin and folds, creating new shapes. In other places, the rope offers pressure over sinew and bone as he makes art with my body. 

His fingers gently kiss my ribs as he tucks the ends into the first twist of rope across my sternum. My back arches when he runs his fingers between my skin and the bindings he’s creating, and goosebumps erupt in the wake of his touch. My skin is hypersensitive, aware of every move he makes. Wanting more. He tugs another twist from the rope and I whimper, squirming despite the warning he’d just given me. 

He growls a second warning against my skin as he reaches for my wrists, holding them together in one hand as he shakes out the tie he’s still holding and drapes it across them with the other. 

“If you can’t be still on your own,” he chides me, nipping my collarbone before soothing the sharp sting with a kiss, “I’ll help you.” 

He steps in front of me, bringing his focus to securing my wrists, but not before he pauses to take in his rope handiwork and my nearly nude form, still and captive for him. Once he’s got me where he wants me, he steps back and grins, attention lingering on my bare breasts, the curve of my waist, my full thighs. 

It takes all of my willpower to stay still and silent under his gaze. To hold back the needy sounds that are eager and ready in the back of my throat. After several moments, he nods, approving his work before he returns to me, arms looping around my waist and pulling me close to trail kisses across my throat, my jaw until finally his lips meet mine once more. I smile against him, arms lifting to go around his neck before I feel the limitation of the bindings that prevent me from doing so. Instead, I shift, pressing my chest into his, my hands pinned between us and my mouth against his, silently asking for more. 

There is nothing sweet about this kiss. It is all heat and hedonism as he fucks my mouth and I relent to him, offering him everything in exchange for the pleasure he’s giving me. I’m at his mercy like this and I want to please him. 

I break our kiss, looking up at him with wild, wanting eyes as I drop to my knees in front of him. My bound chest and hands prevent me from reaching for the zipper of his slacks to free his cock and wrap my lips around it. Instead, I lean forward and press soft butterfly kisses to his fly, trying to catch the tab of the zipper between my teeth and drag it down. 

“What are you after?,” he asks, humor in his husky voice. 

“You,” I tell him, my eyes pleading as I part and lick my lips, our gazes locked while I gently bite at the tiny silver tab of his fly again and try to drag it down. It barely budges before it slips, and I let out a frustrated whine.

“What do you want from me?” he prompts again. He wants me to say it. His hand comes down to cover his zipper, fingers toying with the tab and trailing over the outline of his hard cock as he goes. My mouth waters. 

“I want all of you,” I say cheekily, then avert my eyes and add, “but I’d really like to taste your gorgeous cock. Please.” 

He nods his approval, releasing the metal tab and tugging his zipper down swiftly, the sound sending a buzz of anticipation straight through me. When his slacks fall to the ground and I realize he’s not wearing underwear, I waste no time diving toward him, head dipped and mouth open to take the head of his cock between my lips. 

I take as much of him as I can down my throat, his hand steady on the back of my head as I try to breathe past the length of him stretching my cheeks and pressing against the back of my tongue. He presses forward, slow but insistent as I swallow more of him until my eyes water and I pull back, my tongue dancing across his length. He does not resist my retreat and as soon as I move away from the intensity, I feel empty. I miss the weight and heat of him filling my mouth before he’s even left it. I crave him pressing in on me again and move without much thought to pull him back into my mouth, hollowing my cheeks around his length as I lean forward. He presses his hips against my face and his cock crowds my throat—I fight for access to air around him. My cheeks press in around him and he groans but I keep going. When the rigid tip of my tongue swipes across his head, he pulls me to my feet abruptly. 

“That’s enough of that,” his voice is hoarse, eyes dilated as he leans in to kiss me. I love that he isn’t afraid to kiss me after his cock’s been in my mouth. I can still feel the wet heat of my mouth on his skin where his cock is pinned between our bodies, pressed against my bare stomach. It’s so fucking sexy. His hands roam my body, pinching and teasing in expertly balanced touches on my hips, my thighs, all of the places that have me moaning into his mouth, my back arching in a desperate plea for more as his mouth claims mine and my mind blanks on everything except for him. Us. His fingertips trace the intricate bindings across my chest, careful—too careful—to avoid my nipples, overly sensitive from the gentle constriction. 

