Bound to Accept Page 6

  “Excellent choices,” says the waiter, tucking his pen into his apron. “Any drinks?”

  “A large Kirin,” Tristan says. “Kelly?”

  “Just water, please.”

  Tristan sips the beer that's brought to him and looks pleased. “You're very relaxed today.”

  “It's been a good day,” I say, excited by the prospect of food. “And I got to see you.”

  Tristan strokes my cheek. “You're sweet. I enjoy your company, too. In fact, I was thinking that after dinner, you could come to my place. I want to practice blindfolding you. Tying you up. No sex. Just submission.”

  The wakame, miso soup, and salads arrive. I thank the waiter, grateful for the distraction, and pick up the bowl. Tristan's still waiting for an answer, though, so I say, “I don't know…”

  “Think about it.” He unwraps his chopsticks and slurps the seaweed salad. “This is quite good.”

  “Of course it is,” I say haughtily. “I have very good taste, you know.”

  “I haven't tasted you yet.” He smiles, sips more beer. “I'll take your word for it, though.”

  He teases and flirts so easily. I lean against him, shoving him a little, and he puts his hand on my thigh.

  When the rest of the sushi arrives, there isn't much more talking. I explain to him what's in the various rolls and though he tries everything, he ends up eating most of the oshinko and the wakame. I get the impression that he doesn't care for the taste of fish all that much. I wish he'd told me he didn't like fish. I would have ordered something different. We could have gone someplace else.

  At least he doesn't seem to be having a bad time. When he finishes his beer, he orders a glass of iced tea, and he keeps his hand on my thigh during the whole meal.

  There's more sushi than the two of us can eat, so I end up having to ask for a box. As I plunk the pieces of sushi into the plastic carton the waiter brought, Tristan says, “So what will it be? Back to your place—or mine?”

  “I…I'm not sure.”

  “Decide,” he says. “I'm going to the restroom.” He gets up and I watch him say something to the lingering waiter, who disappears back into the kitchen and brings me a tin cup of hot tea.

  “Thanks,” I sigh. Hot tea, again. It tastes like oolong—it has that rich, smoky taste that evokes the image of damask curtains—and settles the nerves in my stomach.

  His place or mine? Obviously, I know what he would prefer, and I want to please him. But I am so nervous.

  Where is he, anyway? He's taking his time coming back.

  Maybe he's stalling on purpose, giving me a chance to think. Which is kind of him—though hopefully no one is waiting in line for the men's room right now.

  When he returns, he stands beside me instead of sliding back into the booth. “Have you decided?”

  “I'll come with you.”

  His face breaks into a smile. “I'm glad.” He extends his hand towards me. “Let's get moving, then.”

  I look around. “What about the check?”

  “I already paid it.”

  “Oh Tristan, no.”

  “My sub doesn't pay for me,” he says, pulling me to my feet. “That just doesn't happen.”

  “But we ordered so much,” I say helplessly.

  “It made you happy,” he says simply. “Now I get to play with you. And that makes me happy.”

  “I don't think it's that simple an equation.”

  “Maybe not,” he concedes. “But then, if sex were the same thing as math, a lot more people would be lining up to take calculus.”

  Another song from his “Andrew's Cross” playlist comes on as we drive back to his apartment. It's Foreigner's “Urgent”—and I can't help but think, how appropriate.

  Once we arrive back at his place, Tristan takes my box of sushi from me and puts it in the fridge. I don't know what to do with my hands after that, or myself, and linger in the hall, feeling apprehensive.

  Tristan takes me by the wrist and leads me into his bedroom. My heart starts pounding in my ears as he sits me on the bed. “You may keep all your clothes on this time,” he says. “Would that make the experience more bearable?”

  I nod slowly.

  “On your knees, then,” he says. “Like you're praying.”

  I assume the position and he slips the blindfold over my eyes, tying it tightly enough that I can feel the pressure of it against my eyelids and across the bridge of my nose.

  “Think about how you're feeling right now.”

  “Like I ate too much sushi.”

