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“Yes.” He blinks as he drinks in my confession, his lashes long and black against his skin. “I want to start small so that on honeymoon, I can hopefully go big.” His eyes glitter with interest. “It’s hard to know what to give you—for anything—but I know I can at least give you this. And I want to. It will be hard,” I state needlessly, a tremor running through my voice, “but I want to give you this more than anything.”
Suddenly, the room feels too quiet, dangerously so. Up here there’s so little street noise, but the silence feels charged and thick with sexual tension.
“You choose how this goes,” he murmurs.
Having already planned this out in my head, I go and stand near the corner of the room. There’s a huge wall mirror here, fitted neatly into the waist-height panelled wall.
Knowing what I have in mind, Max says, “Get on your knees then, baby. Show me your wrists.”
For a second, I falter. Even now, my hands are never tied when we fuck. My wrists are held, or our fingers might be laced together above my head, but I’ve never had the guts, the mental clarity and strength to give myself over to my darkest fear.
Slowly, I bring my lower arms behind my back, shuffling into position.
“Are you ready?”
He means certain. Sure. So I nod, his growing erection stealing my focus. This excites him. Seeing me on my knees for him always does, but this isn’t about trust. I’ve always trusted him, and allowing him to tie me up doesn’t mean I trust himmore. This is part of the process of healing. It’s me feeling ready to face a potentially harrowing experience.
Seeing the intention on my face, Max unbinds the rope. The end of it drops to the floor, several metres long and five millimetres thick. Different to the usual silk or synthetic rope, these fibres are natural, allowing more grip and friction.
Max folds the rope, creating short lengths with it, doubling it over and over again. The look of concentration on his face is mesmerising, his inhales long and steady.
“If this goes well,” I begin, hoping it does, “what’s the plan for the honeymoon?”
His eyes flick to mine, a wicked gleam in them. “Are you sure you want to know?”
The slick feeling between my legs tells me I do. “Tell me your deepest, darkest desires.”
The corner of his mouth curls. “Well, you’re in every fantasy, that goes without saying. But if this goes well,” he echoes, holding my eye to offer me an out, “then I’ll want you hogtied, unable to escape me as I claim you six ways from Sunday. The next day you’ll be flat on your back, rope bound around your breasts, thighs and throat. I want to tie you to the bed posts as I fuck you from behind. I want you strapped to the mattress, secured at each limb and spread-eagled for me. And I want you a million other ways, restrained and absolutely mine.”
Hanging on his every word I’ve barely noticed how quickly he’s bound my wrists together behind my back, the circles of rope as high as my inner elbows. The position forces my breasts out, air whispering over my sensitive skin. “It sounds like we need a longer honeymoon.”
“We’ll just continue when we get home,” he says lazily, his fingers playing with my stiff, aching nipples.
Moving back in front of me, his eyes lift to the mirror on my left and drink me in. Then he unsnaps my bra—thankfully strapless—and tosses it to the carpet. Squatting, his fingers delve under the seams of my pants as he wriggles them down to my knees, helping me out of them.
“This is bondage,” he murmurs, testing the rope. “Shibari needs more time. It’s more elaborate and precise, but this will be a good introduction.”
What he means is it will test my tolerances, my fears.
He gets to his feet, looking impossibly tall, and hard, his dick proud and leaking as it juts towards me. He taps his bare foot against the inside of my knees and I slide them wider apart. Cool air wafts over my sex, my nerves tingling. “Good girl. This part is for you.”
Lying down, he scoots backwards until his head is between my spread knees. Eager for his touch, I lower myself further, towards his face. “Hold me. I don’t want to fall.” With my hands and forearms tied, I have no way of stopping myself if I do.
His palms secure me at my thighs. And then I feel him, a tongue spearing through my aching centre. My hands twitch, desperate to run through his hair, but then I remember I’m tied. Frustrated, I sigh, just as his tongue flickers over my clit. My exhale ends on a delighted gasp as Max licks through me in a long, savouring slide.
“Hmm,” he moans, swallowing. “You like being tied up.”
“Yeah,” I say shakily.
Feelings are building, everywhere. My skin is buzzing. My sex throbs. My thighs judder as his tongue strokes me more firmly, chasing me towards the detonation point. A hand lifts from my leg, a finger—two fingers—circling my clit. His tongue probes my pussy with long, eager strokes, his cock twitching against his belly as I grind against his face. The wet, hot feel of him has me clenching around him, desperate to come, to be filled deeper.
And then he pulls away, a finger edging towards my back entrance. Every good feeling drowns. I’m about to protest, to tell him to concentrate on where he was when he circles a wet fingertip around me there.
My eyes close, trying to shut out the negative noise.
“What about this?” In my pitch-black environment his voice sounds sinister. “Am I getting this ready for our honeymoon too?”
I’d promised him all sorts as a wedding present; I might’ve been overly ambitious. But I’m still none the wiser about what to give the man who has everything. In the end, it only left me. “I can try,” I offer, hoping I don’t regret it.
