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“You are a bottomless pit, my dear.”
“And don’t you like that?”
“Oh, yes.” We’re on our backs, uncomfortably so, but too languid to move, we pull a pillow from the couch and remain where we are. His fingers run along my bare side, ticklishly. I feel it in my groin and turn on my side to nestle my crotch on his thigh.
“Oh, not so fast,” he tells me, “Lie back.” It sounds like an order to me, so I settle back against the carpet, while Ian takes his own sweet time being playful. Running circles around my nipple, it begins to swell and tighten, and then dipping a finger in a glass of yesterday’s wine still sitting on the coffee table, he makes it wet and blows on the forming knob until it chills erect. Repeating the measures with the other nipple, I have these two silly mountains on my chest, hovering over the soft flesh underneath—that flesh jiggles with Ian spanking it softly. I want to tell him to do more, and start to speak, but he gives me this commanding sort of look—uncommon for my gentle professor—so I relax letting him do all the work and all the deciding. This is a good thing for me and I think for him as well. Maybe we can carve out new territory here because I hate getting bored with sex.
I adore his smile because it looks as though he adores me and I adore people admiring me—like Heinrich never did.
“Arms above you,” Ian orders.
I’m getting that dreamy feeling of being brutally cared for. I slowly close my eyes and listen only to the sound of his voice. His deep baritone resonates in me so I feel it all the way to my toes.
Ian grabs my cunt and holds on tightly. Moving over me his tongue and teeth graze these erect mounds on my breasts. I shudder, anxious for his passion to explode but I must think faster than he does.
He begins to massage me slowly, and I’m muttering “more,” only to have his hand covering my mouth as he whispers, “Quiet.” He should gag me if he feels that way, but I can’t even suggest that. This becomes more difficult as my energy begins to flag and all that sweet eroticism strangely fades away. When he grows more bold, the sensation returns and my body screams even though my voice is silent. My frustration mounts with my inner fires so raw. With too much tenderness the arousal dissipates, revived only when he does something brutal, then falls off more completely as his touch turns sweet.
Descending from this bondage fantasy, I bring Ian to me and kiss his face. “Not so horny as you were?” he wonders.
“Oh, you are terrific, love, but I guess I’m more tired than I thought.”
“Then we’ll go to bed.”
He’s right. It’s late. We’re both tired, and maybe if I sleep, I won’t worry that I’m missing anything. Though, as soon as he’s asleep, I masturbate to the thought of being bound again.
I’ve been thinking about Bernard for weeks now, since I saw him at the hearing, taking Heinrich’s place because Heinrich was too damned busy to attend his own divorce. I know it was just a simple matter, but I wanted him to see how extraordinarily happy I am now—not so he would fret, but so he’d be jealous. I bought all new clothes, things he’d never seen, and he has the gall not to appear. To hell with him!
But then, there is Bernard.
Black men like him intrigue me because they seem different from me, like foreigners from other places, and exploring their bodies makes me feel as though I’m exploring other lands. Bernard has always fascinated me, but because I belonged to Heinrich, he’s never laid his hands on me. I would think about him topping me in a bondage scene. I’ve seen him work, whisper things in the ear of his submissive, and felt her jolt with arousal. His thick lips would be adoring as they kissed me, even if it is a delicate kiss. I want to slavishly massage his body, stroke his hands, run my fingers tenderly along his palm as though I’m reading his future.
I’ve seen his cock only once, just before he planted it inside his lover’s ass. The kinky hair, the dark color, the blooming shape that turned into a black spear when it was fully engorged. I saw it just that once when I was tied and otherwise preoccupied, so I couldn’t take the time to focus my desire on it before it disappeared. But I’ve thought about that dark erection a hundred times in the middle of sex with Heinrich and Ian, and other dominant men my generous husband gave me to.
Bernard and I are friends, before we were forced to be enemies on the other side of legal papers. Though even the day of the divorce, he looked at me with the same inherent kindness that he’s always had for me, and a little sorrow, because he thought he failed to prevent this ending. I think he was more disappointed than either Heinrich or I that we came to this miserable parting. And he made it clear that his serving as opposing counsel had no bearing on our friendship. He is infinitely kinder than most dominant men I know. He goes far beyond a simple “top.” Hate that term—tends to force people into strange sounding roles that seem so very sterile. Bernard is not a sterile man; he breathes so passionately about so many things. I know he has his lady fair, as he sometimes affectionately calls Makaila. She’s an exotic Polynesian woman with long dark hair and amber skin, with tender hands and gentle eyes. She’s been Bernard’s submissive for nearly ten years, and they’re settled with their affections in a way Heinrich and I never were.