  I can hear the frown in his voice. “Do you feel like you're going to throw up?”

  I have to think about it, but then I shake my head. There is nothing less sexy than that—although I'm sure someone, somewhere, has a fetish for it.

  Rule 34 of the internet: if it exists, there is porn of it.

  “Your pulse is kind of fast.” He taps my pulse point before weaving a cord over and around my wrists, knotting them behind my back. With each pass, they cinch tighter.

  The mattress depresses as he gets on the bed with me. He sits in front of me, pulling me down on top of him so that I am straddling his lap. “Your fight-or-flight is kicking in.”

  He traces the outline of my lower lip with the pad of his thumb, sliding two of his fingers into my mouth when my lips part. He draws his fingers back out of my mouth, and swipes them on my face and neck.

  “Sex can be a bit like predation,” he says. “Except the outcome is copulation—not death.”

  He takes my earlobe between his teeth and bites down lightly, pulling me against him. I can feel his beating heart against my breast, faster than normal, but slower than mine.

  “The human body is highly attuned to sensation—to temperature, texture, pain.”

  Tristan burns a trail of kisses down the other side of my throat. He doesn't stay in any one spot too long, but he's doing it hard enough that I think he might leave a mark.

  He pulls away with a slight gasp that affects my own breathing. “All this helped with survival in the past. But now, it often gets in the way of daily life. Or worse, makes us numb to it.”

  His hair tickles the underside of my chin. I giggle, and fidget, leaning back to avoid him, and my nervous laughter turns to another sort of sound entirely when he rubs his stubbled cheek against the tops of my breasts.

  “Being blindfolded increases your awareness of what's going on around you. Are you numb, Kelly? Or can you feel me?”

  He blows on the side of my neck he marked with his fingers and I shiver. “I feel you.”

  “Let's see what else you can feel.”

  He gets up for a moment, and I count the seconds, wondering what's coming next. It doesn't take long to find out. Something cold drips down my shirtfront.

  “Ahh! What is that? Is that ice?”

  Tristan chuckles and I whip my head in that direction, following the sound. He's somewhere on my left. “Maybe.”

  “You are evil.”

  “No,” he breathes, tickling my ear. “Just a little sadistic.”

  Something soft and silky slides across my fingers.

  Still by my ear, he says, “What do you think this is?”

  The guessing makes this fun, like a game. “A ribbon?”

  “No. It's one of the ties I wear to work.”

  “Which one?”

  “The gray one. Metallic”

  I know the one he's talking about. It makes him look like a sleazy car salesman. “You should get rid of that one.”

  “Talk about the blind leading the blind.”

  “Are you saying I have bad fashion sense?”

  “Kelly,” he says, “you have a pony's eye on your nipple.”

  There's a crinkling sound that reminds me of a candy wrapper. I crane my neck, even though there's nothing to see, and jump when something rubbery and smooth, but also a little slimy, rubs against the inside of my wrist.

  “Ugh, gross. What is that?”

  “A lubricated cond
om.”

  I make a moue of disgust and he laughs.

  “I am going to wash my hands,” he informs me. “I just got lube all over them.”

  “That sounds so wrong.”

  “Lube is your friend.” Water runs in the next room. “Especially if you change your mind about letting me put things up your asshole.”

  Said body part clenches as I cringe. “I don't think so.”

  “Then I'll just find something else to play with.” He's back, running a finger along my lips, leaving some sort of sticky residue in his wake. “What does this taste like?”

  “It isn't that gross lube, is it?”

  “I'm sadistic,” he says, “not evil.”

  I flick out my tongue and lick his finger. “Nutella?”

  “Mm-hmm.” He licks my lips, startling me. Then his mouth seals against mine, and as he kisses me, the taste of hazelnuts and chocolate floods my mouth.

  We kiss long after the flavor fades, and one of his hands tangles in my hair. His fingers are warm against the roots of my hair, and when his grip tightens he sends sharp tingles of almost-pain rippling down my spine.

  “One more thing,” he says, huskily.

  “Yes?”

