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Taking her to the mat, he used the pressure of his hand and the direction of his gaze to tell her what he wanted. The skirt was yards of soft satin that, when she knelt before him, looked like a rippling lake reflecting an ivory sky.
He guided her arms behind her, adjusting them into a boxed position as he dropped to one knee and held her that way with his hands instead of rope, a flesh and blood restraint.
"A beautiful bride," he said, his voice a low rumble of meaning and emotion in her dark theater, a setting of drama and dreams come to life. Pushing her hair forward, he bared her neck and set his teeth there. She drew in an erratic breath as he kissed her, giving her a hint of his tongue. He held her overlapped arms, keeping her still.
"We're going to get this resolved tonight, Julie, once and for all. So for the next little bit, I'm going to talk and you're going to listen. I want you to listen with your whole heart. Not with your fears. Can you do that?"
She closed her eyes, bowing her head. He knew. Of course he knew. He'd been dropping hints, some subtle and some not-so-subtle, like sending Missive with her confiden
ce about her scene name.
"I can try," she whispered. "I want to."
"Good." He paused, his mouth on her, and then she gasped, arching up against him in involuntary reaction as he closed his teeth on her again. Not gently. A hard, painful clamp. His arm snaked around her waist, holding her against him, his other hand still tight on her overlapped forearms. He increased the pressure of the bite and she whimpered. He wasn't breaking skin, but he was close, and he'd put his mouth over her carotid, so she heard the rush of her blood.
"Hurts," she managed. He made a noise of assent, agreeing with her, but he still didn't release her or change the pressure. The pain was burning through her throat, but the endorphins were swirling in her vitals, her fingers curling and uncurling against his arm around her waist.
He released her arms to slide his fingertips up one and around her throat, stroking her there lightly, a tender contrast to the ruthless lock of his jaw. She kept her hands clasped on her forearms the way he'd put them, because he hadn't given her permission to do otherwise. Everything in that throbbing bite was a command for her attention, and he had all of it.
When he at last eased the hold on her throat and licked the spot he'd offended, the slow swirls of his tongue were met with tingling response. He kissed her throat again, tiny presses of his lips down to her collar bones, and he came to a rest there, nuzzling the pocket between them.
"You asked me if I was lonely," he said, low. "No. Lonely isn't something I've felt, not often. I had an ache, though. In my cock and balls, in my gut. I wanted something I couldn't explain. Haven't ever really been sure what it was. Just knew when and if I ever saw it, it would always be mine and no one else's."
Lifting his head, he touched her jaw, guided her face around so she was staring up at him. He was standing on his knees, leaning over her left shoulder. The position in which he held her head wasn't comfortable, but when he shifted his grip under her jaw, he put enough strain on the tilt of her head that she knew he was reminding her again of that edge he liked. That did crazy things to her insides.
"What I do with rope, the energy I feel when I do it, when I get lost in it, that's all mine. The sub, she's this perfect part enhancing it, an angel giving me the center, the reason to tie, bind, shape, create. But she's never mine. I've never looked at Missive, or any of them, and felt that. Don't move."
He sat back on his heels and stroked her hair. "I want you to look down and to your left. Lifting your chin just a little...like that. Stay in that position."
When she did, he shifted out of her range of vision. She heard a click, like he'd taken a picture with his phone, but when he came back, he had rope in his hands. He let her relax her head and neck in a normal position and began to use her as that center he'd just described.
He was capable of intricate designs, but she intuitively understood the simple one he chose this time was intended to only subtly adorn what he felt was already detailed and intricate enough--herself.
He put rope over her shoulders near the juncture with her neck. He also wrapped it around the points of her shoulders, since the dress design left them bare. Further wraps held her boxed arms to her sides. The ropes passed vertically on the outside of her breasts, and horizontally over and under them. He took all the wraps around her boxed arms, securing them and knotting the ends in a line below her shoulder blades. As he did that, he pulled her boxed arms up, increasing the discomfort. Arousal swirled in her lower belly. It amazed her that he could summon that reaction, when she normally whined over the irritation of a hangnail.
"Enough?" he asked. "Or...here?"
Higher. She drew in a breath. Oh God, it hurt, but something about it felt so good...
He repositioned it at the lower level without waiting for her response. His fingertips passed over her shoulder muscles. "These gave me the answer," he said. "You like the pain, but you're going to be in this position a while. I don't want you experiencing the wrong kind of stress."
She had her head down, her breath shallow, heart doing that heavy, powerful thud it did when he was tying her, capturing her, taking over. It was a language. Someone standing on the outside would only see him doing knots and wraps, but every one of them spoke to her, said something. She was quivering, wet between her legs, soaking the white panties. She felt vulnerable to him, fragile as porcelain.
He shifted back again, and took another couple of pictures from behind her. When he returned, he wrapped his arm around her waist, fingers hooking in the rope wraps below her breasts.
"This is how I would marry you," he said. "We'd say our vows as I was tying you. The dress and the rope would say you're mine." He brought the phone around her so she could see herself on the screen. "This would be the wedding picture I'd carry on my phone."
A woman knelt in a froth of satin, her arms bound behind her, the ropes a tapestry between shoulder and bound arms that enhanced and displayed the beauty of her bare shoulders, her exposed nape, the curl of her fingers around her elbows. Her silken hair was pulled over one shoulder. A submissive, waiting for her Master, devoted and in love with him. Totally his. Pictures didn't lie. At least not that kind of picture.
"You are fucking beautiful, and I mean that literally. I'd mean it when you're eighty. I've never wanted a woman so much in my whole life."
"If you don't mean it...please don't."
He caught her face and drew it up, not gently, forcing her to meet his brown gaze. "Do you think I don't mean it, Julie? Do you think I've gone this long in my life without committing to a woman, only to do it casually now, just to jerk her around?"
She shook her head. "I'm afraid of how I feel. I never get what I want. Not in terms of love."
"Well, I may not be what you want, but I'm what you're getting. Deal with it."