Nights like tonight, I go to bed disappointed, missing something that doesn’t come to me anymore—since Heinrich quit having me. If I could just talk to Bernard, feel the presence of him in me, perhaps that would satisfy my need for this submissive lust; if he would give me one of those infamous parental lectures, treat me like a kid, make me feel just a wee thing, let the energy of him bloom in me, perhaps that would be enough. Though, if he were to take me darkly, run me through the paces my body begs for, that would truly be satisfying. I don’t want another Heinrich. All the pitfalls to finding a good dom—I don’t want to go through the frenetic and tedious process of peeling through the layers of a man to find one that knows who he is. I need a man that dominates instinctively. I have all the affection I need from Ian, but he’s not a dom. I can’t instruct him. He just has to know, and I’m squeamish every time we try to go down those paths. He has no idea how dark I become, how beastly servile my strange need requires.
Is it a requirement? Is it a need? Every day that passes I
fear it more. I’m sure that Heinrich means nothing to me now. But I’m beginning to recognize the truth nearly three months since my last taste of bondage and abuse—that last night with my husband. I don’t think I can live without it. How to have it and keep Ian is the question. The only thing I seriously consider these days is going to Bernard in secret when the need arises and letting myself unwind slowly in his gentle steel-like hands.
***
It’s been nearly a year since I was at his house. The brownstone in the quiet city neighborhood disguises a good deal with its pleasant exterior facing forward, putting a common façade on an uncommon playground. I’ve been here only three times, this the third. Usually, I’d see Bernard on more neutral territory—at the clubs. And several times he came to the house in the woods. But I think I remember most the scenes in this house. The first time Heinrich brought me here just after we got married, I was put on display as my husband’s new trinket. We were still madly in love with everything about each other—not just our mean sexuality. Heinrich was celebrating his thirty-first birthday, and I was just a nubile innocent at twenty-three with a passion for menacing sexual adventures.
I could hardly keep my eyes off my husband’s good friend as Heinrich made me strip off my clothes, bring myself to Bernard’s feet and kiss the floor. When I stood again, I almost wilted from his awesome inspection of my body. He was looking for details, his black hands soon moving adroitly over my skin as though I was slave flesh he was considering for purchase.
His smile was as charming as Heinrich’s, his wit as dazzling, but then his race lured me in as well. I was so wet by the time he finished his examination, the man had only to finger my cunt for several seconds, and I came on his hand right in front of my watching husband. I was sure I’d be punished for being so bold and unstrained, but Heinrich was pleased.
“Eager little tramp, isn’t she?” the first words from Bernard’s lips that I remember. “You’ll fight like angry cats, friend,” he told Heinrich. “Make certain you stay on top.”
“I don’t worry about that,” my husband answered him. “She knows what she needs and likes.”
Three years down the road, there were many meetings with Bernard, even times when we were alone together when our affections for each other grew into friendship. He was like a father—on two occasions cleaning up the dizzying mess I’d become when Heinrich was on an awful tear. He wouldn’t actually side with my husband—though he never spoke badly of him. Instead, he’d lead me back to my true desire. After holding me while I cried, he then pushed me away and gave me a tongue-lashing with his keen eyes burrowed into my soul. He suggested that he’d punish me himself for being so silly and so weak. Oh, I trembled at the thought of that!
Given our past relationship, it was only natural for Bernard to welcome me.
With the restraints of keeping a marriage intact lifted from my thinking Bernard supplants any other dominant in my mind. Perhaps I exalt him too much. Perhaps I don’t know his imperfections; he seems so perfect side by side with my flawed husband. I go so far as to wonder if he’ll give up Makaila for me—though that’s a ridiculous thought. And, I certainly don’t want to make any trouble for him. But for just one hour, or even a few minutes, I’d like to listen to him speak. I’d like to let him lecture me again, or counsel me. That’s all I ask.