The want swells, pushing against my skin and my mind. When he runs his palms up the flare of my waist, I’m ready to ask for more—for him to touch me. His hands stop their slow torment, palms flat against my breasts as his fingers loop through the rope and tug it just a little tighter. I press myself into his hands, whimpering at the sudden onslaught of sensations. 

He smiles, pleased with my reaction, but I can see his waning patience in the way his fingers flex against me and how his cock jumps with every gasp that slips from my lips.

He nips my neck as his hands release my breasts. My body is screaming for him, desperate for the pleasure it knows he can provide. His hand trails down my stomach until he reaches the hem of my panties. He stops there, fingertips hovering over the dark lace. I roll my hips involuntarily, the movement slight and almost imperceptible, but it’s enough to light his eyes with pride. 

He can sense my desperation and he likes it. I like it, too. 

His hand continues, lightly grazing the front of my panties until it rests between my thighs, over my pussy with just the thin lace between us. I know he can feel how hot I am, how wet and wanting and ready just on the other side of that thin barrier, but even still, he brings his gaze to mine once more and asks, “Are you wet for me? If I pull these panties to the side and touch you, what am I going to find?” 

“I’m so wet. I want you. Please, sir.” 

He traces me over the material and I can feel my pussy respond, clenching as if I could pull his fingers inside of me with the sheer force of my desire. I close my eyes, tipping my chin down just slightly to try to reign in the heady rush of need. 

“Good girl,” he says, as he pulls my panties to the side, the words as much as the action acting as a reward for my bold desire. 

I suck in a sharp breath when his knuckles brush gently over my bare skin, his touch feeling cool against the heat of my need. He doesn’t stop with the brush of skin though, and he does not tease. He moves swiftly in response to every sign my body offers him to communicate how ready I am. He thrusts two fingers inside me.

“I should have added some rope here,” he says thoughtfully with a quick tap of his thumb against my clit. I whimper, and he grins. I can’t be sure if the whimper is a response to his touch, the smooth thrust of his fingers fucking me, or the idea of a knot rope being added to this blissful tease. 

“But there’s no time for that now. We’ve already drawn this out quite long enough.” 

His words are punctuated by the removal of his fingers and his grip tight on my hips as he maneuvers my body, turning me until I am facing away from him and looking out the window once more. One hand travels up my spine, pushing gently until I follow the pressure and bend. I instinctively move to lift my arms and brace myself against the glass but the confinement holds me in place and I struggle to right myself in this new position. His hand at my hip holds me steady until I find my balance and he nudges me forward until my bound breasts and flushed cheek are pressed against the glass to support me instead. 

He runs his fingertips over the rope crisscrossing my shoulder blades, tugging just enough to shift the binding between my breast and the cool glass. As he does so, his other hand comes down across my ass in a single strike that takes me by surprise. The immediate sting that blooms there is deliciously contrasted with the cool of the window.

His palm comes down on my ass again with a satisfying smack, “Mmm, you look so good with my marks across this ass. I hope someone else gets to enjoy the view, too.” 

With one more tug at the rope binding my breasts, eliciting a whine from me, he slides his hand down my spine, down the crack of my ass and spreads me wide. 

I turn my head a little, my motion limited between the pin of his grip and the glass, and try to catch a glimpse of what may be coming. I can hear the slick sound of skin on skin- him stroking his cock as he takes me in—and the rasp of my breathing. I can feel the race of my pulse so clearly I think I may be able to hear that too. But I cannot see enough to sort out what to expect so I wait. I hear him groan and close my eyes, another rush of heat that drops directly to my core and amplifies the nearly unbearable want I have for this man. I think there is little better than the sounds of his pleasure, but then I feel the press of his cock. 

“Are you ready, my good girl? You have been so patient.” His words are low, his restraint at odds with his desire just as mine is. 

I nod fervently.

“Tell me.” 

“I’m ready.” I confirm, the words a whisper between lips that feel desert dry with desperation. 

I feel him against my ass before he slides down over my slippery pussy, teasing me with slow even strokes over my lips without applying any pressure. 

I want the pressure, though, and I push my hips back against him in a silent plea for more. 

“Eager, are we?” He laughs, and I briefly think this may prolong the tease but before the thought has finished, he’s pushing into me. 

