Bound to Accept Page 7

  He pauses, letting that sink in.

  “Our safeword is going to be 'Twilight.' Use it only if you want me to halt what I'm doing. Saying 'no' or 'stop' will not cause me to stop. Is that clear?”

  “Yes.” He continues staring at me. “Yes, Sir?”

  Tristan nods, and shrugs off his shirt, giving me a view of his broad, muscular shoulders. He casts it off on his armchair and starts slipping off his watch.

  “Get up and follow me.”

  The leather creaks as he gets up. I don't even bother trying not to stare at his ass. I'm pretty sure he's not wearing anything beneath them. They look way too tight.

  His bedroom has undergone a bit of a transformation since last time. There are candles burning, giving off a smoky, herbal smell. The TV is gone, probably in the closet, and sitting in its place is a serving tray. There's a bottle of white wine—a Moscato, my favorite—two glasses, a length of scarlet cord, an unopened package of vibrators, and what looks like a giant glass penis.

  Just like the one in the porn.

  I stare at him in horror, but he's putting his watch on his desk and flexing his hand as he massages his wrist.

  “On the bed.”

  I climb onto the mattress, though trying to do so in a skirt without being indecent is a task in and of itself. I'm not quite sure how to arrange my legs, and start to angle them sideways in a semi-demure position.

  “No,” Tristan barks. “Finish unbuttoning your shirt. Then lie down with your arms over your head and your legs spread.”

  “Are you going to tie me up?” I barely remember to add “Sir.”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you going to do to me?”

  “Whatever I want,” he says, with a gentle smile.

  I wring the hem of my shirt in my hands, which are starting to sweat. Part of me wants this, and another part of me is beginning to quail in terror. I'm past the point of no return, a hairsbreadth from tilting in either direction, and have no idea which side will prevail.

  “Is it going to hurt?”

  “That depends,” he says. “What do you consider pain?”

  “What happened on the video…I didn't like that.”

  “What, specifically, didn't you like? I know you don't like the idea of the clamps. Was there something else?”

  “I…I'm not sure.”

  “The rope bondage?”

  “Not so much anymore.”

  “Good. The whip?”

  I bite my lip. “Yes.”

  “I'm not going to whip you.” He nods at my idle hands. “Finish with your shirt—and remember to refer to me as 'Master' or 'Sir.'”

  I undo the last snap and then lie down. Tristan affixes my left wrist to the left bed post and my right wrist to the right post. He does the same to my legs, knotting the cord to these leather loops that are on the side of his mattress. I tug and pull experimentally. My wrists are pretty much stuck, but I have about six inches of movement with my legs.

  Tristan kneels between my spread legs, and runs his hands up my body, squeezing my breasts, before closing them lightly around my throat.

  “Have you ever masturbated?”

  I shift my eyes away.

  “Look at me. Have you ever brought yourself to climax?”

  “A few times.”

  “How many?”

  “I don't know. Ten or twenty.” It's a guess.

  “So few?” He sounds incredulous.

  “It felt wrong—Sir.” I close my eyes. “Like I was dirty. I was so embarrassed. I felt…slutty.”

  “A woman isn't a whore for wanting pleasure. If it were unnatural, we would not be born with such drives.”

  I don't say anything.

  “Do you disagree?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “So you have some experience getting yourself off.” He opens the package of vibrators and selects an orange one. “What were you thinking about when you did?”

  I look from the vibrator to him in horror. “I'm not going to tell you that!”

  “Why are you embarrassed? Was it something really kinky? Like tentacle porn? A whole bunch of glistening tentacles, invading your every orifice…. Is that what gets you off, moonshine?”

  “No!”

  “Gang bangs? Vore?” He bites down on my lower lip briefly. “That's a fetish for being eaten alive, by the way.”

  “That's disgusting. I don't like that! I would never—”

  “Scat? Necrophilia? Or perhaps what you like is seeing all those sweet little ponies of yours fuck each other raw.”

  I flinch. It's like he's slapped me. “Stop! Please. That's enough. You. It's you.”