  “There's one last sensation I want you to feel.”

  This is gonna be good.

  I wait, hardly daring to breathe for fear of missing a single thing—

  And curse as a cup full of ice tumbles down my shirt. It's freezing, and some of them get inside my bra. My skin tightens painfully, and my nipples contract to hard points.

  “Cold!” I shriek. “Too cold! You bastard! You dick!”

  “I'm so sorry,” he says, in a way that says he is so not. “Let me get that out for you.”

  And without any sort of hesitation, he plunges his hand down my top. I inhale sharply, as his shirtsleeve rubs against my sensitized skin. He scoops the ice cubes out, handful by handful, and on the third pass his wrist brushes against my nipple. I suck in a breath as his touch elicits a twinge in my belly, but if he knows that he has just touched me in such an intimate way, he gives no indication of it.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Cold!”

  “Was that too cruel of me? Let me warm you up.” He sits back down on the bed and rubs his hands up and down my arms. “How do you feel about being tied up now?”

  I think about it. The porn he showed me really took me off-guard, but perhaps that was because the Master in that video was so cruel. “I guess…” I speak slowly, trying to give voice to the nebulous thoughts inside my head. “I guess it's not so bad if it's being done by you.”

  He transfers his hands to my shoulders and massages my collarbone with his thumbs. “And if we did sexual things while you were tied up?”

  In that moment, I'm sure he knew exactly what he was doing when he reached down my shirt.

  “Well.” I suck on my lower lip and taste lingering traces of both Tristan and Nutella. “It couldn't hurt to try.”

  He texts me a few days later.

  Come over. Waiting for you.

  I look at the clock. It's almost 6 P.M., which seems a little early for a booty call. If that's even what this is. Is this a booty call? And, if so, am I really ready to have sex?

  What do I wear? Jeans? That doesn't seem dressy enough. It is evening, after all. You're supposed to look dressier during evenings. But a dress seems too formal for the occasion—unless he's taking me out to dinner, but I'm pretty sure he'd offer to pick me up if he was.

  There's another text.

  Don't wear underwear.

  I swallow. Hard.

  That clears things up a bit. Whatever he's planning is almost sure to be sexual, even if he doesn't actually take my virginity. But I'm pretty sure he'd warn me if we were about to have sex—at least implicitly, if not outright explicitly.

  My jeans chafe too much between my very bare legs, so I end up deciding on a denim skirt and a flannel shirt. The skirt's a little on the short side but not too risque—at least, not if I don't bend over—and I figure the busy plaid pattern will hide the fact that I'm not wearing a bra.

  It does nothing to conceal the jiggling, though, and on the bus ride to Tristan's, my breasts and my ass wobble and bounce with every pothole. A creepy businessman-type leers at me. Fucking creep.

  I stare at a Planned Parenthood poster on the wall of the bus and wonder if it's as painfully obvious to everyone else as it is to me that I'm not wearing panties. The rasp of denim against my bottom, and the way the flannel rubs against my erect nipples is a very odd sensation. I feel naked beneath my clothing, which seems like it'd be stating the obvious—we're all naked without clothing—but this is somehow different. I feel as if I have been stripped of all protection, laid bare, cracked open. Vulnerable.

  But then, considering what goes on in BDSM, maybe that's the point. Maybe he wants to disassemble me, dismantle me, to learn what makes me tick, all just so he can wind me back up.

  I stand in his entryway for a moment, hugging myself. I stare at his doorbell. Do I dare disturb the universe?

  I do. I do dare.

  Tristan answers the door on the first ring. This time, he is wearing leather pants and an unbuttoned white shirt, and leather boots that could easily be called “shit-kickers.”

  He stretches out in the doorway, resting his hand high on the molding. I watch his eyes flick over me, starting at my Converse and then climbing back up to my face. I can almost feel the drag of his gaze over my body, like an intimate caress. “You look like a schoolgirl.”

  “You look like an incubus,” I retort, which makes his smile widen into a grin. A grin that I can't help but notice looks…feral, and a little dangerous.