The head of his cock stretches me and my mouth forms a silent O, all the sound stripped from me with the sensation of finally, finally getting what I want. He pushes into me slowly, filling me until his hips come to rest against my tender ass. He pauses there, his cock throbbing inside me, our bodies notched together in a calm that belies the rising ferocity we both crave. 

One hand smooths my hair and strokes my cheek. The other grips my hip to steady me in preparation as he begins to make short, shallow thrusts. Just partial withdrawals as he reads my body and his own desires and matches them in the effortless way only he can. 

His hand in my hair twists, fist gripping as much of it as he can hold. He pulls out of me slowly, until we are nearly separate, before pushing forward once more. I am whimpering, moaning at the overload of sensation. 

My breasts and face against the glass. The rope against my breasts. My arms bound to my sides, unable to touch or balance myself as I’m used to. The rope sliding against my back as it arches. His cock stretching me. His balls slapping against me. The lingering tenderness of his spankings as his hips meet my ass, over and over with building intensity. His hand in my hair, tugging my head back just enough. 

The whimpers and moans begin to run together as he fucks me mercilessly, my body pinned between his and the window. I can feel my heartbeat in my clit even before he reaches down to toy with it. I can feel my body on overdrive at the pleasure of him, of this, of us. 

“You cannot come. Not yet,” he tells me with such force that my eyes widen. He’s toying with my clit, overwhelming my body with pleasure and I want to come. I do not want to wait.

But he knows I will, and he begins to slow the piston of his hips as he leans down over me. He releases my hair and his palm is flat between my shoulder blades briefly before he curls his fingers, gripping the rope at its junction so that every tug on it tightens each binding. 

His name is a moan on my lips as he pulls me up and back against him via the ropes. His other hand is at my ribcage, supporting me as he pushes forward, bringing me against his body while I’m still against the window. He moves inside me and against me until every thrust brings his lips to my ear. Some are met with a sprinkle of kisses and bites across my neck and shoulder, some just a growl of his need. 

I feel the swell of his cock just as I open my mouth to tell him I’m close, and I know that he is too. But he pauses, buried in me in stillness just before the abyss, just long enough to whisper in my ear. 

“Do you think anyone’s watching us?” I climb as he speaks, a shudder of pleasure overtaking me. “Watching me fuck you against this window? Watching me use you? Maybe they’re cumming to your pretty pussy getting pounded… but I’m the only one coming in it,” he pauses for a sharp inhale.

My need to come is intense but it’s bound to him, just as I am bound for him. I can see the fight in his eyes—the ever present war for my consuming pleasure and the denial of it that sates and strokes his power in the most delicious ways. He’s fighting it, a battle for control as his growled questions push us both ever closer to the inevitable. But it’s not a battle he can lose. No matter the action he takes, we will both win. My body shudders, clenching tight around him as my eyes lock on his and I see the moment his need breaches that power. 

He swears and when he speaks again, his voice is even more ragged as he holds himself in check just barely to finish his thought, “because you are mine. Now come.” And I do, his words dissolving the last of my control with frightening speed as I fall to pieces on his cock. He slams into me once, twice, as my pussy clenches around him before he joins me in ecstasy and exploding inside me. It’s his turn to cry out my name as he leans into me, hips hammering into mine before stilling with his cock buried to the hilt as he comes.

The aftershock of my orgasm milks him for every drop, even as his thrusts slow and he stills against me, his sweaty chest against my still arched and bound back. He’s still panting when he begins to work and release my bindings. They fall away as he pulls out of me and turns me around, the three actions a fluid motion as smooth as a dance as my arms wind around his neck and his lips find mine. 

“That was incredible,” he murmurs into our kiss. “You did so well.” 

His praise is like honey between our lips, sweet and warm and sinking into me. My entire body is soft and pliant, and I cling to him even as I pull my lips away to pepper kisses across his jaw and throat. He walks backward the ten or so steps to the edge of the bed, pulling me into his lap as he sits and I continue to kiss his shoulders, kneading his back with my hands like a satisfied cat. He produces a blanket from the nest I’d made and wraps me in it. 

“That was... perfect.” I sigh as I bury my head in his shoulder, my palms splaying across his back and dancing over every taut muscle. “Thank you.”

He smooths my hair and I feel his smile as he kisses the bridge of my nose. His fingertips trace the marks left by the rope, pressing and soothing them with the gentle pressure he knows I like. I hope they leave marks.

Photo: Tessa and Marie by Anna Sampson.