  My outburst doesn't shake him at all. “Me, what?”

  I'm breathing hard. “I was thinking about you, okay?”

  “Okay, Sir,” he corrects me. “Why did you make that so difficult on yourself, pony girl? You wouldn't be here if you didn't want me to fuck you. Or was I doing something kinky to you?”

  “We were just having sex—Sir.”

  “Were you on the bottom or top?”

  I flush. “Bottom.”

  “So you like it when I'm on top of you.” He begins rolling up my skirt. I clench my butt, compressing my inner parts, trying to hide as much of myself as I can from him considering my limited movement. What if he decides he doesn't want me anymore once he looks down there? The lights are on. All of my flaws will be illuminated. “Well. I like the way you look all spread out beneath me.”

  My skirt is all bunched up around my hips. Oh dear God, he's going to touch me down there. “Can't we start with something else?” Someplace else?

  “No.” He spreads me further with his knees, and then parts my labia with his fingers. The shock of their rough warmth makes me cringe. I squeeze my eyes shut.

  The air feels very cold on my exposed vagina, tingly, almost. I wish there was somewhere I could hide.

  “I'm not going to hurt you.” With the hand that isn't keeping my labia parted, he flicks the switch on the vibrator and it comes to life with a buzzing sound that reminds me of a wasp. He runs it along my lower lip, and the vibration of it tickles. The material is as soft and smooth as skin. “And neither is this. You know that. You said you used one before.”

  “It's different when someone else does it.”

  “Yes,” he agrees. “When I do it, it's better.”

  Then he's running it along the inside of my labia, teasing the vibrator close to my clitoris, close enough that I can feel the vibrations without it actually making contact. When it does, my body jolts, and my stomach turns to liquid.

  And just like that, he slides a finger into me.

  I yelp, and stare at him, alarmed. It hurts.

  Tristan gives no indication that he's heard the sound, and slides his finger in and out. That hurts more, the movement, and I make a low, agonized sound, sighing in relief when he pulls out, but then the vibrator starts rolling against my clit, in thick, heavy strokes, and pretty soon I'm panting. I don't even protest when he puts his finger back inside me. But then he inserts a second—fire licks up my thighs and I try to jerk away. But I can't, of course.

  Those fucking restraints.

  “Tristan, I don't think I can do this, it hurts—”

  “You know what your safeword is.”

  I think about that. Yes, I have a safeword. Do I want to use my safeword? Do I want him to stop?

  He slides his fingers out, and switches to the vibrator again, and I begin to feel this sensation of glowing, liquid heat, like I desperately have to go to the bathroom.

  No, I don't want him to stop. Not while he's doing that. What kind of vibrator is that?

  My breasts are glistening with sweat, and I can feel it beading on my forehead as I bury my head into the pillow. He slides the fingers back, both of them, and goes even deeper than before. I can feel something inside of me rip, and I cry out, “Tristan, I think you just broke my hymen!”

  “No,” he says, still working his fingers, �
��you're just very, very tight. And you didn't call me Sir.” He pulls his fingers out and squeezes my clit and I moan.

  “Sir,” I correct myself.

  “You're tight as fuck,” he says, “and I'm opening you up, touching parts of you that have never been touched. It's going to hurt, but then it's going to feel good. So, so good.” Another squeeze, and I am dying, writhing away because my thighs feel like a cradle of hot soup, and I'm about to boil over. “I think you're about to come, moonshine.”

  I bite my lip and stare at the ceiling.

  “I think you should ask permission.”

  “May I come, Sir?”

  “If you look at me,” he says, squeezing again, but this time he doesn't let go, and runs the vibrator over the pinioned flesh. “I want you to look me in the eyes when I finger-fuck you.”

  So I do, and the sheer wanting in them is enough to help push me over the edge. I make sounds I don't even recognize as my own, and a rush of liquid seeps out from between my legs, and for a moment I think I've pissed myself, though of course I know that I haven't.