  “Maybe I am,” he says, and lunges at me. I scream, and he quickly covers my mouth, swinging me around so that I'm over the threshold, and shuts the door by leaning against it. He reaches down to lock it with a click.

  I can feel the heat radiating from his bare chest as he runs the hand he locked the door with up and down my torso, testing the material and the fastenings. This flannel shirt has snaps instead of buttons, and when he realizes that, he gives my shirt a yank, ripping it halfway open.

  I gasp against his palm as his other hand slips inside my open shirt. What is he going to do? Is he going to—?

  “No!” I scream, as he begins tickling me. It comes out muffled because of his hand. “You jerk!”

  I start swinging my body back and forth, and he lets his legs give out, and then we are rolling down the hall and into his living room. He ends up on top of me, and pins my wrists over my head with a muted slam. He is panting lightly, grinning down at me, and his open shirt drapes over my body like a curtain.

  “This is an interesting position.”

  “What the hell was that for?” I demand hoarsely.

  “You said I couldn't put anything up your sweet, sweet ass.” His hand slides up my skirt and squeezes one butt cheek. “You never said anything about tickling.”

  “Asshole.”

  “That's no way to speak to your Master.” He squeezes me again and kisses me, letting his fingers slide down between my legs as his tongue delves into my mouth.

  I tense, but Tristan pulls his hand back and demurely straightens out my skirt.

  “I shouldn't have let you banter with me in those earlier sessions. You've developed some bad habits that I'm going to have to rid you of.” He glances down at me. Then he chucks me under the chin. “Don't look so scared. You called me an incubus. That implies you think I seem capable of taking care of you.”

  I blink. What? “How?”

  “Because incubi are very good at seducing and fucking.”

  He should not be allowed to say such things in that voice. I'm starting to melt just listening to him.

  Tristan follows the curve of my behind to my hips, and then examines the hem of my shirt. “I like this color on you. I'm kind of disappointed that you didn't wear one of those pony shirts, though.”

  �
��Why?” I ask suspiciously.

  “Aside from being some of your tighter shirts, they're made pretty cheaply, and the fabric is pretty thin. I was looking forward to seeing if I could tear it right off you.”

  “No!” I say, even as a secret thrill ripples through me. “You are not allowed to do that! Those shirts are expensive! I had to buy them specially at Fanime Con—”

  He presses his finger against my lips.

  “I'm teasing you. And even if I weren't, I would have been happy to buy you a new one. Hell, when this is over, I'll take you to the next Fanime Con myself.”

  “Why do you get to tease me but I can't tease you?”

  “Because I'm the Dom, sweet pony girl.”

  That makes my face heat up. “No. Don't call me that.”

  “I can call you whatever I want,” he says. “And you have to answer to it.” Cool air rushes over my breasts and belly as Tristan parts the fabric of my shirt. He tweaks one of my nipples. “But I think you like it.”

  “No, I don't—”

  “And even if you don't,” he cuts me off, “you'll still answer to it. Because I am your Master. And if you don't stop looking at me like that—” I'm glaring “—I am going to punish you. Tonight things get serious. I'm going to treat you the way I would an actual submissive. You will address me as 'Master' or 'Sir'—whichever feels more natural. I will address you however I please, and you will answer to it. You will also ask permission before speaking, and if I ask you a question, you will answer me immediately and truthfully. Understand, moonshine sparkle?”

  Moonshine Sparkle? I giggle. Is he serious?

  I stop giggling when he leans over me threateningly. “Did I say you could laugh?”

  He's serious. I swallow. “No, um—” damn it, what did he say to call him, again? “ No, Ma—ah, Sir.”

  “And did you understand what I said before?”

  “Y-yes…Sir.” This is going to be hard to remember.

  “Good. Since you're a virgin, and new to the scene, you will probably have a lot of questions, either about BDSM or sex in general, so I'm giving you permission to question me freely. I can revoke that permission at any time,” he adds. “If I tell you to do something, you will do it to the best of your ability. Obey, and you will be rewarded. Disobey, and you will be punished.”