  Tristan turns the vibrator off and sets it aside, watching my breasts heave as I struggle to catch my breath.

  He holds up his two fingers, index and middle finger, like he's a boy scout making that salute. He has such long, tapered fingers. “This is what I put inside you.”

  He taps the second, glistening joint with his other hand.

  “I only went about this far.”

  I can't help but feel disappointed. He felt so much bigger when he was inside me. It makes me wonder about those women who say they prefer a man with a big dick. How can they possibly stand it? They must have vaginas of steel.

  Tristan picks up the glass penis. It's a lot like the one from that video he showed me. “I'm about this big.” He rotates the dildo, letting me glimpse it from all angles. “A little bigger at the head. Not quite as thick.”

  For comparison's sake, he holds it beside his two extended fingers. The glass penis is a lot longer than his fingers. I feel a little faint as he sets it back down on the tray. “We have some work to do. I need to break you in.”

  I'm glad when he unties my wrists although my arms are a little sore. I rub my wrists, wincing as the blood rushes back into my fingers. There are thick red marks where the cord cut into my skin as I strained against the bindings.

  “Did you like being interrogated?”

  I stare at him like he's insane. “No.”

  “How did it make you feel?”

  What is he, a psychologist? “Mortified.”

  “How did it feel to tell me the truth?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Yes, you do. Tell me.”

  “A relief, I guess. I don't know!”

  “Sir,” he corrects me. “If it was a relief, why didn't you tell me the truth from the start?”

  I look away. “Because it's embarrassing.”

  “But you ended up being mortified,” he points out. “So why did you lie to me, Kelly?”

  His using my name makes the question so much more personal.

  “Maybe because I was afraid you'd think I was a psycho for telling you I thought about you like that. Sir.”

  “But I like the idea of you thinking about me while fingering yourself, pony girl. Maybe I'll have you do that while I watch, and you can tell me everything that goes through your head.”

  The thought of him watching me masturbate fills me with horror.

  But…in a way, the idea of being watched is a little thrilling. Like stealing a cookie from a cookie jar, and wondering if you're going to get caught. Not getting caught makes the cookie taste sweeter.

  I start to button my shirt, but he stops me.

  “We're not finished.”

  We're not?

  “I brought you to climax and then let you come.” He clicks his tongue. “But what about me? Or are you that quick to forget your Master's needs?”

  “I…I'm sorry.”

  “Not yet, you aren't. But you will be, pony girl. I want you to thank me with your mouth. You'll take my cock between your lips, and show me just how sorry you are when you let me fuck your throat the way I'm going to fuck your pussy.”

  He rolls over and unzips his fly. I immediately see that he wasn't exaggerating about the comparison. His penis is just as big as the glass one—rosy testicles, darkening to a dusky beige, with a plum-colored tip. My face goes scarlet.

  I look away, unwilling to look at him while he sits there so intently. He's so big. “I don't know if I can…”

  “Yes, you do. Get over here.” He grabs a fistful of my hair and tugs, causing me to tumble over his outstretched legs. My face is inches from his. He could kiss me if he wanted, but he doesn't want; he nudges me down his legs, so I'm bent over his knees and—I realize I've left a damp spot on the leather. Tristan laughs, a little cruelly. “You're so wet for me, you're just begging to be fucked.”

  Tristan leans forward and wraps my hair around his hand, pulling my head back so I'm looking up at him. “Just thinking about that tight little hole gets me so fucking hard. But you're not quite ready for that, are you, pony girl? So I'm going to fuck your mouth instead. Open your mouth.”

  I part my lips, and he shoves my head into his lap.

  I can smell him—a little musky, a little like the ocean, with a spicier scent that's inherently him.

  I take his cock into my mouth carefully. He's hard but the skin is soft. The texture reminds me of the vibrator he teased me with earlier—soft silk stretched over steel.

  I wrap my fingers around the base, and he closes his eyes and tips his head back as I cautiously lick the tip of him. I've heard people say blowjobs are like licking popsicles, but that's a poor analogy. Popsicles get smaller when you suck on them; Tristan actually seems to swell.

  He tastes salty and warm. Not at all unpleasant. I can feel his pulse on the tip of my tongue, his throbbing veins, and his heart must be beating furiously.

  His grip on my hair tightens, and he uses his grip on me to push my head up and down as he pumps his hips. “All the way in,” he says, when I resist. “Fuck me, pony girl. Really fuck me.”

  I don't think I can. I've only taken a third of him in and I already feel like I'm going to gag.

  Then I realize I can curl my tongue up a bit, and block the back of my throat. It suppresses the gag reflex, and keeps him from going too far in. It makes a sloppy, smacking sound as he thrusts in and out of my mouth, with the occasional pop.

  There's a lot going on at once, and I've never been good at coordination. I have to keep my tongue pressed against the back of my throat while keeping my lips curled over my teeth so I don't accidentally bite him. I try to stroke him with my tongue, but his shaft keeps getting in the way and knocking my probing tongue aside.

  “Stroke my balls,” he grinds out, and he shifts his grip from my hair to my head, keeping me in place so he can go even faster. My lips are starting to feel chapped.

  I cup him in my hand. The skin is so soft, almost like a baby's—velvety, and delicate. His pubic hair is a lot darker than the hair on his head, almost black. It prickles my skin as I carefully stroke him, rubbing my thumb against the folds. He shudders against me, and lets out a low, pleased sound that makes my own breathing pick up a little as well.

  “You fuck so well.”

  My head is spinning. I'm starting to feel a little dizzy.

  “I'm going to come in your mouth, pony girl,” he says. “And when I do, I want you to swallow, like a good little cum-slut.”

  His cock twitches in my mouth, and then hot, sticky liquid spurts from the head of him, to coat the back of my throat. I gag, choke, but somehow, I manage to get it down.

  Tristan groans, and for a moment, he almost looks like he's in pain. Then his face relaxes, and he squeezes one of my breasts. “Mm. God. My cock feels like rubber.”

  My throat hurts a little, and my mouth is thick with the taste of him. It takes me several attempts to speak.
<
br />   “Are you happy, Sir?”

  He closes his eyes and looks quite content. “Ecstatic.”

  I glance at the clock. It's almost ten. We've been at this for almost four hours.

  Tristan yawns, and gives another one of those sexy moans. Then he glances at the clock, and gives me a rueful smile. “Looks like you'll be spending the night with me.”

  He gets out of bed, sliding off the leather pants the moment his feet hit the floor—oh my God, his ass—and pulls on a pair of boxers and loose pajama pants. I stare after him as he shambles into the bathroom.

  A few minutes later, he comes out. “You can use my toothbrush, if you want.”

  I do want. My mouth is still sticky with his come, and the idea of cleaning it off with his toothbrush strikes me as the perfect vengeance. I wash my face, and then brush my teeth thoroughly, even my tongue. Especially my tongue. When I come out, Tristan has the bedclothes pulled back.

  “Take off your skirt.”

  Swallowing, I slide it down. He watches me wrap the flannel shirt around myself with hooded eyes and a faint smile. When I get into bed beside him, he yanks my shirt off and tosses it on the floor. I am naked and he's wearing pants. It doesn't seem fair.

  Tristan chuckles, and pulls me tightly against him, and I can feel his soft cock rub against my butt through his pants.

  “My little pony girl,” he murmurs, threading his fingers through my hair. I glance back at him sharply, wondering if he's mocking me, but his eyes are closed. A few minutes later, he's snoring. Tristan has always been a snorer. But I've never had to sleep this closely to him before. Past sleepovers were always closely supervised by our parents. I shudder to think of our parents supervising what we just did tonight. He's so loud, I think there's no way I could fall asleep, but somehow I do, because I close my eyes, and when I open them again it's daylight and Tristan is gone.

  Chapter Seven

  Tristan is gone.

  I'm hurt at first—it's the first time I have spent the night over at his place in a sexual context, and to find that he's simply vanished cuts to the quick.